I skim the notes left by the substitute teacher. Since I did most of the lesson prep before I left for Thailand, it doesn’t take much time to pull handouts and teaching points for the day. My primary focus with the first-year junior high students is to break their attitude that English is by default difficult. Secretly, I agree that English isn’t an easy language for Japanese people to master. The grammar and thinking are totally different. But if I can’t get my students to at least believe it’s a challenge that can be overcome, they won’t even try.
After the third period, I have a break. I go to the teachers’ office to start grading the mini-essays my students wrote over the weekend, then stop short. There is a huge bouquet of blood red roses in a crystal vase on my desk. Their heady scent fills the utilitarian teachers’ room and brightens the drab space.
The school secretary, Kanagawa-san, is looking at the flowers with admiration tinged with something that I can’t quite identify but don’t like. “Very beautiful. Is today a special occasion, Ava-sensei?”
“Not at all,” I manage, though my mouth feels like it’s full of sawdust. “I’m surprised myself.”
Lucas. What are you trying to do now?
I go to the flowers. I’m almost tempted to throw them away, but I can’t. They’re just too beautiful, not to mention if I did toss them out, it would draw attention from my coworkers. I pluck the stiff note stuck to the bouquet.
I’ll give you until tomorrow.
–L
The nerve! He can wait until the sun goes cold. I’m not quitting my job.
Sitting down, I rip the note into little pieces under the desk and toss them in the trash bin next to my chair, then turn my attention to the essays. I start reading the one on the top of the stack from first period, then feel an odd vibe in the air.
I look up, but all the teachers seem to be focused on their own work.
Huh. I turn my attention back to grading. I don’t have time to mess around. The more I get done now, the less I’ll have to take home with me.
Then I feel it again. What’s going on? Did I spill something on my sweater or something? I look down but my clothes seem as pristine as they were when I left home…
Sato-sensei occupies the desk next to mine. I lean over. “Is there something wrong?” I whisper.
She puts down her pen while casting a furtive glance at the other teachers. I almost roll my eyes. She actually hunches a bit, until she starts to resemble a turtle trying to go back into its shell. “Mishima-sensei had a break during the second period. And she…ah… You see, she mentioned…”
You’ve gotta be kidding. “About me going to a hotel with a man?”
She blinks, then relaxes a bit. “Ah. You know,” she says, obviously relieved it won’t be necessary to explain in embarrassing detail.
“If she’s that concerned, she could just talk to me directly.”
“Yes.” Sato-sensei sucks on her teeth. “But that is not our way. She wants to be…not so direct. Being direct is”—Sato-sensei laughs nervously—“too awkward da yo.” She puts an emphasis on da yo.
“So it’s better to tell on me, like a three-year-old?”
“Eh?”
“Nothing. Thank you for explaining the situation.”
She peers at my face. “Are you angry?”
I want to bitch-slap Mishima-sensei, but I won’t because that woman is old enough to be my grandma. I bare my teeth in what I hope is a reassuring smile.
“No. Just…relieved to know what’s going on.”
She nods. “I think it is not a large problem, but some older teachers worry about the image. Well, you are American, so…we can’t expect you to be like Japanese teachers, ne?” She sits back up.
I can’t decide if Sato-sensei is trying to be insulting or helpful. I decide on the latter. “No. Of course not.”
Just then I see the originator of my problem walk by in the hallway. I get up and go out after her. “Mishima-sensei!”
She stops and turns, looking like a barely rehydrated mummy—all skin and bones and as thin as a tarp. Her clothes—a pink sweater and ankle-length navy skirt—flap limply around her short frame. Her mouth is flat as usual. I’ve never seen the woman smile, ever. But the eyes are extraordinary—they glitter with almost frightening intensity, like those of a hawk before swooping down upon prey. She has a reputation among the students for being terrifying.
“Can I talk to you for a moment?” I say.