I don’t know how some teachers manage to go to almost extraordinary efforts to teach you something while at the same time succeeding in making their students hate them. That takes real talent. She would have liked us to believe that we were never going to succeed at anything without her help.
It was to our credit that we never believed her.
* * *
Mrs. Ardovino looked like an older rich woman right out of the movies. She seemed like she had a lot of class, and there was something very formal about the way she carried herself. Her white hair was in a bun and her dress looked like it cost a lot of money and she knew how to wear makeup. When she saw my bandaged hands, she asked me if I was able to take notes. I shrugged.
“Not really,” I said.
“Perhaps I will allow you to use a tape recorder until you’ve recovered.”
I couldn’t see myself lying on my bed, listening to that voice that had a hint of a British accent.
“No, that’s fine. I won’t need a recorder,” I said. “It’s not serious. The bandages will be off by tomorrow.”
“Is it a burn? Because if it is a burn, it may be far more serious than you think.” She had zero street smarts. Not good for any teacher. And it wasn’t going to be good for us, either. For all the formality of her voice, I already thought she was an idiot.
“No, it’s not a burn.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“I went to see the school nurse. She took care of it.”
“Nurses are not doctors.” Really? Who was this fucking lady? “And was it the nurse who said it wasn’t necessary to see a doctor?”
“We both agreed.”
“Some school nurses are quite competent. Others are not.”
Was this teacher, if that’s what she was, using delay tactics because she wasn’t prepared for class?
“This nurse is a real pro,” I said.
“How can you be so sure of your own judgment?”
I heard the guy behind me whisper, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
And Mrs. Ardovino had to have heard that half the class was beginning to fall into a contagious laughter that threatened to engulf the entire room. Or maybe she was just oblivious.
“Mrs. Ardovino, the nurse was fine. I’m fine. It’s all fine.”
“Well, if you’re quite sure.”
She was going to drive me fucking insane.
“I’m quite sure.” I didn’t mean it say it that loudly.
Some of my classmates found the whole interchange between me and Mrs. Ardovino to be hilarious. And though I did sort of want to laugh, I couldn’t. I was embarrassed for her. I felt a Dante-like compassion for her.
The guy behind me whispered so half the class could hear, “This is what fucking purgatory is like.”
And people were starting to laugh again.
“Mrs. Ardovino,” I said, “I got into a fight. I punched someone. Several someones. And if there had been more someones present, I would have punched them, too. My knuckles were bleeding and my hands were swollen. And they’re still throbbing right now. But tomorrow, I will be fine.”
“I see,” she said. “I’m sorry about the throbbing. Perhaps you’ve learned that when you think you’ve come up with a solution to your problem by punching someone, several someones, that you have not only not solved your problem, but you have created another.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve learned.”
“Excellent.”
“Excellent,” I said.
The guy behind me was laughing his ass off.
And the girl who was sitting in one of the desks at the very front of the room was trying to laugh as silently as she could and I could see that she had her hands over her mouth and her back was shaking.
And there was still some quiet laughter in the room, but when Mrs. Ardovino seemed to acknowledge it, the laughter died down completely. She said, “I don’t know why, when a teacher shows concern for a student, some of his classmates find this a matter of entertainment and respond not with a sense of compassion, but instead with a barbaric laughter.”
I honestly was embarrassed for her. She made for a comic figure that was almost tragic. And it made me a little angry that someone had given her a teaching position when she wasn’t equipped to do the job.
“Well,” she said, “perhaps it’s best to adjourn for the day. Perhaps tomorrow, we’ll all do a little better.” My classmates filed out, and you could hear their laughter down the hall. And, if Mrs. Ardovino didn’t want to cry, I did. I was the only one left in the classroom. “I’m sorry,” I said, “this was all my fault.”
“No, it wasn’t, Mr.—”
“Mendoza. My name is Aristotle Mendoza. My friends call me Ari.” I could say that now without lying. I actually had some friends.
“What a lovely name. And, no, this wasn’t your fault. I’m not very good at reading social situations and how to respond to them.”
And then she started giggling. And the giggling gave way to laughter. And then she really got going and her laughter grew louder and louder. She laughed and laughed and laughed. And then she said, “And I kept digging myself deeper and deeper and I just couldn’t stop. And you looked so exasperated. And I just kept right on going.”
And she was laughing just as hard as the students had been laughing. And then she stopped—and tried to compose herself. “And when the young man behind you whispered, ‘This is what fucking purgatory is like,’ well, I almost lost it too. And I saw the look on your face and you thought I was about to cry—but I do have a little discipline: I wasn’t about to cry. I was about to join in the laugher. And I’m sorry I exerted so much self-control when I should have let her rip.” And she was laughing again.
“You’re a very interesting lady.”
“I am. I am an interesting lady. But I don’t belong in the classroom. At least not anymore. I retired two years ago. The teacher who actually teaches this class is on maternity leave. They asked me, rather last minute, if I would take this class. And I said I was interested—but I thought they would at least interview me. If they had, I wouldn’t be sitting here.
“My husband said, ‘Ofelia, you’re going to make a fool of yourself.’ And I did.” I thought she was going to start laughing again. “I can’t wait to get home this evening and tell him about my day. We’re going to have ourselves a good laugh.”
I was blown away. Completely. I’d never run into anybody quite like this lady. And I liked that she shared my aunt’s name.
“Why didn’t you join the fun, Mr. Aristotle Mendoza?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was hilarious—and then I didn’t.”
“Well, I know why you didn’t laugh—even if you don’t. You didn’t laugh, not because you didn’t find the entire scene ridiculous, but because you would have been ashamed of yourself if you had laughed at an old woman whose heart you thought might break if you joined in the merriment of it all. You thought I was in trouble—and that wasn’t funny to you. Either your mother or your father, one of them or both, must be lovely, lovely people. But frankly, I embarrassed myself in front of all of you. And I’m glad I made a fool of myself today. Happy. That’s a better word.”