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Holding it down for Miles Hartley
By
Claudia Graziano
Frederick is 15. Right now he’s holding it down for Miles Hartley. I’m getting stoned before school, during school and after school, miz G., he tells me. I can’t blame Frederick for getting stoned before school during school and after school, I really can’t. I’m getting stoned too on caffeine, sugar, alcohol and Prozac, in that order. But I can blame him for not trying. No one can help you but you, I tell Frederick again. I can’t pass you if you don’t try. But I guess I could if I wanted to. Only passing English class isn’t going to help Frederick Petersen. Not if he’s out there holding it down for Miles Hartley, who just died over Christmas break in a car accident. Frederick was in the car, too, but he didn’t die. It must have been the pot. He was very relaxed.
Frederick has a plan, he tells me one day. I hope you do, and I mean it. Frederick smiles his slow smile. He has nice, long lashes and white teeth. His face is round and his skin is black and smooth. I’m going to be a rap star, he tells me. That’s your plan? Mine is to win the lottery. Frederick tells me he’s the best rapper in the school and I believe him. But his plan has some serious flaws. How are you going to be a rap star if you can’t spell? I ask him. This is funny. I got my own language, he tells me. I spell my way. What way? Show me. Anything. I don’t write ‘em down because people might steal it. Then how do you remember the words? What if someone hears your rap and then writes it down and puts his name on it? I’m fast, I’m too fast, Frederick says. He rattles off a rap for me and I’m impressed, but I still don’t have much hope for his plan.
I call Frederick’s mother. Other kids in my class are failing English just as miserably but I happen to like Frederick. He calls me ma’am. Frederick’s mom works at a hospital. A good job is a good sign, but she never calls me back. I ask Frederick where he lives. I don’t plan on going to his house but for some reason I want to know. Nowhere, he tells me. He smiles his slow smile. Come on, Frederick. I’m tired of these kids always trying to get a reaction out of me. It’s exhausting, emotionally draining. Frederick tells me his mom lives with her boyfriend, who still lives at home with his parents. It takes me a while to figure out this scenario. Frederick says he only goes there to sleep, and most of the time he sleeps at a friend’s house. Where are you getting the money to buy all this pot? I want to know. Frederick smiles his slow smile. Are you dealing? Wait. Don’t answer that. I’m dealing but I ain’t dealing pot. And anyways you gotta catch me with it to bust me. But Frederick knows there’s no chance of me busting him. Even if I talk to his mother, chances are she won’t bust him either.
I talk to the school counselor instead. She’s friendly, has an accent from Georgia. She’s new here, too. Isn’t there some sort of substance abuse program for the students? Something confidential? All we can do is refer them to community services, the counselor tells me with a sigh. She looks tired. They say your first year teaching is the hardest. The first year is the year you have to grow a very thick skin. Don’t get too involved with the kids’ lives, the principal tells me. Don’t read their journals. If you do, it’ll just get you into trouble. You could wind up in court—I’ve seen it happen before. She talks briskly, matter-of-factly, but then she isn’t new and this isn’t her first year.
Frederick comes to class less and less. Now there is no hope in hell of him passing. I look up his grades in the computer, and I realize that the chances of him passing the 10th grade are slim to none. The semester wears on and my skin hardens. I stop reading their journals. Just before Christmas break I let them watch a movie. The movie is A Christmas Carol and I think I’m the only one who watches it. I find a razor blade on my chair but I ignore it.
The students come back in January and we prepare for finals. No tests, I hate tests. The final is a project, a book review. Five-paragraph essay, 3-minute oral presentation, a colorful book jacket—the last part an excuse to chill out and do some art work in class. I let the students listen to music on their headphones, which they whisk off silently when the vice principal enters the room. For some reason headphones are forbidden.
The vice principal tells me that if Frederick Petersen shows up to class next period I am to call him immediately. He doesn’t say why and the students are all looking at me expectantly. I say I haven’t seen Frederick in weeks and I doubt he’ll be coming back for the rest of the semester anyway. There are only 4 days left.
But at the start of 3rd period Frederick does come to class. Students are crowding around my desk wanting to know what grade they need to get on the final to pass. As it stands, about half the class is failing, even though the work is easy. Maybe that’s why they’re failing. If it’s so easy, then what’s the point in doing it? I’m busy and pretend not to notice Frederick. He sits quietly at his desk. I can tell he’s not stoned today.
The bell rings and we start the class off with journal writing. The topic is on the overhead. Write about why you think school is important and what grade you expect to get in this class for the semester. Really, I just want them to write for 15 minutes. I don’t care what they write about, but they don’t know that. Or maybe they do.
The class writes and 15 minutes pass. We return to working on our final projects for the rest of the period. The headphones go on and some kids slide their desks together. I make my way over to Frederick to brief him on the final project. I know he won’t do it, but I have to go through the motions anyway. Frederick has a single piece of paper on his desk, and he wants me to read it. It’s his journal entry. No Frederick, I tell him. I’m not collecting those. Put it in your binder. But I know Frederick doesn’t have a binder. In fact, I’m surprised he has a pen. Naw, I’ll loose it, he says. You take it. Then put it on my desk, I tell him, in the assignment box. Are you going to read it? He asks me. There is something different about him and now I know what it is. The slow smile is gone. There’s a dark scar on his forehead. I glance down at the page of crowded handwriting. OK, I’ll read it, but not right now. Right now I have to help the other students with their projects. I leave Frederick and walk around the room, asking students if they need help. No one does.
I sit down at my desk and pick up Frederick’s journal entry. Holding it down for Miles Hartley, it says at the top of the page. I look at Frederick. He’s still sitting quietly at his desk. I wonder what has happened. I read the journal entry. Frederick has been in a car accident over Christmas break and a kid named Miles was killed. Miles was driving, even though he was only 14. They were both "hye," according to Frederick’s journal. Frederick cut his pancreas in the accident and had to have 26 stitches in his head. It’s apparent he feels responsible, and he pledges in his journal to take care of Miles’ family for life. He calls it "holding it down" for Miles.
The vice principal suddenly enters the room and the students are surprised, caught with their headphones on. But the vice principal doesn’t notice the many infractions. Instead, he asks Frederick to come with him, please. Frederick takes his time getting up from his seat and I wonder if his pancreas might still be bothering him. He looks sad. I make a point of eye contact. Frederick, make sure you come back to class, I tell him. I need to help you get started on the final project. He nods and shuffles out after the vice principal. That’s the last I ever see of Frederick Petersen.
Copyright ©
2003 Claudia Graziano
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