The Great Expectations School by Dan Brown Page A

insulted several times in quick succession. I gestured meekly at the page-long student pieces displayed under my “
WE WRITE AUTOBIOGRAPHIES!
” banner, just below the bar graphs. “There is this writing.”
    â€œThere is no math writing on the bulletin board!” she snapped. Math
writing
? I had data tables and corresponding bar graphs. “Take it all down,” Ms. Guiterrez said. “You must check with me first before you put anything on this board from now on. I am very troubled that you thought this was… acceptable.” She walked away.
    I paced around room 217, my blood up. I had never heard of any math writing requirement. And what was all that about “announced”? I didn't want to take my whole bulletin board down.
    When I arrived at lineup, beet-red Ms. Linda Devereaux was reading the riot act to Bernard and Hamisi. “I'll take them for the morning, Mr. Brown. WHAT GOES THROUGH YOUR BRAIN THAT MAKES YOU THINK IT'S OKAY TO HIT EACH OTHER IN SCHOOL? DO YOU HEAR ME?” The boys stared at their shoes, looking bored.
    Ms. Devereaux was the real P.S. 85 enforcer. A member of the first cohort of Teaching Fellows in 2000, she had had her classroomteacher position involuntarily revoked in exchange for a job as the school's full-time disciplinarian. She offered her supportive services to all teachers, provided she was not sent frivolous cases. When kids disappeared into her Alternative Education Strategies room, you didn't need to worry about them. I knew Ms. Devereaux would be a crucial ally, especially since detention and out-of-school suspension had recently been abolished by Region One.
    However, fifteen minutes after the cafeteria scolding, Hamisi and Bernard reappeared at my door, both smirking. “Ms. Devereaux told us to come back,” Hamisi said. A minute later, Mr. Randazzo showed up holding an orange paper strip. Another new student.
    â€œThis young gentleman is Marvin Winslow. He's going to be with you.”
    â€œWonderful to meet you, Marvin!” I shook his and his mother's hands. My eyes went to the charm around Mrs. Winslow's neck, a $ the size of a cantaloupe. “Welcome to 4-217.”
    â€œSFA is about to begin. That's our literacy program,” Mr. Randazzo explained. “See if you can get him tested for a group,” he said to me, and promptly left.
    Marvin had a lazy right eye, but there was nothing otherwise remarkable about him at first glance. He was average height for his age, with neatly trimmed short black fuzz on his head. His eyes were serious and terrified. I asked him if his family had just moved to this neighborhood and he shook his head, mumbling sullenly, “My old school is a bad place.”
    I called the Success for All headquarters downstairs to locate someone to test Marvin for a level placement. Daniel was still un-placed and alternated between drawing and spacing out in the back of the room during the ninety-minute block that Mrs. Baker and I now ran together. Dom Beckles, P.S. 85’s SFA coach, answered the call and agreed to evaluate both Marvin and Daniel.
    Thirty minutes later, Beckles returned them to my room and gestured for me to meet him in the doorway. “Those two are non-readers. They can't read a thing!” he whispered.
    â€œWhy are they in my class?” I asked.
    â€œIt's a bunch of fools running this school,” Mr. Beckles said with conspiratorial hush. “They pull the same thing every year, it's ridiculous. You've got the Queen up there and she has no idea.”
    Just get me to 11:30! Then I have a prep, lunch, our first assembly, and the weekend!
    When my regulars returned from SFA at 10:15, I moved Marvin next to Sonandia. Now was her chance to prove herself “useful to a student in need,” as her blue card assured. Marvin frowned and sat silently.
    Instead of slogging on with well-covered bar graphs or starting a new unit on a Friday, I opted to play Math Bingo. I