Chapter Three

      EVERY DAY AT BCAS was “one of those days.” Georgia knew she was lucky to thrive on variety and problem solving. Even so, by the time the afternoon faculty meeting drew to an end, all the blood had been leeched from her body.

      The faculty had come with the job, which Georgia had gotten after the committee’s first choice left the school board high and dry. Unfortunately that woman had also gifted the school with a handful of teachers who saw BCAS as a demotion, even a punishment for infractions they had committed in their lengthy careers.

      Passive-aggressive behavior reigned. In classrooms that needed constant stimulation to engage students’ attention, these teachers inevitably showed videos, or assigned long passages to be read silently. They used lesson plans that probably hadn’t worked in former classrooms, and talked about not coddling students. In the future Georgia might be able to replace them, but this year, for better or worse, they were hers. Boring students to death was not a good enough reason to send a teacher packing.

      Now, at meeting’s end, she stood to stop one of the worst teachers in the middle of a monologue that was putting the rest of the faculty to sleep. Jon Farrell, a man tantalizingly close to retirement, was moonfaced and pink-cheeked. What was left of his gray hair was trimmed in an old-fashioned flattop stiffened with wax. Jon’s educational theories were of the same vintage.

      “Thank you, Jon,” she said. “But I’ve got to cut you off now.” She saw gratitude on the faces of teachers across from her. She insisted the faculty sit in a circle so they could see each other. It wasn’t a popular decision with some, but others appreciated the more democratic approach.

      “I’m cutting you off,” she continued, “because I think it’s clear from things that have been said here today that our mission is still a mystery to some of you. I want you to consider carefully what I’m about to say.”

      She got to her feet and began to walk around the circle, speaking slowly and deliberately, making eye contact with each willing person there.

      “We’re here so students who have no chance in a regular classroom will prove they can excel in ours. We’re not here to teach down to them. We are here to teach up to them. Some of these students are extraordinary. They’re gifted and creative. If we can get through to them, in the not too distant future they’ll be the names we see on award-winning movies and books. Among them might well be the person who finally finds a cure for cancer.”

      She stopped, because she was at the end of her round. The room was silent.

      “Did anybody think to interrupt me just then?” she asked.

      The teachers looked puzzled.

      “Did you have time to pass a note or engage in conversation with your neighbor? Did you have time to check your cell phone or text a friend?”

      No one answered.

      “You didn’t, because I was in your face. I was right there watching you. Not standing over you, but engaging you, right? We locked eyes, at least most of us did. And because we did, you listened harder. You knew listening was important, because most likely whatever I said was going to come up again.”

      Jon Farrell’s sneer was reflected in his voice. “You want us to walk in circles?”

      “I want you to interact, Jon.”

      “None of my kids are going to cure cancer, I can tell you that for sure. Most of them have failed at everything they’ve done. That’s why they’re here.”

      “Maybe that’s true of some of our students, but it’s my job as principal to be absolutely certain it’s not true for any of our teachers.”

      She glanced at her watch as she let that sink in, then she looked up, her gaze sweeping the room. “Nobody has to stay. If you’re unhappy, or you feel the energy and innovation required here are too much to handle, then we can talk privately. But those who continue? Evaluations are about to begin. I’ll be visiting classes in the next few weeks, along with our parents’ committee and the students elected to accompany them. The evaluation process should be a good one, a chance to receive helpful feedback and new suggestions. Just be prepared. Try your best ideas and see what happens. See you next week.”

      She nodded in dismissal.

      Jon was the first out of the room, and Georgia was glad to see he could still move quickly when the occasion called for it. One of her favorite teachers, Carrie Bywater, a young woman with almost no experience but loads of vitality, waited until the room emptied.

      “May I walk you back to your office?”

      “No problem,” Georgia said. “Something you need to talk about?”

      “Someone. Dawson Nedley.”

      “If we start right now we might finish before midnight.”

      Carrie pushed light brown hair behind one ear. The hair was collar-length and straight, and she wore black-rimmed glasses that eclipsed the pale green of her eyes. Even Georgia, twenty-four years her senior, wore contacts and regularly had her rust-brown hair layered and shaped so it would fall naturally around her face. Carrie’s lack of interest in her appearance was a fashion statement of its own.

      “He’s really a talented writer,” Carrie said. “When I can get him to turn in assignments, they’re always the best. But it’s like he’s trying to make some kind of point by not turning in most of them. I’ve done everything but beg. I’ve tried to discuss it with him. I’ve asked if he needs to talk to somebody else, like the guidance counselor. He just says he’s a simple farm boy and he doesn’t need to understand Shakespeare to toss hay bales on a truck.”

      “Hay bales are a recurring theme with Dawson. He’s not a happy boy.”

      “I don’t know what to do. I’m not going to let him get sucked under by something I don’t understand.”

      Georgia wished all the BCAS teachers had Carrie’s attitude. She was afraid Jon hoped all his students would get sucked under in one horrific natural disaster.

      Carrie was waiting for help, and Georgia made a stab at it. “Have you thought about offering him an independent study? Something he wants to do on his own?”

      “Is that a good idea? He doesn’t do what he’s supposed to when he is being supervised. What would he do if he wasn’t?”

      “I