Glitter and Sand

            by Lana Robinson-Sum

 

Mr. Fitch’s eyes shot open, as they had done at seven o’clock every morning for the past thirty years. He peeled back his gray cotton sheets, slipped into his gray flannel slippers, and padded down the hall to the bathroom.

            “Good morning Charles,” he said, peering into the mirror at the balding man staring back at him. The man’s flesh seemed to hang off his thin face, wrinkling his cheeks and forehead and dragging down his small gray eyes. Mr. Fitch grimaced. “Another day, I see,” he said, squeezing out the last bit of toothpaste from his old, rolled-up tube. “Fantastic.”

 

            34 chattering 15-year-olds sat in their seats in an old math classroom on the second floor of Fairmont High’s main building. Buzzing hormones zipped across the room, mingling with the scents of 34 different perfumes, colognes, and lotions. The clock above the blackboard read 8:29, ticking away the seconds until the start of a new week. At 8:30 exactly, the bell rang and Mr. Fitch strode into his classroom. The students immediately fell silent under his presence.

            “Alright,” he began. “Everyone, take out last night’s assignment. Are there any questions?” The room remained silent. “Well, then,” he said, his stern face set with authority. “Whom shall I call on to tell us the answer to number 15?” 34 pairs of eyes looked down at their papers, attempting to fade into invisibility. Mr. Fitch took out his grade sheet, scanning down the list for his first victim. “Ah, Mr. Flemming!”

            A small bird-like boy in the back row looked up and swallowed. “Er, I got the square root of 4/3.”

            “Ha! Did you even read the problem?” The boy shifted in his chair, squeezing his pink eraser. Mr. Fitch shook his head with a slight smile. “No, boy, that is not the answer. But I expect even wrong answers to be simplified. Ms. Jenkins!”

            A tall blonde girl stiffened as she heard her name.

            “What did you get?”

            “Uh, the square root of 3 over 5 pi?”

            Mr. Fitch shook his head again, this time without a smile. “How could you not have seen that the ‘pi’s cancelled out in the very beginning? I suggest you start listening in class instead of wasting your time on make-up and hair. You know, you can’t ride on looks forever. And I’m only saying this for your own good.” Ms. Jenkins turned bright red and stared back down at her paper.

            “Mr. Elliot!”

            “Sorry Mr. Fitch, I left my book at school on Friday and I couldn’t do—”

            “Mr. Elliot, if you slack off in the future, you need not bother to even come to class. You are wasting my time and I am not amused.” Mr. Fitch stared at the squirming boy and held his cold, wrinkled gaze just long enough so that something might sink into the daydreaming 15-year-old’s mind. Then he broke off in disgust, looking back down at his grade sheet. He no longer knew how to get through to these kids. “Is there anyone, any person in this room who actually did the problem and thinks he got it correct?”

            Mr. Fitch looked almost hopelessly across the blank faces, waiting in silence for what seemed like a full minute. Then, from the second row, a boy’s slender hand rose into the air. He had brown, gelled hair and big, dark brown eyes. Startled, Mr. Fitch fumbled for his seating chart and located the boy’s name.

“Yes, Mr. Conrad?”

“Mr. Fitch, the problem has no real solution.”

            Mr. Fitch stared at the boy. “Right. Yes, that is true! Finally, a student who applies himself. Of course the problem has no real solution. Mr. Conrad, come up here and write out your procedure on the board.”

            Mr. Fitch’s arthritic hand trembled slightly as he wagged a broken piece of chalk to motion the boy forward. Thomas Conrad smiled smugly and stood up, pulling his sagging khakis under his pink Lacoste polo. He was tall and lean, though not quite as tall and lean as Mr. Fitch, and he smelled of Old Spice deodorant. Mr. Fitch squinted through his spectacles over Thomas’s shoulder as the boy scratched his answer on the board, and he admired the meticulously calculated solution and the neatly lined up equal signs with a small smile. Thomas’s work reminded him of what it felt like to be a teacher thirty years ago, reminded him of the satisfaction of a bright mind, the hope of a bright future. But Mr. Fitch checked himself. The real world was not bright, as he knew from experience. This Conrad boy was probably like all the others underneath — foolish, unfocused, and dim. Mr. Fitch turned back to his overhead projector, and looked absentmindedly back at the rest of the class. The scratching of chalk now irritated him, pulling at his tired mind.

 

            It was dark by the time Mr. Fitch arrived back at his one-bedroom house on Pine Avenue. The sun set early now that it was December, and the frozen air bit his nose as he fumbled with his keys.

            “Good evening, Parabola,” he said, addressing the small white cat who rubbed against his legs. “You must be starving! You want some food? Do ya?” Mr. Fitch picked up little Parabola along with the pile of mail that had been shoved through the slot in his door and carried them both into the kitchen. Parabola’s soft fur warmed his face and her purrs calmed his agitated nerves. The two companions sat down at the table, one enjoying a can of Friskies, the other a microwave TV dinner. Mr. Fitch was the first to break the silence.

            “I hope your day went well.”

            Parabola licked her mouth.

“Mine was lousy. Harder every day, these days. I suppose we just have to trudge through, hm?”

Shaking his head, Mr. Fitch turned to his mail. “Junk, junk junk,” he murmured, tossing catalogues and credit card ads in the trash bin. Then he came upon a pale green envelope with Charles Fitch scribbled across it in red pen. He immediately recognized the sloppy handwriting. Hesitating at first, Mr. Fitch reached for his stainless steel letter opener and slowly ripped through the envelope, revealing a glittery Hallmark snowman. Inside the card was written in cursive Hallmark ink, “May your holidays overflow with magical moments and wonderful memories!” And below, the red pen scrolled out, “Love, Charlie.” Mr. Fitch snorted.  Was this his son’s idea of a greeting, or was it some twisted form of a guilt-trip? Either possibility disgusted the old man as he tossed the tasteless card in the trash. He received the same type of card every year, but nothing so cheap would mend the pain of years of abuse and disrespect. When his son was ten, Mr. Fitch’s wife had left him for a high-powered lawyer across town. At first the ex-couple had maintained joint custody of Charlie, but as the years had passed, Charlie had spent more and more time with his mother, and it was obvious to everyone why. Mr. Fitch just wasn’t interesting or cool to his son. He couldn’t offer the material objects, active lifestyle, or popular conversation that the happy newlyweds could. He remembered how once, Charlie had called to cancel a fancy dinner Mr. Fitch had planned for the two of them, coughing over the phone that he had a fever. Mr. Fitch had seen him that night laughing inside a video rental store with some friends. There were fewer and fewer fancy dinners planned after that. Mr. Fitch would go without seeing Charlie for weeks, or even months. Eventually he stopped cooking altogether, and he would eat his meals so slowly that they would be cold midway. Often he would glance over at the phone while he ate, wishing his son would call, but he never did. Mailing that card probably just relieved his son’s own guilt, Mr. Fitch thought bitterly. But for the old man, it was too little, too late; he had moved on.

“Junk, junk, junk,” he continued, determinedly shuffling through the mail until he noticed another familiar letter. This time his name was typed onto thick off-white paper, and the return address read, “The National Foundation for the Advancement of Science and Math.” Mr. Fitch held the envelope in his wrinkled hands, his forehead knotted in memory. Each year as head of the math department he received this letter, an invitation to send one top student to compete in the NFASM’s prestigious mathematics competition. Forty some years ago, he himself had won the coveted award, and as a teacher and father it had often been his desire to partake in that glory once more. However, Mr. Fitch had never even sent in the application. He would not dare taint the foundation with his dim and disappointing students. But he did not throw the letter in the trash as his rationality urged. Instead, he went into the kitchen and stuck it in the deepest, dustiest drawer he could find, nestled in between the fridge and the stove, where he wouldn’t have to think about it, but where it would nevertheless be safe.

Mr. Fitch cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. When he was younger, he had thought that intelligence could be taught, that stupidity could be overcome by training and hard work. But as a teacher he had seen student after student disappoint him. Even his son had disappointed him. His thoughts unwillingly turned back to Charlie, who had never taken any interest in math, even before the divorce. He had majored in “sociology” at some third tier institution his stepfather had probably suggested. Now he lived in Ohio with a wife whose notion of Christmas spirit involved decking the house with glow-in-the-dark candy canes, blindingly metallic tinsel, and miniature reindeer that sang “Jingle Bell Rock” when you squeezed their noses. Yes, like many other things, Mr. Fitch’s young idealism had faded with the years. You cannot teach talent, you cannot grow motivation, and you cannot develop class, he thought, reminiscing about his own traditional Christmases.  Compared to his son’s flashy celebrations, his own were warm and beautiful, and reminded him of his childhood. Each year he satisfied himself by celebrating Christmas with only Parabola, away from all others who could not appreciate the holiday’s depth.

 

The next morning at 8:30 AM Mr. Fitch strode into his classroom, exhausted from a night of restless sleep, but determined not to let it show.

“Take out last night’s assignment,” he said. “Questions?” No response. “Any volunteers, then, for number 11?” He said this almost jokingly, so used to having to call on the unwilling pupils. But there, sitting in the second row, the polo-wearing, hair-gelling boy had his hand in the air, again. Mr. Fitch was taken aback.

“Yes, you, Mr., er...”

“Conrad,” the boy spoke confidently. “The answer to number 11 is 15 pi over the natural log of x.”

“Yes, that’s right. Would you mind coming up here and writing your work on the board? Perhaps it will help the other students. I suspect, Mr. Conrad, that you may be alone in finding the right answer.” The boy grinned and approached the board. Mr. Fitch found himself smiling, too. Their eyes met for an instant as he handed the boy the chalk. Mr. Fitch wondered why he had never noticed this student before. As he admired Thomas Conrad’s perfect work, Mr. Fitch had to confess that this boy was rather quick.

He looked at the other students. Some were passing notes, some were mouthing to each other across the room, but most wore an expression of blank boredom. None of them understood what he and the boy did. Mr. Fitch empathized with Thomas Conrad. He knew what it felt like to be intellectually above one’s peers. It was hard being the best, but it was also a gift. More than anything, Mr. Fitch hoped that Thomas Conrad would nurture his gift and never neglect it or take it for granted. If he pursued it, who knew how far he could go?

 

As the weeks passed, Mr. Fitch’s hunch about this boy grew into a conviction. Each day he watched the boy with his small eyes, and each night he took special pleasure in grading the boy’s tests and assignments.

“Parabola, I’m not often wrong, but I am proud to say that when I do make a mistake, I’m not afraid to admit it. Maybe there is hope for the newest generation. This boy, he really is different. I really believe he is.”

Parabola blinked back at Mr. Fitch. Her owner gazed morosely at his reheated macaroni. “His parents probably don’t appreciate his gifts. They don’t know how to cultivate his mind, no, I’m sure of it. That’s the sad part, Parabola. And here I am, with the know-how but without the son. Or without the right son, I should say. I’d just hate to watch his potential go to waste, when he could be formulating new theorems and breaching the chasms of mathematical understanding. What this boy needs, is someone to show him the possibilities, someone to take him to the next level. To do nothing would be unforgivable.”

Mr. Fitch cleared the table and put his bowl in the dishwasher. He suddenly became very aware of the bottom drawer in the corner, in between the fridge and the stove. He knew what was in it, and he almost felt guilty knowing it was there. The temptation, however, was too strong to resist, so when he had finished sponging off the counter and had hung the dishtowel on its hook, he knelt down before it and pulled opened the door. The inscription on the back of the envelope flashed before his eyes: Return application by January 1. The NFASM’s deadline was a mere three weeks away? This pressing news startled Mr. Fitch. Is he smart enough? Mr. Fitch asked himself. Yes, he knew the answer was yes. Then, is it possible, could he... it would take a lot of work, extra tutoring every day. But he would study, he has the drive... he will agree. But the stress…no, he can be convinced, he wants it, he would do it. Would he?

Mr. Fitch could barely sleep that night. But it was not due to the haunting insomnia he usually suffered from. For the first time in a long time, he could not wait for the next day to arrive. The letter, still unopened, lay on his bedside table, eerily illuminated in the moonlight that poured in through his window. He hugged Parabola close to him, at times burying his face in her warm fur. But as he drifted back to consciousness, his eyes would steer towards the glowing letter. He would squeeze them shut again, and pull the covers up to his forehead, flexing and curling his little toes.

 

Mr. Fitch could barely concentrate the next day in class. “Take out last night’s assignment. Are there any ans— I mean questions? About the assignment?” He cleared his throat and adjusted his stance. “No questions? Well, let us go over problem, uh, 17, I think. Are there any vol—” He stopped as Thomas Conrad’s tall arm shot prematurely in the air. “Yes?”

“The answer to number 17 is the sine of A plus B.”

“Of course, young man. And I suppose you know very well what I am going to ask now,” he added, wagging the broken piece of chalk. Thomas walked to the board and began writing out his work. Today, Mr. Fitch watched him write, but could not concentrate on the math. Instead he noticed Thomas’ neat, thin handwriting, much like his own. It was not sloppy, not extravagant — it was perfect. He noticed Thomas’ admirable height and neat clothing, and the way he furrowed his brow and licked his thin lips at one difficult step in the problem. At the end, Mr. Fitch patted him on the back and said, “Fine work, my boy. Very fine.”

Mr. Fitch was still smiling at Thomas’ fine answer as the bell rang and the students rushed out the door. He was still smiling as he pulled out his sack lunch and opened his ziplock bag containing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into triangles without crust. He was still smiling as he took a big, sticky bite, forgetting to wipe off the glob that had dropped onto his tie. Then Mr. Fitch remembered that he wouldn’t see Thomas until after winter break. He choked, realizing he had not yet asked the boy to apply to the NFASM’s competition. He had brought the application in his briefcase, but  had neglected to carry out the crucial step. Mr. Fitch cursed himself for his carelessness as he rushed out the door to catch the boy.

Which way had he gone? The hallway forked into two crowded, noisy corridors. Mr. Fitch randomly chose one and bolted down it, shoving teens right and left in his haste. Then, he saw him: the tallest boy in the hall, with shiny brown hair and excellent posture. He had his back to Mr. Fitch and was chatting casually with two shorter boys. Mr. Fitch approached, then hesitated, nervous about how he would pose the question, trying to catch his breath and regain his composure.

“I’m SOO glad to be out of that class, man. Oh my god, two weeks of freedom!” One of the boys exclaimed.

“Hell yes,” Thomas Conrad responded flippantly. “That class drives me insane.”

“Coming from Mr. Suck-up,” retorted the third.

“Shut up,” Thomas said. “I only put up with Mr. Bitch for the easy A. God that man is seriously pathetic though. His face is all dried up like a prune, I just want to throw up when I look at it. And he’s more than a little creepy, if you know what I mean.”

The other two erupted into laughter as Thomas scrunched up his face, making hissing noises and stroking the boys’ shoulders to mock his old teacher who watched from behind, frozen as people pushed their way past him. Mr. Fitch could no longer hear what the boy was saying. He could no longer see defined shapes, or feel the passage of time. The students around him seemed like a blur of color except for Conrad’s shiny head, bobbing rapidly up and down. Mr. Bitch. Pathetic. Creepy. The words echoed in his head, punching the air out of his lungs and contracting his throat.

 

Mr. Fitch sped home at 30 miles per hour, the anger building up inside him. How dare that deceitful, conniving, foolish teenager pretend to be a good student! How dare he feign respect, and speak so foully about him? Mr. Fitch could barely believe it. Thomas Conrad was smart and quick, and yet Mr. Fitch now hated him more than all the stupidity in the world. He was just like all the others. No, he was worse.

Mr. Fitch threw open his front door and dropped his briefcase on the floor. Parabola ran up to him and he picked her up, hugging her tightly on his shoulder.

“Oh, Parabola. I don’t know what to think anymore. It’s all mixed up now.” He put her down, unzipped the inside pocket of his briefcase, and lifted out the off-white envelope. Grasping it in his hands, he tried to rip it in two, but the paper inside was too thick. Mr. Fitch’s face turned a blotchy red, and the vein in his forehead pulsated. Exasperated, he walked over to the trash bin and threw it in with all his might, breathing heavily.

He stood over the letter, feeling an ounce of satisfaction at its demise. He swore never to think of the competition and the boy again. They were pieces of his past now, pieces that he had outgrown and left behind; he had moved on.

Then Mr. Fitch noticed something glittering behind the letter. He bent down and touched the glitter. It rubbed off on his hands, grainy like sand. Realizing that it was the snowman card from Charlie, he picked it up, shaking off extra bits of lint and garbage. Mr. Fitch sat down at the table to steady himself. The adrenaline of anger rushed out of his body, leaving him tired and weak. He no longer had the energy to protest against the past, or to hold up his stubborn pride. In the dead silence of his house, he suddenly felt very small and very alone. All that moved was the light bouncing off the glitter, back and forth across Mr. Fitch’s face.