Travis and I were sitting in the back of Mrs. Whitley’s history class the other day, writing on a piece of notebook paper we were passing back and forth to each other. Needless to say, we were not exchanging notes on the actual class material Mrs. Whitley was droning on about. We couldn’t be bothered to learn about the Battle of Bunker Hill, we were too busy working on stuff that actually mattered, like whether our lyrics should be about murder or the occult.
We had just started writing original music yesterday, and despite Travis’s (and my) doubts about our songwriting abilities, we actually wrote a pretty killer four-minute instrumental. And when I say “we wrote an instrumental,” I mean we all contributed. As much as Travis (and I) tried to take the backseat and let Charlie be the Dave Mustaine of our band, Charlie wouldn’t let us off that easily. He only wrote the drum part, and was adamant that Travis and I had to write our own instruments’ parts to keep up our end of the deal, even though he was a way better bassist and guitarist than we were. He treated us as equals in the band, only offering suggestions when he thought something would work better, but never going as far as to write our parts for us.
Just as we agreed to make our song about a murderer who sacrifices virgins for the occult, Mrs. Whitley rudely interrupted our discussion with her stern, shrill voice:
“Eric! Travis! Let’s take a look at those notes you’re taking. I’m sure they’re quite comprehensive given how much you’ve been writing back here.”
Mrs. Whitley was the oldest teacher at Felmore Middle School. Her long tenure of teaching here shows, since she has more wrinkles on her face than hair follicles on her head. She probably knows so much about history since she’s just reciting it from memory. Her stature makes her look like she is constantly fighting the pressure of the atmosphere, only succeeding out of sheer disdain. She couldn’t be taller than four foot ten, but that didn’t make her any less imposing. She wears a constant scowl as if she’s sure you will disappoint her at some point. Considering a surprising number of her students grew up, married each other, settled down in this same godforsaken town, and had kids who are now also her students, I suppose her disposition is understandable.
Before I could react or say anything, Mrs. Whitley had snatched our half-completed song lyrics. Despite her old age, she had mastered the art of the lightning-fast swipe from decades of snatching notes, gum, and other contraband items. She lifted our lyrics to her face and started reading. Well, at least she tried. Neither Travis nor I have great handwriting (as Mrs. Whitley has pointed out several times), and she has enough trouble without her reading glasses as it is. She returned to the front of the classroom to retrieve her reading glasses from her desk. As she started to read, I imagined how this little old lady would react to our absolutely evil lyrics in front of the entire class. Would she turn white? Gasp? Scream? Maybe even faint? This would score us tons of notoriety, and we didn’t even need a janitor the size of a house! We should be writing lyrics in class all the time, I thought, this will be a win-win!
Yet to my disappointment, Mrs. Whitley kept her composure remarkably well. No screaming, no fainting, nothing. However, our lyrics must have had some kind of effect, because usually when a teacher catches a student passing notes they just throw the note away. They don’t even read the note aloud to the entire class to embarrass the student like in movies. Tom Seiks, who was sitting at the front of the class, later told me he saw her roll her eyes and mutter “not this again” before she picked up her office phone, walked outside the classroom with it to say something, then came back in and addressed us: “Eric, Travis, meet me outside in the hallway. Class, I’ll be back in a couple minutes. Review the material we’ve already covered until I get back.”
I doubted our peers were going to follow these instructions as they all went “Ooooooooh,” the universal prepubescent term for “it’s about to go down” as Travis and I walked to the door at the front of the room. “Come with me,” Mrs. Whitley said as we stepped into the hallway. Travis and I shot each other a look as if to say “What’s going to happen now?”
We had ample time to consider the possibilities, as Mrs. Whitley wasn’t exactly a power walker. Usually if she was going to yell at a student herself for misbehaving, she’d just continue with class and have the student stay a couple minutes after everyone else left so she could let the student have it. I don’t know this from personal experience, but I could occasionally hear her reaming some poor soul a new one from several rooms away. So she probably wasn’t going to deal with us herself.
The other options were to take us to the guidance counselor’s office, the vice principal’s office, or the principal’s office. If you got in trouble and the teacher didn’t feel like dealing with you, you usually had to go to one of these admins. I didn’t (and still don’t) know the criteria to decide which admin’s office you go to if you get in trouble, but it seems like the worse you screw up, the higher ranking admin you have to see.
Based on which hallways Mrs. Whitley took, Travis and I were eventually able to discern that we were going to the office of Ms. Hemway-Fischer, the guidance counselor. That was disappointing, our lyrics weren’t even offensive enough to get the principal or the vice principal involved. Mrs. Whitley knocked on the door and poked her head in. “Hi Erica, I have those two boys here I told you about on the phone. Are you ready to see them?” Mrs. Whitley said in a voice that actually sounded friendly.
“Sure! Bring them in!” said a voice from inside the office.
Mrs. Whitley opened the door to reveal a small, somewhat cramped office. Ms. Hemway-Fischer’s desk had a desktop, picture frames with her graduation photos and photos of dogs (probably hers), the remnants of a bagel and coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts, some kind of humidifier that emitted scented vapor, and a bunch of cluttered office supplies. Her walls were covered in motivational posters, posters of smiling kids who were “too cool for drugs,” her B.A. in psychology from UVM, and her Master’s in counseling from Miskatonic University. Instead of a couple plastic mass-produced chairs that occupied the rest of the school, a sofa that barely fit the width of the room faced her desk.
Looking at Ms. Hemway-Fischer, I realized I had seen her around the school, but never knew who she was or what she did until now. She looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties, had short, blonde hair that was dyed with a streak of purple, and looked like she could stand to lay off the cream and sugar in her coffee. She wore thick-rimmed glasses and a purple sweater.
She smiled at us and said “Hey guys! Come on in, come take a seat.” This disciplinary infraction was already proving to be a huge disappointment. Not a single person had yelled at us yet, and the admin we were supposed to see was actually being nice.
Travis and I sat down. Mrs. Whitley handed Ms. Hemway-Fischer our lyrics and said “I caught Eric and Travis here working on this in the middle of their history class instead of paying attention. Normally I wouldn’t bother you with something like this, but it looks like they were writing about some so-called ‘violent content’ and you know how these policies require me to take it to you in case of a Columbine situation.” That was the most tactful Mrs. Whitley bothered to be at her age.
Ms. Hemway-Fischer’s expression didn’t change at Mrs. Whitley’s off-color remark. She simply smiled and said “No problem, Diane. I’ll take it from here.” Mrs. Whitley shut the door, leaving us with this disappointingly unthreatening guidance counselor.
“Okay, let’s see what we have here,” Ms. Hemway-Fischer said as she started to read our lyrics. Maybe her reaction would be more fruitful. Mrs. Whitley was old and hardened by decades of teaching, not to mention she probably witnessed some of the medieval torture methods we referenced in our lyrics firsthand, making them seem weak by comparison. This guidance counselor lady, on the other hand, was still young and naïve. She must have thought the hardest part of working with middle school students in a boring suburb would be dealing with kids who were too insecure to change in the locker room. There was no way she was prepared to deal with a couple of brutal metalheads like us.
“Mm. Mm-hm. Mm-hm. Okay,” Ms. Hemway-Fischer mumbled as she read our lyrics before putting them down on her desk and looking back at us. Not a single gasp, shriek, or anything. I could feel my soul wither as I realized our lyrics may not have been brutal enough. “First, let me get your version of events. Why do you boys think you’re here?” Ms. Hemway-Fischer asked.
Evidently not for being too brutal. We failed to offend both an old lady and someone who recently graduated from an institution of higher learning. Those should be two of the easiest types of people to offend!
But I didn’t say that. Instead, I opted to play dumb and replied “We got caught passing notes in class” in the most monotone voice I could muster. Travis nodded his head in agreement. I had been so preoccupied with how disappointing the reactions to our lyrics had been I hadn’t even noticed Travis had been effectively mute this entire time. This may have been the first time he had been in trouble when it was actually his fault.
“Well, it is true you’re not supposed to be passing notes in class,” Ms. Hemway-Fischer replied, “but Mrs. Whitley didn’t bring you here just because you were passing notes, right? Is there anything else you’d like to say? And don’t feel like you have to tell me what I expect to hear. I really want to know your version of events.” Still no sign of moral outrage. This lady had a top-notch poker face.
Travis and I looked at each other as if to say “We’ve already been caught. What else do we have to lose?” I looked back at the guidance counselor and gave it to her straight: “Travis and I are in a band, and we’re auditioning for a battle of the bands. We need to audition with original material, so we were writing lyrics to one of our songs in class.”
“Wow, that’s great!” Ms. Hemway-Fischer exclaimed. I couldn’t tell if this lady actually cared about any of this or was just humoring us to get us to spill our guts. “Look, far be it from me to tell you guys you shouldn’t be making music or writing lyrics or anything. That’s fantastic. But I know you know you’re not supposed to be working on that in class, right?”
Travis and I both nodded in unison.
“Now, since you’ve explained your side of the story, I actually owe you guys an explanation of my own. I’m sure you know Mrs. Whitley didn’t bring you here just because you were passing notes.”
No kidding, the old lady straight-up said she had to bring us here in case we were aspiring school shooters.
“Due to some of these tragic events, faculty have a strict ‘see something, say something’ policy when it comes to anything that could suggest a student is showing ‘at risk’ behavior…” she continued.
Don’t get me wrong, it would be a great claim to fame in the metal community if our school labeled us as antisocial mental cases at risk for violent behavior. The only problem would be the mandated therapy sessions or padded cells. Those would seriously get in the way of our rehearsal schedule.
“…but after speaking to you I can tell that you’re not ‘at risk’ at all. It’s clear you two have found a safe, constructive outlet for your creative energy. I’m so excited for your battle of the bands!”
Is this our punishment for not paying attention in class? Getting patronized by a middle school guidance counselor for how “cute” our evil demonic metal music is?
“Now, that said, I did have some concerns about the problematic way your lyrics portray women.”
What?!