The Numbers

Andrew Haynes

Shortly after graduation, Ms. Tattersall joined Newgate High School, a college preparatory whose students matriculated into the best universities around the country. Newgate (which according to the curious laws of New England pronunciation, rhymed with “nougat”) was the last stop on the Green Line running west of Boston. It attracted professionals of the higher tax brackets, renowned academics who held tenured posts at Boston’s esteemed universities, professional artists, and the sundry financially fortunate. Traveling past Newgate, the change from urban to rural was sharp, traffic on the Massachusetts Turnpike towards the Berkshires thinned, universities dwindled in number, homes shrank in value, and political convictions turned from blue to red.

Ms. Tattersall accomplished much during her time at the school: a Massachusetts Teacher of the Year, a three-time winner of an NEA Foundation Grant, a High School Teacher of Excellence Award by the National Council of Teachers of English, Chair of the Newgate High School English Department, and finally Vice Principal. Over the years, while explaining the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock, Hester’s A, Santiago’s marlin, and Janie Crawford’s hair, Ms. Tattersall also divorced, won a custody battle, earned a Master’s Degree, witnessed her daughter graduate from medical school, buried her mother and father, and endeared herself to nearly everyone she met, so when the position of School Principal became available, Ms. Tattersall was certain she had earned it.

Shortly before Ms. Tattersall interviewed—a formality—the SAU’s Superintendent, Mr. Hart, discovered that, throughout the years, Ms. Tattersall enjoyed telling certain administrative colleagues that he spent far too much time preaching data, data, data and too little suggesting what to do about it. In retaliation, after the final round of interviews, Superintendent Hart told Ms. Tattersall that the committee had chosen a more suitable candidate. Ms. Tattersall maintained her poise, but at the end of the academic year, hastily accepted the position of High School Vice Principal at The Academy of Soucester Charter School—its fifth in as many years. Mr. Hart announced that Ms. Tattersall’s departure was a great loss to the community of Newgate, and Ms. Tattersall responded by announcing that it was with a heavy heart that she decided to advance her career outside such a caring and dedicated body of professionals. 

Before arriving at her new destination, Ms. Tattersall made sure to learn the relevant data. The city of Soucester (rhymed with “rooster”) was a former mill town on the banks on the northern part of the Merrimack River and quickly expanded into a bustling industrial city of 120,000 residents. The school enrolled 491 students: 25.1% as Asian, 24.4% as Hispanic, 24.3% as White, 19.8% as African American, 2.5% as Native American, and 3.9% as Other. The Massachusetts Department of Elementary and Secondary Education ranked The Academy of Soucester Charter School as the Second Most Diverse in the State. 54.7% of the students spoke a language other than English: Portuguese, Spanish, and Khmer the most common. High Needs Students made up 28.3% of the population. 37.2% of the students qualified as Low Income. 13.2% planned on attending college. The student-teacher ratio was 19 to 1. The school district spent $12,168.11 per pupil. The Massachusetts Comprehensive Assessment System indicated that an alarming 56% of the tenth-grade students were “Not Meeting Expectations” in English and an even-more alarming 62% in Math. 

Ms. Tattersall knew she had been hired with the expectation that, under her leadership, institutional knowledge, and expertise, the numbers would improve. However, after numerous initiatives, diverse reforms, and countless action steps, the data revealed the same story—year in and year out. Although Ms. Tattersall’s job was never in jeopardy, she knew that, more importantly, the students’ education very much was. And no matter how hard Ms. Tattersall fought against dejection, it unsettled the lining of her stomach, snatched patches of hair from her scalp, and tossed bouts of insomnia into her sleep cycle. 

And by February of her seventh year at the school, she reached a conclusion: Whenever society figured out how to eradicate poverty, violence, addiction, attention-deficit disorders, depression, personality disorders, homelessness, exploitation, neurodivergence, domestic abuse, inequality, misogyny, racism, bigotry, hatred, and all the rest, only then would the school make progress. It was a conclusion she disliked, as it seemed so much like an excuse—so she kept it to herself, and whenever the job made her feel ill, she used the conclusion as a mental dartboard at which she tossed invective.

She figured she should assume 12.6% of the blame, and 14.4% should fall on the teachers, and then 15.9% on parents, and 17.4% on inadequate funding, and so on. She was tempted to make a spreadsheet with the relevant data points but resisted—a list of excuses would not help, though early retirement might. Maybe the school needed someone younger, with fresh ideas, with a different point of view, with more experience in urban settings? Maybe someone with a PhD? Maybe someone bi-lingual? Maybe someone Latinx or Asian or Black or Other? Somebody less exhausted.

And she began to outline a picture of life without school bells. She could, for instance, spend more time in the garden. Her present one was more of an experiment, the work of an apprentice. It had produced only a few tawdry tomatoes and a handful of wrinkled peppers, but once she had more time . . . Also, she could volunteer at the local primary schools a few hours a week. She had been working with adolescents her entire professional life, so it might be nice to work with kids for a change. She would ask if they could run fast, jump high, and draw well, and their enthusiastic voices would answer: Yes, Yes, and Yes. How refreshing that would be after years of: I don’t want to, I don’t care, and No I can’t. She could read more. Maybe write? A memoir of her life as an educator? All those years encouraging pupils to write, yet how little she herself did. And what about the piano? She could revisit the instrument without the pressure she placed on herself as a teenager so many decades before. Yes. And the idea of linking her distant past with her near future was so intoxicating she began to make plans.

***

After the final bell, Ms. Tattersall scurried through the hallways towards the main office. She was unable to move freely without an exhausted teacher, an irate student, a concerned parent, a frazzled secretary, a curious visitor, a local politician, a potential volunteer, an underpaid paraprofessional, or a cautious custodian stopping her. Initially, she enjoyed talking, problem-solving, encouraging, advising, but now it was just one of the many hazards of the job. 

She passed Mr. Rodriguez, Soucester’s Director who, like Ms. Tattersall, was hoping to continue towards his destination without incident. On the way by he casually mentioned the school board meeting tomorrow, and Ms. Tattersall recognized the implicit warning: Be ready. Mr. Correa, the newly appointed Head of the School Board, was making a name for himself by speaking and acting defiantly, but within the parameters acceptable public discourse. From the way Mr. Corea preached and admonished at every meeting, Ms. Tattersall assumed he possessed wider political ambitions. At tonight’s meeting, he would demand explanations for the latest round of numbers from MAP Testing, which Ms. Tattersall had to collect, distribute, present, explain, and defend. The standardized test had no bearing on the students’ grades, but Mr. Correa refused to understand that the test upon which he placed so much value held none whatsoever for the students.

Ms. Tattersall continued her way through the hallways, hurried by the receptionist, thanked her good fortune, and turned left only to find Samira Cabral Souza sitting in one of the chairs along the length of the office wall. She sat with one palm resting upon each of her thighs while her toes tapped up and down. Her long brown hair covered most of her face and hung down the length of her back.

“Come in, Samira,” Ms. Tattersall said, motioning the student towards her office. 

Ms. Tattersall pulled her cellphone from her trousers and saw that she had missed a call from her daughter. Hopefully, not an emergency.

“You can take those books off there to sit,” Ms. Tattersall said, indicating the chair across from her office desk, though her mind still lingered on the missed call.

Donald, her son-in-law, had made threats before, and was hospitalized once, but the new medication seemed to stabilize him, and he was painting again. Soon he might feel well enough to teach part-time, though Rose, her daughter, said the money wasn’t the point, but rather that he was up, out of bed, and interacting. She made enough for the two of them but could not manage the down payment on that modest (Rose’s word) colonial in Brookline she and Donald had been eyeing. She spoke about starting a family, and the house in Brookline perfectly matched their dream, but Rose didn’t want to take out another loan to help cover a down payment with the amount of medical school debt she was still carrying. 

Samira stacked the oversized textbooks from the seat onto her arms and looked like she was about to topple over.

“You can just put the those down anywhere,” Ms. Tattersall said. “Here, let me help.”

In the event of family, Ms. Tattersall believed Donald would have to start contributing more, though she knew better than to voice her concern. Ms. Tattersall sensed her daughter might ask her for the money to cover the down payment, the way Rose kept going on and on about the outrageous prices in Brookline, which was true enough. Ms. Tattersall did not point out that there were far more affordable cities in the area, hoping instead Rose would come to this conclusion on her own. 

Ms. Tattersall folded her hands together on top of the desk and focused on the issue at hand. 

“Vaping?” she began. “In the bathroom? On our first day back from February break? Really?” 

Samira smirked. 

Just that morning, a mild day with little cloud cover and temperatures that hinted of spring, Samira was caught before lunch. Official protocol dictated: in-school suspension, a call home, a meeting with the parents (though Ms. Tattersall had no such luck regarding Samira’s previous infractions) and whatever other kinds of restorative justice (what the school used to call punishment) the Vice Principal—Ms. Tattersall—deemed necessary.

“I have no idea why you think this is funny,” Ms. Tattersall said.

The vaping was particularly vexing as Samira demonstrated so much potential. She arrived at The Academy of Soucester from Minas Gerais, all of 80 pounds with a short pixie cut. She spoke rarely—either in Portuguese or English, but aced the ACCESS Test, so no English Language services were deemed necessary. She hung around the outer circle of the Brazilian students. When the class worked on projects and the Brazilians invited Samira to join, she declined, choosing to sit furthest from the teacher with her back to the wall. When called upon, a rarity since she knew how to hide behind larger students, Samira said she didn’t know, and the teachers, either out of sympathy or apathy, didn’t press.

“So are you going to tell me anything?” Ms. Tattersall said, pulling her chair forward, “or are you going to make me guess?”

Samira ran the back of her hand across her mouth as though to keep the thing from escaping.

“You’re on track to graduate in June. Why would you risk that?”

Samira coughed into her hand.

Ms. Tattersall’s fingers clacked on the keys of her computer and called up Samira’s grades. 

“I see you’re passing all your classes. I remember you were having trouble with, what was it?”

“English,” Samira offered.

Mrs. Tattersall waited.

“Mr. Cestino,” Samira explained.

“Ah, yes,” Ms. Tattersall said. 

Intimidation was his modus operandi. It worked well for some, less so for others. 

“But you’re passing now?” Ms. Tattersall asked.

“I guess,” Samira said. 

Ms. Tattersall first noticed Samira during an informal classroom observation of Mr. Ramsay, a first-year educator with a challenging group of first-year high schoolers. During the lesson, Ederlin and Janalise were snuggling in a corner, Miguel and Gamaliel were out-farting each other, Julie was busy copying Neishaly’s history assignment, Antony and Rhayla were arguing over a pencil, Ryan was sitting on top of his desk, Miguel was playing video games on his cellphone, and the other students, out of a need for sleep, an expression of boredom, or a desire to protest, laid their heads on the desks. Ms. Tattersall worried Mr. Ramsay would not make it to Christmas vacation.

But amidst the chaos, Ms. Tattersall observed a girl sitting by herself next to the window silently writing in her notebook. She crossed the floor and peered over the student’s shoulder to find that she—appropriately—was copying the problem Mr. Ramsay wrote on the board: Find the 20th term given the sequence. 3, 8, 13, 18. And a moment later, in flawless penmanship, the student wrote: A20 = 3 + (20-1)(5) = 98.

Ms. Tattersall asked the diminutive wonder if she could borrow her notebook for a moment and brought it to Mr. Ramsay, who was standing with back turned to the class explaining how to input the appropriate numbers. Ms. Tattersall asked if 98 was correct. He paused for a moment, glanced at the notebook, took it between his hands, inspected the work, and in a voice of mild bewilderment, declared that it was. He asked who figured it out. Ms. Tattersall pointed to the girl next to the window. Ms. Tattersall asked what the girl’s grade was, and Mr. Ramsay did a frantic search on his laptop before admitting that Samira’s grade was 37.

“How does she have a 37 when she figured out this problem here on the board before everybody else?”

Mr. Ramsay swallowed hard and touched the base of his neck before explaining that Samira had not been completing her homework assignments.

“Mr. Ramsay,” Ms. Tattersall declared, “Rule Number One of Teaching: Do Not Talk to the Board.”

Mr. Ramsay dutifully rotated his body 180 degrees.

“And do you know what Number Two is?” Ms. Tattersall asked.

Mr. Ramsay slowly shook his head.

“The Difference Between Homework and Aptitude.” 

Ms. Tattersall fingernails continued to click on the keyboard as she ran down the rest of Samira’s grades. 

“Okay, you’re passing everything, that’s good, but not as good as you could, and should, be doing. So tell me, why the sudden need to start vaping? I don’t get it.”

Samira’s sophomore year she became a charter member of the No Fly List. The weekly bulletin contained a dozen or so names of students who could not be excused from class without fighting or smoking or interrupting or harassing or lingering or avoiding or refusing or arguing or bullying or shaming or swearing or in some way making somebody’s life somewhere miserable. Ms. Tattersall was forced to make an executive decision: An Escort Was Required At All Times Until Further Notice. 

Samira headed the list, although she was the least troublesome. Ms. Tattersall reasoned Samira’s diminutive size had something to do with her ability to disappear, and once gone, impossible to find. She showed up first period, on time even, but then skipped two or three or four classes in a row, only to show up at the end of the day. Nobody knew if she went home, stayed on the school grounds, or discovered a well-disguised in-between. In Ms. Tattersall’s experience, Samira’s ability to become invisible went unmatched. The Restorative Justice Team had questioned Samira, but they were unable to coerce a confession. 

“Listen, Samira.” Ms. Tattersall said, laying her palms flat on the table. “You’re smart. Way too smart to be caught vaping in the bathroom. What’s going on?”

“Is there a way I can finish high school without going to class every day?” Samira asked.

“What do you mean?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“Like online or something like that,” Samira said.

“Sure, that’s possible, but why?” Ms. Tattersall said. “You’re doing well. I mean, you’re still improving. You’re on track to graduate. You could go to college. You talked about becoming a nurse, right?”

“Maybe, but I might have to take some time off,” Samira repeated.

“But why?” Ms. Tattersall said. “How much school will you miss?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Samira said.

“Well, what for? Can you tell me that?”

“I’ve been sick,” Samira explained.

“Did you go to the doctor?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“No, not yet,” Samira said.

“You can make up the work you miss, but you know that,” Ms. Tattersall said, her eyes sharpening.

“But I might miss a lot of time,” Samira said.

In Samira’s junior year the disappearances stopped, but she began to fall asleep in class, and once asleep, unnervingly difficult to wake up. Then she began fainting. A meeting was held with the nurse, and it was decided Samira would be allowed to eat and drink in class. The plan worked. During lectures Samira started stealing away entire bags of Hot Chili Pepper Takis, which turned her tongue, lips, and fingers inhumanly red. Ms. Tattersall asked her to start eating healthier or her privilege would be revoked. In response, Samira started bringing along pão de queijo in clear zip-locked baggies. She brought enough to share, and Ms. Tattersall came to realize how much she liked the Brazilian cheese bread and began keeping some on-hand in the office.

“Okay, so we’re talking about something serious,” Ms. Tattersall said.

“Yes,” Samira admitted, her eyes on the floor.

At the start of Samira’s senior year, she returned from summer two inches taller and twenty pounds heavier. The staff agreed: Samira was looking healthier. She had even signed up for her first AP class: Language and Composition. However, by the end of September, staff began discovering Samira in the second-floor room designated for indoor suspension. Alone. Doing work. When Ms. Tattersall asked, Samira explained that she concentrated better in there. Ms. Tattersall, cognizant of the demands of an AP class, allowed Samira to access the ISS room whenever she wanted, and Samira used the space two or three hours a day, but by mid-year exams, hardly at all.

“Okay, so it’s serious. Is it something we should talk about with the nurse?” Ms. Tattersall asked.

“No, that’s okay,” Samira said, slumping father into her chair.

Soon after mid-year exams were completed, Ms. Tattersall observed Ms. Johnson’s Advanced Placement Language and Composition class and found Samira at the center of a circle of distressed students explaining the difference between metonymy and synecdoche. On the most recent practice test, Samira received a 4.0, and Ms. Johnson said she wouldn’t be surprised if Samira earned a 5.0 on the real thing. 

“Okay, like how serious?” Ms. Tattersall began. “Will you have to go to the hospital?”

“Yes,” Samira said.

“But how do you know?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“Because everybody goes to the hospital,” Samira said.

More recently, Ms. Tattersall had started talking to Samira about college but worried she wouldn’t be able to afford it. She suggested trying a course for free at one of the local community colleges, and explained that in-state tuition at certain schools was far more reasonable than out-of-state. She brought up the possibility of scholarships, financial aid programs, and the possibility of loan forgiveness. 

“What do you mean?” Ms. Tattersall asked. She noted the sharp tone in her voice and made sure to soften it. “Why will you have to go to the hospital?”

“Because I took a test,” Samira explained, and from the look of confusion of Ms. Tattersall’s face, she had to say more.

“To see.”

“Oh,” Ms. Tattersall said, leaning back in her chair, “I understand.”

“I wasn’t planning it,” Samira said.

“Yes, I see,” Ms. Tattersall said. “Is the father at this school?” 

“No, I’m not going to date anyone at this school,” Samira said.

“That’s not what I mean,” Ms. Tattersall said.

“I’m not going to date anyone who still lives with their mother,” Samira said.

“Okay,” Ms. Tattersall said. 

“He loves me,” Samira added.

Ms. Tattersall rubbed at an eyebrow. 

“And he makes a lot of money,” Samira said.

Ms. Tattersall rubbed at the other eyebrow.

“Well, enough money,” Samira added.

“Okay, I’m sure he does, but does he know?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“Not yet,” Samira said.

“Why not?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“I’m waiting for the right time,” Samira said.

“And when will that be?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“Well, first I was waiting to be sure.” Samira explained.

“And are you?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“Yes. I took the three different tests,” Samira said.

“So what are you waiting for now?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“Well, he gets home late from work and, sometimes, he’s in a bad mood,” Samira explained.

Ms. Tattersall rubbed at both eyebrows.

Samira’s eyes watered.

Ms. Tattersall pushed a box of tissues across the desk. 

Samira dabbed at her eyes and cheeks.

Ms. Tattersall waited.

“So that’s why I’m going to miss school,” Samira explained.

“Okay, I understand,” Ms. Tattersall said. “I get it. Now, remember, you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. I’m just asking questions. If you don’t like the question, you don’t have to answer, okay? I just want to understand more. You’re not in trouble. I want to help. But to help I need to know a few things.”

“Go ahead,” Samira said.

“Do your parents know?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“No,” Samira said.

“Do you want them to know?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“I don’t want to talk about them,” Samira said, her voice breaking. She pulled another tissue from the box.

“Then I have just one more question,” Ms. Tattersall said.

“Okay,” Samira said.

“Do you know your options?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“I think so,” Samira said.

“You can decide, I mean, you have to decide, about what you want to do,” Ms. Tattersall said.

“I know,” Samira said.

“And do you know what you want to do? Have you made up your mind?” Ms. Tattersall said.

“I think so,” Samira said.

“Okay, well, just in case, let me tell you,” Ms. Tattersall said. “You have three options. You can have the baby, or you can give the baby up for adoption, or you can have an abortion.” Ms. Tattersall hoped the timber in her voice had not given away her preference.

“Yes, I know that,” Samira said.

“And I want you to know, whatever you decide, I’ll support you,” Ms. Tattersall said.

“Are you going to tell my parents?” Samira said.

“I would prefer you did.” 

***

By 4:30 most of the staff had departed, but Ms. Tattersall was still in her office, crunching numbers. She had just finished talking with Rose, who needed more money for the down payment than Ms. Tattersall anticipated. According to her calculations, it looked like the loan would set her retirement plans back a few years. Rose promised to pay it back in full, in which case Ms. Tattersall would take whatever money she received, put it in a savings account, and leave it there for Rose’s future. 

Satisfied, she turned her attention to the school board meeting. She had one hour to prepare. The numbers from the latest round of MAP Tests were as expected, but Ms. Tattersall dressed them up in eye-catching scatter flow charts, bubble charts, and pictographs. She was almost done when an email distracted her:

Ms. Tattersall,

I’m going to miss school for a while. I thought I should tell you. And I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done. I want to keep going to school, but that will have to wait until after. I just thought I should tell you.

Samira

Gradually, the demands of the presentation shifted Ms. Tattersall’s focus. The new charts were engaging and coherent, but they lacked something. She experimented with unusual fonts in various sizes with striking colors, but nothing she tried worked. She grabbed the underside of her chin and began massaging it with her thumb, and then the idea struck. She changed a few of the numbers of the more meaningful categories, just to see how they might look, nothing drastic: 3 to 4, and 5 to 6, and 8 to 9, and so on. When she finished, Ms. Tattersall leaned back in her chair, placed her hands around the base of her neck, and surveyed the results: a modest but noticeable improvement. These new figures were a better representation of all the hard work everybody in the building and the community was doing. Ms. Tattersall stood up, found her jacket on the hook behind the door, and slung a bag over her shoulder. She paused a moment before leaving the office—the board would have questions. Ms. Tattersall quietly closed the door behind her and left the building. Of course, she would have to convince them, and as she hurried along through the tranquil air of the late afternoon, she considered various explanations, each more inventive than the last. It was exciting to imagine.