The Common Era

23 WILLIAM TORREY THE COMMON ERA T he third Wednesday in September is Back to School Night, and as Stephen goes over his World History syllabus, he avoids the eyes of Mona McCullough and feels choked by the collar of his French-cuffed shirt. The summer is behind him, but its heat endures, heavy as ever, and as he presses on about the weight of the past, sweat soaks cold ovals at his armpits. The fluorescent lights remind him of an interrogation. This is Stephen’s second year at Alamo Heights, and though he’s used to the glazed looks of seventeen-year-olds, parents still make him squirm. Crammed into desks, they put on tense grins while Stephen hashes out the first six-week grading period —the Roman Empire, an essay on a major historical figure . Stephen knows they’re wary of him, these mothers and fathers, troubled by his long hair and stud earrings, the same quirks that, along with his founding of the school’s cycling club, have made him so popular among students. Unlike his colleagues—frock-clad women in orthopedic shoes or paunchy men in plaid shirts—Stephen sports slim-fit jeans and never wears a tie. He is boyish and fun and well put-together, with green eyes and a complexion soft as whipped cream. But what separates him from his fellow teachers is greater than looks and age; Stephen understands his students. He gets them. In times of teenage strife, when one of the girls is sure she’s too fat to find a date for Senior Party, when a boy doesn’t know if it’s okay to wear socks with Top-Siders, Stephen is an able listener and adviser, a new member of the adult tribe, seasoned by age yet unspoiled by its coming strain. He could easily pass as one of their older brothers—could almost pass as one of them. At the classroom’s back-left corner, beneath a poster of the Code of Hammurabi, Mona McCullough crosses her legs and dangles a beaded sandal. Her toenails are red as valentines. Her pupils dilate; her hand goes up. colorado review 24 “Mr. Sledge,” she calls him, although they’re on a first-name basis. “Would you mind telling us what’s so special about history ?” Stephen looks down at his loafers and pinches a grin. “People think of history as a straight line,” he says. “One event after the other.” He turns to the chalkboard and, with a quick flick of his wrist, scrawls a circle in its center, a lonesome blotch on a clean slate. “But to me, history’s a roundabout we’re stuck in forever . The scenery changes—mega-churches replace cathedrals, the Coliseum gives way to the Alamodome—but in the end, we’re making the same mistakes as the Romans and the Greeks. And if I can show students this pattern, then maybe they’ll decide to make some headway. Maybe they’ll be the ones to break the cycle.” “Pretty ambitious,” Mona says with a smile. Her lips, like her son Richard’s, are a supple pink—just like the Saltillo that tiles the McCulloughs’ pool house. “I don’t know,” says Stephen. “I think that’s every teacher’s goal—at least it should be.” “Well, our kids can only hope for more teachers like you.” Mona’s bobbing sandal slips from her foot and hits the linoleum with a smack. In June and July, Stephen moonlighted as an ap test tutor . Twice a week, after sunset rides with the cycling club, he stopped by the McCulloughs’ house and drilled Richard on historical vocab lists and the geography of dead civilizations. Richard was energetic and hardworking—eager to please—and Stephen liked tutoring him, found it sweet the way his cheeks burned red when praised, found himself antsy as he leaned over Richard to check his work, the boy’s hair a nose-tingling mix of chlorine and sweat. The end of their sessions often bled into dinnertime, and Mona insisted he stay for meals. Her husband, Richard’s father, had been a petroleum engineer and died in Iran when a burst...