The Day the Eighties Ended

FICTION The Day the Eighties Ended___________ Chris Wood INSTEAD OF BECOMING AN ACTRESS, Barbara Taylor taught drama at a grade school in Logan, West Virginia, where she'd grown up. Her classroom wasn't warm and homey like the other teachers'. Brown plastic chairs lined the beige cinderblock walls and, except for a drama mask on the bulletin board, the walls remained naked. Because Barbara hadn't been certified when she'd applied for the job, she'd been given the title "Itinerant Teacher" by Mrs. Deveres, the school's principal. Mrs. Deveres did everything by the book and seemed to Barbara to be suspicious of everything, especially teachers. Every week their lesson plans were scrutinized and revised. It was for this reason that Barbara hated her job. The thought of planning anything sent her into panic. At night, Barbara tossed and turned, thinking about her life. How quickly it had gone by! It seemed only yesterday when she enrolled in her first year of college. But that had been a long time ago. If it weren't for sleeping pills, she'd never get any rest. On a gray Monday morning at the end of November, Barbara willed herself from bed. She maintained her morning ritual of avoiding the mirror when she got out of the shower. At thirty-four, she couldn't even remember the last time she'd looked at her naked body, and she shuttered to think when a man had. Since graduate school, she'd put on some extra pounds. To hide it, she wore dark baggy clothes, even during summer break. Gray was veining through her brown wavy hair. At some point, she'd decided to let nature take its course. Every day was a bad hair day for Barbara. The only things she still liked about herself were her eyes, big and brown with dark curly lashes. Ben had liked them. He'd always talked about her eyes. But that had been a long time ago, too. She tried to remember his face, a proud yet nervous brow, sensitive temples and sunken cheeks, a weak chin. The face of a poet. Then the façade of his face came crashing down around her, and the light in her memory went out. Barbara strolled down the school corridor that day dreading the thought of teaching. The job, she'd told herself, was only temporary, 59 which was why she didn't put much effort into it. What was there to teach these kids, anyway? By the time they were in the third grade they were more street-smart than she'd ever be, and some of the fifthgraders already stood at her height. Drama to them was an escape from the rigid curriculum that was forced down their throats every day. As a result, they regarded Barbara's class as a chance to talk and goof off. Barbara's dread now turned to panic. After three years telling herself that her job and her room at home were only temporary, Barbara woke one day to realize they'd become her life, and she lacked the courage to reinvent herself. She wanted something more, as though something more had been promised her that hadn't been delivered yet or might never come, a Sunday child. She felt irrelevant, unhappy. What had she hoped to find in coming back home, anyway? The longer she stayed, the more there was to prevent her escape. The first group was a kindergarten class. Barbara romped on the floor with them, rolling her eyes and screwing up her mouth as she waved her hands in the air. The kids didn't want to leave when their time was up. The second group were fourth-graders, who sat on the floor and watched Barbara write actor and character on the board. After Barbara explained the difference between the two, she asked the class to name their favorite actors. A boy named Laquon raised his hand. "Bugs Bunny," he said. Barbara did her playful frowningbit, placing her hands on her hips and sagging her shoulders forward. "You sure about that, Laquon?" She said this in that cartoon voice some adults use with...