The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns Read Online Free PDF

WALK UP AND down the front of my classroom, my sensible athletic shoes squeaking on the black linoleum. All the science rooms have black linoleum floors and black counters. At Halloween, I decorate it to look like a dungeon. I don’t have Bunsen burner gas lines like the chemistry room, but I do have an array of microscopes along the counters under the mottled-glass ancient windows. It’s a room students tend to daydream in, on the second floor of the building, overlooking an array of still-bare treetops and the athletic field, where a P.E. class is engaged in a flag football game.
    There are no pictures of saints on the walls, like there are in the religious studies’ room; most Catholic schools these days are not really very Catholic. There aren’t even any nuns here; not enough to go around. Our priest comes in only once a month or so, to lead Mass. Otherwise, it’s essentially like any other private high school.
    I’ve worked here for eight years, starting right before my kidney failed again. I came from a public high school, with indifferent faculty and even more indifferent students. A smaller private school was a welcome change.
    The headmaster, Dr. O’Malley, looked worried when he first met me at my teaching interview, glancing from the top of my head down to my feet. “How will you keep the kids in line?” he had asked.
    I straightened to my full height. “First of all, I come from a public school and never had any problems. I thought this school was intolerant of bad behavior. Second, the tongue is mightier than the sword.”
    Dr. O’Malley had smiled. “I think that’s the pen. And you’re right. We do have good kids here.”
    “I know what you’re thinking.” I leaned across his desk. “I’m going to get sick, cost you lots of money.”
    He started to demur, but I held up my hand.
    “Let me say this. No one knows what will happen. A perfectly healthy person could get hit by a semi tomorrow. But I guarantee you, no matter how much time I have left, I will leave the school a better place than when I found it.” I sat back in my chair, my case presented.
    In the end, of course, the board had not found a reason they couldn’t hire me. They certainly couldn’t say I was short, or unqualified. I have been here ever since.
    Today, the class will learn about osmosis. Osmosis has to be one of the simpler concepts to understand, and a fun lab to boot. I’ve brought in potatoes. We’ve sliced them up and put them in beakers of water: one plain, one salted, and one sugared. They’re supposed to explain why the salted potato got so soft, why the sugared one didn’t get as soft, and why the plain one got harder. Osmosis causes water to move toward the salt.
    A girl with a red ponytail in a cheerleader uniform raises her hand. The cheerleader uniforms are not too unlike the regular uniforms: a plaid skort and a sweater emblazoned with St. Mark’s instead of a white blouse and skirt. “Can we use the same glass for all three?”
    I have already gone over the directions, but she had been staring off outside. I turn to the rest of the class. “Anyone know?”
    John, a boy wearing a school sweatshirt, clinks his beakers together. “Um, Sarah, how many beakers do you have in front of you?”
    The rest of the class titters. If she were a cartoon character, she’d have a giant light bulb go off above her head. “Oh! Got it.”
    “I thought cheerleaders were supposed to be kind of smart at this school,” the boy mutters, shaking his mop of black curls.
    “Hey. There’s only room for one smart aleck in here.” I tap my fingers on the table in front of John.
    He grins sheepishly. “You?”
    I nod and smile. “Everyone, if you have any further questions, John will be more than happy to assist. Without commentary.”
    He blows air through his lips and crunches his shoulders together, but does not say anything else.
    They at last all settle down and begin working in earnest on the lab. The class lasts