What's Shaking The School

"We have a concern," our staff committee chairperson intoned. We have many, I thought to myself. Among other things, our strings teacher could not find staff to help transport students to the music festival and we desperately needed money for resources for the new primary class. Our Chair took the "concerns" envelope and held it upside down. It seemed to be empty, as nothing fell out despite of a couple of vigorous shakes. "There's nothing in it," someone said. "Correct," confirmed our Chair, looking back at us. "Good, I have work to do," Gill told us, getting up. Great, I thought. I have calls to make. "There is a concern," the Chair admonished us. "But there's nothing in the envelope!" Jean snapped. "Ex-act-ly," she enunciated. We stared at her. "No one is expressing concerns." "Could it not be," pondered our librarian slowly, "that there is nothing in the envelope because things are going well?" She shook her head. "This shows a breakdown in process! I'd like to be on the agenda at the staff meeting. This needs to be raised." At the staff meeting the following week I made a final appeal for the strings teacher. No one was interested in accompanying over a hundred and sixty students from three schools on buses to the music festival. I cancelled a workshop I had planned for the following Monday. Our strings teacher, Mr. Lewis, was on one bus with one school’s students; I was on the other with ours and we were to pick up string players from a neighbouring school. He explained that most students would be driven home by parents after the performance. Fairfield students were reasonably behaved on the trip. Some seemed to be hyperventilating with excitement, but they did listen to the bus code of behaviour. The bus driver smiled wanly as we boarded, violin cases knocking against railings. As we pulled away, smug faces stared down at a class out for a jog on that warm afternoon. The pick up of students at the neighbouring school did not go as well. The adult waiting with the thirty young musicians had given over any attempt at controlling that school's pulsing, curbside mob. They pushed each other on board with alarming force, causing the driver and myself to bellow, "Hey, slow down!" in unison. The rest of the trip is now a blur, although I do remember trying to play the principal with little strangers who had no idea who I was and were not interested, anyway. All three schools eventually arrived, arranged into a combined orchestra and performed rather well. The adjudicator praised their musicality and focus, the latter unfortunately lost long before his comments were completed. Most parents drove their budding musicians back to their schools. Mr. Lewis went on one bus and I boarded the other with the remaining students. The return trip was much, much worse that the drive there had been. Added to the initial excitement of being out of school and the adrenaline from the performance, was the sudden release of tension. These kids were wild. Spitballs flew. They sang off key and made rude gestures to other vehicles. Necks were pinched and eyes covered with foreign, sweaty hands. Windows were opened and bodies leaned out. Seats were exchanged. Our driver stopped twice and threatened to make them walk. I threatened more than that, and each time they sobered up for a few blocks and then went haywire again. One violinist was particularly crazy on that trip. Short and stocky with straight black hair and a large mouth, she was the loudest and most obnoxious that day. Gladys (I learned her name early in our adventure) was out for a really good time. She was not going to waste one minute of serious partying on that bus, and who did I think I was, threatening to have her de-stringed forever? As if all the singing, pinching, leaning out of the bus and exchanging seats was not enough, Gladys took to heaving herself up and down on her seat and on top of the girl next to her. She then returned a punch she had received. In spite of the racket, I could hear the driver's groan of relief as he pulled up in front of their school. The students left strangely quiet, probably quite winded, and quickly disappeared. The bus rapidly disappeared without a farewell from the driver, who, I would like to think, must have forgotten I had originated from Fairfield. Gladys was down on all fours on the boulevard throwing up. She sat up and I wiped her face. She was too weak to walk, she told me, so I went for help after reminding her to stay put in the shade. The startled secretary looked up. I must have seemed crazed: hot, tired and radiating pure venom. "I need to see Jim," I told her. She hesitated, weighing her responsibility to screen true crazies against my obvious, unstoppable intention to confront him. She opened the door to his office. My colleague was enjoying what was very likely a well-deserved break. His feet were up on his desk, his hands were behind his head and his office was cool and peaceful. "Ah, she's finally arrived," our Chair announced. "We do have a concern today," she smiled while unfolding a slip of paper. I forced my shoes off under my metal chair and my feet screamed relief. It had been a long walk to Fairfield. "The trophy cabinet needs dusting," she read. We all waited for more. Bus bedlam was still ringing in my ears. It faded away and the “concern” became wretchedly clear. "THE TROPHY CABINET NEEDS DUSTING?" I croaked. The committee members looked at me intently. Our librarian's mouth twitched. I continued, "Who on earth would send that in as a concern to a group of busy...." I looked around the table, knowing full well that meetings next year would be once a month.