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  NYA: Which sub was this?

  LAURIE: The cute young blond straight outta Teachers College. Patricia or Patrice or some shit. What the hell are they teaching them over there? The last sub they sent me showed ’em Dangerous Minds. Do they really believe public school is Michelle Pfeiffer and Hilary Swank and corny fucking music and close-ups? I’m a white chick who has never had the luxury of winning over a class full of black and Latino kids. This is war. Got my fucking face cut by the family of a failing student. Fuck them and their lies and the substitutes that show them these dumb-ass, god-forsaken, setting-us-back-three-hundred-educational-years-bullshit flicks. TEACH, you assholes! I left you lesson plans for fuck’s sake!

  NYA: They should’ve gotten you Smith. She’s a substitute teacher from the gods. When I was gone that week for Omari’s pneumonia, I came back and my kids had already moved onto the next chapter of Invisible Man. Had their papers graded and everything. Impressive.

  LAURIE: An enigma in this place.

  NYA: You gonna retire or what?

  LAURIE: Fuck them and their retirement. They’re not gonna force my hand. Try to move me from ninth grade, to tenth grade, to twelfth. I’ll outlast ’em all—bastards.

  NYA: You’re a pistol, woman.

  LAURIE: I’m a goddamn machine gun.

  (They pause. Eat for a second.)

  How’s your son?

  NYA: Troubled. Next question.

  LAURIE: You figured out what you’re gonna do about—

  NYA: No. I haven’t figured out a thing. I’m slipping off the edge of the earth and there is no answer in the dark dark universe.

  LAURIE: The world isn’t flat, Nya.

  NYA: Mine is, Laurie. It’s flat and coming to a quick and fast end. And I can’t stop it.

  LAURIE: You can. Just got to grab it by the balls and turn it around. That son of yours needs a swift kick in the ass.

  NYA: That’s not what he needs.

  LAURIE: I remember when parents would give permission for you to spank their kids in class. You old enough to remember that?

  NYA: We teach teenagers.

  LAURIE: Especially the teenagers.

  NYA: I don’t think I remember that.

  LAURIE: That was the best. I’m telling you. I had this one kid, Louie Gaspacho. I remember him real good. You know how some of ’em stay with you for a lifetime. He had kind of a schizophrenia thing going on. Undiagnosed, but I knew. They should let us prescribe the drugs instead of these bogus doctors. I know these kids inside and out. I knew Louie. Another kid I think Ritalin ruined. But his folks listened to that sorry excuse of a counselor, Ms. Esselman—who would recommend a drug to Jesus if she couldn’t get him to sit still for five minutes. Never figured maybe it was her tactics and not the kid—but whatever. His folks would never get him tested for his mental health. Couldn’t afford the medical bills. Half these damn kids are suffering from mental illness. That’s what the real problem is. A classroom can’t fix that shit. And neither can Ritalin. But what do they know? Nothing, that’s what. I know what these kids need, but who listens to me? Anyway—what the hell was I talking about?

  NYA: Louie Gaspacho?

  LAURIE: Exactly. He could be a terror if he was really having a day. So one time he threw a book at me. Nearly knocked out the smart little West Indian girl that sat right in front of him—

  NYA: Ummm, maybe you shouldn’t call her / that.

  LAURIE: I grabbed his little scrawny ass in the middle of class and gave him three licks to his backside. Never a book thrown again. That kid got almost straight A’s that year. They don’t give me my credit for that because he got institutionalized a couple years later and pulled out of school, so it’s like he never existed. But I had him functioning high—you know? A good old ass whipping can teach a lot.

  NYA: That’s not O’s problem, Laurie.

  LAURIE: I wasn’t saying that. I just—

  NYA: It’s too many things. It’s me. I’m the source and I know it and I just can’t talk about this anymore if I’m going to get through the rest of the day, okay? Gotta drive upstate to pick him up after work and I’ll finish stressing then.

  LAURIE: Don’t panic, honey. We’re all a bunch of screw-ups trying to figure out our mess. You’ll figure it out.

  NYA: Screw-ups?

  LAURIE: Figure of speech. Don’t take that literal. It’s not literal.

  NYA: Right.

  (The door to the lounge swings open. Dun enters.)

  DUN: Ladies, what it do?

  LAURIE: What it do back to ya, you sexy bastard.

  DUN: You trying to get me in trouble on school grounds again, Laurie?

  LAURIE: Just a little flirtation between a young, hot security guard and a very agile old teacher. Harmless.

  DUN: Face lookin’ good, girl. Got you all brand-new.

  LAURIE: They can’t keep a white chick down.

  DUN: Glad to have you back. (Shifts, looks at Nya with concern) Afternoon, Nya.

  NYA (Dryly): Hey, Dun.

  DUN: How you doin’ today?

  NYA: Survivin’. Like every day.

  DUN: Good for you.

  NYA: Yep.

  (Dun goes to the freezer. Pulls out a frozen meal and sticks it in the microwave.

  Nya sits at the table and pulls out a stack of papers. She begins to sort through and check them.)

  DUN: Careful in the lot today after work. They been jackin’ cars again.

  LAURIE: Still haven’t deterred those bastards?

  DUN: Not yet. Principal Colden says we’re working on getting more surveillance.

  LAURIE: What the hell’s the point of the security cameras they put in if it’s not going to scare off these hoodlums?

  DUN: I’m gonna be stationed out there from twelve to three P.M. Don’t worry. I won’t let ’em lay a hand on your Benz, baby.

  LAURIE: Fuck you, funny man. My shit Oldsmobile hasn’t failed me yet. Like having an ugly faithful husband. Nobody wants him but me and that’s good for us.

  DUN: Nothin’ wrong with your car, baby. Got character. Just like you.

  (Laurie stands up and discards her lunch scraps.)

  LAURIE: Well that’s enough socializing for me. I’ve got to get my room intact ’fore the next set of hooligans comes in.

  DUN: You need me to come up there for any reason, you know how to buzz me. I got you on priority.

  LAURIE: Don’t worry about me. Take care of these young gals who don’t know shit about how to fend for themselves. Me? I’m an old dame. A little reconstructive surgery and I’m back in the game.

  DUN: Got it, mama.

  (Laurie walks to the door. Takes a strange and revealing inhale.)

  LAURIE: This is my den, you know? This is always my den.

  (She exits into the hallway.

  Dun looks at Nya, who has been buried in her papers.

  He eats silently. She ignores him. Then finally:)

  DUN: You been all right?

  (Nya looks up, faking surprise.)

  NYA: You talking to me?

  DUN: Nobody else here.

  NYA: You don’t need to do this.

  DUN: What’s that?

  NYA: Make small talk. Check on me. Pretend to give a damn. Really. I’ve got lots on my mind and lots to do and I don’t need to fill the space. I’m cool with the emptiness.

  DUN: Guess you are.

  NYA: What?

  DUN: Nothin’.

  (Pause. Nya tries to go back to her papers. She’s too distracted.)

  NYA: You got a smoke?

  DUN: Can’t do that in here.

  NYA: I’m going to take it outside.

  DUN: Don’t wanna have to bust you.

  NYA: You being funny?

  DUN: Will it make you smile?

  NYA: I’m out of smiles for today.

  DUN: That’s too bad. What’s left for your students?

  NYA: Gwendolyn Brooks.

  DUN: The poet.

  NYA: You know her?

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nbsp; DUN: You think I spend all day guarding a school and some of the knowledge don’t rub off on me?

  NYA: Lots of folk spend all day in a school and don’t learn diddly. It’s very possible.

  DUN: True dat. But I’m not one of ’em.

  NYA: Well that’s good.

  DUN: So you all right?

  NYA: Why do you keep asking me that???

  DUN: I want to hear an answer that makes me satisfied.

  NYA: I’m not here to satisfy you.

  DUN: Didn’t say you were.

  NYA: Then let it go.

  DUN: I never hear from you anymore.

  NYA: Don’t do this here.

  DUN: That never happens to me.

  NYA: First time for everything.

  DUN: I do something you don’t like? You can just tell me. Don’t gotta do the cold shoulder.

  NYA: This isn’t a cold shoulder.

  DUN: What is it then?

  NYA: Sanity. Coming back to senses. Professionalism. Intelligence. Appropriate behavior. That’s what this is.

  DUN: You gonna play by the books on me?

  NYA: I’m not playing anything. Jesus. I can’t do this right now.

  DUN: All right. Don’t do anything.

  NYA: Okay.

  (Dun eats. Nya heads to the door.)

  Got ten minutes before my next class. You sure you don’t have a smoke? I really need it. Today. I need it today.

  (Dun reaches in his pocket and tosses her a pack. She takes out a cigarette and places the pack on the table.)

  Thanks.

  DUN: That’s something we do well together, ain’t it?

  NYA: What’s that?

  DUN: Vices.

  NYA: I don’t … I guess … maybe …

  (Nya takes an inhale that is revealing, and then exits into the hallway.

  Dun stays in the room. Eats an apple. And sighs.)

  4

  Nya in class. On the board: the Gwendolyn Brooks poem “We Real Cool.”

  Omari in undefined space—he and Nya are not visible to each other but are somehow strangely connected. As he embodies the words of the poem, the words are magically/profoundly written on Nya’s chalkboard.

  NYA: Class, today we’re going to look at one of my favorite poems by Gwendolyn Brooks. “We Real Cool. The Pool Players. Seven at the Golden Shovel.”

  OMARI:

  We real cool.

  NYA: I want you to look at this poem in both versions that I’m sharing with you. Notice its layout.

  OMARI:

  We left school.

  NYA: These are from two publishers. One—HarperCollins, a known white American company. The other—Broadside Press, one of the first major publishers of black revolutionary writers.

  OMARI:

  We lurk late.

  NYA: Revolutionary. (To student) Come on, Tiffany, you know what that means. Think about it. Yes, change. Thank you for the assist, Tomika.

  OMARI:

  We strike straight.

  NYA: In the HarperCollins version, the layout is pretty common. Large title. Words at the beginning of each stanza are capitalized. There is almost an attempt to erase the idea that the piece is written in “broken English.”

  OMARI:

  We sing sin.

  NYA: But in the Broadside Press version, the font looks like graffiti writing, not what we normally see in our textbooks. (To student) That’s right, DeShawn. Because graffiti writing reps the hood. I would agree that it doesn’t get the same respect.

  OMARI:

  We thin gin.

  NYA: So why do you think this independent black press decided to lay out the poem in this broken graffiti style? What do you think they’re saying about structure and rules? What do you think they’re saying about the education of the young men in this poem?

  OMARI:

  We jazz June.

  NYA: The pool players in this poem are teenagers. And what if I told you it was the middle of the day on a school day? What are they doing in a pool hall on a school day?

  OMARI (As if getting stuck):

  We di—di—di—

  NYA: Ms. Brooks is talking about something here. She is saying they are skipping school. Hanging around bars and thinning gin. Jazzing June. (To student) Yes, June is a girl’s name, Darnell. So “Jazzing June” means what? (A response) Okay, Paul, I think you can find a better phrase, but “laying that pimp game” will do for now.

  OMARI:

  We real cool.

  NYA: Some people might look at the Broadside Press version and think it’s invalid because it doesn’t follow the rules of English grammatical structure.

  OMARI:

  We left school.

  NYA: It looks like street writing.

  OMARI:

  We lurk late.

  NYA: But sometimes, rules are meant to be broken.

  OMARI:

  We strike straight.

  NYA: Sometimes the street has valuable lessons too.

  OMARI:

  We sing sin.

  NYA: Ms. Brooks has her own rules.

  OMARI:

  We thin gin.

  NYA: She breaks up the “We’s” on each line because she wants us to pause.

  OMARI:

  We … … … jazz June.

  NYA: She wants us to think about that “We” before the next line.

  OMARI:

  We … … … di—di—di—

  NYA: Each “We” questions their existence and worth.

  OMARI:

  We … … … di—di—di—

  NYA: Because who are they? At pool halls. Skipping school. Drinking. Having sex. Hanging late. What will they become???

  OMARI:

  We

  NYA: Gwendolyn Brooks gives us the answer in her last line.

  OMARI:

  We

  NYA: A line that haunts us all.

  OMARI:

  We

  NYA: A line that will be their epithet.

  OMARI:

  We

  OMARI AND NYA:

  We die soon.

  (Pause.

  Nya hears herself. And possibly Omari. It is disturbing.)

  NYA (To Omari): What?

  OMARI: I said—

  We die soon.

  (Uncomfortable moment. Nya looks around herself. A little hot.)

  NYA: I … um …

  (Nya looks at Omari. But also through him. It isn’t literal, but his presence has definitely intercepted this lesson.

  Nya looks out. At her class.)

  I, um … I seem to have forgotten … can’t find my place in my …

  …

  …

  (Nya stops. Looks out into the class again.

  A small and audible gasp. A little admission of failure.

  Stillness.)

  No, I’m fine, Shawna. Thank you, I—I think that’s enough of that for the day, so …

  …

  …

  I’m sorry. I’ve got to step out for a sec but … you can work silently, okay? Work on your own response to this poem. I’m going to step out. Please, don’t get out of your seats. Darnell. Paul. I’m serious. Thank you.

  (Nya immediately walks out of the class.

  A light sharply disappears on Omari and the classroom and reveals Nya outside of the door.

  She slumps down and begins to weep uncontrollably. Suppressing the sound of her own cry. Clinging to her composure.

  A moment.

  Dun appears in the hallway. He notices her and rushes over.)

  DUN: Yo, hey hey you all right?

  (Nya immediately stands erect and straightens her clothes.)

  NYA: Shit. Yes. I’m fine.

  DUN: You sure?

  NYA: No. Yes. I’m perfectly—

  DUN: Cuz if one of those little suckas is in there causing problems, you know you just gotta hit me up, right?

  NYA: I’m fine. I can handle my son just fine. I don’t need your help.

  DUN: Your son???
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  NYA: My what? I said my students. Why are you—

  DUN: Cuz you just …

  NYA: I have work to do.

  DUN: You … … … okay?

  NYA: I’m gotdamn amazing.

  (Nya disappears into the classroom. An abyss of darkness. Dun stares after her. Questioning …)

  5

  Jasmine at a dorm. She paints her nails. Puts makeup on. Packs a bag of clothes. An earpiece in her ear.

  JASMINE: Our school is fuckin’ fucked. Bitches can’t never mind their own damn business. Gossip whores at every level. It’s like—private school for what? For who? Ain’t nothin’ you do here private! My parents are stupid crazy paying all this money to keep me away from all the kids in my neighborhood cuz they’re so damn spooked I’ll get pregnant or shot or some shit if I go to public, but I’m like—they must not’ve ever been in the staircase here at freakin’ Fernbrook cuz for reals … it’s all types of teen fuckery going on and these rich bitches are the nastiest—straight up. It’s like they privilege bought them some extra freak or somethin’, or maybe they ain’t never known what it’s like to be desperate so they rather figure that out through sex or whatever. It’s tragic. And I cannot keep myself in this wasteland of talent. Stuck-up girls in my dorm acting like I’m gonna steal their fabric softener or grab their granny panties out the laundry cuz I don’t have my own or whatever. Like are you serious? Bitch, I may not have your money, but I have BOTH my mother and father at home workin’ their asses off at two jobs just to have me study up here with the rest of you cuz they think your privilege will rub off on me by association or some shit. Or maybe they believe in the false god of this freakin’ Fernbrook Academy that somehow it produces better people and I keep trying to explain to them that someone like me would actually survive better in an environment in which I am COMFORTABLE instead of being the token poor girl of color that everyone thinks is trying to sleep with their pussy-ass boyfriend or take their gotdamn cocaine or crystal meth or whatever, meanwhile the worst shit my friends from the block are smokin’ is weed. If it wasn’t for Mr. Peterson’s science class and Omari, I would slit my wrists. That’s why I’m goin’ after O. He’s not leaving me here to rot with these bougie brainwashed brats. I’m followin’ my man. You gonna read about this in one of them urban romance novels. It’s called ghetto love.