A Bibliophile in My Class!

It’s 0845 and I’m moving around in a senior class of high school learners, checking on their individual work.  It’s an art lesson. And I’m an art teacher. All are engrossed, pencils sketching on paper, paint brushes pouring hues on canvasses, fingers weaving small basket bases. Then I spot a boy sitting at the far edge of the classroom, tie askew and eyes cast downwards. I’m about to ask him to fix his tie but I notice that the paper on his desk is clean white, not a pencil mark on it. The pencil is lying neglected on the paper. Certainly the boy is not working. But he is concentrating on something as his eyes are cast downwards on his lap. I can tell by the look on his face that the boy is far, far off. Could he be texting on a cell-phone or playing cell-phone games? Maybe Facebooking! That would be like a daredevil challenge. But his hands are still and there isn’t much fascination that one would expect to see on the face of a juvenile delighted by the thrills of a digital game.

“Hey you! Young boy!” I shout across the room. The boy’s head jerks up and he looks at me with eyes flashing with panic. “What’s there under your table on your lap?” I ask, taking brisk steps towards him, lest he tries to hide that thing which has kept him from working.

‘It’s nothing, Sir.” He says, eyebrows rising. Lies, lies, lies.

Silly answer, I think, though I don’t say it out loud. Students don’t ever seem to learn that we teachers almost always know how they are going to answer to posed questions.

“What do you mean by ‘nothing’?” I ask.  I’m hoping the frown that I’m pulling on my face is showing. At home I’ve tried practicing frown-pulling in front of the mirror but the effect wasn’t very impressive. I’ve seen men who can pull a fear inducing frown that makes the flesh between their brows suddenly look like folds on an elephant skin. But I know that mine is way too mild, yet I pull it nonetheless. Judging by the boy’s nonchalance, I can tell my frown doesn’t have much effect. I’m now at his desk and my hand reaches under the table. Instead of a cell-phone, what comes out is a novel. I look at the cover. Sidney Sheldon. The Doomsday Conspiracy.  I look at the boy’s face.

“I’m sorry Sir,” he says. “I really have to finish this book. If I don’t finish it, I won’t be able to do anything else.”

“What do you mean you won’t be able to do anything else?” But somehow I know the answer. I know what the boy means. And not only do I know, I understand.

“You won’t understand, Sir. I can’t put this book down.” He sounds very honest and I’m touched. I’m touched by I try hard not to show it. I look at the book again and remember that I too became a bibliophile at the boy’s age. At his stage in life, I had consumed almost the entire school library. I look at the book again and I shake my head. I feel sorry for him because he is reading a very addictive author. I contemplate confiscating the book. I look at the boy, very worried for him.

“Fix your tie,” I say to him.