I Am No One You Know by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online Page A

August. Air quivered in a sinister tangle of near-invisible filaments like those in a gigantic lightbulb. My eyes blinked, blinded. Yet I was calm recalling: the sunken-chested man with the singed face, Mr. M—who’d taught junior high math. He’d taught me, he’d taught my younger brother. More than thirty years ago he’d taught us. Mr. M—was not a name I wished to recall. Nor would my brother wish to recall Mr. M—. For Mr. M—had graded my brother more harshly than he’d graded me who had been an honors student even in math which became my hated subject under Mr. M—’s instruction. Mr. M—had taught at Yewville Junior High for a long time before they’d made him retire. That was the local story, Mr. M—had been made finally to retire. Under threat of a lawsuit, or an arrest. He’d touched a boy too intimately, you had to surmise. Too lingeringly. He’d teased a boy to tears. He’d pinched, tickled, slapped a boy. He’d twisted the tender earlobe of a boy just a little too hard and left reddened prints in the flesh for an astonished parent to discover. Or he’d playfully locked a boy in his homeroom after school. Or not so playfully: “for discipline.” The color rising in his face that had been fattish then, a moon face in which veins and capillaries glowed with an interior pulsing heat. During class you sat very still in your seat trying not to be seen by ever-vigilant Mr. M—. His eyes behind the black plastic teacher-glasses prowling the rows of desks. Eyes that were faintly bloodshot yet shone with a youthful vigor at such times. If you stared blinking down at your desk top Mr. M—would see and know you were hoping to escape his scrutiny. If you dared to gaze at him guileless and unblinking Mr. M—would see and know you were hoping to escape his scrutiny. For there was no escaping Mr. M—.
    Certain boys were Mr. M—’s targets. You could see why certain boys were not Mr. M—’s targets for he never dared single out any strong-willed or defiant boy, or any boy from a prominent family, andboys of limited intelligence he ignored; but you could not always predict which boys, out of a number of possibilities, he would choose to torment. Vulnerable boys, shy boys. Shyly stubborn boys. Smart boys. Small-boned boys. Boys with girls’ faces. Rarely homely boys. Never handicapped boys. Never Italian or Negro boys. First he’d call on you in class and if you gave the right answer he’d call on you repeatedly until at last you gave a wrong answer. You stood at the blackboard trying to solve a problem, chalk trembling in your fingers. Mr. M—’s scorn was so playful, his mockery so comical, you weren’t always certain why you were being laughed at by even your friends. Your face burned, your eyes stung with moisture. You felt your bladder pinch with the need to pee. Once summoning me forward to his teacher’s desk at the front of the room. Making of me a witness to his red-inked pen darting and swooping over my math test like a miniature deranged hawk. I had mis-numbered the questions! I was a careless boy! Might’ve had a grade of ninety-eight but now had a grade of forty-eight and this would be duly noted on my midterm report card to be sent home for my mother’s signature. Tears welled in my eyes. My nose ran. Disgusted Mr. M—tossed a tissue at me. It might have been a used tissue, out of his baggy pants pocket. Wipe your nose, Mr. M—said. Stand up straight, Mr. M—said. What a careless boy you are, not nearly so smart as you think you are, I’ve got your number. For it was so, there were boys (but never girls, and we never wondered why) of whom Mr. M—could boast I’ve got your number.
    Almost time for dinner, Dad. My brother spoke brightly as if he’d made a new discovery, and it pleased him.
    Dad? It’s that time.
    We re-entered the E-wing. We’d circled the garden not once but twice, slowly. The tomatoes had been admired, and the mysterious zinnias. I had forgotten that time