I was still scribbling angrily when he said, “Pencils down. Skip a line and write the number two. Then answer this question: What do you think should happen on the first day of senior English class? What would you have the students do if the roles were reversed—if you were me? Remember to be honest. You are being graded on your honesty.”
I remember being incensed.
I would definitely NOT ask my students to do impossible things, I remember writing. I would maybe make them feel welcome. Talk about what books we were going to read. I don’t know, maybe it might be a good idea to hand out a syllabus? Pass out the first assigned novel? Act like a normal regular teacher and not some freak on a power trip? Be gentle and kind and . . .
I erased many of those lines, but Mr. Vernon saw me, walked over to my desk, and said, “That’s the wrong side of the pencil, Ms. . . . Ms. . . . What is your name? I don’t know you.”
I pointed to my lips to remind him that he had forbidden us to speak.
“You may answer this question,” he said.
“Kane. It’s Portia Kane.”
“Ms. Portia Kane.” He smiled kindly at me. “Be honest. I can take it. Rewrite exactly what you wrote the first time. Don’t doubt yourself.” He winked at me once, and then addressed the class. “All of you need to stop doubting yourselves!”
I blew away the tiny pink eraser worms and quickly retraced my cursive into the dented grooves of the paper.
“Okay,” Mr. Vernon said. “Take the second piece of paper and make a paper airplane. And if you are thinking you don’t know how to make a paper airplane, shame on you! There are no rules. Make a paper airplane any way you want. And then decorate it with drawings or doodles or your name or anything you wish. But you must make a paper airplane and decorate it. Make it uniquely yours!”
This was getting very weird.
“Why are you looking to your peers for answers?” Mr. Vernon said, holding his palms up in the air and shrugging in disappointment. “There is no right or wrong way to make a paper airplane at this very moment in time. Just do it and then decorate it the best you can. Make it yours!”
One of the boys in the front row began folding, and then the rest of us did too.
I had no idea how to make a paper airplane, so I began to glance around the room.
“Ms. Kane,” Mr. Vernon said.
I met his eyes.
“No cheating.”
I returned my gaze to the paper on my desk, felt my cheeks burn, and cursed Mr. Vernon in my mind.
Why was he picking on me?
I’m sure other girls were looking at the boys to see how it was done. What a sexist thing to ask us to do. Would Mr. Vernon be asking us to build racetracks for Matchbox cars next? I was so angry.
But I began to fold and fold and fold some more until I had something that resembled a paper airplane, if only in an abstract way, and then I was writing my name on the body of it.
Portia Kane Airways.
I smiled in spite of myself.
I drew little windows and then little faces in the windows.
My airline would have women pilots, I thought, and then drew a picture of myself looking out from the chair in the cockpit. Why not?
“On your first piece of paper, skip a line and write the number three followed by a period. In a brief paragraph describe and evaluate your paper airplane. Remember, you are being graded on your honesty. So be truthful. Is your airplane any good? Do you like how it came out?”
I studied my paper airplane, and even though I had enjoyed creating it just seconds ago, the folds didn’t look even and the faces in the windows looked childish—like what a four-year-old would draw—and then I thought that you wouldn’t even be able to see faces looking out of an airplane because of the glare maybe, but I wasn’t sure. I had never been on an airplane in my life, and that made me feel ashamed too, because everyone else I knew had flown at least once. Of course, Mom hadn’t had enough money to send me on the British Literature trip to London the year before. I remember writing something about my airplane being the worst one in the class, but insisting that it wasn’t my fault. If I had known what this test was on, I would have surely spent the summer reading books on how to make a superior paper airplane. I would have practiced my folds every day. I would have consulted origami how-to books even, and then I felt proud of myself for using the word origami.
I wasn’t finished writing when Mr. Vernon said, “Skip a line and write the number four followed by a period. Now I want you to close your eyes.”
We all began to look at each other again.
Mr. Vernon was insane if he thought we were going to close our eyes.
“What are you afraid of? Just close your eyes. You do it every night before you fall asleep, so I know you know how. Remember, this test is worth twenty-five percent of your first marking period grade. If you don’t close your eyes in the next five seconds—and keep them closed until I say—you will receive a zero. No peeking!”
My eyes snapped shut, and I guessed everyone else’s did too, because Mr. Vernon continued.
“I want you to imagine standing with your paper airplane in your hand, walking over to the windows. Admiring the world outside. The beautiful day that seems to be everywhere but in this school, at least judging by the looks on many of your faces. Imagine your arm reaching out into this warm September day. The sun on your skin. The palpable feeling of escape accelerating your heartbeat. Now see your hand coming back toward the classroom. Your paper airplane is between your thumb and forefinger. You push it out toward the sky and let go. Watch its flight. Does it soar off into the heavens like a fierce majestic eagle? Does it take an immediate nosedive for the ground before crashing and burning? Or does it do something else entirely?” He paused for a second. “Open your eyes and describe the flight of your plane exactly as you imagined it in your mind.”