By Robert J. Boland
‘What’s another way of saying, “talks all the time”?’
‘“Would benefit from paying more attention in class.”’
‘How about, “never does any work”?’
It’s Sarah’s first-time writing reports, so I don’t mind helping. She reminds me of myself ten years ago, before Jen and I had the kids, before the million morning teas expanded me from L to XL. Back when I still had hair. Sarah still has a glimmer of hope in her bright brown eyes and that spark of youthful exuberance the students haven’t yet crushed under their Clarks..
‘“Frequently off-task”, or you could go with, “is a self-motivated learner” if you want to be particularly obtuse.’
‘Thanks, Tom.’
Everyone hates report time. The assessments are coming in a mile-a-minute, and the reports follow like a tsunami after the earthquake. The marking’s one thing: at least the kids can pull one out and surprise you, or write something entertainingly terrible. But the reports? They’re a never-ending wasteland of mindless tedium, a black hole of boredom that looms larger the closer you get to the event horizon.
You’d think it’d get easier, that you’d build up a bank of comments, or copy-and-paste liberally, but it doesn’t, and I don’t. What if the kids exchange reports and see I’ve cheated? Unlikely, but I can’t risk it. Too much Catholic guilt. Each comment needs to be artisanally crafted, mixed with Madagascan vanilla bean, coated in caramel à la française, and sprinkled with Himalayan rock salt.
Normally they take forever, but for once, I’m almost done. Amazing what a little motivation can do. Jen and I are going away for our anniversary, and I’ve palmed the kids off to mum in exchange for a box of Shiraz from her favourite Hunter winery. It’s our first solo weekend in God knows how long and I’ll be damned if the reports are going to make it a threesome.
I power through my free period and into recess. Everyone else is working on the cryptic crossword, but I’m writing comments with the single-minded determination of a Terminator sent back in time to kill Sarah Connor. Only eight to go. Hasta la vista reports, and hola weekend.
‘Tom?’
‘Mmm?’
‘You’re our resident expert.’ Mark is portly, affable. He’s also my Head Teacher, so I can’t ignore him.
‘What’s the clue?’
‘Eagles had an eye for this mythological thief.’
I don’t even look up. ‘Prometheus.’ Six to go. I can be finished by the end of lunch.
The Spinning Wheel of Doom appears on my screen. I wait patiently. For all of five seconds.
Tap tap tap.
Apparently hitting the ‘Enter’ key repeatedly isn’t hacker code for “unfreeze”. The screen turns as white as my face.
‘Please, no…’
An error message pops up with an antagonistically happy bleep: Network error. 503 Service Unavailable.
‘The fuck’s that mean?’
I try everything to fix it. I turn the PC off and back on again. I bash the keys angrily. I pray to God. I swear profusely. Nothing works.
‘Everything okay?’ asks Sarah.
‘Network’s down for scheduled maintenance,’ says Brendan, smugly. He teaches Geography, has an enviable fop of blonde hair, and wears glasses over a face I’d currently describe as extremely punchable.
‘Why’s it in the middle of the bloody day?’ I rage. ‘And why didn’t they tell us?’
‘They did,’ says Sarah, traitorously, ‘this morning sometime.’ At least she has the good grace to look chagrined.
‘It’s not that bad, is it? You save them every few entries, right?’ Mark’s voice is calm, sensible; honed by thirty years of dealing with teenagers suffering from hormone-induced temporary insanity.
Through gritted teeth, I manage, ‘I was waiting till the end of recess.’
‘They’ve probably autosaved. I wouldn’t worry about it.’
But I do worry about it, all the way to class. I worry about it all through Year 7 History, where the juniors distract me from my woes with their barrage of questions.
‘Sir, what’s the title?’
‘It’s on the board, Clarissa.’
‘What page, Mister Symonds?’
‘Page ninety-seven, John. For the fourth time.’
‘Is it okay to write in blue pen?’
‘I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t be.’
It’s almost lunch and Year 9s are dreaming of catching waves at Bondi.After the source activity has been handed out, they make a good show of pretending to work whilst I pretend I’m not seething in a way that makes Vesuvius’ eruption seem like a minor geological blip.
‘Is it back up?’ I demand as I re-enter the staffroom at a speed marginally below terminal velocity.
Mark offers a sympathetic head shake. ‘Afraid not.’
I stare at the screen in a threatening way I hope will scare it into submission. Internally, I go through the seven stages of grief.
Denial: It’s fine. It’ll all come back when the internet does.
Bargaining: Even if it’s just deleted the last few, that’d be okay.
Depression involves a short trip to the book room so I can cry in the dark. Sarah looks at me with concern when I return with puffy eyes. She hasn’t seen a colleague meltdown before. Don’t worry, Sarah, you’ll get used to it.
‘You just missed the announcement. The internet will be back up at three,’ she says.
I won’t be able to leave as early as I’d planned, but it’s doable. An hour to finish the reports, swing by the florist to get Jen something pretty, and we can be in the Hunter by seven-thirty, in time for a late dinner at the winery to begin our weekend of blissful freedom.
Reinvigorated, I approach the double period after lunch like a bestiarius about to appear in the venatio to fight some exotic beast like a rhinoceros or a lion in the colosseum. Except it’s Year 11 Ancient Studies, so jackals might be more apt. We slog through the political role of the Roman games, and I wonder how Emperor Titus would’ve reacted if his wi-fi had gone down halfway through the lunchtime munera, just as the lions were getting really warmed up. Executions all round, probably.
I wade against the tide of students as the bell goes, pulling in the direction of the weekend, of home, of freedom. All of that can be mine too, if the bloody internet’s back up. I approach the computer with trembling hands.
‘They’re all there.’ I whisper it like a prayer. The relief washing through me is a better feeling than diving into the surf on a scorcher. Better than the sex I might actually have this weekend. Almost.
‘Everything alright, Tom?’ Mark asks.
‘You were right. They must’ve autosaved after all.’ I giggle, giddily. Sarah shoots me an even more concerned look than when I came back from my secret teary. You’ll understand one day, Sarah.
‘Good news,’ says Mark, peering over my shoulder, ‘though you must be super keen to be working on Year 9.’
My stomach lurches. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘They’re not due for another week. Year 10’s due on Monday. Exec swapped them around, remember?’
‘This sly mythological king faced an uphill battle after twice cheating death,’ Brendan reads, still on the crossword.
‘Sisyphus,’ I groan, and start on the next report.
Robert lives in Sydney with his lovely family, where he teaches High School students History and how to deal with sarcasm. His short story ‘The Last Hunt’ was featured in The Big Issue Fiction Edition August 2023 and he won the Australian Writers’ Centre Furious Fiction Award in June 2021.
HOME 