1
Smoke hung so thick in the library’s rafters that she could read words in it. They mostly spelled profanity towards the men sitting all around her, smoking their pipes as if they were 19th century scholars. Stupid pipes. Stupid egotistical men who thought everything was about them. You asked them nicely to do something and it seemed that they were striving to accomplish the opposite. And why? Because you didn’t want to fuck them. Ceara tried to hold her breath as much as possible. She was in the brink of an asthma attack, but she wouldn’t use her inhaler if she could help it. She wouldn’t give these men the satisfaction of knowing that they had affected her in any way, shape, or form.
“…that’s why we need to add this book to the English program for next year,” the head of the English department, Mr. Thompson, was saying.
“I concur, Mr. Thompson. It’s important that our students learn about good literature, not about the disgusting pulp fiction they publish nowadays,” Mr. Black put in.
“Agreed,” a chorus of voices echoed all around Ceara.
“Now, for the last item of the meeting,” Mr. Thompson announced. “We have next week’s celebration of World Book’s Day. Anyone has any ideas?”
The only other woman in the room, the elderly Mrs. Gallagher, raised her hand.
“Yes, Mrs. Gallagher?”
“I think Ms. Mora and I can work on that.”
Mr. Thomson raised an eyebrow, incredulous. He regarded Ceara coldly. Then she turned back to Mrs. Gallagher. “Very well. I hope you will be able to keep her in line, Sandra.” The use of Mrs. Gallagher’s last name told Ceara that he was very serious about this. “We don’t want her, uh, modern ideas ruining a perfectly pleasant celebration.” He paused. “Anyway, everyone knows what to do. Meeting adjourned.”
Ceara grabbed her bag and rushed to the library door. Her heart was beating too fast, her breathing was strained, and her chest felt tight. If she waited any longer, she’d fall unconscious to the ground. She reached inside her bag and retrieved her inhaler. She shook it and sent a satisfying puff of air down her throat. Then another and another and another. She began to feel better after the seventh puff. She stood just outside of the library, leaning on the wall, thinking she was alone, when a voice addressed her.
“Asthma? And they wouldn’t even consider the notion of not smoking in there.”
Ceara turned, feeling panic rise in her chest as if she were doing something wrong. It was Mrs. Gallagher, just exiting the ladies’ room to her right. “It’s okay. I honestly didn’t think they would when I asked.”
“Well, that doesn’t make it okay,” Mrs. Gallagher put in. “That’s why your face looked so strained in there.”
“IT DID?” Ceara blurted.
“Yes, indeed. I was going to ask you if there was anything wrong. Now I see I was right.”
“That means they noticed too,” Ceara muttered to herself.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, just that if you noticed, then it means that they noticed, too.”
“Not necessarily. Sometimes I think they’ve got their heads too far up their asses to notice anything other than their gigantic ego.”
That make Ceara grin. It angered her a lot, but at least there was someone on her side.
“Do you want to talk about next week’s Book Day celebration?”
“Sure. We can go to my office, is you like.”
“That would be lovely, dear.”
Once inside Ceara’s office, they began brainstorming ideas for the celebration. What presenters would they feature? What decorations would they put up? What food would they serve? What books would they feature?
“We can’t feature anything from the 1960s forth,” Mrs. Gallagher told Ceara.
Ceara laughed. Mrs. Gallagher didn’t. “I’m serious.”
“What? Really? What about To Kill a Mockingbird? That’s a classic.”
“No, and that one would be a no-go even if it had been written before, because it’s a book by a woman.”
Ceara scoffed. “Wait, you can’t be serious. They can’t be that backwards.”
“You’d be surprised. Why do you think there are only two female English teachers?”
“Well, at least there are—”
“Because they were forced to hire us. If they hadn’t, then two other old men would be sitting here instead. Also, dear, at least is not enough. Any time you have to say that at least someone did something, then that person is not as good as you think they are.”
Ceara was liking Mrs. Gallagher more and more with every passing minute. She was glad she’d asked to work with her.
They continued to brainstorm ideas. About an hour before finishing, they had books by Poe, Lovecraft, Shakespeare, Carroll, Orwell, Bradbury, Conan Doyle, Cervantes, and Tolkien.
An idea had been playing in Ceara’s mind for the last hour or so, and she finally summoned the guts to tell her colleague.
“What if… instead of complying with their wishes, we, you know, make something different? Something the kids will like?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that literature can’t be fully experienced without modern work. I mean that women are as important as men in its history. I mean that we can decorate with lights and colors instead of just with a big book made of Papier-mâché hanging from the roof. All these authors are great, but we need to add some others. Teach the kids that they can read whatever they want, not just what the school dictates for their curriculum. Show them books they’ve never seen before, and make them fall in love with stories for real. Screw those men.”
Mrs. Gallagher looked gobsmacked. She stared at Ceara as if she’d slapped her in the face, her mouth ajar. But then, just as Ceara was about to apologize, a grin began to appear on her face. “I like it,” she whispered. “Let’s do it. But let’s do it tomorrow, I’m a bit tired.”
Ceara agreed, and they retired to their bedrooms.
They worked tirelessly during the following week to create the event that would surely cause a heart attack to the frail hearts of the men who ran the English Department of the school. With the budget they’d been granted and a little more they both chipped in from their own money, they were able to put together a Book Day extravaganza with nice speeches from up-and-coming local writers and readers alike and featuring books by recent writers like Paula Hawkins, Jojo Moyes, Christina Bajer Kline, Kate Morton, Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, George R.R. Martin, Khaled Hosseini, N.K. Jemisin and more. They even printed small flyers with book recommendations depending on genres and movies.
The other members of the English Department didn’t meddle in their business, they didn’t ask at all what they were planning, they didn’t even seem to remember about the event. Ceara reflected that it was probably because they trusted that elderly Mrs. Gallagher wouldn’t even dream of disobeying them.
The day of the event, Ceara and Mrs. Gallagher agreed to keep a mic on them all the time so they could broadcast whatever the other teachers told them when they found out what they’d planned. At least it would be a way to show the students who they really were.
That’s how, at five in the evening, just before the event began, the men from the department were greeted with a dark room and stage and green and purple spotlights illuminating the stage. Ten tables had been placed in strategic locations with snacks, streamers hung from the roof with different pictures of authors, old and new, and small books made of cardboard hung from invisible wires and seemed to be floating above everyone.
Appalled, they went backstage, where Ceara and Mrs. Gallagher were busy prepping for the event and talking with the presenters. They felt deep satisfaction when they saw the red faces and angry stares of the men. Who’s having trouble breathing now? Ceara thought.
“What the… fuck is this?” Mr. Thompson demanded.
“Now, now,” Mrs. Gallagher told him. “What kind of language is that, Mr. Thompson? You’ve always warned us against using it.”
“I don’t care. What have you done with this? It is a travesty! I told you to keep garbage authors of garbage books out of the event. And the first thing you did was including them! Also, lights and snacks? Where did you get the money for this?” He was positively spitting, but they both were too amused to mind.
“We both chipped in from our pockets,” Ceara replied.
“Nevertheless,” he said with a derisive look, “you disobeyed direct orders. This was about teaching our students about good books, books that leave us with positive messages and ideas. Literature has gone to shit because of modern women—and men, I’m not being sexist—who think they can just write what they please and, ta-da! It becomes a bestseller. I’m tired of your—” he pointed a finger at Ceara— “generation and their disrespect.”
He finished talking—and spitting—and realized that the people outside had grown completely quiet. No one spoke. He looked at both colleagues and they showed him the mics pinned to their lapels, barely visible behind a button. Mr. Thompson turned a deep shade of plum and went away, followed by the rest. Before exiting, he muttered, “we aren’t over.”
The celebration went on as planned, and, at eleven, while cleaning up the mess the kids had left behind, Mrs. Gallagher and Ceara reflected that even if they’d only convinced one person to read, then they’d done enough.
“We had fun,” Ceara said.
“True. But I worry about Mr. Thompson. I’m scared he will fire us.”
“I don’t think so. They were forced to hire us, remember?”
Mrs. Gallagher was right. The next day, Mr. Thompson called for a public meeting between the whole school in the yard and, using a bullhorn, told Mrs. Gallagher and Ceara that they were fired. “Just because you were the only women in the department, don’t think you aren’t expendable. I can hire forty more if I wanted. Now clean up your offices and rooms and go.”
They were ascending the stairs to the building when the yells started.
“Fuck Mr. Thompson!” all the students were chanting in unison. “Fuck Mr. Thompson! Fuck Mr. Thompson! Fuck Mr. Thompson!” Ceara and Mrs. Gallagher were touched, but they still packed their stuff and left the school fifteen minutes later, when Mr. Thompson had gone back to his rooms with the students still trailing behind, their chanting louder every time.
“I’m sad to go,” Mrs. Gallagher told Ceara with a hand on her shoulder. “But at least we made a difference. That’s something no one can take away from us.”
“I guess you’re right. But I need a new job.”
“I do too. Come on, let’s eat somewhere and find a new backwards-thinking school to ruin together.” She winked at Ceara and she grinned in turn. Maybe it would be okay.
