King of the Sandlot—Chapter 3
He stayed behind, letting the others leave the room. He nervously tried not to look at Miss Henton, and was unable Not to look at her.
Last to leave were Sally Jessup and Paula Lansing, who walked by him, giggled nastily, and started whispering to each other before they got to the hallway. One of them—didn’t matter which, they were interchangeable—cackled out a long, loud laugh. Billy Joe was sure he didn’t like them. He only hoped Suzy didn’t like them either, or that was one dream sunk.
Miss Henton let the door drift closed before sighing and shaking her head. “Sometimes I despair of those two,” she said. “If they paid as much attention to their work as they did to their prattling and gossip, they could be A students.”
She looked sharply at Billy Joe. “You didn’t hear that, by the way.”
He swallowed, but decided to venture a small joke. “Hear what?”
Her mouth quirked up for a second; a nanosmile. “You are a fountain of surprises sometimes, Mr. Danforth. You truly are. Come here. I promise I won’t bite, I just want to talk to you for a moment.”
He edged over to her desk, not really mollified. That swamp-gator expression was still on her face, and she surely looked like she wanted to bite him. But he figured he was safe as long as he didn’t get too close. Then she confounded him by getting up from her chair, circling around her desk, and leaning back against it.
“I’ve been asked about your grades,” she began, “by Coach Willingham. He seems to think you’re quite a good little baseball player.”
Billie Joe’s heart swelled and splashed in his chest; he felt like his eyes were going to pop right out of his skull. And then, just as quickly, his high spirits deflated. He was a good student, not spectacular but average, except in one class. This one. And Miss Henton knew it.
“I get the feeling you know what I’m going to say next,” she said, looking down at him.
He nodded glumly.
“I’ll be blunt, then. Your performance in this class has been less than exemplary, Mr. Danforth. You’ve struggled to keep up—and sometimes you’ve seemed to be struggling to struggle. And it’s having an effect on your grade point average. Now: the policy at this school is that your GPA has to be 2.0 or above in order for you to participate in extracurricular activities such as clubs or sports. (I would like to see them raise it to 2.5 or even 3.0, but that’s just a pipe dream on my part, and a ‘C’ average is certainly nothing to be ashamed of.) Your GPA, as of last quarter, was 2.14—and if your grades in this class continue trending the way they have lately, you’re going to drop to a 1.90, possibly lower. You can imagine how disappointed Coach Willingham was to hear this.”
Oh yeah; he could imagine, all right. If the sensation he had that his stomach had suddenly taken up residence around his ankles was any indication, he could imagine it just fine. “Isn’t there any way we could … I dunno … make an exception?”
Miss Henton narrowed her eyes. “I’ll tell you something, Billie Joe. I am a baseball fan. A Royals fan, in fact. I watch every game I can, and I go to Kansas City two or three times a summer to see games in person. I love to see good players take the field and play their hearts out, from the pro level to AAA ball to college teams right down to the team we field every year here at this school. We have a good team, with a winning record year in and year out, even if we don’t always go to State. It’s a point of pride with me.
“But none of that means a fig to me if I can’t help my students learn. Because that is a point of pride with me as well. Every D or F I write on a test, every failing grade I give, wounds me. Because as much as it’s a judgment of the student’s abilities, it’s also a judgment of mine. Because I couldn’t help them to learn. Do you understand me?”
“I think so,” he replied. In reality he was still trying to grasp the idea that Miss Henton could sometimes be seen in Kauffman Stadium, a hot dog in one hand and a blue Royals pennant in the other, cheering her favorite team.
“Then you’ll understand why I couldn’t make an exception—nor, I think, would Coach Willingham let me do so, even though he might secretly want me to. I couldn’t let myself shortchange your education—not if you were George Brett himself, Mr. Danforth.”
Billie Joe hung his head. Looked like it was back to the field beside the Church next summer. King of the Sandlot was all he would ever be.
