In my class, Oscar is the ringleader. I imagine him growing to be a morally challenged authority figure: a crime organization don, a politician on the take, or an investment bank executive – hypercompetitive and lawless like the people I used to work for. Oscar’s got short legs, shorter arms and the modest barrel belly of a sturdy man’s miniature. Today, he’s wearing soccer shorts, an Argentina jersey and goalie gloves so rank with sweat that I can smell them as he passes my desk. As usual, he’s brought with him some version of a game he’ll cajole the other eight year-olds to play, and then he’ll take them for all they’re worth. Today, it’s Three Cup, the shell game. He places paper cups on his desk in the back of the room, then waits, cross-armed smiling big, knowing the kids are never going to learn. As students file in, I watch Oscar the Future and try to remember if I’d ever felt that confident or self-satisfied.

“Let’s play!” he shouts after Ashanti, the black girl whose mother makes her flatten her hair every two weeks. Ashanti touches her head the way people repeatedly touch things that hurt.

“No way!” she says. “You’re a cheater!”

“I’m not a cheater!” Oscar says. “I’m just better!”

Deshawn, the bucktoothed kid that no one plays with because he’s so quiet, walks to Oscar.

“Let’s play!” Oscar says.

Deshawn nods, and Oscar hides a coin underneath a cup and commences with the shuffling. Ashanti gradually drifts over to them. A few other kids follow, and soon, Oscar’s surrounded, and he’s shouting, “Find the coin! Bet you can’t find where it is!”

I’ve been teaching this summer program for five years now. I worked in banking for ten before I burned out, started questioning the worth of my work, didn’t like the answer I came to. My wife Tina, a cardiologist, was supportive when I decided to get my credential and teach for a fraction (and a small one, at that) of what I used to earn. Past tense. We get by on her salary. “You owe it to yourself to discover what you love,” she said as if the words were foreign, as if she were trying to convince herself. Last week at my cousin’s red egg and ginger party, when my parents and grandparents asked her how I was doing (because they never believe me when I say I’m fine), she told them that I was thinking of going back to banking. I’ve never mentioned that. Sometimes when you lie, you reveal your true desires, what’s underneath, like when the cups are shuffled and you inadvertently show the coin.

A class of fifty is a lot for one teacher to handle. This year the district gave me a partner. Her name is Ashley. She’s dark-haired, of some mysterious ethnicity. She’s two years out of college, all earnestness and enthusiasm. Her voice cracks and chirps like a broken wind instrument. She comes to school wearing pencil skirts, crisp collared blouses beneath cardigans, like she’s off to interview after class. That’s her generation, the millenials. They take it for granted that we slave to please invisible coin counters in glass towers, even as the streets crumble with neglect. Her generation, they’re practically born yuppies (at least that’s what we used to call them).

Ashley and I talk, text, coffee after class. We find moments during the school day to look into each other’s eyes like intimates. She loves children, feels very passionate about fighting to make their lives better despite the many obstacles our education system seems designed to raise. I tell her to never lose that passion, never give up, and she seems to react positively to that message. What I don’t mention is that I’ve always lacked that passion. In a few years, when she grows more comfortable with herself, when her passion is self-evident, Ashley will be a very beautiful woman. She and I are having what I call a microaffair. Her generation is appalled by adultery in a way I don’t remember being appalled by it, not that I’ve ever been ballsy enough to commit it. I’m pretty sure that if I were transported to the late-sixties, I’d vote enthusiastically for Nixon.

We’ve instructed the children to write a letter to the President. Oscar ignores the assignment, retrieves the Monopoly board from the game chest, and has begun coercing other kids to play. I stare at Ashley, who’s explaining the assignment to one of the girls. Just the thought of separating Ringleader from his latest show exhausts me. I wait for Ashley to catch my look. I help one of the girls, LaShaundra, because she’s generally docile. Meanwhile, I wait for Ashley to discipline Oscar. He’s already got four kids around him.

“LaShaundra,” I say. “Have you ever wanted to ask anything of the President?”

“My name is Karla.” She points across the room at one of the other bespectacled black girls. “She’s LaShaundra.”

I look at LaShaundra and then at Karla. The two look almost nothing alike. LaShaundra is light-skinned with curly tresses. Karla’s wearing cornrows.

“Write,” I tell her.

“Oscar!” I hear Ashley chirp. She scurries to the back of the room, where he is jumping up and down on the seat of his chair like he’s a Rich Uncle Pennybags on speed. I catch Ashley’s eye as she’s telling Oscar to sit down. I make an effort to look appreciative that she’s saved me, even though I had no intention to take any action. She smiles, like she enjoys helping me. The millenials are forever eager to help.

My eighty-five year-old grandmother calls my wife once a week to discuss their favorite topic: me. Why don’t I want to give them great-grandchildren? What is going on in that boy’s head? Why am I teaching? That’s a hopeless, poor person’s profession. Do something in life that has a chance to succeed. Let better, dumber people do the death march!

“I know, Grandma,” Tina says in Mandarin. “You’re right…Sounds stupid…Yes, we should be having children soon. We’re both so busy…Yes, I know adoption is not the real thing…We should be taking care of our own kids, not someone else’s.”

I’m lying on our chaise longue, reading, doing what I do best: nothing worthwhile.

Tina hangs up with a sigh. I smirk. “She’s at me again, huh?”

“She’s at us,” she corrects as she plops on the couch and begins fiddling with the remote to find a show to watch – no doubt one with larger houses and babies. “When you don’t do what they want, it reflects badly on me as a wife as well.”

Her snipe surprises me. More and more often, I realize that Tina is supportive in a way that suggests that support is a wifely box one checks. But when you withdraw money at the cash machine every week, and there’s half of what there used to be, checking the support box suddenly doesn’t seem so prudent. Tina’s always been a pleaser. As a Chinese guy, I’m supposed to find it charming that she speaks perfect Shanghai-nese, goes out of her way to pour tea for our elders at banquets, gets enthusiastic about extended family trips to the homeland, and basically wouldn’t mind if we move in with my parents after we have kids. When we got married, Tina did everything both families expected and more. She’s perfect for them. She loves serving others, and more importantly, she loves being told she’s great at serving others. For ten years, it was just the two of us, and we were great at serving each other. Now I’m just one of many family members she’s in service of, just like I’m one of many poorly paid, charred-to-a-husk teachers of kids who have no desire to learn what we have to teach.

I’m reading a book of depressing Richard Yates stories. The thought of turning another page makes me nauseous. The book almost puts itself down.

“Maybe I’m not turning out to be the man you married,” I say.

Tina runs a hand through her shiny hair and plays one of her shows. Another home renovation. Another nursery.

“You don’t even try to be,” she says.

“People in my generation don’t try to try,” I say, attempting to inject some levity into our conversation, the room, our lives. “It’s the journey.”

Tina rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, you don’t enjoy that either, do you?”

This afternoon’s playground time. Thank God. Randall, a guest science teacher, will demonstrate how to blow large bubbles using a tub of soapy water and twine. Outside, it’s sunny for the first time all summer, and Ashley and I prod the kids from the classroom to the playground in a sinuous single file. There’s a fence that runs three sides of the blacktop. A perfect corral for tomorrow’s animals. Once we get outside, Oscar begins a headlong sprint around the playground in circles, tagging the arms of people he wants to join his Olympic relay.

“Oscar!” I say sharply. But he pays me no mind. Soon, he’s got a train of kids doing laps. Ashley tries to block him, but Oscar just runs around her. Half the kids are whooping like they’re celebrating that their lives are officially going to turn out the way they want now that they’ve decided to follow Oscar’s goddamn train. I throw my hands up and exchange helpless looks with Ashley. Correction: I’m the one that looks helpless. She just looks determined. People her age love to look determined even though they’ve inherited an even less impressive tomorrow than they originally settled for. Randall, the old science guy, stands on the grass, grimacing behind his spectacles at the sun, dangling his impotent rope in the sud bucket. This guy has been a teacher for decades. How the hell has he not given up?

“Alright everyone!” he calls out. “Bubbles!”

Of course, just like that, Oscar leads his troops right to Randall’s bucket, and they sit cross-legged before Senor Science like they’ve discovered their deity.

Ashley sidles over to me with her hands on her hips.

“I think we’re losing them,” I say grimly.

Ashley examines me for a moment before smiling. “Are you okay? It’s a beautiful day out. All we have to do is keep them inside the fences. Randall’s got this today.”

I smile back. At Ashley, I have no trouble smiling. She’s pretty. Her teeth are perfect. She’s a product of miscegenation, which I suspect makes her genetically superior to me and consequently, mildly frightening. I don’t know what the deal is with her thirteen-year-old boy voice, but life is a puzzle. With the kids, I have to force smiles. I’m not sure I ever liked children. What made me think I’d like teaching? When I left banking, teaching seemed a way to do some good in the world. As a banker, all we were doing was trading handshakes with rich people. Anyone who wasn’t rich was irrelevant. The other bankers would joke, “What else are you going to do, teach?” Well, yeah. In fact, that’s exactly what I’m going to do! But now I realize my choice was the product of laziness. Reactionary. A conservative choice in a risky one’s clothing. One made to piss off my chief financial officer father. What a cliché! A weak one at that!

“You’re right,” I say. “How’s the roommate?” Ashley’s got a roommate who’s in a contentious relationship with a boy. Asking her about her roommate makes me feel young, hopeful and ignorant.

“Ugh, I’ve resorted to hanging out at the bar on the corner at night,” she says.

I have a series of brief and fond memories of when I used to hang out at corner bars at night. Faces of women flash before me inside dimly lit taverns, beyond rapidly emptying drinks. There seemed to be possibility at the bottom of every pint. I wonder what would happen if Ashley and I had a drink together tonight while Tina’s at the hospital. Would that violate the terms of our microaffair? You know what? Nothing would happen, because 1) I’m too old for the corner bars Ashley and her cohort frequent and 2) I’m too lazy to deal with Tina’s inevitable questions. Instead, I’ll choose the road with the widest berth. Stay home, read depressing fiction, and take occasional breaks to masturbate joylessly.

“Sounds like you’re doing the right thing,” I say.

“My friends say I should move out.”

“Yes, of course.” Unhappy? Do something about it! An option that rarely occurs to me. “Well, that’s another option.”

With his wands, Randall raises the twine from the bucket and slowly parts the loop while backpedaling, and a large, rainbow-tinted bubble rises and swoops through the air. The kids ooh and ahh and run after the globule. Though I see this experiment every year, even I have to confess to a certain sense of wonder at the bubble’s size and trajectory as Randall makes another smaller one and it bursts almost immediately. Why are some bubbles bigger than others? Why does one rise while others burst? Oscar the Future probably knows. In fact, he’s wandering behind the rest of the class, tugging on his goalie gloves like he’s about to start an imaginary World Cup match.

“I’m pretty fuzzy on my sciences,” I tell Ashley.

“So am I,” she says. She pulls out her phone, touches the screen a few times and finds a website with information about bubble-related science projects for schools. I’ve asked Tina for a smart phone for my last two birthdays. I’ve received flowers instead. “I read up on bubbles last night.”

“At the bar?”

“A bar can be a really good place to read,” she insists with a smirk. “Especially when you’re bored by the company.”

I almost say that, in that case, I should do my reading at corner bars instead of at home.

“Did you know that bubble skin is a thin layer of water sandwiched between two layers of soap molecules?” she asks.

I admit I had no idea. It’s amazing how little one needs to know to teach. I find myself identifying with the freeloading layer of water being carried along by molecules of soap.

Randall calls out for us. “Can one of you get that other bucket? We’ll show them how to merge bubbles.”

Ashley hops to action, trotting over to Randall. I feel suddenly lonely without my micromistress. I’m a married man. Ashley’s a goddamn baby. She’s too young to even be my friend on Facebook! I watch her make a large bubble. It rises to meet Randall’s, and together, they form a giant one that awes the children.

“You going to let her do you like that, man?” someone says. It’s Oscar. He’s standing next to me. His soccer gloves smell like feet.

I laugh. “Did you hear that line in a movie or something?”

“They’re making bubbles together,” he says. “Like they’re married.”

“I’m married,” I say. “She’s not.”

Oscar slapped me on the belly. “You’re not married.”

I’ve been gaining weight, and I’m chagrined at how the skin on my paunch ripples and shudders from Oscar’s slap. Now he’s softly smacking my belly with both hands like I’m a stuffed animal he’s beating.

“Hey, that’s enough,” I say with a smile, not wanting to be too harsh on Oscar the Future, but he persists.

“You’re not married,” he sings repeatedly, pivoting his head left and right while slapping my nascent fat man’s belly like we’re convivial frat brothers.

“Hey, Oscar, stop!” I say more loudly. Ashley and Randall are looking at me and I sense that both are wondering why I can’t discipline this squat kid, this ringleader, this eight year-old. This scene is reflecting poorly on me. On them as well. As I’m thinking this, Oscar runs away, making a beeline for the wide gap in the playground fence. He’s headed for the streets.

“Oscar!” I shout. To my disappointment, he doesn’t stop, and I realize that, despite the fact I haven’t engaged in any physical activity since I was a banker and had subsidized gym membership, I have to run after The Future.

“You’re not married!” Oscar yells as he runs.

I trundle after him, and after a few steps, I’m closer but already wheezing. My lower back feels like a sack of ball bearings.

“You can’t stop me!” Oscar the Future says. “I know better!”

“Come back here!” I say, suppressing a goddamnit. I grit my teeth, pick up speed, and I know I’m going to catch Oscar before he leaves the playground.

“You’re married to Ashley,” Oscar the Future says as I’m about to head him off.

I grab Oscar hard by both his smelly, gloved hands. “You think you’re better?” I shout. “You think it’s going to be so fucking easy for you? Well, it’s not! It’s not!”

Before I know it, Ashley is prying me away from Oscar and only then, do I see the boy’s frightened, reddened face. “What’s gotten into you?” Ashley asks. Out of breath, I look at her, and I see the pearls of sweat on her wrinkle-free brow. She’s been running after me all along, and she’s not even breathing hard.

“Oscar,” Ashley says with a voice that’s suddenly strong and unbroken. “Go back to Randall. Now.”

Oscar’s eyes are downcast. “Okay, Miss Ashley,” he says softly as he runs back to the group.

My partner escorts me to the classroom. My hands are clammy, I’m sweating profusely, my mouth tastes like room temperature milk. I know I’ve lost my job; I’ve made my choice. Tina will be pleased by my decision. Judging from the way Ashley’s keeping her distance as we enter the room of empty desks, I’m pretty sure our microaffair is over, if it ever existed. People in her generation know the rules, and are calloused by the shovel’s handle. When the rules are broken, do not hesitate to bury the rulebreakers, even if they’re your peers, your friends, your micromistresses.

Instead of sitting behind my desk, I choose a student’s desk. As I slide in the too-small chair, I sigh. I want to say many things to Ashley. I’ve lost my way. I can’t begin to tell you who I am anymore. You seem to know who you are, have it figured out. Can you help me?

“What happened?” she asks.

I shrug. “I should have let someone else do the death march.”

“That’s what you think we’re doing?”

“You’ll learn,” I say. “When you’re older.” I used to be a banker. They’ll always win. Without even trying. We lose. No matter how hard we try. Any little victory we enjoy only happens because the bankers let us win. Even Oscar the Future knows this.

Ashley offers me a piteous look. “I have to get back,” she says. “If I don’t get to say this later, I want to tell you that it’s been a pleasure.”

“Of course.” I stand and hold out my hand.

“Good luck.” Her voice chirps on the word “luck.” She pumps my hand. I feel something inside me warm, and the deck of my world cantilevers, and it feels like I’m backsliding down a steep hill. I try to pull her into my arms, but she wriggles away.

“Oh god, really?” she says. “You’re going to do this now?”

“I don’t get people your age,” I say. “I really don’t. All earnestness and repression.”

“What about your wife?”

Tina. Yes. Right. “This would definitely reflect badly on her as a wife,” I say.

Ashley laughs sardonically, and I can tell she’s hitting backspace on all the characteristics she thought I had. Composed, experienced teacher. Good husband. She’s ready to replace those words with others.

“You’re an old loser,” she says. “People like you are the reason we have so much to fix.”

“Grip the shovel, start digging,” I say, my voice a growl. “Show leadership, don’t give up.”

Ashley shakes her head and looks at me like I’m insane. She informs me that the principal will arrive momentarily. Like the rest of her generation, she thinks my problems are no one’s fault but my own.

Photo by Bart Boudreaux’s Photo on Picasa; used under a creative commons license