Teaching in a public school, some might say, is in itself an unreasonable expectation. Thar’s total self-defeatism. We can indeed teach and here at Truman High, many of us do it quite well, thank you.

I decorate my room with travel posters, quotations (51 percent by women, as we compose the majority) and baby pictures of famous Americans such as John Glen and Harriet Tubman. I even got the library to buy something by Ferlinghetti.

Our principal, Parker Johnston, asks us to lead an extracurricular activity. PE teachers do sports clubs; of course, as it’s all they know how to do. “Ten laps, everybody.” The Music Club kids take private lessons anyway and the advisor schedules a recital. For English teachers, our extracurricular most often is something like the Distribution Arts, i.e. selling popcorn at games. Pep Club? I couldn’t care less about yells. I may teach English, but I’m no sucker.

Let’s make it something worth doing.

Such as writing.

My Writers’ Club idea blindsides Parker. Writing wouldn’t be anything our kids would want to do, he feels. Parker’s master’s, you must understand, is in Ed Admin.

My challenge, of course, is recruitment, but there are kids who aren’t athletic, who don’t have some prodigious performance skill, who don’t want a minimum-wage job skill, and who -- once they see it might even be fun -- are perfectly willing to write. A sign on the hall board, and viola, Writers’ Club, ready for liftoff!

What I should have anticipated, however, is how students divide by gender. Girls do this; boys do that. When I was their age, I wanted to play trombone, but signed up for clarinet because everyone said that a girl shouldn’t play an instrument that gets spitty.

Our Writers’ Club: one female advisor and eight female recruits. The boys are in Rocket Club practicing counting backward, we laugh. The all-female aspect isn’t bad, actually. We learn better through community. Boys spend too much time pushing each other.

A Writers’ Club sits in a circle, not in rows, my introductory words being about working together, discovering who we are. “You can call me ‘Holly,’” but doubt they will, as I’m ‘Ms. Rennick’ in the classroom.

I start off with a few comments about Jane Austen. As none of them recognize the name, I make a note to work her into the reading list.

We work our way around the circle.

Jane loves Agatha Christie because the characters are such characters, even if you don’t understand all the British stuff.

Nan liked Dr. Zhivago and others nod, probably more indicative of movie-watching than reading, but it’s a link.

Sylvia is a fan of Jean Stiler, new to me, but apparently big in mystery paperbacks. She likes how the main characters deal with life. Sylvia has the thickest braids I’ve ever seen.

Rosemary’s favorite is the autobiography of Helen Keller. Rosemary’s, tall, quiet and thoughtful. Having her as a regular student, I’m pleased she’s chosen my club.

Susan, a little bit overly blonde, loves Madeleine L’Engle. We all know “A Wrinkle in Time,” but Susan can rattle off another five. Her blouse is the type that falls outward and she throws her arm a little higher than necessary to push back her hair. Get that gal on the stage.

Sandra’s finishing a book about Amelia Earhart, and hopes to do something likewise adventurous. Amelia might actually still be alive. Sandra’s braces make her grin really grin.

Heather says that Wilma Rudolph was the 20th of 22 children and won three Olympic golds. Heather’s a cute cookie with short hair and big eyes. Her banter suggests a quick mind. “Wilma had to race to get a place at breakfast.”

Debbie turns beet-red admitting that she loves every kind of romance. “Every kind,” she emphasizes. The others giggle and then, as one, spontaneously applaud. Debbie thinks they’re poking fun, but when she realizes that they’re not, jumps up and dances around like a pixie. It must be her haircut, since I’ve seen no accounts of pixie dancing.

A signup sheet solves the refreshment question. We’ll think till next week about what we might actually do. Whatever we decide, I’ll do, too, as it’s a circle.

I do have one idea, though. “From what we’ve said, we like things by and about women, right? So that’s where we could focus. It’s not that we don’t appreciate the other side, of course, but we can’t cover it all.”

We all laugh, decision unanimous, and not because I’m the teacher.

None of the girls had given much thought to how we might run ourselves, but as Heather’s brought cupcakes, we munch while we think. How about we write little things and see what energizes us? Great!

“There’s one thing that we should promise each other, ladies.” -- I should call them that, not girls -- “A writer writes from her heart,” my hand to mine, myself also knowing a bit about drama. “We’re working with just drafts, so what’s said in our club stays in our club.”

“Viva, Las Vegas,” says someone, and we all laugh. but agree on it.

Our first writing (not “homework”) is a few lines about growing up. No need to do research.

“Like making out?” wonders Nan and they all laugh.

“Well, sure,” though I, myself, don’t write about such things, perhaps because I don’t have that much to write, but all’s fair for fiction.

“How about, ‘His hand ascended like floodwater, as she whirl-pooled into love’?” asks Sandra. “I just read it last night,” at which the others groan. I hope she’s putting us on, but that sort of writing sells well.

“How about making out with each other?” asks Sylvia, which causes them to look at me in unison.

“Up to you. Remember, though, I’m “Holly.’”

Rosemary stays after to help re-shelve books. When I’m on the stepstool, she steadies me from behind, her chest against my back. I can smell her April Dawn.

The week following, Rosemary shares her poem with the group. “Little Helpings.”

How I’ll leave the milk crate below my window. How I’ll clear my collections from the sill. How I’ll pretend to be asleep when you climb in. How I’ll pull the blanket over us. How Raggedy Anne watches from my shelf. How I’ll help you slip out the window.

On the way out, I catch her eye. “That was lovely, Rosemary.””

She gives me a smile. “I hoped you might like it.”

Valentine’s Day, Rosemary gives me a pink heart-shaped cookie, “love, Rosemary.” When girls give you things, that’s how they sign. She sits beside me to show how she’d calligraphed the frosting, her breast against my arm. I don’t move a muscle.

“You OK with sex stuff, Ms. Rennick?” Heather asks me in a discussion regarding boys, having just mentioned being on birth control.

I hesitate. “It’s ‘Holly.’ Everything’s on the table, right?”

Sandra speaks up. “Well I’m pretty much a virgin, too.”

Too? She and Heather? But Heather’s not. She and I?

Why she might think that, I’ve no idea, but it doesn’t matter. “We are what we are,” as if I’m thinking of the group.

Sylvia thinks for a moment. “That’s why we’re a club, Ms. Rennick. We are what we are.”

In college, Robert Berman would take me to plays. We liked the newer playwrights. Afterward Robert would walk me to my dorm, but unfortunately for my hopes of a love life, Robert was far too opinionated about playwrights he knew little about, and too much the authority on those whom I found boring. But it was nice going to the play.

What I most enjoy about being Writers’ Club advisor is getting to know my girls, Rosemary in particular. She’ll stop by my room to show me what she’s working on. Her stabs at a short story need work, of course, but she’s not afraid to try. In one she’d just started, two best friends overnight at each other’s so often that they keep pajamas in the other’s closet. Joking around, they begin kissing. Just fooling around, they tell each other.

Should I have them take off their pajamas, Rosemary asks, a question an advisor doesn’t expect. If it’s summer, she thinks. If it’s winter, they could be under a blanket. I advise her to establish the season early.

There are two ways to construct a tale, I tell her.

1) Know the end before you begin and find a path.

2) Develop your characters and let them write the rest.

She says she’ll try the second.

While characters may at first seem similar, I suggest working to make them different, to which she says she’s already thought of that. One of them knows about herself; the other doesn’t.

I tell her I hope to see how it ends, but she doesn’t finish it.

Rosemary

She knows I bicycle, and when I mention that my gears keep jumping, she says she knows how to fix them. She’ll stop by on Saturday with her toolkit.

And that she does, after which we go for a ride -- shifting is much better -- but before we turn back, we stop along the river and sit on the grass.

As we watch the water, she massages my shoulders -- it’s so nice -- and when I lean back, she slips under my arms and does my front, my nipples hard from our ride. She really shouldn’t -- me being a teacher -- but no one’s around.

We switch places and I do the same to her. Her nipples are hard, too.

As we get up, she kisses me on the lips, both of us still erect.

Fast forward as Writers’ Club advisor.