AT 7:39 a.m. the first of Trudy Ames’ 85 11th graders calls to her, “Good morning, sunshine!’’ She smiles, and he murmurs, “Something is due today.’’
Trudy has taught at Mount Greylock in Williamstown for 20 years. She’s got chopped bleached hair and wears a psychedelic shirt with a suede skirt and leather boots. If she weren’t a teacher, she’d be a rock star.
Students in grades 7-12 from three Berkshire towns attend what used to be called “the best public prep school’’ in Massachusetts. Teachers were recruited from the state’s best colleges and received paid sabbaticals. The philosophy was: find great teachers and let them teach. Now the ceiling of the locker rooms has fallen and the kids change in what used to be classrooms. For English teachers, a full course load is five rather than four.
Trudy’s classroom is painted cinderblock. The windows overlook a courtyard and a satellite dish. On the walls, poems by Wilbur, Stevens, and Yeats in her own calligraphy. A tiny photo of James Gandolfini.
First period. Regular English. Small groups work on extended book projects. They could choose any book, as long as she had enough copies. One group collages. Another colors. One girl asks herself, “Do you think Merriam Webster is like two people?’’
Trudy checks the essay questions one group is creating. She tells them to provide more guidelines. “What you ask for is what you’ll get.’’
One girl glances into her backpack. “Hey,’’ she says, suddenly pleased. “I have sushi for lunch.’’
Trudy worries they don’t understand what she’s saying.
Sushi Girl says, “I understand what you’re saying. I just don’t understand why you’re saying it.’’
Trudy explains another way. The bell rings.
She has four minutes between classes.
At Greylock, any student can take Honors sections. Trudy took a one-course reduction this year. To deal with the loss, the school’s solution was to allow her Honors class to near its state-mandated maximum: 29 students, so she teaches the same number of students for $15,000 less.
One girl holds up her shattered copy of “The Scarlet Letter.’’ “My book’s broken.’’
“They’re all broken,’’ Trudy says.
She gives a quiz. At 8:40 a boy in a black hoodie appears, carrying nothing but a pencil. He sits and holds his head. Trudy passes him a quiz. He doesn’t move. When the quiz is over, she passes him a book. The group with the very best answer, she says, will get this frog. She holds up a tiny toy frog. There’s some excitement.
The class spends some time discussing the sin of principle vs. the sin of passion. She asks which character is guilty of the former. “What’s his name,’’ one girl says. “The doctor.’’
“Chillingworth,’’ Trudy says and moves on.
Hoodie Boy picks at his pencil, making a pile of shards. The period ends, his quiz on the desk.
She reminds the second Regular section to formulate specific essay questions. “What essay questions?’’ one boy asks.
She spends most of this period with a pair of boys who are reading short stories instead of a book. She poses questions on William Carlos Williams’ “The Use of Force.’’ “Can you propose some alternative tactics for the doctor?’’ “Rufis,’’ one boy says. “You know, that date-rape drug.’’
Trudy returns them to the topic.
One boy announces he can move one ear and not the other.
“Cathedral,’’ Trudy says, tapping him lightly and drawing his attention to the Raymond Carver story. They discuss their reactions to the blind man. One boy says to the other, “Write that: Blind, but good personality.’’
Lunch duty. The co-principal sits by himself, eating from a packed lunch. The kids at the other end of the table seem unaware of him.
Trudy asks some girls why they’re not sitting with any boys. “We don’t like boys,’’ they answer. She laughs and asks a boy if he’s scared of girls. He glances around and shakes his head. She laughs and says that her favorite thing is embarrassing them.
Her AP class is still ahead. By 2:35, the students will be gone, but then there’s a department meeting, where she’ll probably hear that there will be no raises. Again. Then there’s paperwork, grading, prep. Dinner for her husband and sons, a giant dog to walk. She’s tired now, and will be tomorrow morning. But life with these teenagers is a pinball game. Most of the time, balls are shooting everywhere, but every now and then, bells ding and lights flash. And, as she puts it, that’s when the whole crazy thing becomes fun.
Karen Shepard, a guest columnist, teaches at Williams College. Her most recent novel is “Don’t I Know You?’’ 
