Vamp n. 1. a new piece or patch added to an older work, 2. an improvisation on an older work or theme, 3. Short for vampire, a corpse that comes alive at night and sucks the blood of the living.
Vamp vt. 1. to add a new piece to an older work, 2. to improvise.,
Vamping the OC
Part I
NOBLESSE OBLIGE
The Challenge
Looking up from his notes, James Farmer, BA, Sociology & Economics, 1996, M.Ed., 1998, UCLA, surveyed the faces turned toward him like a field of flowers, faces turned toward the sun. "And so class, we've been discussing the phenomenon of homelessness in America this week and today's topic was kids on the street. What are some of the important facts to remember about homelessness among the young?" James stepped out from behind the small lectern resting on his desk and watched as their heads but not, he suspected, their minds followed his movement.
Harbor's student body was like a garden that had only one type of flower growing in it and his class reflected that fact. Most private schools paid at least lip service to the concept of diversity. The almighty buck seemed to be the only criterion that Harbor's admissions board considered when making its decisions. There were, it was true, a handful of non-white students attending Harbor. He doubted; however, that Harbor's student body contained any actually needy students. The few scholarship students that he knew of were like Marissa Cooper, whose fees were being waived because of her father's "special situation".
The echoing silence his question provoked caused him to wonder yet again if all the benefits of teaching at The Harbor School made up for the tedium of trying to interest these students in people outside their enclave, people whose lives were less than golden. The better pay, the prestige of teaching at Harbor, and - he admitted to himself when he'd had too many margaritas – the greater physical safety of teaching at this exclusive private school had been the lures that had drawn him out of the Los Angeles School District. Still, at the end of most days he fell into his bed exhausted as though he'd spent the day slogging through soft sand.
James couldn't decide why any of these spoiled children of privilege were in his Sociology class. Or, as he'd once heard Ms. Roberts define it to general hilarity when he'd arrived late for class: "Sociology, a semester spent studying losers, whiners, and malcontents who can't make a go of their lives and blame others for their miserable condition. Ew!"
The presence of Harbor royalty in his class was a separate mystery. Marissa Cooper and Luke Ward, Harbor's perfect couple, were the acknowledged leaders in every aspect of school life in which they chose to participate. This was true, he admitted reluctantly, even in academics. They were not stupid even if they were the leaders of Harbor's "Beautiful People." He couldn't imagine what the attraction was for them in his class.
A small group of their followers and hangers on had also enrolled in his class: Summer Roberts, Marissa's best friend, and several of Luke's teammates from various sports took up space in his class. Mr. Farmer wondered which was the greater attraction for the jocks – their friendship with Luke or Ms. Roberts' ample charms. The vacant chair next to Summer had seen a new male occupant each Monday since the start of school. Observing this game of hormone driven musical chairs had provided the distraction he needed to get him through several notably bad Monday's. He reflected that at her current rate of consumption, Summer Roberts would soon exhaust this class's supply of hunks. She would then have to start repeating herself or direct her attentions to the less studly members of the class.
Looking at the back of the class, he had no doubt as to the reason for Seth Cohen's presence. James had met Sandy Cohen. Sandy could probably lay claim to being the most liberal parent of any student at Harbor. Seth, the grandson of a social worker from the Bronx and the son of the Secretary of the Orange County chapter of the ACLU, was predestined for this class. It was encoded in his genes.
Perhaps he should just call on Seth who was lying slumped across his table. His left hand supported his right arm which waved weakly like that of some castaway forlornly signaling to a passing ship. He knew Seth would have the answer; but he'd like confirmation that someone else had stayed awake during his lecture. Seth must know that always having the right answer wouldn't win him any friends; but he seemed incapable of passing up a chance to hear himself talk. His lack of friends no doubt explained why he was sharing a table at the back of the classroom with Harbor's Paraguayan exchange student. James sighed. It was Friday afternoon and he just wanted the day to be over, so he called on Seth. "Yes, Mr. Cohen."
As though exhausted, Seth let his arm fall to the table with a thud that was a typically Cohen gesture. It had the beneficial effect of distracting some of the "beautiful people" from their whispered conversations and refocusing their attention back on the class of which they were nominally a part. "Yeah. Kids who end up on the streets, whether by choice – as runaways – or involuntarily: by being kicked out of their home or by becoming homeless in some other way have two unpleasant choices. They can enter into the state's foster care program if they're young enough or they can try to make it on their own on the streets. One scenario requires faith in the competency of bureaucrats who are overworked and underconcerned. The other requires an unrealistic faith in human nature in a world of the street where most adults are predatory and all too willing to exploit the naivete of young newcomers."
"Good, what options do those kids who live on the street have?" James asked and then nodded to Seth to continue when no one else raised a hand.
"Since they're underage, haven't graduated from high school, and posses no job skills that would allow them to support themselves on their own, they have four options: they can panhandle, they can steal, they can sell drugs, or they can sell their body."
"Mr. Cohen has painted a bleak picture of the prospects of life on the streets. Aren't there any other options, class?" Surprisingly a hand went up at the front of the classroom. "Ms. Cooper, you have something to add?"
"It might not be that bad. It's always possible that someone in their family or the family of a good friend might take them in. This would probably be only a short term fix for their problem." Marissa spoke softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Short term is right!" Luke Ward interjected, pulling his legs down from the chair across from him at his table and straightening in his seat. "Who in their right mind wants to take in a stray teenager? It's not like we're talking about a cute kitten or a cuddly puppy."
Marissa smiled, nodded in agreement, and then added. "There are private alternatives to the state's foster care system. Some of them are open to older teens: shelters for street kids, group homes, that sort of thing. The kid could even try to reconcile with his parents. Life on the street must be worse than being at home."
"Is that true? Is life on the street always worse than life at home?" Mr. Farmer looked around the class and directed his question to Luke. "What could be worse than living on the street, Mr. Ward?"
Luke showed surprise at being called on. He hesitated a moment before answering. "There could be abuse: physical, mental or sexual in the home. There might be substance abuse issues. Finally, the kid just might not be wanted. It could be a matter of money – too many mouths to feed and the oldest needs to go or the makeup of the household may have changed. The evil stepparent or a new live-in that makes life too hard for the kid may have entered the mix and the street seems the only answer.
A voice from the back of the room chimed in. "They need to get off the street, though!"
"What was that, Mr. Cohen?"
"I said, they have to find a way off the street if they're going to survive."
"You're right. Life on the street is a dangerous, brutal, and often short thing for children. Death from violence and disease are both off the chart for this category of young people. They do need to find a place where they'll be safe."
Mr. Farmer was pleased. His three best students had been listening to his lecture and had almost reached the critical mass needed to generate a real class discussion. Unfortunately, the class was almost over. James wondered why homelessness should have provoked such interest. Perhaps it was the idea of kids their age becoming homeless and having to survive on their own that struck a chord.
He picked up a stack of booklets from his desk and handed them to Summer. "Ms. Roberts, please take one and pass the others on." He watched Summer take the first booklet with an air of bored distaste and pass the rest on. Holding up a copy up, he explained. "The Board of Trustees adopted a new, non-academic requirement for graduation over the summer. Beginning this year, all students must perform a minimum of 25 hours of community service each year they attend Harbor. A Freshman will need a minimum of 100 hours by the end of their Senior year. A Senior this year will need to accumulate 25 hours."
"The packet that I passed out contains the contact information and jobs available at each social service, health, and education agency that would like volunteers." He watched the class flip through the packet. Most seemed resigned. A few actually displayed some interest. Summer, however, hadn't looked at the packet. "Ms. Roberts, is there a problem?"
Summer met his eyes briefly and then her eyes went back to the booklet lying unopened on her desk. She glanced to her right at Marissa who nodded sharply. With an embarrassed expression she said, "I volunteer at HOAG three hours a week. Does that count?"
James hoped he didn't look as surprised as Summer's friends sitting around her. From somewhere in the room a male voice said, "Summer in a candy striper uniform, that's hot!" He saw Summer blush and Marissa look around angrily for the speaker. A glare from Mr. Farmer squelched further comment.
Of all the reactions to Summer's revelation, he found Seth Cohen's to be the most interesting. Seth looked like someone who'd taken a bite of a dish expecting to hate it and found it wonderful. His expression was adoring and reminded James why he wouldn't want to be sixteen again.
"Yes, that is exactly the kind of activity the Board is hoping to encourage. If any of the rest of you are already doing volunteer work," he paused and, receiving back the blank stares he'd expected, continued, "see me after class to discuss it. Everyone does need a packet, Ms. Roberts, because it contains the form that your agency will complete to verify your hours. So take it with you." The bell rang, as he was finishing. "You have your homework assignment for Monday, so I'll see you then."