Newbie (11 page)

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Subject: I’m FREE

Fri. September 21, 20072:20 PM

hey sophie,

guess what? i’m free! the doctor cleared me to come back to work on monday. i have to take it easy—no moving furniture, picking up children, etc, etc, blah, blah. i know and i’ll be careful. i can hardly wait to be back. see you

monday morning.

:) Beth

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RE: I’m FREE

Fri. Sept. 21, 20073:40 PM

Yay! Your class will be so surprised and thrilled. See you soon.

Sophie

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September 22, 2007

Newbie Blog:

One Day at a Time

This week has been harrrrd. I’m exhausted from putting in a lot of extra hours and I’m barely keeping up—well,
not
keeping up. The worst part is that yesterday, Hot Sub asked me if I’d like to go for a ride in the mountains and see the fall colors today, and I had to turn him down because I have to be prepared for my evaluation. No pulling out coloring pages and faking it in front of the principal. This job has the potential to take over my whole life and right now I don’t know what to do about that.

Two things I’ve learned:

1.
School pictures don’t look any better when you’re an adult than when you were a child.

2.
Copiers can tell when you are stressed or in a hurry. Their performance is inversely proportional to your patience level. If you really, really need it, it really, really isn’t going to work. Given high need on your part, the copier is sure to malfunction, eat your master, crumple your copies into little fans, and smear a line of black ink across the page.

I’ve already put in four hours, and I’m sure if I stay for one to two more I’ll have what I need for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of next week—but not Thursday or Friday. I stand to stretch. Hearing knocking on the window, I see Liam, smiling, and cross the room to let him in the recess door. He has a vase with branches of beautiful golden aspen leaves and spikes of evergreen limbs. He hands them to me and kisses my cheek. The cheek again. If I had anticipated that, I could have turned just enough to…

Then he holds up a bag from a Chinese takeout. “Have you had lunch yet?”

“No. And I’m starving.” There are lesson-planning materials spread over my desk, the little table and a few student desks. Official disaster. “We could go to the faculty room.”

Reaching for my hand, he pulls me to the rug in the middle of my room. “Let’s just picnic.” We eat right from the boxes using chopsticks.

He also has fortune cookies, which we crack and read aloud. His fortune says, “Happiness may be beside you.” Okay—I know immediately I’m reading way too much into that as my face warms. My cookie says, “Your hard work will be rewarded with a new perspective.” I want his fortune.

“I guess you’re going back to hard work now—the fortune cookie has spoken.” He throws the containers into the bag and stands to leave, reaching for my hand. We walk across the room, still holding hands. This time, I know he’s going to kiss my cheek, so if I just turn…no, he’ll kiss my lips when he feels the way I feel. I can wait. Without dropping my hand, he pulls me into a hug and kisses my cheek. Yup—called it. Even that little kiss makes my stomach tumble and my face blush. Or it could have been how strong his arms were around me.
Maybe
I can wait.

A couple of hours later, I can finally leave. The lessons look good, and the one for my evaluation is tight. I’m starting to get the hang of how to use Beth’s calendars for lesson planning, but it still takes so much time. Note to self: Lavish Beth with gifts for sharing her calendar with me.

R
ule for the week—do not answer the door at home at all. School fund-raiser starts today. I completely do not need wrapping paper.

Upon entering the front doors early on Monday morning, some moms from the parent organization are erecting a giant thermometer for totaling the fundraiser profits. This afternoon, I’ll distribute the sales packets to all the kids in the class so they can pester their parents, aunts, grandparents, neighbors, and anyone else they can talk into buying some.

Beth leans through my threshold. “Came by to wish you luck on your observation today. You’ll do great. When is it?”

“You’re back! Your kids are going to be nuts.” I rush to the door and hug her. “My evaluation is right after recess.”

After welcoming my students, I let them know that Mr. Chavez will be visiting our class today. “He’s going to love being in our class and seeing your great work. Just keep working while he’s here.” Hint, hint. Keep working. Keep quiet.

The morning speeds by, and right before recess, Mindi passes out cupcakes while we all sing a birthday song to her. A few minutes after recess, Mr. Chavez enters our classroom and sits at my desk with a clipboard. A few kids wave at him, then we finish reading a poem, and students begin choosing independent activities to work on. I call a few students to come sit with me at a small table near my desk. “Mark, Jason, Kyra, Ellie, and Sol.”

“Jason, sit beside me today and whisper read until I ask you to stop. Everyone else, please choose a book.” Jason begins reading, and I take some notes. Once or twice, I look around the room—all’s well. Mark is slouching in his chair on my other side, and I remind him to sit up as he reads.

When Jason finishes, I invite the students to look at the new book for today. Mark is slouching again, and I motion for him to sit up. We’re about five minutes into the observation, and Mr. Chavez has had no expression on his face whatsoever. Is that good or bad? He’s writing furiously and looks toward the rest of the class as much as he watches my reading group.

The students in my little group put their books on the table in front of them as they practice making new words with magnetic letters.

Mark, who was slouching again, sits up, his eyes wide and terrified—and then he vomits. Not just a bit oozing down his shirt, but weapons-grade projectile vomit, covering the books and magnetic letters with slimy pink throw up. There are traces of cupcake on the table, on the floor, on Mark, and on me. I concentrate and swallow hard—don’t throw up too, Sophie.

The other students in the group shriek or moan, but all of them bolt from the table. The rest, who, just seconds ago, were model students, are yelling, running, or leaning over our table to investigate.

“Everyone, line up at the door.”

I hustle Mark over to the sink—just in time. He throws up again. My hand is still on his back as his stomach convulses and his chest heaves, but I turn my head so I don’t watch. My stomach knows what he’s doing though and gives a little sympathy contraction.
Hold it together.

I call Beth’s room and ask if she could come take my class. I expected Mr. Chavez to leave or help or something, but he just sits, expressionless, writing feverishly.

After calling Mark’s mom to tell her what happened, I take Mark to the office with a trash can in front of him. We go through the back door and seat him on the sick bed. Too slow with repositioning the trash can, he yacks again, spraying my skirt, leg, and right shoe. This time, my stomach doesn’t hold, and I lean over to share the trash can with him, throwing up out of empathy or a reaction to the sound and smell—whichever. Gross. I pat Mark’s back and hand him some tissues to wipe his mouth and nose while I do the same.

You can tell Mrs. Johnson is an experienced elementary school secretary—she stays clear of the sick room until the retching is over. I sit with Mark a few minutes until his mom arrives. When I stand, the weight of the vomit on my clothes reminds me that my current state is way past gross. I can’t teach this way.

By the time I get back to my room, the custodian is working on the mess, which seems to have expanded. I hope my face conveys appreciation for him spending so much time in our room, cleaning up after our daily messes and after a group prone pee or barf without notice. He’s moving the carpet cleaner over a spot farther away from the hazard zone than I expected. Oh, that must have dripped off us as we moved to the sink. I shoot him an “I’m sorry” look and mumble, “Thanks.”

Minutes later, Liam is also in my room. Oh, good! I was worried I might have another devastating moment where I was at my worst and he wouldn’t get to witness it. His presence increases how profoundly memorable this will be for me.

“Mrs. Johnson said you’ll need a sub for a while?” he asks, clearly trying not to breathe through his nose. His eyes flick quickly from my skirt to my right shoe, but he recovers fast to refocus on my face. So, he wasn’t looking at my legs because they’re cute, but he still looked. And now he’s probably repulsed.

My mind screams, “I know. I’m grossed out too.” Instead I say, “My lesson book is on my desk. It’s the same as Beth’s plans for today. Maybe she could fill you in.”

I can’t bear to sit in my car. I would never get the barf smell out. So, I decide to walk home, but my right foot is squishing in my shoe with each step. Okay, I can’t walk. Back to my car. Carefully folding the wet part of my skirt on my lap, I ease onto the seat and drive home. There is so much of this situation I’m trying to repress in my thoughts. I keep thinking, breathe through your mouth so you can’t smell it. But then my brain is like, you know what we haven’t thought about for a while? High school chemistry. My memories of the lessons come back, reminding me that the sense of smell is just particles of the thing entering your nose to create the smell, meaning that right now, microscopic pieces of Mark’s vomit are entering my mouth. Maybe I can hold my breath several blocks until I get home.

My clothes get heavy while I stand under the shower and body sprays, but the smell slowly improves. When I disrobe, I drop my clothes into a plastic bag Mina is holding open with tongs. I take a hot shower, using lots of shower gel and shampoo. If I stood here for a month, I doubt I’d feel clean again, but I stay long enough to drain all the hot water.

I redress and eat lunch. A couple of hours later, I step back into my class. Apparently the art lesson went well. The students colored fall leaves of red, orange, yellow and brown, then placed them on the trees in our fairy-tale forest. Liam finishes reading a book to the students and sends them back to their desks for writing time.

“You’re looking better.”

“And smelling better.” His eyes are a beautiful clear green. Get a grip. I’m sure he remembers the repugnant-me just two hours ago. He won’t be flirting now.

“It’s official. You’re a teacher and have been properly baptized.”

“Hopefully, once is enough.”

He nods. His smile and lifted eyebrows seem to reply, “Yes, you hope so, don’t you?” As he turns to leave, he says, “Oh, there’s a note on your desk from Mr. Chavez.”

I read it. “Please come by my office after school to discuss your first evaluation.” Is he serious? The lesson was such a disaster. Does it really count? Shouldn’t I get to do a full lesson? I think I should get a do-over. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Oh, crap, of course it was—projectile vomit, screaming, mayhem. I’ll tell him it’s usually better. And that’s true—or at least, it’s never been quite so bad. He can’t fire me over this. Well, he’s the principal, so technically he could. Liam could sub until they get a new teacher.

Laying the note back on my desk, I begin dropping down beside students to talk with them about the stories they’re writing. The picture Ellie she has drawn shows Mark with a green face and a pink fireball of vomit spewing from his mouth. Although my stomach flips, I invite her to read her story.

“It was outrajus. R room stinks. I bet the hol skool nu Mark thru up aftr reses. R techr frekt out and wnt hom.”

I complement her on her use of vocabulary and suggest, “Maybe you could add a part about how I came back.”

“No, I’m done. I’m working on the picture now.”

Great. Maybe her dad will hang it in his office. I move to the next child. Clearly the morning was sufficiently traumatizing that almost every child wrote about Mark’s illness.

The rest of the day is uneventful, passing in unusual calm. So, the secret to quieting six-year-olds is to do something to shock them early on.

After the bell rings, I tidy the room a bit. Liam comes in just before I walk out, closing the door behind him. Without a word, he hugs me. “You’re doing a great job. Just remember that as you meet with Mr. Chavez. It’ll be okay.”

I’d like to stay wrapped in his arms, but I know I’d better get going. When I arrive in the office, Mr. Chavez is busy with a parent, so I turn to sit.

“Hi, Chad. What are you doing here?” I sit beside him.

“My mom is talking to Mr. Chavez. What are you in for?”

“I’m just waiting to talk with Mr. Chavez.” Chad shakes his head slowly from side to side, looking up at me through his eyelashes, clearly sorry for me.