1. Quinn
1
quinn
~~ One Month Later ~~
“Students, raise your water bottles high in the air.”
My sixth-grade class snickers as I clear my throat, doing my best to get their attention for the toast I’m about to make.
“I want to take this moment to congratulate you for completing your sixth-grade state testing.” The room cheers, but I signal for them to keep it down since we’re the only class in the hallway having a pizza party today. “Y’all worked and studied so hard! I know testing isn’t easy for a lot of you, and no matter what the scores say, I just want to show you how proud I am of all of you for doing your best. So I want you to enjoy this pizza and treats, let’s play some games, and say congratulations to each other for surviving state testing!”
The class cheers again, and this time I don’t bother telling them to keep it down. Let’s be real, the only person that’s going to be mad that there’s noise is the math teacher, because she’s always claiming to be behind on where she should be in her syllabus. One day of outside noise isn’t going to stop that.
Honestly, I don’t care if anyone complains. My kids just worked their asses off for the past however many months to prepare for a state test that’s going to generically tell them their aptitude and dictate their lives. Oh, and it will give the state something to hold over the school’s head. The least I can do is spend a few bucks and get them pizza, veggies, fruit, and cupcakes as a reward for their hard work.
I quickly take a look around the classroom. The air is different today. They’re eating, laughing, and mingling. They don’t look stressed. They don’t look worried. They look like kids. Which is exactly what I wanted for today.
That is, except for one student, who is standing and staring at the table of food like it’s going to come alive and eat her instead.
“Makayla? Everything okay?”
She shrugs but doesn’t make eye contact. “I miss pizza.”
That takes me by surprise. “I get that. I miss pizza every day, and that’s even when I bring it for lunch.”
My joke doesn’t work. In fact, it might make her more sad.
“Is everything okay? Can you have pizza? I didn’t see any allergies or dietary restrictions on your forms.”
She lets out the biggest sigh I’ve ever heard. “My mom says we can’t have it because of gluten. Even though we had it two weeks ago. Now, apparently, we’re going to die from it.”
Now, I’m all for people who stay away from gluten because of allergies, celiac, or other medical issues. Or even parents who have devoted time and energy into seeing if that kind of food and lifestyle is right for their family. Who am I to judge? I like to live my life by the phrase “not my monkeys, not my circus.”
However, I would bet my car and my cat Turtle that Makayla’s family fits into neither of those categories.
Also known as, her mother has struck again. The woman, who is a known menace to teachers, is a family vlogger who likes to invent new things every week about their family in terms of diet, parenting, and lifestyle. I’m guessing this week’s trend is gluten free.
Unfortunately, I can’t assume that. I have to go by what she’s saying. Luckily for Makayla, and her pain in the ass mother, I have backups.
“No worries,” I say as I grab a hidden box of pizza I had ordered for a previous class because I have a student who is actually gluten free. “This is gluten-free. Have as much as you want.”
Makayla’s eyes go wide, and her smile is bright as she takes two slices and puts them on her plate. “Thanks so much, Miss Banks. You’re the best.”
She gives me a one-armed hug, which I return because her mother might be a pain, but she’s a sweet kid. Somehow. “You’re welcome. Now go enjoy.”
Makayla heads toward her friends as I sit back and let my brain wander a bit. With the middle of April comes the end of state testing. But more importantly? This is the official beginning of the countdown until the last day of school.
Twenty-one school days until the students say goodbye.
Twenty-two days until I can sleep in past six in the morning.
Twenty-three days until I’m on a plane for a well-deserved vacation. I can smell the freedom from here, and it’s giving notes of pin? colada and suntan lotion.
“Hey, Miss Banks?”
I look over to see where the voice came from, though I should’ve known it was Diego. The boy asks me the same question every day around this time.
“Yes, you can use the restroom. Please sign out.”
He sets down his pizza, and I go back to making sure nothing crazy is going on with my other twenty-five students. Do I think he’s actually going to the restroom? I don’t know. I do know that he asks to go every day, and I’m pretty sure it’s just because he needs to take a lap and decompress. So I’ll never say no. I get it. Sometimes I need a minute too.
A few of my fellow teachers give me snide looks for giving the kids breaks like that, but I really don’t care. I take that back; maybe in my first year I did. I think every rookie teacher wants to follow the rules, show that they’re the one teacher who’s going to keep every student engaged for every minute of the class block.
I think that lasted one day with me. And today, as I’m closing in on year twelve? It’s out the door.
Kids are different these days. Attention spans are short. Home lives are sometimes rough. Some learn faster and some need more time. And they aren’t the only ones different. So am I. Yes, I still want to make sure every kid leaves my room feeling a little better about themselves. I want them to learn. I want them to love books just as much as I did when I was their age. But I’m also hardened by years of middle school insults, state recommendations that were given by people who’ve never stepped foot in a classroom, and asshole parents who think they know everything because they possess two things: a stick up their ass and audacity.
But with all of that comes knowing how to handle everything. Outside of the classroom, I know which parents to placate by pretending I’m going to take their advice and the ones who truly want to help their children grow. I know which professional developments actually matter. And inside the classroom? I know when to just let the kid pretend to go to the bathroom.
“Miss Banks? What are we doing now?”
I look over to Daniella, one of my more inquisitive students. “Do you mean now or tomorrow since we’re done with testing prep?”
“Tomorrow,” she clarifies.
This gets me excited, and I sit up a little straighter. “We’re starting to read my favorite book, The Westing Game. ’’
Every one of my kids looks around in a bit of confusion, probably because they’ve never heard of it. Little do they know I’m about to change their lives.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a mystery book about a man who is murdered, and when people come together for the reading of his will, they find out it’s a contest. And that’s all I’m going to say because I don’t want to spoil it.”
A little chatter begins with them until Axel, the unspoken leader of the class, speaks up. “You read that with my older sister’s class too. She still talks about it, and she had you three years ago. This is going to be dope.”
Axel’s stamp of approval gets everyone excited, and I just sit back with a smile on my face. Because for the tenth year in a row, my favorite book is coming in to save the day.
I realized around my third year of teaching that April is exhausting. You’re burnt out from testing and you still have a month to go. So, I thought, what better way to make sure that I was excited to come to school than by teaching my favorite book from when I was their age.
Because it’s a mystery, both the boys and girls really get into it. I have a whole lesson on using context clues to try to solve the mystery. But my favorite day is when they find out the ending. Every year they’re floored. That day is always filled with constant conversation, excited eyes, and kids begging to go back and read certain chapters to see the clues they missed.
And if I’m being honest? It’s what’s getting me through these last few weeks. This year has been overly exhausting, both in the classroom and out. Whether it’s waking up to news of another book that’s been banned, or parents questioning what me and the rest of my colleagues are teaching, I feel like every day has been a battle. I’ve never read the word “indoctrination” more than this year. And I’m not just talking about around the country. No, this was personally in our school district due to the group of moms—who might or might not have named themselves with an acronym of a specific male appendage—who have made it their mission to make our lives miserable.
Newsflash: I can’t get these kids to remember to write their names on their papers. I’m not convincing them to make life-altering bodily decisions.
And then there’s my personal life. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I have no personal life. I don’t try and date because I’ve learned that trying to date as a plus-size woman is laughable. The closest thing I have to a relationship is the few times a year I go home and hook up with Porter. I do have my book club, but it’s slowly starting to dwindle down because everyone else has things they need to do with their families.
Needless to say, my soul needs this lesson. And this slice of pizza I’m about to scarf down. Because as a proud millennial, I grew up knowing that books and pizza go hand-in-hand.
The noise in the classroom is starting to get a little loud, but it’s quickly quieted by the alert sound through the P.A. system.
“Miss Banks?”
A chorus of “oooohs” fills the classroom as they recognize our principal’s voice. I wave my hands to shush them, but that only gets me snickers.
“Yes, Mrs. Hargrove?”
“After the final bell, can you please come to my office?”
Sounds serious. Wonder what I did this time. “Sure thing, Mrs. Hargrove.”
The students are silent until they hear the click of the intercom disconnecting. And that’s when all hell breaks loose.
“Bruh! You’re in trouble!”
I shoot a look to Antonio, the student who most teachers warn you about. He can be mouthy, disruptive, and knows his way around the detention room.
I know his type. I was his type.
“First off, you owe the Bruh Jar,” I direct.
“Worth it,” he says as he saunters up to my desk and drops in the quarter. An appropriate fine for the kids to maybe stop using that fucking word. Little do they know that jar is funding their end of the year party.
“Second, what makes you think I’m in trouble? Maybe she wants to talk to me about you.”
This is what Antonio and I do. He jabs me. I slightly jab him back. I let him think he’s the winner. In return, he does his homework, and I’m one of the few classes he’s passing.
“Nah, Miss Banks. I’ve been good this week. Haven’t been to the office yet. This is all you. Plus, you know that no one’s safe when they’re called down to Hargrove’s office.”
He’s right about that. No student is safe when a summons from Principal Hargrove is given. But that’s for students. I’m an adult. A teacher. A molder of minds. Voted one of the Teachers of the Year last year in the district. I’m not in trouble.
Probably.
Maybe.
I don’t think.
“I’m sure everything is fine,” I say. “Please make sure you clean up, and I’ll see you tomorrow. It’s Westing Game time!”
The bell rings and all of the students grab their things and quickly exit my room. I follow behind them, bag and keys in hand so I can make a quick exit whenever I’m done with whatever this is about to be.
As I make the long walk to the principal’s office, I can’t help but have flashbacks to my time at Rolling Hills Middle School.
I was a frequent flyer in detention. I had a gift for prank-pulling and general rowdiness. What can I say? I’m the middle child. And a Banks, for that matter. Teachers should’ve known what they were getting into after having my brother Simon.
To say that I saw my fair share of detention is an understatement. Though now as I look back at those years, I know I was just bored. Not in the gifted sense so I’d act out. I was the farthest thing from a straight-A student. But nothing kept my interest. So I’d act out.
Then one fateful day I had detention in the library, and everything changed.
I didn’t have any homework, so I started browsing the shelves. The librarian—a wonderful woman named Mrs. Metcalf whom I think should be considered for sainthood—asked me if I’d like to read a book.
And she handed me The Westing Game.
It was over after that.
Now, my pranks didn’t stop. Those continued on well through my high school and adult years. But books calmed me. They gave me something to look forward to. And for the first time in my young adult life, I felt like I wasn’t just existing when it came to school.
That’s why I decided to become a teacher. I wanted to help kids find their way. To show kids that finding an outlet, whether it be reading or art or music or whatever it is, could help fill voids you didn’t know you had.
And if it’s in the form of a book? Even better.
I wave to a few of my fellow teachers as I enter the principal’s office. I don’t bother her secretary, who’s standing in front of the opened doors to the copier with a scowl on her face, as I open the door.
Though the second I walk in, I realize this meeting is not to congratulate me on being a two-time Teacher of the Year.
No, I’m standing in front of the firing squad.
Also known as the P.E.N.I.S. Posse.
“Please sit down, Quinn,” Hargrove says. “We need to have a discussion.”