6. Nathan
six
I don’t enjoy havingstudents trembling in the seat across from me, the ocean of my desk between us, while I await their explanation of the behaviors I’ve heard from other teachers, or witnessed first-hand, whether in person or through our cameras. But I do quite enjoy the moment when they realize their behavior will no longer be tolerated.
“I’m still waiting, Mr. Bruning,” I say, cool as a cucumber, my elbows balanced precisely on my desk so that I can steeple my fingers together.
Sawyer Bruning, fidgeting with the baseball cap in his hands that I made him take off upon entering my office, has wide eyes that dart back and forth, his mouth disjointed into an oval as he realizes that he has been backed into a corner.
“I did it, okay? Fine.” His bottom lip trembles, and big, fat, crocodile tears slide down his cheeks. “Are you going to call my mom?”
I think this scares him more than the confession itself, which bodes well for me—it means that his parents are going to follow up at home. I wish we had a higher population these days that did.
“Vandalism is a big deal. Especially in the nature in which you chose to do it.”
Though, his illustration debut wasn’t exactly original.
A crudely drawn penis with a smiley face on the head, wearing a sombrero.
Only, there wasn’t just the one, sketched into the wall above the urinal. No. Se?or Sack, as they’re calling him, is everywhere. Luckily, I have Sawyer on the cameras during his lunch hour going from bathroom to bathroom. It’s actually quite comical to watch, like a Scooby-Doo cartoon of him exiting one bathroom and appearing in another frame of the monitor, his Sharpie marker tucked conspicuously into the sleeve of his hoodie.
“Would you like to volunteer the information of how you were excused for an entire lunch period, or should I waste the time of the lunch supervisors with an investigation?”
“It was Taco Tuesday,” he says with a shrug, and a frog in his throat. “Told ‘em I had the runs.”
Both clever and on-theme.
I nod slowly, then reach for the phone with my eyes still glued on Sawyer, whose tears have dried into crusty tracks. He sniffles as I hand it to him.
“Would you like to dial, or should I?”
I lean back in my chair to give him a bit of space as Sawyer explains to his mother that he will be serving an after school detention for a punishment fitting of the crime—scrubbing each doodle off the walls, as well as spending his study hall for the remainder of the week helping our custodial staff. I can hear her barking at him over the line before he hands the phone over my desk with a sniffly, She wants to talk to you.
Once I finish up with Mrs. Bruning and send Sawyer on his way, I check the next task on my list.
Oddly, there isn’t one. I tense immediately. A blank schedule is time for idleness, and idleness allows demons in—which I can’t have. Not after I’ve kept the lid vacuum-sealed over them since I was seventeen years old.
I am immediately up and out of my seat, my office a ghost town by the time I’ve made it into the main hub of the middle school. Part of my job is to make rounds on the classrooms and their teachers, so that’s what I’ll do until I have another task to fill my list.
I check in with two first-year teachers, reassuring them that drowning is all part of the job, and that they’re doing just fine. Then, I decide to pop in on a few of our long-term substitutes.
I head to a sixth grade math class whose teacher is out on medical leave until the beginning of October. I plan to make a lap of the classroom, ask the sub how things are going and if there’s anything I can do to help, and be on my way. Unfortunately, instead of walking into a sixth grade math class, I come across a zoo.
I thought these scenes were strictly out of Hollywood, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.
There is a student standing by the door when I enter, tossing a paper airplane. Several others stand in the opposite corner, cheering when it coasts all the way across the classroom on one single glide. A group of students have their Chromebooks open to a game site that is definitely not for educational purposes. Four girls are sitting on desks with their makeup products scattered around, giving one another makeovers. Several students have their phones out. One student is actually sleeping—head down, hood over it, face buried into the crook of his arm.
There is one group of three students huddled in the back corner with their textbooks cracked open. They seem on edge. I wonder how they’re getting any work done.
“What in the world is going on in here? All of you, back to your seats.”
The entire class freezes. Once the initial shock of my booming voice settles, they scatter back to their desks. In a span of sixty seconds, this looks like an actual classroom again.
“Where is your teacher?” I ask from my perch in front of the class.
They all point, heads on swivels, to the back corner.
I guess she did blend into the chaos.
Sitting in the teacher’s desk is Carol McMann. At fifty-eight years old, she has her headphones plugged into her cell phone. She missed that entire scene.
She must sense the thirty sets of eyes on her, because she suddenly looks up. Her eyes bug, and she peels first one, then the other earbud from her ears.
“Oh! Nate, you scared me!”
She is all smiles. I am flabbergasted. I have so many questions, and yet, can’t seem to utter one.
“Were the kids too loud? Sorry about that.”
My head tilts more and more in confusion as my gaze narrows.
“Class, what assignment are you supposed to be working on?”
One of the students who had been working when I entered the room raises her hand and says, Chapter 2, lesson 4. I instruct them to get to work while I ask Carol to follow me into the hall.
“What can I do for you, Nate?”
I don’t know which throws me off more—the fact that she is all smiles, or the fact that she calls me Nate. In a professional setting, I kind of expected my staff to address me as Mr. Harding. While a lot of the teachers here are more informal, and do call me Nathan, Carol is a guest in the building. It’s almost as if she sees our age difference before she sees me as a figure of authority. It makes me uneasy.
I clear my throat, then say, “I’m just a little confused as to what was going on when I walked in.” When she makes no move to cover her tracks or defend herself, I continue, “Would you care to elaborate?”
“Today was Chapter 2, Lesson 4. That’s what they were supposed to be working on,” she says with a shrug, still wearing an expression that says she doesn’t have a care or concern in the world.
“Right,” I trail off. “That’s what one of the students mentioned when I asked. However, when I walked in, there were only a few students actually doing math. What about the rest of them?”
“They might have been done.” She shrugs again, still aloof. I really don’t want to come off as the harsh new assistant principal, but I dig in my heel.
“Mrs. McMann?—”
“Carol is fine, sweetie.”
The sweetie probably isn’t meant to sound condescending, but that’s exactly how I take it.
“Mrs. McMann,” I repeat, “I’m just concerned about how much the students were actually getting out of the lesson. It’s only ten minutes into the period. Was today a review day, or did you just teach the lesson that quickly?”
She laughs. Pure joy glitters in her eyes.
“Oh, Nate, sweetie, they’re just using the book for that. I wrote the lesson on the board and told them to ask me if they needed help.”
And herein lies the issue.
I reign in the exasperated breath I want to exhale, and instead, I tilt my head and rub my thumb and index finger along my brow.
“So, just to clarify, you’re not actually teaching them?”
She guffaws again, then puts a motherly hand to my shoulder.
“I wouldn’t know a variable if it bit me in the ass, Nate. This is just crowd control.”
With that, she heads back into the classroom, still wearing a smile, like those last five words didn’t just ruin my day.
Crowd control?
I rub my temples in slow circles, hoping that will dull the ache of those two dreaded words. Sydney King, one of the students who had been working when I entered that math class, knocks on my office door, looking like a deer in headlights. After pulling up her schedule to figure out which class to call her from, it appears that she is on the advanced track, and has probably never seen the inside of the school office.
“Am I in trouble?” she asks as she perches on the edge of one of my chairs.
“No,” I say, donning a tense smile. “You’re not. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your math class.”
I ask Sydney about a typical day, and over the course of the next ten minutes, come to find out that this sixth grade class has essentially been attempting to teach themselves from the book while Carol McMann sits on her phone with one headphone in and the other out. Apparently, she’s been listening to audiobooks, and according to Sydney, has Finished five so far! A new record!
By the time I make it to Don’s office to report what has been going on, I have a tension headache.
“Nate! Take a seat, my man.”
I perch on the edge of one of the fine leather chairs that sit opposite Don’s desk.
“What can I do for you? Things going okay so far?”
I nod once.
“I have an issue that I wanted to discuss about one of our long-term positions. I’m not sure how to handle it.”
He nods, an indication for me to continue, and I detail the scene I ran into this morning.
“Okay? Were there any behavior concerns I need to know about?”
My gaze narrows as I lean forward. He looks almost annoyed that I brought this to him. When I don’t respond, he blows out a breath.
“Look, Nate, she’s a warm body in a classroom. You wanna know what the alternative was? No one. So unless you’re looking to fill in and teach sixth grade math until their teacher is back, she’ll have to do.”
What I wouldn’t give to be back in the classroom.
“They’re teaching themselves!” I exclaim.
“But,” he pauses, lifting his index finger, “there’s an adult in the room, and so far, no one has gotten hurt. Look, my hands are tied.”
And that’s the end of the conversation.
I knew there was a shortage of substitutes, but I didn’t realize we were so desperate that our new standard is warm body in a room.