by Jo Noelle
“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.
About that time, a woman leaves the office, jerking Chad quickly behind her, before Mr. Chavez invites me in.
“He’s one of yours, isn’t he?” Mr. Chavez asks as he sits behind his desk.
“Yes. Was there a prob
lem?”
“He’s been having trouble before and after school. Hopefully that’s worked out, though. He seemed to do all right in class today.” I agree, and he continues as I take a seat. “Let’s talk about your lesson. What did you think of it?”
That wasn’t the lesson! It was only part of it. It wasn’t what you think. Well, yes, it was a disaster, but the lesson plan was perfect, and I was going to wow you. It got sidetracked, derailed.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. As I snap it shut, I feel a cool tear swamping the edge of my eye. I look down, not knowing what to say. Not all my lessons go well, and some lessons I’ve skipped because I was unprepared. Really, I’m not good at this. He knows now that he made a mistake hiring me, and I made a mistake accepting the position. I struggle to master my voice, but fail and sit silently before Mr. Chavez.
“Well, let’s start with what I noticed.” I close my eyes as he starts. “It’s obvious that your students know your classroom routines. As soon as you started small-group instruction, the rest of the class got to work independently.” My head lifts a bit. “I like how you started by listening to one child read. Do you do assessments with each group?” I nod, not meeting his eyes. “I thought so. Your students seemed comfortable with it.” He continues complimenting my lesson, my group’s performance, and the independence of the rest of the class.
“Now, let’s talk about the Mark thing.”
Here it comes, something like “It all fell apart,” “chaos,” “disgraceful,” “A real teacher would have. . .”
“Teaching isn’t about perfect lessons—it’s about doing the best you can for every child. You took care of Mark, reorganized your class, put them in a situation to be taken care of, then completed your duty to Mark. When something goes terribly wrong, good teachers adapt. You made good decisions, quick decisions, and your students were cared for.”
I’m stunned for a moment. It all sounded positive. Wasn’t it?
“Now, it’s your turn. I’d like to hear what you thought about the lesson.” We talk about it, the part he saw and the part that was only planned. We look over my assessments and discuss goals for my students’ achievement, goals for my career along with the next steps I need to take in planning lessons.
“You owe me twenty bucks.”
“Okay, why?” I grab my purse and hand Mina the last of my plasma money.
Mina digs through the fridge, tossing sandwich meat, cheese, and condiments on the counter. “The sweetest little girls from your school came by not fifteen minutes ago. One was named Candace, quite the little salesperson, then Charlotte gives me a catalog. They looked so happy and hopeful. I bought some grealcome.”
“Oh, Mina! No!” I slump to the couch. “I mean yes, I want to support the school’s fundraiser, but this isn’t how I wanted to spend the last of my mad money.” (I call it “mad money” because even I think I’m mad for still donating plasma as often as I do.)
“Sorry hon. I thought you got paid, and it would be fine.”
“It’s okay.”
“White or wheat?” I ask, opening the bread cupboard. Suddenly, I remember, in my haste to go to Mr. Chavez’s office, I failed to hand out the flyers for the fund-raiser. I’ll get them out tomorrow.
“Wheat.”
She grabs a butter knife, and I ask, “What does the paper look like?”
She describes mine and hers and all the different birthday bags. We start putting mayo on the bread when Karli comes in the front room with left-overs from a late luncheon her company had; fried zucchini spears, shrimp fritters and caprese salad, and for dessert orange rolls. Mmm, beats bologna. It’s really great having Karli here. Why was I reluctant to get a roommate in the first place?
The next afternoon, I hear screams before I even open the front door. “You will pack and be out this week.” Mina’s reaming Karlie. “In what world would this be okay? Don’t even count on your deposit back—with the damage you caused I should charge you extra, and I will if you aren’t gone before the first.” Mina raises her finger in Karlie’s face. “I had better not hear or see your clogging shoes out even once for the rest of the time you’re here.” Then Mina turns to me. “Place an ad on Craig’s List. We need a new roommate.”
There are only a few days of this month left, and I need a roommate to pay that part of the rent. I wonder if the fight is something that can be set right so Karlie can stay or if I need to put out another add ASAP. I’ve rarely seen this intense side of Mina. I’m more than curious what has caused the blow up, but I’ll be patient to find out. This is not the best time. Both women about face, storm away from each other, and then slam the doors to their bedrooms.
Karlie wastes no time, and I hear her packing late into the night. Early Wednesday morning, her sister and brother-in-law help her haul her stuff out. She’s going to stay with them until she finds a new place. When they take the last boxes out, I step into the room and can see immediately see why Mina chucked her. The beautiful wood floor’s finish is marred, scratched, and full of divots.
It has to be repaired, but I’ve already spent the deposit Karlie gave me, so I really can’t hire someone to come in and do it. After work, I google, How to refinish a wood floor? There are four steps. The first two can take place in a day, then each remaining step takes another day. If I start tonight, it will be ready for someone to move in on the first.
I run to the rental store. It’s been a couple of months since I’ve used my credit cards because they were maxed out, but I’m so glad there’s a little room on them now. My last thought before sleep is—I’ve topped them off again.t wrapping paper and gift bags from them, and I knew you would want to support the kiddos too, so I got you some as well, and you’re we
Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it. I can’t keep my eyes off Mrs. Hays’ sweater.
“Sophie, faculty meeting is tomorrow after school.”
Her sweater vest is completely covered with embroidered felt leaves tacked onto the sweater by the stems.
“It starts promptly at three. Can you please be on time?”
All together, the look of the sweater is kind of like a large bird, molting.
“We also have parent/teacher conferences in two weeks.”
Every autumn color is represented—red, green, brown, yellow, and orange—in tacky profusion.
“Please send these home with your students for the parents to make their appointments.”
Something hits my hand, and I glance down. Oh, a stack of papers. “Thank you,” I tone vacantly.
When she leaves, Beth and I clean up our lunches to head back to our rooms. My eyes must have looked as bewildered as I felt because Beth interjects, “She’s the queen of teacher sweaters.”
“Teacher sweaters?” I ask as we walk down the hall.
“Sweaters only a teacher would wear.” Beth smiles. “It’s her thing—what she’s known for. You can tell the time of the year by her wardrobe.”
Each day this week, I’ve stayed an hour or two after work to make lesson plans, then come home to add urethane to the floor. I finish on Friday, and the room looks great. It will dry overnight, then tomorrow afternoon, I can replace the baseboards. We have some potential roommates coming tomorrow evening to look at the room. You can bet I’ll be asking specific questions about how they plan to take care of the room.
Mina interviews the applicants with me. When they’re all gone, we sort through and choose a girl we were both impressed with, Scarlet Roland. She works as a paralegal. Mina calls her and arranges to sign the contract on Monday.
September 29, 2007
Newbie Blog:
What Are They Talking About?
We had faculty meeting right after school on Thursday. I know, I’ve written about faculty meetings before and I’ve mentioned the fact that I’m lost the whole time, but seriously, I was there for an hour and a half and I don’t know what we did. This time, however, I took copious notes, so here you go:
1. This year o
ur PLC will be focusing on DBDM. Each grade level should review their gap stats from the CRTs and the NRTs for all students.
2. Identify ILOs for your grade level in each content area.
3. Make a list of students who didn’t make AYP, then over the next couple of weeks prepare AIPs to satisfy RtI for students at-risk. Outlines for this can be found in the OBE binders given out last spring.
4. Also, please read student cume folders with special attention to IEPs and 504s. Know them and follow them.
5. If you have students you believe should have a review referencing their IDEA status, please contact the LEA.
6. Also, FuBAs must be completed before BIPs can be put in place.
7. If certain criteria is met, students can be administered AAs instead of CRTs and NRTs, but only if the IEP team writes it in the IEP before the window.
8. Check the ELP scores for your ELLs and make recommendations for ESL support.
9. NCLB, which is the new ESEA, has provisions for LEP before IEPs can be put in place. Document the services students receive.
10. Our SCC has approved the SIP, and copies will be available next week.
11. Finally, if you have completed an MA, EdD, or PhD the paperwork must be submitted before October 15th to be reflected in your lane and step.
See what I mean? Yeah, I have no clue. I’m not making this up; they really talked about this. The only thing I did understand at the meeting was item #12, I have completely forgotten about the school fund-raiser. I’ve got to send those flyers out with students next week. I think they’re on my desk. Faculty meeting—what a waste of time. Teachers talk in a secret code, and I’m not part of the club.
I wake up naturally at six thirty on Monday morning, and not because my roommate is clogging next door. Before my eyes are even open, I start thinking about today. It’s payday! However, that celebration only last as long as it takes to think those two words. I’ll have to pull out my budget again and see how it’s going. Because I needed to learn to refinish floors last week—thank you ex-roomie—I wasn’t able to put in enough time to really have the lessons for this week ready to go. I should probably get to school a little early and look over my plan book.
