Troublemaker

by Kayley Loring

  But no matter how much you’ve prepared, no matter how many years you’ve been teaching—if you don’t expect the unexpected, you’re basically screwed.

  I always expect at least one little troublemaker amongst my new group of adorable scholars. It’s very important that I don’t try to predict who it will be or label him or her or them right away. Because we all have off-days. It’s not my job to judge these sweet, tiny brilliant people. It’s my job to help them learn and grow and be.

  And no matter how well it goes on that first day, you’ve got another ten months with these little boogers, so you just gotta roll with it.

  I have fifteen students in my second-grade class here at Silver Lake Elementary School. There are three tables in the center of the room, with five children seated at each table. The day began at 8:15 this morning, and it will end at 12:39 pm today, for some bizarre reason.

  I adore each and every one these fifteen bright young humans already.

  But I’ve got my eye on Ryder Tully-Vega. That wavy dark hair, those big hazel eyes, that mouth with the perpetual grin and all the words, words, words that keep coming out of it. He is about four feet and fifty pounds of capital T trouble. He’s not a bad kid by any means. But he wants my attention. A lot of it. And if I’m being honest, I would love to give it to him. But I need to divide my attention equally with the entire class.

  After getting them settled in, giving them fun and easy activities to keep them busy, welcoming them, and introducing myself, we’ve done some ice-breaking activities and I’ve established my class rules and expectations. I’ve given them a tour of the classroom, gotten them excited about the upcoming topics we’ll be learning about this week, and issued books. Now there’s about ten minutes left until the final bell of this blessedly short day, so I lean against the edge of my desk. I’m going to ask the question that launches a thousand questions, but I think it’s better to get it out of the way upfront.

  “Now…do any of you have questions for me? Hands up if you do.”

  Ryder’s hand immediately shoots up, but so does Poppy’s.

  “Yes, Poppy?”

  Ryder sighs in frustration and keeps his hand up in the air.

  Poppy asks, “Are you a hard teacher or an easy one?”

  “Well, I’d like to think that I’m a fair teacher.”

  “But do you give a lot of homework?”

  “Homework assignments for the second grade are designed to take you about twenty minutes to finish.”

  “But what if it takes me longer than that?”

  “Well, you can spend as much time as you need to on your homework, as long as you complete it as best as you can and turn it in when you’re supposed to. If the homework takes anyone longer than twenty minutes, though, I would really like it if you would tell me. Then we can talk about what I can do to help you. And where do we turn in our written assignments?”

  More hands go up in the air, but several kids yell out, “In the Turn In box!”

  “That’s right. The Turn In box.”

  Ryder rolls his eyes and waves both of his arms around. “Miss Stiiiiiiles.”

  “One second please, Ryder. Did I answer all of your questions, Poppy?”

  She wrinkles her nose while nodding. “You sound like a hard teacher to me.”

  “Well, I think I’m pretty fun, actually. You’ll see. Yes, Ryder?”

  He lets his hand drop to his desktop with a dramatic thud. “Why are you Miss Stiles and not Missus Stiles?”

  “Because I’m not married.”

  “Are you dee-vorced?”

  “No, I’ve never been married. But that’s a personal question, and I meant for you to ask me questions about the class, or what we’ll be studying, or about me as a teacher.”

  “My parents are dee-vorced,” he tells me, completely ignoring what I just said.

  “Well, I’m very sorry to hear that, Ryder. Anyone else have a question?”

  A couple of other kids mumble about having divorced parents. Not my favorite topic of conversation with my students, but if they need to talk to me about it in private—I’m here for them.

  “I still have a question,” Ryder says, waving his arm around. “If my dad is Mister Vega, then how can people tell if he’s dee-vorced?”

  “That is a very good question, Ryder.” They can probably tell he’s divorced because he sends rude three-word responses to very considerate emails and clearly no one would want to be married to that. “There’s actually no way to tell that just based on the word ‘mister.’ But we’re getting a little off-topic.”

  A boy named Tyler raises his hand. “Why aren’t you married?”

  “Well, like I said, that’s a personal question, and I’m only answering questions about this class or—”

  “Is it because you like girls?” Tyler continues. “Because my dad says it’s cool for girls to like girls. Especially if they let you watch them kiss each other.”

  Noted. Tyler’s dad might be a creep. And now the entire class is tittering.

  Cheyenne with the curly blonde hair says, “Is it because you’re a cereal Monopolizer like Taylor Swift? Or are you a workerhonic, like Tony Stark?”

  I can actually feel the surge of energy in the room now that the kids are thinking about Taylor Swift and Tony Stark.

  “Neither, but the proper words are ‘serial monogamist’ and ‘workaholic.’ I like your creativity though, Cheyenne.”

  I pick up the stack of papers from my desk and start placing a page in front of each student. “What I’m handing out to you now is a letter to your parents!” I explain to them in a sing-song voice. “I want you to remember to give it to them as soon as you can, okay? Because this is a homework assignment for your parents! And your homework assignment is to make sure that your parents do this homework assignment.”

  Some of the kids giggle at that idea.

  “Do you have a boyfriend, though?” Ryder asks, gazing up at me as I place the letter on the table in front of him.

  “Ryder, that’s a personal question. Do we all understand what personal means?” I go over to the whiteboard and write the word personal out in blue erasable ink. When all else fails—write something on the whiteboard. “P-e-r-s-o-n-a-l. Personal. If you ask someone a personal question, that means it’s something private about themselves. And it’s the kind of thing that people don’t usually talk about with someone unless they already know them really well. It’s fine to talk about personal things, but if someone says they don’t want to talk about personal things right now, then we should listen to them.” I continue to pass out the papers to the rest of the students.

  “But how are you supposed to get to know someone really well unless you ask them about themselves?”

  “Well, that is a very good point, Ryder. You’re right about that.” Your highly developed brain is going to be so much trouble for me this year. “But we’re in school right now and I’m your teacher, so we aren’t going to get to know each other quite like that, okay?”

  Guidelines and boundaries.

  We have to establish them at the beginning of the school year, or everything will go to shit in a rainbow-colored handbasket faster than you can say, “Good morning, class.”

  Scarlett’s hand shoots up. “Oh oh oh! If you want to get a boyfriend—my mommy always makes her lips red when she wants my daddy to pay attention to her. You should do that.”

  “Yes! Also?! Why don’t you dress more like the lady with the long hair on that show that my mom watches?” Chloe asks. “The one about the four friends? And they’re always eating at restaurants and shopping and talking and kissing boys and stuff?”

  Noted. Chloe’s mom lets her watch Sex and the City, and I can’t decide if that’s awesome or not.

  “Well, if you mean Charlotte, then I actually do kind of dress like her.”

  “Not the prissy one,” Chloe says, shaking her head. “The cool one with all the shoes.”

  “I think I just heard the end of day
bell,” I mutter.

  “No you didn’t,” Ryder says, grinning. “Two more minutes.”

  I try really hard not to be judge-y in class or to have irrational thoughts or to blame my adorable students for anything, but I blame him for all of this.

  “My babysitter met her boyfriend doing Pokémon Go,” says the girl whose name I still can’t pronounce properly. “You should do that.”

  “I don’t do Pokémon Go.”

  She looks at me like I just told her I don’t breathe or eat or pee. “Why not?”

  “Okay, class.” I clap my hands together. “Why don’t you tell me more about yourselves?”

  “I’m living with my dad right now,” Ryder yells out. “His house is really nice, and he has a really, really biiiiig…”

  I swear, he’s pausing for effect, and now I’m really sweating.

  “TV! It’s the biggest TV I’ve ever seen, and it has its own room! With rows of soft chairs and a popcorn machine and a mini bar!”

  Well, good for Ryder’s dad. I guess he’s too busy watching movies in the comfort of his home to write a decent response to my emails.

  “That’s so cool, but we put our hands up and wait to be called on, remember? Anyone else?”

  A sweet-faced boy named Miguel raises his hand.

  “Yes, Miguel?”

  “I think you’re really pretty.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  We also try not to pick a favorite, but Miguel just rocketed to the top of the charts.

  “And I think you should wear shorter skirts so guys will ask you out.”

  Aaaand there goes your Student of the Year award, Miguel.

  “You should wear your hair down,” Chloe informs me. “Like the lady on the show.”

  Great. I have a classroom full of Franklins. I would fail all of them, but then I’d have to deal with them again next year.

  Thankfully, the end of day bell finally rings.

  “Well, this has been such a wonderful first day, and I’m so happy to get to know all of you! Don’t forget to give the letters to your parents, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Class is dismissed.” I always have to bite my tongue to prevent myself from calling out, “love you, bye!”

  Okay, so maybe next year I won’t ask them if they have any questions for me upfront.

  I’m still pretty new at this.

  Lesson learned.

  After inhaling a protein bar and half of the salad that I’d put in the teachers’ lounge fridge this morning, I get up to leave for my one o’clock meeting with the principal. The lounge has been strangely empty aside from me, but as I’m walking out, a woman who looks to be around my age comes in and gives me the once-over. According to her Hello, my name is sticker, she’s Miss Farrell. I might be imagining it, but her eyes seem to narrow when she reads my sticker name.

  “Miss Stiles?” she says with a big toothy smile. “You must be the new second-grade teacher. I’m Paige. First grade. Room Six.”

  “Hello! Yes, I’m Room Fifteen. I mean, I’m Emilia. Hi.”

  She offers me a cold, limp hand to shake. “Cute cardigan.”

  “Thank you. Cute shoes.”

  She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Thanks. So do you have Ryder in your class?”

  “Ryder Tully-Vega? Yes.”

  “I had him last year. Such an angel.”

  “He seems to be very bright.”

  “Mmm. He’s got good genes.” She gives me a wink before passing me and calling someone on her phone without saying goodbye to me.

  Which is fine because I have to get to my meeting.

  Mrs. Woodard is inhaling a protein bar and salad at her desk while typing on her computer and talking on the phone when I arrive. She waves me in and gestures to one of the chairs in front of her desk. When I take a seat, I can see that she has about twelve documents and forty browser tabs open on her monitor, but she’s currently scrolling through images of shoes on Amazon.

  “Sweetie,” she says into the phone, “I need to hang up now because I have a meeting, but if Daddy tells you that you can’t have a cookie, then you can’t have a cookie. He’s in charge when I’m not around, right? Put Daddy on the phone, really quick…Jerry. Give her the damn cookie.” She hangs up, swallows another bite of salad, and winks at me.

  I think I love her. I’ve only spoken with her once since she hired me, so this is our follow-up meeting.

  “Well, look at that fun cardigan!”

  “Oh, thank you. I like your blazer.”

  She wipes her fingers down the front of it. “It smells like Cheetos, but I look like a boss bitch in it, don’t I?”

  “Absolutely.” Shit, I hope she wants to look like a boss bitch.

  She holds her hand up for a high-five. “Absolutely! How was your first day? You settled in?”

  “It was really good. I really like it here, and the kids are wonderful. I can hardly believe it’s a public school, to be honest. It’s the perfect size, and it’s so well-run. I mean—I’m not just trying to blow smoke up your butt.”

  “Oh, please do! I quit smoking ten years ago, and I’ll take it any way I can get it. Well, I only have ten minutes before a conference call with some school board shithead, but I just wanted to mention a few unofficial policies that we have here.”

  “Okay.”

  She continues to finish her lunch while telling me about the school culture and then informs me of their unofficial No-Googling policy regarding the students’ parents. “This is Los Angeles,” she explains. “Not all celebrities send their kids to private schools, believe it or not. Some of our kids have notable parents. Obviously, I can’t enforce this, but we don’t want any unconscious preferential treatment. At least until you actually meet the parents in person.” She shrugs. “Then it can’t be helped.”

  “I can definitely not Google.”

  “Good. Now, you are one of only a few unmarried teachers here and certainly one of our youngest… I just want to say that your life is your life, and while we don’t have an official policy regarding involvement with the parents of their students outside of school, we do also have an unofficial No Friending/No Following policy on social media. And I’m just going to say it—what with your cute cardigans in fun colors—we don’t encourage fraternization between teachers and parents of their current-year students. Although, again, I can’t enforce anything. There. Said my piece.”

  Well, shit. Now I remember why I kept staying with and going back to Brent. It’s so much easier to be a new young teacher when people know you’re in a stable relationship.

  “Mrs. Woodard, please know that I am one thousand percent dedicated to my students and this school, first and foremost.”

  She holds her hand up to pacify me. “My dear, I’m not worried about you. It’s something I bring up with all of my teachers. I knew as soon as we met that you’re not one to cause any trouble.”

  I try to look extra responsible, with my hand on my heart. “I appreciate that, because the last thing I’d ever want to do is create any kind of drama or conflict at work. Or anywhere else in my life for that matter. Not that I have much of a life outside of work.”

  “Word. Oh! Also, I wanted to tell you about the Winter Festival.” She pauses to swallow her last bite of protein bar. “Each year we do a Holiday Show as part of it, on the stage in the gymnasium, and each year one lucky class is selected to perform it. Guess whose lucky class gets to do it this year.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yours. I know it’s four months away, but you should start thinking about it. No pressure. We take the quality of our shows very seriously here—but no pressure. Maybe find the YouTube video of Miss Farrell’s show last year, just to get an idea of what I’m talking about. It was top notch. But no pressure.” She claps her hands together, startling me. “Okay! We’re done. You’re dismissed. I’m sure you have a million things to do.”

  I start to rattle off all of the things I have to do before returning home to my dog and
my housemate who forgets to eat dinner just as frequently as I do when we’re working. But I very quickly realize she’s not listening to me at all. Meeting over. Emilia, out.

  Off I go, to do my job and not have any kind of life outside of it.

  Fuck you, Brent.

  Chapter Seven

  Dear Parents and Guardians,

  Welcome to the new school year!

  I am so happy to have your child as a student in my second-grade class, and I look forward to spending the next ten months learning with them. But you know your child best! As a parent, your perception of your child is a valuable resource. The more I know and understand about my students, the more effective I can be as a teacher.

  I would love it if you would participate in this “parent homework assignment!” Sometime this week, please write me a letter, introducing me to your child. You might want to include a biography, strengths, weaknesses, special abilities, past school experiences. You might also like to tell me about your expectations for this school year. Include any information that you’d like me to keep in mind while teaching your child.

  Thank you in advance for your time and attention to this matter! I’m excited to read your letters and will respond to any concerns and issues at Back to School Night next week. All letters will be treasured and kept confidential.

  Due date: This Friday!

  Respectfully,