“You guys are doing great,” I encouraged. “Just a little longer. Why don’t you each tell me how many siblings you have? Jonathon, you start.” I nodded to the mousey brown-haired boy in the front row.
“Three brothers and one sister.” His reply was barely above a whisper and delivered from the back of his seat where he sat with his shoulders hunched forward. At the beginning of the year, he wouldn’t have even answered questions in front of the class, preferring to pull his shirt over his head—like a turtle disappearing inside its shell—and hide until I moved on to another student. He’d come a long way this year, and I beamed him an encouraging smile to let him know how proud I was of his progress. His cheeks turned bright pink as his gaze landed on my feet.
“Are they younger or older than you?” I asked. I’d taught one of his brothers three years ago and knew his little sister was in first grade, but I wasn’t sure about the others.
Jonathon’s little face scrunched up as he thought the question over. “Liam and Peter are older. Deirdre and Brian are younger.”
And shy, quiet Jonathon was stuck right in the middle of that insanity. No wonder the boy was so withdrawn; he probably felt lost in the shuffle. As a middle child myself, I could relate.
“Lisa?” I asked the redhead seated behind him, signaling for the question to circulate the room.
As each student answered, the pressure in my classroom continued to build. Containing the energy of third graders was a lot like living on top of a crater filled with methane gas. One little spark, and the entire place would blow. And here I was, walking around with a lighter in my pocket.
Across the hall, first-year teacher Amy Nilong wasn’t faring so well. Nothing in her training could have prepared her for the end of the year insanity she now faced. I’d tried to warn her, but she’d waved me off with naïve assurances she’d survive. Her closed door did little to block the sounds of chaos coming from her room. In the midst of loud chatter and laughter, it sounded like someone was bawling. I hoped like hell it wasn’t Amy.
Third graders could be ruthless.
The sibling question had gone around my entire classroom, and according to the clock on the wall, we still had eighteen potentially explosive minutes of the school day left to go. Wondering if the clock was malfunctioning, I pulled out my cell phone and verified the time. My private email account had a new message, so I clicked on the icon.
Glancing up from my phone, I said, “All right, class, next question. What’s your favorite meal? Jonathon, please start.” Figuring that would keep them busy for another minute or two, I scanned the email. The sender was some random email address, and the message was a Bible verse.
“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”
Just like the previous messages, there was no signature and no reference to a Bible book and chapter. But after years of forced studies, I knew exactly what I was looking at. I also knew the verse wasn't for me because there'd be no forgiveness for the sins I'd committed. Besides, I wasn’t the least bit sorry. Even if I was, who would I confess to? The “good” reverend and his faithful elders hadn’t been able to beat the sin out of me as a child, so I doubted they could do so now that I was an adult.
Still, the email was unnerving. Very few people had this email, and none of them were the type to sign me up for some Bible verse service, but this was probably the fifth scripture I’d received in the past few weeks. I’d let the rest of them go, but this was getting old. Scrolling past the body of the message, I searched for a company name or an unsubscribe button, finding nothing. Replying with an “unsubscribe” request, I set down my phone and huffed out a breath and listened to a cantankerous little blonde named Kari give the equivalent of a two-minute verbal dissertation on why pineapple didn’t belong on pizza.
It amazed me how at nine-years-old Kari had an opinion about everything. I considered asking her another question to eat up more class time, but figured that wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the students. “Micah,” I asked, signaling for the boy behind her to list off his favorite foods.
The moment the last person finished, twenty-four sets of eyes landed on me, waiting.
Twelve minutes of class to go.
“This is the hardest part of the year, but you guys are tough, and I know you can keep your cool until the bell rings. Do you think you have what it takes to quietly make it through the last step?”
If I could bottle their energy, I could use it to power Ottawa for a month. They used that precious resource to nod vigorously. A little boy named Tyler almost fell out of his seat with the effort. Stella slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from giggling.
“Good. Zip your lips and open the tops of your desks so I can come around and check that they’re clean. As soon as I okay your desk, I’ll tap your shoulder. Then I want you to go quietly clean out your cubby, put your backpack on, and return to your seat. Got it?”
More wild head banging.
“All right. Let’s do this.” I mimed zipping my lips, and all the kids followed suit. Desks were opened, and I started making the rounds. By the time I finished and everyone had returned to their seats, we had four minutes left. Perfect. Pulling a stack of gift cards out of my pocket, I smiled at my classroom. They knew what was coming, so they grinned right back. My chest tightened at the sight. I’d miss these energetic little gap-toothed crazies. Sure, they were a lot to deal with, but they’d been my entire life for the past ten months. My lucrative plans for the next two months would keep me busy and pad my bank account, but nothing I was about to do would be nearly as rewarding as seeing the personal and educational growth of my students.
“I know it’s difficult to focus during the last week of school, but you’ve all done exceptionally well.” I handed the first gift card to Jonathon. A lot of teachers frown at bribery, but around here, the last week of school is basicallyThe Hunger Games, and I was all about survival. If the promise of a five-dollar gift card to a local ice cream parlor kept my classroom from devolving into whatever chaos was happening across the hall, I would sell my soul for those magic little cards. I moved on to the next student and handed over another card. “This is a little thank you. You guys are all amazing, and I’m going to miss each and every one of you.”
“We’ll miss you too, Ms. Davis.”
By the time the bell rang, all the gift cards were handed out, and I was misty-eyed. I didn’t allow myself to get close to too many people, but these pint-sized humans had a way of busting down the doors to my frosty, barely beating heart and demanding whatever flawed version of love I could give. Blinking back tears, I led them outside and steeled myself for the onset of hugs and goodbyes.
After handing everyone over to busses and guardians, I headed back to my classroom and hurriedly packed up the belongings I’d be taking home for the summer.
“You aren’t staying for the party?” Amy asked, leaning against my doorframe. Eyes red, hair wild, face flushed, she looked like she’d gone twelve rounds in a ring full of angry, declawed cats. There were no visible marks, but the damage was unmistakable. I knew that look well. After the end of my first year, I’d stopped on the way home for an energy drink and a bottle of vodka.
“I can’t. I have a meeting.” I scooped up my box and headed toward her. She moved aside to let me pass, and I stopped long enough to adjust my load and give her an awkward hug. Not because I wanted to, but because it seemed like she needed it. “Give me a ring, and we’ll do lunch sometime.” It was a boldfaced lie—everyone knew I was an introvert who never went out with coworkers—but I didn’t want to just leave her in my doorway, looking defeated.
“Have a good summer,” she said. “I’ll see you next year.”
Not if everything went as planned, she wouldn’t. “Thanks, you too!” I shouted over my shoulder as I headed for the door.
