“TIMES UP!” I yell in Cafeteria Voice, “Move to your next station,” I say, too excited. I’m on a high, taking a risk, that students would pick up on the pattern and move in the correct direction.
It’s a gamble that doesn’t pay off.
“We have to gothis way,” says one little girl with red hair and a galaxy of freckles on her face and body.
“No, it’s this one,” says another little boy, the fantasy-novel-loving-future-Senator, on the other side of the room.
“STOP PUSHING ME,” yells someone else.
Little arguments ignite around the classroom, and I freeze, fully aware of the very real potential for this to build into a blazing inferno.
Lina winces and gives me a pointed look. One that could mean,do you want me to step in? Orthis is your demo lesson, girl—handle it.
In the corner of my eye, I see Max shove, not push, two-handedshove, the little red-haired girl to the ground.Too late, I think, dismayed. She bursts into tears, and the classroom explodes.
The adults in the room all immediately move into Damage Control, an effort that is instinctual to all of us, like Cafeteria Voice, like riding a bike. Mia moves to separate Max and the girl. Lina quickly identifies the screamers and murmurs quietly to them, demonstrating deep breaths. Chaya hugs someone who was pushed, and Tamika takes the calm ones and depositing them into the seats of their correct station, separating students in a twisted version of triage.
I am yelling, in Cafeteria Voice, “302. ALL SOUNDS SHOULD BE OFF. PLEASE HAVE A SEAT. ALL SOUNDS?—”
Someone takes this moment to open the classroom door behind me, and all heads turn. In that instant, the classroom breathes a collective sigh of relief. Students smile. Max calmly takes a seat. The red-head, along with most of the class, is waving towards the door. Everyone is calm, except for me, because I want to slam my head against the wall.
“Good morning, Principal Flores,” they chant.
“Good morning, 302,” he says, in that voice like gravel, sounding even deeper and more delicious than I remembered from thirty minutes ago. “What’s going on in here?” he asks the class, warm but firm, turning to me. His frown grows even deeper. “I heard a lot of commotion in the hall.”
He walks around the classroom, looking at the work on student desks, picking things up, reading notes and student scribbles intently.
Lina begins to speak up, but I beat her to the punch. “Good morning Mr. Flores, nice to see you again. Want to join in the fun?” I tell him, smiling widely, eager to please and make him forget every single event from this morning.
He raises one perfect eyebrow. “Sounds like it got out of hand.”
I refused to be deterred. “We just got a little overexcited, right, 302? But we were having fun, weren’t?—”
“THE LADY DOESN’T KNOW RIGHT AND LEFT,” contributes Max from somewhere next to me.
Little fucking shit.
I open my mouth, but Mr. Flores cuts in. “Ms. Baker, I heard screaming and shouting from all the way down the hall. When I looked in the window, I saw several students being physical with one another.”
Mildly annoyed, I push back, determined to finish my lesson. “That was just a slight hiccup. We were getting back on track. I think?—”
“This is not a conversation I want to have right now, or here,” he gestures broadly, and I notice the heads of all thirty students, the four third-grade teachers, and Lina all bouncing back and forth between me and Mr. Flores, like spectators of a particularly rousing game of ping-pong.
I take a deep breath. “Fine. If you’d let us continue, I’d love for you to join?—”
“Ms. Baker, I apologize for not being clear. Please gatheryour materials and your belongings and meet me out in the hallway.” I stare, openmouthed. He continues. “Ms. Sanchez, please meet us there.”
He looks at his watch. “Teachers, it’s about time for you to pick up your classes from the gym. You may leave as well.”
The third grade teachers file out of the classroom, all giving me somber smiles as they pass.
“Ms. Roberts,” he says to Mia, “please retrieve the substitute and tell her to return.”
“Don’t worry, girl,” Tamika whispers to me as she passes by. “We got you. We’ll explain to him later.”
I stand there, stunned, ears ringing. I feel a flush rising up my neck.
“Ms. Baker, are you planning on leaving your materials, or do you need help collecting them?” asks Mr. Flores, the weight of his stare heavy, tone clipped. Translation:get the fuck out, and now.
