32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny Page 4

  At three thirty the kids left and I began to clean the room. I put up the artwork, straightened my piles, scraped glue off the desks, threw everything that was on my desk into my desk, changed the newspaper in the rabbit cage, borrowed a couple of sunflowers from the vase in the office, dusted the globes, hid my correcting basket, put the sunflowers in a coffee can, and pulled out a bunch of books on space so parents would think I’m teaching it.

  At seven o’clock I opened the door. A man walked in, shook my hand, and said hello. He did not say his child’s name. I did not want to ask, “Who are you?” So I took a guess.

  “You must be Rodney’s dad,” I said hesitantly.

  “Yes.” He smiled.

  Why do all parents assume that I will know exactly who they are at Back to School Night when I have never seen them before? I just love playing Guess the Parent.

  Next a mom came up to me and shook my hand.

  “Chip is just loving this class,” she said.

  I smiled really big.

  Who is Chip? I thought.

  “He talks about school every day,” she said.

  I continued to smile and shake her hand.

  Who the hell is Chip?

  “How’s he doing in class?” she asked.

  “Uh,” I said, “well … he’s …”

  Maybe she’s in the wrong room, I thought.

  Then it hit me.

  “Oh, Charles!” I screamed. “Yes, yes. Of course. Charles! You’re Charles’s mom! Charles is doing great. I mean Chip. Chip is doing great. Just great.”

  I gave a big sigh. Guess the Child is fun to play too.

  Soon the rest of the parents streamed in. They walked around the room admiring the bulletin boards and the space books. Finally I asked everyone to please take their seats and began my presentation.

  “Good evening,” I said. “I’d like to welcome you all to Back to School Night. My name is Mr. Done. I’m so happy you all came tonight.”

  I glanced down at my watch. Fifty-nine minutes and forty seconds to go. I looked up.

  “Uh … would anyone like a cookie?”

  Tired

  I am so glad I am not a first-year teacher anymore. The first year is definitely the hardest. My first year I would teach all day, stay at work till seven, go home, eat, and return to school till ten or eleven o’clock at night just to be ready for the following day. I was exhausted. Then the next day I’d do it all over again. My only friend was Al, the night custodian. He sang Russian folk songs while I laminated.

  One day I decided I needed a break. Plus the laminator was broken. So I left school early. On my way home, I stopped by some new model homes. I love visiting model homes. The tables are not covered with stickers. The toilet seats are clean. The garbage cans are empty. But the best part is that the kids who live there are just make believe.

  I walked inside the first model and was greeted by a very nice real estate agent named Mary. She did not give me her business card. Somehow she realized that I could not afford the pillow on the couch. Maybe it was the paint on my shoes that gave me away. Or maybe it was the glitter glue I was wearing on my slacks.

  I walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I don’t know why I did this. Force of habit, I guess. The fridge was empty, so I went upstairs. I walked straight into the bathroom. There was no door. So I didn’t use it. Now I know why they keep the doors off.

  Then I walked into the master bedroom. There in the center of the room was a queen-size bed with about seventeen pillows and some sort of canopy over it. Nobody else was upstairs. So I sat down on the bed. It was very comfortable.

  “Hellooooo!” said a voice.

  I opened my eyes. Mary stood over me smiling.

  “Time to wake up, sunshine,” she sang.

  I popped up. The pillow was covered with drool.

  “Uh …” I laughed. “Looks like I fell asleep.”

  “You sure did, sweetie.”

  I turned over the pillow, ran down the stairs, and out the front door. Now when I visit model homes, I stay downstairs.

  The Potluck

  In the beginning of each school year, we have grade level potlucks. It’s a chance for the parents to mingle with their child’s teacher. For most teachers, the potluck is right up there with staff meetings and cafeteria duty and writing report cards. This year Dawn and I went together.

  The one good thing about the potluck, however, is the food. All the moms try to outdo each other. And there are always tons of leftovers. So I bring Tupperware. Dawn hates when I do this.

  After putting on our name tags, Dawn and I sat at one of the tables with a group of Japanese moms. They stared at my pile of sushi and giggled as I sat down.

  “I love sushi.” I smiled.

  They giggled some more.

  Though most of the moms could not speak English very well, Dawn and I tried our best to communicate with them. We talked about the sushi and school and Japan. Dawn asked the moms if they missed Japan. They said yes.

  About halfway through dinner, Dawn smiled at the mom sitting directly across from her, pointed to herself, and said, “I miss Canada.” (Dawn is Canadian.)

  The mom’s eyes grew very big. She said something to the other moms in Japanese. Soon all the moms were smiling and clapping and speaking very fast. One of them patted Dawn on the head.

  “Congratulations,” she said.

  Neither Dawn nor I understood what the fuss what about. Then the mom who was patting Dawn pretended to place a crown on Dawn’s head.

  “You Miss Canada,” she said. “You Miss Canada.”

  Dawn gasped. “No, no, no! I am not Miss Canada!”

  The moms looked confused.

  “I miss Canada. Not Miss Canada,” Dawn tried to explain. “You miss Japan. I miss Canada. I am not Miss Canada.”

  One of the moms finally got it and explained it to the others. Then everyone laughed. For the next ten minutes, one mom would point to Dawn and say, “You no Miss Canada. You miss Canada,” and laugh until another one would take over and do the same. Dawn tried her best to not look embarrassed, but I knew she was.

  After a couple more plates of sushi, we said good-bye to our new Japanese friends and walked out to the parking lot. I walked with Dawn to her car. After she unlocked the door, I grabbed the handle and opened the door for her.

  “What are you doing that for?” she asked.

  “’Cause you’re Miss Canada.” I smiled.

  “Shut up.”

  Picture Day

  I like Picture Day. It is the one day of the year when T-shirts are traded for button-downs, sweatpants are replaced with pants without holes, and the room is full of new haircuts and hairbows.

  This year, as the kids took their seats, I scanned the room. Peter had a new crew cut. Amanda’s hair was freshly curled. Stephen’s hair was spiked. Carlos’s hair wouldn’t move because it had so much gel in it. Ronny wore a white polo shirt that I’m sure his mother fought to get on him. Justin wore new jeans. Melissa wore a T-shirt with a large sequined skull and crossbones. (Did her mother know it was Picture Day?) Erika wore a new pink headband. And Nicole had a new hairdo.

  “Nicole, how many clips do you have in your hair?” I asked.

  “Twenty!” she said proudly.

  She looked like a power plant.

  Then I looked at Andrew.

  “Andrew!” I screamed. “What happened to your hair?”

  “I cut it.”

  “I can see that,” I said. “But why?”

  “For Picture Day.”

  “What did you use?”

  “My scissors.”

  “Your kid scissors?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What did your mom say?”

  “She got mad.”

  “Stephen, do you have any more of that gel?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he replied.

  “May I use some, please? I have to try to fix Andrew’s hair.”

  “It won’t work,” said An
drew.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “My mom already tried.”

  Two recesses, one lunch, one PE class, and five games of capture the flag later, it was time for my class to line up for our photos.

  Ronny’s white shirt had had spaghetti for lunch. Justin’s jeans had played three games of soccer (it rained last night). Carlos’s hair was smooshed. Amanda had lost her curls, Stephen had lost his spike, and Nicole had lost thirteen hair clips.

  The photographer asked me to place the kids in four rows, tallest in the back, shortest in the front.

  “Melissa, do you have a sweater, honey?” I asked.

  “No,” she answered.

  “Then why don’t you stand in the second row right behind Isabel.”

  “But I’m the shortest.”

  “You grew at lunch,” I said. “Go stand behind Isabel.”

  I looked at Ronny.

  “Ronny, you can’t stand in the front row either. It looks like you were shot. Go stand in the back.”

  Kenny was trying to wipe the grass stains off his jeans.

  “Kenny, you look like a Tide commercial. Go stand next to Ronny.”

  Then I took my place in the back row.

  “Ready?” the photographer asked.

  I sighed. “Yes,” I said.

  “OK, here we go, everyone,” the photographer said.

  “Justin, put your hands down,” I said through my teeth.

  “Now, on the count of three, everyone say cheese,” said the photographer.

  “Aaron, take your hands off Carlos’s hair!” I screamed.

  “One,” the photographer began to count.

  “Peter, turn around!” I yelled.

  “Two,” he continued.

  “Justin, did you take out your tooth guard?”

  “Three!” he shouted.

  “Cheese!” We all smiled.

  The class photos arrived five weeks later. Peter was a blur. Emily’s eyes were closed. Anthony was looking at Carlos. Carlos was making bunny ears over Stephen. I looked like I was saying a bad word. And Justin looked like he had a hockey puck in his mouth.

  Out of the whole class, only one of us looked halfway decent—Andrew.

  How Many Hats Do I Wear?

  I am a doctor. I put my hand on foreheads that are too hot to do math today.

  I am a dentist. I examine braces that are too tight to do math today too.

  I am a taxi service. I make sure all seatbelts are buckled on the way to the pumpkin patch, the firehouse, the zoo, the airport, the hospital, and the farm to see the new baby pigs.

  I am an actor. Learning your times tables can be fun.

  I am a mom. I clean up throw-up.

  I am a detective. I know whose paper it is when there is no name on it.

  I am a decorator. I wallpaper in yellow butcher paper. I accent with green beanbag.

  I am a repairman. I know how to put cardboard under a desk leg so it won’t wobble. I can remove the thirteen staples that have just turned into one after being pounded in the stapler. I mend bruised feelings and bicycle chains and broken shoelaces.

  I am a librarian. I know exactly where the book with the great white shark on the cover is in the library.

  I am a coatrack. I hold sweaters so you can slide, lunch money so you can slide, and glasses so you can slide some more.

  I am an electrician. I can make circuits that are parallel and circuits in series if I study the drawing in the teacher’s manual at recess right before the kids come in.

  I am an athlete. I can run to the bathroom and back in two minutes.

  I am a mailman. I send home important newsletters about school photos so that your mom can call me and ask why she never heard about Picture Day.

  I am a musician. I can play both parts to “Heart and Soul.”

  I am a mathematician. I know that 32 kids − Brian = easier day.

  I am a businessman. I loan money for lunch at a reasonable interest rate.

  Class Pet

  We have a class bunny. Her full name is Penelope Precious Buttercup III. I did not name her. The kids voted.

  The other day I was filling up Penelope’s water bottle—because the rabbit monitors, who begged me to get a bunny and promised to take care of her, did not see that the water bottle was empty.

  Anyway, I was attaching the water bottle to Penel’s cage, when I noticed that she wasn’t eating her food. I opened her cage, picked her up, and began to search for why a perfectly healthy-looking bunny wasn’t eating. I poked and prodded, then opened her mouth.

  “Aah!” I screamed. Her teeth were about an inch long and curved. She couldn’t even close her mouth. After school, I drove Penel to the vet.

  “What seems to be the problem?” the vet asked.

  “Something is wrong with my bunny,” I said. “She won’t eat. I think something’s wrong with her teeth.”

  “Let’s have a look,” he said.

  He opened Penel’s mouth and examined her teeth.

  “Her teeth are maloccluded,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “They’re what?” I asked.

  “Maloccluded,” he repeated.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “She has buckteeth,” he answered.

  “So, what do I do—take her to the orthodontist and get bunny braces?”

  “No, you cut them.”

  “Cut them?” I screamed.

  “Yes. It’s no problem,” he replied.

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “You just get some wire cutters and cut them to the right length.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No. I’m serious.”

  “So, you’re telling me that all I have to do is get some wire cutters and open her mouth and go snip snip, and that’s it?” I asked.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  Scenes from Fatal Attraction popped into my head.

  “I can’t do that,” I said. “Can you do it, please?”

  He did. And fifteen minutes later, Penel could eat again.

  Oh, I’m so glad I bought a class pet. I’m so glad I listened to all my friends and got a cute little bunny rabbit.

  “Bunnies are so easy,” they all told me. “No work at all. Nothin’ to it. The kids will love it.”

  Ha! No trouble at all. Nothing to it. Yeah, right!

  Excuse me, everyone! You all forgot to mention that I will have to take the cute little bunny to the vet once a month and have her teeth sawed off. You also neglected to tell me that it will cost seventy-five dollars a pop so Penel can chew her carrots!

  So much for an easy class pet! Guess what? Now the class wants a snake! I said no way. I’d probably have to cut its teeth once a month too.

  Officer Joe’s Visit

  The last week in September is always a special week at our school. It is Bicycle Safety Week. And every year during Bicycle Safety Week, Officer Joe comes for a visit.

  Officer Joe’s visit is always the same. He parks his car on the blacktop. Then all the first, second, and third graders walk outside in single file lines and sit down in rows on the cement. Then Officer Joe talks about how to ride a bicycle, turns on the siren, and one lucky child gets to wear Officer Joe’s hat and ride in the police car around the blacktop.

  But this year there was a surprise. After Officer Joe parked his car and talked about how to ride a bicycle and turned on the siren, he opened his back car door, and out jumped Max. Max is a German shepherd. Max helps Officer Joe.

  Then Officer Joe wrapped a thick towel around his arm. After he finished taping the towel, he started to run away from Max. When Officer Joe was about thirty feet away from Max, Officer Joe blew his whistle.

  Immediately Max ran toward Officer Joe. Officer Joe put down his arm. Max jumped, grabbed the towel, and stopped Officer Joe. Officer Joe could not run anymore. The kids stood and cheered, and all the teachers screamed, “Sit down!”

  Then Officer Joe announced, “I need a v
olunteer.”

  Immediately all the kids raised their hands and screamed, “Me! Me! Me!” and all the teachers screamed, “Sit down!” again.

  But Officer Joe said, “I need a teacher volunteer.”

  Matthew began chanting, “Mr. Done! Mr. Done!”

  I glared at him. “Matthew!” I yelled. “Be quiet!”

  He continued.

  Soon the rest of the class joined him. “Mr. Done! Mr. Done!” they chanted loudly.

  Officer Joe smiled, walked over to me, grabbed my arm, and escorted me out to the field. Everyone started laughing. Matthew pointed at me. I looked out at the audience and smiled nervously. Then Officer Joe began to wrap the thick towel around my arm.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Just run away like I did,” he said. “Put your arm down behind you. Max will grab your arm.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “It won’t hurt at all,” continued Officer Joe. “Max is trained to hold you, not to bite. Just put your arm down. He’ll grab the pad. It’s perfectly safe.”

  I looked down at Max.

  “Nice doggie.” I smiled.

  Max panted.

  “Are you ready?” asked Officer Joe.

  “No,” I said.

  “Don’t worry,” said Officer Joe. “Just run when I say to. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I answered nervously.

  He continued, “And when you hear the whistle, put your arm down behind you. OK?”

  I nodded. “OK,” I said.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I took a deep breath. “Ready.”

  Then Officer Joe yelled, “Run!”

  I started running. The kids started screaming. After about three seconds, I turned around. Officer Joe was still holding Max. This wasn’t too bad, I thought.

  Then Officer Joe blew his whistle.

  I ran faster.

  All of a sudden, I felt a tug on my pant leg.

  Wham! I was flat on the grass. (Apparently Max does not know the difference between a leg and an arm.)

  “Let go!” I screamed. “Max, let go!”