Nicholson Baker - Substitute - Going to School With a Thousand Kids

Eventually I ambled over to the hooded boys. “I got work done!” said Brock.

“I’m so glad,” I said. All three of them had quickly tapped their Minecraft games off their iPad screens.

“He’s always like this, don’t worry,” said Evan.

I pulled up a chair and sat down. “What’s your vision of the future?”

“Death,” said Brock.

Travis and Evan laughed, and I did, too.

“Your life is huge,” I said. I asked what Ms. Nolton was like.

“She’s short,” said Brock.

“She’s nice,” said Georgia, from several desks away. “She doesn’t like Brock because he doesn’t do his work. She yelled at us on Friday. She made Brock do pushups, and then she made Evan do squats.”

“Georgia, that’s my lotion!” said Cheyenne.

“She wants you to rub it on her back,” said Brock.

“No!” said Cheyenne.

“Fifty pushups,” I said sternly to Brock. “No, just do the opposite of whatever you want to do. Hoods are forbidden, as you know.” I raised an eyebrow at the three of them.

“I look terrible with my hair,” said Evan.

I said, “The thing that’s interesting to me is that it’s like you guys want there to be a rule so you can break it. If they had no rule about hoodies, nobody would care. It’s not even that much fun to wear a hoodie.”

“I know, but my hair’s too long,” said Evan. He pulled down his hood. A huge disorderly pompom of hair ploofed out.

“Oh,” I said.

Brock said, “I’m like a ninja at night, when I play Manhunt.”

I asked them whether manhunt was a video game or a physical game.

“It’s a physical game,” Lily explained.

“It’s like hide-and-seek in the dark,” said Brock.

“It’s like hide-and-seek but with guns and clubs,” added Evan.

Brock said, “Once I put on my hood, I’m like a ninja.”

There was a commotion near my desk. Cheyenne, Georgia, Lily, and Mandy were arguing over the bottle of Aveeno hand lotion. “Mandy, I need that!” said Cheyenne.

“I see there are lotion problems,” I said. “Unfortunately whatever lotion problems there are, they must be solved in the next two minutes.” I pointed at the clock.

Backpacks were zipped up; iPads were put away in their cases and swung around like medieval maces. Lily and Mia began working together on their science homework. Travis went around the room gathering all the markers and the sock erasers.

Boop went the PA system. “Good afternoon,” said the secretary. “Can I please have your attention for the end-of-day announcements.” On Tuesday the swim team was victorious over Salter Creek Middle School, she said. She read off the first-place finishers. A pair of slacks were found on the stage in the cafeteria, and there were messages in the office for five students. “That will conclude afternoon announcements. Have a great afternoon.”

Brock explained about chair-stacking. “The homeroom kids do the chairs once they come in,” he said.

“There are kids coming into this class now?” I said.

“Yeah,” said Brock.

“Oh my god.” I’d assumed, because of the end-of-day announcements, that the day was actually over, but it wasn’t. I studied the infernal sub plans one last time. “Students are expected to be working, reading, or socializing quietly,” I read. “Absolutely no running around.” There was a list of kids I should keep an eye on. They began arriving.

“I WILL ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE!” sang a small, scrappy boy named Kyle, swinging his iPad case.

Luke stood in the middle of the room with his arms out. “We’ll spin you around,” said a girl. Luke turned slowly in place.

Chairs began going up on the desks.

Boop. More loud announcements, adding to the mayhem. “Dakota Cooper to the office for dismissal, please. Missy Tremain to the office for dismissal, please.”

“Stop twirling,” I said. “Stop twirling, stop twirling. STOP TWIRLING, otherwise you’re going to fall down.” Luke stood still. He looked woozy.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I’m fine. After a while I have to sit down.”

He sat down.

“Is this normal?” I asked, meaning the level of end-of-day noise.

“Yes,” he said.

“I broke my thumb,” said Sydney, the girl with a wrist brace.

I asked her how.

“Reffing a wrestling match.”

“BWAHAHAHA,” said Kyle.

Boop. First-wave buses were announced. “Bye, first wavers,” said Luke. The room suddenly became calmer.

“Why is it suddenly so quiet?” I asked.

“Because that fleabag of a kid is gone,” said Luke, meaning Kyle.

“There are some people in here who are really annoying,” said Sydney.

“I don’t think boys get that their voices project everywhere,” said Darryl, whose own voice was not soft. “Not you, Timothy, you’re in every single one of my classes, and I never hear you.”

“Ew, gross,” said Georgia. She dropped something soft in the trash can. “It’s a sandwich my dad made. He doesn’t know how to make stuff.”

Thomas said his favorite subject was social studies. He began drawing a tree holding the three branches of government; the elected officials and judges were twigs.

“That’s a tree?” said Georgia.

I sent Max on a mission to collect fallen pencils.

Across the room, near a door, arose a minor unhappiness. Casey, one of the kids I was supposed to keep an eye on, had hit a girl named Brittany in the eye with the edge of his iPad case.

“Does my eye look infected?” said Brittany.

“Your brain looks infected,” said Georgia.

I got Casey’s attention. “Casey, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” said Casey, squirming against the doorjamb.

“Running around and hitting people,” said Darryl.

“Will you stand still, so that I don’t have to do something drastic with you?” I said.

Boop. “Melanie Delapointe to the office for dismissal!”

“Sorry,” said Casey, to Brittany.

“It’s cool,” said Brittany.

Cayden, Georgia, and Darryl started singing “Wrecking Ball.”

Boop. Second wavers left.

“Bye!”

I scrubbed at the two spots of my blood on the carpet until they were gone, and I wrote a short, fatuous note to Ms. Nolton: “The kids were excellent — friendly, funny, and quiet when asked.” I turned out the lights. In the office I signed out and turned in my lanyard and apologized for not taking attendance during the first STAR period.

“That’s okay,” said the secretary.

“They were great kids,” I said.

“So you’ll come back?”

“Absolutely.”

Later that afternoon I had a beer with Larry Reed, a retired social studies teacher from Marshwood High School, the school that my children had attended. Larry offered some helpful tips. When you introduce yourself, he said, write your name on the board, but don’t say, “I’m Mr. Baker, I’m the sub.” Avoid using the word substitute if you can, he said — because as soon as you say you’re the substitute, you show the class that you have identified yourself with that role, and that undermines your authority. Also, get to know some students’ names right away — kids like to be called by their names. “And let them know your expectations for the class,” he said. “Not in a hardass way, but in a concise way, in a conversational way. Say, ‘We have some work to do today, and here are my expectations. I expect you to be in your seats. I expect that when I’m talking, you’re listening.’ And tell them, again in a conversational voice, what the consequences will be of their not meeting your expectations. You can say, ‘It may be that I will write you up for a detention. I may not be giving the detention, but I will be giving your name to the office.’ Just leave it at that.”