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

I nodded, taking notes. “The first test,” Larry said, “is usually ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’ To which you can simply say, ‘If you have to go, you have to go, but I expect you back within five minutes, and you are responsible for any work that you miss in that five minutes.’ That tells them something, too.”

Never make a threat that you can’t follow through on, he said. “I’ve heard teachers say, ‘If you don’t be quiet, I’m going to throw you out the window.’ You can’t follow through on that. You can say, ‘You’re being disruptive, and next time you’re disruptive I’m sending you out of here.’ You want to be friendly, but you don’t want them to be your friends.”

Teach from your strengths, was Larry’s last piece of advice. Tell them things you know. Have something up your sleeve that you can talk about, when the sub plans run dry. Never be in the position of having nothing to teach. “That’s where the nightmares begin,” he said.

Day Four, done.

LASSWELL MIDDLE SCHOOL, EIGHTH GRADE

TOAST

BETH CALLED ON FRIDAY, sounding peeved, and said that a science teacher had suddenly gotten sick; they needed me again at the middle school. I said okay. I probably shouldn’t have, because I’d hardly slept. My joints hurt, and I’d lain awake for hours writhing over a phone call I’d gotten on Thursday morning from Mrs. Fallon, Lasswell Middle School’s assistant principal, about what she referred to as a “blood incident” from the day before. Several students in Ms. Nolton’s class had mentioned that there had been an “issue with blood in the classroom,” Mrs. Fallon said, and a custodian had noticed traces of blood in the sink of the boys’ bathroom. And, she added, “Ms. Nolton said that there was a drop of blood on one of the whiteboards.”

“Oh my god,” I said. A whiteboard? I’d definitely been carrying around one of the personal whiteboards at one point. I must have bled onto it.

Mrs. Fallon had some advice. “I know it was your first day in the building, and by all accounts everything went really well,” she said. “In an event like that, don’t hesitate to go to the next-door teacher.” It would be better, she said, not to use the boys’ bathroom; I should use one of the teachers’ bathrooms instead.

I apologized for bleeding all over the school.

“That’s all right, it happens,” she’d said. “We disinfected everything.”

In any case, they wanted me back. I stumped downstairs to start up Mr. Coffee and frowned at the clock. It said twenty after the hour. Plenty of time to take a shower, I thought. But in my sleep-robbed brain fog, I misread the hour: it wasn’t five-twenty, it was six-twenty. Still believing I was comfortably early, I made some sandwiches and drove north. Things weren’t that bad, I reflected. I’d had a nosebleed. It happens. Get back on the horse.

The phone rang while I sat waiting for a stoplight. It was a secretary from the middle school. “Are you substituting for us today?” she asked. I said I was, I was on my way. “Because school starts at seven-thirty,” she said, “and it’s ten to eight now. We’re just wondering where you are.”

“Oh, no!” I said. “I misread the clock. I’m terribly sorry, I’ll be there in a jiffy.” I swore and gunned the engine up a long hill.

I’d screwed up again. Couldn’t even read the clock. What was I thinking?

The parking lot was nearly full, but there was a slot near one of the far snowheaps. I was huffing and puffing by the time I reached the office. “It’s unforgivable, really,” I said to the secretary.

“Trust me,” she said, “it’s not the first time it’s happened.” She pointed me in the direction of Mr. Lyall’s science class over in Team Ganges. It was a long yellow cinderblock room with lab tables that were filled with eighth-graders who had gotten to school on time, as I had not. However, as it happened, my presence was not yet needed: homeroom that day was devoted to something called “Advisor/Advisee,” or AA, led by some sort of kindliness specialist, a Mrs. Dunne, who wanted everyone to study a handout from the Southern Poverty Law Center. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” Mrs. Dunne said, over a steady hum of conversation. “LET’S TAKE A LOOK AND SEE WHERE WE’RE SIMILAR AND WHERE WE’RE DIFFERENT.” The handout was meant to teach tolerance — it was about “friendship groups” versus cliques. Friendship groups were okay, but cliques were bad, because they often “exerted control over their members.” Together she and the class went through a set of multiple-choice questions: I ______ sit with the same people at lunch every day. (A) always, (B) sometimes, (C) never. Most students answered “always.” When someone I’ve never talked to before speaks to me, I feel ______ . (A) annoyed, (B) afraid, (C) excited. Many said “annoyed.” One said “afraid.” I ______ meeting new people! (A) hate, (B) don’t care about, (C) love. Some said “hate”; one girl said “sometimes.” According to the answer key at the bottom of the page, if you answered mostly A’s you should “ask yourself if you’re in a clique.” Everyone was talking at once. “SHHH,” said Mrs. Dunne. “If I said hi, and I’ve never talked to you before, that’s going to annoy you?”

“If I’m in a bad mood,” said a girl, “yes.”

“I’m fine about everyone,” said a boy.

Further murmurs of dissent. Mrs. Dunne said, “I’m going to agree with you: the selections here kind of stumped me. I think we need a (D) answer—‘I’m fine about meeting new people.’” After a while, she gave up on the tolerance lesson — the class just was not into it. She left.

It was my homeroom now. This was the moment to introduce myself and take command, but I had a strange attack of sleep-deprived shyness and didn’t. I turned toward several kids sitting nearby. “So now normally what happens?”

“We have, like, free time,” said Olivia, a short, bouncy girl.

A boy, Sean, asked me how long I’d been a teacher.

Not very long, I said — I’d taught some college writing here and there.

“Yeah, you look like a writer,” said Sean.

“You kind of look like the guy on the back of The Giving Tree ,” said Prentice. He had small, puffy, amused, wicked eyes.

“Well, I’ve got a white beard.”

“Can I call you Santa Claus?” said Olivia.

“Please don’t,” I said. “You can think of me that way.”

“Do you give out presents?” Prentice said.

“No.”

“You don’t bring Jolly Ranchers in? You should, next time you sub at this school.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said. I stood up and cleared my throat. “So — guys. I just want to say I’m sorry I’m late to your class. Mr. Baker is my name, and — um — I’m the sub.” Bad, dumb, wrong. I flapped the tolerance handout. “I’m interested in this survey,” I said, “because I have found, when I go into a Maine school, that the kids are nice. When somebody comes into your group, it’s kind of a tricky thing. It’s a delicate balance. You’ve got some friends and some people who are maybe a little bit new to the group, and they’re not totally accepted but they’re somewhat accepted. Everybody’s trying to figure out their position. It doesn’t seem to me that this is a terribly cliquish place. Do you think it is?”

“Yes,” said Olivia.

“You can’t say hi to everyone,” said Sean. “Hi, Olivia!”

“Hi, Sean,” said Olivia. “See, now we’re in a clique!”

“Anyway,” I said, “I don’t know what they want you to do with these survey questions. I guess they want you to think about them and sort of become better people?” I stood for a moment. The class, having satisfied their curiosity about me, which was minimal, resumed their much more interesting conversations. They were a clique, and I was not a member. Why fight it? “And now you have a free moment to, ah, live your life,” I said.