A man stood at the front of Room 208.
He looked like a cross between the barista at Perky’s, the coffee shop my mom always complains about because it’s so expensive (even though she stops there every morning), and the bassist from Elephant Sponges, this band I saw on YouTube. The man had long, dark hair, piercings up and down both ears, and braided leather bracelets.
I checked Red. His shoulder brushed against mine, and he’d turtled his neck like he was hiding. He tapped his thigh—pinky-thumb-pinky-thumb-pinky-thumb-pinky-thumb—real fast.
When Red’s nervous, he pinky-thumbs his leg.
“You okay?” I said softly.
“Where’s Ms. Hamburger?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Ms. Hamburger still our teacher? Where’s Ms. Hamburger?”
“We’ll find out.”
The man motioned for us to come in.
The desks were arranged in tables, four seats at each, and since Red and I were first to arrive, we had dibs. I tapped him on the arm and led us to the front table on the far side. We sat down with our backs to the window.
Red likes to face the door.
“Who is that?” He hunched forward.
“Not sure.”
“Where’s Ms. Hamburger?” His knees bounced against the underside of his desk.
I placed my hand on his leg.
I can touch Red. So can a few grown-ups. But Red doesn’t really like it when people touch him.
The other kids began to arrive:
Melissa dropped her volleyball and checked the number on the door three times before walking in. Bryan backpedaled to the table in front of the cubbies. Diego swung the tie strings on his knit hat, raised his grab-and-go breakfast bag, and then headed for a seat in the middle of the room.
Melissa, Bryan, Diego—I know all the kids. All the fifth graders know one another. How could we not? We’ve been together our entire time at RJE.
But we’re the last one-class grade. All the lower grades have three or four classes, which is why the portables now take up half of the schoolyard.
The man at the front of the room didn’t say a word until Avery rolled in.
“Do you have enough room?” he said. He took a step toward her wheelchair and then backed away.
She curled her lip. “Who are you?”
“Where do you prefer to sit?”
“Prefer? Are you the teacher or something?”
“I’ll explain once everyone’s here.”
“Whatever, dude.” She wheeled next to Melissa, pulled out the chair, and parked.
* * *
“I think that’s about everyone,” the man said. He glanced at the clock by the door and then reached for the iPad in the pen tray of the board. “Day one and all twenty-six of you are ready to go before the bell. Outstanding.”
He tucked his hair behind his ears and looked at each table.
“I’m Mr. Acevedo,” he said, tapping his chest. “I’m going to be your homeroom and Language Arts—ELA—teacher this year. Starting today, we’ll be spending the first one hundred twenty minutes of every school day together. Well, except for today. We have early dismissal today. So we only get sixty minutes today.”
Suddenly, Mr. Acevedo leaped into the air and kicked together the heels of his high-tops. But on the way down, his toe caught the back of Olivia’s chair, and he stumbled into the shelf of red binders next to the board.
“OMG!” Olivia shouted.
“Sick!” Danny said.
Red grabbed my shoulder and ducked behind me.
Some kids laughed.
Mr. Acevedo steadied the shelf and then rushed over to Olivia. “Are you okay? Did I kick you?”
She shook her head.
“Phew.” Mr. Acevedo cringed. “Awkward.”
“I’ll say,” Trinity said.
More kids laughed.
Slowly, Red sat back up, but his knees still knocked against his desk.
“Thank you.” Mr. Acevedo waved his iPad like a performer waving to the audience. “Thank you very much.” With his other hand, he brushed some hair off his face. “This is my very first day as a teacher, so I wanted to do something memorable. But now I’m thinking I probably should’ve practiced that jump once or twice before giving it a whirl in front of everyone.”
“I’ll say,” Trinity said again.
More kids laughed.
“Well, look at it this way.” Mr. Acevedo shrugged. “I guarantee you’ll never forget your first moments of fifth grade—when your new teacher nearly face-planted in front of the class.”
He swiped his screen, took a moment to read, and then placed the iPad back in the tray.
“Before we get started here,” he said, “let’s get some of the basics out of the way. First, I’m not a big fan of homework. You won’t be getting much from me.”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Jordan said, shaking his thumb and index finger at Bryan across his table. “I like this guy already.”
A few kids clapped.
“Second,” Mr. Acevedo said, holding up two fingers, “I’m not a big fan of worksheets. In fact, I hate worksheets. Now I know we’re not supposed to use the H-word here at RJE, but when it comes to worksheets, I make an exception. There will be no worksheets in this classroom.”
He picked up a poster tube from the floor by the board, slide-stepped to the door, and peeked into the hall. Then he charged across the room and leaped onto his desk, which was next to our table.
“I hereby declare our classroom an NWZ!” He raised the tube and posed like Thor. “This room is a No Worksheet Zone.” He pried off the end, shook out the bright orange poster, and unrolled it.
“I’ll hang this later,” he said. He hopped down. “What else?” He placed the poster and tube on his desk and headed back to the front of the room. “Oh, you see these jeans?” He brushed his legs. “I’ll be wearing them pretty much every day. So if you want to make fun of that, go right ahead. But rest assured, I do change my shirt, socks, and underwear daily. I also shower and brush my teeth regularly. I expect that you will do the same. Our classroom will not be pungent, and if you don’t know what pungent means, look it up.”
I’m pretty sure I knew what pungent meant. Mom calls my sneakers pungent when I wear them without socks over the summer and they stink up my whole room.
I checked Red. His feet were flat on the floor, his eyes fixed on Mr. Acevedo.
“Phew, I’m gassed.” Mr. Acevedo headed for his desk again. “I say we take a break. I’m a big fan of breaks. We learn more effectively when we take breaks. So for the next fifteen minutes, feel free to do what you like—read, write, draw, talk to your classmates, find your cubbies, put your belongings away. Just remember, you’re in fifth grade now. You know how to behave in a classroom. I don’t have to go over that.”
I was glad he wasn’t going to lecture us. I got enough of that at home.
Mr. Acevedo opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a book. “For the next fifteen minutes, I’m reading.” He reached back into the drawer and pulled out another sign. This one he hung around his neck:
