“WE’VE GOT A NEW sub!”
The short kid with the tall voice bounded into the classroom with the exuberance of a kindergartener rather than the more guarded, image-conscious demeanor of a thirteen-year-old. His backpack hit his desk with an attitude. “Our last sub quit.”
It was hard to tell if he was talking to me or just thinking out loud, because he hardly even glanced my way, too busy twitching and wiggling like a terrier pup.
“What’s your name?” the kid called out, not bothering to check the whiteboard, which displayed my name in large block letters: MS. VEIL.
I pointed to it now, determined to keep an eye on the rest of the students filtering into the room—my chance to observe them before their guards went up. Nothing soft or preppy about these kids. Instead of the blues and pinks their parents had dressed them in not all that long ago, the predominant colors were now black and brown, the texture torn and frayed, accessorized by hoops and chains hanging from the most unlikely places. But their appearance, I knew, was deceiving. West Coast Middle School drew students from the millionaires’ enclave of Atherton and the district of Sharon Heights, which included mansions set around Sharon Heights Golf and Country Club. The spending per pupil here nearly doubled the national average. Their outfits flashed cash, not bargain basement.
“Can I call you Ms. V?” the kid asked.
Before I could answer his question, there came another. “What’s your name?” This from a girl with three inches of belly exposed between low-slung black jeans and a cropped T-shirt.
I shivered. It was January 7, and even in the paradise setting of Menlo Park, the cold still chilled my bones. How had she gotten out of the house dressed like that? Her attire—highlighted by a grinning skull medallion, black fingernails, and spiked black and red hair—was surely against school rules.
I placed a transparency of the seating chart on the overhead projector and started marking plus signs next to the names of students who were seated and quiet.
“Hey, what’re the marks for?” It was the pup again. I located him on the seating chart. Time to give him a name and some of my attention.
“I’ll tell you in a bit, Brad.”
His head jerked and his eyes grew wide. “How’d you know my name?”
I pointed to my temple. “Psychic.”
“She’s looking at the seating chart, stupid.” This from one of the quiet boys I had just awarded a plus. But the plus held. Wyatt, too, was helping me, though he didn’t know it.
As I continued to dole out pluses, more students noticed and caught on, plopping into their seats and pulling out binders and pens.
“What’re the marks for?” someone called from the back.
“You’ll see,” I said.
The tardy bell rang, which had another five kids scrambling to their seats. Those who remained standing, or were still talking, earned a minus next to their names.
“Why’d Jason get a minus?” Brad wanted to know.
“Yeah,” Jason said, looking at the overhead chart and, belatedly, lowering himself onto his chair. “What’s the minus for?”
I held up my hand and put my index finger to my lips. No point in explaining. Not with that loud voice blaring over the intercom. “We’ve designated this week School Violence Awareness Week. Activities include opportunities for student discussion about conflict resolution, issues of student diversity, and tolerance…”
Loudness be darned, no one seemed to be listening to the school bulletin, but since this was my first day, I let the transgression pass. My aim was to continue doling out pluses and minuses next to each student’s name, for their reference and mine.
It was also a handy way to take roll.
“Good morning,” I said when the bulletin finally ended. “Time for me to introduce myself and explain what the marks are for.” I had just about everyone’s attention now. Use it wisely, I told myself, or you’ll lose them. “My name is Ms. Veil, and yes, as Brad asked, you may call me Ms. V, teacher, or whatever makes you comfortable, as long as you do so with respect.” Their eyes were still on me, but I sensed an ebbing of interest, as if the room itself had a mood, one I could plug into, draw from, or destroy. “You wanted to know why I was marking the seating chart, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Right.”
“Well, when I was in school, I hated it when we had a sub.”
Mumbles and nods of agreement.
“No matter what, he or she always left a bad report, telling our teacher what a terrible class we’d been, when usually just a few students had caused all the trouble. The subs never, ever told the teacher about the students who’d been good, which was just about all of us. So” —I pointed at Wyatt’s name on the seating chart— “with this method, when your teacher comes back, she’ll notice that Wyatt has a plus next to his name, which means he was on task. Codi, on the other hand, has a minus next to hers. Not good.”
“That’s not fair, I didn’t know.” Codi’s ignorance-of-the-law defense spun in the air like a storm cell.
“You knew you were supposed to be in your seat and quiet when the tardy bell rang. Like everyone else who now has a minus next to their name. But don’t worry. You’ll get a chance to make it up before the period is over. This way, you’ll be judged as an individual, not as a class. Your teacher will know exactly who’s been on task and who hasn’t.”
“How?” several kids asked at once.
“I’ll keep giving out pluses for good behavior and adding or subtracting minuses until class is over.”
“How come I don’t have any marks at all?” Brad asked in a high-pitched whine.
“Because you’ve done nothing particularly good or bad. You’ve asked a lot of questions, and that’s okay, as long as you raise your hand from now on and try not to interrupt while I’m talking.”
His hand flew up and pumped up and down like a train conductor pulling a whistle chord.
“Yes, Brad.”
“You look pretty good for a teacher.”
After the class stopped laughing and I reined in my desire to coo and fuss over him and rub behind his puppy-dog ears, I said, “Thanks.”
“Do I get a plus for that?”
“In my heart, you do.”
“That sucks,” he said under his breath, then added loud enough for the entire class to hear, “We’re the remedial class.”
Wyatt stiffened. “Shut up, Brad.”
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, you’re all excellent students, and I plan to treat you as such.” So far, this had been easy; too easy. Something was up. My clairsentient gut was telling me so. And in the past ten months, I’d learned to trust my gut.
A brilliant white light flashed in front of my eyes. And it wasn’t coming from the overhead. All sense of the world dissolved, including my body. A presence—familiar, beautiful—surrounded me. Your light has come.
Before I could process who or what was communicating with me, another presence forced its way into my head. Watch out, Ms. Veil. The party’s about to begin.
The second voice had come from a female in the room.
Who was she, and what did she know that I didn’t?