Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind (2 page)

I don’t know a single grade school teacher who can make it through the summer without checking out at least one Back to School
sale. We can’t resist. But teachers must exercise caution whenever entering any Back to School department. There is one very
important rule that we must follow:
Do not let on that you are a teacher.
I made this mistake recently in Office Depot.

When I arrived, the parking lot was full. Signs on the doors posted extended hours. Lines at the registers stretched clear
to the center of the store. The Back to School section was packed with dazed moms and dads with supply lists in hand hunting
through shelves, rifling through boxes, and fighting over the last Hannah Montana pencil case. It looked like Toys R Us at
Christmastime. A manager stood in the aisle directing traffic. His forehead was sweaty. “You should have a fast-track lane
like they do at Disneyland,” I joked. He wasn’t amused.

One woman was standing in front of the shelves talking to herself. “What in the heck is a D-ring binder?” Another was trying
to convince her daughter that her pocket folders did not have to match her notebooks. A third was holding up three backpacks
while her darling sat in the shopping cart.

“Do you want Tinker Bell, Scooby-Doo, or Little Mermaid?” the mom asked.

The child slapped the handle on the cart. “I want Barbie.”

As I made my way through the aisle, I spotted a mom staring blankly at the pens. Poor gal. She looked like she was about to
cry.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you need some help?”

She turned to me. “I don’t know what kind of markers I’m supposed to get. The teacher just wrote
one pack of colored washable markers.
” The woman pointed to the racks. “There are
twenty
different kinds of markers here. Do I get Bold, Classic, or Techno Brite?” She threw up her hands. “Do I get an eight-pack,
ten-pack, or twelve-pack?”

“Well,” I replied, pulling one of the boxes off the shelf, “I always ask my students to bring in Crayola Classics. Eight-count.”

The woman’s eyes grew big. “Are you a
teacher
?”

“Uh-huh.”

She gasped and seized my arm. News spread like head lice that there was a
real live teacher
in the store. Within seconds I was surrounded by moms asking me questions:

“Is this the right paper for a first grader?”

“Does a kindergartner need a binder?”

“How many glue sticks should I buy?”

“What the heck is a protractor?”

I doled out advice on calculators and scissors, lunch bags and hand sanitizer, composition books and facial tissue. The mommies
thanked me as they checked the items off their lists. Finally, after about half an hour, I said good-bye to my new friends,
made my purchases, and left the store.

Every year, it seems like stores put their Back to School supplies out earlier and earlier. It’s bad enough that I have to
sift through Christmas wrap to get to the Halloween candy and that shelves are full of valentines before New Year’s, but setting
up Back to School displays in June is just plain wrong! Teachers haven’t even had a chance to write thank-you cards for their
end-of-the-year gifts. The class pets that we just took home to care for over vacation are still wondering why it’s so quiet.

Other professions aren’t taunted when
they
go shopping. Doctors don’t walk into Walgreens and find displays full of tongue depressors at half off. Dentists don’t have
to listen to blue-light special announcements for toothbrushes and dental floss.

At the end of June, I was pushing my cart down an aisle in Wal-Mart looking for some flip-flops and sunscreen when I stopped
dead in my tracks. “No!” I cried out loud. “It can’t be. Not already!” There in the center of the aisle sat enormous bins
full of Elmer’s glue and Bic pens and Scotch tape and one-size-fits-all book covers. Immediately I whipped my cart around
and raced away like I was being chased by the dinosaurs in
Jurassic Park.
I dodged into the Housewares Department. After catching my breath, I quickly slipped out.

So how can a teacher avoid this slap of reality in the middle of summer? The trick is knowing exactly where a store’s Back
to School aisle is located so that you do not suddenly find yourself surrounded by
High School Musical
backpacks. After careful investigation of three major retailers, here is what I discovered:

Wal-Mart’s Back to School section begins exactly one hundred twenty-three steps from the front door (I paced it off). If you
stay within one hundred twenty-
two
paces from the entrance, you’ll be safe.
Warning:
If you step past the Home and Office Department, you have gone too far. I repeat — do
not
pass Home and Office. The school supplies are in the next aisle.

Target is trickier than Wal-Mart. When walking into Target, you will
feel
safe. You won’t see any cardboard buses at the entrance loaded with binders and folders plastered with the Jonas Brothers.
But don’t be fooled. Above you hang dozens of giant banners with oversize smiling pencils and rulers and students. (There
are never teachers in these posters.) These signs hang ten feet apart and lead the customers right to the Back to School aisle.
Do not look up. Look straight ahead. Do
not
look up!

Safeway stores are sneaky, too. Be careful. Their Back to School items are always placed close to the front of the store.
But the good thing is that you will only find them near
one
of their two entrances, behind Door Number 1 (by the meat section) or Door Number 2 (close to the produce). If you choose
wisely, you will avoid their Back to School display completely.

One evening, I stopped at Safeway to pick up some food for dinner. Inside the store, I spotted a young woman stacking bags
of Tootsie Rolls and Kit Kats and Starburst and Skittles on shelves by the entrance.
She’s not putting Halloween candy out already,
I thought.
It’s only August.
I walked up to the clerk and pointed to the display.

“Uh… Is this for Halloween?”

“Nope,” she answered. “For Back to School.”

She must be joking.

I half laughed. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“It’s true.”

I had never heard of Back to School candy before. “What’s it for? Treats from the teachers?”

“No. For the kids’ lunches.”

My jaw dropped. “You… you mean to tell me that you’re selling candy for kids’
lunches
?”

She nodded.

“How long has this been going on?” I asked, raising my voice.

“A couple of years. Everyone’s doing it.”

I rubbed my forehead in disbelief. “I’m surprised you don’t have Back to School soda pop,” I muttered.

She pointed. “Aisle four.”

E
veryone knows that the person who really runs a school is the secretary. If you have questions, ask the secretary. If you
lose something, see the secretary. If the copier is jammed, get the secretary. If a child throws up, send her to the secretary.

Ellen has been our school secretary for more than twenty years. Her computer is covered with Far Side cartoons and kids’ photos
and inspirational quotes to get her through the day. The sign over her desk says, “Ask not what your secretary can do for
you, but what you can do for your secretary!”

The day before school begins, Ellen posts the class lists on the library windows at 3:00
PM
. All the teachers try to be off campus when those lists go up. If they stay at school, they are sure to be bombarded by students
and parents who just want to stop by and say hello. For three hours.

This year my friend Sandy, who also teaches third grade, stopped by my room at two forty-five.

“It’s almost three,” Sandy said. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

I sighed. “I can’t. I have too much to do.”

“Make sure you lock your door and shut the blinds,” she warned.

I laughed. “I’m going to hide out in the library.” I figured I’d be safe there.

“Whatever you do, don’t let anyone see you.”

“I won’t. I’ll stay out of sight.”

Sandy glanced at her watch. It was two fifty. “I gotta run. See you in the morning.” Then she cracked open my door, looked
both ways, and made a mad dash to the parking lot.

I grabbed my lesson plan book, hurried over to the library, and crept in the back door where I found a seat in the corner
of the room. Parents and kids had gathered outside the front glass doors waiting for the lists to go up. I had a good view
from where I was sitting. I kept the lights off so no one would see me. The windows above the doors were open so I could hear
what was going on.

Ellen walked into the library at exactly three o’clock and spotted me.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Hiding,” I whispered.

She looked away quickly and pretended I wasn’t there. Then she started taping the lists on the inside of the windows. The
crowd swarmed around. After all the lists were up, Ellen turned around and darted to the back door.

“You’re not staying?” I asked.

“Not for a million dollars.”

I flashed a smile. “If anyone has any questions, I’ll give them your home number.”

She laughed. “And I’ll make sure you have bus duty for the whole year.”

As I sat hidden, I watched dozens of children run their fingers down the lists, hunting for their names. The search is always
the same. When kids get the teacher they want, they scream. After finding their names they look for their friends’ names.
If their friends are in the same class, they scream again. Before leaving campus, they rush to their new classrooms, press
their faces against the windows to get a peek inside, and declare, “No one’s there.”

As the crowd grew, I heard one child shout, “I got Mr. Done!” He was jumping up and down. That felt good. It was John. I knew
him well. Last year when I was on cafeteria duty, I opened thirty-seven of his juice boxes.

A few minutes later, I heard a mom ask, “Who’d you get?”

“Mr. Done,” a sad voice answered.

I craned my neck to see who it was. It was Sarah. I knew her, too. In fact, everyone knew Sarah. In second grade she wore
leopard leotards, pink cowboy boots, a purple-fringed leather jacket studded with rhinestones, and a plastic purple Barbie
watch. On Picture Makeup Day, she got confused and came to school wearing glittery lip gloss and eye shadow.

“What’s wrong with Mr. Done?” Sarah’s mom asked.

“He gives homework,” Sarah grumped.

“They all give homework, honey.”

Sarah looked horrified.

Soon I heard another voice. “I got him! I got him!” Since there are only two male teachers on my campus — Mr. Davis, who teaches
fifth grade, and myself — there was a good chance that this was one of mine. It was. The voice belonged to Trevor. I’d had
Trevor’s brother Stephen two years earlier. In fact, Stephen was with Trevor at the library window. As the boys walked away,
I heard Stephen say, “Mr. Done’s nice. Laugh at his jokes. He likes that.”

Over the next hour, more children came by and ran their fingers down the lists then left to go press their faces against the
windows of their new classrooms. When the crowd began to die down, I gathered my things, sneaked out the back door, and returned
to my room. I set my lesson plan book on my desk, took one last look around, and headed out. Just as I was locking the door,
Stephen and Trevor rode by on their bikes.

“Well, look who’s here,” I said with a big smile. “How are you boys doing?”

“Great,” Stephen replied.

I walked toward them. “Did you have a nice summer?”

“Yeah,” they answered in unison.

“All ready for school to start?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” said Stephen.

I looked at Trevor and smiled. “So, do you know who your teacher is?”

Trevor grinned and nodded.

“I’m glad you’re in my class,” I said.

His grin grew.

Then I looked at Stephen. “Are you excited about fifth grade?”

“Sort of,” Stephen responded.

“Who’d you get?” I asked.

“Mr. Davis.”

“Ahhhh,” I said. Then I lowered my voice to a playful whisper. “You want to know a secret about Mr. Davis?”

“Sure,” Stephen answered. He stepped toward me.

“Well,” I said, “Mr. Davis is nice. Laugh at his jokes. He likes that.”

Trevor and Stephen snapped surprised looks at each other. I smirked and strolled away.

“See you two tomorrow,” I sang. “And happy first day of school!”

O
n the first day of school, I sit alone in my classroom and wait for the morning bell to ring. The room is ready. Everything
is in its place — like a house just before company comes to visit. My company is coming to stay for 185 days.

After the bell rings, I take a deep breath, gulp down the rest of my coffee, then push the door open. Twenty third graders
are lined up. Twenty moms and dads stand nearby, snapping pictures on their digital cameras and cell phones. Their last words
to their children are
good luck, pay attention, be good, wear your hair back, you’ll make new friends,
and
don’t drive your new teacher crazy
.

I look out at their nervous faces. “Good morning, boys and girls.”

“Good morning,” they answer softly.

I know these soft voices will last only till the first recess; then I will spend the remaining 184.75 days trying to get them
to quiet down.

I smile. “My name is Mr. Done. It rhymes with
phone.
Please come inside. You’ll find your name tags on your desks.”

One by one, the kids parade into their new classroom. In march twenty new backpacks, fifteen new pencil cases, ten new outfits,
eighteen new binders, seventy-five new folders, sixteen new lunch sacks, nine pairs of new shoes, seven new haircuts, and
6,395 new markers.

I greet each child as he or she walks into the room.

“What’s your name?” I ask.