I put my game face on: Dignified, uncompro-mising, chin slightly raised and eyes squinted as if my mere gaze is incendiary and will soon ignite the potted plant and ant farm residing on the windowsill. I stand behind the shoddy wooden desk, grasping a bunch of papers, to help me look important and authoritative. The minute hand on the wall clock gives a solitary tick, the door opens and a throng of apathetic eighth graders walks in.
"Sweeeeet. We have a sub."
Damn. Not the reaction I wanted. They don't seem very intimidated.
And the glorious information travels at an infectious speed among the students through some sort of telepathic grapevine so that five minutes later a seventh grader in the locker room on the other side of the school whispers to his friend, "Hey I hear there is sub for Mrs. Clarke's class." There is general rejoicing and mini-parties in the hallways for the event: Someone brings brownies and someone else has soda.
And somehow, at first glance, they already know they can walk all over me. Did my blazing blue neo-sixties cat-eye glasses with rhinestones in the corners give me away?
Welcome to the tales of a walk-on substitute teacher.
I don't particularly like kids. Well, except for the smart ones. I'm very picky. But somehow, most of my jobs have had to do with them. I have substituted for every grade, every possible subject, for P.E., for music, for special education and in German, Spanish and Japanese language classes (none of which are languages that I can speak). Um
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