Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind (12 page)

The Man Teacher does not eat Lean Cuisines or count Weight Watcher points, does not lick his fingers before turning the page,
attends baby showers against his will, does not use chimes to get his students’ attention, and knows all about Britney Spears,
Jennifer Aniston, and Angelina Jolie because the only reading material in the staff bathroom is
People.

T
here are certain triggers that
always
wind children up: rain clouds, wind, a close game in PE, and — the week before Halloween. The closer the calendar gets to
that day, the more bonkers children become. The last week of October is when teachers start using all sorts of names to describe
their students — squirrels, monkeys, livewires, spitfires, rascals, firecrackers, and sparkplugs. Mine are Doan’s Pills.

To be perfectly fair, it’s not completely the kids’ fault that they can’t stay focused. Teachers are partly to blame. We tell
ghost stories by candlelight, stuff scarecrows, carve jack-o’-lanterns, and play Pin the Wart on the Witch. We sing “pumpkin
carols,” draw haunted houses, and graph candy corn. We serve caramel apples and cupcakes topped with Gummi worms while we
walk around wearing our Official Halloween Candy Taste Tester buttons.

On the morning of Halloween, I lock my classroom door, pull the blinds shut, and put on my costume (I refuse to drive to work
in it). As the kids line up outside, I can hear them chattering and trying to guess what I will be wearing. This year when
the bell rang, I did not open up right away. I wanted to make them wait. A couple of them started banging on the window. Finally,
I pushed the door open. When the children saw me, they screamed and shouted and pointed and laughed. (You’d think they’d never
seen a white sheet before.)

The kids were all dressed in their costumes for our morning Halloween parade. Into the room walked Spider-Man, a clown, an
angel, Scooby-Doo, two devils, Pocahontas, an astronaut, one fortune-teller, a pack of Ninjas, Mr. Peanut, a giant whoopie
cushion, and three iPhones. Just as I was about to close the door, one of my room moms handed me a Starbucks Grande.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

She smiled. “I figured you’d need it today.”

Smart mom.

Our PTA holds a giant auction the Saturday before Halloween. It’s one of our best fund-raisers. Traditionally, each teacher
donates something. This year when Michele, the PTA president, came by my room to ask what I’d like to donate, I had no idea.

“Well,” Michele proposed, “how would you like to offer yourself as a chaperone on Halloween night?”

I laughed.

“I’m serious. Trick-or-treating with Mr. Done. I’ll bet it would bring a lot of money.”

I thought about it for a second. The truth was that I didn’t particularly want to stay at home all night on Halloween and
open my door for three hours saying, “Aren’t you getting a little old for this?” and “Hey you, just take one!” Besides, it
had been a long time since I had gone trick-or-treating. It might be fun. I agreed.

The night of the auction, the multi was packed with parents and students. Some of the parents came in costume. Michele stood
on stage auctioning off the items from the podium. She was dressed as a giant rubber chicken. I was one of the last items
up for bid.

“Okay, everyone,” Michele announced, holding a gavel in her hand. “Next on our list is trick-or-treating with Mr. Done.”

The room erupted with laughter. Michele waved for me to come on stage. I walked up the stairs, stood beside her, and felt
my face turn red as I tried to look like standing on an auction block is something I do all the time. Michele pounded several
times on her gavel.

“Okay, parents,” she began, “here’s your chance to have Halloween night off. Do I hear twenty dollars?”

“Twenty!”

“Thirty!”

“Forty!”

“Fifty!”

“Sixty!”

“A hundred!” someone shouted from the back.

Everyone turned around. It was Trevor’s dad. Trevor was standing by his side. He caught my eye and grinned.

“Do I hear one hundred ten?” Michele announced.

“One hundred ten!”

“One hundred twenty.”

“One hundred fifty.”

It can’t go any higher than this.

“Do I hear one hundred sixty?” Michele coaxed. “Anyone want to bid one hundred sixty?”

“Two hundred!” a voice boomed from the back of the room.

There was a great in-drawing of breath as every head snapped to the opposite corner of the room. It was Christopher’s dad.
Christopher stood beside him, beaming.

Michele pointed at him. “We have two hundred. Do I hear two hundred ten?”

“Two hundred ten,” Trevor’s dad called out.

Christopher’s dad raised it. “Two hundred twenty!”

“Two hundred thirty,” cried Trevor’s dad.

Christopher’s father cupped his hands over his mouth and bellowed, “Two hundred forty!”

The noise in the hall escalated. Never in the history of our school auction had a teacher gone for so much money.

Michele stared at Trevor’s dad. She looked at Christopher’s. Then back to Trevor’s. “Do I hear two hundred fifty?”

Everyone watched Trevor’s father. He was thinking. Trevor tugged on his dad’s arm.

“Going… ,” Michele said, slowly.

Trevor’s dad scratched his head.

The room grew quiet.

“Going… ,” Michele repeated, stretching out the word even more.

Trevor continued to pull.

Finally, Trevor’s dad shook his head.

“GONE!” Michele shouted, pounding her gavel. “To Christopher’s family!”

The room exploded. As I walked down the stairs, people I didn’t know patted me on the back. Several of my students raced up
to the stage, giggling. Christopher ran up to me and jumped up and down. I leaned over the railing. “You know what this means,
don’t you?” I paused and grinned. “On Halloween night I get half your candy.”

The day after the auction, I told Christopher that he could bring along a friend. He invited Trevor. I thought that was nice
of him. On Halloween night, I picked the boys up at Christopher’s house just before it started to get dark. They were all
ready to go. Christopher was dressed up as Darth Vader. Trevor was a pirate. As we walked out of the door, Christopher zapped
me with his lightsaber. I turned to Christopher’s father and said, “Three hundred if you reconsider.” He laughed.

With their pillowcases in hand, Christopher and Trevor tore out the door, ran to the first house, and rang the doorbell. I
waited on the sidewalk with my flashlight. A woman wearing a witch’s hat answered the door. The boys shouted, “Trick-or-treat,”
grabbed their candy, and flew off the porch.

“What did you guys get?” I asked as they raced across the lawn.

They didn’t hear me. They were already halfway to house number two. I walked quickly to keep up. At the second house, a small
boy in a Piglet costume was waiting at the door. His mom was standing next to me on the sidewalk. When the door opened, Piglet
stepped inside. His mother rushed in the house to fetch him.

After Piglet was out, Christopher and Trevor reached into the bowl and dashed down the steps.

“Did you two say thank you?” I yelled.

“Thank youuuuuu!” they both hollered over their shoulders. And they flew to house number three.

The third house was all decked out. Styrofoam tombstones stood on the lawn, cobwebs covered the bushes, jack-o’-lanterns sat
on steps, and yellow caution tape wrapped around the porch. The
Addams Family
theme song was playing in the window.

“Come on!” Trevor called back to Christopher as he ran up the driveway. “They had Skittles last year!”

My eyebrows went up. “You remember what they had last year?”

“Yeah!” he shouted.

At that moment, I realized that I was out with two trick-or-treating aficionados. Christopher and Trevor had this candy-collecting
business down to a science. For the next two hours the boys slid through hedges, flew up walkways, jumped over gutters, dodged
strollers, and raced down sidewalks. They hit hundreds of houses. They knew every shortcut. That night I got an education
in trick-or-treating. Here are some of the things I learned from the experts:

Run outside at the first sign of dusk.

Banging on the door and ringing the doorbell at the same time make the people in the house open the door faster.

After saying “Trick-or-treat!” ask “How many can I have?”

Good candy: Tootsie Rolls, Kit Kats, Nerds, Twizzlers, Jolly Ranchers, Starburst, Skittles, Snickers, and Whoppers. Bad candy:
toothbrushes.

Third graders do
not
need flashlights.

Pillowcases hold twice as much as plastic grocery bags and three times as much as plastic orange pumpkins.

After being handed a piece of candy, always look back in the bowl to see what you did not get.

When presented with a bowl of ten different candies, a third grader can decide which candy to take faster than he can answer
18 ÷ 3.

The best candy is often on the bottom of the bowl.

If a group of children gathers at the door, sometimes it is best to be in the front so you do not have to wait and can run
immediately to the next house. But sometimes it is better to be the last one because you might get two pieces of candy for
being patient.

Do not get stuck behind a little kid at the door. Little kids take
forever
to decide.

Old people either are very generous or give you one peanut. There is no in between.

Handing out candy is like serving wine at a party. People serve the good stuff first and save the not-so-good stuff for later.
The longer you stay out on Halloween night, the worse the candy gets.

Lots of decorations in the front yard means good candy. They spend a lot on Halloween.

Men don’t care what they’re handing out. Women give raisins.

It is always better to choose your candy than to have someone else choose it for you.

When parents chaperone, moms say, “Be careful” and “Remember your manners.” Dads say, “Wha’d ya get?”

The later you stay out, the better chance the person at the door will give you a handful of candy instead of just one piece
because she doesn’t think she will have many more visitors.

Raid the candy bowl at your own house before you go trick-or-treating and again when you get home.

Cute costumes = more candy.

Dads stay out later than moms.

Do not show your teacher what you have in your lunch bag the day after Halloween or he’ll point to the Official Halloween
Candy Taste Tester button that he’s wearing and ask for all your Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

November

Judge each day not by the harvest you reap but by the seeds you plant.

—
Robert Louis Stevenson

A
ll teachers have their “pillow students” — students we worry about before we fall asleep at night. How can we help them? What
will happen to them when they leave our classes? Will they succeed in school? This year one of my pillow students is Rebecca.

Rebecca’s mom is in jail — again. She is expecting her fourth child; each one is from a different father. Rebecca and her
siblings are being raised by their grandmother, but unfortunately she doesn’t have a lot of time for Rebecca, either. Oftentimes,
Rebecca is late for school. Occasionally, she doesn’t even show up at all. When she does come, she complains that she’s not
feeling well. Sometimes she gets into fights at recess with her friends. In class, she cries because she misses her mom.

Rebecca struggles with her schoolwork, too. Math is difficult. So is writing. She reads two years below grade level. When
she reads with me, it takes her a long time just to get through the shortest page. I work with Rebecca on her reading as much
as I can, but her progress is slow. I doubt that she has ever finished a whole book.

Once in a while when the class is reading together and all the children have copies of the same book, I’ll ask Rebecca if
she’d like to take a turn reading aloud, but she always refuses. She knows that she is behind the other children.

One night as I was thinking about how to help her, I had a brainstorm.
What about Max? What if Rebecca could read with Max?
Max is a golden Lab. He belongs to Ellen, our school secretary. Two or three times a week, Ellen brings Max to school after
lunch, and he lies calmly behind her desk with a red bandanna tied around his neck. Max has a wonderful disposition — calm,
friendly. Everyone loves Max. He has become our unofficial school mascot.

When a child comes into the office for a Band-Aid or an ice pack, Ellen always lets him come around the counter and pet the
dog. Max pounds his tail on the carpet and soon the child forgets about why he came into the office in the first place.
If Rebecca could read to Max,
I thought,
maybe she would forget how difficult reading is for her.
Max wouldn’t correct her. He wouldn’t make fun of her. He’d just listen.