Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind (28 page)

Sean believed that Rudolph was chased by the
Abdominal
Snowman. Alexandra called Peter Cottontail — Peter
Cocktail.
Cameron thought the fuzzy stuff that moms pull out of the dryer was
lent.
Karen said
Harmonica
for
Hanukkah.

In PE, Melanie referred to The Macarena as
The Margarita.
In computer lab, Deborah called home row on the keyboard the
house keys.
During reading, Abbie said that all words have consonants and
bowels.

Ronny reported that his dentist recommended that he get a
restrainer.
Dominic called me
psycho
(he meant
psychic
). Madison said
tangerine
instead of
tambourine
. Michelle asked where the table of
continents
was in her book. And Tyler thought thumbtacks were
Tic Tacs.

Brianna complained that she got up at the
crock
of dawn. Zachary listed the armed services as army, navy, and
submarines.
When I asked Hailey to tell her mother what she had learned about Benjamin Franklin, she reported that Ben had
testicles.
(She meant
spectacles.
) And every year there is at least one kid who refers to that crooked building in Italy as the Leaning Tower of
Pizza.

We don’t have a school nurse anymore on our campus. So Ellen, the secretary, handles all the kids who walk into the office
with hot heads, scraped knees, bloody noses, or sore tummies. Over the years, Ellen has heard some funny things come out of
their mouths.

William came in and said he had a
platter
infection. Louisa claimed she had
walking ammonia.
Victoria worried that she might have
Shrek
throat. Mackenzie referred to the rainy-day monitors as
thermometers.
Evan explained that he had to have his tonsils and
androids
removed. And when Jordan walked into the office holding his privates, he said that a ball hit him really hard in the
knuckles.

Ellen says that the kindergartners make her laugh the most. Carlos asked if he had
garlic fever.
Claire told her that she couldn’t go swimming because she had
tubas
in her ears. Sydney explained that her grandma had an operation because she had a
Cadillac
in her eye. While Melody was getting her hair checked for lice, she asked if she had
headlights.

I asked Ellen if she has any favorite patients. She said that one would have to be Hunter. Hunter is in first grade. He’s
a regular in the office. The first time he came in hurt was at the end of recess. He was holding his ribs. He said he had
sideburns.

A couple of months ago Hunter walked into the office with really chapped lips.

“Good morning, Hunter,” Ellen said. “What can I do for you today?”

“Mrs. Parks sent me,” Hunter replied. Mrs. Parks is Hunter’s teacher.

“And what seems to be the problem today?” Ellen asked.

He pointed to his lips. “She wants you to put gasoline on them.”

A
ll teachers have their
time of the month
— even the men. These times are achy and unpleasant. When they occur, teachers take a lot of aspirin and increase our coffee
intake. In October it’s the week before Halloween. In November it’s parent– teacher conferences. In December it’s the days
leading up to winter break. In January it’s the mid-school-year blues. In February it’s surviving paper hearts and glitter.
And in March it’s when we frantically try to get our students prepared for the big state tests. Contrary to popular belief,
the term
March Madness
did not come from the basketball court. It originated in elementary school.

One day as I was prepping my students for the exams, I said, “Boys and girls, on the test you have to know the difference
between a dictionary, an atlas, and a thesaurus. Who knows what a thesaurus is?”

Robbie shot up his arm.

“Yes, Robbie.”

“A dinosaur.”

I could see that we had a lot of work to do.

Just before test time, teachers all over the country cram in all the things we haven’t taught yet and review everything we
know our students have forgotten. But we’re not just drilling material. We’re also teaching kids how to take a test — and
for a good reason. Have you ever seen a third grader take a standardized test? Well, it’s pretty much like observing a boy
put on his own buttondown shirt and tie. It’s a mess. The problem with these tests is those darn bubbles the kids have to
fill in. I measured them. Some of those bubbles are only five millimeters in diameter. It is almost impossible for a third-grade
boy to fill in a five-millimeter bubble without going outside the line. Our class bunny could do better.

Every year I give lots of practice tests. I have to. Third graders lose their place. They skip questions. They bubble in the
wrong answers. They copy the problems down incorrectly on their scratch paper. If they get stuck, they will sit there for
the entire length of the timed test staring at one problem. And if you tell them to be careful and check all their answers,
one boy will cover his entire test booklet with checkmarks.

By the end of March, I have given so many practice tests that my life starts to feel like one big exam. When Dawn asked me
what I was doing for the weekend, I had to think about it. I could:

a. Correct papers;

b. Plan my lessons; or

c. Watch
Survivor.

I looked at her and answered, “C.”

This year our first practice test was in reading. The kids had twenty minutes to read the passages and answer the questions.
Each question had four possible answers. Once the kids began, I walked around the room. My first stop was Melanie’s desk.
She was on question number two, but had filled in seven bubbles.

“Uh… Melanie, you can only fill in
one
bubble per problem.”

She looked surprised. “But I can’t decide.”

“Make your best guess, honey.”

Next stop — Jennifer. She was on her fifth problem, but hadn’t bubbled anything in at all. Instead, she had circled all her
answers. I knelt down beside her.

“Honey, you have to
fill in
the bubbles. Not circle them. Otherwise the machine that reads your answers will mark them as wrong.”

“Oh.”

I left Jennifer and visited Joshua. His test manual looked like a sketch pad. There were more pencil markings outside his
bubbles than in them.

“Josh, try to stay in the circles if you can. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I glanced up at the clock. We were about halfway through the allotted time. I looked over Laura’s shoulder. She was making
absolutely sure that every bit of white inside her bubbles was completely filled in. “Laura, this is not an art project. Your
bubbles are beautiful. Move on.”

Trevor raised his hand, and I walked on over.

“What do you need?” I asked.

He pointed to one of the problems. “None of these answers are right.”

I looked down at his packet then shrugged. “Make your best guess.”

“But I can’t figure it out,” he whined.

“Trevor, I can’t help you. You know that.”

“Well,” he said, “which one would you
recommend
?”

I pulled a face. Across the room I spotted Christopher drawing on his test with his crayons. I ran to his desk.

“Christopher, what are you doing?”

“Coloring.”

“You can’t do that.”

“But it says to.”

He pointed to the passage. The title was
How to Draw a Cat.
I read it:
First, draw a big circle. Next, put ears on the circle. Then draw a nose, eyes, and whiskers. Finally, color your cat.

I rubbed my forehead. “Christopher, you’re just supposed to
answer
the questions. Not actually
do
it.”

“Ohhhhh.”

He started erasing the crayon.

When it comes time to give the actual tests, I try to be as prepared as I can. I send home flyers reminding the kids to eat
a good breakfast and make sure their number two pencils are sharpened. I tape my “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outside of the
door and highlight all the “Say Boxes” in my instruction manual.

“Say Boxes” are the directions that tell the teacher exactly what to read:
Open your books. Put your finger on the sample. Read the problem. Are there any questions?
Teachers are supposed to say precisely what’s in each “Say Box” — and nothing more. But of course we don’t always do this.
Sometimes we
have
to say more. The test manual leaves some important “Say Boxes” out. There is no “Say Box” detailing how to respond when a
child comes running up to you in the middle of the test because he forgot to use the bathroom at recess. And there is no “Say
Box” outlining what to say when Jay starts chewing on his answer key.

Finally, the day arrived when it was time to begin our first real test. That morning I surprised my students with a pet frog.
I had bought it at PETCO the night before. The class had really worked hard preparing for the exams. They deserved it. The
kids named her Bubbles in honor of all the circles they had filled in.

Our first exam was spelling. The children had twelve minutes to complete it. It wasn’t a lot of time. They would have to work
quickly to finish. I passed out the manuals and the pencils and read all my “Say Boxes.” I waited for the second hand to reach
the 12 then said, “You may begin.” The class got right to work. I sat down at my desk and kept my eye on the clock.

About two minutes into the test, I heard a noise in the back of the room. I looked up. The kids turned around. It sounded
like trickling water.

“Get back to work,” I told them.

The kids resumed working. But soon there was another noise. Everyone wheeled around again. I stood up and walked to the back
of the room to see where the noise was coming from.

Splash!

It was Bubbles.

This can’t be happening.

Splash!

I scratched my head and faced the kids. Everyone was looking at me and the frog. I glanced at the clock. Five minutes left.

“Get back to your tests!”

They snapped back to work. Then I had a terrible thought.
If Bubbles keeps this up, my students aren’t going to finish their tests in time. This frog is going to
ruin
all my test scores.
What would I say if my boss called me into his office? “Uh… well… er… you see… it’s my frog’s fault.” I crouched down and
glared at Bubbles.

Splash!

I tapped on the glass, hoping this would stop her.

Splash! Splash!

“Stop that!” I whispered.

Laughter.

I turned around. All eyes were on me again. I looked at the clock. Two minutes remaining!
Summon serious teacher voice.
“If you kids don’t turn around, I’m taking this frog home and you’ll never see her again. Do you hear me?”

They whipped back to their tests. No one dared turn around again. At recess I marched Bubbles straight to the office. It was
the first and only time I ever expelled a frog.

April

“It must be tremendously interesting to be a schoolmaster… I don’t see how you could ever get old in a world that’s always
young.”

— Goodbye, Mr. Chips

M
r. Done, when are we going to do science?” Kevin asked. “It’s been a long time.”

Kevin was right. I grabbed a pen off my desk.

“Watch this,” I said. I dropped it onto the floor. “Do you know why the pen fell to the ground?”

“Gravity,” he answered.

“Very good.” I smiled. “There. We just had science. Now get back to work.”

He just stared at me.

I know. I know. It’s sad. I love teaching reading and writing and math and history. I love art and music. I don’t even mind
playing kickball in my dress shoes. The one subject I’m just not crazy about, however, is science. I feel guilty about it.

It’s not because I don’t know anything about science. I do. Teaching kids has taught me a
lot
of science. I know that mold grows in yogurt cups but not on Kraft cheese slices. I know that seeds are like lunch boxes:
Inside is the food for the new plant, and outside is the protective cover. I know that the closer a child puts his hands near
the overhead projector light, the larger the dog will appear on the screen. I know from which desk the sound waves are coming
with my back turned.

I know the sun does not need to be shining to make smoke with a magnifying glass. I know that when you place a straw in a
glass of water, the straw looks like it is broken. Teacher scissors look broken in the glass of water, too. I know that when
I discover a long-forgotten potato in the back of my kitchen cupboard, it will look like a potato tree. And I know exactly
what a balloon sounds like when you blow it up and let it go.

I’ve learned that all you need to make a telephone is a piece of string and two Dixie cups and that magnets stick to chair
legs, but not to rabbit fur. I’ve learned that large blades of grass are best for making squawkers, car keys make excellent
fossil imprints in plaster of paris, and pumpkins float. Tape dispensers do not.