Forewarned
I arrived at school early, having allowed for traffic hazards this time but encountering none.  As I waited for the school secretary to appear, a woman asked for whom I was subbing.
I seldom remember a teacher’s name.  If I get to the right school with the right grade in mind, I figure they’re supposed to know the rest.  If things are left solely to my memory, it’s going to be a tough day.
“It doesn’t really matter; but if it’s a certain second grade, there are two students I have to warn you about.”  Great.  Already the name she mentioned is becoming more and more familiar.  With the arrival of the secretary, my worst fears are confirmed.
I poke my head into this woman’s office, which says “Principal” on the door.  Two of my students have reached the highest level of notoriety, it would seem.  “What was it I should know about this second grade?” I inquired apprehensively.
“Well, you really only have one student to watch out for.  The other one was suspended yesterday.”  Such heartening words.  Still, I was puzzled: this was one of the best schools in the District.  I’d never had a problem here, at least not due to a rebellious student.  My inexperience and the high frequency metabolism of kindergartners had been my greatest challenges.
“This girl has a social problem.  She steals food from other students’ backpacks.  You can’t leave her alone anywhere.  If you allow her to go to the bathroom, she needs an escort.  Good luck.”  With this strange warning, I was off.
I found the room and settled in with my various supplies.  The teacher had established a defensive position at the front corner.  I liked this vantage point, as I could glance easily at notes and look for necessary books or papers.  On the desk was my Lesson Plan.  I looked through it quickly and noticed another from the day before, indicating a two-day absence.
Cut and Run
In two days, a sub can actually get to know the class well enough to make a smooth show of it.  Why hadn’t yesterday’s sub stayed for the easier second day?  Perhaps he had a prior commitment.  Remembering the Principal’s warning, I glanced at his note to the teacher to see how it went.
“Great class … yada yada …the expected problems with the two children did occur … yada yada …he went into the boy’s bathroom at recess and started a fire by urinating on an electrical outlet, Fire Department called, sent home from school … .”  I stopped reading.  He started a fire by “urinating on an electric outlet?”  Was this kid trying to commit vandalism or suicide?  My apprehension grew as the morning bell rang.
Luck of the Draw
I thanked my good fortune to be subbing the second day of this teacher’s absence, one child short of a full house.  In teaching, it is absolutely true that “one person can make a difference.”  My teaching day was already improving because this kid was off making a difference somewhere else.  A few kids came into the classroom.  Ready or not, the day had begun.
“There it is!”  Some kids were talking and pointing to the large pencil I sometimes bring to class.  It was over five feet in length, made of yellow fiberglass and with the words “Dixon-Ticonderoga” officially printed on the side.  Such props made for a good start at the least and offered a chance to do math multiples of a normal sized pencil.
“Whoa!  Where’d you get that?” asked one boy excitedly.
“I have my sources,” I responded.  In this case, my clandestine source was the dump out in Livermore.  During a run for a construction job last year, I’d seen this gem in the milieu and had to have it.  One isn’t supposed to reclaim such archeological treasures.  However, my sense of pedagogy prevailed.  I left with a teaching aid suitable for all elementary schools.
We began the morning’s introductions and rituals.  I couldn’t find the attendance sheet and concluded it was probably in the teacher’s mailbox.  With my ominous beginning, I’d forgotten to check.  I wrote on a sheet of paper that all were present and accounted for, save one miscreant.  “How does the attendance get to the office?” I inquired.
Why do I ask general questions of a whole class?  I know I’m going to be overwhelmed with twenty well-intentioned answers.  We sorted out the responsible party for this errand.  Preferring the safety of pairs, I dispatched two and began our morning exercise of journal writing.  I added two more pencils to the mix.  Each was about a foot and a half long and maybe 1 ½ inches thick.  These I had legitimately purchased from an art store.  Kids had fun trying to write with something so different.  I passed them to two students who were diligently working.
Trouble Unmasked
“I have to go to the bathroom,” said a brown-haired girl.  The inevitable pilgrimage had begun.
“Someone has to go with her!” chimed several voices.  Good enough; I like to send kids in pairs.
Upon her return, this same girl wasn’t doing her work.  When I prodded, she whined: “I can’t.”
“Yes you can.  You have to.  Here, write these words: ‘My favorite vacation was … .’”
“I can’t.”
Suddenly realized who this was: the notorious girl with wandering fingers.  No wonder the kids advised me to send a guard with her: they were defending their snacks and lunches.  No amount of coaxing, no appeals to lofty goals of learning were going to work.  I steeled myself to her whining.
“Here.  Do it.  Begin with these words.  Now!”  She drew out her writing as painfully as possible.
I asked a few students to read what they had written.  Peer involvement usually stimulates the slow writer.  I heard about trips to Paris and Hong Kong – a well-traveled group.  Maybe I should start a school-sponsored trip to Rome.  At snack recess, I brought my Bubble Bear for some entertainment.
“I knew you were going to be a good sub,” said a sandy haired boy.
“Oh yeah?  How’d you know that?” I asked.
“You just had that extra oomph!” he explained.  Good communication skills, I surmised.
Educational Trickery
Back in our room, we went through math packets.  Once again I pulled my wild card, Math Baseball, from my bag of tricks.  It was a good thing I seldom got the same class twice; what would I do when I ran out of my stock amusements?
I lined them up for lunch.  They were ready to depart, but the bell was still silent.
“We can go,” they said in agreement.  I’d been duped too many times for this.  It wouldn’t look good for my kids to be running rampant before other classes had been released.
“Wait.  I have a trick to show you.”  I pulled out a magic trick I still had from college days.  They watched in awe as a coin passed through a solid piece of glass.  The bell rang.  Off they went – all except one dark-haired girl who said she was looking for her missing chips.  Our vandal had struck!  But how?
I ate quickly and found the Principal in the schoolyard.  She was bestowing her attention upon my very own parolee.  Reluctantly, I asked about the problem.
“She owes me some time during lunch recess.  She’s been taking food again, now and during the morning recess.”  I made a mental note that my varied career should not include the title of Security Guard.  When did she sneak that?
I decided the Principal could have her – all day if she wanted.  Before she marched her charge back to the office, I asked if there were any problem with my flying a sail with some of the kids during lunch recess.  Fine by her.
Shifting Winds
My enthusiastic student found me as I approached a grassy area.  I enlisted his help and soon we had a sail flapping in the wind.  I had removed the lines from the corners for safety and just had large circles of rope for kids to hold at each point.  As in the previous day, children wildly pulled away from each other until the sail flattened, preventing the sail from ever filling.  The Ouija board effect took over again.  What the heck.  If dozens of kids had fun moving a colorful sail around a field, why control it beyond basic safety?  I’d teach them about wind some day in smaller, more instructable groups.
My kids had lined up outside the back door of our classroom.  I blew my whistle – now an ever-present classroom management tool – and marched them in like an infantry unit.  None appeared to object to this subtle conscription.
We did a few more academic tasks.  Some finished early and came up to hand me their finished work.  “What do I do now?” they would ask.
To balance the differing pace and keep me from having to fend off the quick ones, I told them to be tutors to the other students.  “Do you know what happens when you play checkers and you get one to the end?”  They nodded; hands shot up.  “You get kinged and can move backward.  In our class, when you finish you become a tutor.  You get to go around the room and help those who need it.”  To my delight, this seemed to work with none of the usual questioning.
Sharing
Soon we sat on the floor for something called “I messaging.”  Looking at my notes, I started by saying what I was feeling.
“I’m happy because we have a good class of learners who like to have fun.”  I turned to the student on my left.
“I’m happy because we have a good sub today.”  Around it went.
“I’m happy because we have a very good sub today.”
“Okay,” I intervened, “everybody has to say something they feel that’s different.”
“It is different.  I said ‘very good;’ he said ‘good.’”  I let this fine discernment pass.
“I’m happy because I’m going on a trip to New York.”
“I’m sad because my friend is moving away.”  This continued around the room.
When we got to my little fan, he burst out: “I’m happy because we have the best sub ever!  Even better than Mr. V!”  The class sat still, hushed by this blasphemous claim.  “Yeah!” he extolled.
“Yeah!” said the class in unison.  He carried the day.  I didn’t know Mr. V, but I recognized this as the greatest complement of my teaching career.
We read a book while on the rug and talked about what it meant.  My parolee had been released back into my custody and had an uncertain hand up.  I called on her.  She really wanted her contribution to count.  I reinforced what she said and took the discussion in that direction for a while.  Maybe this would give her a little confidence.  It may not help to change her behavior, but then it couldn’t hurt.

Before I knew it, the day was over.  The kids donned their backpacks and lined up at the doors.  Taking my Rocket bubble maker, I stood by the door to “bubble them out” for the end of the day.  I missed the half who went out the other door.  It’s hard to understand all the practices and rhythms of a class in only one day.  Nonetheless, I had a survived and enjoyed a good day with these kids.  Returning to the teacher’s desk, I commended her on a great class.  I decided to leave Mr. V out of it.