Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Luckily for my sanity, they listen.
“Thank you,” I announce and stop right in front of my desk to grab a stack of freshly printed-off papers. “Now, today’s timed addition test will be a little longer than you’re used to. You’re going to have five minutes to complete as many addition problems as—”
I stop mid-instructions when raucous laughter roars through the wall behind me, and then what sounds like a semitruck rams straight into it and shakes the floor. For the love of everything. I twist my torso to face the offending direction—through my room’s wall and to the other side where Mack Houston’s classroom sits.
Mr. Music Man.
Mr. Fun Time Bobby (without the booze).
Mr. Giant-Thorn-in-My-Side.
Basically, all my work-related problems come from Mack Houston. His classroom is always loud, always boisterous, and always on the verge of being out of control, and since he’s right next door, my students’ and my ears never miss a moment of the chaos.
I teach mathematics for first, second, and third graders at Calhoun Elementary, but with Mr. Houston’s boisterous classroom right next door, most days, I feel like I’m trying to teach advanced calculus to grad students in the middle of an amusement park.
The onslaught of noise dulls slightly, and after heaving a deep sigh, I turn back to my students to continue giving them directions. A timed addition test might not seem like such a big deal, but I always try to make sure I give my kids specific instructions before a test, as well as a healthy dose of encouragement to get them in the right state of mind.
Sure, I might be a little type A when it comes to organization and how I run my classroom, but I feel strongly that it’s my job to decrease stress and confusion. Calm and relaxed and clear expectations—that’s the ambiance I’m always trying to provide.
“You will have five minutes to complete as many addition problems as you can,” I announce as I walk around the classroom and set the tests on their desks. “Keep your papers facedown until I start the timer and tell you to begin. The problems do get a little harder as you go, but I promise they are all addition problems we have gone over lots of times together.” I offer a little smile toward my students. “I know you’ve got this. You know the material. I am so proud of each and every one of you. You have worked so hard over the past few weeks to learn these new problems, and I know you can rock this quiz.”
Caroline raises her hand, and I gesture toward her with a friendly hand. “Yes, Caroline?”
“Ms. Dayton, can we…” Unfortunately, after the first couple of words, a loud round of pandemonium breaks out again next door, and the only information little Caroline manages to relay is that she has the ability to move her lips. It’s a regular mime show in here, and I haven’t made a dime off admission.
“Man, I wish I was in Mr. Houston’s class right now!” Seth hoots, and a few students don’t hesitate to agree with him.
“I know!” Jimmy nods several times. “It sounds like they’re having a party over there!”
I swear, the disruptions never end—drums and screams and kids sliding by my door in the hallway like Tom Cruise in Risky Business. All thanks to Mack Houston, the good-time guy, who just happens to teach music at the same school as me. And his obnoxious teaching style—if you can even call it teaching at all—always comes at the expense of my classroom.
God help me. I can’t take this anymore.
“Class, I need you to stay in your seats. Leave your test papers facedown. I’ll be right back.” I hold up one finger to the class at large and stalk toward the door like a woman possessed. Out my door and around the small divider between our rooms, I march right through his open door to the noisy classroom and raise my voice over the din to get his attention.
“Mr. Houston!”
The entire time, I continually glance back toward my open door to make sure my students remain safely in their seats and that no one is peeking at their papers.
His classroom is filled with another second-grade class, and they are running around like banshees with drums. Literally. I wouldn’t be surprised if his instructions were, “Embrace the female Gaelic spirit inside you and streak across the room with these drums.”
They bang and yell and whoop, and I have to curve my hands around my mouth to make a megaphone and try again.
“Mr. Houston!” I repeat, finally catching his attention. “May I speak with you for a moment, please?”
Every student’s head whips in my direction, but I only have eyes for one man—the menace. Mack Houston.
His smile is so wide it’s almost lopsided, and two big dimples crater into the center of his cheeks. His sun-highlighted brown hair curls haphazardly around his ears, and his green eyes shine bright. If it weren’t for the manly, muscular body that sits beneath his far-too-casual attire, I’d think he was less than half of his actual age. As it is, the only real explanation I can think of is some kind of Tom Hanks in Big situation.