The variations continue with the kids’ footwear. Boys whose shirts look like they haven’t been washed in a week sport brand new $300 Jordans, or one of dozens of other sneakers, often in ludicrous color combinations. The girls are mostly wearing brand name boots like Uggs or Frye or some knock off designer thigh high monstrosities. The style for socks this year seems to be that, if they can be seen, they mustn’t match any other article of the wearer’s clothing. I must confess that even I am caught up in the wild sock trend and I am wearing a pair of brightly colored, tribally patterned knee highs under my stretchy khaki slacks. A moving mountain of a
boy holds out his hand to me as he passes. Almost sixteen years old in the
eighth grade, Juan Carlos is a full head taller than me and easily as broad.
The thick, still growing muscles of his upper body bulge from beneath an old
blue polo shirt at least two sizes too small for him. The bottom of his shirt
flaps about six inches from the top of his beltless oversize pants that hang
down so low that it is impossible for him to walk without bowing his knees out
past his already impressive girth. Walking next to him is a tiny slip of a girl
that only makes him look bigger by comparison. Maria is Juan Carlos’ thirteen
year old little sister who is also in the eighth grade. One day when we were
talking alone, Juan Carlos shed a few tears when he confided to me that he is
embarrassed to be in the same grade as his little sister. I slide my palm
across his until out fingers link and curl around each other ending in a kind of
shake – the latest preferred greeting for most of the Latino kids. Behind him, impossibly
taller still, but much slimmer and so dark skinned that his face shines
midnight blue under the harsh fluorescent light, Treybon says to one of the two
girls under his gangly arms, “That’s my favorite teacher.” Unlike Juan Carlos,
Treybon’s clothes are new and neat and well-tailored and he takes pride in
looking good. I met Trey’s mom when he was in my class so I know where his
fashion sense comes from. Usually I don’t take well to fur coats but she made
it look good. She spent our entire twelve minutes together at parent teacher
conference night telling me how Trey’s dad is some semi-famous sports figure
who takes good care of them though he divorced her many years ago. As she left
she took both my hands, rubbed my forearms suggestively and gave me a leopard
spotted card with her personal cell number that I should call “anytime, day or
night.”. As she at least mentioned Trey’s name once during her 10 minutes, so I
checked the box for “concerned parent” on the Parent Contact form we have to
fill out. Trey stretches one arm out past one of the girls’ shoulders and holds
out his fist. I bump knuckles with him gently so as not to disturb the girl. “Good morning Trey, girls,”
I say with an exaggerated politeness, bowing my head slightly. Despite his
almost daily fights due to his complete lack of temper control, with his good
looks and ever present bright smile, it’s hard not to like Treybon and seeing
him happy and carefree like this is almost enough to cut through the heaviness
in my soul. Almost, but not quite and I’m sure my eyes are dead and unfocused
again as I turn my head away from Trey and scan the crowd. “Of course,” I mutter sarcastically
aloud as my feet start to move. Two doors down, something is up in front of the
English teacher’s doorway. She is absent today and her sub still hasn’t
arrived. I spot what looks like a small, square mylar balloon on the ground and
adjust my pace. Just as Jesus’ foot is coming down on it I bend and snatch up
the stink bomb, leaving him to stomp on nothing but tile. “You crazy Mr. E,” says
my former student Carlos with a big smile. “That thing gonna blow up in your
hand.” Idon’t smile back.
“Oh well,” I say with more calm than I feel, “that’s life. Guess I might not
smell too good.” Carlos probably does not hear that last sentence as I am
already through the double door to the staircase as I speak, moving quickly but
steadily down the two flights of stairs to the back door. I spin as I hit the
bar to open the heavy door with my butt, make a 180 and toss the stink bomb to
the asphalt, then turn it into a 360 degree spin as I head back up the stairs and
the door slams shut behind me. |
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