Page 8 of Please, Sir

I’m ripping neon purple prophylactics apart when the door swings open. I’m ready to roll my eyes and banish a student because I haveten minutes damnitand those ten minutes pre-class are precious. That’s my sane time.

“Boner unit?” Leah asks, sauntering in wearing her typical principal garb—pressed slacks, a matching blazer, and a silky blouse with a statement necklace. Today? The suit is yellow, and the necklace is turquoise. Because I coach after school, my teacher style is more… blue jeans with Bluebell High’s classic polo, and boots—boots which I purchased and started breaking in after that farmers market months ago. No more staining my espadrilles. Later in the day when it’s time for cheerleading, I swap my boots for Nikes and I’m good to go.

I nod and toss her a purple condom. “Yep.”

She catches it against her chest with one hand, then holds it out in front of her, inspecting it. “They make these purple now?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Truth be told, I hate condoms.”

Leah tosses it back to me. “No onelikescondoms, but as my grandmother always said, you’re a fucking moron if you don’t use them.”

I nearly choke on my first sip of Diet Coke, and jump back so the delicious drink doesn’t dribble down my polo. “Oh shit, I wasn’t expecting that.”

Leah drifts my way, nosing through my lesson plan. “Neither was I. And the first time she said it, I was like, nine.” She waves her hand above her head. “She was just trying to help. She had twelve kids and I’m sure the last thing she wanted for her granddaughters was for them to blow their cooters out on childbirth, too.”

This time, the Diet Coke flies across the desk, splattering on my lunch bag and purse. I snag a tissue from the off-brand Kleenex box and wipe it up, laughing. “Ahh, the tradition a grandma passes to her granddaughters,” I say, making a marquee above my head with my hands. “Don’t blow your cooter out, use a rubber.”

Leah nods, still pursuing my plans. She looks up, no longer smiling. “You know you’re gonna hear about this, right?” She taps the paper with a french manicured nail.

I shrug. “It’s from the book. The state-approved book that Mr. Cunningham hasn’t taught a single page out of ever, from what I’ve seen from his perma-lesson plan.” When I was hired, Mr. Cunningham was given a few periods of shop, lessening his load as the solo health teacher. He shared his laminated lesson plan with me–and it was written twenty-two years ago. Not a lick of information in his plan comes from the actual lesson plan from the state. As it is, in Bluebell, we’re teaching 9th graders what most 8th graders are taught. And we’re not even doing a good job. Not until now, of course.

Leah places the lesson plan down, and levels a serious look my way. “No one thinks it’s their kid, you know? A teen vandalizes an old folks home, gets pregnant, steals a car, does drugs, whatever it is—no one ever wants to believe their kid is capable. So,” she says, tracing the rim on the bowl of condoms, “sending them home with condoms is going to make approximately half of the moms blow a gasket.”

I lean into my desk with my ass, and snatch the lessonplans up, holding them against my chest. I have five minutes until this room smells like drug store cologne and body odor. I need to be ready. If papers aren’t on their desk within the first minute of entry, phones are out and I spend most of my time battling them. The way to defeat the phones? Be ready.

I make a face at Leah. Well, toward her, but not at her. I make a face at the parents she’s talking about. “The condoms will get their interest. And the parents, they can live in a world of delusion or they can remember what they were like at fourteen and fifteen and realize, some of these kids are sexually active already. Maybe not the full shebang but–”

“Fingerbang at least,” Leah offers, and we can’t help but burst into immature laughter.

“Maybe I’m not old enough to teach this class,” I sigh when the laughter subsides. She peeks at her watch and walks backward toward the door, one palm out, feeling for it.

“I gotta go. Good luck with your lesson. And next time, get green.” She points at the condoms. “Because of the amount of eggplant jokes that are going to be made,” she warns, stacking her hand way above her head.

Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. Leah exits to the hall, getting absorbed in a sea of backpacks before the door clicks shut, sealing me into my empty room with nothing but thoughts and condoms.

I have forty-two minutes with these kids five days a week. Nothing about health class is listened to or taken seriously until this unit. The sex unit. And I hear Leah. I know I’ll probably field some unhappy emails, maybe a phone call or two. But this is the job. And just because the only other teacher at this school that has taught this class is a sixty year old man who refuses to identify anatomy as anything other than “you know what this is” and “the thing right here” only means I have even more work to do.

Remember, everything you’re embarking on is approved to teach. Every last bit,I remind myself as I begin tapping my boot against the linoleum floor, a bead of anxious sweat sliding down my neck beneath my polo. Quickly I set the papers down and twist my hair up, pinning it with a clip to get it off of my neck. If I’m nervous and sweaty, they’ll see it. Teenagers pick up the scent of fear and run with it.

I know this from coaching cheerleading for the last two years at my last school. Never let them see you sweat. Literally and figuratively.

The door opens, my heart catches, and my students begin their very slow filtering inside. Cell phones get shoved into bags, girls link arms as they settle into two-seater desks, and by the time everyone is seated and settled, the room is pretty divided by gender. In a couple of years, it won’t be that way. But freshmen are still basically junior highers, only junior highers that suddenly had to act cool and pretend they know everything.

A few of the freshmen cheerleading prospects–Jo Jo, Jasmine and Alexa–sit up front, with Jasmine and Alexa on either side of Jo Jo. As a teacher and a coach, formally and outwardly, I love all of my students and athletes. Internally or between me, Leah and a bottle of beer, I have favorites.

Jo Jo is an easy favorite.

She’s the type of girl that is nice when no one is watching, and I like that. If everyone was like that, we’d probably not have any bullies. Her friend, Alexa, got her period unexpectedly and Jo Jo put her embarrassment aside to come ask me discreetly–yet, whispering in front of the class–if I had a tampon. She never even said it wasn’t for her. But when she went back to her desk with one of my Tampax Pearl Lights, I saw her pass it under the desk to Alexa. The rest of class, the boys called her shark bait and she never even flinched.

She’s tough, but a good friend, and I like her.

She’s new to cheer this year, too. The freshman coach, Cadence Caine, has been extra hard on her. Telling her to sharpen her skills–straighter arms, bigger smile, work on her splits. No matter what Jo Jo puts out during practice, I always hear Cadence going hard on her, which makes the other girls pick on her. So, after each practice, I’ve managed to find a way to bump into Jo Jo and tell her that I think she’s doing really great, and that everyone starts somewhere.

She catches my gaze and we swap smiles. Alexa watches our exchange and elbows Jo Jo, a twisted smirk on her lips when she whispers, “teachers pet.”

Even though I once was one, I will never understand teenage girls. Jo Jo, even at cheer, is so good to Alexa and here she is, teasing her. I swallow down the knot of irritation bubbling in my throat, keeping my retort at bay. “Good morning,” I greet them, and receive yawns, one wave and a few head nods in return.

“Last week we ended our nutrition unit, where we learned which foods best fuel our bodies, and the impact of our food choices on our immediate and long term health,” I recap. “And today, we’re starting our–”

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