Page 4 of Roommate's Guide to Love

Also known as, her mother has struck again. The woman, who is a known menace to teachers, is a family vlogger who likes to invent new things every week about their family in terms of diet, parenting, and lifestyle. I’m guessing this week’s trend is gluten free.

Unfortunately, I can’t assume that. I have to go by what she’s saying. Luckily for Makayla, and her pain in the ass mother, I have backups.

“No worries,” I say as I grab a hidden box of pizza I had ordered for a previous class because I have a student who isactuallygluten free. “This is gluten-free. Have as much as you want.”

Makayla’s eyes go wide, and her smile is bright as she takes two slices and puts them on her plate. “Thanks so much, Miss Banks. You’re the best.”

She gives me a one-armed hug, which I return because her mother might be a pain, but she’s a sweet kid. Somehow. “You’re welcome. Now go enjoy.”

Makayla heads toward her friends as I sit back and let my brain wander a bit. With the middle of April comes the end of state testing. But more importantly? This is the official beginning of the countdown until the last day of school.

Twenty-one school days until the students say goodbye.

Twenty-two days until I can sleep in past six in the morning.

Twenty-three days until I’m on a plane for a well-deserved vacation. I can smell the freedom from here, and it’s giving notes of pinã colada and suntan lotion.

“Hey, Miss Banks?”

I look over to see where the voice came from, though I should’ve known it was Diego. The boy asks me the same question every day around this time.

“Yes, you can use the restroom. Please sign out.”

He sets down his pizza, and I go back to making sure nothing crazy is going on with my other twenty-five students. Do I think he’s actually going to the restroom? I don’t know. I do know that he asks to go every day, and I’m pretty sure it’s just because he needs to take a lap and decompress. So I’ll never say no. I get it. Sometimes I need a minute too.

A few of my fellow teachers give me snide looks for giving the kids breaks like that, but I really don’t care. I take that back; maybe in my first year I did. I think every rookie teacher wants to follow the rules, show that they’re the one teacher who’s going to keep every student engaged for every minute of the class block.

I think that lasted one day with me. And today, as I’m closing in on year twelve? It’s out the door.

Kids are different these days. Attention spans are short. Home lives are sometimes rough. Some learn faster and some need more time. And they aren’t the only ones different. So am I. Yes, I still want to make sure every kid leaves my room feeling a little better about themselves. I want them to learn. I want them to love books just as much as I did when I was their age. But I’m also hardened by years of middle school insults, state recommendations that were given by people who’ve never stepped foot in a classroom, and asshole parents who think they know everything because they possess two things: a stick up their ass and audacity.

But with all of that comes knowing how to handle everything. Outside of the classroom, I know which parents to placate by pretending I’m going to take their advice and the ones who truly want to help their children grow. I know which professional developments actually matter. And inside the classroom? I know when to just let the kid pretend to go to the bathroom.

“Miss Banks? What are we doing now?”

I look over to Daniella, one of my more inquisitive students. “Do you mean now or tomorrow since we’re done with testing prep?”

“Tomorrow,” she clarifies.

This gets me excited, and I sit up a little straighter. “We’re starting to read my favorite book,The Westing Game.’’

Every one of my kids looks around in a bit of confusion, probably because they’ve never heard of it. Little do they know I’m about to change their lives.

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a mystery book about a man who is murdered, and when people come together for the reading of his will, they find out it’s a contest. And that’s all I’m going to say because I don’t want to spoil it.”

A little chatter begins with them until Axel, the unspoken leader of the class, speaks up. “You read that with my older sister’s class too. She still talks about it, and she had you three years ago. This is going to be dope.”

Axel’s stamp of approval gets everyone excited, and I just sit back with a smile on my face. Because for the tenth year in a row, my favorite book is coming in to save the day.

I realized around my third year of teaching that April is exhausting. You’re burnt out from testing and you still have a month to go. So, I thought, what better way to make sure that I was excited to come to school than by teaching my favorite book from when I was their age.

Because it’s a mystery, both the boys and girls really get into it. I have a whole lesson on using context clues to try to solve the mystery. But my favorite day is when they find out the ending. Every year they’re floored. That day is always filled with constant conversation, excited eyes, and kids begging to go back and read certain chapters to see the clues they missed.

And if I’m being honest? It’s what’s getting me through these last few weeks. This year has been overly exhausting, both in the classroom and out. Whether it’s waking up to news of another book that’s been banned, or parents questioning what me and the rest of my colleagues are teaching, I feel like every day has been a battle. I’ve never read the word “indoctrination” more than this year. And I’m not just talking about around the country. No, this was personally in our school district due to the group of moms—who might or might not have named themselves with an acronym of a specific male appendage—who have made it their mission to make our lives miserable.

Newsflash: I can’t get these kids to remember to write their names on their papers. I’m not convincing them to make life-altering bodily decisions.

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