Page 6 of Best Frenemies

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 inRisky 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—alwayscomes 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 throughhis opendoorto 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 inBigsituation.

I sigh as Mack jogs my way, his cheesy smile aging so much it might as well be cheddar from Wisconsin. He holds up a hand to his class, tossing a pair of cymbals to the boy behind him just beforehand, remarking, “Make yourselves busy, guys. I’ll be right back.”

His ruffled hair bounces as he quickly closes the last few feet between us, and I have to actively work not to roll my eyes. Him telling his class to work without him is an absolute joke—the man doesn’t have them work while he’s there.

“What can I do for you, Katy?” he asks informally as he guides us into the hall. Once we’re there, his laid-back approach to everything never wavers as he leans against the wall and crosses his khaki-pant-clad legs at the ankle. Black Chuck Taylors stick out from the bottom of his pants.

“Do you have any idea how loud your class is being right now?” I question back.

He tilts his head to the side, and a smirk crests one corner of his mouth. “Well, that depends. What kind of scale are we working with? Decibels? Hertz?”

I shake my head in frustration. I don’t have time for him to be playful. The period feels like it’s already half over, and I have zero time to waste. “We’re trying to take a test next door. A little deference to my students would be nice.”

“A test?” he retorts with a laugh. “On the Friday before spring break?” He shakes his head. “I think I found your first mistake, Katy Cat.”

Katy Cat?Sheesh. If I had a nickel for every time this guy has made me roll my eyes, I’d be a lot richer than I am right now. As it is, all I can look forward to is the upcoming week of vacation which, thankfully, includes seven whole dayswithouthis classroom making my ears bleed and my nerves frazzle.

Just get through today, Katy. Just get through today, and then it’s rest and relaxation time.

“Can you keep the volume down or not?” I ask, cutting straight to the point.

“Sure,” he agrees easily enough, drawing a wrinkle of suspicion between my eyebrows. “We were just about to head out to the rooftop terrace for our first water balloon fight of the year anyway.”

Water balloon fight? Is he for real?

It’s situations like this that make me wonder how he’s still drawing a paycheck as a flipping educator. I get the motivation to keep learning fun for your students, but his version of mixing fun and education is on another level. A level that always appears to include very little educating.

“What exactly do water balloons have to do with music?”

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