Turning, she flaps a hand at Clayton. “You may go, little boy.” She calls them all little boy or little girl. Either she can't tell them apart or she forgets their names. Rumor has her retiring soon; I wish she'd been shunted out to pasture ages ago.

        Lizzie and Garth's heads lie on their crossed forearms on their desks in the third grade classroom. From the doorway, Regina hikes up her shorts and takes in the scene with beady-eyed curiosity. Clayton cowers, no doubt fearful that Regina will violate some rule.
        Miss McKay addresses Marsha and me. Covertly, I observe the two criminals. Lizzie's head lifts an inch, a hand reaches up to retrieve a barrette; she spits a wad of something onto it. Whrsst! Garth gets it in the neck! Grinning widely, Garth whips a fat plastic straw from his sleeve and retaliates with a wad of his own. Lizzie abandons all caution and kneels to reload. Miss McKay stands at that moment and gets it right in the beehive. Regina is the only one to laugh aloud.

        Sandwiched in the back, Clayton looks pale, lost. “Goody-good!” Garth sings out. “Two whole days vacation!”
        “Suspension, son,” Marsha corrects dryly, eying her son in the rearview mirror.
        “Who cares?” He bounces on the seat. “I do,” Marsha responds.
        Lizzie says she hates Miss McKay. Shifting Regina, I turn. “But why, Liz?”
        “She makes us read those stupid baby workbooks,” and Garth overlaps, “And then we get test-es and have to read 'em all over again to write down the page numbers where we find our answers.”
        Lizzie meanly imitates. “'Be specific as to the lion and page number of your responses.'”
        “So? What's wrong with that?” I ask.
        “BO-ring!” Liz and Garth chorus as Marsha pulls into the drive.

        Like most of our peers back then, Will and I have an unspoken division of marital labor. His responsibilities come under the heading: FAMILY'S PHYSICAL SAFETY. Mine span the emotional. He usually goes along with whatever I decree as far as the kids are concerned, but one night as I bitch about the latest atrocities committed by our kids' teachers, Will abruptly shoves away from the table and clicks on the TV. Stooping to unlace his construction boots, he says, “You always make such a big deal out a everything. The teachers probably think you're the pain in the neck, and they're taking it out on the kids.” He unbuckles his Oshkosh overalls and steps out of them. “Jeez! We went to schools like that — maybe even stricter — and we came out okay.”

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