“So, how was your first day?” my roommate, Michelle, asks.

“Ugh. They are fierce. You don’t ever get a break. I mean, I can’t leave the room to pee. And I mean it.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, I’m serious. And I have this one little girl, English, who is a … I’m not quite sure how to describe her. She told the boys she could take every one of them down.”

Michelle spits out her wine. “No shit!”

“Yes, shit. And what do you say to that? Booyah? I wanted to die laughing, but I couldn’t.”

“That’s epic.”

I rub my eyes because my contacts are stinging like fire. “I hope I don’t let these kids down.” The memory of what my teachers did for me, and the quest for constant discovery of new ideas they instilled in me makes me want to be the very best at what I do. Suddenly, I have giant doubts over my abilities.

“What’s that look for?” Michelle knows me too well.

“Nothing.”

She points a finger at me. “Nothing my rear end. I know you better than you know yourself.”

“It’s just I never want to let my students down.”

“You won’t. And do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you are the most caring person I know. That’s why. Now stop worrying.”

It’s easy to care about others when you don’t have anyone who cares about you. Well, almost anyone. Michelle cares. A boatload. Unless she has a new boyfriend, and then she gets boy obsessed.

“Now what are you thinking about?”

I look her square in the eye and speak the truth. “How nice it would be to tell my mom and dad about my first day as a teacher.”

“Yeah, and they would be so proud of you, Sheridan. You have to know that, right?”

She’s right. I do know that. But the fact remains that they’re gone, and they’re no longer here to talk to or to tell things to anymore. Or to bounce ideas off of or to ask them for advice. Or to run home to when I just plain and simple need a hug. It’s not easy being alone. Not that I want to complain, because honestly, it doesn’t do any good, and it sure as hell won’t bring either of them back.

“Don’t be sad, Sher. This is what you’ve worked so hard for. And you’re going to be the teacher that every kid remembers and every parent praises.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

The next morning, my little army of ants marches in. Once they’re seated, I ask for their homework from the day before. For the most part, with the exception of a few minor squabbles, the day is going remarkably well. I even hand out my treats from the previous day, since everyone is behaving so admirably. Our mid-morning snack time arrives and time for the brief rest period. Soon it’s lunchtime, and I breathe a sigh, desperate for a break. The cafeteria monitors take over, and since I’m not a monitor this week, I head to the teachers’ lounge to eat.

“How’s it going, Sheridan?” I look over my shoulder to see Susan, the principal, behind me.

“Whew, those little buggers can wear you out, can’t they?”

She laughs and says, “You bet. They are relentless. Any problems so far?”

“None. They seem to be a bright bunch.”

“Yeah, their test scores indicated that. I think you’ll have a challenging year, though, because of it.”

“As long as they love to learn, I’m good with that.”

“Sheridan, the trick is getting that love to stick with them.”

“I know. And that’s my goal. Make learning fun and interesting.”

The room fills as other teachers trickle in, and someone pulls Susan away. She’s been wonderful so far, and I hope she continues to be the kind of principal who will support my classroom decisions. Right now, I get great vibes from her. Let’s hope it continues that way.

I finish up my lunch and make my way back to the classroom. On my way there, I stick my head inside the cafeteria to see how my students are acting. I see the usual of hands grabbing each other’s food, but everything seems fine.

After lunch, we sail through our math and science exercises, and toward the end of the day, I decide to play a game.

“How about we have some fun? Who wants to play a game?”

They all get excited and jump out of their seats. In the corner of the room, I have a chair I use for story time, so I have them move there and I bring the big alphabet chart.

“Let’s all say the ABC’s.” And they do. When they finish, we start the game. “Okay, who can name something that starts with an A?”

Everything is great until we get to the letter V. That seems to be giving them trouble until English raises her hand and yells out, “I know, I know. Vagina!”

Twenty-one sets of curious eyes laser in on her, and when she doodles around like everything is perfectly normal, they focus on me. But before I can speak, English blurts out, “You know,” and her thumb jabs down in the direction of said vagina. It’s like twenty-one heads watching a tennis match. They look at her, then me. I’ve become mute; all capability to speak has been stripped away. I was told to expect the unexpected, but this takes it to a completely new level.

And then … English adds the cake topper. “You know, it’s where the penis goes.”

For the love of everything, why me? It quickly rolls downhill from there. Robert shoves his hands into his pockets and stares right at English’s crotch. I know exactly what he’s thinking, and I know I need a quick change of topic, but as soon as I open my mouth, Millicent shouts out, “My little brother has a penis. He had an operation on it when he was born, and my mom had to clean it every day.” And then she giggles. “When he pee-pees, it shoots up in the air if Mommy forgets to put a diaper on it.”

English adds, “I don’t have a baby brother. Only my daddy. I’m sure his penis is big, though, because my daddy is big.”

“Okay, everyone, who can think of something that starts with the letter W?”

“Miss Monroe, why is your face so red?”

Because we’re talking about penises and vaginas, for the love of God. “Hmm, I guess it’s a bit warm in here. So, who wants to take a try at the letter W?”

I could barely pay attention due to the debacle that occurred. I pray none of the kids go home and recount what happened. Oh my God. What if they do? Susan will kill me. I vaguely hear one of them say the word whale.

“Miss Monroe? Do whales have penises?” Now even the boys want to know.

“Okay, great. Whale is a good word. Now what about X? That’s a tough one,” I say enthusiastically.

“X-rated,” English screams, jumps up and down, and claps her hands. What kind of house does this child live in? I don’t even know what to say to this.

“That’s not quite a word, English. Can we choose another?”

Miguel hollers, “X-ray!”

Whew. “Very good, Miguel.”

I can see I’ve hurt English’s feelings, but I’m not sure what to do. Maybe she’ll get the final letter. “And anyone for the letter Z?”

About five students yell, “Zebra!” Most of the kids are laughing, but not English. Her blond curls dangle as her chin touches her chest.

“Very good, class, and just for being such excellent participants, I have a surprise for all of you.” I hand out some homemade chocolate chip cookies to each student.

When I get to English, she mutters, “No, thank you.”

“Why don’t you take it home then, and maybe you can have it later?” It sits on her desk, and she looks terribly forlorn. My tone must’ve been harsher than I thought. I’ll have to take care with her. She must be really sensitive.

The bell rings, signaling the end of class, and the kids all line up to make the march down the hall. Susan runs a tight ship, which is a good thing. I watch the students as they run to their respective cars or buses, but English seems so sad. I can’t stop thinking about her. And it lasts all night.