"Ok kids, gather 'round on the rug, criss-cross applesauce. I've got yesterday's test to give back"
A wave of relief rushes over me; I have been worried about that test since we began learning fractions last week. First grade seemed way too early to start fractions. We were told of the test Friday, and I acted sick all weekend, even going as far as placing the thermometer in the toaster to warm it up before mom came to read it. My tongue still burns. But it was all worth it; I stayed home Monday, and successfully avoided the test.
Mr. Silverman, our math teacher, sat in his chair besides a colorful rug. He had a long beak-like nose and sharp cheek bones, which reminded the students of various Disney villians. His hair was streaked with silver, which I thought was where he got the name 'Silverman'. His long, boney fingers flipped through papers; he made no real effort in hiding the children's grades, and I could see red marks all over the papers, as kid's faces turn equally red when they see their grades. Hushed voices begin to spur among the kids sitting on the ground, trying to understand what went wrong.
"QUIET!" Silverman barks, and the students turn silent once again.
He finishes passing back the papers, when he notices me without papers. "March! You missed the test yesterday."
I realized I was not slick enough to simply skip the test, "uhhh.. I-I can make it up later."
"No, we're going over the test now." He takes a sheet from a stack of papers on his desk and holds it out, "Don't worry, it's not hard." His remarks hit like venom and fear begins to churn in the pit of my stomach.
I get up and carfully walk past the students sitting on the ground - whenever we weren't writing at our desks, we were always sitting on the ground in Mr. Silverman's classroom. I take the paper from his outstretched hands, his smile is devious and sends chills down my spine, "And hurry up, we're all waiting on you to finish."
I go to my desk, hands sweating as I grip my pencil tight. Though my back is to them, I can feel the entire class is watching my every scribble; unable to so much as mutter a sound, they have nothing better to do than watch my furiously erase answers and write new ones, blowing eraser dust off my paper and covering the surrounding desk.
I hear an exasperated sigh from the teacher.
Prodded to finish, I made a final guess and ran my test to the teacher, sweat dripping down my chubby face. Finally, the worst is over. I go to sit in my spot on the floor.
"Hold on," he says, putting a hand up, "stay right here, I'll grade it right now."
My heart drops as I'm standing in front of the teacher and the entire class, as he's talking to himself out loud, "Number one, half points off.... number three is wrong... Number four, wrong" as he roughly slashes through the questions with his red pen. I close my eyes, pretending to be anywhere but here.
"Ah! The last question was a bonus freebie question, and you got it wrong." He slaps the paper, "This is what happens when you don't take your time! I'll give you one chance to correct it right now though."
The kids are gone now, the classroom fades to black. There is no colorful rug or bare bookcase, there are no desks covered in little eraser bits. It was just me, and Mr. Silverman. Could things possibly get any worse?
"6 minus 20."
My fingers are at my sides, my eyes are glued on my paper that he is still holding in his hands. I tap my fingers on the sides of my thighs - I'm counting up from 6 to 20, how I had always 'subtracted'. I can see his eyes narrow with disgust, a scowl appears on his face as he pulls his lips back.
"What are you doing?"
Five, ten, plus three, thirteen, negative thirteen.
"Is it... negative thirteen?" I ask with the confidence of an injured sparrow.
"Are you asking me, or is that your answer?" He asks rhetorically.
"I-it's my answer." I replied even more meekly than before.
"Well," He says, handing me back my paper, "It's wrong! This is what happens when you rush, kids. Cassie, what is the answer?"
With no great satisfaction, Cassie, dutifully replies "Negative fourteen, Mr. Silverman."
"That is correct." He hands my paper back to me, "Now lets go over the rest." I go to sit back down after a gauntlet that tested my ability to not cry in front of the class, when Mr. Silverman added, "Next time March, maybe don't miss the test."
Our classrooms were set up so that two classrooms would switch teachers for math and science. Mr. Silverman wasn't my main teacher, but he was my math teacher. My main teacher was the science teacher, Ms. Goodman. Ms. Goodman and Mr. Silverman were night and day - Nobody, not even Mr. Silverman's class, liked Mr. Silverman.
So when Ms. Goodman had to leave the classroom unattended, and came back to tell us we'd be going back to Mr. Silverman's class, the entire class groaned.
"Awww why? We were just there!" One kid cried out.
"Yeah, and March nearly cried once already in his class!"
"I did NOT!" I argued.
"You almost did!" The same kid refuted.
"STOP!" Ms. Goodman lost her temper, the first time I've seen her actually upset. "Just, stop." She ran her hands through her hair, trying to hide the worry from her face. "Just go to next door and don't fight me on this."
A little taken aback, the students filed into Mr. Silverman's class once again; the rug was quite crowded with both Mr. Silverman's class and Ms. Goodman's class squeezing in on the square, many kids had to sit on the cold linoleum. There was a clear dichotomy between the two classrooms; Ms. Goodman's class was hyped up from this change of pace and busily talking to each other and their friends in Mr. Silverman's class, but Mr. Silverman's class was much more disciplined and kept hushed tones, talking infrequently.
Mr. Silverman rolls a T.V. cart into the room. The class grows silent at his appearance. He clicks it on without a word. Suddenly the footage switches to one of the buildings filling with black smoke billowing out of it. Kids gasp, some shriek. Mr. Silverman quickly quiets them down.
"Keep watching." Mr. Silverman instructed.
My mouth is gaped as I process what I saw - Is this a movie? Are we watching a show? I hear someone mutter that this is the new Ghostbusters. We stared at the screen, not wanting to upset the often malcontent old man. But our attention spans as 6 year olds were being pushed to the test.
Without warning, Mr. Silverman snaps his fingers - the moment he does so, a plane flies into the intact building. The classroom is filled with screams, kids begin to sob. Mr. Silverman interrupts before the children got too out of hand -
"Did you see what happened?" The room grows quieter, though not silent as the sounds of stifled crying and sniffling fill the room. He gives the room a cold stare, pointing at the television set, "I did that."
I couldn't help but notice Mr. Silverman allowed the children to grow louder again, crying and shouting while the two buildings burning up in smoke continued to play on T.V.
"Is that here?" One girl asks to no one in particular.
"I think my mom works there!" A kid sputters out between sobbing.
"Did those people get hurt?" Another cries out, "Are they going to be ok?"
A strong debate is going on whether it is real or if it is a movie. Kids asking one another if we were going to be okay. Confused children tearfully crying for their family which may or may not be in the city. I was among the wide-eyed and silent group, with a nagging thought that our math teacher caused this, one way or another.
I see the news logo at the corner... a reel scrolling at the bottom; "Plane Crash"... "Manhattan"... I have family that lives in Manhattan. I hear the news reporter say, in a less than stoic voice, 'First responders... Police... Firefighters on the scene'.
Firefighters! Of course, there's a fire! My father is a fire fighter. Is he there right now? Is he going to be coming home tonight?
Reluctant tears start rolling down my cheeks.
We were all evacuated like a fire drill, but without the deafening noise. Normally in fire drills, we stand outside in the field in single-file lines and are supposed to be silent. But the teachers have seemed to given up on that, as kids began to walk around the field freely, talking to friends and adults alike. Even Mr. Silverman didn't bother to keep control of his class. We weren't allowed to bring anything with us - poor hindsight considering there was no shade in the field and we were outside of the school for the rest of the day, about 5 hours.
Rumors spread like wildfire; everyone knew about the planes crashing into the buildings. Kids were saying they heard the adults say we were at war. The bad guys were attacking us, and they're targeting the state of New York.
"Ms. Goodman" Cassy whined, "Why can't we go back inside? I'm thirsty!"
Ms. Goodman, appearing a bit more put together, calmly replied "It's safer out here, honey."
"No it's not!" I challenged, "If they fly planes into the school, everyone near it is going to die too!"
"And if there was an explosion," Cassy added, "The bricks would fly out and hit us! What are the chances we would survive a brick to the face?"
Suddenly, the stress and anxiety of a math exam seemed trivial as Cassy and I discussed what we thought it would be like when we died.
"I think it'll be like winter, but without the cold." I told her.
She thought for a second before adding her input, "I think it will be a lot like before we were born. I don't remember what that was like, though."
Ms. Goodman's resolve was short-lived, and she turned away from us without another word. Although Cassy and I were light-hearted in our concerns, they were not simply in jest. We could only keep ourselves occupied by games of telephone for so long in the face of real danger. For hours, the students have been discussing what good it would do for us to be out in an open field with no cover, 50 yards away from a brick building. Although we joked about it, we were also coming to terms with it. We were accepting the possibility of death, and the concept that even we could die.
Cassy and I discussed what we thought it would be like when we died.
"I think Heaven will be like winter, but without the cold." I told her.
She thought for a second before adding her input, "I think it will be a lot like before we were born. I don't remember what that was like, though."
Suddenly, the stress and anxiety of a math exam seemed trivial
It took a while to get home that day; busses still had to run at normal times due to the school districts sharing bus drivers. When I got home, I was relieved to see the rest of my family; even my father was there. I was so worried about my own mortality, for a while I had forgotten about my parents and siblings. But seeing my family reminded me of someone;
"Mom," I asked, "Is cousin Steve ok?"
She paused a minute, "I'm sure he's fine."
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