Bird Noises

BIRD NOISES

The next day I nurse a hangover with burned, bitter teachers’ lounge coffee. The other teachers all seem to know one another and make little effort to incorporate me into their conversations. They ask each other things like “How’s Christine?” and “Did you try the hydrocortisone?”

I don’t try to insert myself. Why bother? I don’t know Christine. I don’t want to know about the hydrocortisone.

I think about Nadia, about how she and I could have been friends if I’d opened myself up to her sooner. But this feels different. These teachers aren’t receptive. They don’t smile. They don’t say “Good morning.” It’s like how some people walk into a house and know that it’s haunted. I know they want nothing to do with me.

Which is fine, I guess, though part of me was expecting to be invited to a book club or margarita Thursdays or whatever. At my old school, I was always invited to teacher things. Trivia nights, karaoke, Frisbee in the park, bottomless brunch. I rarely went, but my coworkers still invited me. There was camaraderie. I didn’t realize it was a special thing.

I’d forgotten the difference between choosing not to participate and being excluded.

I spend the rest of orientation keeping to myself. On the first day of school, teenagers descend upon the hallways like a horde of fast zombies. They grunt and paw at one another; they eat one another’s faces. As a new teacher, I ready myself for the peculiar cruelty of these hormone-addled, angst-driven evil meat sacks. I’m tested in first-period sophomore English when a kid starts to make fart noises every time I turn to face the whiteboard. At first I ignore him, which only encourages him.

Finally, I try sarcasm.

“You know, whoever is making that noise, you might be the funniest person in the whole world. What a hilarious, original gag. So, so funny.”

It silences the class. I’m surprised it works as well as it does.

My two ASL classes are much more pleasant.

But just as I’m feeling the slightest hint of relief, last period is a true nightmare.

A few select students get the idea it’ll be hilarious to make bird noises throughout the class. Unlike first period, they don’t wait until my back is turned. They do it while I’m facing the classroom, going over the syllabus for the first quarter.

I watch them do it. I watch them make the noises. Move their mouths. Too many of them join in. There’s a constant cawing.

Some students look horrified. Others ignore it, too bored to acknowledge.

About halfway through the class, one kid is chirping so loudly and incessantly that I can’t get through a sentence. I don’t think sarcasm will work, and I’m having a hard time not appearing rattled, because I am.

Because they’re making the noises at me. Because of me.

Because they think I look like a bird.

It’s not the first time someone has thought they were clever by linking my last name, Crane, and the fact that I’m tall and gangly and that, apparently, I have a birdlike face. It’s not just my nose. It’s my eyes, too. Round and dark. Guessing my cheeks are another contributing factor.

I was bullied for this for the entirety of my youth. Not in the relentless way that required adult intervention, but enough to instill insecurity, to fuse it to my bones so it’s part of me I can never be rid of.

I rest on my desk, not quite sitting, not quite standing. I cock an eyebrow up and let them chirp away. I decide to say, “I used to teach in New York City. I used to live in Manhattan. You’re suburban kids. You’re wasting your time.”

This shuts a few of them up. They roll their eyes, slump in their chairs.

Several continue to chirp. It becomes more sporadic.

Finally, a girl wearing an oversized T-shirt and Doc Martens yells, “Will you shut the fuck up? God!”

This only encourages them more.

She looks at me. Her eyes are such a pale blue they’re almost transparent. She’s got on smudged dark eyeliner, lip gloss and a scowl.

“No homework tonight,” I say. “You’ll get your first reading assignment tomorrow. You’ll have the weekend to do it. All right, I’m just going to take the rest of the class to go around for names again. I want to make sure I know who’s who.”

This successfully stifles them. I walk desk to desk, asking for names. The first chirper is, naturally, reluctant to tell me who he is. I say, “I’m going to find out eventually.”

A classmate rats him out.

“Chris Bersten!”

I put a tiny checkmark next to his name on my attendance sheet. Somehow, this process feels more humiliating for me. The kids are quiet, but they don’t seem particularly stressed about potential consequences. The bell rings, and they stomp out into the hall.

The girl in the T-shirt and Doc Martens, Madison Thorpe, hangs back. She says, “They’re all animals. I hate this school.”

“All schools are like this,” I say. “It’s fine.”

“Did you really live in the city?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“I’m dying to go there for college. My top choices are Columbia, NYU and Sarah Lawrence.”

“Sarah Lawrence is in Westchester.”

She blinks at me.

“It’s a good school,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says. She hoists her backpack higher on her shoulder. It’s white, dirty, covered in pins. One reads feminism. I see another that reads sylvia plath.

“Well,” I say, “made it through the first day. Bye, Madison. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Miss Crane.”

When she’s gone, I close the door to the classroom and lock it. I gather my papers and shove them into my bag. All I want to do is get out of here. All I want to do is go home.

Home to Manhattan, home to my apartment. Home to Sam.

He used to make me an ice cream sundae on the first day of school. Hot fudge, sprinkles, whipped cream from a can, those maraschino cherries that dye everything red. If the day was hard, if the kids were assholes, I knew I had something to look forward to. Someone to look forward to.

I miss him so much I could scream.

---

—The next day is better, but only slightly. There are no fart noises, but there is a lot of texting and side conversation during class. I say, “I’m not going to take your phones away, but I will fail you.”

I’m not inspiring respect, but I’m not inspiring resentment, either. They’re mainly indifferent to me.

During the final period, there are a few random chirps, but for the most part the class behaves. I assign The Scarlet Letter.

Madison lingers after the bell again. She’s also in my ASL class. She’s more advanced than the other kids in the class, probably because her best friend is Beth, a fellow sophomore who is hard of hearing and signs. Beth wears baby doll dresses and loafers with shiny pennies inside. She has big eyes and a button nose and wears glittery hot pink lipstick. The two of them together look like they’re the stars of a network teen drama.

“I’ve already read The Scarlet Letter,” Madison says.

“What did you think?”

She shrugs. “It was fine. What else should I read? Any recommendations?”

“Whatever you want—just make sure you can participate in class and pass the tests.”

“I will. Bye, Miss Crane. Have a good weekend.”

“Bye, Madison.”

I can’t tell if she’s sucking up for a good grade or if she’s the kind of fifteen-year-old who fancies themselves too mature for everyone else their own age. I wonder if she calls her parents by their first names. I wonder if she drinks her coffee black.

Definitely. She definitely drinks her coffee black.

I know it’s wrong for me to make snap judgments about students, especially the only one who has gone out of their way to be nice and treat me like a human being. It’s a lousy coping mechanism I default to. Being a teacher is hard in ways I can’t explain. Being around teenagers is a particular form of torture. I have so many sets of critical young eyes on me. It’s a constant barrage of judgment. Sometimes it’s too difficult to rise above it.

After school, I stop at the supermarket to buy cartons of ice cream, sugary cereal, a few bags of tortilla chips, hard caramels and a sack of shredded cheese. I go to the self-checkout to avoid the shame of having someone bear witness.

Mr. Frog greets me when I get home.

“Sir,” I say.

This is where I’m at: greeting a ceramic frog.

I climb the stairs up to my apartment. It’s remarkably humid, and when I get to the landing, I have to pause to wipe a bead of sweat before it drips into my eye. I let my head back so the rest of the sweat will recede.

There’s something hanging from the ceiling. It dangles just beyond the lightbulb, over the door.

It’s some kind of plant. Branches. Green leaves. Little white buds.

Mistletoe?

It looks like mistletoe. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. Maybe the previous tenant had it up and left it there?

It’s too hot to linger on the stairs, staring up at this weird mystery plant. I let myself into my apartment and set my groceries down on the kitchen counter. I open the cabinet to get myself a glass. I’m about to fill it when I notice a dark spot haunting the bottom.

A spider.

I give an exaggerated sigh and ask, “What am I going to do about you?”

I know I must imagine it, but I swear, it really looks like he shrugs.