donât usually start with the A âs.â
âOh, thaâs cool.â He looked around at the other students. âIâs jusâ lettinâ you know. Thought you mighta forgot.â My new friend smiled, showing a mouthful of white teeth.
I returned to the roll. âRussell Dixon Jr.?â
âYeah.â
A deep voice came from my left. Against the window, front row. Big, broad shoulders. Sitting sideways. Looking out the window. Never looked at me.
âEugene Banks?â
âUh-huh.â
Left side next to the window. Two back from Deep Voice. Looking out the window. Also never looked at me.
âThat was enthusiastic. Marvin Johnson?â
âYo.â It was my alphabetically conscientious friend. Front-and- center and liking it. Smiling. Big ears. Sweatpants. Tall and athletic. Shoes in a tangle.
The contrast between my non-air-conditioned room and his sweatpants room struck me. âYou look like you just rolled out of bed. Arenât you hot?â
âWho, me? Naw.â He waved his hand. âSee, disâ what I wear.â The kid was a walking attitude, an uncrackable nutâor so he hoped.
âAmanda Lovett?â
âYes, sir. Both of us.â A sweet, gentle voice rose from next to the window. Front left, against the window, in between Uh-Huh and Deep Voice, and . . .
âBoth?â
She patted her stomach gently. âJoshua David.â
I admit it, Iâm not proud of my second reactionâthe one that questioned her morals. I thought it before I had time to wish I hadnât thought it, but it didnât last very long.
âJoshua David?â
âYes, sir,â she said again, holding her hand on top of her stomach.
âWell,â I said, recovering, âyou make sure that young man makes it to class on time.â
She broke into an even larger smile that poked two dimples into the sides of her cheeks. âYes, sir.â
Laughter rippled through the room. Somebody against the window said, âYes, sirâ in that mocking tone that kids are so good at. I looked up and waited for him to finish.
âKaitlin Jones?â
âKoy,â a voice from the right rear of the class said quietly.
I looked up at a young woman whose face was nearly covered by a combination of sunglasses and long hair.
âKoy?â
âK-o-y.â
âI could see you better without those sunglasses.â
She half smiled. âProbably.â She didnât move a finger.
Uh-Huh, Deep Voice, and Front-and-Center laughed, but I didnât push it. The first day was not the time to draw lines. I finished the roll, noted the changes and preferred nicknames, and leaned back against the desk. There I was again, in the front of a classroom. Roped in by Maggs and Amos.
âMy name is Dylan Styles.â
Marvin interrupted. âProfessuh, is you a doctuh?â
âI am.â
âSo, we should call you Doctuh?â
I checked my seating chart, although I already knew his name. âMarvin, my students have called me Mr. Styles, Professor Styles, Professor, or Dr. Styles. Do you have a preference?â
My question surprised him. When he saw that I was serious, he said matter-of-factly, âProfessuh.â
âFair enough.â I paused. âMy wife . . .â Bad way to start. â. . . calls . . . me Dylan, but school administrators donât usually like students and teachers operating on a first-name basis. So the rest of you can pick from the list. This is English 202: Research and Writing. If youâre not supposed to be here, you may leave now, or if you donât want to embarrass yourself, just donât come back after class is over. I suppose if you donât want to be here, you can leave too.â
A voice from the back, next to the window, interrupted me. Its owner wore dreadlocks down to his shoulders, and when he had passed my desk on the way in, I was hit by a strong smell of
Tammy Cohen
Tom Bielawski
Ceri A. Lowe
James Swallow
Anna Martin
Wilbur Smith
Steven R. Schirripa
Janice Maynard
Eileen Dreyer
Nancy Holder