I make another note beside his name. A few months ago Cortez was an unknown. His anonymity changed, however, when he tried out for the basketball team. As a 5-footer, most kids said he had no business even thinking about playing ball. Regardless, Cortez made point guard on the team and holds the record at the school for the most assists, 32, in a game. I overheard his coach say the other day that if it were up to him, Cortez would be captain. Cortez, he said, was the shorter replica of Magic Johnson and was obedient to his coach. I wondered whether we knew the same Cortez.
“Please continue writing your Anne Frank essays, class,” I say, continuing to ignore him.
He’s finally taking off his backpack. Without looking directly at me, he’s reaching into his bag. What did he just pull out? A phone? Ipod? Electronic devices are banned in the classroom. Most if not all the students have gone back to the Anne Frank assignment, but not Cortez. His hands are working feverishly, but I can’t see what he’s doing because his hands are burrowed beneath the desk.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” he says suddenly, standing.
“Class, please remember to take bathroom breaks in between periods, not during class,” I say, finally sitting.
“But I gotta go.”
I hear snickers
“Cortez,” I say, getting up from my chair, “I may be a new substitute, but I know the rules.” Actually, I don’t know all the rules. Having a copy of the Handbook would be useful right now. I bet I could find a copy on Ms. Clarke’s desk. Even more helpful to me now would be seeing a summary of disciplinary procedure that’s posted on the wall of each classroom. On my way, to the teacher’s desk, I could stop by Cortez’s as well to figure out what his mystery device is. At present, Cortez is still on his feet. His head pivots on his neck with the stiff precision of a robot. He’s looking across the room – at everything and everybody except me. When he finally sits and resumes his burrowing, snickers turn to laughter and foot stomping.
“This is a classroom, not a comedy club,” I yell and send saliva flying – luckily – to the floor, next to the desk I’m banging my hand on. As I start walking towards Cortez’s desk. I try to run through the school’s hierarchy of disciplinary rules, but my mind is blank. I sense someone is walking behind me, and I stop suddenly, two desks away from Cortez’s seat. Clarence Brown bumps into my back. He and two other students have been following me the whole time. Before I can send them back to their desks, Clarence has a question.
On my first day of school, I saw Cortez and Clarence wearing blue t-shirts emblazoned with “32 Assists”, a testament to Cortez’s basketball record. For wearing inappropriate school attire, Vera Conklin, one of the assistant principals, gave the pair strikes and threatened detention.
“Miss Constantine, where are you from?”
“Clarence, will you and your friends please take your seats?” I say, taking a deep breath. “Now!”
No spit this time.
The other students obey, but Clarence doesn’t budge. He glances at Cortez, as though awaiting instructions. Cortez is staring at the ceiling. Silence. Clarence hisses and eventually returns to his seat but not before belting out the first line of Bob Marley’s Buffalo Soldier. One more step, and I’m standing directly in front of Cortez.
