The Life List by Lori Nelson Spielman Page B

youngsters.”
    “Nice.”
    “Mrs. Porter went into labor early this morning, three weeks earlier than expected. Unless it’s a false start, she’ll be out the nextsix weeks. Are you available to substitute long-term should we need you?”
    My breath catches. “Uh, let me think …”
    Six weeks? That’s thirty days! My temples throb. Atop a set of double doors at the end of the hall, I see a bright red EXIT sign. I’m tempted to make a dash for it, never to return. But I think of that girl’s list. If I serve my time for the next six weeks, I can achieve goal number twenty. Even Brad would agree I gave it a fair shot. I think of my mother’s—or rather, Eleanor Roosevelt’s—words. “Do something every day that scares you.”
    “Yes,” I say, peeling my eyes from the EXIT sign. “I am available.”
    “Terrific,” she says. “It’s not easy to find substitutes for this building.”
    A mixture of panic and regret runs through my every nerve fiber. What the hell have I committed to? Mrs. Bailey unlocks the door and finds the light switch.
    “You’ll find lesson plans on Mrs. Porter’s desk. If there’s anything else you need, just ask.” She gives me a thumbs-up before she pivots, and I’m left alone in my classroom.
    I breathe in the scent of dust and musty old books, and gaze at a pasture of wooden desks. An old but familiar fantasy washes over me. For the first twenty years of my life, I dreamed of teaching in a classroom just like this.
    The shrill sound of a school bell rings out, knocking me from my reverie. My eyes shoot to the clock above the chalkboard. Oh, dear God! School’s about to start.
    I rush to Mrs. Porter’s desk and search for lesson plans. I lift the attendance book and scramble through a stack of worksheets, but find no lesson plans. I yank open the desk drawer. Nothing. I plow through the wooden cabinet. Still nothing! Where the hell are my lesson plans?
    From down the hall I hear the rumble of an army stampedingtoward the classroom. My heart races and I snatch a file folder from a metal basket. The loose papers spill onto the floor. Damn! I catch a glimpse of LESSON  … before it cascades to the floor and lands upside down under my desk. My lesson plan. Thank you, Lord!
    The army is closer now. My hands tremble as I gather the fallen papers. I’ve retrieved most of them, except the most important one, the lesson plan wedged under Mrs. Porter’s desk. On my hands and knees, I crawl toward it, desperate to retrieve it. But it’s too far back. That’s when my students arrive, my hindquarters providing the first impression of their substitute teacher.
    “Nice ass,” I hear somebody say, followed by hearty laughter all around.
    I pull myself from under the desk and smooth down my slacks. “Good morning, boys and girls.” I raise my voice so I can be heard over the morning chatter. “I’m Ms. Bohlinger. Mrs. Porter isn’t here today.”
    “Cool!” a freckled redhead says. “Hey everyone. We got a sub today! Sit anywhere you want.” Like in a game of musical chairs, my students leap from their desks and fight to capture a new seat.
    “Back to your own desks! Now!” But my words are swallowed by the chaos. It’s only eight twenty and I’ve already lost control of my classroom. I turn my attention to the back of the room where a girl with Medusa braids screams at a brown-skinned boy who looks to be about twenty.
    “Stop it, Tyson!”
    Tyson twirls while pulling her bright pink scarf, winding it around his waist tighter and tighter.
    “Give me my fucking scarf!” Medusa says.
    I march over to them. “Give her the scarf, please.” I reach for it, but he shimmies from me and continues to spin in circles, stretching the scarf like he’s pulling taffy. “C’mon now. Pink’s not even your color.”
    “Yeah,” the freckled boy shouts from across the room. “Whatcha want with a pink scarf, Ty? You gay or something?”
    Tyson springs to life. He’s almost as