On Listening to Your Teacher Take Attendance

Breathe deep even if it means you wrinkle your nose from the fake-lemon antiseptic of the mopped floors and wiped-down doorknobs. The freshly soaped necks and armpits. Your teacher means well, even if he butchers your name like he has a bloody sausage casing stuck between his teeth, handprints on his white, sloppy apron. And when everyone turns around to check out your face, no need to fush red and warm. Just picture all the eyes as if your classroom is one big scallop with its dozens of icy blues and you will remember that winter your family took you to the China Sea and you sank your face in it to gaze at baby clams and sea stars the size of your outstretched hand. And when all those necks start to crane, try not to forget someone once lathered their bodies, once patted them dry with a fluffy towel after a bath, set out their clothes for the first day of school. Think of their pencil cases from third grade, full of sharp pencils, a pink pearl eraser. Think of their handheld pencil sharpener and its tiny blade.