Whale Eyes

Dear Time

It’s Tuesday at ten a.m.

Pencils down.

It’s time to practice lying.

But first, you’ll have to do some digging.

You lift the lid of your desk and rest it on the top of your head. In goes the Spider-­Man eraser. It’s time to find the book that Mrs. Surface gave to you last week. She was excited that it would be a “challenge book.”

Searching for it requires a deep desk dive, but you are bound to hear it, because it’s a library book—­meaning it crinkles. That glossy cellophane that they put over hardcovers—­the one that makes every new book look old—­always announces its presence. It also collects the fingerprints and splotches of every first grader who has ever checked it out. Now it’s your turn to add to the collage.

When D.E.A.R. indoctrination began last September, you didn’t mind the alone time. At assembly, they had made it sound abrupt and interesting, almost naughty.

Drop
Everything
And
Read

The same teachers who drew a star on the board next to your name when you helped out by picking up a classmate’s dropped pencil—­and would erase one if you had slammed the kneeling benches in chapel—­were now encouraging you to drop all of your belongings out of a sudden enthusiasm for reading.

Back in September, you were allowed to pick any book off the shelf—­like Bats! or Nobody Listens to Andrew. These books were friendly. Their meaning could be derived as much from the illustrations as the words on the page, so nobody would notice if you spent a half hour admiring the art, like a guest in a museum.

But by late March, you weren’t allowed to look at those books during D.E.A.R. And at best, the new ones would have one illustration per chapter.

It left you in a tough spot. You hated getting in trouble. But not nearly as much as you hated reading.

D.E.A.R.

Each time I gazed upon the acronym written on the whiteboard, I imagined the puzzle of a doe and fawn at my grandmother’s house. The acronym didn’t make much sense, partly because spelling wasn’t my forte. Wouldn’t it have been easier just to write “R.E.A.D.,” which is the same four letters yet provides far more accurate imagery?

And while we’re at it, why not give other subjects an acronym that has barely any relation to the activity? Should we call gym Running Around With Rhythm? What about snack time: Sit At Table And Nibble? Perhaps at a Catholic school, the acronym wouldn’t be appreciated.

Finally, you hear the crinkle. It’s coming from underneath your math workbook. Rummaging complete, you yank it out. The room feels silent. You quietly lower your desk lid and peer over the top. You’re last. Again.

Heads on elbows. Chins on fists. Backs slouched against butterfly cushions. Everyone is reading. How did they get there so fast?

Mrs. Surface is hovering beside you. “Are you ready to get started?” she whispers.

Mrs. Surface always felt more like a friend than a teacher. She had been over to your house, and you to hers. She was always there to catch you when you were about to fall. Most of the time, metaphorically.

“What page are you on?” Mrs. Surface whispers.

“Thirty-­two,” you whisper back, unfurling the book and opening it to a random page somewhere near the front.

Everyone Else Is Reading

You gaze into your book, allowing your eyes to blur, and you begin doing all the things that look like reading but aren’t actually reading.

Head held still, your eyes wander off the page and slink across the floor. You see Logan twitching his foot, his untied shoelace just barely grazing the ground.

Beyond the desk legs, a bookmark has fallen. Probably Caroline’s. The good-­behavior paper chain behind her has almost reached the top of the purple plastic bucket, and is now three or maybe even two links away from the pizza party.

Zach is breathing loudly next to you. He is totally absorbed in his book.

Have you ever watched someone read? Their eyeballs jitter across the page. It’s not smooth like sledding. It actually looks more like hopscotch. Sudden abrupt jumps, both eyes exactly matching.

There’s a lump under your page, and you realize it’s a sunken bookmark—­just a few pages ahead. You jump to that page. At least your bookmark knows where you are. Or where you last gave up.

Clocking In

The key to speeding up the clock during D.E.A.R. is to allow your mind to get lost in a story so rambunctious or a memory so vivid that you forget you’re stuck in a classroom, imprisoned by the silence of your peers’ productivity.

It’s time to let your mind meander. You stare at the tennis balls that have an X sliced in them. Mrs. Surface jammed them onto the end of each chair leg so that your class could slide and glide rather than screech.

Nothing.

Ticking.

A sigh.

Getting your mind going is a lot like watching Dad start his old green Saab on the way to school. It takes a few tries. And the more you let your frustration build, the longer it seems to take for the car to get started.

Back to the classroom.

Daniel is turning the page of his spy novel.

Hayley’s reading about horses.

Mrs. Surface glances up from her desk. Better turn a page.

You think about recess. At ten fifteen, you will line up at the door and start a chant. The whole class will pump their arms back and forth, cheering “L-­E-­T-­S G-­O, Let’s Go, Let’s Go. L-­E-­T-­S G-­O, LETTTTSSSSZZZZ GO!!!”

You chant twice in your head. But then it fades to silence.

Nothing.

Dear Time, please go faster.

You’re still stuck in the room.

You flip another page. Page flipping is key. Spend too much time on a page, and you might catch the teacher’s attention. She might come over and ask you how the book is going or—­worse yet—­quiz your comprehension.

It’s tempting to move your head and stare at the ceiling and walls for inspiration. But to avoid suspicion, you have to keep your head tilted down and pointed toward the book. This severely limits the amount of exploration that your eyes can do.

You look for the teacher’s assistant, who usually sits by the door. She gives you winks throughout the day. And sometimes candy. But she’s not there.

You sneak a glance at Mrs. Surface’s big beige desk. And remember a week earlier, when you crouched behind it and wiggled on a pair of blue jeans for the school play.

You were a sunflower in a dyed, mud-­color shirt, wearing a yellow hat with a crown of felt petals. Your neighbors, the Shears, had shown up to the dress rehearsal to watch you perform. They were the only ones in attendance.

The performance, which lasted the length of a single song, began with you crouched in a ball, head resting against the wood floor with your eyes closed tight. You were a seed. There was a part in the music when the entire class was supposed to sprout up together. The teacher asked if everyone heard the moment when the cymbals clashed. Everyone nodded. You had no idea, but nodding was the easiest option.

You think you hear a light cymbal crash and begin to sprout—­popping your head up from your knees with a big smile. And then you glance to the side to see two rows of your classmates still curled up as seeds.

Too early. Back down you go. The rare case of a plant un-­sprouting.

You try to listen for cymbals, or clashes, or a fourth beat. Perhaps counting will help. Then you hear someone whisper your name: a whisper from the front row as Mrs. Shears notices a missing plant.

You are still able to peek out at the last minute—­when spring is almost over. The last one to grow.

Of course, the Shears still clapped like you gave the best performance. And perhaps it was the most entertaining.

Eight minutes have passed. You got lucky with your classroom seat this month. It faces the clock so you don’t have to contort your body to peek at the time. Better turn the page.

You allow your mind to twist and wander.

And then, seventeen minutes in, you feel a kick on your shin.

It came from one of the desks in your quad, either Forest or Charlie.

It probably wasn’t Charlie. He’s not a kicker.

You flip the page, a subtle way of announcing, Hey, I’m reading here.

Even though it hasn’t been a full two minutes since your last page flip, it has been a while since you gave yourself a short interval. Short pages are your favorite. Sometimes you even read them.
Then, another kick.

It is Forest. Now you’re intrigued.

“James . . . ,” he whispers.

You ignore him, not wanting to get into trouble.

Again, this time louder, “James . . .”

You look up. “What?”

A few classmates peek up from their books. You stare back at him. But he’s not relenting.

“James, your book.”

The kerfuffle has raised eyebrows. Mrs. Surface is walking toward the desk now.

“Is something the matter, boys?” Mrs. Surface asks as she hovers over your shoulder.

“Umm, Mrs. Surface,” Forest announces, his subtle upspeak suggesting he is about to tattle. “James’s book is upside down.”

It’s an abrupt revelation. And you have little time for recovery, since Mrs. Surface is already standing right next to you.

You bring the page into focus. He’s not wrong. The words are upside down.

But the real problem is bigger than that. Not only have you been holding it upside down, but with each carefully timed flip of the page, you have been going backward, closer and closer to the beginning of the book. You told Mrs. Surface that you were starting on page thirty-­two. Now you are on seventeen.

Neither the page number nor the whispers and giggles spreading throughout the classroom seem to matter to Mrs. Surface.

Instead, she crouches down to eye level and catches you in your lie with one simple question: “What happened in your book today?”