The bell rings and I double-bang on the propped open bathroom door. 

“Class,” I yell down the painted concrete. The boys stream out, clipping my shoulder in the narrow hallway.

I walk in, look for stragglers. A milk chocolate carton rests in the sink. The air smells like blue raspberry. A jittery kid shakes his hands free of water and shoots past me. 

A group of four is circled up, surrounded by urinals, peering into the maw of a black JanSport backpack. A trickle of soft laughter, of awe.

They see me. Three of them smile, like they feel bad, and leave in silence. I wish they’d kept their conversation going. Fear rises, heavy as mercury.

The one that remains holds his backpack in front of him, top zipped open. He wears Crocs and XL SpongeBob sweatpants. Too big. His hair is too short, facial hair too long. No idea who he’s supposed to be.

Any way to die is a stupid way. Everything in school is stupefied. We walk around being stupid at each other and then the year ends and people hug and cry. I prefer working at different schools so that familiarity never curdles to fondness. 

My mind tends to jump ahead. I slow down.

“What are we doing?” I ask.

He stares at the drain clogged with candy wrappers. He shakes his head, which I don’t like, because he’s answering a different question than I asked.

I want to tell him I’m a substitute paraprofessional and you never have to see me again.

I want to tell him I make $14.75 an hour and they make me clock out for lunch and I promise I hate everyone here more than you do.

I tell him, “The bell rang.”

“Why did you come in the bathroom?” His voice is summer smog. 

My heart feels gunked up, feet prickly.

When I signed up for this substitute staffing service, I had mandatory training. I disarmed a 64-year-old woman named Nancy who was wielding a pencil. When I pulled her arm over her shoulder blade, she winced and said ow, so I apologized and just pretended the next time. 

“I’ll let you finish up in here,” I tell him. 

He stares at me, surprised, eyebrows pinching in. He’s so young, acne-pocked along his jawline and downy hair on his cheeks. It’s the youth that’s terrifying. If only he were a few years older. I remember how young I am too, how young I feel. I can’t remember the name of this school.

He moves his right hand to zip the bag or reach in it. His hand shakes like mine and I raise it to show him.