A Void of Anticipated Silence

Innately, children have a poor sense of fashion. For years, Vern watched as student after student paraded around proudly in too small t-shirts spotted with the latest fad driven superhero team, sweatpants a shade of brown not completely known to Vern, and dark blue Bills jerseys whose fit better resembled a thigh high skirt than an actual, acceptably sized top.

Occasionally, yes, parents did send their offspring to school in clean polos and fashionably torn pants, but for the large part, Vern’s 4th grade students largely fit the socio-economic stereotype that one would expect from a Walmart patron on a Saturday night.

“Sweaty garbage children” was the term Vern so often used when speaking about his class to his friends and family. And sweaty garbage children they were. The room was beginning to fill to completion with morning kid stink as the bus students had arrived and the last of the early June walkers wafted in.

“Hi Mr. Brinker!” Emma, one of the chief garbage children said with a dirty Poptart-faced smile as she skipped into the room. Emma was adorned in rainbow leggings and a sequined unicorn shirt that inexplicably changed design when someone rubbed their hand over it. Yep, garbage. Vern thought to himself.

It wasn’t that Vern hated his job. He actually quite liked it. He spent summers at his brother’s lakeside cottage in Barry’s Bay, Ontario, hit up Key West and Vegas during Spring and Christmas break, and definitely couldn’t complain about the hours. Vern’s problem wasn’t that he disliked his chosen career. His problem was that he was terrible at it.

He truly held little regard for the success of his students, and as a member of a union that threatened to strike nearly every other month, his job security was about as rock solid as you could get. Each day, he showed up 15-20 minutes late, left the moment his last student’s foot touched the hallway floor, rarely returned parent calls, skipped staff meetings, and really put in the absolute minimum amount of effort possible to get through the 7 hour day.

Vern’s shining moment as a teacher was when the student population voted him the best dressed teacher three years in a row. Vern saw himself as quite the fashionable young man, however, the magnificence of his $800 Brunello Cucenilli shoes and porcelain veneers was lost on the troglodytic identity of the student and faculty population.

His principal, Cindy Holberg, known as Hungry Hungry Holberg to the student population and perhaps a sweaty garbage child alum herself, had at first tried a gentle nudge in the right direction, followed by meaningless reprimands, and eventually to the current situation of placing Vern in the school’s most unwanted and non-air conditioned classroom with the school’s most unwanted group of children in the hopes he would leave on his own accord. Vern was currently on some sort of written improvement plan, but his union rep has assured him that as long as he didn’t physically or emotionally abuse a student, he would be fine.

But Vern, ever the adaptable optimist, took on his new found challenge with the same lack of vigor that accompanied that majority of his life decisions. He showed up. That was all.

Today, with summer break only a few days away, Vern had come to witness an interesting exchange between two of his students.

"It is real!” Maximo explained, clutching an item dangling from a thick black cord that hung loosely around his neck. “Shut up!”

“You’re an idiot,” Julian chorted. “It’s a fake piece of crap.”

At this point, Vern was supposed to intervene with distractions and/or life lessons, but he wanted to see where this was going.

“It came with a certificate!” Maximo yelled. His face seething in anger as white foam bubbled to the sides of his mouth.

“Oooo a fake certificate to go with your fake shark tooth necklace. Woo! “ Julian said as he broke into a slow, loud clap that was marred with the stain of facetious celebration.

Both of Maximo’s fat sweaty hands (yes, he was a member of the cult of sweaty garbage children) were now clenched into tight, fat sweaty fists.

I should do something. Vern thought between sips of praline-topped iced cappuccino that he wasn't allowed to have in class. Soon. I’ll do something soon.

“How much was it Max?” Emma asked brightly. A group of students had now gathered around the arguing pair.

“A lot!” Max replied quickly. “...I think. My dad just came back from a work trip and gave it to me.”

“HA!” Vern laughed loudly, which now turned into a pre-choking coughing fit as bits of iced cappuccino clung to the wrong pipes in his throat.

The class quickly turned to stare at him. “Sorry,” he managed to say between coughs. “Wrong pipe. Carry on.”

Vern, now fully understanding the scope of the argument, thought it was hilarious that Maximo believed his father had given him an actual shark tooth necklace from the mouth of an actual shark. His father clearly forgot to get him anything, must have been in an airport of a city with a heavy nautical theme such as San Diego or Miami, and grabbed it from a cheap display case next to a cash register designed for the purchase of overpriced water and mints.

“You can tell it’s real, feel how hard it is!” Maximo explained, holding his now unclasped fake necklace out.

“How do you know shark teeth are hard? Have you ever felt an actual shark tooth before?” Julian said, now enjoying the attention of his peers.

“It does feel real. I think it's real,” Emma said, rubbing her fingers across the smooth surface of the fake shark tooth.

“Well I think you’re an idiot,” Julian said, leaning back in his chair. The class burst into laughter.

“Alright, alright,” Vern said as he slowly rose to his feet. “Let me see it Max.”

Maximo’s face instantly brightened. Surely a teacher, one of the smartest and most trustworthy people in the eye of a child, would be able to verify the authenticity of his prized possession. He skipped over to Vern’s desk and plopped the item into his teacher’s palm.

Vern held the fake tooth up to the light. It was hard. Harder than any plastic Vern knew of. But it had to be fake. Maximo’s father was known schoolwide for a level of frugality that bordered on the insane. He regularly called the front office to ask for receipts for “learning,” packed Maximo’s lunch with ¼ of a napkin, and had once demanded that the school reimburse him for a pair of socks Maximo left on the bus.

Maximo’s eyes came alive as his teacher continued to turn and examine his prize, ready to spit an epic volume of “I told you so” justice down Julian’s throat. Vern continued to twist the item over in his hand, gauging its weight, peering at it from different angles, determined to discover a clear mark of fraud.

Vern had an idea, but his previously mentioned moniker for this particular group of kids caused him to pause. It’s the only way, he thought. He opened a drawer in his desk and removed a clinically green bottle of disinfectant wipes, extracted a wipe, and gave the might-be-fake shark tooth a thorough cleaning. He then lifted the probably fake shark tooth to his mouth and firmly bit down on it.

A void of anticipated silence had engulfed the room as the class awaited an authenticity verification from their teacher. As Vern’s right incisor drilled down on the target, the void snapped as a soft crack! emerged to take its place. The necklace fell from Vern’s hand and clattered to the floor.

“My necklace!” Maximo cried as he rushed forward to survey the damage. Julian yelped with laughter at Maximo’s predicament. Only Queen Garbage Child Emma was looking at Vern.

“Are you okay Mr. Brinker?” Emma asked with true concern in her voice.

Vern was decidedly not okay. One of his prized veneers had shattered the moment he had bitten down on the very real shark tooth. He ran his finger over the gap where his tooth had been, only to find the ragged shards of its previously proud remains.

“Oh, it's fine!” Maximo squealed, examining his necklace. “Not a scratch on it.”

“Fuck!” Vern screamed. “Max you stupid little ass why did you bring that piece of shit in here in the first place! Emma! Get the fuck away from me!”

The kids froze in horror. Vern was now using his phone’s camera as a selfie mirror, trying to survey the damage. He continued to swear and curse at Max and his incredibly hard and clearly awesome shark tooth. “Fuck, Max, seriously, Fuck you Max. Fat little shit,” he muttered loudly.

“Mr. Brinker!”

Vern turned to see Hungry Hungry Holberg filling up the doorframe of the classroom. She was holding the school’s donated Canon DSLR camera in her hands. Her wide face was blotted with anger.

Shit, he thought. He suddenly remembered an email he glanced at this morning reminding the teachers that the principal would be coming around this morning to take pictures of each class for the end of the year newsletter.

Maximo, originally trying to contain his grief, had now sunken into uncontrollable sobs. Emma walked over to him and rubbed his back.

Julian was still sitting smugly in his seat. He nudged a stunned Emma to get her attention. “My mom said Mr. Brinker only has one strike left until he is canned. You think that’ll do it?”

Ms. Holberg’s original look of anger suddenly melted away and a thick smile took its place. “Mr. Brinker, please see me in my office during your first planning period. I suggest you call your union rep.” She turned with a satisfied waddle and marched out of the room.

Fuck off, Vern thought to himself. Dentist first, then the rep.