... And I'm Never Getting a Job in this District...

Friday was last day of school for my senior students. They were excited, a little nervous, and ever so ready to be done. So, so ready. In fact, my Speech class finished giving their final speeches on Thursday, and asked if I was bringing treats on Friday. And could we eat them outside? If it was nice? Please!? It was their last day! I said sure, and made a mental note to make brownies for my Speech class of 15 teenage boys. Lots of brownies.

Friday rolled around, the brownies were safely stashed behind my desk, and it was nice out- nice enough to grant my gentlemen's wish of going outside for Speech class seventh hour.

Second hour- one of my students brings in hot dog buns and "Mrs. Adrie, could you put these behind your desk, too?" Umm, sure.

Fifth hour- one of my students waltzes in with charcoal and a bottle of lighter fluid. "Mrs. Adrie, where can I put these?" I begin to realize that this whole "going outside and bringing treats" thing has gotten a little out of hand.

Seventh hour- I take attendance of a group of buzzing 18-year-old boys. "We borrowed the FFA grill! Let's go outside!" Oh boy.

They had planned and executed a tail gate party in the parking lot. The grill was going, the hot dogs were sizzling, and they had seriously thought of everything. Napkins, paper plates, condiments, a cooler with cans of Coke sitting in ice. I was, to say the least, very impressed. They can't remember to bring their homework, but this? This they've got down.

The hour winds down, and I've got a class to teach 8th hour. I start them cleaning up, and ask what the shop teacher said about cleaning up the grill.

"Oh, I've got it," says a confident young man. He sounds like he's talked to the shop teacher.  Okay then. He's an adult now, anyways. He can handle it. And the shop teacher wouldn't have let them use the grill if he didn't trust them.

I head back into the building with the majority of the class, say goodbye to my senior students. Eighth hour begins, I start teaching.

One of my daydreaming students, looking out the window, says absentmindedly, "The garbage is on fire."

"What?"

"The dumpster. It's on fire."

"No, it's... Oh. Yes it is."

The dumpster, the big one by the school wood shop, is completely engulfed in flame. I call down to the office to let them know. She makes an all-school announcement that the dumpster is on fire. The students are now plastered against the windows, watching as the custodian douses the flames, looking, as the principal said, "like a Russian orphanage."

All I could think was, "Oh no. The grill." And I was right. The student who so confidently told me he was in charge of caring for the grill apparently shoveled the hot coals into the dumpster for the wood shop, setting wood scraps and sawdust ablaze.

And that's why I'm never getting a job in this district.*




*Just kidding. No one got hurt and nothing was damaged... I still have a chance. Maybe. They just won't ever let me supervise a grill.