Educating Esmé by Esmé Raji Codell

offered a reward over the intercom for the return of my box. Till then, some girls made me a new one from a pencil box. That was nice.
December 17
    We had our Christmas assembly. It was supposed to be an international theme, so I had my kids do a “Cajun Christmas.” I chose a zydeco song, in French, which, translated, goes something like “My darling, my dear, you little flirt, nobody does it like you do.” It had nothing to do with Christmas, but based on the amount of idiocy I’ve contended with, I surmised that nobody would notice.
    I was ambitious in the choreography of the dance routine. It had many complicated parts, but under the threat of death and homework my thirty-one charges learned them meticulously, baring their teeth in a mandatory smile all the way. I’m exaggerating; I know they kind of enjoyed the rehearsals, the anticipation of performance and success. They know I would never let them fail. That’s why they do what I ask, no matter how much they complain.
    I had the children make their own costumes in class. All the boys and some of the girls were going to be alligators from the bayou and would dance with girls in red dresses with poinsettias in their hair. Christmas colors, red and green, get it? Meanwhile, a large, twinkling Christmas tree would sway in the background.
    I gave Vanessa, lolloping and clumsy, the special task of introducing our festive fiasco. The line was, “Here come the good times, Cajun style!,” which she said the first multitude of times as “Here come the good times, Asian style!” This caused me a lot of chagrin, thinking then that people would mistake our alligators for Godzillas. I tried to impress upon her the importance of word choice in this case, to which she suggested I assign another girl to the job. I declined, insisting nobody could do it as well as she could, if only this small detail could be perfected. She sighed and rehearsed, evolving into “Here come the good times, Haitian style!” and then to the correct “Cajun style!” under the mercy of our Maker.
    During practices, the beams beneath the stage, well, I could see them buckling under the weight of 1,500 jumping pounds. I laughed to myself, imaginingthe scene of the entire stage being smashed, children cracking through the plastic floor so ungenerously afforded them, parents shrieking and knocking each other over in the path of rescue, Mr. Turner and his girlish look of terror—the one he gets whenever anyone mentions litigation. I laughed to myself, vowing to roll with the punches, to enjoy all catastrophes upon their arrival either in reality or in my imagination.
    Reality, though, was a success! My class was the most attractive, most festive, most ambitious, most original, and noisiest. They were the most smiling, most intricate, most cooperative. They made me proud. They made themselves proud.
    About fifteen of their parents attended. Some came up afterward, to congratulate them. I received no hellos or merry Christmases. I received no cards from parents and very few from the children. At 1:45 a posse came up to me and demanded angrily, “So, where’s our presents?”
    I have a silly job.

PART II
    â€œThere is no life I know
    to compare with Pure Imagination.
    Living there, you’ll be free,
    if you truly wish to be. “
    â€” Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka
    in
Willy Wonka and the
    Chocolate Factory

January 6
    The time machine! Really, an old refrigerator box covered with aluminum foil, with a flashing police car light rigged at the top and various knobs and keyboards screwed and glue-gunned on. Inside, a comfortable pillow for sitting and a flashlight attached to a curly phone cord. Maya helped me install a bookshelf inside the box with a power drill. She is such a quiet, good girl, the kind present teachers send to fetch coffee and future husbands will send to fetch beer. Of course, she loved driving the screws.
    The idea: time