The French Invasion

6^th graders are incredibly creative. Teachers learn this immediately—where is your homework? Oh, you were caught in a whirlpool of destruction and it got washed away? A sasquatch took it, mistaking it for a tuna sandwich? Your mom put it in the bottom of your parakeet’s cage? The good thing: as a teacher, you almost never have to hear the same thing twice. Middle-schoolers are all about the variation of a theme.

The girl, for example, who thought it was fun to get her butt stuck in the garbage can one week, thought it would be a good idea to wear it as a hat the next (Note: the "it" in this sentence refers to the garbage can. Not her butt. She was not, I repeat, not using her butt as a hat. Some teachers, however, will beg to differ). School’s changed a lot from when I was a kid if putting a garbage can on your head helps make you the Epitome of Cool. But I digress.

A week or so ago, we were working on painting life-sized sarcophaguses. I was in corner, channeling Annie Oakley. My paints spurted color into trays with dead accuracy. I was a gunslinger of paint, a sharp shooter of pigment. A quick handed color mixer.

Once everyone was set, and my paints were back in their holsters, I moseyed from group to group, checking progress, and making sure paint wasn’t being used inappropriately (as, for example, in the shape of genitalia on another’s arm or face. …Trust me. This sort of thing happens.)

Suddenly, amidst the chatter and laughter I heard a voice. With a French accent.

I turned around, narrowed my eyes. A French accent was something that just didn’t belong in these parts. But the accent, with all its smarminess, stopped. In its place was a burst of laughter. Annie Oakley was good, but this job called for someone else. Someone… sneaky.

I crept across the room, Mission: Impossible theme playing in my head. The source of the laughter wasn’t far. I only had to make it a couple more yards. Carefully…. Carefully…. Aha! There it was again! The accent had returned! In my head, cool laughter echoed. I would get them. They couldn’t pull a fast one on ME! My short stature camouflaged me. My ears picked up the sound of a whisper from across the crowded room. My skin tingled—there was mischief going on. Right here. Right now. I was quieter than a desert night. I was sneakier than a summer breeze. I was Secret Agent 00 Awesome.

Oh, and the consequences would be brilliant. First, I would unleash a terrible weapon—Teacher Look #1. In non-classroom culture, this is simply known as “The Look.” Mothers have it. Persnickety aunts have it. And yes, teachers have it. I would shoot them The Look, that diamond hard expression of disapproval, and they’d stop in their tracks. My face, glacier cold, would freeze them. Laughter would be choked out, and work would ensue. Glorious work. They’d produce masterpieces not unlike the Mona Lisa. They’d wield paintbrushes like conductors wield wands, knights swords. They would work, and it would be grand.

Satisfied with the beginnings of my plan, I crept closer. Feet away now, inches. The French accent ringing in my ears. Not one voice, but many. Three, four, five. The West had been taken over. The French had invaded.

“Wee, wee!” the voice started.

“Gentlemen?” My voice cut through the group, quiet, but unmistakable, like the sound of a wick sizzling. Already The Look was cementing on my face. I was ready. Were they?

Slowly, the group turned around.

MAYDAY! MAYDAY! a panicked voice screamed in my head. OH GOD, MAYDAY! Secret Agent 00 Awesome would like to request immediate backup! What? Super Agents don’t get backup? SHIT! My Look was crumbling! Even worse… a smile was beginning to tug at my lips.

“Yes, mademoiselle?” one said. “Our group eez just feenishing.”

On his face was a clear piece of tape, placed right above his upper lip. Drawn on the tape… a mustache. A thin, ratty mustache, curling at the ends. Another looked like Groucho Marx. Another bore the striking resemblance to a walrus. Another, an unfortunate blonde Hitler.

I felt something in my stomach. A certain tightness. Oh, no. Oh no! It couldn’t be! I had to stop it! It would ruin everything. Retreat, I though. Retreat! But, it was too late. The damage was done. Laughter exploded from my lips; The Look evaporated and turned into a cloud of kindness.

Secret Agent 00 Awesome was dead. And she took The Look with her. In my head a new plan formed. Cool laughter turned maniacal. To penetrate this crowd, I had to think like them. Look like them. Serve as a double agent. Change the ranks from within.

I was no longer 00 Agent Awesome, with all her quiet glamour. Nor was I Annie, sharp-shooting siren. I was Slippery Sam. Counterfeit Carl. Dastardly Duane. Black cape, pinstripe suit, long hair tucked into black top hat. And oh yes. A mustache.