Mr. Levy looks up from his desk when I knock on his door, gives me a warm smile, and bids me to come in. I look around nervously; for some reason I haven’t ever understood, elementary schools creep me out. Still, the room itself is comfortable and colorful, and Mr. Levy is enthusiastic and animated. Scattered among the usual posters that recommend reading and advise against drug use, there’s a bunch of signs that read, “PTYYWEM,” which, Mr. Levy explains, means “Please-Thank-You-You’re-Welcome-Excuse-Me”. This is his “personal code of conduct” for his students, who as we spoke, were lining up on the recess area, in preparation to march back to the second half of their school day. The next topic would be Math ("I have the smart kids for Math", Levy explained), followed by Spelling, and the day would wrap up with History.
	I hid in the back of the room as the single-file stream of children trickled through the door. I was hoping they just wouldn't notice me, but that wasn't very realistic, since they had to walk right past me. I tried to look official with my tie and notebook, but I knew I was a fraud, and I imagine these kids knew better, too. The guy taking notes in the back is just a dirty hippie in disguise, and his very presence will likely be so distracting that no learning will go on today, which will no doubt result in a stern repremand, if not a suspension, for Mr. Levy. Elementary schools creep me out.
	While everyone got settled, one of the children reaffirmed my neurotic fantasy; this small boy comes over to me and says, "Alyssa thinks you're scary." I looked over at the girl on the other side of the room that he pointed out; I think she was more embarrassed about being identified than I was. I assured them both that I was completely harmless, and he went back to his seat.
	Math starts.
	Mr. Levy loves teaching Math, and it shows. The children are very competent for their level, and keep pace very well. The kids are in the last stretches before days and days of standardized testing, so it is time to cram every little thing they might need to know into their heads, just in case it needs to be codified on a scantron sheet. No one, teacher or student, seems too concerned. Perimeter and surface area is covered. Perimeter is easy; just add up the lengths of an objects's sides. The kids breeze through a triangle and a rectangle, but when Mr. Levy starts to draw what he calls a "Googlehedron", the boy who came up to me earlier sticks his hand in the air, offering to distribute calculators. Mr. Levy says, "go ahead, Kevin," and he's off like lightning to a cabinet where he retrieves a case of calculators, and hands them out around the room. Eventually someone manages to crunch all the numbers needed for the Googlehedron, and Mr. Levy moves on to area. Figuring a rectangle's area is easy (length-times-width). Figuring a triangle is a bit harder (half-base-times-height). Figuring a circle (pi-r-squared), and while the kids knew that Pi is 3.14-something, they weren't willing to go further without a calculator to finish off that multiplication. Several hands shoot up, and Kevin is exposed; he didn't give out calculators to a good half of the room. This isn't a big deal, and he gets up, gets a second case of calculators, and distributes them. I wonder to myself if that was an intentional oversight on Kevin's part.
	Area calculation continues. Math ends. Some kids go back to their normal classrooms, the rest, already being there, stay put. Kevin collects the calculators without prompting. Spelling starts.
	Mr. Levy writes "HOMOPHONE" on the board, and asks what it means. I scan the crowd for giggles at the use of the prefix, and am surprised to not see any. I start to wonder if I'm the least mature person in the room for having thought of it in the first place.
	This week's spelling list features a bunch of homophones, or words that have identical phonetics but different spellings. As the lesson goes on, Mr. Levy asks if he can pick on someone. Lots of excited hands hit the ceiling. Kevin gets called on the first time Mr. Levy does this.
	"Are you sure I can pick on you? Last chance. We have all these witnesses..."
	Kevin agrees, and Mr. Levy gives the next word for the list: "wear," to match the previous "where". The students wait patiently for Mr. Levy to use it in a sentence.
	"Should Kevin wear his red or green dress to the party?"
	The crowd laughs while I decide if I should be horrified. Kevin laughs too, and offers, "I think the pink one would be best!" I decide not to be horrified.
	Other students get the used-in-a-sentence treatment as the list is spelled out.
	Spelling ends. History starts.
	The War of 1812 is covered. The children are horrified to learn that the British actually burned down the White House, and the corollation is made to the World Trade Center. Andrew Jackson goes on to slaughter 2,000 British troops two weeks after a treaty was signed ("The Biggest Whoops in American History", as Mr. Levy calls it. I wonder if that trivializes the Bay of Pigs invasion), effectively ending the land war physically after it was over politically.
	Kevin raises his hand and asks, "So wait...we were losing the war, and we signed a treaty to end the war, but we killed all the British anyhow. So did we win or not?"
	"'We' being America? Kinda, not really, I mean no one really won, since there was a treaty signed, but I guess technically you could say so."
	The class literally cheers. I wonder to myself if encouraging this mentality is why we have a correllation with the World Trade Center to talk about.
	That was the last question of the day, as the bell warmed up to ring. Last minute daily upkeep is performed, homework assignments are issued, and with a "have a great day!" we are gone.
	I should say something profound about Kevin at this point, since he inadvertently volunteered to be my subject, but there isn't much to say. He was one of the more active participants in the class, but that isn't saying much. He wasn't a problem child, nor was he particularly disruptive. He didn't seem bored, or hyperactive, or unchallenged, etc. I picked him because he seems to seek attention more than the usual child, hence him approaching me, and volunteering to get the calculators, and volunteering for potential embarrassment. I'd be curious to see him in junior high, when a few years of ridicule has taught him to believe that everyone's looking at him and, no, it's not a nice feeling. For now, though, I suppose it's nice to have students that are eager to participate and aren't afraid to seem interested or intelligent. It's disconcerting, though. I wonder if this is why elementary schools give me the creeps.