Yesterday

And thus the four became three, before we even met.

Standing at a conference room table, the secretary and I sort out a pile of Mexican papers that represent a new family of students.

"This is what we'd call the last name," I point out, differentiating family name from the appended mother's maiden, explaining the tradition. We agree that we like the way their culture preserves both names for the future, and I give her mental credit for recognizing that foreign ways have value: that's the level we're operating on here.

What would be, in English, a five-minute filing job expands to accommodate my not-quite-proficient Spanish; I want to say, "See what it's like?" But instead I focus on getting the documents matched up and learning what I can of the kids: nineteen year-old sister, 17 year-old brother, 16 year-old brother, each with middling bachillerato and secundaria grades from 2008. I'm unsurprised at the gap but make a note to ask after 2009 when I realize, a beat later, what I'm reading in the last folder, the one for a younger sister.

I go out to the front desk to show what I've found:

"She just turned 14 in December." I'm answered with a half-nod of comprehension. "And this. . ."

"Primary school."

"Right. She finished sixth grade in 2008. She is not a high school kid." Even though she's been trying to register here for a week. They've kept the appointments, filled out the papers, gotten the shots, and now, finally, somebody's noticed.

Given the logistics of squeezing a quartet of newcomers into my schedule, identifying one as a middle schooler is a triumph, or it should feel like one: one fewer schedule, one fewer desk, one less everything. A 25 percent-off sale. But it's also sending this girl across town to a teacher with 10 days' experience, and it's explaining to this family why suddenly this is the wrong school. For a split-second, it feels easier to skip her ahead.

But instead I close the folder and leave the secretary to her phone calls. I'll be back in the morning, to enroll and explain and do whatever I do. I am the teacher, technically. And yet.