The class was tenth grade English. We were discussing literary techniques in a short story we had just read, and I had just used the word "suspense".

It was my third year of teaching—or possibly my first, depending on how seriously you interpret the word.

My teaching had been pathetic for the first two years, and I was still amazed that I could walk into a classroom every day and count on the fact that the students didn't hate me, that there would be actual learning going on, that we would all be enjoying the experience.

There were many reasons for the difference, most of which I couldn't put my finger on. One, however, had been quite conscious on my part.

During the first two years, I had been obsessed with order in the classroom. Such an obsession can reinforce the problem.

Every teacher had a pad of "green-slips" in their desk: five by eight sheets, with blanks to fill in for a student's name, the teacher's name, and the nature of the sin the student had committed. In the event of a "misbehavior" that the teacher couldn't handle in the classroom, one of these slips was filled out and handed to the student, who carried it to the office where a counselor would deal with the problem.

I had used them a lot.

But somewhere near the end of my second year it dawned on me that the counselors must distinguish between a green slip from a teacher who sent five a day, and a green slip from a teacher who sent one per year. And it dawned on me, as well, that they must not be taking mine very seriously.

So I stopped using them, altogether.

I'm sure that didn't make all the difference, but it was a start. At least I now had to figure out how to deal with problems in the classroom on my own. Eventually, I discovered, among other things, that an adversarial relationship was not a necessary component of teaching. I also think that students knew which teachers used too many green-slips, and which used none, as well.

So, there I was, in a room full of relaxed and interested students, in the middle of a discussion in which I used the word "suspense".

Scott was one of those students who would have spent most of his time in the counselors office if he had been in my classroom during my first two years. He was very bright, very relaxed, and very laid-back.

He always took the seat in the corner, at the back of the room and nearest the door, where he would lounge, one arm over the back of his chair, and occasionally interject comments—sometimes brilliant, sometimes hilarious.

He never raised his hand, but he was never really disruptive either—a distinction I wouldn't have made earlier on.

At the moment I used the word, however, the classroom happened to be unusually silent. Because of this, Scott's comment stood out in a way that previous ones had not.

"What's "suspense"? He blurted out, interrupting me in mid-sentence.

I stopped talking.

I can't, to this day, say why I reacted the way I did. It wasn't really a matter of conscious thought—that's certain.

Without taking my eyes off him, I slid my desk drawer open, and felt for the pad of green-slips.

They weren't there. I was forced to look down.

I hadn't used them in so long that I had moved them out of the way. But where?

I opened the top side drawer of the desk. They weren't there. I tried the second, then finally found them, at the back of the third.

Every eye in the class was on me now, in silence.

I put the pad on my lectern, and began to fill it in. I came to the end of the blank about the problem, and kept right on writing, into the margins, and when there wasn't enough room there, I turned the slip over and filled the back.

I then ripped a second slip off the pad, and folded the first inside of it, stapling all around the edges, so that Scott couldn't peek at the contents on his way to the office.

I walked slowly around three sides of the classroom to reach Scott's desk.

I stood there for a moment, possibly five or ten seconds, before I tore the green-slip in half, and smiled. "That, Scott, was suspense."

He looked at me in disbelief, then burst into a laugh. The rest of the class joined him.

We went on to discuss the varieties of suspense—the fact that it can be used without any element of fear, for example (like I used it at the beginning of this essay). It was one of the most productive sessions I had that year.

Every teacher has these stories, and we're proud of most of them. I admit to mixed feelings about this one, though.

I don't think there was any real harm done, but by the same token, I couldn't repeat that performance today.

I would be too concerned about what Scott might be going through, sitting there, waiting.

I wouldn't be able to do it. I'd find another way.

But, somewhere, deep inside of me, that young teacher still lives, who had just come off of two years of misery in the classroom, and had never had such a moment. For him, it was a triumph.

I can't blame him for basking in it, either.