When the construction equipment or the leaf blower or whatever it is goes on right under the window, it’s too much. I’m loud, 100-seat-lecture-hall-loud, but there are limits. “Sound check: can you hear me in the back row?” No response.
“Can you follow me what I’m saying in the back?” Not a twitch.
They are looking at me and appear to be receiving optical signals. They can see my lips move, at least.
“Guys, I need a nod or something.”
Even Brownian motion has ceased. I point directly into a set of mascara-rimmed eyes that are already trained upon me and yell. “You! Can you hear me?”
I am talking to the Blue Screen of Death.
“Yes, you with the ponytail! Can you hear me all right?”
She looks as startled as if a character on the television had addressed her by name, but manages the international hand sign for “so-so” and says “kind of.” I can hear her.
“Okay, back row. Opportunity to be proactive in your own education. There are plenty of open seats closer in. Move on down, because this stuff is on the test.”
Ponytail Girl makes a face like I’ve asked her to recite Latin verbs naked before an audience of her peers. No one moves. I wonder if they can hear what the voice in my head is saying. I bet they can.
