“How do you know, Mr. Smartie?” Mrs. Pechter challenged.

“Yeah,” echoed Mrs. Rubin. “How do you know?”

“I saw her picture. I know a nose job when I see one.” And then he threw out an intriguing challenge to the rest of the class. “You name a person, and I’ll tell you if they’ve had a nose job.”

“Sounds like a fun game, Mr. Goldman,” I said. “Maybe you should play it after class. Right now, we’re going to read essays.”

I was quite pleased with my authoritative tone.

“Steve McQueen,” Mr. Goldman said, ignoring me. “He had a nose job.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Abe,” Mrs. Zahler groaned.

“And Elizabeth Taylor.”

“That’s absurd,” said Mrs. Pechter. “She’s had the same nose since she was a little girl in National Velvet.”

Mr. Goldman glared at her over his bifocals. “Elizabeth Taylor. Sissy Spacek. And Ernie Borgnine.”

“That’s crazy. Ernest Borgnine has a big nose.”

“You should’ve seen it before his nose job.” Mr. Goldman nodded smugly.

“Okay, class,” I said firmly. “No more nose jobs. I want to hear an essay. Who’s got one for me?”

They could tell I meant business. Either that, or they were sick of listening to Mr. Goldman. Mrs. Rubin raised her hand.

“Okay, Mrs. Rubin. Let’s hear it.”

She cleared her throat and started reading.

“My Trip to Great Britain, England.”

And so began the story of Mrs. Rubin’s trip to “Great Britain, England.” It was a stirring saga, the highlights of which included a tour of Big Ben, the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace (where Mrs. Rubin swore she saw Queen Elizabeth waving from the palace window) and finally, a trip to a genuine British pub for shepherd’s pie and fish and chips, followed by a trip to a genuine British drug store for emergency supplies of Kaopectate.

So what if it wasn’t Frank McCourt? At least, we were back to reading essays.

“Any comments?” I asked when Mrs. Rubin was through.

Mr. Goldman’s hand shot up.

“Yes, Mr. Goldman?”

“Queen Elizabeth,” he said, nodding cryptically.

“What about her?”

“She had a nose job.”

Somehow I managed to restrain myself from choking him.

After slogging through a few more essays, it was finally time to call it a night. My students got up from their seats and started gathering their purses and back support cushions.

“Mrs. Pechter,” I called out, “would you mind staying after class a minute?”

The others exchanged curious glances and reluctantly filed out of the room as Mrs. Pechter waddled over to me.

“Yes, darling? What is it?”

I’d simply tell her that Tommy the Termite was not my boyfriend, and that I was open and available for dating her adorable grandson.

“Actually,” I said, “I wanted to explain about the man you saw me with the other night in the restaurant.”

“Oh. Your boyfriend.”

“No, that’s what I want to tell you—”

“Listen, honey. You don’t owe me any explanations. To each his own, that’s what I always say. You want to go out with a guy who keeps a cockroach in his coat pocket, that’s your decision. I’m just glad I’m not your mother.”