Barriers

            When I was hired as an English teacher at Elphick High School just a few weeks after I graduated from college, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that achievement. For years I had looked forward to my first teaching gig, but something about the reality of having landed one so quickly--an actual teaching position at the age of 23--seemed to make me stop and consider. And, while I was usually able to face new things with a great deal of confidence, there were several times that summer when I felt myself begin to falter. Just a short time ago, I had been a college student. I still felt like much the same person. But now I was a teacher. Was I ready for this?

            But at such times, I simply reminded myself of my reasons for entering the field of teaching English. It must have been sometime in middle school that I began to consider it; there was something I always found fascinating about the process of reading, interpreting, analyzing a piece of literature, and it soon became my favorite subject--but it wasn’t until tenth grade that I had Mrs. Goldfarb, and my life changed.

            She was nothing less than enthralling; her knowledge and love of literature truly showed, and I rarely left her classroom not scratching my head over a question she had posed. I had her in both my sophomore and senior years of high school, but it only took that first year for me to know for sure what I wanted in life. I wanted to pass on the gift that Mrs. Goldfarb, and so many other teachers, had given me over the years; I wanted to share my love of literature with others, promote that fascination I had always found in reading and analyzing. And that, I realize as I look back, must have been why Elphick High School hired me. What I lacked in experience, I made up for in enthusiasm, in passion. And it all started in Mrs. Goldfarb’s class; she was my first, and remains my biggest, inspiration.

            And it was because of her class, and the emphasis she placed on discussion, that I realized something else. From listening to my classmates share their ideas, I found that I was truly coming to know them; I was finding things out about them that wouldn’t be nearly as likely to come up in, say, a science or math class. Because, rather than knowing facts, literature is about interpreting--thinking in your own way, and sharing your ways of thinking with others. It was yet another thing I loved about it.

            And it was thoughts like these that boosted my confidence on more than one occasion that summer. Letting myself be inspired by Mrs. Goldfarb’s methods, I would think ahead to all the students I would have, and the in-class activities that would enable me to develop a true sense of each one. I would go on to think about the more personal connections, the teacher-student bonds that I just might form with a few of them--and maybe I’d even manage to inspire one or two of my students, to impact their lives the way that Mrs. Goldfarb changed mine. And yet, I had no idea of the impact I could have; I had no idea just what those bonds could be...

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            A few weeks before the end of the summer, I received my teaching assignments: I would have one class consisting of juniors, and two of seniors. The week before school started, I was shown my classroom, at the end of an upstairs corridor. I moved the teacher’s desk into a corner, to the right of the door as you enter, and I found myself arranging the student desks into much the same configuration that Mrs. Goldfarb always used--something of a U-shape, two rows deep.

            School was to start on the last Wednesday in August. The weekend before, I received an e-mail from Sheila Rondell, the vice principal, who had interviewed me for the position several months earlier: I was invited, along with the rest of the faculty, to a movie viewing from 12 to 2 on Tuesday in the school’s lecture hall. It was an event they were holding for the first time this year, as a way of welcoming the new staff. Nowhere in the e-mail did she mention what movie they would be showing, but I didn’t think much of this at the time; I simply marked the event on my calendar, thinking it a lovely idea.

            The movie, it turned out, was Notes on a Scandal, starring Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett--a movie I had frankly not heard of, but found quite fascinating. Basically, it’s about an elderly schoolteacher who discovers that a younger colleague of hers is having an affair with a student; when she decides not to report it, she begins to find herself in an increasingly difficult situation. As riveted as I was by the plot, it never occurred to me as I was watching it that they might have had a specific reason for showing it to us; it was not until the movie ended almost twenty minutes before 2:00, and Sheila Rondell turned the lights back on and began to address everyone, that their motive became clear.

            “Okay. Thank you all for coming this afternoon,” she began...and then got right to the point. “So, this film, Notes on a Scandal, is obviously more than just a compelling, well-acted movie; it’s a movie with a message. And that’s why Rod, our principal, and I wanted all of you to see it. Because the message contained in this film really speaks strongly to people who are educators, like ourselves, and we felt that it was a message that all of us--our new staff in particular, but really all of us--would do well to be reminded of as we enter a new academic year. Because this movie really does a good job of showing what might happen to you, or to your career as an educator, if you choose to do certain things...things that I’m sure you’re all aware are not to be done with students.”

            Some people seemed taken aback; others apparently saw it coming. I merely sat still, bracing myself for yet another lecture about sexual misconduct.

            “This movie,” Sheila continued, “is, obviously, based around an affair that takes place between a teacher and a student. And we really see that affair from two perspectives; there’s two different things going on. We have Sheba, the Cate Blanchett character, the one who’s actually having the affair, and we obviously see the effects that it has on her career--and as a matter of fact, she ends up in jail--just in her first year of teaching at that school. And then there’s Barbara, the main character, the Judi Dench character. And, to me, that’s really what this movie emphasizes: how Barbara chooses to keep silent, and how those choices end up affecting both her career and her personally, even though she wasn’t the one having the affair.

            “And so,” continued Sheila, “what I wanted to get across to you is how your actions--the choices you make--can affect not just you but the people around you, your colleagues, your friends...just like Sheba’s choices ended up ruining Barbara’s career, as well as her own.

            “Anyway--some of you are probably wondering why we’re doing this. Over the summer, it was brought to our attention that Jim West, who taught English here for twelve years, was having sexual relations with a student.”

            There was an audible gasp and wave of murmur in the room; apparently the staff had not been notified of this.

            “Now, I talked to Rod about this, and we feel no need to investigate this affair any further; Jim has been fired, and so the issue has been dealt with. But we wish to make it very clear,” she said, slowing down and raising her voice menacingly, causing anyone who might have breathed a sigh of relief at her previous statement to snap back to attention, “that here at Elphick High School, we do not tolerate such behavior from our staff. Because if you choose to do what Jim did, or what Sheba did in the movie, you are crossing lines that are not to be crossed. You are teachers; you are educators. Your role is to provide students with the knowledge they will need as they enter the world. You do not fulfill any other role in their lives. You are not here to be their friends. You are not here to be a pillow for them to cry on. You are not here to teach them about love. You are here to educate them, and nothing else. Am I clear?” There was a murmur of assent as various people nodded.

            “Anyway,” she said, suddenly sounding much more positive, “I am pleased to report that, shortly after Jim was fired, we found his replacement. He may be our youngest staff member, but he has a passion for reading and teaching literature that I have rarely seen in anyone else--and I feel certain that he is much more...shall we say...disciplined than Jim, and more than capable of filling his shoes. So, please help me welcome Mark Russell to our staff.”

            She extended her hand toward me; I looked up abruptly, and forced myself to smile as I held up my hand to acknowledge the spontaneous applause around me. Sheila took a moment to recognize the other new staff members, and then returned to her earlier subject.

            “Well, it’s almost 2:00, but before you leave, I’d like to stress this once again. Any and all sexual relations between staff and students will not be tolerated here.” She paused, then continued, “Now, in light of what happened with Jim, Rod and I have committed ourselves to eliminating this issue here at EHS; we’re going to be cracking down on any misconduct we hear about starting this year. And, to that end, I would like to remind all of us--particularly our new staff...”--her eyes seemed to fixate on me for a second before glancing around to the other new teachers, in an obvious attempt to avoid giving the impression of singling me out--“to keep this movie in mind. If you hear about something, please bring it to my attention, or Rod’s. But more importantly, don’t do it in the first place. Don’t be like Barbara...and don’t be like Sheba. Thank you.”

            I stayed long enough to allow a few people to shake my hand, and then found myself leaving as quickly and quietly as possible. That evening, I found myself in tears. I had worked so hard to build up my confidence over the last few days, and tonight, the night before my first day of teaching, I had to lose it all. This morning I had expected to be welcomed into the EHS community with a lovely social event--and instead I had been greeted with a harsh, condescending monologue from Sheila. I hadn’t even begun teaching, and already I felt as if my every move were being watched.

            I worked myself up for hours, but eventually I calmed down. After all...did I really expect that sexual conduct in the classroom would be an issue for me?

 

 *                     *                      *                      *                      *

 

            “All right...well, good afternoon, folks. My name is Mr. Russell; I was just hired this year...and so, let’s get straight to it, shall we?”

            It was my first day of teaching, and I had reached the last period in the day, when I had my second class of seniors. One minute I was simply making my way down the attendance list, with hardly a second thought except for the usual efforts to match the names with the faces, as teachers so often joke about in the first few days of class. And then, about a third of the way down, I got to...

            “Hillary Edwards?”

            “Here!” I looked up for the sixth or seventh time; she was in the back row, slightly to my right. It’s hard to know exactly what went through my mind that first time our eyes met; I couldn’t have gotten much of an impression of her just from hearing her say that one word, and glancing at her for little more than a second. Yet...perhaps I’m just imagining this as I look back, but it seems that my eyes may have lingered on her for just a bit longer than necessary, that I somehow had to convince myself to divert my gaze in order to check her off and move on. And, as I continued making my way through the list, the image of Hillary started to become more vivid to me. There was something about her--though I wasn’t sure whether it was her appearance or just some aspect of her personality, her demeanor, that had come through somehow--that was already making me want to find out more about her.

            And I soon did. I started with an exercise very similar to one that Mrs. Goldfarb had usually done on the first day of class. “So, I want you all to take out your notebooks and just write a few sentences about...what you expect coming into this class. Think about the people around you, and what you think they might bring to the table, what roles you hope they’ll play in furthering your knowledge of literature. Or you could focus on yourself, and talk about what hopes you might have for yourself for this class.”

            Once they were done, I asked for volunteers to share what they had come up with; she raised her hand from the start, and was the third one I called on. “Hillary?”

            She paused, and smiled. “You got my name right.”

            “Well...yes, I did.” I had, indeed, struggled momentarily with the names of the other two students I had called.

            “I’m impressed.”

            I felt myself smiling. “Go on, then.”

            “Right. Well...”--she glanced down at her notebook, and began to paraphrase--“I started out by thinking about myself, and how I relate to the rest of you--but I really ended up focusing on the roles that each of us play, but from the point of view of me as an individual. And, obviously, one of the things I’ve always liked about English classes is how much we, as students, learn from each other. I think of it as all of us being taken on a journey together--we’re all reading and experiencing the same things at the same time--and, in my experience at least, we come to understand it for ourselves largely by hearing each other’s takes on it. So I asked myself, if we learn so much from each other, why do we need a teacher? And I thought, well, in order to really learn something--in order to get the most out of pretty much anything in life, actually--you need some sort of frame of reference, something to make you...feel at home, feel comfortable, as you go through it and take it in for yourself. And, in this case, since the teacher is the one who chooses the pieces for us to read, and presents them to us...he’s the one who provides that frame of reference. So that’s what I expect for Mr. Russell; I expect that he’ll give us that frame of reference in a way that will enable not just me but all of us to have the most complete possible experience with this class.”

            There was a momentary silence when she finished speaking; I stood there, my gaze still directed toward her as I continued to process what she had said. Of the three I had called on, she was the first to mention me, rather than concentrating on the other students. Indeed, I hadn’t even thought to include myself when I first posed the question. Clearly, she was one to think outside the box.

            She seemed to notice the silence around her. “Does that...make sense?”

            “Oh...yes! It does,” I replied promptly. “Very...very insightful, Hillary.”

            As I sat in my apartment that evening, reflecting on my first day of teaching, she was consistently the first of my students to come to mind. I quickly tried to shift my attention to some of the others, not wanting to single her out--but somehow, none of them seemed as intriguing as Hillary. Maybe it was because of her in-depth response to that one question; maybe I just had a more complete sense of her than of anyone else. Yet, something else about her--the image of her in the back row, the experience of listening to her answer, hearing her allude to me--kept entering my mind, more vividly each time. I already knew there was something I greatly enjoyed about having her in my class...but I couldn’t get over a sensation that I wasn’t entirely supposed to feel this way, that there was something wrong about it.

            I thought back to what I enjoyed most about English classes, the way they allow the students to know each other--and, presumably, the teacher to know the students. Perhaps I simply wanted to get to know Hillary better, in which case I undoubtedly would; there couldn’t be anything wrong with that. But, then, why was I feeling that way almost exclusively about Hillary? Students often have favorite teachers, but for a teacher to have a favorite student seemed not only unnatural but unfair, improper. But the more I tried to set Hillary aside in my mind, the more strongly she seemed to come back.

            But it was only my first day, I reminded myself; there was no need to figure everything out tonight. If whatever I was experiencing was, at least partially, a result of wanting to get to know Hillary, I could rest assured that I would--along with my various other students. And, with those thoughts in mind, I began to prepare for my second day.

            And so the weeks went on, as did my three classes. As I continued to discover things about my students, I often reminded myself of just how many fascinating people there were--avid athletes, dedicated actors and musicians, and students involved in a wide variety of clubs and organizations. I was, indeed, able to get a sense of each of them, mainly from our class discussions, and I always enjoyed the opportunity to chat for a while with any of them, get to know them a bit more personally. But if there was one student I always looked forward to seeing, it was Hillary. And part of this was undoubtedly because of her aptitude--her natural gift for English, for thinking. She may not have contributed to discussion quite as often as some of her classmates, but she always tried to make at least one point in every class--and her points were always fully developed, and incredibly insightful.

            And her written work was equally insightful, if not more so. Whenever I collected an essay or other, more spontaneous writing assignment from her class, I would find myself putting her paper at the bottom of the stack, so that it would be the last one I would correct. Even if hers was not the best (which, frankly, it often was), saving hers for last seemed to give me something to look forward to, something to carry me that much more smoothly through the task of grading.

            Starting near the end of October, I did a series of individual presentations with my two senior classes, having each student lead a discussion of a short story of their choice. Not surprisingly, I found myself looking forward to Hillary’s most of all. She chose “Say Yes” by Tobias Wolff--a story I had not been familiar with, but an extremely interesting piece concerning a husband and wife disagreeing over the issue of interracial marriage.

            “How did I do, Mr. Russell?” she asked me as soon as the class was over, walking toward where I had been sitting and taking notes.

            I looked up, hesitating. “Oh...really well!” I told her as I searched, somewhat randomly, for something more specific to say. “You had a good sense of the story, and you really...had us all thinking about it in multiple ways.”

             “Well...thanks.” She smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”

            “I’m glad you picked this story,” I continued. “I had never heard of it before...it’s fascinating!”

            “Oh, it’s one of my favorites,” she said. “I first read it a couple of years ago.”

            And then she had to leave for something else. As I watched her gather her belongings and exit the room, I thought about the brief exchange we had just had. Despite the things she said every day in class, it was the first time she and I had really talked one-on-one. And, in the weeks leading up to winter break, we occasionally had the chance to chat briefly about a reading, or an assignment--but whenever we did, I soon found myself longing for an actual conversation with her...just wanting to talk with her for a few minutes, about something that didn’t necessarily have to do with class...

 

 *                     *                      *                      *                      *

 

            There were four recent alumni of EHS who played together in a rock band and performed various gigs in town, mainly covering lesser-known songs from the ‘50s and ‘60s. They still hosted the occasional dance at the school, and they had scheduled three for this year: one on the last evening before winter break, one on Valentine’s Day, and one more in the spring. When I heard that they needed an extra staff member to help supervise the upcoming Christmas dance, I eagerly volunteered, thinking it would be a good way to start getting more involved in the school community.

            I spent most of the dance standing on the opposite side of the school gymnasium from the band; occasionally chatting with the other two chaperones, Camilla and Jack, other times simply enjoying the music as I watched the mass of students. Some danced in pairs, others in clusters; I recognized a few from my classes, and it didn’t take me long to spot Hillary, alongside some of her friends. She was truly dancing in her own way, flailing her various limbs in a somewhat random and spontaneous fashion, but doing so with a certain grace and control that made it hard for me to take my eyes off her--and the expression on her face as she sang along with several of the songs indicated that she was having the time of her life. But when the band played a slower love song, and many of the students paired up, I couldn’t help noticing that she was one of the few who didn’t.

            It was nearing the end of the evening, and as I turned my attention toward the band, I suddenly heard, “Mr. Russell!”

            I turned to face her. “Hi, Hillary!”

            She smiled. “I just noticed you were here and I thought I’d just...come over and say hi.”

            I nodded. “Enjoying yourself?”

            “Oh, yes! Very much. Are you?”

            “Yes, I’m...I’m loving it! I wish my high school had held events like this!”

            “They’re always great,” she agreed. “So are you, like, one of the official supervisors for this dance?”

            “Yeah...sort of. They needed an extra chaperone, and I figured it might help put me out there a bit, seeing as I’m new here and everything.” She nodded, as I searched my mind for something more to say. “So...you’ve been to these dances before?”

            “Yeah! I always go.”

            “You certainly looked like you were having a good time.”

            “Oh, yeah. I mean...I really just come to enjoy the music. I’m not quite as much of a dancing fanatic as some of my friends, I don’t think.”

            I nodded. “I know what you mean.”

            “But, you know, when I’m out there on the floor, with people I love and music I love, sometimes I just...lose myself...” And she struck a bit of a pose and joined in with the last chorus of the current song, one I thought I had heard before, “Our love’s gonna be written down in history / Just like Romeo and Juliet...”

            She was just as great a person to talk to as I had hoped, I remember thinking as the song ended and we paused our conversation to applaud. Then the band announced their final slow-dance number of the evening; the lights were dimmed, and the guitarist came in with a melodious riff that I instantly recognized.

            “Aren’t they amazing?” she asked me, gesturing toward the band.

            “They’re excellent! I’m glad they’re keeping the oldies alive.”

            “Yeah. I really like music from around this era.”

            “So do I! Do you...know this song?”

            “Oh, yes! It’s The Association. ‘Never My Love.’”

            “I’m...impressed!” I found myself saying. “You have good taste!”

            She grinned. “Thanks! I’ll listen to pretty much anything, really.” She let several seconds go by; then, “Mr. Russell? Could I...ask you something?”

            “Go ahead.”

            She hesitated. “Will you dance with me?”

            I froze, somehow caught completely off guard...and wracked my brain for the right thing to say in response. “Isn’t...isn’t there anyone else you could...”

            “Well...”--she instinctively glanced over at the crowd--“it looks like pretty much everyone is paired up right now,” she said, sounding just as uncertain as I felt. “Besides, I just thought...” She faltered.

            “...just thought what?”

            “Never mind.” She already seemed to regret having asked.

            “It’s nothing against you,” I tried telling her, “it’s just...well...don’t you think I’m just a bit too...”

            --“too old for me?” she interrupted, her vigor seemingly restored. “You can’t be any older than, what...twenty-four?”

             “Why...yes, I just turned twenty-four last week...!”

            “And I turned eighteen a month ago. So, I mean, technically, we’re both adults...”

            “It’s not that, Hillary,” I found myself continuing, “it’s just...well, I mean, I’m a teacher.”

            “I know you’re a teacher.”

            “And...”

            “And what? Is there something about being a teacher that renders you incapable of dancing with someone who’s younger than you?”

            “Well...” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “It’s just...I...I really shouldn’t...”
            “Says who?”

            Just then the song ended, saving me momentarily from having to come up with a response, and we applauded again as the lights came back up. The last song of the evening was announced, and the keyboard player promptly swung in with an infectious hook.

            Hillary’s face instantly lit up. “Oh, my god! I love this song!” she exclaimed, starting to move to the beat once again.

            “What is it? I don’t recognize it.”

            “The Swingin’ Medallions. ‘Double Shot of My Baby’s Love.’” She spoke more and more rapidly, as her energy started to overcome her. “I can’t just--I’ve just got to--come on, Mr. Russell, let’s dance!”

            And before I could even fully process what she had said, she grabbed me by the arm and half-led, half-dragged me toward the rest of the crowd. I knew I had to refuse--I knew I had to resist her...but if any part of me still had any desire to, it had given up the fight. And when we were near the center of the gym, she let go, took a step back as she turned to face me...and began to re-immerse herself in the music.

            At first I felt every bit as out of place as I must have looked, but I more or less followed her moves--what else was I to do?--and soon, I too felt myself starting to slide into the song, into the moment, in much the same way that she had described. Gradually, some faces in the crowd began to turn toward us, but Hillary took no notice; her gaze was fixed on me, and her entire body absorbed in the music, as she jubilantly sang along, “It was such a thrill it was hurtin’ me / I was sufferin’ in ecstasy...” And if I had noticed the people staring at us while we were dancing, I almost did not care either; I even let her take hold of my hands after a while, part of me wanting the song to end already, but part of me wishing it would go on forever...

            But after about two minutes which could have been a lifetime, the guitarist played his final sustained chord; Hillary paused just long enough to realize the song was over before flinging her arms around me, making some remark that I couldn’t quite hear. Then she took a step back to catch her breath and, in doing so, happened to look at the crowd. The lead singer was thanking everyone for coming, but more than a few people were still staring at us...and a look of slight shock came over Hillary as she seemed to realize what she had done. And then the band wished everyone good night, and the crowd began to disperse.

            Something was telling me that I had to leave as quickly as possible, but I couldn’t just disappear without saying something to Hillary. But what? “Well...I guess I’ll see you in class, then,” I told her tentatively, trying to make it look like I was merely passing close by her on my way toward the door.

            She spun around to face me, smiling broadly. “I guess so! It was...it was great talking with you, Mr. Russell!” If she still regretted dancing with me, it was no longer evident.

            “Yeah...it was!” I knew there was so much more that I wanted to say to her...but I simply concluded, “Well...have a good break, Hillary.”

            “Oh...you too!”

 

            *                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            As I visited my family over winter break, I found myself thinking almost incessantly about the dance. I could remember Hillary approaching me, our conversation, her asking me to dance, in great detail...but the few minutes when we were actually out on the floor were somewhat blurred in my memory. Sometimes a detail or two would come to me momentarily, and I would suddenly remember a particular move she had made, or feel the way she had taken my hand to pull me into a spin--but other times all I could do was picture her dancing in front of me, lost in the music, and do my best to re-create that sensation of being there with her...

            And if there was one thing I knew, it was that I wanted to be a chaperone again at the next dance. There was something that was calling me back, something more than just the music, or the overall atmosphere of the event...but I wasn’t quite sure what. Maybe it was the opportunity to speak with Hillary out of context, to have the kind of laid-back conversation with one of my students that I wasn’t often able to have in the classroom. But I knew there were opportunities for that after school, or even between classes. So what was it about the dance? Was it the fact that I had actually danced with Hillary? Had I enjoyed it so much that I wanted to do it again?

            Soon it was January, and school was back in session. Hillary made no immediate mention of the dance, unless she had it in mind when she caught my eye and smiled at me as she entered my classroom on the first day back. But as the days and weeks went by, she would occasionally take a bit of extra time to gather up her notebook and other materials after class, and end up being the last to leave the room--and I often took the opportunity to comment on something she had said in class...or just to ask how she was doing, or if she had any plans for the weekend.

            “Are you coming to the next dance, Mr. Russell?” she asked me after class one day, early in February.

            “I hope to!” I told her. “When is it again?”

            “Valentine’s Day. It’s a Friday evening.”

            “Oh...right. I’ll certainly try to make it!” Yet, as soon as I remembered that the dance was on Valentine’s Day, something in the back of my mind seemed to tell me not to go, that I should stay away from this one. But the dance needed chaperones, I assured myself...and what could possibly be wrong with my being one?

            A week before the dance, I stopped by Sheila Rondell’s office to ask about signing up--but, to my surprise, she told me that no more chaperones were needed for this dance. “So...someone else stepped in?”

            “Well...not exactly,” she told me. “I appointed someone.”

            “Oh...okay,” I said, still not sure what she was getting at. “Well...could you use anyone else?”

            She paused, and her expression became grimmer. “Mark, I heard about something that happened at the last dance. Something that made me very disappointed.”

            I gradually realized. “If you’re talking about dancing with Hillary Edwards...that was just--I didn’t”--

            “So you did dance with a student.”

            “I didn’t want to! It was her idea. I tried to”--

            “Mark, do you remember what I said at the beginning of the year? About how there are lines that exist between us and our students that we simply must not cross?”

            “But we didn’t--we just...danced, Sheila. It wasn’t like we”--

            “That’s not what I heard, Mark. From what I hear, you did a lot more than “just dance” with--what was her name?--Miss Edwards. According to Camilla, you held hands with her while you were dancing. And you gave her a passionate hug afterwards.”

            “She did those things to me--I didn’t start...as I say, I didn’t even want to dance with her!”

            “Well, then, you should have just refused.”

            “I tried to! But she just...dragged me into the middle of the gym, and...” There was a pause in which Sheila continued staring into me, and I found myself adding, even though saying it felt incredibly clichéd, “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

            “I’m afraid I can’t believe that, Mark.”

            I froze. “Could I...ask why?”

            “Well...here you are, begging and pleading with me to let you go to a dance that’s being held on Valentine’s Day, giving me every reason I should let you go despite your behavior at the last one. And so I can’t help thinking...if your reasons for wanting to attend this dance truly had nothing to do with the way you feel about Miss Edwards, you would not be here arguing with me.”

            “But...” I continued, speaking as calmly and rationally as I could manage, “I promise, Sheila, if I felt anything for Hillary back then--and I’m not saying I did--I’ve gotten over it. What happened at that dance in December is behind me. She’s behind me. Well,” I found myself adding, “she’s as far behind me as she’s going to get this year, with her being my student and everything.”

            “I see.” She thought it over for a few seconds, then looked back up at me. “Mark, I’m sorry, but given your behavior at the previous dance, I’m sure Rod would agree with me in saying that we shouldn’t allow you to attend a student dance on Valentine’s Day.”

            “But...”

            “Mark.”

            “Right. Okay,” I finally said...and then after a pause, found myself continuing. “So...is there any chance I could still go to the one in May?”

            “It depends.” She paused. “Mark, what period do you have Miss Edwards?”

            “Last period.”

            “Oh...perfect. I’m usually free last period.”

            I slowly realized what she was getting at. “Are you planning to...”

            “...sit in on your classes? Yes, Mark. I am.” And she gave me something of a smile, which somehow made her all the more menacing.

            “For the rest of the year?” was all I could ask.

            “No, that shouldn’t be necessary,” she replied quickly. ”I think...a month should do. But I’m going to watch you closely. And if, by the end of the month, I’m not convinced that there is anything still going on between you and Miss Edwards...I think we just might be able to let you go to that dance in May.”

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            “You guys all know Mrs. Rondell, our...amazing vice principal.... She’s going to be with us for a few weeks; there was...something she wanted to know about my teaching, or this class, or something, I’m not really sure what. So...don’t be surprised when you see her here.”

            And so it began. For a month, Sheila arrived at my classroom just before the bell sounded; for a month, I taught my last class of the day with her sitting behind my desk. And for a month, I tried my best to act neutral toward Hillary. I obviously tried to avoid singling her out, but that was not enough; if I did not watch myself closely, I soon realized, Sheila might detect that I was trying to hide something. I was forced to start paying attention to everything--even the direction I was looking in at any given moment. I could not allow my gaze to focus on Hillary any longer, or any differently, than anyone else--and I had to avoid giving the impression of trying not to look at her. Either way...I simply could not afford to slip up, not even once.

            But after a few days, the whole routine started to become more habitual, if not easier. I still called on Hillary whenever she raised her hand--Sheila could not possibly find fault with that--and I quickly realized that Sheila’s presence had little effect on my capacity to teach the class, and to enjoy doing it. And, luckily, Hillary never tried to chat with me during those few weeks.

            Except once. Partway through the second week, I sensed her taking her time once again as she gathered her belongings after class. She was again the last student remaining in the classroom, and although I did not look at Sheila, I couldn’t help sensing her becoming suspicious.

            I knew I would have to say something. “Do you need something, Hillary?”

            She looked up rather nervously, apparently sensing that I was acting differently than normal. “Well, I just...I guess I was just wondering if”--

            “I’m afraid I can’t talk today, Hillary. I just...I need to talk to Mrs. Rondell about something.”

            “Oh...right. Okay.” And she left hastily, looking slightly ashamed. I felt horrible about lying to her, but what choice did I have?

            Sheila stood abruptly. “So what did you need to talk to me about, Mark?”

            I froze; now I would have to come up with something to say to her, too. “Oh, I was just wondering...how I’m doing so far?”

            “Oh. Not too bad,” she replied, still sounding somewhat doubtful. “Just another couple of weeks, and you should be clear.” And Hillary did not linger again after that.

            But somehow I got through the next few weeks. And before I knew it, early in March, Sheila told me after class that she was finished. “I’ll just have to consult with Rod on a couple of matters,” she told me, “but you should be all set. I’ll come by after school tomorrow and let you know for sure, all right?”

            “Okay, sounds good,” I confirmed, although I wasn’t sure I had fully absorbed what she had said.

            “You’re a good teacher, Mark,” she said, giving me the closest thing to a genuine smile that I had ever seen from her. “You really are.”

            I hesitated, secretly taken aback. “Thanks,” I said, forcing myself to smile as well.

            Although I highly doubted that Sheila’s presence had impaired my ability to teach, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of liberation the next afternoon. We happened to be between units, and I took the opportunity to have the class do another activity that I had borrowed from Mrs. Goldfarb. “You guys have had enough life experience to have been able to come up with, and develop, your own philosophies--your own ways of responding to the things you’ve observed and experienced. And so, take a moment and come up with a six-word statement that...says something about your personal philosophy of life. Write it down.”

            I went around the room having the students share what they wrote, and we heard everything from “Find something you love; do it” to “Life: the greatest rollercoaster ever built.” And as I went, I asked each of them to go into a bit more detail, and perhaps relate some of the specific things that led them to those philosophies. I had time to kill, and no one was watching me.

            “Hillary, what did you write?”

            Hillary glanced down at her notebook and then said, confidently, “Break down barriers. Live and enjoy.”

            “Hmmm...” I wasn’t surprised that Hillary’s response was perhaps the most cryptic, but for once I had no idea what she had in mind. “Want to explain that?”

            “I’d love to! It’s not really something I can explain in only six words. But basically...” She paused, considering how to word it. “Well...here’s the thing. I think we have a natural tendency to put up barriers in our minds--barriers between different sections of life, or different people, things like that. But if you think about it...some of those barriers are a bit arbitrary; there isn’t really any reason they have to be there. So there might be two people whom we tend to think of as belonging to two different categories, and we sort of have it engrained in our minds that people from those two categories aren’t supposed to interact with each other in certain ways. But I guess what I’m trying to say is...if you start to take away those barriers--if you just let everyone interact naturally--you might find that there really wasn’t any need to put them up in the first place.”

            “Okay...I like where you’re going with this,” I said, still a bit puzzled. “Can you give us an example?”

            “Sure...” she said, and then paused again. “Okay. Has anyone seen the movie Notes on a Scandal?”

            I froze at her mention of the title; something had seemed to catapult to the front of my mind...something I hadn’t thought about in months. “I...I have, actually.”

            “You have?”

            “Mrs. Rondell showed it to us at the beginning of the year.” I didn’t mention why.

            “Really? Well, I don’t imagine most of us have seen it”--she indicated the rest of the class--“so, basically it’s about a schoolteacher, played by Judi Dench, who becomes friends with a new colleague of hers, played by Cate Blanchett--she kind of becomes obsessed with her, actually. And then she discovers that Cate Blanchett is having an affair with one of her students--and at first she decides not to tell anyone about the affair for the sake of keeping their friendship, but...various things happen, and they both end up losing their jobs.

            “It’s really an excellent movie. Probably one of my favorites--there’s so much going on in it. But when I first saw it, a year or two ago, it just...got me thinking about something. And I know this isn’t the main point of the movie, but....” She paused, then continued, “Well, obviously, there’s this whole taboo that exists against teachers having any kind of sexual relations with their students; it’s something that pretty much everyone sees as wrong. And I can see why--I mean, we wouldn’t want teachers letting students sleep with them in exchange for better grades...and we certainly wouldn’t want them using their authority to coerce them into it, or anything like that. But when I first saw the movie...to me, Cate Blanchett’s character wasn’t doing any of that. It just...somehow it seemed to me like just a normal, consensual relationship--I mean, I’m pretty sure it was the student who initiated it. And I thought to myself, if they had been the exact same people, but she hadn’t been a teacher, it wouldn’t have....” She paused again, took a breath, then concluded, “I just can’t help thinking...is there really anything wrong with a teacher and a student having a relationship? Or do we just see it as wrong because we’ve arbitrarily separated teachers from students, and decided that they can only interact in certain ways?”

            As often as Hillary made long, extended points, she had never made one that was followed by as prolonged a silence as this one was. Even I seemed to be having difficulty taking it in; I was sure I knew what she was trying to say, but I couldn’t possibly be right...could I?

            And I found myself saying, somewhat reflexively and perhaps just a bit too tersely, “Hillary, see me after class.”

            “Oh...okay,” she said, sounding a bit stunned.

            “Anyway...” I moved on with the class, trying my best to return to my usual mannerisms. “James? Want to share?”

            The bell rang about twenty minutes later, and Hillary lingered once again as I sat at my desk and turned my attention momentarily to my computer. She soon approached me, seeming a bit nervous. “Mr. Russell?”

            “Oh...right. Hey, Hillary.”

            “So...am I in trouble or something?”

            “No! I just...” I paused as I swiveled my chair to face her. What had I wanted to see her for? “I’m just really intrigued by that whole barriers thing you were talking about, and I guess I was just hoping you might be able to...explain it to me a bit further?”

            “Oh...sure! I can do that,” she said, sounding relieved. “I just thought...maybe you’d had a problem with the example I used? Maybe you had thought I was...I don’t know, trying to...imply something...?”

            “No...that’s not what I thought at all!” I told her, somewhat automatically...and then found myself adding, “At least, I don’t think it was...”

            “Right. I probably shouldn’t have used that as an example, anyway...”

            “No, it’s okay,” I told her. “It was...it was a valid point.”

            “Really? You think so?”

            “Sure! I’m glad to have an unconventional thinker in my class!”

            She smiled. “Well, thanks! It’s just...I’m not quite sure where I was going with that example. It was pretty complicated.”

            I shrugged. “Life is complicated.”

            “Well...I suppose you’re right.”

            “Anyway”--

            “Right,” she said, pulling up a chair by the side of my desk. “Well, I guess I’ve mainly developed this philosophy in the last couple of years--it really started when I was a sophomore. I had some really close friends who were seniors that year...and when they were about to graduate, I found that I wanted them to still be among my friends, to still be a major part of my life--I wanted to do more than just see them once every few years or whatever. And I started thinking...there’s this whole mentality about moving on from high school and going off to college, but there’s actually nothing that says that your high school friends can’t continue to be part of your life. And...gradually, I started applying that same way of thinking to other things.”

            “Okay...that makes sense.” Her explanation had helped, though I wasn’t quite sure what exactly it had helped with.

            “But I’ve just been thinking about it a lot recently, because of...something that happened.” She paused; I looked on with interest, not sure whether to ask further, but she soon began to explain, “So, there’s this guy in my grade who...well, you know him--James, who sits next to me in class? I’ve known him since I was a freshman, and I like him a lot. And, just in the last couple of months, we started dating.”

            She paused again. Something inside me seemed to hesitate as soon as she said the word “dating,” though I wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps I had just realized that she was about to tell me something personal--but she probably wouldn’t have said this much if she hadn’t intended to tell me the rest, so I let myself ask, “And what happened?”

            “Well...a couple of weeks ago he and I were hanging out after school, and we were sitting together at the top of the staircase, and I...I did...something I really shouldn’t have done.” She paused for a few seconds, then continued, “I...I don’t know why I did it, really. It was just...something I did impulsively. I didn’t even mean to do it. But he just...he told me...” Her voice trailed off, and I heard it begin to quiver.

            “Told you what?”

            She took a deep breath. “He told me I could never talk to him again,” she said, clearly choking up. “And he hasn’t so much as acknowledged me since. And I’ve known him for so long, we were friends for so long...and I just...one minute we were as close as ever, and now we couldn’t be farther apart...and I don’t understand it...”

            And the tears began to stream from her eyes, and she covered her face with her hands. “It’s...it’s all right...” I found myself saying, unsure how exactly to respond.

            “I’m a horrible person,” she said, in between sobs.

            “You’re not a horrible person, Hillary. You’re...you’re one of the best people I know...” And I stood up, and walked around the corner of my desk as she rose to face me--and I took her in my arms, and allowed her to bury her face in my shoulder as she continued to cry uncontrollably...

            “Mark? What are you doing?”

            I jumped back. If I had been aware that Sheila would come to see me after school today, I had completely forgotten. And now I had no choice but to let Hillary go, as much as I still needed to embrace her...and stand and face Sheila, caught in the act.

            Sheila looked from me to Hillary, who had sat back down, and then back to me. “Can you explain this, Mark?”

            “I...I just...” I frantically searched for what to say. “She was crying, and I”--

            “What’s going on, Miss Edwards?” Sheila asked suddenly, much more harshly than necessary.

            Hillary gazed up at Sheila, hesitated for a few seconds...and then abruptly got up and ran from the room, undoubtedly still crying.

            Sheila turned back to me. “Mark, what in the world is going on?”

            “It...I swear, Sheila, it wasn’t what you think it was. I had just asked her to stay after class and explain something to me, something she had said in class...and then she started crying...and I couldn’t just...”

            “I see,” she said, clearly not convinced. “And am I to assume that it was a coincidence that this happened on the first day after I finished supervising your classes?”

            “Well...yes, actually,” I said, knowing how feeble it would sound.

            She gazed at me more intensely than ever. “Mark, whatever is going on between you and Miss Edwards...I cannot allow it to keep happening.”

            “It won’t! I...I promise!”

            “You already promised once. Now I’m afraid we’re going to have to take some measures. I need to talk with Rod, but I’ll come up here first thing tomorrow morning and tell you what we decide. Understood?”

            “Understood.” I nodded weakly.

            Sheila was waiting for me when I arrived at my classroom the following morning, and she wasted no time in telling me. I was not to meet one-on-one with Hillary after class, or any time during the school day, again. As a precaution, a surveillance camera had been installed in my room overnight; I quickly spotted it, in the corner opposite my desk. Sheila and Rod would keep an eye on it at various times throughout the day, and if they noticed anything suspicious happening between me and Hillary, I would be fired without discussion. I wanted to argue with every word of what she was saying...but I had no choice but to stand there and take it all.

            And, naturally, for the next few hours, Hillary was all I could think about. In their attempt to keep me away from her, Sheila and Rod had only made it harder for me to think about anyone else.

            I couldn’t just stop talking to her with no explanation. I had to let her know about this. But how? I couldn’t take her aside without them noticing...and I wasn’t about to tell her in front of the whole class.

            And even if I did find a way to let her know...how would she react? All I knew was that the last time I had seen her, she had run out of my classroom in tears. Would she be upset with me if I told her she couldn’t talk to me anymore? Was she upset with me?

            After several long hours, her class arrived. They had an essay due that day, and as soon as I began collecting it, Hillary raised her hand. “Yes, Hillary?”

            “Mr. Russell...do you have a sticky note that I could use?” she asked as calmly as ever, as if nothing unusual had happened the previous day.

            “A sticky note...” All the things she could have said...and she was merely asking for a sticky note? “Yes, of course...” I went to my desk and peeled one off; then, realizing I should probably avoid handing it directly to her, I extended it toward the first person I saw. “James, could you give this to Hillary?”

            Once all the students had left after class, I returned to my desk and began leafing through the stack of essays. I wasn’t even sure whether I was looking specifically for Hillary’s or not...but when I got to hers, I paused. The sticky note had been attached to the front page...and on it was written,

 

Mr. Russell--

It’s okay. They let me

know too. I won’t get

you fired. I promise.

            --Hillary

 

            And for several minutes I simply sat there, wanting to do nothing except read Hillary’s message...experience it, as incredibly brief as it was, over and over. For this was one gesture that that surveillance camera could not see, would never know about. The seventeen words she had taken the time to write on that three-by-three-inch square of paper had more meaning to me at that moment than anything else I could have imagined--and it was because of her note that I was able to summon the strength to move forward, to simply keep on teaching as if nothing had changed.

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            And so the weeks went on; March became April, and then May. Classes continued; and Hillary still contributed to almost every discussion, as if nothing were different. There were times when she would make one of her extended comments in class and some aspect of her, something about how brilliant she was, would begin to reverberate more and more strongly in my mind, even threaten to distract me from my teaching--but I simply let my mind turn to the sticky note, and the thought usually faded.

            Yet...sometimes she was all I could think about. I would become caught up in the notion of just how far apart we were, even though I was in the same room with her almost every day. And so often, I found myself wishing I could have just one more conversation with her, tell her everything that had been building up inside me. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to tell her, but I knew it would all come out of me if only she were there, if I could spend some time alone with her, just talking...

            But all I could do was wait, for this separation to end. Indeed, part of me so often wondered...would it? Would I be able to talk to Hillary once the year was over? Or would Sheila and Rod find a way to keep me from her even after she graduated...keep us apart for the rest of our lives?

            But one day in May, as I sat in my apartment with Hillary in the forefront of my mind, I began to think back, and remembered the six-word-statement exercise I had done with her class. I thought back to the day that Mrs. Goldfarb had done that exercise with my English class, tried to remember what I had written back then. And when it did not come to me immediately, I turned my thoughts to the present: what was my philosophy?

            What did I believe about life? Or...what did I want to believe; what did I want to hear at that moment? I thought about the dilemma that was on my mind so often these days, how much I simply wanted to talk to her again...and, gradually, the six words came to me: “Keep searching. There’s always a way.”

            For, in reality, there was only one thing keeping me away from Hillary: the camera in my room. There was bound to be a way around it, some way to bypass it...and I thought of the note Hillary had left me, almost two months ago now. What was preventing me from doing the same to her?

            Her class had a major paper due at the end of that week. As always, I corrected Hillary’s paper last; after reading through it, I wrote my usual positive comments, and then drew an arrow at the bottom of the page so that she would know to look on the other side. I turned the paper over...and then paused. Maybe this was the reason I had, in fact, gone so long without doing this.... What, exactly, did I want to say to her?

            I looked over the last few months, tried to re-internalize all the things that had occurred to me...so many things that I knew I could never remember them all. I wanted to ask how she was doing; I wanted to apologize to her, though I wasn’t quite sure why...I wanted to tell her how much I still enjoyed having her in class, hearing her contribute to discussions, tell her that even if I was never allowed to see her again I would always be glad that she had been my student.... And my mind shifted to the emptiness that I had felt so often over these last two months, that had sometimes threatened to overcome me...and I picked my pen back up and wrote, simply,

 

I miss you, Hillary.

 

            I stared at the words I had written, trying to think what else to say...but somehow that simple comment seemed sufficient, so I gathered up the papers, putting Hillary’s somewhere in the middle of the stack. And once I had handed them back the next day, I took a tentative glance over at Hillary as I began to introduce that day’s topic--and I allowed my eyes to meet hers, if only for a fleeting moment, as she looked up from her paper...and smiled.

            A week or two later, I began working on my final exams. Both of the finals I had taken with Mrs. Goldfarb had consisted entirely of typing essays--and, borrowing one more stroke of brilliance from her, I decided to do it that way as well. Each of my senior classes would have three essays to compose during the exam period: Two would involve analysis of works we had read in class; and, thinking back once again to the six-word statements, I added a third topic:

 

            This last essay is a personal one. In your life so far, you have had a series of experiences unique to you, and those experiences have undoubtedly led you to develop your own ways of thinking and living. And, although you have a large portion of your life yet to live, many people I’ve known have told me that their high school years were the ones that truly defined them; that shaped the way they have viewed themselves and their lives ever since. In your essay, reflect on something you experienced during your four years at EHS that has contributed to, perhaps even changed, the way you think of your life. It can be the same thing you used for our six-word-statement exercise, or something different; but be sure to support it with specific examples.

 

            Hillary’s class took the exam on a Wednesday afternoon, in a computer lab downstairs from my classroom. People started finishing as many as twenty-five minutes early, but Hillary was sill typing--somewhat frantically, it seemed--a minute or two before the end of the period.

            “Almost done, Hillary?” I found myself asking, though I wasn’t sure why; she always finished in time. Maybe it was just my desire to say something to her.

            “Oh...yeah, pretty much,” she said. “I’m just finishing up this last essay.” And, indeed, she printed it out and handed it in just before the bell. Part of me hoped she would stay behind, now that we were in a different room, and talk to me--but she simply left along with the rest of the class.

            My other classes took their exams on the next two days; that Friday was the last day of school for the seniors, who would be preparing for graduation while the underclassmen had their last two days of finals. By this point, I had only two more exams left to grade from Hillary’s class--hers included--and, near the end of that school day, I found myself returning to my classroom to finish them.

            I slowly made my way through the first exam and then sailed through Hillary’s first two essays, giving them the high marks that I had come to expect from her. Then I came to her personal essay. And after pausing for a few moments, as if to mentally prepare myself--and momentarily wondering whether I had written the essay topic with her in mind or whether I had simply been anticipating her response to it most of all--I picked my pen back up, set my eyes on the paper, and immersed myself in her words one last time...

 

Essay #3: Barriers, ctd.

            A few months ago, one of my favorite teachers complimented me by calling me an “unconventional thinker.” When he said that, I quickly realized it was true; it seems that for much of my life I’ve had a tendency to look at certain things in a slightly different way than most people. And I began to realize...I’m proud to be an unconventional thinker. There are aspects of life that people in general seem to be programmed to think of in a certain way; things that they just accept as proper--or improper--without question. And I’m not sure exactly why, but something about the way my mind works often allows me to see beyond these norms that almost everyone seems to accept--and to form my own opinions about certain things, even when I know that hardly anyone else holds those opinions.

            Earlier in the year, when Mr. Russell had us come up with statements of our philosophies of life, the first thing that came to my mind was that concept of barriers. It’s perhaps the ultimate example of my unconventional thinking. I’ve realized over the years that we have a tendency to want to separate people into categories--based on when in our lives we meet them, or what roles they play for us and for each other. And almost everyone would say that many of these barriers are proper, even necessary...but I would argue that even the ones we never seem to question are not as important as they seem.

            I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately--because there’s someone who has been almost constantly on my mind. I’ve known him for slightly less than a year; he’s really only a few years older than I am...and he’s truly one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known. Yet we fall into two separate categories--categories that seem somewhat arbitrary to me, but that most people are so dead-set on keeping apart that they have gone to great lengths to prevent us from interacting in certain ways. One particular way, really. I’m not even sure whether I want to interact with him in this way. I just know I feel something for him, and from the way he sometimes acts toward me...I can’t help wondering if he feels a similar way about me. But even if he does, the only thing keeping us from--

 

            “How did I do?” said a familiar voice.

            I jumped in my seat as I neared the end of the essay, abruptly looked up...and there she was. As I had been reading, though I knew I must have been greatly enjoying her essay, I couldn’t get over the feeling that something about it was wrong, inexcusable. But when I looked up and saw Hillary, standing right there in front of my desk, I knew there was only one grade I could give her for it...

            “A plus,” I told her, setting her exam down. She beamed, and I felt myself smiling as well. “Hey, Hillary.”

            “Hey, Mr. Russell. It’s...good to see you.”

            I nodded. “So...what brings you?”

            “Oh--I guess I just...wanted to see you again before the end of the year. I mean...” And she seemed to gain more confidence as she continued, “I always knew I’d come back eventually. They can put up a camera, but they can’t keep me away from you forever--know what I’m saying?”

            “Yeah...” I nodded somewhat absentmindedly. “So what’s new? It’s just...it’s been so long since I’ve...”

            “Oh, various things...” She cast around for something to say, and suddenly remembered: “James and I are talking again.”

            I hesitated, somewhat stunned by this news, as glad as I must have been to hear it. “Really? How...?”

            “You know--I think it had something to do with...you, actually.” She paused long enough for me to be momentarily bewildered, then began to explain. “So, you remember that day when I asked you for the sticky note, and you gave it to James and told him to give it to me? Well, he just sat there for a few seconds, trying to make up his mind about whether to hand it to me--I guess because it would require him to acknowledge my presence. But after thinking about it...he did. And a few days later, he came back to me and apologized. All I can figure is that, when he gave me that sticky note”--she grinned--“something inside him must have...decided it was okay to stop pretending I don’t exist!”

            I forced myself to smile as well. “It’s...amazing what a sticky note can do,” I said, thinking back to the message she had written me.

            “Exactly.”

            Several long seconds went by...and then I found myself saying, knowing it was random but just wanting to say something, to break the silence, “I’m so glad you came back, Hillary. I’ve...I’ve really missed you.”

            She smiled briefly...then she continued, “We’re just friends, though.”

            “Ah.” I found myself nodding a bit more enthusiastically.

            “We never should have gotten involved romantically,” she went on. “I think James and I were just...made to be friends, if you know what I mean.”

            “Sure.”

            A few seconds went by before she continued, “You...you really are an amazing teacher, Mr. Russell.”

            “Hmmm.” I smiled...and a thought occurred to me. “So, tell me...who’s the person you were talking about in your last essay?”

            She said nothing. She seemed a bit startled...nervous.

            “Would I believe you if you told me?” I tried.

            She smiled. “Probably not.”

            “All right, then.”

            A few seconds of silence...then, “Mr. Russell?”

            “Hmmm?”

            “I’ve been thinking about something,” she began. “So--you remember what I was saying a few months ago about...barriers?”

            “How could I forget?”

            “Right. Well, I’ve been thinking...you’re no longer my teacher, are you?”

            “Well...no, I guess not.”

            “And, I mean...I’m an adult--I’m graduating in just a few days.”

            “Right.”

            “So...” she continued, choosing her words carefully, “I’ve just been thinking, perhaps we could see about...maybe...breaking down some of those barriers that exist between us? If...you know what I mean?”

            I pondered her request for a few seconds...and then found myself standing. “Hillary,” I heard myself declare, “now that I’m no longer your teacher, you can call me...Mark.” Part of me seemed to flood with relief; of course that was all she meant--or, in any case, it might satisfy her. But at the same time, I asked myself...could that possibly be all she wanted?

            “Mark.” She smiled, and began walking slowly around my desk, toward me. “I like the sound of that.” She was right beside me as I turned to face her...and I saw her face moving toward mine, felt her hand reaching tentatively toward my shoulder...

            And, the moment she began to lay her hand down, my eyes seemed to dart up to the camera that was still in the opposite corner of my room--and I instinctively pulled away, and sat back down. I felt her back away as well...and, making every effort not to look at her, I began trying to figure out what had just happened.

            “I’m...I’m sorry, Mark,” she was saying. “I just...I just got a bit carried away--I think I’ll leave now...”

            “Wait!” I heard myself saying...and I sensed her stopping in her tracks. And, still not looking up, I scrambled to think what to do.

            The school year was not quite over. But Hillary’s class was finished by now; it hadn’t met today, and Sheila and Rod had no way of knowing that Hillary would come up to my room after school. And so, for all I knew, they might be watching the surveillance camera--but, for all I knew, they might not be...

            And I made up my mind. I knew what I wanted.

            “Hold on a second, Hillary,” I told her as I reached for my smartphone. “Hold on just a second.”

            Maybe they were watching, I thought to myself as I plugged my phone into a pair of speakers I kept on my desk. Maybe Sheila and Rod had seen everything, and were on their way up to my room to fire me right now. But there was a flaw in their plan, it seemed to me at that moment: for if they fired me...and Hillary graduated...they couldn’t keep us apart, could they?

            Swiftly, I opened my music library on my phone and navigated to a playlist labeled “Our Songs”--which actually contained only two songs, both of which I had downloaded over winter break. I clicked the first one...and then slowly let myself stand back up, and walk around the corner of the desk toward Hillary, as the lead singer of The Association sang, “You ask me if there’ll come a time / When I grow tired of you / Never, my love / Never, my love...”

            And she turned around to face me, smiling broadly, as I extended my hand toward hers--and we danced...

Reviews

[alanwgraham]

This is a great story and it kept my attention right through. As a once young new teacher just a few years older than some of my very mature pupils I can remember just enough to congratulate you on how well you have portrayed all the difficulties of navigating your way through the relational minefields existing between you and your students. You have developed the characters brilliantly.
Very well done,
Alan