Tisha Blacque
Found in folder
Do
you know what the first words you said to me this year were? I bet you don’t’ remember. So I’ll tell you: Well, you certainly look different this year, Tisha. Then you sort of smiled and shook your head a
little and walked off down the hall to teach your class.
Now
what was I supposed to do then? I mean,
you directed me in the school play last spring … you said I did a really good
job … and on the last day of school, you even came looking for me. Remember?
You found me out by the buses that were all lined up out front. The kids were filing on board. Teachers were out there, just about all of them,
waving good-bye to all the kids. Lots of
kids were crying, especially the 8th graders, who were going on to the high
school and would not be back in this building again.
That
sort of made me laugh, all that crying.
For three years those kids have been saying how school sucks, how they
hate this place, how they can’t wait
to get out of here, how they treat us like babies, how no one trusts us, and on
and on. And then when the last day
comes—the day that they’re released from this suckery—what do they do? They
cry! They write stupid notes to
their teachers about how they are grateful, about how they’re going to miss
this place. Some kids even give
presents—not just to other kids, but to teachers, too. All kinds of hugging in
the halls. More tears. Pretty strange stuff, if you ask me.
Anyway,
last spring, the last day, you came and found me. You walked all the way down the line of
buses, looking for mine. And when you
saw me sitting by the window (I was one of the first kids to get on), you tossed
a pebble at the window to get my attention.
Well,
it got my attention, it almost scared the hell out of me, if you want to
know. And then you motioned for me to
lower the window (which we’re not supposed to do, you know, without the
driver’s permission, but she wasn’t paying any attention, so I did it, it was
hot anyway and most of the other windows were open so I don’t think she ever
even noticed in the first place). So
anyway, I lowered it. And here’s what
you said that day, that last day of my seventh grade year when I was getting
ready to ride home on the bus: Tisha, I
just wanted to tell you one more time how great you were in the play. Really great.
I
felt myself blushing. You may not
believe this, but I’m not really used to teachers saying nice things to
me. I don’t like most teachers, you
know, even though I pretend I do—like most kids. I mean, I don’t suck up to them, like lots of
kids do. I’m not the kind that shows up
after school and offers to help clean up the room or something. You know that. You can tell.
So
anyway, I was blushing, and feeling really stupid and really hoping that no one
was noticing. I guess I sort of mumbled
a thank you or something. And then you said something else: Have a great summer, Tisha—I’ll be thinking
about you. And then you smiled and
turned and walked away.
I’ll be thinking about you.
What
did that mean? I thought about that all
summer, off and on. All summer. I couldn’t really figure out what you were
getting at. And then along in July, late
in July, I got that postcard from you.
From New York City. You had gone
to see some plays on Broadway, and you sent me that card that showed Times
Square. Do you remember? Of course you do … Well, maybe you do. Maybe you sent
a million other cards, I don’t know.
Well, I know you sent some,
because at the roller rink some of the other girls said they got a card,
too. I was kind of embarrassed by that,
you know? I thought I was the only one. So when I found a chance to say I’d gotten
one, well, a couple of other girls said they did, too, and that sort of hurt a
little. Later, I wondered: Did you send
any to guys?
I
know … it shouldn’t hurt me. Because you
can write to anybody you want to. It’s a
free country and all that. You’re a
teacher. I’m a kid. But still … I thought I was the only one …
but I wasn’t. Doesn’t matter, really.
I
guess I should tell you at the rink I met a bunch of kids who don’t go to our
school. (I won’t tell you where they go,
because you don’t know them, so what’s the point?) Anyway, these kids were nice to me, not like
a lot of kids at this stupid school, and so we started meeting there a few
nights every week, these kids and me. My
parents wondered at first, like what am I doing, going to the rink so often,
because I never used to go more than once a week, if that, so anyway, I just
went, you know, “I’m starting to like skating.”
And they were okay with that because they don’t really care if I’m
around that much or not. Oh, I know what
you’re thinking, that my parents are bad or something, but they’re not. They love me.
I can tell it. But, you know,
once kids get older and start hanging out with their friends, they don’t want
to be around their parents as much, either.
It’s kind of an agreement, you know?
Anyway,
these kids at the rink, they don’t dress or act like most of the kids around
here. And I thought it was funny because
I was a little scared of these other kids at first, because they looked . . .
well, they looked like I do now. And so
I was afraid.
But
after a while, after they were so nice to me, I quit being afraid and I started
realizing that if you’re nice it doesn’t matter what else you are.
So
I started wearing lots of black, too, and at the mall I got my ears
pierced. (My navel, too, though my mom
hasn’t seen that and I don’t want her to because if she does she’ll make me
take it out.) And I wear the purple
lipstick and the dark make-up. It’s fun,
really, like being in a play every day, dressing up. It doesn’t mean anything, really. Not to me.
I
won’t lie to you, though. I don’t wear
this stuff much around home. My mom sort
of likes it but my dad would go crazy if he saw me and would say I was a
daughter of Satan or something when all I’m doing is just dressing up,
pretending, playing a part. Just like
everyone else really. So I bring clothes
and make-up to school in a bag and change before classes start. It doesn’t take all that long.
Lots
of kids treated me strange today, looked at me like I was crazy or
something. It was fun. No one really said anything too mean. Not any meaner than usual around here.
You
were really the meanest, you know? I
mean, of all people I thought would get it and would not go all weird about it,
I thought it would be you. The teacher
who directs the plays. Who sees kids
dress up all the time. Teaches them how
to use make-up. Teaches them how to play
parts.
So
why does this part bother you so
much? And why did you laugh at me,
today, in the hall? I don’t understand.
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