August 13

I close my eyes and lean way back in my chair, talking, all intents, as if she's not there. Less Ms. P., more Allison, massaging a little more coherence from my temples as a counselor and I once more weigh options and consequences over my classroom phone. The first day is nearly done.

But the minutes tick by and now, half collapsed on my desk, I see she's giving me a look--somewhere between beatific smile and smirk--that I swear her grandkids will recognize. Seven years in--she's my senior teacher aide-I figure we're each entitled to our own opinions, and sometimes I think I amuse her. I straighten up, therefore or anyway. Hang up the phone, retrieve her bus number, patch the hole in her schedule, say goodbye until tomorrow. She'd waited past the bell, knowing I'd have what she needed one way or the other, though potentially lost on my desk.

"You don't know me yet," I said to a boy today, at the same time I was thinking, "oh, but I think I know you." I don't, of course, except for the first impression, but I'm not wrong, I would bet. Now to anticipate the rough spots and either smooth or sell the boy a file. Or, more likely, just be there after he "meant to do that." Just my hunch, but you can quote me. Regardless, I'm not worried.

It's the boys I have not yet met, that I've only seen from a distance, that are nagging nagging nagging at me. Sneaking in my thoughts. Even though I've warned their other teachers. Explained the situation to the best of my second-hand ability. I did the best with what I had, only hope to have gotten it right. If not, at least I've got the character witnesses: she means well, really, she does.