good girl

"So, Ms. P.," says some teacher, dropping a familiar name. "Is she yours?" she asks, with a gesture towards my end of the building.

And when I nod, she tells me that she had just lately met a girl whom I've known for six years. When she says, "She is just. . ." it's hard not to interrupt because I know where this is heading.

"She is just the nicest, most polite girl. . ." begins the litany of Good First Impression. I readily agree, identify the younger sister, give credit to their mother. I mention that she's my candidate for the upcoming Night of Excellence, and I have to chuckle at the vague implications of, "She could be anyone's!" even as I dismiss them. She could be,though if I didn't choose her for this honor-any-deserving-student night, nobody else would. Their loss; my gain.

Tomorrow or maybe the next day, depending on the printer, the girl under discussion will get an invitation, an announcement of her award. A surprise, and a first, save the occasional honor roll. I expect at some point to hear, "Ms. P., what exactly is this?"

And I'll get to tell her what I hope she already knows, that I admire her attitude, her accomplishments, her choices, and her persistence. That I think she deserves a place among The Best. Unlike so many others who will be recognized that night, she's not exactly looking forward to graduation. The future is too uncertain, the likely gap between what she wants and what she'll get too big. Government paperwork's a bitch. I hope the medal she'll receive becomes more motivator than consolation, but in the meantime, at least she'll have it while we figure out the rest.