The Handwritten Note from Mr. Gilliard

English class. I’m at the north side of the classroom, up against the windows. There’s a fly in the corner of the window, between the two panes of spotless glass. I was just wondering how it could have gotten there when I hear a screeching sound coming from the front of the classroom.

I look up and Mr. Gilliard is wielding his handheld garden cultivator with four black prongs at the front of the classroom. Each one of those god-forsaken prongs is vibrating at top-speed as he drags them across the blackboard to get our attention.

At first, I’m startled. I look past my shoulder and the guy behind me is staring dead-faced at me like it’s my fault. I look around the rest of the classroom and it turns out it was me. Jeez, I only got lost for a split second and this? It’s like this teacher is bent on getting our undivided attention. Actually, I know for a fact he is because he says so after every ear-piercing wail of his favorite garden implement. Here he goes—

“I intent to acquire your undivided attention at all costs. Please avoid making this any more difficult on your peers than it must be, Mr. Blake.”

That’s my name. Blake. Cosmo Blake. Or “Coss” for short.

“I was just describing the tenets of critical thinking. If you could join us at page 57 in the textbook, Mr. Blake, we would all be quite appreciative.”

Fine. I flip to the page he mentioned. The book was already out and open on my desk. I don’t know how that old chump gets away with making such a racket. His grey hair and smug grin make him look dumber than he already is. Plus, there must be a classroom on the other side of that wall. I have never had a teacher in all my high school career who was so bent on total control. Anyway, it’s the last class of the day. I’ll be out of here soon.

The walk home is a drag, but I get home in time to watch a little TV before my parents get home. Then my dad walks in the door. I know what this means. I’ll have to surrender the remote so he can watch the news. I don’t know what else to do so I just sit and watch with him. He says hello, but I don’t answer.

My Ma comes home next. She’s got wavy brown hair, cut short like most of the mothers I’ve seen. I can hear grocery bags rustling and my younger sister and one of her friends chattering. They come into the living room and beg my dad to let them watch a show. They are too loud together so I go to the kitchen and help Ma with putting away our food for the weekend. She looks me up and down. I guess I don’t help her often enough, but she doesn’t say anything. We fall into line doing the same thing together. After it’s all done, she starts to say something.

“Thank you. You’ve been a big help.”

“Ma, I’m not twelve anymore.”

She thinks about that for a moment.

“How was English today?” she says.

“Fine.” I say and start walking away.

“Dinner will be ready soon, Coss.”

I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t. Dinnertime passes without event and before long, I’m getting ready to go to sleep.

The next day, I get through almost all of my classes without a public embarrassment. But then, I’m in Mr. Gilliard’s English class again and I’m in the same spot next to the windows. I try to pay attention, but the words just blur after a while. Something about sound arguments and the essay assignment that is due next week. I look down at my pencil and it’s getting kind of dull. I look out the window and there is cat out there. It’s a calico, I think. Orange and black spots. A little white underneath. It’s laying in the sun, enjoying the warmth. I smile to myself and then  that painfully familiar screeching sound rings through my head again. I sit up in my chair and look straight ahead, face blank. The screeching stops. The classroom is cold silent.

“Mr. Blake, would you mind staying after class for a few minutes. I would like to have a word with you privately.” he says.

“Yes, Mr. Gilliard.”

I don’t know what I did to deserve this.

“Thank you.” he says.

The rest of the class passes slowly while I muster what attention I can on the explanation Mr. Gilliard gives about the last chapter of the novel we have been reading. I enjoyed that chapter, but it makes me mind wander. When the bell rings, I get up to go and, dazed and forgetting that we were supposed to talk, I head for the door. But then, Mr. Gilliard reminds me.

“Mr. Blake, have you forgotten already? Please take a seat here and we will speak briefly. I won’t make you stay for very long.” He points to the desk in the front corner closest to his desk.

I take a seat and prepare for the worst. I was punished like this once or twice before. I’m expecting to be told things like, “Grow up,” and “Get your act together,” when the last student walks out the door.

Mr. Gilliard quietly closes the door, leaving it open just a crack.

I’m afraid to make eye contact so I just stare at the bookcase against the wall. It’s five shelves tall and filled with various books. I can see some are colorful and some are bland. Mr. Gilliard sits in his chair, leans back, sighs, and says nothing for what feels like a lifetime. Finally, he leans forward and says something.

“Cosmo, right? But you go by Coss.” he says, suddenly informal.

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Coss, I have noticed you getting distracted more often lately. Is everything all right at home?”

For a few seconds I think about it. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” I say finally.

He pauses a moment longer.

“Coss, I want you to know something. You are an excellent student. You have always exceeded the average standards of this class and your assignments prove to me that you have some great ideas rolling around in there.” He says this while tapping his temple.

“Well, thanks.”

“You are a bit of dreamer, too.”

“I guess so.”

“I’m quite sure of it. And that’s not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.”

I just look at him.

“Only thing is that it must be controlled. You may not know this, but there are a lot of dreamers. There are a lot of dreamers out there, indeed. The problem is that they fall into the dream. Do you know what I’m saying?”

I shake my head.

“I am saying they enjoy the dreaming too much. They see all the potential they have for good works and the possibilities of this world, but they don’t want to go beyond that. They just want to stay in the dream.”

Now I was confused. Luckily, he went on without me asking.

“Everyone dreams. Everyone has big ideas, big imaginations, things they want to do with their life. What many people don’t realize is that dreams take work. It takes a lot of sweat to make a dream happen. The dream is the first step, the magic inspiration toward a good work, something that could change the world for the better. But that’s only the beginning. The next part is hard work. You must fight for your dreams. So, what is it then? What do you want to do with your life. Surely you must be thinking a lot about that lately. Graduation is coming up and you seem to be reflecting on what might become of you.”

“I’m not sure.” I say .

“That’s okay, for now. But soon you will have to decide. It doesn’t so much matter what you do. Only that whatever you do, you put your whole heart into it. You must direct yourself toward your goals, making progress every day, even if it’s just a tiny step.”

“Okay, okay.”

“I’m not coming down on you. I was your age once, too. So much vigor and zeal for life! Only to find out that dreams take hard work to achieve.”

He grew quiet then.

I was about to get up and go when he stood and turned toward the bookcase. I followed him with my eyes, wondering what he might do. He glanced around for a while and then set his eyes on something. He raised his arm and plucked a single book off the shelf. It was a small hardcover colored dark green and ageing.

“Take this. It’s yours. May you find it an enjoyable discipline for a wandering mind.”

With that I left. I took the book and set it on my bedside table. I graduated and the a few weeks went by. I wondered about the book he gave me from time to time though I didn’t open it. But, on the last day of June, I sat down on my bed and opened it. Inside was a note written in Mr. Gilliard’s handwriting:

Always remember what I said.

There is no name, but I know it was his handwriting.