8:32 Monday Morning

8:32 Monday Morning.

The path, impregnated with the smell of sweat, old sneakers and the fear of all those who have walked here, looms before me. The eyes of each crevasse, nick and shadow watch, judge and mock my audacity. What possessed me to choose this as a career? In what universe did this sound like fun, thrilling, uplifting or even challenging? Logic and reason have shut down. All I can do is repeat my mantra:

I got this. I got this.

The sound coming from up ahead, is still a low rumble, but getting louder with each hesitant step I take. A furtive glance over my shoulder confirms that he’s still watching me. Though he is less than robust and easily forty years my senior, I know I can’t, shouldn’t try to push him aside. The exit, a magical bright rectangle of light, courtesy of the sunny September day, winks to me from behind his slight shadow. But freedom is beyond my grasp for many hours, yet.

I bend down, fumble with and retie my shoelace. Hoping my stalling tactic will work. But alas, when I glance back, he, my slave driver, has taken a step forward. His once warm, encouraging smile is frozen into a slash. His grey, bushy eyebrows are purling together. Both of his hands are shooing me on.

Shamelessly, I whimper.

My heart, having worked overtime since I woke up this morning, is near exhaustion. My teeth, though scrupulously cleaned, are holding back a nervous burb. My gut, empty but having enthusiastically agitated itself, is announcing the rinse cycle. Even my moisture absorbing running gear has conceded the fight and my once-pristine white blouse is clinging to the day-glow chartreuse miracle fabric. And the just-in-case pad in my panties has reached its beaching point.

Frantically, I look for the bathroom. The one place he can’t, or shouldn’t, follow.

There! Around the corner I see my sancuary. The universal sign of every girl’s make-believe safety. The one place where we all know the bogey man can’t enter. The only place so stuffed with unstable estrogen that no man worth his salt would ever be caught there.

Or so we’ve been told

The sobs from the fifth stall pull me up short. I recognize the sound. Just as I recognize the hum of the flickering fluorescent bulbs, the grey, mottled light through the ancient, dirty glass, the sweet smell of cheap make-up and the sharpness of ineffective disinfectant soap. It transports me back ten years when the knock on the stall door stopped my sobs instantly, told me to hold my breath and wait.

“I know you’re in there.” she said. “You might as well come out. Can’t spent all your life here.”

Her shoes backed up, water ran in the sink, covering both our movements, though she must have heard the click of the lock sliding back.

I was fifteen. Mousy brown hair, pimples, negligible breasts. Wearing well-worn, one-size-too-small, hand-me-down clothes. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and snorted to clear my nose. The woman, one I’d never seen before, handed me a paper towel.

“Who are you?” I asked after wiping my face and blowing my nose.

“Mary.” She said. I saw the flinch when she realized she shouldn’t have used her first name.

“A little old to be a senior.” I pointed out, aiming for and missing the trash can.

She shrugged and smiled. “Miss Parsons.” she corrected herself.

I could feel my smile falling, my shoulders drooping, my lips beginning to tremble. “Oh.” I said, and heard every ounce of recognition, disappointment, resignation and retreat in those two letters.

“What’s your name?” Undaunted she plowed on, as if there was not an ocean of class and power between us.

“Doesn’t matter.” I mumbled, hunched and tried to shrink so I could pass by her.

“Humor me.” She leaned near the door frame, hands stuffed in her trouser pockets.

“Sylvia.” I said while keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the discarded napkin under the sink.

“Why were you hiding in the bathroom, Sylvia? And forget that I am a teacher, ‘cause I’m not. Just a sub.”

For a second I felt hope. Hope that she might be one of those adults who understood. One of those you read about in feel-good books.

“Really. I’m just here for the day. Unless whoever I’m covering for is out for longer. So, who am I gonna tell?”

“Mr. Howitt?” I suggested and flicked my eyes at her.

It was amazing, scary, enlightening, daunting, insightful, frightening, and so much more what I saw flash across her face. In less time it would take to flush my life down the drain, she showed me that self-doubt, fear of the unknown, ineffectual positive self-talk and uselessly reaching for a helping hand would never go away.

Miss Mary Parsons taught me in that one second that I would always carry myself with me. The strong and weak, the smart and ignorant, the stodgy and creative parts of me.

“If I promise not to tell Howtwat, will you tell me?”

She got me. I couldn’t hide my smile. Only students knew his nickname, didn’t they?

“Okay.” I sank to the filthy floor. “Marcia and the others don’t like me ’cause I’m smart.” I knew it didn’t tell the whole story, but it was as good place to start as any.

Over time, Miss Parsons convinced me that being smart was a good thing. That being popular was okay, but it wouldn't be enough to pay the bills in the long run. That wearing up-to-date clothes had nothing to do with my worth. And that wanting to teach others those values was her passion.

The smell of little girls, their fears and excitements, the light that gives every lipstick an orange cast, the once-white tiles and drippy faucets are still the same. I don't look, but imagine the discarded napkin is still in the corner when I rest my forehead against the dirty mirror. Then I stand up straight, square my shoulders, take several deep breaths, remind myself why I’m here and mentally thank Mary once again.

The noise outside room 224 is deafening. The natives are restless. They have had years to sharpen their weapons and are ready to bare their teeth. They are salivating at the thought of fresh meat and warm blood.

As I look back down the hall, I see Mr. Howitt still standing outside his office. Mrs. Sparce, his secretary, is peeking around his shoulder. It’s 8:36 when I put my hand on the doorknob. I fleetingly wonder who will win their bet of how long I will last.

The combination of bubble gum and strawberry perfumes, sweat, hairspray, pimple cream and unbridled testosterone almost brings me to my knees when I open the door. On shaky legs I walk to the front of the room and stop inches away from the front row. Spreading my legs comfortably apart, crossing my arms over my chest I wait.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. I clear my throat.

“OKAY, YOU RUNTS. SETTLE DOWN AND LISTEN UP.”

I try not to smile in the stunned silence.

Yeah, I got this.