Teacher of the Year

Teacher of the Year

Let me tell you, retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Here I am, Barb Marraine, 1999 Teacher of the Year for Castle Hills School District, sitting on my front porch with a crossword puzzle and a warmed-up ice tea, wondering why kids these days don’t play outside anymore. Of course I knew things would slow down when I left the classroom, but my life these days would bore a three-toed sloth. Sure, I volunteer at the food pantry now and then, and my first tropical cruise last month was marvelous, but on my pension, I can’t afford more than one of those a year. Which leaves fifty-one other weeks to fill in between.

It wasn’t so bad when Jean still lived with me. She was my favorite sister, until she decided to marry Bob and move half a state away. And then she had the nerve to say that I had nothing to do with them falling in love, that she never wanted my help. What a joke! The only reason they’re still together is because of me. If I hadn’t waggled my fingers in their direction every time they started to argue about one silly thing or another, they would’ve split up a long time ago. Come to think of it, I should have minded my own beeswax. Because then Jean would be here right now, doing her own crossword on the other side of our little wicker table.

Ah well. I miss my sister, but when you get right down to it, I have a lot to be grateful for. The view from my front porch, for example. The lawn is a lovely deep green, thanks to a recent string of late summer thunderstorms, and a sea of bright white impatiens spill over their borders like bubbles over the edge of a tub. And arching like a protective giant above it all is my silver maple tree. My, how that tree has grown since I planted it forty years ago. It was a skinny little thing, barely more than a stick, and I didn’t have much hope that it would survive. But it did. And now we’re two of a kind: tough old creatures with wrinkles and furrows settling deeper every year. 

I turn back to my crossword puzzle. Seven across isn’t going to solve itself. Cucurbita maxima. Twelve letters. Good grief. If I had taught high school science or Latin, instead of second grade, I might have a chance of solving that on my own. Still, I make it a point not to consult the all-knowing Internet for help with my crosswords. Unless I’m really desperate. 

The sound of rubber soles scuffing across concrete pulls my attention to the sidewalk on the other side of my white picket fence. It’s a young girl, walking slowly, her head down and shoulders stooped; a personification of sadness if I ever saw one. To my great surprise, she opens the gate and starts up my front walk. Her eyes are on the pink plastic container in her hands, and her face is mostly hidden behind a dark curtain of hair. It isn’t until she reaches the porch and looks up at me that I recognize her. It’s the little neighbor girl from down the street. But not so little anymore. When was she in my class? Four, maybe five years ago? That would make her eleven or twelve. And her name is… Oh dear. I draw a blank. 

“Hi Ms. Marraine,” the girl says. She shifts from one foot to the other, and I get the feeling she might change her mind about being here.

Mercifully, her name suddenly pops into my head. Funny how things click into place like that. It’s like rummaging through a junk drawer. You know there’s a paperclip in there somewhere, but it just takes time to find it. “Ella,” I say. “What a nice surprise.”

“I um - I made cupcakes.” She peels back the lid of the pink container to reveal three extremely sad-looking cupcakes with chocolate frosting. “I had extras and Sandy said you might like some.”

I remember something else about Ella now, something important. Her mother died in an auto accident when Ella was in kindergarten, and the year she was in my class, her father remarried. Even then, the girl insisted on calling her stepmom Sandy. Not Mom. Never Mom. There was so much hurt and anger in that little body. I did what I could to help. 

I look at the cupcakes. Then up at Ella. “Thank you! They look delicious,” I say. It’s so important to bolster a child’s confidence. I learned that much during forty years in the classroom. “And chocolate is my very favorite. Can you sit for a few minutes?” I gesture to Jean’s chair on the other side of the little table. 

Ella nods and sets the container down between us, then perches on the edge of the chair. She shakes her head when I try to hand her a cupcake. "I already had one," she says. There’s a sadness in her brown eyes that I’m sure has nothing to do with sub-par baked goods. I feel a familiar twitch in my fingers. Maybe I can help. But first, I need to know what’s wrong.

I peel back the paper liner of a cupcake, then take a bite. It’s not bad at all. The tops are sunken and the texture’s a bit rubbery, but overall, a good effort for an eleven or twelve-year-old.

“This is scrumptious, Ella.” A flicker of pride crosses her face, like the sun peeking from behind a cloud. But it’s brief, and then the sadness is back. Tell me what’s wrong, I want to say. I want to cut to the chase. But I know better. Children reveal secrets on their own terms. Push too hard and they clam up, fortify the defenses. If I want to help, I have to proceed carefully.

“You’re looking so grown up,” I say. “What grade are you in now?”

“I just started sixth,” she says. 

I take a big bite of my cupcake. You’re pre-diabetic, the doctor said at my last checkup, and she put me on a strict diet, which means I haven’t had anything this sweet in months. Surely I’m entitled to one little cupcake. I feel the heady rush of sugar hitting my bloodstream. It’s wonderful. “Sixth grade,” I say. “Your first year in middle school. How exciting!”

Ella shrugs. “It’s okay, I guess.” She’s not very convincing.

“It may seem overwhelming at first,” I say, reaching over to pat her shoulder, “but it’s a great time to meet new friends from the other elementary schools.”

Ella chews her bottom lip and I sense I’m on to something. 

“Of course, you’ll still have your old friends, too,” I say, searching my memory for an image of seven-year-old Ella with her friends. Only one face comes to mind. They were inseparable. “Are you and Drisana still friends?”

Ella sags a little. Bingo.

“We’re not -.” She takes a breath. “We’re not friends right now. But I’m trying to fix that.”

There it is. I feel a little surge of excitement. Or is it the sugar coursing through my veins? Fixing things is what I do. It’s my gift, one that links me to fairies in nearly every culture around the world. Some of us, the most famous, will live on forever in stories that are hundreds of years old. But most live quiet lives, doing what they can to help. It’s not surprising that many of us choose to be teachers. Award-winning teachers, like me, 1999 CHS Teacher of the Year, who have an uncanny ability to make special connections with their students.

Jean shook her head every time I told her how I used my gift to help a student. It’s just not right, Barb, she would say. How are they supposed to learn to deal with their own problems if you keep using magic to help them?

To which I would remind her that they were just kids, and kids, more than anyone, deserve a helping hand. Or, in my case, a magical waggle of fingers. I could make a pair of glasses trampled on the basketball court as good as new. Or add extra insulation to a thin jacket before recess on a cold winter day. Or smooth over a squabble between friends, so that everyone could focus on learning again.

Sure, my magic is temporary, lasting just a few hours. That’s simply the way it works for fairies of my sort. The broken eyeglasses always fell apart again overnight. The jacket shrank back to normal on the bus ride home. And the disagreements between friends popped up again sooner or later. But usually, by the time the spell wore off, they’d had a chance to cool down, take a step back, and remember what they liked about each other. My magic smoothed things over in the classroom, which made it easier for me to teach and easier for my students to learn. 

I don’t care what Jean says. There’s nothing wrong with using temporary magic to help a child. Besides, I think my sister was always a bit jealous, because she never had the gift.

So. Ella has a friendship problem. It’s better to have both parties at the table, but the next best thing is to help one side gain a fresh perspective on the problem. I take the last bite of my cupcake, fold the crumb-coated liner into a neat triangle, and place it on the table. Now my fingers are free. I’m ready. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask. 

Ella nods. “Remember how you helped me and Driz when we had that big fight in second grade? And you kept us inside at recess and helped us talk things out, and then we were friends again?”

“Yes, I do,” I say. Of course my students always thought we simply talked it out. They didn’t see me waggle my fingers under the table. They didn’t know that my spell helped them listen to each other and choose kind words to defuse the situation. 

Ella continues. “I asked Driz to come with me to see you today, but she didn’t want to. Sandy said I should come anyway. She said you might have good advice for me.”

I smile. Flex my fingers. “I’ll try. Tell me about the problem.”

Ella nods. “We got partners for a Science project last week. Driz is in my class, but the teacher assigned our partners, and he didn’t put us together.” Ella bites her lip. “He wouldn’t let us switch. It’s not fair.”

Fairness. That’s a touchy subject for any kid. “I’m sure that was frustrating,” I say. “Were the partners just for Science class?”

“Yes, but Driz started hanging out with her partner all the time. At lunch, after school, on weekends. It’s like she wants to be her clone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, Annette has a pink streak in her hair. And now Driz has a pink streak, too. Annette gets fancy manicures, so now Driz got a fancy manicure. She never had a manicure before. And now Driz is saying I should get a pink streak and a manicure so we can all match. I don’t want to match.” Ella’s voice rises a notch and she says, in something closer to a wail, “But I want my best friend back.” She squeezes her eyes shut, and a single tear glistens against the side of her nose. 

Oh dear. Tears. I imagine how disappointed Sandy will be if I send Ella home crying. “Well, what if you tell her you don’t want to-” 

“Driz won’t listen,” Ella breaks in. “She says we’re in middle school now, so it’s time to grow up, and doing her hair and nails makes her feel grown up. And then she told me which boys she likes.” Ella shakes her head as if this is the most baffling development of all. “She never cared about that before she met Annette.”

“Well. Boys. Now that’s…” I trail off. That’s what, Barb Marraine? That’s not a second grade problem. It’s not the kind of problem I’m used to fixing. I am in way over my head here. On the one hand, I could give Ella a spell that would make her consider the idea of getting a pink streak and a manicure. She would leave my porch with a smile. Or I could do the right thing and tell her to be herself. And she’ll probably go home in tears. But I have to do the right thing. “I think you should do what you want to do,” I say carefully. Gently. “Not what someone else wants you to do.”

Ella blinks at me, her eyebrows arched in surprise. “That’s exactly what Maureen said.” 

I rummage through my junk drawer of memories and come up empty. “Maureen?”

“My partner for the science project. She’s from a different school. She’s really nice, but she doesn’t understand. I mean, Driz has been my best friend since forever, so I have to work things out with her. Just like we worked it out when we had a fight in your class. Right?” 

“Well…” I don’t remember what that fight was about, but I’m one hundred percent sure it wasn’t about boys. Or pink streaks or manicures. I decide to try a different angle. “What else does Maureen say?”

Ella lets out a dry laugh. “You know what made her really mad? When Driz told me that Annette said we shouldn’t raise our hands so much in class, because it makes the boys feel bad and then they won’t like us. Driz didn’t raise her hand all week.” 

“Oh really?” I clasp my hands together in my lap, locking my fingers firmly in place. 

Ella shrugs. “Maureen says we should raise our hands if we know the answer. I don’t want to pretend I’m not smart.” 

“Good for you,” I say. 

Ella sits up a little straighter, as if she just had a revelation. I swear I didn’t waggle a single finger. “Thanks,” she says.

“You know, Ella, that cupcake was delicious, but my doctor would not be pleased if I ate another one. What if you shared the other two with Maureen?”

Ella stares at the two cupcakes in the container for a long moment, her mouth twisting to one side. Then she looks at me. “I could ask her. But Ms. Marraine, what about Driz?”

“It seems to me, Ella, that you already know what’s best for you. You didn’t need me at all.”

In one swift motion, she rises from the chair, takes a step, and leans over to hug my shoulders. I barely have time to hug her back before she pulls away and sits down. “Okay,” she says, as if she has decided on her next move. 

 A little while later, she waves as she turns onto the sidewalk, walking a bit faster, standing a bit taller than when she arrived, holding the pink plastic box in front of her as if it contains a precious gift. And maybe it does.

The day folds itself around me again, the minutes crawling on slower than a three-toed sloth. A gust of wind sweeps across the yard, lifting the leaves of the maple to show their silvery undersides. I glance around to make sure no one is watching, then waggle my fingers at the impatiens, turning the frothy white flowers hot pink. They look lovely against the emerald green grass. It's temporary. They’ll be white again by morning. And if anyone notices before then, I’ll say it must have been a trick of the light. I mean, what else could it be?

Then I push myself up from my chair and go inside to look up Cucurbita maxima. And to call Jean. She’s going to be proud of me today.