I AM in a classroom, which isn’t wholly unordinary. There is something different about me. I feel taller, and the clothes I’m wearing are stiffer. They’re formal. I think I’m wearing khakis or something fancy like that; whatever pants I’m wearing, they’re not the jeans I wear every day that are so broken in, they feel like pajamas or a second skin or whatever is the most appropriate simile. Wow, figurative language being elusive? I must be really tired.
My shirt is rougher against my skin; the texture is foreign and the most amazing baby blue material. I’m wearing a suit jacket thing, and it’s black to match my pants.
I put my hand up to my head, and my hair is still short, which is a relief in a way I can’t explain. Everything is so surreal, and I find that I’m nervous, but I don’t know what about. The warning bell rings, and I look up and everything finally clicks.
I’m behind the desk at the front of the room. I think I’m the teacher. The room has little touches of me all over it: there are posters lined against the back wall with poet’s faces on them, and there’s a motivational poster in the corner with my line about time. So, even in this weird future, Emmett’s still hanging around. That’s cool.
Students wander into the classroom, with nervous looks on their faces. It makes sense, their first class ever in high school, and they’re starting with English, with me. I’ve heard the rumors that I’m a crazy and unpredictable-in-the-best-way kind of teacher, but I’m one of the best teachers in the school, or so the students told me at the end of last year. I have no idea where those rumors are from.
I stand up when the final bell rings and—oh my God I’m taller! Oh, never mind, I’m just wearing heels. That makes more sense. I haven’t grown since I was a sophomore in high school. I get out from behind the desk and cross to the front of the room. There is a small gasp from someone in the second row, probably because I only have one hand. They’re staring. I don’t mind it completely, which is weird.
“Oh, take it in. There’s only one hand, and you should get used to it now,” I say casually as I grab a stack of forms and put it on the first desk. “Take one and pass it down, please.” The students obey as I go back to the front of the room to give the standard first day lecture backed by the chorus of shuffling papers. I take attendance quickly, trying to remember all the names, and continue.
“Well, then, let me start by welcoming you all to high school. This is the first day of many, and I hope you guys all take this time to grow and really find yourself. You’d be surprised how your interests change from month to month.” There is a spare desk at the front of the room, and I sit on it gracefully, because I’m not falling off of it again. Have I fallen off it? I wouldn’t be surprised, especially if I’m in heels.
“But specifically, welcome to English. We’re going to read a variety of books this year.” I hop off the desk and grab a white board marker. It clicks like a pen, which is the coolest thing, and I don’t have to worry about a marker cap. I write the word change in big letters on the board, and my handwriting has smoothed out over the years and looks fairly normal. Sweet.
“And most of these books will deal with change in some way, shape, or form. We’re also going to do an extended unit of poetry in the spring.” I grin despite the groans echoing through the room and tap the board with my marker.
“Oh, stop it.” I keep my tone light, because there are people every year who don’t want to do poetry. “We explore poetry because we want to explore life. Poetry is emotion, it is rage and fear, and it is resolution. You don’t have to like it, but I’d appreciate you all going into it with an open mind. But you don’t have to think about it yet. We have books to read first and that’s pretty exciting. Don’t worry about it, guys. I’ll be there to help you every step of the way. We take this journey together.
“Those forms, the ones on your desk, let’s look at those.” We go through them, and I tell them to get those signed and then we are left with about ten minutes of class.
“Question time,” I say, looking from the clock to the class. “You have ten minutes, and I will answer any question you ask. Go.” Hands shoot up, and I grin a little. “Try to be creative in how you ask them, guys, let’s have fun with this.” I pick a boy in the back row; his name is Tyler.
“Did a shark eat your hand?”
I laugh.
“You certainly get points for being creative, but not quite, no. My hand was amputated because I had severe frostbite and infection was setting in. How gross does that sound?” The class makes a combination of grossed out and sympathetic noises.
“Any other questions?” There are only three hands now. “Aw, come on guys, you don’t have any other questions? Or is the fact that I only have one hand fascinating?” I pick a girl in the front row. I believe her name is Alexandria.
“Why do you love poetry so much?”
“Now that is a good question. I grew up in the poetry world, reading and writing it, and I wrote poetry every day when I was little, and I’ve actually published poetry books, but we’re not going to read my poetry. We’re going to read other people’s poetry. But poetry, like I said before, is life and emotion, and that’s really cool to see how different writers captured these things. Alright, one more question, yes, you, Marla, right?”
She nods. “When did everything happen with your hand?”
“Well let’s see. My junior year of high school, in February, when it’s really cold and everything is frozen and stuff. But that was in Connecticut, across the country.” The bell rings suddenly, and everyone jumps up. Figures I’d end up far away from Connecticut. There’s probably no snow here during the winter. And I bet the pizza isn’t the same.
“Get those forms signed!” I yell to their retreating backs, “and think about what it is to be alive and human.”
I go back to my desk and kick off my heels, stretching my legs for a moment. When an elephant walks in the door, I wake up.
“Ah, to dream,” I say to myself, rolling over so I can stare out the window. I don’t actually say it, but I think it because it’s poetic and cliché and perfect for the moment. It’s still dark, and there are stars out, so I watch them for a little while, mulling over the pieces of dream still stuck in my head.
I suppose it makes perfect sense, teaching. I could share my love of poetry with everyone and be there to support them through the weird time for everyone that is high school. I think I’d be a good teacher, maybe.
When the sun rises, I get up. It’s Sunday, and I have college applications to finish filling out. I tell my mom about my dream, save the elephant, because I don’t know what purpose it served.
My mom doesn’t react other than to tilt her head and nod slowly and enigmatically because she can.
“I think that would work out well,” she says finally, after a long silence. “You know there’s a great college in state that has a fabulous teaching program, and you can intern at schools if you wanted to, once you got your degree. But I think you’d be a good teacher.”