Mrs. Gorblinski. She actually gave a shit. Other people assumed she was a nemesis. Because of the story, I guess. The legend. That’s what happens with legends. The facts get pushed aside and replaced with something more dramatic.
I’m guilty of it, too. I’ve heard the story so many times, even told it myself. I began to believe the simple version: Connor Murphy threw a printer at Mrs. G. Well, yeah, but…
It was a long time ago. Second grade. I only remember bits and pieces. We all had jobs. On the wall was a chart: lunch helper, schedule announcer, board eraser, nurse buddy, recycler. The most prized job of all, really the only one that mattered, was line leader. Everyone wanted to be line leader. For me it was the idea of being in charge. Controlling things. (We weren’t curing cancer or anything, but trust me—this was all very serious at the time.)
Each day, Mrs. G moved our names one spot. I waited my turn, watching my name advance. Finally, I was one spot away. The next day, I came to class, dressed up probably—that’s how excited I was. But something was wrong. I wasn’t line leader. I had a different job. It was supposed to be my day.
The class was lining up behind someone else. I called out to Mrs. G.
Connor, it’s not the time for questions.
She was a real no-nonsense type, everything by the book. There was a right way to do things. An order. And that order was now out of whack. There had been an oversight. Mrs. G would fix this right away. She’d appreciate what was at stake.
I told her, I got skipped.
Get in line, Connor.
But it’s my turn to be—
You heard me.
No. It’s not fair.
I stepped in front of the line. One of the kids pushed me. I tried to explain. I felt myself getting hotter. The room closing in. Tears forming.
Connor, please find your place in line.
But…
Connor, I won’t tell you again.
But it’s my turn to be line leader!
I reached out for the first thing I could find. Felt the printer with both hands and swept it off the desk. It slid across the floor, stopping at Mrs. G’s feet. The tray broke off, flew to the other side of the room.
The room went silent. All eyes on me.
Ms. Emerson escorted the class out. Mrs. G stayed with me, tried to calm me down. I couldn’t even look at her. And that’s it. As far as everybody knows, that’s where our story ends. I freaked out and threw a printer at Mrs. G.
But it wasn’t the end.
The next day, the printer was back in place. Back on the desk, minus the tray. And on the job chart: I was line leader.
And Mrs. G had moved my seat closer to her desk. She gave me a little pad. If I had a problem or question, I could tear a blank page from the pad, crumple it into a ball and place it in the glass jar on her desk. She wouldn’t stop teaching the class on my behalf. I won’t tolerate any more disruptions, she said. But she promised that if I placed a ball in the jar, she’d see it. And when the time was right, she would get to me. But I had to be patient. If I was, she would listen. She would hear me. I would be heard.
Everyone in school knew about the printer. It became this thing that followed me around. The logline to my movie, telling people what to expect of me. Telling me what to expect of myself. I was the villain. That was my role. And Mrs. G was the victim. And for years, that’s been our story. But it demands a correction. She made a mistake. And so did I.