by Dan Kolbet
I kept running and ignored her, as most students did.
I got halfway down the back steps—mere feet from my destiny, Michelle Sherwood—when in my haste I forgot that I was holding not just one, but two prep books. The bottom book had been slowly slipping away from me as I ran down the hall and flew down the stairs. As I reached the bottom steps that turned toward the lower hallway, that forgotten book got the best of me. But I was looking up—toward Michelle, who had heard my stampede down the steps and knew I was coming. Our eyes met—ever so briefly—before I placed all my weight on the book hanging halfway over the last step.
I launched myself—I'm not kidding—at least four feet into the air from that last blasted step and landed flat on my face. My destiny and dignity were gone in the exact same instance. I lay there with a carpet-burned face, hoping the floor would swallow me up; but thankfully it didn't.
I rolled over. Squatting next to me was Michelle with a concerned look on her face.
"You, OK?" she asked.
Was I OK? No. Not really. I wasn't hurt—at least not physically. But displaying how much of a moron I was in front of her was completely the opposite of what I had intended to do. I pulled myself up and leaned against the wall. Due to the early hour, the hallway was deserted except for us. She sat down next to me. My chance wasn't gone—yet.
"Would you like to go to the dance with me this Friday?" I asked, through clinched teeth as I noticed the marks on my hands from trying to catch myself.
"The Sadie Hawkins' Dance?" she asked. Her voice seemed as sweet then as it was moments earlier singing that song that I'll never remember the name of. "Aren't the girls supposed to ask the guys?"
What an idiot. Yes, that was traditionally the rule. Guys weren't supposed to ask girls out this time around.
"Well, I just thought that maybe if you were free that—"
"So you're a rule breaker, huh?" she said, smiling.
I returned the smile and shrugged my shoulders as if to say, oh, yeah, I'm Mr. Badass rule breaker. I rip the tags off mattresses and cross the street against the signal and everything . . .
"OK then," she continued. "Will you go with me?"
Well, that was easy.
"Let me think about it a minute," I replied, trying to be funny.
"Don't think too long, there'll be another clumsy oaf falling down those stairs any minute and I'll ask him."
I couldn't tell if she was serious or not. I didn't want to chance it.
"Yes, of course I will."
* * *
That episode lead to two years together until graduation when we went to different colleges and simply lost touch. Long distance doesn't work. This was before you could follow your friends or ex-girlfriends on Facebook too, not that it would have made much difference. I met Jane and didn't look back.
Michelle Sherwood is Gracie's teacher. Unbelievable. Sorry, Michelle Dixon.
Chapter 20
"You certainly know how to knock a person off their game," Michelle says at 3:02 p.m. in the hallway outside room 132. The stream of students and their overjoyed voices nearly drown her out. A pinball game of hyper children bounces around us.
I couldn't wait much longer to see her. I wasted most of the day tinkering around at a coffee shop trying to write. Black ink stains cover my right hand. Standing in front of Michelle, my hands are shaking, but not because I'm nervous. I drank so much coffee that my blood-to-java ratio is painfully out of whack.
"I could say the same to you," I say.
"Your daughter is very sweet. She's quite the chatterbox."
"Oh, Gracie's not my daughter," I say to correct her assumption. "I'm her uncle. She's Trevor's daughter."
"That's your brother, right?"
"Yes. He and his wife passed away at the beginning of the summer and I'm sort of watching out for my nieces now. His oldest daughter is in high school at Gonzaga Prep."
"I'm sorry to hear about your brother," she says, then quickly changes the subject. "I heard about your book. Congratulations."
"Yeah, thanks."
And then comes the one question that every author knows is coming.
"Working on anything else?" she asks.
I can't blame her for asking. Of course there are variations of this question too. I wouldn't have been surprised with, "When's the next one come out?" Or "I've got a great idea for a book." It's human nature to look for the next thing—to assume that what you've done to this point in your life can only get better. So why wouldn't you again be pushing yourself through hell to crank out another novel? One that may or may not validate your original work and sense of being. Sure, let's do that. People ask all the time, not knowing what flames they are really fanning.
But I ignore my internal angst and answer the question like I always do.
"It's coming along slowly. But I'm getting there."
Of course, she sees right through me.
"Wow, that's a B.S. answer if I've ever heard one," she says, looking around to see if any of the kids heard her mild curse. "It's been what? A decade?"
"Roughly."
"So what have you been doing with yourself? Other than growing that terrible beard."
Excellent question. What have I been doing?
A wild pack of children race by us. A perfect distraction.
"No running in the halls!" she shouts at them. They slow to a speed walk.
"What about you," I ask. "How long have you been teaching?"
"I see what you did there," she says. "Not answering my question."
"That obvious, huh?"
"Afraid so," she says. "I'll help you dig out. I've been at Five Mile for . . . wow, almost 10 years now. I taught second grade for the past eight years and this is my first crack at first grade. You're daughter—niece, sorry—is in for quite the experience."
"I think she's up for it. She's pretty resilient."
"You'd be surprised how true that is for kids," she says. "They just need to know what's expected of them. They living with you now?"
"More like I'm living with them. Oh, and you'll appreciate this. My parents are living with us too."
Her reaction is priceless. Hand over her mouth, trying to hold in a laugh that can't be contained. So she doesn't. It's a beautiful, reserved laugh. Very fitting for both her personally and for the comic strip that is my living situation.
"We all have our crosses to bear," she says, continuing to laugh.
I can't help but smile at that. So very true and she fully understands what a pain in the butt my mother truly is.
"There's a smile," she says. "I wasn't sure if you could still do that under that wig on your face."
"Wig?"
"Oh, come on," she says. "You trying out to be another brother on Duck Dynasty or is there a lumberjack pancake-eating contest tonight?"
"Easy, I'm sensitive," I say, playing with her.
"I think you need to be a hunter to pull off that look; and if I remember right, you're far from it."
"I've been known to shoot an animal or two before."
This is true. Last year some cat kept climbing on the cabin deck and pooping, so I bought a BB gun and fired off a few shots in its direction to scare it off. OK, so it was only one animal and a BB gun doesn't really count, but I'm trying to sound tough. A manly man.
"Oh, impressive. Maybe I'll take you out with me next time I go elk hunting with my cousin in the Okanogan."
"Yeah, that'd be great," I lied.
"So, I've got to do some wrap-up for the day before a few meetings, but it was really great seeing you," she says, but doesn't make a move to walk away.
"Good to see you too."
"Oh, I should ask," she said. "Since you're a writer and everything. We're recruiting reading mentors for the students. It's a pretty easy gig. You just read with the kids and help them along when you can. It's during the school day. A few days a week. Whatever you can handle. I think they'd really like to have an author as a mentor."
"I thin
k I can handle that," I say.
And if there's a chance I'll get to see more of Michelle, then I'm definitely in.
I say goodbye and can't help but watch her as she turns back into the classroom and out of sight. Such a beautiful woman.
Chapter 21
Lesson learned. I should have asked more questions before agreeing to become a reading mentor. Not only are the kids not in Michelle's class, they are in the Kindergarten class.
The first day went like this. The teacher, Mrs. Weston, parades me up in front of a gaggle of little kids in mismatched clothing. The kids sit in a semi-circle, legs crisscrossed. Some rock back and forth from shear boredom before I even begin.
"Class, this is Billy Redmond," Mrs. Weston says to the throng.
"Hi, Billy-er-man," the class collectively mumbles. If they were adults they'd already be checking their phones for "important messages" that might allow them to flee without doing irreparable harm to my ego. No such luck, they are just kids.
"Mr. Redmond is an author," she says. "He writes books."
"Ohhhh," the class says. Clearly impressed beyond words.
A little boy wearing a black Batman shirt, raises his hand and sort of bounces until his teacher notices him.
"Yes, Connor?" Mrs. Weston asks.
"So, um, you know the Batman book?" Connor asks, but he's not really asking a question. "Yeah, I wrote that one."
I catch the Mrs. Weston's glance. I'm wondering if it's my sworn duty as an adult to call out this little punk for lying about writing a book. A book about Batman no less. I think the fellas at DC Comics would take issue with such a claim. Mrs. Weston seems to sense my unease.
"Connor, I think you mean you have read that book. An author wrote it a long time ago."
"Um, yeah," he says, "That's it."
A girl in green coveralls raises her hand, but doesn't wait to be called on.
"I wrote a book too!" she says. "It's in my bedroom. I like to read a lot."
"Hanna, we don't talk unless we're called on," the teacher says. "And I think we're getting a little confused here. We're all learning to read in kindergarten. It's going to be some time before we can write long stories like books."
"Then why is he here?" Connor asks.
I give the little twerp the stink-eye, but I happen to agree with him, so I'm in a bit of a tough spot.
"He's going to read us a story," she says. "In fact, why don't we get started?"
I take chair in front of the carpet.
"Since it's Clayton's birthday week, he picked his favorite book for the class today," Mrs. Weston says.
She hands me a green hardback copy of Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree, a classic children's novel that has been read by schoolchildren for decades. The story is about a boy who takes and takes progressively more from a tree throughout his lifetime, until the tree is cut down to a stump—dead for all practical purposes—and the author proclaims the tree is happy. I've always found this to be troubling as a children's book. What exactly are we supposed to learn from this sadomasochistic relationship? That we can continually ask for what we want, even when it inflicts pain on another person or, in this case a tree? That our needs should be selflessly filled by others, regardless of the consequences? Of course the kids sitting cross-legged in front of me aren't pondering the literary intent of this book. They just want a story at story time. Fair enough.
I read the story aloud, voicing the highs and lows of the book to the best of my ability. And when I'm finished I feel a modest sense of accomplishment knowing that I somehow contributed to the education of these little people. Even in a small way. I close the book and set it on my lap, ready to have a discussion about what was just read. These were the instructions given to me by Mrs. Weston before I began reading.
Connor raises his hand. I hesitate to call on that little troublemaker. Thankfully another kid raises her hand.
"Yes?"
"Can I pull on your beard?"
"No."
I continue to ignore Connor as another kid raises his hand.
"It's not as big as Santa's beard," the kid says. "I pulled on that one at the mall. It was real too."
"We won't be pulling on my beard today," I say.
"Does anyone have a question or thought about the book?" I ask.
A girl with two ponytails raises her hand, "Did you write that? I didn't like it."
"Well, no, I didn't write this one; but why didn't you like it?"
"I need to go potty," she says.
I look up for Mrs. Weston to intervene. She's apparently decided this is a good time to go on break, because she's nowhere to be found in the classroom.
"I guess you should go then," I say. The girl gets up and half-runs out the door into the hallway.
"You aren't supposed to do that," Connor says. "You didn't give her a pass. And she can't go without a Potty Buddy either. Yer gonna be in trouble."
"I think I'll survive," I snap back at Connor only then realizing that he's got the upper hand, in that he knows the rules and I'm just some idiot reading someone else's story.
"OK, kids, I give in. Who wants to pull on my beard?"
Yet again, I'm in over my head.
Chapter 22
Despite my crash and burn with the kindergartners the first time out, I returned to the class twice a week for a month. Like bees and dogs, kids can definitely smell fear; so once I got the hang of managing this little pod of life, it went much smoother for all of us, even that little turd Connor. I kept my eye on him, but eventually he melted into the background with the other kids and simply listened to the stories I was reading.
I enjoyed the experience more each time I read for them. It became easier each time to read another person's work to the kids. Had I been reading my own work, well, I don't think I would have felt the same ease. There's a confidence you can have when voicing the final version of a solid story—even a kids story—that I don't have in my own words. It's always draft. Unfinished. Sorely in need of improvements. So, these little stories about trains, bunnies, princesses or trees, were safe for me. At the end of each book I felt a tiny sense of finality. Maybe I'm overstating it, but honestly, I liked it. Liked the finished—complete—feeling.
My return trips inside the school meant I was able to see Michelle too, if only in passing. I'd peek in the classroom and pretend to be checking in on Gracie, which I guess I was, but I was also trying to get in proximity to her teacher.
I stopped myself more than once from asking Gracie if her teacher ever mentioned me to her. It seemed immature and she, as an almost 7-year-old was an ultimately unreliable source to relay the nuanced statements from her teacher to her uncle. So I avoided asking. It sucked. I wanted to know if she thought about me. If she was brought back in time the same way I was the day I saw her at the head of Gracie's classroom. I wanted to see a note folded in quarters like she used to write when we were in high school. This whiff of a memory makes me feel younger, back to an age when I had everything in front of me. Not like today.
So I kept my distance. It's something I've become good at over the years, just ask my mom. The difference of course is that I'd like to bridge the distance between Michelle and me, not avoid her altogether.
I know she was reviewing and grading Gracie's homework papers and maybe that's why I've been spending every night making sure her homework was completed. In the evenings, after helping clean up my father with a warm washcloth, I would read with Gracie. Again feeling the irregular sense of accomplishment on the last page. I'd have my dad in the room too. I'm certain that he wouldn't give a rip about the kids' books we were reading, but I think hearing those stories is better than being parked in front of the television and being fed a steady diet of Wheel of Fortune or Judge Judy. I dare not say that to my mother though. She loves those shows.
Dad is getting weaker each day. His head hangs low more often than not. I got him a new wheelchair that has a cupped head rest on it. I couldn't bring myself to attach the f
orehead strap to the headrest. It seemed like a sign of defeat and I didn't want him to know or feel that we had resorted to propping him up with a leather strap rather than giving him the attention he needed. So I angled the back of the wheelchair so he was slightly reclined, his head resting back just a bit.
His routine of physical therapy appointments continued, but watching him go through the motions, knowing that every forced leg bend or ankle rotation would bring him no closer to relief, was exhausting and frustrating. I wasn't the only one who felt this way. I could see it in his eyes too.
But there was a change I could see in him when I talked about Michelle. Maybe it was the thought of a sexy younger woman that gave him that little twinkle, but it didn't matter. Did it? Maybe it brought back memories of his own young love. Love? I shouldn't use that word to describe what I felt for Michelle. Infatuation? That just sounds creepy. Interest? Yes. Interest is good. I'm interested in Michelle.
And one day she told me she felt the same.
* * *
That afternoon, as I was finishing with my kindergartners, Mrs. Weston quietly excuses herself from the room, as she often does. But this time she is quickly replaced by Michelle—or Ms. Dixon, as the kids know her. Mrs. Weston had already told me that recess would follow story time, so I led the kids outside. Michelle joins me.
"I thought I would have scared you off with this reading mentor thing," she says.
"You should have seen the first day," I say. "It was special, that's for sure. I don't think I'll be up for any Volunteer of the Year awards any time soon."
"Well, as a teacher, I'm uniquely qualified to say that kindergartners are a whole new level of crazy. I love 'em to pieces, but if they weren't so young and short, they would all be in prison."
She laughs at her own joke, which makes me smile.
