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The last week of eighth grade was crazy. For the month of June our teachers had desperately been trying to keep us working, but with summer in sight their efforts were hopeless. The last Monday of eighth grade year was blissful and fun, filled with lounging in the sunlit grass in front of Mrs. Robert's computer classroom. For me it was the calm before the whirlwind of events that was to come. I was singing our graduation song, and Mrs. Taylor and I still hadn't met to cut it back ("Wear Sunscreen, " a five minute monologue on music, needed to be cut down to less than three minutes). My sister, who I hadn't seen in months, was coming back from Washington for my graduation and the months of June and July. My rabbit Blackberry, a tiny, mean little ball of fuzz who I loved and had had since third grade, was dying. And I had three days left of going to school at Altimira Middle School with Mrs. Roberts and Hannah.
Tuesday dawned bright and early. Mrs. Taylor took us to Stanford, and the best and mot memorable thing about the whole trip was swimming in one of the large fountains which are all over campus. Afterword, with the help of Mrs. Purtel, I found a copy of the background music for "Wear Sunscreen" and burned it on a CD. Wednesday Ginny was home, but I only saw her for a moment in the morning before rushing to school. The day, spent at Marine World, was unmemorable for me until the evening when Dad told me that Blackberry was put to sleep. Later that day I got in an argument with my parents. That night I cried myself to sleep from sadness and exhaustion.
On Thursday morning I vowed not to cry. Graduation should be a happy day, I told myself. Project joy, wear a smile, and save tears for the ceremony, where they're more appropriate. Pooling all my strength into a warm ball of fire I mentally viewed burning under my collar bone, I walked on campus. No sooner had I passed the ALTIMIRA sign than Mrs. Taylor popped her head out of the office and said in a curt, anger-suppressed voice, "Caity could you come in here for a moment." It wasn't a request. Hardening my wavering resolve I nodded and followed her into a small office inside the building. When I stepped into that little room, I was nervous. My premonition was confirmed a moment later as my formerly silent English teacher let her disgruntlement be know.
I don't remember exactly what was said. It's been kind of a touchy subject for me for the past year, and this is the first time I've had the strength to recall the details in order to write about it. In general the situation consisted of Mrs. Taylor shouting loaded questions at me and then cutting me off before I could answer. Mrs. Smith, the friendly staff member who Mrs. Taylor had called to witness her questioning (the purpose of which I was soon to discover), was watching us with a mixture of apprehension and pity.
"Have you cut your song?" demanded Mrs. Taylor.
"No, I thought-"
"You haven't cut it yet? Must I do everything? It's not even a real song! I listened to it last night, and there's no real singing!"
"I told you when I picked it out that it was a monologue on music and asked if it was okay to-"
"Don't get so defensive," she barked, sounding more like a pissed-off teenager in a bickering fight than an adult, waving her hands in emphasis. I wanted to say 'I wouldn't be so defensive if you weren't attacking me!' Bit my small ball of fire had turned to ice and was quickly melting, the evidence welling up in my eyes. I've never been able to stand up to a yelling adult.
"Do you have another song you could sing tonight?" Mrs. Smith inquired cautiously. Avoiding the hostile form of Mrs. Taylor I gazed at Mrs. Smith. Although I had managed to hold my tears in my eyes, my voice wavered and cracked.
"I ca-can't do another song. I've been p-practicing Wear Sunscreen...."
"Can you cut it today?" Mrs. Smith asked. Not trusting my voice I nodded. Mrs. Taylor made an incredulous "Phf."
"M-may I leave?" I asked Mrs. Smith stiffly. The urge to cry was nearly overwhelming.
"Yeah," she answered with a reassuring smile, and I was out the door. My eyes were blurry with the suppressed tears but still I didn't cry; I needed a secluded place.
On my way up to the back wall of the A-wing Tiffany ran out of Mrs. Taylor's classroom. She was beaming and carrying a large poster.
"Caity, we're making a poster for Mrs. T. Do you want to sign it?" She looked at my face and faltered for a moment. "Hey, are you okay?"
I plastered on a smile and nodded, still reluctant to speak lest my voice betray me. The words "Best Teacher Ever" were scrawled in large red marker at the top of the page, surrounded by signatures and messages in varying colors. Tiffany offered me a pen. Looking back I still don't know if I did the right thing. My mind was buzzing with heartache and anger, and I was filled with the spiteful urge to turn in disgust. But Tiffany, though she wasn't my favorite person, really could be nice, and she was looking at me with such excitement and hope... my head echoed with the words "don't do anything you'll regret." However repulsed I felt at that moment, I wouldn't take Tiffany's happiness in her hero for the sake of my own pain and want for vengeance. I took the pen and signed "Caity." No message, no last name. Just "Caity."
I sobbed behind the A-wing for a bit. Cried for all my insecurities, problems, fears, and for my anger at Mrs. Taylor and myself. But mostly I just cried.
Some people look good after they cry; some people you can't even tell they've been upset. I'm not one of those people. You can tell for hours after that I've cried; it takes a while for my hot, rose-red blush to fade, and my eyes get puffy and sticky with tears that won't leave. So it was no surprise when exclamations of "Oh, Caity!" were sounded as I entered Mrs. Purtel's classroom. What was strange was that there were no calls of "whats wrong?" as I had expected. Instead I received a round of hugs from my friends, and an orange-and-white handmade bow to go with my graduation dress. It wasn't until I had finished cutting down "Wear Sunscreen" that I realized everyone thought I had been crying about graduation. I started laughing insanely and then nearly started crying again (my emotions were in a sort of crazy-limbo so just about anything could set me off). Thank goodness for Mrs. Purtel and Kristina Toni. Mrs. Purtel for her cheerfulness and the for the bow, Kristina for holding my hand.
The day passed quickly after that, mostly because I didn't see Mrs. Taylor. There was one incident at rehearsal before I was going to sing -- Bella Baxter came over and gave me a CD.
"What's this?" I asked her.
"Mrs. Taylor gave it to me to give to you. She said it's for your song."
I looked at the CD with disgust. She yells at me about how lazy I am and then doesn't even listen to hear what I've done. I tried to give it back to Bella, but she was already involved in something else. I didn't want or need her disk for her help, and I wanted her to know it. I thought over what I was going to say, and approached Mrs. Taylor with the CD. I couldn't even look at her face, so I directed my statement at her torso.
"Thank you for the CD, but I don't need it."
Graduation was fun and sad. There was lots of good-bye-ing, especially with teachers and Hannah, who wouldn't be going to SVHS. But even though I expected, even slightly wanted, to cry, I didn't. I guess I just didn't have any tears left in supply. That's probably for the best -- I look awful when I cry.
3 comments:
Wow. Seriously. I was reading what you wrote and I got so completely lost in it that when I finished I had to stop and think "Oh yeah. I'm still in my living room". Your writing is incredible. The most interesting part of that for me was hearing about something I have already experienced from someone else's point of view, though my eighth grade graduation wasn't nearly as emotional. Also, my ribbon was orange and white too! I just thought that was a cool coincidence.
And, to respond to your comment, thank you so much! Also, you know those rings that gymnasts use? Well we were passing by them on the bike path and two of my friends do gymnastics, so we asked them to show us some "hot ring action". I'm glad someone asked what that was.
oh caity, your writing is beautiful. trust me i've had weeks like that, and teachers like mrs. taylor (and probably a lot more to come) and i love kristina, always have, and always will, even though i don't talk to her anymore. this was like one of those passages in my favorite books that, against all will power, make me cry, and i really shouldn't start crying (my eyes get puffy too) since i'm going to my church for a game night.
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