How I Met Your Mother

Sam Pletcher, 15
Minnesota

"Crying World" - Amanda Paige, 16, Florida

I propped the door to my classroom open, letting the few early kids trickle in. All of them looked nervous, as if I was going to eat them or something. I tried smiling at one, and he gave me a scared stare and quickly stepped into the room. Rolling my eyes, I strolled inside, giving the false appearance of confidence. Even I hated the first day of school.

Glancing over my first period English class, I sipped my lukewarm coffee, playing a guessing game teachers like to play. Search out a student, and imagine what their name might be, what kind of person they are, and what kind of writing style they have.

The red head in the first row was easy: he’d be a Tristan. He’d be a cocky, talkative kid who’d chew gum loudly in class and make annoying jokes while the rest of the class laughed uproariously. Tristan would write the sort of stuff that didn’t make much sense; it’d be illegible and written the morning of the day it’s due. My favorite.

Leaning her head against the back wall was a girl whose purposefully-messy black hair had purple streaks. This one was probably an April. She’d sit there with great ideas almost bursting out of her head, but pretend she had no clue what was going on. April would write amazing creative stories, and I would give her As. But she’d be horrible at essays, the work either being much too long and random or very short without a point. She’d be exactly like I was at her age.

I took attendance, taking note that Tristan’s name was actually Keith, and April’s name was Leigh. Twenty-six students this hour—oh joy. Grasping my clipboard, I waited for the class to quiet down. Once it was silent, they stared at me, all fifty-two eyes looking at mine. I stared back just until they thought I was maniacal , and then I smiled.

“Hey,” I said. My words quickly filled up the small, white room. “My name is Ms. Voise. But I ask you to call me by my first name, Eira.” The students looked at each other, not knowing what to do. I knew that I was the only teacher to ask them to call me by my first name; that’s probably why I did it.

As I wrote my name on the white board, I could feel their stares on my back. A loud, annoying voice rang out. “EE-ray Voy-suh?” Keith-Tristan asked, looking to the pretty girl next to him, obviously trying to impress her.

Sonja Thalheimer, 17, North Carolina

“No, darling. EYE-rah Voi-see-aye. It’s French.” He looked slightly proud at being called “darling,” as if I wouldn’t call anyone else that. “Well, after that wonderful lesson on pronunciation, thanks to Keith, I think we’ll get started.” I leapt on top of the desk at the front of the room. “This year, we’ll be learning ninth grade English.” Smiling at the awe-struck faces, I continued. “Yes, I am standing on a desk. Why? I have conquered this desk. Why? To prove a point: you have to conquer your knowledge, not just memorize facts. Where would you be without me? You’d be in Mr. Johnston’s class, wondering why fate could be so cruel, and forced to learn why some person, whom you don’t care about, wrote something boring in some book. No, in my class we’ll actually be learning.”

I sank down onto the desk and crossed my legs so I could see them better. A majority looked confused, but a few students, including Keith-Tristan and Leigh-April, paid attention with surprisingly satisfied looks on their faces. “So, you have a choice—the first of many. Sit on the floor or in desks?” In one big shift of excited movement, everyone slid onto the carpet.

I clapped my hands once, jumped off my desk, and landed in front of the white board. “You all have homework.” A collective groan arose from the floor. “Your job is to write two pages or more about anything.. It can be about your name, girls, guys, music , , dogs, whatever. Just write as best you can.” The groan increased, and Keith rolled onto his back and quietly pretended to die. “Good news: you get the last hour of class to write it. You can talk, but that just means more homework for you.”

And with that I slid into my chair and placed my worn shoes on my desk. I heard whispers emerge to test if I was serious: I was. The noise got louder and soon they all began to chat. It was the first day of school; I’d cut them some slack.

* * *

At four, I closed the door to my classroom. When I got home, I jammed my car into the minuscule allotted parking space, and jogged up the creaking stairs to my third-floor apartment. Before even opening the door, I heard my dog’s nails clicking on the hardwood floor. Smiling, I pushed in the door and was promptly attacked by Dwight, a large caramel-colored Dachshund. He licked my calf, and I scratched behind his ears. I quickly collapsed in a chair, utterly idle, and as Dwight nipped at my toes, I realized he was the only friend I’ve had in a while.

* * *

The next morning, Leigh and some other students quickly finished their papers, while others sat on the floor laughing or eating breakfast. When I walked in, they didn’t notice, so I sat on the floor and quietly watched the clock until they detected me. “Oh, has class started?” I asked innocently. They sat there guiltily until, just at the wrong moment, Keith walked in, laughing and waving to someone in the hall. I rolled my eyes, and stared at him until he sat down.

“Well?”

“What?!” he said, clearly annoyed about his conversation being interrupted.

“You’re late. Pass?”

He raised his eyebrows at me, “Well, I thought you were the cool teacher. My bad.”

I stared at him angrily, and sighed loudly. “I need you to write me twenty five lines for ‘I will not be late to class,’ twenty five for ‘I will not talk to my friend in the hall,’ twenty five for ‘I will not sass back to my teacher,’ and twenty five for ‘Eira is the best teacher ever.’” Keith scowled, but reluctantly pulled out a notebook.

“Anyway, I need your papers.” It was quiet while I collected them. “Why did you do that?” I faced the class with a puzzled look on my face.

“Because you told us to?” said one student...

“Yes, I realize that. But why? You could’ve totally blown it off.”

Leigh spoke up. “Some people really want to write, but are just waiting for someone to push them a bit.”

I grinned at her. “Exactly.”

* * *

Dwight decided he could try and tackle me when I opened the door to my apartment. I held the students’ papers above my head so he couldn’t eat them. As he became conscious that there were no treats or kisses for him, he pattered off to his squeaky toy. I looked at the papers and picked out one titled, “Your Mom.” The paper had “Maya” scrawled across the top but I didn’t recognize the name. It started:

The last time I said a “your mom” joke my dad got so mad he sent me to my room. He was still naïve enough to think that going to my room was punishment. After about two minutes, my mom came up to visit me and we told your mom jokes until we felt like puking from all the laughter.

People are always telling me I look like my mom. I wish. She’s much prettier than me, even in her “old age.” Dad’s a bit jealous, since I’m an only child and look nothing like him. Mom and I laugh about it when he’s not around.

My mom’s the type who buys extra ice cream when you break up with your latest boyfriend, but disappears when the new guy comes to pick you up for a date. Yes, she’s the most annoying person in the morning, especially after her third cup of coffee when she skips through my bedroom singing Broadway show tunes, but I love her.

The whole story was five pages, and I read it three times, not making a single red mark.

* * *

In the morning, I searched for this Maya. When Leigh walked in, I took her aside and asked which one was Maya. Leigh pointed to a girl sitting quietly in the corner. Maya was the kind of girl you wouldn’t notice unless someone pointed her out. Her hair hid her face, and she was hunched over a piece of paper, doodling.

Class was a blur. All I wanted to do was talk to Maya. As I dismissed them, I walked over to her, the long hair falling into her eyes.

“Hey, Maya?” I said softly. “I really liked your paper. I hope to be hearing more of that voice of yours.”

“Thanks,” she muttered as she walked right by me, never once looking up. I was surprised by how she acted. I expected her to be funny and charming, not quiet. I was disappointed.

* * *

“Maya can you help me? Pass out these papers.” The next day, I gave my favorite writer a stack of yellow papers and told her to give one to everybody in the room. “Apparently every teacher is encouraged to give out a syllabus or whatever.” I rolled my eyes and wrote down the homework, which was a free-write about “the person you admire most.”

“I’m going to go over this. I hate it, too, so feel free to sleep or get started on the homework.” I yawned and picked up a sheet. I read it out loud, not even listening to what I was saying. By the end of class, everyone had finished their papers and turned them in. Maya shuffled over to me and handed me her paper. As she reached out to give it to me, I caught sight of her wrist. There were red lines all over, as if someone went crazy with scissors. I gently grabbed her arm and pushed up the sleeves. The lines continued, getting worse, farther back.

“Ouch. Did you do this to yourself?”

Maya shook her head. “No, we got a new cat. He’s a monster,” she said and hurried away.

* * *

At home that night, I dug through the stack of papers, looking for Maya’s. I spotted her messy scrawl and gently tugged her paper out. It was titled, “I Admire My Mom, a Cliché.” I chuckled and continued reading. It was the first story that ever made me cry. I couldn’t help it. My mother died when I was just starting college, but it was the good memories that made it the hardest to forget. As I wandered into my classroom the next morning, a flyer announcing Parent Teacher Conferences was taped to my door. My train of thought crashed and started on a new track. That meant I could finally meet Maya’s mom. Smiling, I unlocked my classroom door.

* * *

For parent-teacher conferences, I had to make sure that I wasn’t wearing my usual eclectic clothes, and I put my hair in a ponytail that hid the few pink streaks behind the blonde strands. As I stared at the clock, I could feel my heart thud throughout my whole body; I was nervous about meeting one of the most amazing people I had ever heard of. After what seemed like forever, the door to the large conference room opened. A tall, awkward man with brown hair that jutted out in all directions walked in.

“Uh, hello?” he called out.

“Hi!” I said energetically, jumping up to shake his hand.

“Yes, I’m Maya’s father,” He spoke very quietly, and as I seized his hand, the unexpected warmth surprised me and I must’ve held a moment too long, as he blushed furiously. .

“Please sit down.” I gestured to a chair and eased into mine. He perched himself on the chair carefully.

“About Maya…” he started. “Is she doing alright?”

“Maya is a wonderful student. Though, she can be a bit…reclusive, but most of the time in class, she’s day-dreaming.”

He half-smiled and replied, “Yes, Maya’s always been a dreamer.”

“She writes amazing stories that are so detailed, funny and rich. I’m always excited to read them.” He stared at me, his eyes so pale I could barely recognize the blue hints around the iris.

“What are these stories about?” he asked softly.

“Her mother. I was wondering if she was going to come today,” I said. A surprised look replaced the worried one, and then a miserable look slithered across his face.

“Maya’s mother died in childbirth. She never even met her mother.”

* * *

The following Monday, I asked Maya to stay after class.

“Hey, Maya. Is there anything you want to tell me?” She gave me a strange look, but slowly sat down in the nearest desk.

“Yes,” she said softly. I waited for her to say more, but she just sat there, her head in her hands. It didn’t take long for me to notice that her shoulders were shaking, and I heard muffled sobs. I sat in the desk next to her and put my arm around her. “Shhh, shhh,” I whispered. “It’s alright.” Maya rested her head on my shoulder and her tears fell freely now.

“I don’t have a cat. I don’t have a cat,” she kept sobbing into my shoulder, showing me her wrists.

* * *

Dwight was following my heels again, waiting for my chocolate chip cookie to fall on the floor. “Not a chance,” I said, and picked up the ever-growing stack of papers I had been ignoring. I didn’t want to find that Maya had written about her mom again, but at the same time, I would be miserable if she hadn’t. I sighed heavily and searched for her paper. It was titled, “There Is No Proof of My Birth Besides Me as a Person.”

When I was born, instead of the nurses going, “Awwww, look at that baby,” it was more like, “She’s not doing well. Damn! She’s not going to make it,” and then a bunch of doctors’ panicked noises. I swear I can remember the sound of the heart monitor, the last beep of my mother’s short life. But I can’t. I can’t remember anything. Maybe that’s a good thing.