"Last Day of School" (not a sermon)

 (I wrote this short story today at the Grand Bay Writer's Group. This week's prompt was, "I can't tell them why I'm jealous - that would make it worse.")

 

I stepped into the classroom on the last day of school, head held high, clothes and hair perfect, and sat at my desk. The chattering voices enveloped me, sounding like a flock of squawking blue jays. I couldn't bear to make out the individual words, so let them swirl around me and out the door.

I didn't need to pick out individual words. I knew without hearing what they were talking about. A summer trip to Europe. Working as a lifeguard at the community pool. And above all, plans for next year. One was going to an elite university half-way across the country on a full scholarship. Another's parents were sending her the Ivy League route, south of the border. A group of them were going to be together at the university an hour away, and they had already figured out who was going to be roommates with who.

I didn't need to hear the words to know what they were talking about. I didn't need to hear the words to feel the jealousy bubbling up in me, a sour taste in my mouth, a ringing in my ears.

This must sound silly to you. A teacher shouldn't be jealous of her students. I'm supposed to be the adult in the room. But here I am.

They just know me as the odd math teacher. The one who brings cupcakes to class every Friday. The one who turns math exercises into a game.

They have no idea of the jealousy roaring through me on the last day of school. I am jealous of their opportunities. I am jealous of their potential. I am jealous of their youth.

I never had any of this. My parents couldn't afford university for me when i was their age, so I only got through by working two jobs and missing most of my classes and missing all of the parties, cathcing up on schoolwork in the middle of the night and early mornings. I loved math. I love math. But even then, I wished that I could have more.

The decades since have slipped by, teaching math and calculus and algebra and statistics, year in and year out. I never had children to bake cupcakes for, so I made a tradition of bringing them for my students.

And then last week. A doctor's appointment. I don't remember all of the details - I only remember a few of the phrases. "Stage 4."  "Affairs in order."  "Palliative care."

So here I am, this week, the last day of school.  My last day of school. Surrounded by a classroom full of futures and potentials and opportunities.

I can never tell them. I couldn't bear their sympathy; and besides, what could these bright young things understand of death?  Instead, we will say our goodbyes, go our separate ways, and maybe at their 25-year reunion, someone will remember me and wonder.