CHAPTER 1
Teachers Come in All Shapes and Sizes
If I close my eyes, I can see you reading these pages propped up against your pillow. A blanket is lying lightly across your lap. It is gray and soft with fringe, with one tangled piece on the bottom right-hand corner. A notepad and a number-two pencil are lying diagonally on top of your nightstand, next to a box of Kleenex. I can hear the muted sounds of voices coming from the TV, its volume turned down low. Another of you is sitting at a glass-topped table in a yard filled with wind chimes and hummingbird feeders. There is a half-eaten sandwich — turkey on rye with tomato — and an almost-empty glass of cold green tea precariously perched on the table's edge. Your black Labrador retriever is pacing by the fence, barking at something you can't see. And one of you is coming home from work, riding a crowded subway train, bumping up against the person next to you. Both of you are so used to the jostle and bump that you ignore the contact.
I wonder about you. There are things I don't know. But one thing I do know is that there were moments in your life that defined you as a person. A random event, an accidental meeting, or a surprising revelation — they could be anything. These moments might have caused you to veer right or left, broke your heart, or ignited your imagination. They arrived in the guise of an old man sitting on a park bench feeding the pigeons, or in a classroom humming with electric lights, or perhaps on the wag of a lost dog's tail. No matter how they came, they changed who you are and who you would become.
Please allow me to share one such moment in my life with you.
It was summertime, somewhere between the fourth of July and the beginning of August. I remember that because my family spent most of August at the shore wading knee-deep in salty water and building sand castles — at least that's what my sister and I did. My mother sat under an umbrella reading true romance novels, and my father, when he was there, was at the Shamrock, third stool from the door, guzzling cold beer washed down with a shot of whiskey. But on the day I am remembering, the girls in my neighborhood were jumping rope. I can see us clearly — Jennie with her long blond hair, Barbie with her perfectly pressed knee-length shorts and matching blouse, and me standing at the end of the rope turning in time to the rhythm of words.
"Strawberry shortcake, cream on top, tell me the name of your sweetheart."
I can hear the sound of the rope like a sharp crack as it hit against the sidewalk. Jennie was jumping, one foot then the other, showing off. Her bangs were falling over one eye, and she lifted her hand to brush them away. I look harder at the image in my mind. Katie, Barbie, Mary, and Andy were standing near the curb with their arms crossed, watching. Barbie's eyes were narrowed, searching for any misstep. She was one of the older girls — a sheriff of sorts. I was the steady ender — the girl whose feet got tangled up in the rope as I tried to jump, but my feet never left the ground. I couldn't jump, but I didn't want to be left sitting on the stoop, so I always volunteered to turn the rope. As I picture the scene on that day, the other end was tied to the lamppost.
I think back and remember that as Jennie jumped from one foot to the other without missing, a wide smile had spread across her face. She was not only a good jumper; she was the queen of Double Dutch. As she was about to tell us the name of her sweetheart, the rope jerked slightly and she missed. An angry red flame appeared in my line of vision as she had come running over to me, hands on her hips.
"You did that on purpose, Sophie!" she shouted.
I shut my eyes and picture the rope wound tightly around my hand, and I remember how the blood had pulsated in my fingers. The boys, that day, as most others, had been playing stoop ball, but I don't remember hearing the sound of the ball bouncing against the step. They must have stopped their game to watch us. A girl fight was something to see. Time seemed to stretch. I remember the distorted image of a face stamped on silly putty popping into my mind. I liken it now to Munch's Silent Scream. Then I recall hearing one of the other girls yelling for us to keep playing. "Knock it off," she had said, "it's Mary's turn."
"Cinderella dressed in yella, went downtown to kiss a fella, how many kisses did she receive ... one ... two ..."
I had then begun to turn the rope again, thwack-thwacking it against the sidewalk. The boys had gone back to throwing the Spaldeen against the steps. It was a game of points. I remember hearing someone snicker. It was Gary, the boy who lived in the apartment across the courtyard from my family. If I looked out my parlor window, I could see into his kitchen.
"Yeah, like someone is going to kiss that fatso!"
My brow had furrowed as I concentrated on turning the rope. I imagine Mary as she turned toward me without missing. Her cheeks were red, and she looked as if she might cry. Through the corner of my eye, I saw the boys who had been sitting on the stoop leap up and pretend to jump rope. I remember hearing them oink and grunt like overstuffed pigs, and I shot them a dirty look. It was all I could do. I had to concentrate on turning the rope. Mary was slowing down. Pretty soon she was going to miss. I tried to slow down the rope, trying to match the movement of her feet. But she missed anyway. It was all she could do.
I see myself throwing my end of the rope down and turning toward Gary. He had the Spaldeen in his hand — the hand with the white, shiny scar that ran down his thumb. The ball, scuffed as it was, was his prized possession. He never went anywhere without it. If he wasn't throwing it up against a wall, he was fingering it in his pocket, turning it round and round.
I remember watching him as he turned away, the ball in a tight grip. He had raised his arm to throw it against the step of Jennie's building. That's when my heart had begun to beat faster and my ears filled with a sound like rushing water. I was not brave, but I see myself so clearly — grabbing the ball from him and heaving it as far as I could. I closed my eyes and imagined its pink shape bounce and roll...
