Things Will Fall Into Place

In seventh grade teachers started lumping kids in ability groups. Unfortunately, I was not very talented when it came to test-taking and I tested into a mid-level group with kids ranging from Drew Price and Slone Starky, afore mentioned manure shovelers, to Tiffany Nelson who once indicated to me that she touched herself while listening to Usher songs. Rachel Wells was also in my group. She liked to pick at the corners of her books and notebooks and really pick at things in general that had imperfect pieces hanging off. I guess the urge to peel it all away was just too strong.
I sat in the middle front of every classroom and stared at the back of Tiffany's head or watched Rachel peel the labels off of soda bottles and text books. When I wasn't doing that I was writing in my notebook which was really a book I was writing about how much it sucked to be in a mid-level ability group when clearly your brain was at least capable of advanced Language Arts. You know, since you were writing a novel.

Language Arts was the only class in which I knew, without a doubt, that I was being gypped. Aside from my “Penny-lope” incident in which I read an entire text book page aloud pronouncing the name Penelope “Penny-lope,” I was sure that I should have been bumped up to Advanced English. Especially when all of my best friends were in the advanced ability groups, “special” groups J and K. My mid-level group O was just not cutting it. Tiffany and Rachel were sweet, but I missed my best friends. Frankly, I was probably a little bit elitist.
My only ticket out of the slums of group O appeared to come to me one day in English class.

Ms. Anderson was possibly the weirdest teacher I had ever had. She was a slight woman with a delicate frame that was thrown off by the fact that she had a rather less than delicate face. She had a mole that sorta reminded me of my grandmother, and she was always frowning. She wore modest, loose fitting dresses that were bordering on being too big for her, and she never wore any make up. Her hair and skin all seemed pale and drained of color. She looked tired. Washed out. Occasionally I caught myself feeling sorry for her.
She taught Language Arts, and we wrote a lot in her class. We wrote pieces of an autobiography and put them together. We wrote our own poems. I liked her class because I liked writing and I liked the things she wrote back to me in my margins.
“Great dialogue!”
“Most unique birth story I've ever read!”
But as much as I liked her, other kids took advantage of her and pretty much gave her hell. They made fun of her baggy hippie clothes and her mole, and her short faded hair. They were cruel. And eventually there were rumors surrounding an incident with a fat kid named TJ Jackson who thought he was real funny.
TJ had apparently ticked Ms. Anderson off to no end one day in his low level English class, so she took him out into the hallway. Accounts of the incident got fuzzy there because the rumor was that tiny, little Ms. Anderson had shoved TJ up against the lockers and threatened him. Other rumors detailed an actual fight between the two, and that subsequently Ms. Anderson had been fired. But whether or not that was true, she did inform us that she would be leaving before the end of the year.
Just before she left we were completing a short story unit. To my left, Rachel Wells was chipping off her fingernail polish nail by nail. Tiffany Nelson shifted in her seat in front of me. And I decided to myself that I would attempt to escape from group O. I reached down into my backpack and pulled out my spiral Mead notebook with the recycled cardboard cover. I can still remember the multitudinous peace signs in different colors across the front. I was always very particular about my writing materials. I reached down and put the notebook on top of my desk. Rachel Wells finished chipping away at her pinky finger, extended her hand, and chose a thumb to pick at.

After class I handed my notebook to Ms. Anderson.
“I know you're leaving soon, but I thought you might like to read this.” I was shy back then. I looked down as she examined the notebook and then me. “Its a book I'm working on.”
“Oh, really!” But she didn't look at me like a little kid with a fingerpaint picture. She looked at me like I had some new and interesting information she might need to know. “I might not have enough time to finish it, but I'd love to read your work.”
“Thanks. I mean, you can tell me what you think,” I said. I didn't want her to think I was showing off. “It is unfinished, though, so...”
“I will be glad to read it,” she said. And I smiled and left the room for my last class.
The whole rest of the day I was envisioning Ms. Anderson flipping through my notebook at her home, which I was sure contained at least one cat. I didn't really think about her expression except that she would really be reading it, not just looking at it. She would be thinking the things I had thought. And she would know how I felt.

Ms. Anderson didn't show up for her last day. We were greeted by a substitute, and TJ Jackson ran around the school even more loudly and tactlessly than before, considering that the rumor mill had declared him the reason she had left. Or been fired, depending on who you believed. Kids were quietly celebrating her departure. She was “just weird” to them, and they were glad to see that go.
Near the end of the day I was called in to the office to receive a manilla envelope with my name scrawled across the front. I recognized the handwriting as the same kind that had snaked around the margins of my papers.
Sure enough inside the envelope Ms. Anderson had returned my notebook. Tucked inside the book was a folded piece of print paper on which was a hand typed letter. It was a full page long and read something to the effect of--

“Ms. Robinson,
Little did I know that a future novelist was sitting in my classroom all year. Your writing has always been a pleasure to read, but this story proves to me that you really do have a remarkable way with words. I can not tell you how grateful I am to you for sharing this notebook with me.
As I type this note to you, I should really be packing. You may not know this, but my mother has been sick for some time and I am moving to Nevada to take care of her. Though I will not be at school tomorrow, I do hope you know that your story has been a pleasure to read and has brightened this dark time for me.
Your use of dialogue is well developed, and your command of first person narration amazes me. Your form could be improved upon since the style of your formatting is sometimes hard to follow (quotation marks, paragraph breaks, indention), but I am still convinced that as long as you continue writing, these things will improve greatly.
All of this being said, I don't know exactly what you would like me to do for you regarding the “special” group. Since I am no longer a teacher there, I'm afraid there is very little I can do that will improve your position. Without improved test scores in math it would be impossible for me to do anything but slide you into advanced language arts for the day. This would have no effect on your group letter. Still, eighth grade will offer more opportunities. Be sure to shine like I know you will. Things will fall into place. I wish I could do more.
Unfortunately, now that I have read your partial masterpiece I will have to wait until your book is released and in Nevada book stores to read a completed work of Ms. JL Robinson. I will be sure to look.
Don't ever stop writing. Thank you again for allowing me to read such an outstanding piece of work.
Sincerely,
Mary Ellen Anderson”

I stood in the hallway of Murray Middle School and wished Ms. Anderson hadn't had to leave. That letter was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. She actually analyzed my writing! She didn't say just 'great job!' or 'wow!' treating me like a little kid who meant nothing. She signed her full name, Mary Ellen Anderson, like she was my editor or something.
I was still reading and re-reading the letter when I sat down in math class next to Rachel Wells. I didn't even look over to notice that she had only one fingernail left to scrape polish off of as she reached down to pick up her cover-less math book. Tiffany Nelson turned around in her seat, waking me from my mental image of Ms. Anderson in a room full of boxes, typing a letter to her twelve-year-old student.
“Did you see Usher on the video awards last night? Mmmm he is so fine!”

I didn't make it into groups J or K. But I would never blame Ms. Anderson for that. Instead, she was right, and things did fall into place. In the 8th grade Mr. Baggett took a chance on me and allowed me into advanced group S. Yes, I was finally with my friends.

I stopped writing the story Ms. Anderson read shortly after I got the notebook back. I think it meant something different to me then.

TJ Jackson, who was not by any means the reason Ms. Anderson left, grew even fatter and I have since seen that he attended TSU, although he appears to be ambiguously gay.

I saw Tiffany Nelson at a gas station near the airport once. She didn't recognize me. She got into a beat up Buick LeSabre and left with two creepy looking guys who looked nothing like Usher. I don't know if she went to college or not.

The cops found Rachel Wells' body on the bottom level of a parking garage near Music Row. She'd apparently picked her last label and instead picked the wrong drug cocktail at a party. They said she'd probably been dumped in the parking garage after she overdosed. She was nineteen, and they used an outdated school picture of her when they reported it on the news.

I don't know what happened to Ms. Anderson. But I kept her letter taped to the back of my bedroom door for years. In a school year where I'd felt like crap for being a supposedly mid-level kid, Ms. Anderson made me feel like I was more “special” and had more purpose than any other kid in the seventh grade. And I carried that feeling with me all through school until I graduated. Until now, even.

That's why I've promised myself that if I ever do publish a book, Mary Ellen Anderson is going to show up right under dedications. And now I know I can't stop writing. Because I'd really like to give her that.