The Mistake

Eighth grade English was one of my favorite classes. Aside from diagramming sentences and reading hefty books and working my way through the SRA box, my favorite part of class was my teacher, Miss Anderson.

I don't know why I liked her so much. She didn't let you get away with laziness or sloppiness. Perhaps it was my affinity for grammar or my enjoyment of literature that made the class so easy for me. Or maybe it was spending most of seventh grade in traction for a fractured vertebrae, during which time I read my way through the neighbor's classics library. I don't know. But I really liked both the class and the teacher.

Mid semester, Miss Anderson was absent for a period of time. She had to have surgery for some thing or another, and I missed her terribly. I was relieved to see her back in her usual place outside the fourth floor west side classroom, smiling and welcoming us back. I turned to say something to my friend in line behind me, chatting loudly and not watching where I was going.

BAM! I smacked right into Miss Anderson before I realized what was happening. She crumpled to the floor, her face a mask of pain. I was crushed. How could I have been so stupid and careless? The one teacher I liked the best and I hurt her through my thoughtless action.

Mr Beauvais dashed across the hall to help her up. He shooed us into the classroom and closed the door. I was in misery, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. After a few minutes, the door opened, and Miss Anderson entered, walking slowly and holding her side. What if I injured her so badly that she had to go back to the hospital? I sunk down in my seat, afraid to even look at her.

The lesson began, sentences on the board to diagram. I usually raised my hand to do the harder ones, but today I just sat there, not looking. I could hear her going through the examples, but I didn't look up. I knew mine were right, and I was too worried about what I had done to care.

The hour stretched out before me in a sea of agony. I was so deflated that I didn't even bother to sharpen my pencil when the lead snapped off from my pressing so hard. I could feel the tears threatening to fall.

Then I felt a gentle hand on my head. Miss Anderson was standing beside me, talking through the final example. She flipped my hair from my eyes, gave my shoulder a squeeze and waited for me to look up. When I finally raised my head, she winked at me, patted my back, and moved on to the next seat, still talking about infinitives. That was all it took for her to let me know that she understood that my action was unintentional.

I think the whole class must have heard my sigh of relief. Miss Anderson was OK. I hadn't injured her. Just knocked her off balance, that's all. The air came back into my lungs, and I got up and sharpened my pencil just as the bell rang.