Back to School

I got a letter! It’s from my new teacher. She writes to tell me that she hopes I had a good summer and she’s looking forward to meeting me and this is the list of supplies I’ll need for the school year. I am ready right now! Let’s go to the store! I need notebooks and markers and an extra box of Kleenex.

The night before school starts, I’m a wreck. I can’t sleep and I keep thinking about my First-Day-of-School Outfit and if we’re going to miss the bus. I lie awake most of the night, watching the clock and counting down the minutes until the alarm goes off.

I can barely eat. Cereal tastes like wood shavings this morning. I get dressed way too quickly and now have nothing to do until the bus comes. My new backpack smells like plastic and possibility. I tug the zippers nervously, killing time, waiting.

Morning cartoons have changed a bit in the past three months. They have a new line up. Hercules then Saved by the Bell then VR Troopers. I see them but I’m not watching. My mind is elsewhere. My mind is wondering where my desk will be and if there will be any new kids and what we’ll play at recess.

The afternoons still feel like summer, but the mornings have grown chilly and damp with dew. We trek outside to the porch, Mom with her camera in hand. We stand by bushes and trees and sit on the porch swing as she snaps photo after photo. We aren’t trying to be models. We are trying to wait for the bus.

Finally, someone spots it coming around the bend. My stomach does flip flops and I think I might lose those Cheerios I ate a half an hour ago. I’m excited! I’m nervous. I’m itchy in my brand new Back-to-School outfit. I’m getting on the bus.

At recess, we’ve been training for Track and Field Day. Mrs. Klinger makes us run relay races around the playground and hosts sprints that the same people win every time.

Only fifth and sixth graders get to go to Track and Field Day. It’s in Nashville at the high school. Mom says they did Track and Field Day when she was in fifth grade too. The Nashville Elementary kids always win because they get to practice on the real track. Lucky ducks.

I already kind of hate running, so I sign up for one race and all of my other events are field events. High jump. Long jump. Shot-put, which is really a softball throw since they don’t want to injure our little muscles.

We all get matching t-shirts to wear that day. It is easy to spot the Nashville kids when we get to the track. They are walking around like they own the place. I’ve heard about them. Their parents run shops in Nashville and they are bit more citified than the rest of us at the elementaries on the outskirts.

I know some of the girls from basketball teams. Natalie B. goes to Nashville and she’s as tall as me. She has her long dark hair pulled back in a pony tail too. It is no surprise that we are two of the top contenders for the high jump. We tie for second, she and I. I’m excited. I know that everyone gets a participation ribbon just for showing up, but the first three places get special ribbons awarded to them at assembly on Friday morning.

The relay race is the last event. We all gather in the middle of the track and watch our teams duke it out for the title. Our boys put up a good fight, but of course Nashville wins.

Nonetheless, we are all abuzz on Friday morning, sitting in our class rows on the gym floor, waiting for assembly to begin. We all stand and face the flag, and you can hear Mrs. Donovan’s wobbly voice louder than all the others as we sing the National Anthem. Announcements are made - special reminders for the Spring Concert and a Grandparents luncheon next week.

Finally, the ribbons! They are all displayed on a rolling cart that Mrs. Klinger pushes to the center of the gym. Into the microphone she begins announcing names and scores and placements. We clap and clap. It takes forever for her to get to the high jump. I know a second place ribbon isn’t blue, but it’s mine and I can’t wait to show it off to Nana and Papaw when I get home!

She announces the high jump winner, followed by Natalie B. in second place, and my name is called for third. What? I approach the front, puzzled by this turn of events. She tells me later that they could only award one second place ribbon, and since Natalie was alphabetically before me, I got third by default. “Congratulations!”

My first concert!

Mom works at the Post Office. Sometimes, after school or on a Saturday, we get to go hang out “behind the scenes.” There is a sing-a-long tape of classic Christmas songs, with clay-mation Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph, and The Island of Misfit Toys. We watch it over and over and over. Sometimes, there are treats at the table in the lunch area. Usually not, though.

I get to put bulk mail into the post office boxes from the inside, and sometimes a key turns from the outside and I hide from view. I don’t want to spoil it if the mail-seeker thinks all the letters get in there by magic.

There are rubber bands everywhere. And little plastic sleeves for your thumb to help you snag one piece of mail at a time, allowing you to keep sorting mail, even if your hands are dry.

Papaw also works at the Post Office. He’s a mailman. He gets there really, really early, sorts stuff for his route, loads up his car, and heads out on the road. He’s usually back to the post office by 2:00. And home by 3:30.

I love being “behind the scenes.” Seeing the different slots for “Local” or “Out of State” mail sorted, packages piled high. When Mom works the front counter, people buy stamps or send letters or come to pick up a package and she sends me back to the stacks to find it.

One day, Mom comes home from the Post Office and tells me she has a surprise. The Backstreet Boys are playing a concert in Indianapolis and one of the ladies from town came in to drop off a package and offered us her tickets to the show! Aah!

The Backstreet Boys are a big deal. Hearing “I Want It That Way” is the first time I ask Mom to keep it on that radio station in the car. I am in love with Brian. I know that he’s shorter than me. And from Kentucky. But I love him. I just know I’ll get to meet him at the concert!

We get to the concert a little late, which is the usual when you travel somewhere with Mom as the pilot. We sit next to tiny children who are way too tired to be surrounded by screaming adolescent girls. I can just make out the band members on stage, but I can see their faces on the huge screen facing our high, high balcony seats.

None of it matters. For one moment, Brian flies through the air in a harness; he looks right at me through that screen.

It is magical.