Mr. Fitzgerald teaches health class. He was my mom’s health teacher too when she was in Junior High. When you raise your hand in class and ask to go get a drink, he always says, “As long as you make it non-alcoholic!” with a wink and a smile. In his class, we study the effects of smoking on the respiratory system by running up and down the hallways and then trying to breathe through straws. We make carb charts and present about whether apples really help you avoid the doctor.

Mr. Fitzgerald has a very special talent. On afternoons when we have taken all of our notes, graded our homework, and finished our tests, he lets us play a game. He has a key that he keeps at this desk. He hands one of us the key and leaves the room. We then scramble and pass it from hand to hand and decide who will hide it for when he comes back in the room.

People stick it in their shoes or under their seats or up jacket sleeves. Mr. Fitz, after several minutes, comes back into the room. We all sit still and try not to look at the real key holder. Some of us act as a red herring, attempting to trick our telepathic teacher.

He takes slow, measured steps up and down each aisle. He pauses here and there, a finger to his lips, considering this student and then that one. He makes idle remarks that offset the deep concentration it takes for him to play this game.

We always think we will fool him. We are always wrong. We never play a single key game that he doesn’t win. It remains a mystery, how he does it. How he knows every single time. Is he psychic? Telepathic? Does have a way of seeing into the room from outside in the hallway? A mystery.

– except –

I know.

I sit here, over 10 years later, and I know. I know the secret to the key game. Even now, I’m not sure I should reveal it. Who knows? Maybe everyone found out before we left BCJHS. But then again, maybe there are still a few believers out there. And I was entrusted with this secret. I think I slipped up a few days after I learned it. I vaguely recall telling a girl who was only at school one class period a day, thinking she wouldn’t have a chance to tell anyone. I have no way of knowing if she ever did.

A decade later, I still feel inclined to keep the secret; it’s not mine to share.

That’s what you get for being the nerdy girl with her giant Harry Potter or Christy novel tucked under her desk during lecture, reading with the book balanced on your knees. For stopping in the middle of the basketball game to tell the referee that you traveled and he should take the ball to give to the other team. For having to sit next to the weirdest kid in 6^th grade because you were “mature enough” and your classmates weren’t, so you suffer through a year of him studying the hair growing on your arms and calling you the Jolly Green Giant.

And one day, after the bell rings, Mr. Fitz asks you about the book you’re reading. He walks with you down the hall a little ways and then stops. He looks straight into your eyes, something teachers hardly ever do unless you’re in trouble, and he says, “Sarah, I have something I would like you to help me with, but it will only work if you keep it a secret.”

“Would you like to dance?”

The whole school buzzes and hums with excitement the whole day leading up to the dance. It’s my first real dance and I’m not quite sure what to expect. It starts right after school lets out on Friday.

We stand in line and pay $3 to get in to the dark, decorated gym. Streamers on polls, flashing lights, and plenty of empty space. Groups of friends separate off into sections.

It is instantly clear how much more comfortable the 8^th graders are than us, the puny 7^th grade kids. They form dance rings in the center of the gym, and shake it to *NSYNC selections. Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears for the girls, some peripheral rap and rock for the boys.

I love to dance. I jerk and spasm and spiral and rock my way into a sweaty mess in a short time. Most of my friends are bopping or tapping along. About half way through the dance, I have to stop for water.

When I come back from hydrating, I take a seat next to the bleachers in the back of the gym to watch the others. It’s dark and I can’t really tell who is who in the mass of people who have finally loosened up and are shimmying and grooving in the center of the gym.

We hear the opening notes to a slow song, and roughly half of the Jr. High population immediately disburses to the far corners of the gym. Jiving is one thing; holding someone close and being romantic and stuff – that’s a whole other beast that most of our awkward, hormonal selves aren’t quite prepared to face.

I am content to sit next to the bleachers here. Someone else has other plans, though. A tall, blond boy approaches from my right side.

“Hey! I don’t know if I’ve met you. What’s your name?” he says, his words coming out all mushed together and rushed. He’s an 8^th grader. I’ve seen him before. I am fairly certain I’ve never actually met him though.

“Umm. I’m Sarah?”

“Hi, Sarah. I’m Ryan. Would you like to dance?”

“Umm. Sure?”

So we dance. Awkwardly. So incredibly awkwardly. The dance ends soon after the song, and he walks with me to my locker. “Where do you live? What’s your number? We could hang out?” he chatters non-stop all the way.

I am completely frazzled. I’ve never really done this boy-girl thing before and I don’t even know this guy and I don’t know what to say and what comes out of my mouth is, “Listen, it was nice dancing with you. Thanks for asking. But I don’t think it would be a good idea if you just started showing up at my house, and calling me on the phone, and ….”

“Oh,” he says, crestfallen. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. I mean. Yeah. Okay.” He walks away.

Monday after school, a group of girls is hanging out at the library. One girl asks me,

“How did you get Ryan to dance with you?”

I am puzzled.

“He just came up and asked me.”

“Really?” she asks. “He was my boyfriend all last year and I tried to get him to dance with me at every single dance, and he never would.”

“Oh…” I reply. This is easily the most uncomfortable ‘boy talk’ of my life. “Well, I don’t know then. He just asked me. Sorry.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Weird.”