Fall at school smells really good. The playground has dry, crunchy, swirly leaves all around the edges and wet, mushy ones are stuck to the seats of the swings. The grass on the soccer field still gets cut every week and the chilly breezes of October carry the smell of fresh cut grass up and down the hallways when a door is propped open by a custodian or an unruly kid.

We can’t decide if we need coats or not. Actually, we know we don’t need coats but our teachers aren’t sure they should let us go to recess without them. We don’t notice the slimy snotty crusty noses wiped on our long sleeves or the deep, hacky coughs that we bring back in from the chilly fall weather after lunch recess.

The hallways are lined with class projects. Mrs. Burke’s Kindergartners have decorated leaf cutouts with crayons that are lined along the hall next to their classroom. Mrs. Gredy’s 3rd graders have bug collections while the 4th graders build birdhouses and miniature log cabins that line the opposite hallway – The Big Kid Hallway.

The bus drivers give us little treat bags full of Tootsie Pops and Pop Rocks tied with orange ribbons. The lunch ladies find ways to fancy up apple slices with caramel and cider. Mr. Simon teaches us Christmas songs already because we’re practicing for our big Christmas concert at the end of the semester. Sometimes on nice days, we’ll sit outside under the trees while he plays guitar and teaches us a brand new song.

Our hot, foggy breath on the bus windows is smeared with initials and hearts and tiny footprints made from the side of your curled fist pressed into them. The floor of the bus is hot and we can feel the heart burning against the backs of our feet under the seats. Everyone’s nose runs and everyone coughs in the hot, closed air of the school bus. It is not wonder we’re all catching the same colds.

We take fieldtrips to farms and pastures and historic places, tying our sweatshirts around our wastes at lunch while the hood of it drags the floor behind us. By the time we get on the bus to head back to school, we’re all wearing our sweatshirts again as the sun already begins to dip in the sky.

When we get home from school, we carve pumpkins with our parents and start asking for hot chocolate and watching “13 Nights of Halloween” on ABC Family. We go shopping for our Halloween costumes weeks in advance but forget to get Trick-r-Treat buckets until the day of. We have Fall Break Sleepovers and you can start to see smoke rising from more and more chimneys on the way to school in the mornings. We forget all about Thanksgiving between the excitement of Halloween candy and the Christmas Kleenex commercials that have been playing for weeks.

The hot blowing air of furnaces that have been still and silent all summer tells us that Winter is almost here, with its own set of treats and activities. But I really like Fall at school. It just smells really good.

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.

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.”

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!”

I am devouring another Romance Novel.

I found a box of them in an old storage shed when Nana and Papaw bought land on Borders. We were exploring these strangers’ things that they just left here, and I came across this entire box full of books. Most of the front covers are missing. Bookworms made little tunnels through the pages. The back covers tell me they were 75 cents brand new back in the early ‘80s.

I am in love.

I read about Marnie, a model turned recluse after some tragedy or other, who is wooed out of her misery by a handsome, stubborn contractor who won’t stand to see her so gloomy. And Rachel, whose grandfather owned a game reserve in Australia that she surprisingly inherits and so must deal with the argumentative albeit insanely attractive foreman.

I read them over and again. I cry when hearts are broken or when another happy ending is resolved. I stay up until 2:00 am on school nights because I can’t bear to sleep until I know that these wayward lovers finally reconcile and live happily ever after.

On the bus, in study hall, at lunch time, riding in the back of the car. I tune out the entire world and let my imagination run away with these beautiful people in preposterous circumstances who are destined to be in love. Pirates, vagabonds, kings… and the women who love them.

My English teacher tells my family that she was initially concerned that I read novels through her class each day, but that my grades are good and I keep up with the assignments so she lets it slide. My teammates on the basketball team show no interest in interrupting my silent descent into these salacious stories, and for the most part I’m happy to not have to awkwardly interact with them. When I have friends over, we read aloud and giggle at the scandalous affairs, inappropriate dinner time behavior, and blushing virgins who become vixens on their wedding nights.

In time, I get picky about my romance writers and am no longer able to simply enjoy them like I used to. Some of the writing is just too awful. I look back on that time, though, with fondness. I fell in love so many times and lived so many stories and enjoyed it all so much.

Real life love, I soon learn, is not really like the kind in books. Better to enjoy those fictional characters and their guaranteed happiness than to risk too much of yourself when it comes to matters such as this.

I get to be the Chiquita Banana in the Spring Concert!

I tried out for a solo in the Christmas Concert because there were a bunch of them, but I did not get picked. I almost didn’t try out for this one because I was afraid I would lose again.

Mr. Simon left after the Christmas Concert and we have a new substitute music teacher for the rest of the school year. Mr. Simon has been playing his guitar and wearing his shaggy hair cut ever since I can remember. When we’re good in class, he’ll play “Cats in the Cradle” for us. Once, we went to see Mr. Simon perform with his band at The Daily Grind in Nashville. He waved at us from the front and played “That Filthy Cockroach,” which he sometimes sings for us in class too.

But he’s gone now. His wife got a new job and so he had to move away. And we have a new lady. She’s young and excitable and needs someone to be the Chiquita Banana since we’re singing the jingle in the Spring Concert.

I can’t even really say that I auditioned. Her selection process started with,

“Boys in one line, girls in another” then

“Line up by height” specifically

“I need someone tall to wear the skirt because it’s very long” and so

“Sarah! You get to be the Chiquita Banana! I even have a basket of fruit for you to wear on your head during the song!”

We have the concert in the gym. Rows and rows of folding chairs fill up with our parents and grandparents and baby siblings. We stand nervously at center court and warble a few tunes.

Half way through, I leave my spot in the back row and tie a red skirt around my waist and someone’s mom plunks a heavy, plastic fruit basket onto my head. When I hear the opening chords and “I’m Chiquita Banana and I come to say I come from leetle island down eQUAtor way” I shimmy and snap my upheld arms just the way I was told.

Everyone in the audience smiles. A few of my classmates snicker. I don’t care.

I get to be Chiquita Banana!

I sing a song about bananos.
I sing it low and I sing it hi-igh.
I make big hit with ‘mericanos
singing songs about bananos.

I never get up for school when I’m supposed to. Papaw comes to my room the first time, “Time to get up, Sarah!” A few minutes later, he comes by and flips on the light. Finally, he hollers out, “One foot on the floor!” and that’s when I know it’s really absolutely time to get up or I’m going to miss the bus. Then, I scramble, rush, and forget to brush my teeth and zip my coat, and run out to the end of the driveway as the bus starts to pull away. Our bus driver, Gail, always stops for us though. Those Matlock kids, always late for the bus.

On those rare days when I have time to eat Cheerios before the bus comes, I watch cartoons with my brother.

VR Troopers – kind of like the Power Rangers, except they wear digital headgear and are kind of nerdy.

Histeria! – a ridiculous cartoon with Big Fat Baby and Father Time and a museum tour guide who is always saying, “We’re walking. We’re walking. We’re stopping.”

Power Rangers – obvious.

Hercules – I love the movie Hercules and the cartoon is cool too. I love the singing statues and the little demon guys who are always messing up Hades’s plans.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles – obvious. Also obvious that this is the original, well before the digitization, computerized version. Yuck.

Sailor Moon – Oh, I want to be her! "Fighting evil and moonlight. Winning love by daylight. Never running from a real fight."

Animaniacs – “Hellooooo, Nurse!”

Tiny Toons – kind of like Looney Toons, except they are all really young and at school together and still getting into all kinds of trouble.

Fraggle Rock – My absolute favorite! Puppets that live in a cave and try to avoid the giant trolls that are always hunting them. Fortunately, the trolls aren’t very smart. Man, those Fraggles sure love to sing.

Gummy Bears – "bouncing here and there and everywhere! High adventure that’s beyond compare!" This is probably where I develop my sense of “high adventure” that will last well into my twenties.

Care Bears – I am such a softy. I cry easily and I can’t take being teased and I love everything the Care Bears stand for. They just want to love and hug and help and treat people well. If I could, I would move to Care-a-Lot and live the rest of my life there.

Uh oh! I have to go! The bus is here!

“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.”

“Ten and Two, Sarah. Check your mirrors. Foot on the brake. Now, ease it into Drive.”

I officially started Driver's Education last week. So far, we sit in the auditorium at the high school, and Mr. Helmrich lectures us about not chewing gum while driving and how “There are no such things as accidents! Every crash is a direct result of Driver Error!”

I’m going to be a senior this year, and I feel like I’m the only person in this program who’s old enough to get zits. They’re all freshman fifteen-year-olds. I’m a late bloomer, I guess.

Now that I have a Learner’s Permit, Mom decides it’s time for me to drive The Jeep. We haven’t actually driven in Driver's Ed yet, but Mom doesn’t know that. And I don’t volunteer the information. We head towards Crouch’s.

I make the widest left turn you’ve ever seen. The speedometer is seemingly stuck at 24 MPH.

“Go,” she urges me. “You have to at least go the speed limit.”

I start to speed up. And suddenly a police car is right behind me. We may see one police car a week on these back roads. Unbelievable. By this time, Mom has begun to notice that I don’t actually have any driving experience yet.

“Okay. Don’t freak out. Just use your signal and pull off the road up here into this driveway.”

The driveway she chose just so happens to have two large, stone columns on either side of its entrance. I am beyond intimidated and definitely panicking.
I brake.
But not enough. The columns are seconds away from crumpling the front end of The Jeep.

“Sarah! Stop! Stop!”

We come to an abrupt halt in the ditch next to the driveway. The policeman speeds on around us. Mom looks at me.

“I think that’s enough for one day. I’ll take it from here.”

Three Weeks Later

“Check the board for your assigned driving groups. Meet out front at the assigned time and don’t be late! I will leave you.”

And so we are dismissed from our last in-class Driver's Ed session. Next stop: Behind the wheel.

I get grouped with a couple of freshman girls who have known each other for years.

We drive around at the high school at first, getting used to the pedals and mirrors and various knobs. Then, the streets of Nashville. We make backwards figure eights in the Little Nashville Opry parking lot. As I’m making my first loop, I see the light pole in the rearview mirror looming closer and closer.

“StopStopStopStopStop,” I’m begging the car.

“Why don’t you try using the brake instead of talking to it, huh?” my compassionate instructor replies as he applies his handy instructor-side brake.

After a day or so, it’s time to tackle the interstate.

“Accelerate up the ramp, use your signal, check your blind spot, and merge into the interstate traffic going with the flow and speed. NEVER use your brakes on the interstate, understand?” Mr. Helmrich advises as we sit at the stoplight, awaiting my first interstate merge of a lifetime.

The gum he told us never to chew while driving, I am chomping furiously.

Up the ramp we go. -- Not so bad.

Indicate with left turn signal. -- Got it.

Anybody coming? -- Not that I can see.

Begin seamless first-merge onto the highway. – Flawlessly perfor--

 “STOP!” Mr. Helmrich cries out as he slams on the instructor brake.

I turn to look at my instructor, perplexed.

“Tell me you saw that semi,” he says, though it sounds more like a question.

I start to ask, “What semi?” but the behemoth truck in question goes flying past my side mirror, zooming ahead, barreling through the space I was about to fill with this little sedan. The girls in the back are giggling nervously, glad to be alive.

Mr. Helmrich is still looking at me expectantly.

“Umm... It was in my blind spot?” I answer.

Mr. Helmrich’s eyes widen. Is he amused? Amazed? Going to throttle me?

“Sarah,” he begins, but has to take a calming breath before going on.
“Sarah, an entire semi does not disappear in your blind spot!”

He takes another breath.

“Okay. Let’s try this again.”

We are making address books in class. We learn how to put the dashes in our phone numbers and to capitalize the street names in front of our houses. We write our addresses in shaky, oversized letters on thick, dark lines across the page. Everybody in the class gets a copy of our Class Address Book, photocopied on the big copier in the office, with three staples holding it together down the left side.

On Sunday, the phone rings. It is for me.

“Sarah, it’s Ni-ick,” my papaw says.

I am excited! This is the first time the phone rang for me that it wasn’t Sissy or some other family member. A real phone call!

“Hi,” says a little voice on the other line. “I called everybody in our Class Address Book so far down to you and you’re the only one who is home.”

We talk for a minute or two, our nine-year-old selves having little to contribute in the way of conversation.

The trouble, though, is that now a boy has called me. A real boy. From school.

Papaw tortures me mercilessly.

He croons to me, “I just called…. to say…. I love you. I just called… to say… I care.” Some weird old song from a long time ago. Embarrassing.

I’m taunted around the house with “Nick. N-Nick.Nick. Nick. NICK. Nick. NICK-O-LODEON!”

“Oh, Ni-ick. So glad you called,” he mimics me. Except, I don’t think I even said that.

“NO! It’s not like that! I was the first one on the list to answer. He wasn’t even trying to call me especially.” My protests, pouts, and shouts go unanswered. Papaw is not the least bit concerned with who Nick did or did not mean to call.

I live in constant fear that another boy will accidently call me someday. Papaw doesn’t care when four years go by, then ten, and Nick never calls me again. He carries on in his own little pretend world where Nick and I are estranged lovers, holding out for the day we can be together, just calling to say "I love you."

We sit in a circle in the morning and play a hand-clap game, counting the number of days we’ve been in school so far. We finger paint, which feels like something we should be in trouble for. Smearing colorful goo all over the table top surface? I would be in so much trouble at home. But it’s okay here. Actually, it’s wonderful here.

In the afternoon, we get to drink chocolate milk from little cartons. They bring it in to the classroom in brown, square crates stacked on a cart. Some days we have to do fluoride. Tiny cups of pink liquid stand in rows on a lunch tray. A line of tape runs the length of the room, and we stand on it in a row, waiting our turn. She checks our name off the list when we take a cup. I don’t like fluoride day. It smells funny and tastes funny and makes me feel all woozy, like my head is full of yarn and air instead of brain.

We have a substitute teacher at recess. It rained in the morning, and there are puddles scattered around the playground. One by the swings. One by the sandbox. The sand there is sticky and rough from the earlier showers. One under the monkeybars. We take turns climbing across the cool, slick metal bars, trying not to fall in the puddle. But we aren’t really trying that hard. Someone lands in the puddle.

Uh oh! Look around. Quick. Did she see? Did the teacher see? We’re going to be in trouble.

But she’s laughing. How fun! A grownup who likes fun, kid things? This is a miracle.

Suddenly, everyone is jumping in puddles. Splashing. Stomping. Dirty, brown puddle water spraying up the backs of our jeans and onto our coats. Little flecks of mud and rock stick to pink round cheeks and in the girls’ long ponytails. This is the best recess ever.

Suddenly, everyone freezes. Now, we’re in trouble. Here comes a real teacher. She teaches first grade. She’s tall, and has red hair and glasses, and her voice is sharp and straight like a razor. We’re all ordered to sit against The Wall. That’s where you have to go when you’re bad at recess. Go sit by yourself along The Wall and watch everyone else have fun. With my back to The Wall, the scratchy bricks pick at my coat and catch pieces of my hair, pulling it when I turn my head.

We are all in trouble, but it doesn't seem fair. The grownup in charge was letting us play there. She was okay with it, and she was the one in charge, so why does this other lady get to come out here and tell us we all did something bad? How can you be in trouble for something that you’ve been told you are allowed to do? Rules are supposed to be simple and constant, and I do not like it when they change. It is the essence of unfairness. My five-year-old self is offended and outraged.

Now, any time it’s rainy before recess, even if it stops in time for us to go play, we have to have Inside Recess. Board games. Books. The costume area and play place where we can play house or doctor or ride on the pony seesaw.

And each morning, we sit in a circle and clap our hands and slap our knees and add one more day to the count. These are the days we are in school.