Page 4 of Closer Than You Think
“Think of the raven as an uninvited guest who reminds the narrator of his loss. It's persistent, like the memory of someone you can't forget.” I glance into her eyes, urging her to connect with the emotion behind the words.
Her brow furrows in concentration, and then the lightbulb moment flashes across her features. “So, it's like when my grandpa passed, and I kept finding his old fishing hat around the house?”
“Exactly,” I affirm, warmth spreading through me. “It's those reminders that keep the past tethered to us. Now, try writing that down in your own words.”
I stand upright, watching as she chews on her pen and begins to write once more, nodding to herself. The restlessness that often lingers in my chest stills for a moment, replaced by a sense of fulfillment that only teaching can bring.
“Thanks, Ms. St. James. You always know how to make it make sense,” Jenny says without looking up, her focus unwavering.
“Anytime, Jenny. That's what I'm here for,” I reply, and her small smile tells me she believes it as much as I do.
With each step back to the front of the classroom, the murmur of student voices rises again, the symphony of learning that fuels my days. I’m not naive to think that all of them care, that all of them want to think deeper about literature like I do. But if I can reach them in some way—leave a memory, an impact that their life is worth more than this city shows them—then it’s all worth it.
The final bell rings, its shrill echo signaling the end of another school day at Alcott City Middle School. Books snap shut, chairs scrape against the linoleum, and a tide of newly-minted teenagers flows toward the door.
“Remember, your essays on grief in literature are due Thursday!” I call out over the din, my voice barely cresting the wave of chatter. A chorus of groans meets my reminder, but it's tinged with good-natured ribbing.
“Will do, Ms. St. James!” someone shouts back, and a smile flickers across my face as I start to clean up my desk.
I’m flipping through a stack of quizzes to grade when my cell phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it out but my hand hesitates as I eye the caller ID—unknown number. It's probably another sales call, but something nudges me to answer anyway.
“Ms. St. James speaking.”
“Ms. St. James, hi. This is Mariana Rivera, Ricardo's mother. You got a minute?” The voice is tense, each word taut like a wire pulled too tight, wrapped in a strong inner-city accent.
“Mrs. Rivera! Of course, how can I help you?” I reply, my tone softening instinctively as I settle into my chair, sensing her distress.
“It's about Ricardo . . . I'm worried. He's been coming home upset, and he won't talk to me about it. I’ve tried to get him to open up, but he just gets mad any time I bring it up.” She sniffed, and I felt the nerves through the phone. “He’s always talkin’ about you, how you’re his favorite teacher. I thought maybe . . . maybe he might’ve said something to you?”
I sigh. “Ricardo's a bright student, Mrs. Rivera, but I have noticed he's been . . . quieter lately.” I choose my words carefully, aware of the delicate balance between concern and overstepping boundaries.
The truth is, Ricardo doesn’t know how to come out to his friends and family. He’s terrified of how they’ll react, and while I always advocate for living one’s truth, I can’t say I blame him.
“Is he being bullied?” Her voice cracks, and I feel a pang in my chest for both Ricardo and his mother.
“I haven't seen anything, but I promise to keep a closer eye on him and talk with him tomorrow. We'll sort this out together,” I assure her, feeling that fire ignite within me—the one that refuses to let any of my students suffer in silence. I know he’s struggling internally, but I hadn’t realized anyone else had noticed yet.
It’s time to have a talk, see where his head’s at. If he wants to, that is.
“Thank you, Ms. St. James. I just don't know what to do anymore,” she whispers before we say our goodbyes.
The line clicks dead, and I sit there for a moment, the weight of responsibility settling over me. I glance around the empty classroom, the scattered papers like fallen leaves on the desks, and make a decision.
I stay.
As the shadows lengthen outside, I grade the quizzes and arrange my lesson plans into neat stacks, the light from my desk lamp casting a warm pool in the growing darkness of the room. My pen dances across the pages, notes and ideas taking shape under my guiding hand.
Papers shuffle, the sharp scent of ink fills the air, and I lose track of time as I pore over assignments, leaving comments in margins, offering praise and suggestions alike.
“Keep trying,” I scribble next to a half-formed conclusion in the essay section of a quiz.
“Excellent insight,” I write beneath a paragraph brimming with potential, even if the grammar needs work.
By the time I pack up my bag, the building is silent, save for the distant hum of a janitor's vacuum. I lock the classroom door behind me, the key cold and firm in my hand—a reminder of the trust placed upon me.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper to the empty halls. “We'll make it better, tomorrow.” It’s something I say to myself every evening, on good days and bad.
It can always get better.
