I won a writing award in fourth grade. My essay on the subject of “pay it forward” won me a one hundred–dollar gift card to Target. Ignoring a stunning opportunity to actually pay it forward, I bought a bike with pink and purple streamers coming out of the handles.
I didn’t tell Rachel this anecdote. Something told me she wouldn’t find a fourth-grade writing award amusing. That bike really did kick ass, though.
I watched over Rachel’s shoulder as she gave my résumé an overhaul. At the end of roughly seven minutes (I honestly think she was timing it), she had burrowed deeper into my academic career than I had ever really thought to, grilled me on each of my extracurriculars, and recommended two ACT manuals so I could retake the test, because “obviously” I would want to raise my science score.
“You don’t have any volunteering,” she said. “You need to volunteer.”
“Like … where?” I flashed suddenly on Lindsay, building houses with her church group. She would know where.
“A community center. A hospital. A library, hospice care, the humane society. Doesn’t matter where. Find a kid and read a book to it.”
Rachel must’ve sensed the look of mild panic on my face, because she shut the laptop abruptly. “What was your best class?”
“Freshman English.”
“So it’s all been uphill since then.”
I would’ve smiled if my academic future weren’t hanging in the balance.
“Who’d you have? Chambers? Mackenzie?”
“Chambers.”
“Ask her if you can volunteer as her TA.”
“TA?”
“Teaching assistant.” She didn’t add “Geez, Devon,” but it was heavily implied.
“I know what TA means, it’s just … isn’t that for college?”
“Everyone needs help making copies and stapling handouts. Go. Tell her I sent you.”
I almost asked if that would work, like if Rachel had some kind of version of cred that worked on teachers like the kind that worked on nightclub bouncers. But then I realized if anyone could get me past the velvet rope to a teacher’s good side, it would be Rachel.
“Okay. Great. Thank you.”
“Uh-huh. Thank me when you graduate.”
“Right. I’ll set a phone alert for May.”
“From Reeding. Thank me when you graduate from Reeding.”
“You’re funny.”
“I never joke.” She looked at me. “You could actually pull this off. I see you around. You’re good at talking to people. There’s something about you that people like. You could capitalize on that if you actually gave a shit.”
“I … give a shit. It’s just that you give enough shits for, like, two dozen people.”
Rachel smiled. “That’s what I’m talking about. Use that. And don’t take it for granted. Not everyone … not everyone has such an easy time of it.”
I didn’t know if Rachel was referring to herself. She didn’t give me a chance to wonder. “I have a meeting,” she said, and that meant ours was over.
16
Rachel was right. I went to Mrs. Chambers the next day and easily secured the TA position. She flung a packet of handouts at me and pointed me in the direction of the photocopier.
She also invited me to sit in on the section of freshman English that occurred during my study hall and set me up with “office hours” when the freshmen could come to me with questions or to look over their papers.
“Grammar, syntax, and, please, if you notice anything clearly copied and pasted, give me a heads-up. I mean, I’ve had people who haven’t even bothered to change the fonts.”
“If I see any Comic Sans, I’ll let you know.”
Mrs. Chambers smiled, and I felt the weird sensation of having a sort of camaraderie with one of my teachers.
My first “office hours” weren’t exactly thrilling. I didn’t get to bust a plagiarizer. I didn’t get to do much of anything, because, in fact, no one showed up.