Mrs. Paine

Editor’s Note: Here we go! Each week, a new story will be posted. I’ll be writing in once per month (starting below), and the remaining weeks will be crowdsourced from our readers. Enjoy!

“Teachers affect eternity; one can never tell where their influence stops.” -Henry Adams

It was early winter in the 1980s when I transferred to a new middle school, my parents separated by the majestic Cascades—my father on the ocean side, and us in the rainshadow to the east. I trudged to the bus stop, the wind bustling remaining leaves into small swirls around my feet as I scuffled along the marshy earth. I paced restlessly, wriggling my toes in soggy boots to keep warm and calm nerves. The brisk air pierced the tops of my ears, my long, red hair offsetting my obstinate refusal to wear a stocking cap for fear of ruining the hour spent curling my bangs. The wind made both cap and capless options futile; my hairsprayed bangs tossed haphazardly in the wind and eventually settled as a matted nest on my pimpled forehead.

Youngsters slowly gathered, each seeking out a friend with whom to wait out the cold. A smattering of groups each kept to itself, abuzz on the latest in their particular universe. I stood alone, an anomaly amongst familiarity, the gray sky matching the gray street matching my gray thoughts. In that moment, the perfect mixture of digesting breakfast, anxiety, and loneliness compelled me to run back inside the house, but my feet were firmly frozen to the gravel. As hot, sweaty panic crept into my coat and soaked my underarms, the bus arrived.

The back of my neck heated up, attuned to the whispers as I walked down the aisle and slumped into the nearest empty seat. Fighting the warm tears forming in my eyes, I closed them. Awash in daydreams, I imagined myself with my father hefting a crab pot out of the water, salt in my nostrils, giggling at the trove of crabs crawling over each other along the metal bars as they sought out the tuna fish can affixed to the cage with garbage ties. I resignedly smooshed my bangs against the cool window, dreaming of home.

I exited the bus and tromped through the dirty slush mixed with salt on the pavement as kids herded through the double doors, the bustle of middle school snapping me back into reality. The 5-minute warning bell clanged, and I joined the current of students scurrying to class. A mixture of Electric Youth perfume, grape bubble gum, and aerosol hairspray greeted me as I frantically sought out my new locker. I fished the combo out of my pocket, trying to concentrate, right left right, before successfully opening.

I slipped quietly into homeroom just in time. Mrs. Paine gave me a reassuring smile, nodded her head slightly and motioned to my seat; her stylish charm bracelet and quirky hoop earrings delicately clinked in time as she briskly checked off my name on her attendance clipboard. I cautiously removed my coat and took out my pink eraser, wide ruled paper, and notebook, which I had already decorated with an excess of glue, glitter, and magazine clippings from Teen Beat.

The kid next to me wasted no time, snorting a sarcastic laugh while he gave me the once-over and said, “nice pants.” A deep scarlet flooded my face as I lowered my eyes down to my carefully selected outfit that day–hot pink stretchpants layered under a pink skirt, Madonna style. A risky choice, for sure, but I fell in love with it immediately and couldn’t help myself. I made a mental note to recheck my style choices and to change into my auxiliary pair of jeans as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

I high-tailed it to the girls’ bathroom, closed the stall door and sat on the toilet seat, pulling my knees up to my chest, careful not to get blue toilet water on my skirt (I was certainly embarrassed enough for one day). I cried into my knees, soaking my beloved opaque stretchpants with my amateur mascara application.

I cleaned up, took a breath, and returned to class, which was deep into a writing assignment and a hum of note-passing. Mrs. Paine brought me up to her desk quietly. She touched my face, saying, “Cami, I just wanted you to know how pretty you look today. Is that purple eyeshadow?” I nodded, a faint smile briefly glimpsing my lips. “Well, you have beautiful blue eyes, and it’s a great color.” [Editor’s note: Because, hey, in the 80s, purple was a great eyeshadow color]. I returned to my seat, sitting up a little straighter and emboldened enough to endure that day.

There were several times that year that Mrs. Paine provided comfort amidst the swirl of near-adolescence. She was a creative, with short, spiky hair, always adorned with funky earrings, brightly patterned shirts, and a spunky smile. She demanded much in her classroom, but I never doubted how much she cared. I remember her sweet note in my yearbook. I remember her encouragement of my writing. But most of all, I remember how she made me feel.

I gradually found my stride, escaping the awkwardness of puberty relatively unscathed but forever grateful. Those who teach middle school are already cut from a different cloth, but those who can reach in with a huge helping of authentic compassion beyond what’s in a lesson plan, well, they’re invaluable.