Mary Returns to My Blog

 Editor's Note: I don't think I'd very much like to continue with online installments of Mary's adventures, as it is a work in progress and I both adore and fear criticisms. If they are good criticisms, such as "Meghan, my god, how have you never been published before, you brilliant genius, you!" I am obviously a fan. If you say something along the lines of, "Well, if you used less commas and smaller words and perhaps didn't write like a stuffy old English professor, I might find it more enjoyable" then I'm liable to do one of two things: reject your criticism as bunk and possibly defriend you, or, and this is the more likely option, never post again because I realize that I am a failure. SO. As that stands, please do not be disappointed if I stop posting about Mary if I take long breaks in between. Also know that this is a blog for my life experiences, not for my writing experiments, so if I do end up continuing this little project, I'll probably set up a separate blog. Which would be a hassle. Anyways, read and enjoy!

When the bell signaled the end of class, Mary wondered how she was still standing. Her best guess was that it had something to do with her incredibly sensible shoes. Engaging these children was like pulling teeth of her own mouth.

"Tell me your name and three things about yourself" she'd asked of them, generously giving an example, in case the straightforward instructions had confused anyone. She was worried in particular about the sleepy-looking youth who sat near the door; he looked none too bright. "My name is Mary Bridges, feel free to call me Mrs. Bridges; either that or Your Majesty, Highness, Gloriousness or any variation thereof." A stifled sound which might have been a sympathetic snort had come from the quiet girl in the last row. Tough crowd. "As for the interesting facts, I have my degree in criminal psychology, I own two and a half cats and have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to four things: bullying, willful stupidity, faulty grammar and bad haircuts."

The girl with that shock of thick blonde hair had looked at her curiously, as if wondering how on earth she could own half of a cat, or perhaps thinking it impossible for Mary to have an "no bad haircuts" policy when her own bangs were in such need of trimming, but she had not raised her hand, re-reading instead, for the third time, the lengthy and apparently self-addressed letter which she thought she was successfully hiding. Mary had self-consciously adjusted her bangs and, after a painful silence, admitted that her half a cat was actually a kitten. There had been a few appreciative smiles, but the air in the room still felt like lead. It was with a happy heart that she had called on a student to introduce themselves, thereby diverting the attention away from her own poorly received jokes.

As was the usual case, nearly everyone knew each other, making the getting-to-know you process something in which only she had any interest. Quiet-girl, with the pale skin and downcast eyes, was from out of state and had made no real eye contact or even a very audible assertion of anything, mumbling out a quick "I like strawberries, my favorite color is green and I like to sing" as her interesting facts. Mary had noticed that she used a purple pen, though, when signing the attendance roster. Of course, one of her classroom rules being black and blue ink only, she had corrected this out of habit. The poor child's face had gone completely pink, the tips of her ears burning visibly underneath her hair and Mary had immediately regretted bringing the mistake to the class's attention.

The only other thing of note that had happened between the beginning of the name game and the tiresome but necessary reviewing of the syllabus was that the boy with the bad dye-job had nearly gotten in a fist fight with the eccentrically dressed vegetarian girl in the row across from him (her interesting facts had been "I'm a vegetarian, I have died my hair twenty-two times, not counting the current color, and I believe that an animal's life is just as important as a human baby's."). Mary wasn't quite sure how the argument had started, but the blonde boy had mentioned something about a hunting trip and suddenly half of the room was howling like a pack of rabid wolves while the PETA advocate was shouting "why don't you just shoot a baby?!?".

It had been a little too much to take in, so Mary Bridges had taken the flare gun she kept for such occasions out of her trench coat and fired it at the ceiling. "That was a warning shot." she'd said calmly, the sturdy yet attractive heels of her fine leather boots clicking as she had paced between the rows of frightened faces.

A single pink slip had been laid on the desk of each offending student. "Really?" she'd asked, in a tired voice. "The first day of classes?" As she had returned to her podium, she'd noticed the dark-haired boy in the corner: he had not looked up, but his stern expression had been replaced by a slow smirk, an intensely satisfied look that bespoke no end of hatred for the perpetrators.

Thinking back on the events as she watched the students file out of class, Mary wondered if every day would be as exciting. She certainly hoped not. Perhaps this was why life continued to pass her by: because it knew, deep down, that she didn't really want to be dragged along for a bumpy ride. Her bones were older and more tired than they used to be and she didn't think they'd appreciate the constant jarring of such an excursion.

A little later to leave the classroom because of the awkward way in which he was obliged to carry his backpack, the boy who'd caused such a commotion at the door stopped by the podium on his way out.

"Have a good day, Mrs. Bridges." he said, not meeting her eye, his lisp making the s's in her name uncomfortable and wet.

I wonder what his name is, she thought, not unkindly but merely with the weariness of someone who's memory is no longer what it was. "Thank you."

Resolving to study the roster that night, Mary turned from the door to her desk and the hour of rest that awaited her before the true terror began: Sophomore English. The last straggling students were still shoving their books into their bags, and scurrying away as Mary tried to match their names to their faces without much success.

It seemed strange to Mary that she had chosen to finally settle down as a high school teacher. She had always hated high school; it had been the worst four years of her life. I suppose I'm here to help those students like me, she thought, the ones who really can't bear it here and need something encouraging in their day. Students like him. 

She watched the dark-haired silent boy who's name might have been Ian or maybe Ivan, she wasn't quite sure, as he dropped a well-worn, paper-back copy of The Great Gatsby in his haste to pack up his things. His skin was olive in tone, betraying his obvious Italian heritage, but his eyes were a light green and very, very sad. The fingernails he had been coloring with a fine-tipped Sharpie, although covered in scribbles, were long and fine with very deep beds; beautiful hands, like a musician's or a writer's. He joined the blonde girl who had been waiting by the door. They didn't say anything to each other, but he held out his hand and she, rolling her eyes, handed him the page she'd been mulling over, heavy with pink secrets.

An interesting pair of friends. The quiet girl followed at a safe distance, neither walking with Ian (or Ivan) and his blonde friend, nor walking with last of her classmates filing out.

Mary wondered about her students. She wondered about her fellow teachers and whether or not they wondered. She wondered if it were merely her degree which kept her wondering about people or if everyone did so on occasion. She wondered if there was enough cat food left for Lord Byron, Edgar and Mimsy and whether or not she ought to stop at the neighborhood Publix on the way home. She decided she ought and began writing a list for groceries, letting her thoughts leave her students behind, momentarily absorbed in the mundane but pleasant details of domestic life.