A room full of extroverted eight-graders chatters away over the teacher's warnings; they know that she is well out of her element. Teachers should not want to be cool, because they won't be able to reprimand the kids without being embarrassed. That's not to say that they should be strict and weird, but everything is a balance. The kids in this room outweigh her. Until, that is, she says, "Okay, you blew it. And you know who you are. We aren't going to the show." (They had been supposed to go to the Jewish Cultural Show on Wednesday, a welcome break from school itself.)
Among the sea of crazy adolescents are two seventh-graders, one lying docile and one screaming for attention - both completely out of their element, just like the teacher. C and me are two different people who are expected to be the same. When he arrives late to class, the eights ask me where he is. They tell me that we would be perfect for each other simply because we are both sevens - um, no. (C, if you are reading this, don't even think for a second that I suggested that. It was all A.) We are forced into the same mold by those who so recently were in our shoes, but that doesn't mean we don't take our own paths. He is loud and provocative. I am quirky and shy. Still, in this moment, I want to right his wrong and get both of us to the show, because we have to support each other. Even though we are distinct human beings, we share a label that we have to overcome.
So I raise my hand. "No, Chloe," said the teacher. "You can't apologize for the class again."
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