I know my third grade teacher, Mrs. Fine, didn't like me.
She moved me to the back of the room
And told my mom that she had to
Because I talked too much
And she got tired of seeing the back of my head,
Always turned around,
looking to see if Wendy had finished, yet.
I don't think she ever noticed
how I eyed Kelly's paper every morning,
longing for the day when
Kelly would need two lines to write our daily opening sentence,
but her letters always fit neatly on the top line,
even on Wednesdays in September.
I don't think she ever noticed
how I would watch Chip erase his mistakes,
blowing eraser crumbs and pencil smudges off his page.
Or how I watched Jodi draw Snoopy sketches
with sure, strong lines.
Certainly, she saw me write my name on one of those sketches
and take home to show my mom.
She must have known
that I was lying when I told Missy that I had horses, too,
just like she must have sensed that I entered the relay races
just because Missy had always won them.
No, Mrs. Fine didn't like me
or my Valentine mailbox,
the one my mom helped me create -
my shoebox covered in white tissue paper,
decorated in pink lace doilies and shiny red heart stickers,
that didn't win the class contest.
(written by Kristie Camp - not to be published anywhere else without my personal, written permission)
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