What a year

  

I could see his reflection in the plexiglass nominally protecting the school’s packed case of athletic trophies. I later found out they were not forged in an upstate foundry, where the ivory hot intensity of a wacky metallurgist with an unwavering passion for volleyball and field hockey was enough to finish the job. They were flimsy and cheap, the expression of a strip mall doofus with a penchant for plastic, absent any real connection to the anvil-wielders of yesterday. 

The man in the glass said was “see you next year.” It was an innocent comment, to be sure. But it was December, just before we left for break. Dr. Zacharias was a cheeky fellow with a sense of humor understood only by himself. So naturally, I can’t say I understood the comment right away. And I wouldn't if I had, since that would derail this story from the outset. All I knew was that I didn’t like it and I’d spend the rest of my life trying to stop its careless proliferation. 

At first, part of me wanted to drop in on Zacharias one evening between Christmas and New Year’s, dropping a wheelbarrow of shapely snowballs on his doorstep. He wasn’t a teacher, but more of an administrative hack, wandering through the halls, lacking purpose or poise. He didn’t have a classroom to seek refuge. Perhaps I could have taught him about assuming too much. He assumed we wouldn’t see each other until the snow had cleared and a new year was upon us. I could also have dropped out of school, besting him another way, by avoiding his gaze for a full calendar year - or until I deemed it safe. 

Naturally, I did neither. Dropping out wasn’t an option. Since kindergarten, I had been burying treasure (mostly gold coins and unredacted government documents - the Freedom of Information Act sure was a boon to my elementary routine) all over school property. I couldn’t risk asking others to safeguard it, letting them in on my project. As far as the snowball assault was concerned, the winter weather didn’t cooperate. I could’ve filled a few ice trays or pelted his Dutch Colonial with the muddy smears of a fed-up student. It wouldn't have had the same impact.

Zacharias wasn’t worth my time and outrage. He was a confused bureaucrat, trying to get a few laughs before going home for the holidays. And yes, he was right. I didn’t see him until the next year. So, in the spirit of the good doctor, I should mention what a year it’s been. I know, I know, it’s only been a few days, but what a time, huh? There’s something different at play. The light. The sound. The smell in the air. Though that could be the cheese caked on my stove grates that burns each time I boil water. Who really knows?

One day, we’ll look back on 2020 with the benefit of hindsight and it might look pretty good by comparison. That reminds me. I should probably dig up that money I buried under my middle school gymnasium before too long.