[ WP ] A substitute teacher falls in love with the absent teacher from their notes .

Her name was Miss Carson. The name ’ s familiarity grazed a nerve in my memory; it was a name I knew eight years, two cross-county moves, and one painful breakup ago. The odds that this high school science teacher was the same willowy blonde I once loved were astronomically small. I had n't thought about her in a long time, but seeing that last name jarred something loose in my mind. 
 
 After being given the briefest of tours of the building, showing me the basics of how to get from the classroom to the teacher ’ s lounge, I took a precious few moments to look over the notes Miss Carson had left for her substitute. Neatly typed and clearly organized, the notes outlined the day ’ s class schedule and highlighted the important details – I had a prep during second period, third period was reviewing for a test, sixth period had a quiz, etc. Their concise directive instilled some confidence and made me feel better about the upcoming challenges of attempting to lay down some form of order on a classroom full of teenagers. 
 
 The first period passed uneventfully – I think I owe that to the early hour. How could any self-respecting teen be expected to have the energy to achieve their fullest potential of disruptiveness and attitude at the unreasonably early hour of 8:30 AM? 
 
 Second period brought some trouble. Miss Carson had asked in her notes that I make photocopies of the quiz for sixth period, but I couldn ’ t locate the original copy. I scoured the file cabinets and book shelves fruitlessly for a ten minutes before considering whether to ask the other science teacher for help or simply give up ( I was, after all, just a substitute – who would blame me? ). 
 
 Giving up was out of the question – it ’ s not in my nature, and it ’ s just not professional – so I dug through the desk drawers once more. This time, I noticed something I had missed before – a handwritten set of notes. The smoothly curved penmanship, which could n't decide if it was print or cursive, mirrored the format of the printed sub notes I had been given at the start of the day. The content, though, read more like a Director ’ s Commentary. 
 
 > First Period: Junior Chemistry. Should n't give you any trouble. Or any signs of life, for that matter. They seem to need about 14 hours of sleep per day, so they won ’ t be fully conscious until halfway through second period. 
 
 Hey, I was right about the juniors. I ’ m such an astute observer of the human condition. 
 
 > Third Period: Sophomore Biology. WARNING: These kids seem to have only recently discovered sarcasm, and they believe themselves to have invented it. It will be tempting, but DO NOT sink to their level. That ’ s how they win. Instead, bribe them. If they ’ re good for you, tell them I ’ ll play the Story Game to review terms with them tomorrow. 
 
 The notes continued with colorful commentary for the full day ’ s classes. I found myself strangely curious as to what the Story Game was, but not as curious as I was about the notes for fifth period: 
 
 > The eighth-graders are at a tricky, transitive age; they still have all the energy of little kids, but their brains are transitioning into those of teenagers. It ’ s like trying to wrangle a room full of werewolves on speed during a full moon. You've got to stay ahead of them. If you get into a bind, tell them that you ’ ll have to give them the Voight-Kampff test. They don ’ t know what it is, and they ’ re terrified of it. If you use it, make sure to really sell it. 
 
 These rough notes, clearly written by an exasperated Miss Carson, showed me the teacher as she really was. She approached her work, and these children, with resolve and professionalism, even through the frustrations of finding ways to engage and entertain them. I thought that I would like her if we got the chance to meet. 
 
 Third period found me at the whiteboard leading a test review, where I discovered another gem. 
 
 “ Hey guys, can someone tell me what this is on the board? Someone wrote ‘ Cool Points ’ and underlined it. ” I called on one of the students to answer. 
 
 “ Miss Carson makes a lot of jokes that she says are funny, and, like, every time she makes like a pun or something and we don ’ t laugh, or sometimes she says a funny one, but, like, she gives herself a ‘ Cool Point. ’ And then when she gets enough points, she ’ ll do the Story Game with us. ” 
 
 “ I was going to ask about that, too – I saw it in her notes. What ’ s the Story Game? ” 
 
 Another student chimed in this time. “ That ’ s a game she plays with us to help us review terms and definitions, where she ’ ll sort of do like Mad Libs. She ’ ll make up a story on the spot with the vocabulary. Last time she made up a story about an alien invasion during the French Revolution to review the chapter on bacteria. ” 
 
 “ Yeah, she ’ s really good at it, ” piped up another student from the back of the room. 
 
 That twinge of memory again. Heather and I used to play a similar game to help us study for our freshman Spanish vocabulary. Thinking about it some more, maybe I *did* recognize that flowing handwriting from the notes, too. But what are the odds that four years out of college, after moving across the country – and eight years after I saw her the last time – I would find myself this close to her again? I still found it unlikely, and forced down the butterflies in my stomach. 
 
 My mystery was solved during lunch in the teacher ’ s lounge. The other faculty were cordial and accommodating, leaving me a spot at the table and inviting me into their conversation. 
 
 “ Are Heather ’ s kids giving you any trouble? ” the other science teacher asked. I swallowed part of an apple whole. 
 
 “ I ’ m sorry? ” 
 
 “ Heather. Miss Carson. I know that eighth-grade group can really have some bad days; were they OK for you? ” 
 
 “ Yeah, uh, yeah, they were fine. I did n't even have to threaten them with the Voight-Kampff test. ” My pulse quickened a bit. “ But, uh, you said *Heather Carson*? ” He nodded assent over a bite of sandwich. “ My age, tall, thin, blonde? ” 
 
 He nodded again. “ Yeah. You know her? ” 
 
 “ I did, ” I said. I thought about her hand-written notes, about the stories her students had told me. “ I mean, I think I do. ” 
 
 Memories and daydreams of the first girl I loved were a haze over the rest of the day, until the bell rang at 3:06 and I was free to re-read the notes again. It was only this time that I realized there were some notes on the back of the page. 
 
 > I ’ ll be driving the kids back from the competition all afternoon, so if you really get into trouble or if you can ’ t find something you need, just give me a call. 
 
 And there was her phone number, staring me in the face. 
 
 How much did a person change in eight years? How much had she? But I knew the answer to that; I had seen today, through her own notes and the way her students talked about her, that I still knew her – smart, fun, sweet, a little goofy. I had loved the girl she was eight years ago, but I think I just fell in love with the woman she became. I took a deep breath as the butterflies intensified. 
 
 I could n't help but smile as I dialed the number. 

