The eraser left my thirteen-year old hand with nary a thought, arching through the air true to a target not consciously chosen. The target, the top of the teacher’s head, and from there the Pink Pearl® hit the blackboard raising a puff of white and then to the floor. The class giggled, then silence.
The teacher stopped what she was doing, touched her left hand to her head. Her right, still clutching a piece of chalk, moved the chalk from left to right, picked up the Pink Pearl®, then she turned and placed it in her desk drawer. She rose, looked out over a class of anxious faces, mostly turned towards me. She didn’t say anything for several moments.
Oh, what have I done. Pictures of me in the office, of me suspended, of me returning to school with my parents. I willed the past to turn and track back to the moment when the Pink Pearl® was still in my hand. I envisioned the Pink Pearl® as it returned from the desk to her hand, the floor, returned the dust of chalk to the board and from there left her head and followed that gentle arch again safely in my hand. To have that choice again. Though like I said, I don’t recall it being a choice.
That was funny, she said, no sarcasm, but it’s not appropriate behavior in my class. It will never happen again, and I’ll be keeping the Pink Pearl®. She again paused as if to give someone, me, an opportunity to claim that which had been mine. Can anyone tell me how van Gogh viewed his own work? Sarah.
Was that it, was I off the hook, or would I be asked to remain when class ended. Fifteen minutes remained, fifteen very long minutes. The bell rang. The class rose and filed from the room. As I passed the teacher she smiled. “See you tomorrow,” she said.