First day

I can’t remember my real first day of school.
The first day I remember is picture day in Kindergarten. My Mom had dressed me in a blue sweatshirt with a row of ducks across the front of it. I hated that sweatshirt. I hated ducks. And she had put my unruly hair into a very tight half ponytail that was guaranteed to give me a headache long before the half day was over and I got to go home and take it out. We all stood in line outside the library of George A Smith School, waiting for our turn to sit in front of the faded purple screen favored by the LifeTouch photographers in the early eighties. They handed out black plastic combs to all of us waiting in line, and while other girls brushed their hair and the boys used the combs to break down the gobs of gel their mothers had attempted to tame their cowlicks with, I didn’t dare touch my hair. It hurt already, no need to add the pain of a comb to it.

As Kenny stepped into the library to take his turn on the adjustable black stool he turned and in his spitty lisp said, “Nice sweatshirt, Lizzie.” Even the pee kid knew it was dumb looking. I took deep breaths, not sure if I wanted to cry or kick Kenny in the shins. Kenny sat on the stool, smiled in his toothless way (he was an old Kindergartener, the tooth fairy had already visited him twice), the flash went off and he got a sucker for doing a good job. I wanted a sucker. It was my turn. I walked in, confident that I too could take a good picture, and settled onto the stool.
“Stand up, sweetheart. I need to lower that stool a bit. You sure are a tall Kindergartener.” I scowled at the photographer. He moved behind his camera as I sat back down on the stool.

“Now, say ‘Fuzzy Pickles’!”
Fuzzy Pickles? I wasn’t sure but this sounded like a trick to me. I was sensitive to bad words, my sister sometimes said Crap and I was sure it was the worst word in the world. Fuzzy Pickles must be the second worst. So I shook my head no and deepened my scowl. “Say ‘Fuzzy Pickles’,” the photographer giggled under his creepy black mustache and I felt a tear drop from my chubby cheek onto the loathed sweatshirt.
“Just smile already!” His anger rubbed off on me and I glared my best glare, the one my Mom gave me when I wouldn’t eat my carrots or my Grandma gave me when I ate more of the raspberries we were picking than ended up in the bucket.
And the flash went off.
I was shooed away from the stool.
There was no sucker for me.
I never got retakes either.

Tomorrow is my first day of school, again. This time I’m a student teacher facing two sections of American Literature, one of Advance American Literature, and two sections of Creative Writing.
I’m nervous.
I won’t sleep much tonight, because the mostly dormant volcano in my stomach has become active. Hot lava coats my esophagus; the heart burn is undeterred by Tums, cold milk or the glass of wine that currently sits next to my computer.

I’ll try on every outfit in my closet before going to bed tonight, only to decide on the first one I tried on and lay it over the back of the rocking chair in my bedroom. I’ll set my alarm for six, but it won’t be necessary. I’ll be out of bed at five, staring at the clock over a bowl of Cheerios, wishing it was light out so I could at least take Vedder for a walk to cool my jitters. By six-thirty I’ll be sitting on my couch, fully dressed and ready to go, Vedder will be staring at me in his thoughtful way no doubt thinking “That’s my crazy Mom, doing her crazy nervous dance.”

I’ll force myself to wait until seven to walk out the door, and still arrive for my first day fifteen minutes early with shaking hands.
Then the students will arrive.
And I’ll take my first breath as Ms. Turek, student teacher.

My nerves will disappear.