Every summer lists were posted to tell you which classroom you would be in when school started back in late August. My fate – affixed crudely to the side of a brick wall with a piece of tape peeling from the heat and humidity of a hot North Carolina summer day. The clammy afternoon that the unvieling was to take place, Grandmaw wedged Lisa and me into the car and made her way to the school. The ride was painfully slow every year, but I remember this year being especially dawdling. I was so eager to start real school – the first grade was much more grown-up that kindergarten – not to mention that I was hoping to have Michelle in my class and to be relieved of Jason’s company. My legs stuck to the vinyl seat as I wished that Grandmaw’s feet could be changed into cement wedges, as it seemed the only way any pressure would ever come into contact with the gas pedal.

We arrived at school, and Grandmaw searched wildly for the parking gear.  It never changed position, but she seemed baffled each time she was forced to find it. Lisa and I climbed out and darted up to the wall. I was assigned to Mrs. Caviness’ class. Grandmaw told me that Michelle was in my class. Then she announced, “That little boy who was always in the hall is in there, too. Jason Fox. He was always in trouble, wasn’t he? Whenever I came to pick you up, he was there, with his nose to the wall. He always said, ‘Hey, Jennifer’s grandma!’ I’ll never forget it.”

She never did forget it, either. In fact, if for some bizarre reason I decided to call her right now and bring up Jason’s name, she would relate that same account again, almost word for word. This didn’t perturb me at the time, however. I was worried with more important matters: who Mrs. Caviness was, would I like her, would she like me, and would I be able to survive another year of Jason. At least I had Michelle to cushion the crushing blow of having the pervert in my class for another year.

Mrs. Caviness was the best-dressed teacher in our school. She was always impeccably groomed but still managed to seem comfortable and a tad bit casual. She was very caring and patient with her students. When she spoke her voice oozed with articulation, but broke even the worst of news in a kind and first-grader-level kind of way.

First grade allowed me to do more reading and to escape the growing tension between my grandmother and me. The dread of having to go home sat in and didn’t lift until high school was over. School was my refuge and I tried to make the best of it.

Mrs. Brady still taught art and I admired her more every time we had class. This was a year of good female role models for me. Too bad that would all change very soon. In the years to come I still sauntered at a snail’s pace by Mrs. Caviness’ class to see what fortunate kids got to share her room. I was always green with envy.