All these weekends away. Going home this weekend for my...4th grade teacher's retirement party...
Here's some background: I moved right after 5th grade, so she was one of the last teachers I had in that town and I loved her. (I cried on the last day of school.) At 10, you don't really do a great job of keeping in touch with people. I haven't seen any of my classmates (or my teacher) since long before puberty.
Possible outcomes of tomorrow night, in order from best to worst:
a) People remember me, elementary teachers get drunk, hilarity ensues.
b) Only my 4th grade teacher remembers me (she did invite me, after all), I am forced to sit at a table with many middle-aged women whom I do not know, and I have to drive myself home so I can't, you know, get drunk.
c) Other former classmates are there and make me feel uncomfortable and square (worst nightmare), and still, I cannot get drunk.
d) No one remembers me. There is a DJ. I'm forced to dance.
All I know is that I'm bringing her a box of assorted macaroons from Madeleine, which should cement me in everyone's memories for good.
Here's some more background: It was in her class that I first read The B.F.G., and she read parts out loud to us and she did the most galumphous voice for the him. We staged a play, and I got to play Sophie. And we also read Bridge to Terrabithia and she had a plywood castle fort in the back of the classroom where we could go read on giant pillows during free time. And we collected golden tickets for good grades and general jobs well done and then at the end of the year we had a giant class garage sale in our classroom and we paid for things with our golden tickets. I remember I bought a stuffed bunny that was very realistic looking.
I guess I don't remember that much about that year. I remember writing poetry, that was a first. We had to write anonymous poems and then tack them to the bulletin board and fill out a score card guessing who belonged to what poem. Stupid Sal LoBue told everyone which one was mine because he sat next to me and peeked, and I had to ask to go to the nurse so I could cry in private. (There was a lot of shameful crying in the 4th grade.)
Still. I'm nervous. I was heaps more charming at 10.