Stop the Train

"That's Zach," Heidi said and stepped over to the family who was checking out with the cashier next to ours.

I looked at the awkward teen and cocked my head. I had seen him staring at himself in a mirror when we first entered the store. Did it seem a little off? Sure, but kids do weird stuff all the time, and I often have a front-row seat. Did I recognize him? Nope, and chalking it up to weird teenage behavior, I promptly forgot.

But now, there he was, the child who had been in my homeroom six years ago, the same boy whose picture I keep framed behind my desk, the kid who challenged us all with his scripting and impulsivity and moody oppostionalism. He was like the purest version of any tween, unfiltered and raw. To love him, which we did, was proof that we were meant to be middle school teachers.

"Do you remember me?" Heidi was saying. "I'm so happy to see you!"

He rocked toe to heel, toe to heel, unsure of how to react to this unexpected turn of events. "It's your teacher from TJ," his mom told him.

"You're so tall!" Heidi said. "You look great!"

"Yes I do," he agreed.

"Do you remember Ms. S?" Heidi asked him, and he gave me a bit of a side-eye.

"Zachary, Zachary, stop the train!" I said, repeating an old script of his.

He stopped rocking. "Oh my Lord!" he answered in a voice deeper but still full of the same energy I knew.

We laughed and the cashier handed his mom her receipt. "Nice to see you," she smiled as they rolled their cart past us and toward the exit. 

"Bye Zachary," we waved, but he was already gone.