Today we took the girls to the fair to compete in a Lego team build as a requirement for their Geometry class. Their teacher is like a tiny, fashion aware, normally proportioned, Dolly Parton with a degree in math and a love for sharing it with young people. I love her.
The build is required.
And yes, the one, who made a D in Algebra, is telling the one, who made a B, how to do the Geometry. Like God designed.
I can’t help but think back to my Geometry class.
About which I can tell my daughters very little.
Because of my own Ds in algebra Somehow, I was tracked into a class with a bunch of A-listers and upperclassmen who tended to screw off academically.
Who knew I was this social? Not me.
Because we didn’t have a cute, stylish, brilliant, fun teacher. We had a teacher that the class could make cry.
She was mousy, mathy, and awkward. Sweet as pie, but fragile socially.
Did I say? She liked me. I was clearly a favorite.
I knew it.
We weren’t very far into the school year when I figured out I could pull a B while facing backward talking to the boy behind me. The alphabet having been extremely kind.
Mrs. H. had to re-arrange the classroom, because we were such a social crowd.
The boy who had been behind me was in front of me and a senior on his second try who wanted to be a metalhead, but was just an annoying older guy, sat behind me. He passed me a note to ask me to the prom.
Shortly, Mrs. H. asked me,”Maggie are those boys bothering you?”
“Joel is, but Lance isn’t.”
As if one voice, the class gasped.
Her eyes grew big as saucers.
Then she moved Joel.
I finished with a B. For no good reason.
Lance called me every day all summer.
I was never the teacher’s pet like that again.
Probably a good thing.
At least I think that’s how it all happened. It was such a very long time ago.
The girls don’t need to know how mean I was.