Middle school can be exhausting. You try to stay focused, but it can be very difficult to do so.

Teachers can be so controlling. But just when you think you're going to get caught drifting off into space, something comes out of nowhere to save the day. Such is the case in . . .

Morgan

     Morgan first came into my life in the eighth grade at Valley Gorge Middle School in the San Fernando Valley in Southern California. She was a wild sort, bold and outgoing. Her hair, stuck up like a porcupine’s quills, swept in all directions and depicted a free and natural spirit. Her impish smile made a statement to her public that she controlled her own destiny. Until then, I hadn’t noticed girls much. They didn’t bother me, and I steered clear of them. 

     I remember the day well. Dark clouds draped the horizon. The dreariness blanketed my world. I sat at my desk, a bit forlorn and unfocused, my attention everywhere else but English class. Then a piercing voice interrupted my quiet trance. “Mr. Blake,” the voice echoed against the walls of the classroom. “Have you been listening to what I’ve been saying?” 

     “Huh, uh, yes ma’am,” I stuttered. I hadn’t, but it would’ve been bad form to admit it.

     Someone must’ve been looking out for me that day. For as Mrs. Kincaid began to ask me the fateful question, the one I wouldn’t be able to answer, a loud crash rumbled through the room. Startled, both my interrogator and I whirled around to assess the situation.

     The door had swung open wide, slamming into the wall, and then returned to its resting place with a loud thump. In its wake appeared a creature whose spiky, jet-black hair framed a devilish grin. Her deep, brown eyes surveyed the room and focused on each puzzled face peering at her. The quiet following her stormy entrance didn’t last for long. 

     “What are you jerks lookin’ at?” she snapped. “Ain’t you ever seen a girl?”

     Clad in a black leather jacket and tight black jeans, Morgan was a sight to behold. She swaggered to the center of the room, stood in front of Mrs. Kincaid, and stared straight into her eyes. 

     “Where’s my seat?” she blurted. 

     Not losing her composure, Mrs. Kincaid locked eyes with her. “Who are you, dear?” she asked in her usual, polite manner.

     Morgan snarled, “Morgan Chase, your majesty.”  

     Not missing a beat, Mrs. Kincaid pointed to an empty seat in the rear of the room. Morgan glared at the designated spot for a moment and then, with indignation, stated, “I don’t like that one.” 

     Not one for confrontation, Mrs. Kincaid restrained herself and replied, “I’m sorry my dear, but that is the one you must take.” 

     Deciding this was not the time for a fight, Morgan sauntered over to her throne, sat down, leaned back, and scowled at Mrs. Kincaid in defiance. Mrs. Kincaid, savoring her victory, continued with the day’s lesson. 

     My eyes fixed on Morgan. Something about her intrigued me. However, what it was would not be revealed until twenty years later.

     Morgan and I had little to do with each other during the school year. As I muddled along, adrift in a sea of uncertainty about life, Morgan, in her usual brash manner, struck fear into the hearts and minds of those around her. Just after the end of the year, Morgan disappeared from my life, “forever.”

     As the years passed, my fate took one curious turn after another. The scrawny, somewhat puny, fourteen-year-old boy somehow managed to turn into quite a respectable adult man of thirty-four. 

     Married twice, but now divorced, I had worked hard to put my life in order. Dropping in and out of three colleges, at last I reached the peak of my academic mountain and received a “Bachelor of Arts Degree in English Literature.”

     Not knowing what to do with the degree, I wandered through the world of freelance writing, submitting one mundane story after another to a myriad of obscure publications. Then, as destiny would have it, a chronic teacher shortage led me to obtain my teaching credential and brought me back to the world from which I’d escaped some twenty years earlier. Now in the front of the room, rather than the back, I found myself teaching English to eighth graders at Hamilton Middle School in a suburb of Sacramento. Mrs. Kincaid would have been amazed. However, as I soon discovered, my life would not remain uncomplicated.

     This particular Thursday morning, the alarm clock made its usual annoying buzzing sound. Still groggy, I hit the “SNOOZE” button and fell back to sleep. When I awoke and gazed at the clock, I became aware I’d overslept and would be late for class, if I didn’t get my butt in gear. 

     All seemed to be going well until I reached my aged Chevy Camaro, parked in the carport outside my townhouse. In my rush to get to school on time, I failed to gauge the distance between my chariot and the pole supporting the carport. Hearing a terrible crunching sound, I realized I’d caught the car’s bumper on the carport’s left pole. My car let out an agonizing squeal that sent chills up my spine. 

     “Crap,” I exclaimed, in a quite undignified manner. “What do I do now?”

     Somehow, I managed to regain my composure. Although my bumper had been mangled into a curious s-shape, the pole came away unscathed. With nothing to report to another soul, at least for the moment, I continued on my way.

     During my drive, I contemplated my lessons for the day. I had trouble keeping my mind on track. The accident, which occurred because of my inept ability to negotiate the carport back-out maneuver, kept popping back into my head. However, I succeeded in driving the eight miles to campus without any further mishaps. 

     As I pulled into my designated parking space at school, I brought the car to an abrupt halt, for I didn’t have much time to get to class. Grabbing my lesson plans from the passenger seat, I emerged from the car, slammed the door, and bounded through the main entrance of the building. I reached my classroom, as the clanging of the bell rang in the new school day.

     I rushed to my desk at the front of the room, deposited my lesson plans on top of it, and tried to catch my breath. At that moment, a loud crash caused me to whirl in the direction of the classroom door. There, in its threshold, stood a creature whose spiky, jet-black hair framed a devilish grin. The door slammed behind her as she entered the room. Before any words could be uttered, the door opened again, revealing a beautiful woman with a soft, yet impish smile.

     Clad in a red, tailored business suit, this vision of loveliness possessed my every thought. She moved toward the young girl. The smile disappeared from her face. In a controlled, yet commanding manner, she grasped the child by the arm and spun her toward her. “Megan,” she proclaimed, “I told you to wait for me.”

     “But I wanted to get to class on time,” Megan exclaimed in defiance.

     The alluring woman ignored the girl’s obstinate remark and turned toward me. “I’m so sorry for my daughter’s rude behavior. Won’t you please forgive her?”

     No words came out of my mouth. I stood there stunned by the woman’s beauty and captivated by her elegance. Then a strange feeling came over me. I felt we had met before.

     As the past and present collided, our eyes engaged, and we knew in our hearts this would be the beginning of a lasting relationship. Eight months later, Morgan and I were married.

Copyright © 2009 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.