When I get to the High School, I see all the girls look like me in 10th grade. Long, straight hair, parted in the middle. Bellbottoms and platform shoes. Jean jacket. Classes have just ended and I talk my way past the security guard and head down the hall to Mr. Eckhert’s room, the same one he’s used for 50 years. Today it’s decorated with balloons and streamers because he’s retiring. I read about it in our local paper.
He's standing in front of the Blackboard, erasing something. When he turns around, I notice his hair is greyer. He’s gained a little weight. Otherwise, he’s the same.
“Hello, Mr. E.”
He peers at me through wire-rimmed glasses. For a second, I think about pretending I’m there because my non-existent daughter has forgotten her phone. But that’s stupid, so I dive right in.
“I had you the first year you taught here. Susan Oakley?”
I can tell he doesn’t remember.
“We took a field trip to Twin Ponds.”
He’s smiling, trying to place me.
“To study the Ph level of the water,” I say.
“I’ve had so many visitors today. Children of children I taught, if you can believe it.”
He sounds the same. A DJ’s voice. The vowels smooth as a dirty martini.
“Twin Ponds,” he repeats. “The town turned it into a housing development, didn’t they?”
I remember everything about that day: the marsh grass, the rocks, the flowered blouse I had on, how young I was, how in love with him. He’d brought a boom box and Kiss You All Over was playing, scaring the fish. There were other kids around, but I thought he only had eyes for me. Like we were in a music video, only he didn’t know it.
“Susan did you say your name was?” he’s asking, looking around the room one last time, preparing to say goodbye.
Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in over 150 literary journals and appears in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on X, Bluesky, or Instagram @bsherm36.
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