A Wannabe

I remember Mrs. Bee. She was short--shorter than me--and her wardrobe seemed to be comprised mostly of black cotton sheaths from Dress Barn.

She taught us 7th grade science. And almost every day, by the end of the class, she seemed to be on the verge of tears. Black eye linerand purple eye shadow smeared beneath her eyes, falling into the cracks that I'm certain were the result of battling pre-pubescents for so many years.

But oh, how she did love my sci-fi shorts. (I'll be honest, I didn't know much about plagiarism then so many of my stories were reinterpretations of my favorite X-File episodes.) I would drop them off on Mondays and we'd discuss character development on Wednesdays.

I don't think teaching science was her passion.

I think, secretly, she wanted to be a writer.

I don't want to be like Mrs. Bee--a wannabe.