NEED

L. is cute as a button, truly. And unknowingly, uncommonly bright. I try to tease this out of her when we pass in the hall, in the lunchroom when I dash by on a mission for another diet coke. We trade compliments about each other's earrings. I loan her my favorite pink pen and she writes me notes on the margins of your paper: You know what Ms. S? You almost look like Marissa Cooper with your hair like that.

God bless that girl.

She talks non-stop, though, during my class. Sometimes whispering, sometimes outright shouts across the room, both apologetic and slightly flippant (95/5 to 75/25 depending on the day) when the inevitable reprimand of my gaze lands on her. I'm sorry Ms. S, but you know me.

Yes, L. I do.

Today I say Do not talk during the movie. Don't. Don't do it. You have been warned. If you talk I will send you to the office. Do you understand me? Raise your hand if you understand that you will be sent to the office if you talk during this movie. They were monsters yesterday. I had to stop the movie twice. No second chances today. I wait. Finally, all 32 hands up, all parties aware and agreeing to conditions and terms. In less than 3 minutes flat L. is turned around, talking. For a minute I just watch. Still whispering to S., who is cute but not worth a trip to the office. Other kids notice and look at me for my reaction. S. catches on and tries to kick her but misses and knocks a stack of books off his desk. Oh Ms. S. Sorry! she's caught on now. I won't talk anymore, I promise. Every last kid looks at her. Then at me.

When I was in 8th grade I listened to Weezer's Blue Album non-stop. The main weapon in my arsenal was a look that my dad called "the roving death eye." I would train it on my parents when I thought they were being particularly unreasonable. Which wasn't often. I was just prone to melodrama. My boyfriend (a highschooler) rode his bike through the narrow streets of downtown Higashi Kurume, and I stood on pegs on the back, hollering at our friends and strangers as we flew by. Reckless. Thrilling. Secretly, I thought I knew more than some of my teachers, and sometimes I did. Missing curfew, kissing boyfriend behind garbage dumpsters, under the bridge by the river, babysitting, grumbling over homework, crying over real and imagined slights by other girls -- everything, all of it, tempered by the adults in my life who could look at me, see what I had, what I lacked, and always managed to give me just what I needed (whether I realized, embraced, admitted it or not).

Need v. Want is an interesting question -- a question that troubles me especially when I pray and when I try to be a good friend/daughter/sister/teacher and don't always know how. I don't have a prescription pad and it's just as well because, hell, often as not, my diagnosis of the situation is wrong; my pronouncement too grim, to0 optimistic, too uninformed, too tangled up in my own black heart.

I sent L. to the office. I had to because, as best as I cound work out, she needed to know that I mean what I say as much as I actually need to remind myself daily to put my money where my mouth is. She was incredulous. She started crying. I felt awful. But when I went to get my messages from the office during lunch, she was still there. Ms. S. I'm really really sorry. I've never been to the office before and it's horrible and I don't want to ever be in trouble again. So please forgive me. I really want you to forgive me.