The girl in the doorway has thin blond hair and glassy blue eyes. I recognize her instantly. She stands with the rest of the class, backpacks on, leaning forward. Fifth period, tenth grade English, first day of school. The afternoon sun beams into the classroom, wilting the plants on the windowsill. The metal blinds collect the heat, hold it in.

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The girl is not who I think she is. 

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If she is, then I am fifteen again – not teaching this class but taking it and this girl is my best friend. 

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***

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Time is a pile of papers. A stack of facts. 

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I think only of the end: sitting with Tara at fifteen on a scratchy beige couch in the youth room at our church. Other kids were around, but we only cared about each other. We kept a spiral bound notebook that we passed between us full of notes and ideas about God and the future. She didn’t have the notebook with her on that day. Neither did I.

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We fell onto the couch and sank into the cushions. On a normal day we would have talked about her boyfriend or mine and the guilt we knew we were supposed to feel. That was the main part of God we understood. Tara twisted a strand of limp hair around her finger. Her hair was uncombed, her face puffy. Her eyes avoided mine.

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We sat with legs touching, leaning into each other. After a minute, she pushed up her sleeves and said, “Look,” showing me her bandaged wrists. “Look what I did.” 

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I think we cried. I know I stood up and found an adult. I know within the hour Tara was forced into an ambulance and kept at a facility where she couldn’t wear shoes with laces or wash her hair. 

 

***

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Today’s lesson is an article about a man looking out a window, watching a small drama unfold. We’re talking about what we see and how we see it. I’ve used the piece for years, but today I linger on the topic. I look at Tara – knowing it isn’t her. The girl’s name is Esther, most likely Tara’s daughter. I heard from my mom that she lives in this town now. Divorced, like me, but remarried. Happy, my mother says and through the phone I hear the sigh she doesn’t try too hard to hide.

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“What’s the difference between looking in and looking out?” 

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Esther raises her hand. 

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“Looking in takes you nowhere.” Her voice is high-pitched like her mother’s. “You have to look out to see anything.”

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 “Not true!” Someone shouts.

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From the back I hear: “I don’t get it.”

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“We can all be right,” I say, but that’s not what I mean. 

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***

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Time is a poem. Tomorrow we will read one about forgiveness. I will watch as Esther takes her highlighters out of her pencil case, and I will imagine there are clues on her page. As if what she highlights is a message meant for me. As if her presence in this class is the result of a timeline that started the minute I stood up from her mother on that couch at fifteen. 

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The classroom dust will glisten in the air as the spiral of time circles back on itself. I will be fifteen looking out a fifty-year-old window. I will be fifty with fifteen-year-old eyes. The shadow of before will step out from behind me and my grey-scale teenage self will sit next to Tara and pass her a note.