Think
back to high school. You know that unhappy kid few friends and nothing much to
look forward to? That was me. I was writing stories no one ever saw. Mostly as
a means of entertaining myself when I was lonely and bored. It was often in
those days. Sure, I'd had a creative writing class and I did just fine writing
papers and essays, but it hadn't occurred to me that I *could* write. It was
just something unremarkable the bland kid in the third row (me) did to
transport her out of a lackluster life.
Due
to some really messed up scheduling on the school's part, I ended up taking
science classes out of order. Sophomores were supposed to take chemistry, then
biology as juniors. I didn't get the memo. The school plunked me in a biology
class filled with upper classmen. Mr. Peter Wiles was my biology teacher. He'd
been involved in early nuclear research for the Navy. We knew there were some
hair-raising, compelling stories Mr. Wiles could tell, but he wouldn't.
Instead, he spent his days actively interested in each and every kid who came
through his classroom door. Regardless of how moody, angsty, and sometimes
surly teenagers could be. He made you want to think well of you - no one wanted
to disappoint him. Not even the football players who only needed a D in his
class in order to keep playing. Mr. Wiles got better from them, and they all
seemed happy to give him the extra effort he requested. He even took me aside
one day to inform me that I was a fraction of a point behind his highest
scoring student that year - another sophomore tucked into one of his classes. Mr.
Wiles wanted me to push just a little harder on my work and on my tests because
he knew I could close that final gap. When he introduced me to his wife one
day, she brightened and said "Oh! Pete's talked about you!"
I
was surprised, because who talks about miserable teenagers no matter how well
they score on your tests? Then I swelled up with pleasure and pride. Maybe I
really was friends with my extraordinary biology teacher. At some point that
year, he assigned a project. He gave us a multistep experiment to perform. We
were to write up the hypothesis, the experimental protocol, document the actual
experiment, and then write our conclusions. It took us weeks to wade through,
but we finally turned in our papers. Some days later, he returned them. Mr.
Wiles liked to hand back tests and papers in ranked order - highest scores to
lowest scores.
I'd
had a good time with the assignment and I knew I'd done pretty well. I knew I
had. He gave back papers, stopping at student desks and saying something
good about each paper. With each one he returned, my heart sank and my alarm
grew. He wasn't stopping at my desk. Never before had one of my tests or papers
not been returned within the top five. High school wasn't a good time for me at
all. I had very little to cling to. My academic performance was about it and
here I'd gone and messed that up in some way I couldn't comprehend. I must have
gotten the lowest score in the class. That meant I'd disappointed my friend.
And me.
Finally,
Mr. Wiles, with one paper left in hand, came to stand beside my desk. He stared
at the paper a moment, then looked at me. I must have looked terrified. I don't
think I'd taken a breath since midway through his trip through the classroom.
"I
saved your paper for last, because it needs some explaining. Highest score. Not
just in this class. Out of all of my classes. It's brilliant," he said.
I
blinked.
"The
writing is clear. Concise, but detailed. Specific. If you don't become a
writer, I'll haunt you until the day you die."
I
laughed, but I was so relieved I cried, too. It must have
been the reaction he was hoping for. He spent the rest of the period grinning.
A
few weeks later, the substitute teachers started. Shortly after, we got word.
Mr. Wiles had lung cancer. He didn't finish the school year, opting for treatment
instead. Early in my junior year (when I had to take the chemistry I'd missed
the year before), he died. Broke my heart. But his threat to haunt me made me
smile. And the legacy of his faith in me and my ability to write, survived.
He
was the first person ever to tell me I *could* write. To make a big deal out of
a skill that I'd regarded as a kind of life preserver. He made me look at it
differently. He inspired me to appreciate what I'd learned to do. And, in
typical Pete Wiles fashion, made me want to try even harder. Not because he
asked, but because he seemed so delighted by what I'd done.
So
I write. I may have taken a few detours through the years, but I'm a writer,
Mr. Wiles. Even if I sometimes wouldn't mind being haunted - just to get to see
my friend again.
