Geometry

My grandmother has a new friend at her retirement community: one Mrs. Fultcher.

Mrs. Fultcher was our high school geometry teacher. Fultcher the Vulture. Couldn't hear a thing - but she had eyes like a fucking hawk. She was tall with tremendous posture and a light, airy voice. I can only imagine that both have deteriorated since then.

When I started high school, I was a little nervous and, well, fearful. This had everything to do with the fact that I was barely 4'10". I was tiny. A tiny little guy, who did theatre and magic, stuck in a world of post-pubescent, sporty teens just waiting, I assumed, to shove me into a locker, or worse.

Fifth period was Geometry, and the first day had been going rather well so far. I was beginning to relax. Mrs. Fultcher began the first class, made up mostly of the largest sophomores I had ever seen, by introducing everyone. I happened to be sitting in the very far left front row desk. The worst spot, strategically, for just about anything.

It also meant that I was last. After she said everyone's name, she said mine. She pronounced my last name correctly, which meant that she remembered my brother rather well. Then she paused, blinked rapidly, and said to the group in her sing-songy lilt, "Now, class. Allen's a magician." No, god. Please, no. "If you all don't behave, he might make you disappear!"

The looks were varied, really. A few even contained pity. Most, though, had this marvelous combination of contempt and condescension. I was dead meat.

Only, I wasn't. That horrible moment, which I will remember for an eternity, was entirely forgotten by this group of ruffians by the time we got to pi. And a good thing, too, because I got taller over the next, oh, eight years. And I even got a little bit cooler.

Still waiting for puberty, though.