This is cross posted over at Flawed But Authentic which I specifically wrote it for, but it sure it easy to copy and paste.

Some of my friends are more punctual than others. That, unfortunately, determines how ‘on time’ I am when meeting them. If I have to meet one of them at 7 p.m. then I am either sure to leave in plenty of time or else I will leave right at 7 and arrive late. Wednesday I was meeting a Punctual Friend and had to leave an evening meeting to meet her for dinner and drinks at my favorite Pacific Asian cuisine restaurant.

Except I was running late and I had to get gas and the card reader at the pump wasn’t working. And in the cold night air I was forced to go inside to pay.

That’s not a problem. Usually. But there were many people in there and I felt myself briskly walking to beat a few of them to the counter to pay. One of them beat me and instantly there were four others behind me.

Hurry, I was thinking. Come on come on come on. Let’s go. I gotta get out of here.

She was maybe in her twenties and buying only a bag of cheetos and some cigarettes. Her wallet was, naturally, at the bottom of her purse and difficult to find. When she did she handed the clerk a debit card.

Credit or debit? he asked.

Debit.

Come on come on come on. I gotta go. I have 6 minutes to get across town. Credit credit credit. Let’s go. Come on. My head was on it’s own, the gray matter swirling around as I focused on trying not to be late.

It’s been declined. Should I try it as credit?

Ummm. Oh. Yeah. Go ahead.

I wanted to butt in and my manners were going to be compromised. I could just feel it. I was going to blurt out I’M IN A HURRY. COME ON. LET’S GO. CAN I GO FIRST?

Sometimes it’s necessary to bite one’s tongue. Literally. Until you can taste your own blood and shut your own self up. My head kept getting in my way and an unexpected flashback to being embarrassed when my own credit cards have been declined finally got to me.

Sorry. That one’s been declined, too. Do you have cash?

Certainly, she did not.

Five minutes now. Five minutes to drive what will take 11 at most. The numbers began to spin around my head. Six dollars for two items. Five minutes. Seven o’clock. Forty two dollars worth of gas. Six. Two. Five. Seven. Forty-two. Let’s go let’s go let’s go.

My body took over though my mind was still impatient and I stepped forward pushing my credit card toward the clerk.

Just put it on my card with the gas, please.

I didn’t want to be late and in my selfishness that’s all I could think about. I wanted to say, “I’m in a hurry. It’s fine. Let me pay.” but I didn’t. Because at that precise moment my own need to be on time was displaced with the fact that she couldn’t come up with six dollars on a debit card to pay for her items. Being so broke that six dollars wouldn’t be approved at the gas station took precedence over my other consideration.

Protestations would follow. I would decline.

It’s ok, I assured.

No. You don’t have to do that.

Let me.

No, I have to pay you back. Can I pay you back? She took out her checkbook and asked for my name.

I’ll write you a check. Let me, ok?

Nah. I’m not even going to tell you my name.

I smiled at her. I finally got it. Being kind and realizing that not being able to pay for cheetos and cigarettes far outweighed being punctual.

Well, what can I do? she asked. She wasn’t begging or trying to show any shame. She wasn’t poorly dressed. Probably just that normal twenty-something still-owning-college-furniture kind of gal. Probably wondering what a 401K is and whether or not she should get one. Probably having heard of a Roth IRA but thinking she had a few years to even look into that.

You know what? Why don’t you take some time and go volunteer in a school sometime. Go read to a Kindergarten student or something. I’d love it if you did that.

Ok! She finally broke a smile. I don’t know what will happen. I will believe, however, that she will do it. And I will be late for dinner. And I won’t care one bit.

In August it seemed impossible to me that I would get to this point. The place where I would, in my new position, realize that I couldn’t save every student, that I would get here. It was never my intention to arrive at this destination, but here I am.

Most of my days are filled with contacting parents with questions, looking at student schedules, coming up with plans to make sure students are successful. Some days I do discipline when my assistant principal is out of the building and I never relish handing out punishment, though I do try to ensure that the punishment fits the crime. Some times my hands are tied and no matter how much I like a student I have to give them the necessary consequences. Other times I look at my numbers and write on a sticky note that I place directly in front of my desk the number of students I am in charge of and I watch that number fluctuate on a regular basis. Currently, I have 351 posted in my line of vision so that I can recall how many students I must watch over, check their grades, tell them that that was probably not their best effort and could they please give me 110% next quarter. This week I am calculating their GPAs and double-checking and re-checking to see who my top ten students are so that I can put their names up to display for all to see.

Next year, when I follow them to Sophomore year I will figure out who gets to take Driver’s Ed first and who needs to re-take courses they failed this year. There will be new things to learn and more students who come to me and more students whom I must call in for a Come To Jesus meeting. Those will never tire. I like them. At times, they are my favorite part of the day when I call them out of class, pull up their grades and tell them the expectations are, indeed, higher than they realized. That I anticipate they can do better. They can work harder, they can get support, I can give them options for tutoring and see them be as successful as they choose to be.

Today, however, I felt it. It was a new sensation and I felt sick afterward, but I had it nonetheless. The options for this student are limited and he’s doing everything to work against me. Since August he has been on home monitoring with an ankle bracelet and been in and out of juvenile detention three times. After failing first quarter and missing so many days I had no choice to have the Jesus meeting and convince him that he was now eligible for an after-school program. Doing that wasn’t fun, either, because he’s just the type of student I don’t want spending his days on the street and then doing school at 3:30. Since November he’s been in and out of that program so much that I’ve begun to recognize the voice of his parole officer since we talk so much on the phone about him.

After missing from after school for two weeks he showed up again today to re-enroll since he’s been detained. It’s required that he be in school according to his parole officer so he has no choice.

But today, there was no Come To Jesus.

There was no emotion from me.

There was a feeling of sheer fatigue on my part.

I’m tired. I can’t save him. He is my first. The one I realize that I cannot save. Naive, yes. Still.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Is it me or did the barista call me a skank when I ordered my skinny sugar-free vanilla latte today?

Been too long. Yes, I know. But there is a seamy underbelly to this online writing. They make you eat baby kittens, did you know that? Only after you do the hokey pokey and shots of tequila out of a small vat.

I’m popping in to say that y’all are nice and kind and I hope you win the state lotto. People have sent cards, coffee, and beautiful handmade stuff. Once again, I am humbled. I’m also popping in to say that there is a contest going on over at Flawed But Authentic (which I’ve been sorely negligent at writing for lately and I will send some lotto tickets to all the great ladies over there along with some Hot Pockets because Jesus would want them to have Hot Pockets - He is a merciful Savior, that’s for sure) and also to tell a little story.

It’s been nearly a month of not writing. Surely I can start back up with a little story. Nothing much.

But tonight when I dropped off Mason at his Thursday night Youth Group/Basketball/Volleyball/Teenage Coffee Hut there was our usual banter about things we enjoy: 30 Rock (Episode 204? HA! HA! HA-LARIOUS!), good movies, and excellent music (Umm..Dear Rufus Wainwright: I am loving you. I am digging you. I am wanting to throw myself off a volcano into a fiery pit for your awesome lyrics.) (That wasn’t overdoing it, was it?). If there’s anything I understand it’s a teenage mind. It’s the uncertainty, the pressures of Being Cool, acceptance. Like any mother I am just as devoted to the anxiety that accompanies parenthood, so I began to fret about him and his friends and whether or not he Fits In.

When I dropped him off the door was still open and two guys ran up to him.

“Dude! DUDE. Good to see you!”

They hugged, high-fived, hand-jived.

I smiled.

I drove home.

He’ll be fine.