At lunch on Thursday of my first week back, as I was packing up papers at my desk, I looked up and noticed a student of mine, Kyle Francis, standing in the doorway. He was wearing an oversized sweatshirt, and an earbud in his left ear. His hair was so blond it seemed almost white. It had the effect of making him look at once like a baby and an old man. One had to really study his face to find his eyebrows. He had always been something of a phantom in class. He never spoke unless I called on him, though the few times I had, his insights were genuinely disarming: a specific interpretation of a Ray Bradbury short story, for instance, or a reading of a Langston Hughes poem, that I had truly never considered in all my years of teaching those texts. His mind worked differently, when it was working—he was becoming increasingly checked-out in class.

Sorry. Do you, uh—have a second?

Hi, Kyle. What can I do for you?

He canted his head down. I’m not really sure how to talk about it, he said.

Well let’s not do it across the room, I replied.

He made to close the door, but I told him to keep it open. It was school policy; no teacher can be alone with a student behind a closed door. I proffered a chair, he crossed to me and sat down. I leaned back against the edge of my desk and crossed my arms.

So.

He cleared his throat and stared down at his hands. I know I’ve been uh—pretty distracted in class recently, he said.

Yeah. You have.

And I just wanted to let you know I’m sorry. And I want to try harder.

Okay. I appreciate that.

I’m not trying to disrespect you. When I was sleeping . . . I didn’t mean to like . . . He trailed off, looking pained as he glanced towards the door.

I know, I said, pulling the chair out from behind my desk, and sitting down beside him. I’m just frustrated because I know what you’re capable of, I said, and he nodded. What’re you listening to? I asked. He apologized and pulled out his earbud.

What was it?

Just some old school stuff.

Mozart?

A smile flickered across his face. Exactly, he replied.

Knowing you, I wouldn’t be surprised, I said.

Kyle put on a bit of a brooding, tough guy act, but I always suspected in another life he could just as easily have been a band geek. He handed me one of his earbuds. I listened for a moment, before pulling it out with incredulity—Missy Elliott is not old school!

Get Ur Freak On?

It’s like—

From 2001! That’s the year I was born, he said.