Extra Help by Cara Burley

Extra Help

When I was in the fourth grade, you would help me with math every Wednesday before school. I would get to school early before anyone else was there. You know what I mean. It was that eerie time, like when you would have to go back if you forgot your trumpet or your mittens and only a random few of the LED lights were on. It was just a few patches of light near the edges of the hallways so the janitors could open some doors. It was a weird, slightly uncomfortable feeling. Anyways, I didn't particularly like the meetings because I thought you were too strict but then again, you were a fourth grade teacher and I had a tendency to get easily offended.

One day, I got to see where you hid the key to the classroom. You put your finger to your lips and told me not to tell, but I did anyways, because I thought I was special.

My parents probably told you about how I hated math. They probably told you what I told them. They probably told you that I felt like my brain would get overheated and stop working. They probably told you about how I'd cry when I couldn't understand and it was going to be hard because I wouldn't be able to do that with you. They probably told you about the time I finally understood long division and I thanked God and they called me Helen Keller because I had never understood anything as much as I had understood in that moment.

We wrote on small, dirty whiteboards in the freezing January classroom, as the sun was still rising and you tried tirelessly to get through to me. I wanted to scream because I wasn’t able to. Your clenched jaw kept me in line when I never strayed.

Maybe I should've thanked you when you asked me if I had any friends in class and I knew these tutoring sessions were no longer going to be limited to the subject of math. I cursed myself because I should've known. Maybe I should've thanked you for caring. Maybe I shouldn't have felt so humiliated when you asked who I wanted to be friends with, and maybe I should've taken you up on your offer when you asked me if I wanted help befriending them. In my mind I heard you asking if I wanted to be normal. You were acknowledging the faults that I wasn't yet brave enough to acknowledge and that scared me.

Seven years later and you're still with me. Your words foreshadowed years to come. Your words try to help me as I relive recent trauma. The shy ten-year-old girl is still within me and I still feel the humiliation I felt with you to this day, it's just more complex now.