The Lesson You Can't Teach

[Setting: Classroom – late evening. Chairs stacked, papers scattered. A clock ticks loudly. A teacher, Ms. S, is speaking to a student who lingers after school.]

Ms. S:

You should be home by now. Why are you still here?

Student:

I could ask you the same thing, Ms. S. You’re still grading papers.

Ms. S:

That’s different. This is my job.

Student:

No, that’s not the reason. You’re waiting.

Ms. S:

Waiting for what?

Student:

For someone.

Ms. S:

(laughs) You sound certain.

Student:

I am.

Ms. S:

And how would you know that?

Student:

Because I’ve been watching you.

Ms. S:

That’s an unsettling thing to say.

Student:

Not if it’s true.

Ms. S:

Alright then, tell me. Who am I waiting for?

Student:

Your daughter.

Ms. S:

Zahara’s only three. She doesn’t even go here.

Student:

Doesn’t matter. She’ll come. Someday.

Ms. S:

You’re talking nonsense.

Student:

Or maybe I’m the only one telling the truth in this building.

Ms. S:

You didn’t answer my first question. Why are you still here?

Student:

Because you keep ignoring it.

Ms. S:

What’s “it”?

Student:

The envelope under your desk.

Ms. S:

(quietly) What envelope?

Student:

The one you don’t let anyone touch.

Ms. S:

There is no envelope.

Student:

That’s exactly what you’d say if there was.

Ms. S:

You’re imagining things.

Student:

You’re hiding things.

Ms. S:

This conversation is over.

Student:

You can’t dismiss me.

Ms. S:

I can send you to the office.

Student:

The office is empty. Everyone’s gone. Except us.

Ms. S:

Then go home.

Student:

No. Not until you admit it.

Ms. S:

Admit what?

Student:

That you’re not the person you pretend to be.

Ms. S:

(snarls) You don’t know anything about me.

Student:

I know more than you think.

Ms. S:

Listen, Andrew—

Student:

Don’t call me that.

Ms. S:

That’s your name.

Student:

Not anymore.

Ms. S:

Students don’t get to change their names in my classroom.

Student:

I’m not your student.

Ms. S:

Excuse me?

Student:

I’m not on your roster. Check.

Ms. S:

I… I’ve seen you in this room every day.

Student:

Have you? Or have you only heard me?

Ms. S:

Don’t play games with me.

Student:

You don’t remember the first time we spoke, do you?

Ms. S:

Of course I do. First week of school. You asked about the unit on identity.

Student:

No. That wasn’t me. That was someone else.

Ms. S:

What are you saying?

Student:

I’m saying… You can see me?

Ms. S:

(freezes) …What do you mean?

Student:

Most people can’t.

Ms. S:

That’s impossible.

Student:

So is a locked drawer that opens itself. But I’ve seen you stare at it.

Ms. S:

Stop.

Student:

You’ve been waiting for someone to notice. You left the envelope there for a reason.

Ms. S:

You don’t know what’s inside.

Student:

Letters.

Ms. S:

No.

Student:

Confessions.

Ms. S:

You’re lying.

Student:

Am I? Or am I just saying the words you never said out loud?

Ms. S:

Tell me who you are.

Student:

I already did.

Ms. S:

Andrew?

Student:

No. The boy you ignored.

Ms. S:

I never—

Student:

The one who slipped through the cracks. Headphones in, phone glowing. You looked at me every day and saw nothing.

Ms. S:

That’s not true.

Student:

It is. You told yourself you gave me space. But really, you gave me silence.

Ms. S:

I couldn’t force you to—

Student:

To ask for help? That’s the rule you live by, isn’t it? “If they need me, they’ll ask.” But sometimes asking feels heavier than dying.

Ms. S:

Don’t. Don’t say that.

Student:

It’s already said.

Ms. S:

This isn’t real.

Student:

Then why are you shaking?

Ms. S:

Because you’re not here. You can’t be.

Student:

Finally, you’re telling the truth.

Ms. S:

But I can see you.

Student:

You can now. Because the envelope opened.

Ms. S:

(whispers) No.

Student:

Yes. You knew this moment would come.

Ms. S:

I wrote those letters to forgive myself.

Student:

But forgiveness isn’t yours to give.

Ms. S:

What do you want from me?

Student:

Acknowledgment.

Ms. S:

Of what?

Student:

That I was here. That I mattered. That my story didn’t end the day you stopped looking at me.

Ms. S:

I… I remember you now.

Student:

Do you? Or do you only remember your guilt?

Ms. S:

Please.

Student:

Say it.

Ms. S:

You mattered.

Student:

Not to the school. Not to my parents. To you.

Ms. S:

Yes. To me.

Student:

Then prove it.

Ms. S:

How?

Student:

Tell her.

Ms. S:

Who?

Student:

Your daughter. Tell Zahara about me.

Ms. S:

She’s too young.

Student:

She’s not too young to know that silence is a knife.

Ms. S:

What if she forgets?

Student:

Then tell her again. And again. Until she never can.

Ms. S:

I can’t—

Student:

You can. Or else I’ll stay here.

Ms. S:

Forever?

Student:

Until you stop pretending.

Ms. S:

I didn’t mean to ignore you.

Student:

I know. That’s what makes it worse.

Ms. S:

I’m sorry.

Student:

You should be. But sorry isn’t the same as speaking.

Ms. S:

I’ll tell her.

Student:

Swear it.

Ms. S:

I swear.

Student:

Then I can leave.

Ms. S:

Wait. Don’t.

Student:

Why?

Ms. S:

Because I don’t want to be alone with what’s hidden.

Student:

You never were.

Ms. S:

Will I see you again?

Student:

If you keep your promise, no.

Ms. S:

And if I don’t?

Student:

Then I’ll come back louder.

Ms. S:

You’re not fair.

Student:

Neither was life.

Ms. S:

I’ll keep my word.

Student:

Good. Because words, once spoken, live longer than any envelope.

Ms. S:

Andrew…

Student:

Don’t call me that.

Ms. S:

What should I call you?

Student:

Call me what I was: A lesson you can’t teach.

[The clock stops ticking. Silence. The sound of paper fluttering from the open drawer. Ms. S whispers into the empty room.]

Ms. S:

Zahara… tonight I’ll tell you a story. About a boy who thought no one could see him. But I did. I always did. I just didn’t say it soon enough.

[Fade.]