Mrs. Chang

Steam rises from the bowl as Mrs. Chang opens the microwave door. It billows into the cold, night air and floats into the empty school hallways. The corridors which are normally bright yellow and filled with loud, obnoxious teens now seem dull green under the bright moonlight. The moon’s glow bathes everything in an unusual light, and she’s reminded of how she can’t be here. 

It’s well past midnight, and she jumps every time a faraway door creaks. She’s been using this lounge for about a week now and is baffled at all the new things she’s noticed when there isn’t a massive crowd of stuffy bodies. The door of B-9 has rusty hinges. An old piece of gum is stuck between lockers 89 and 90. There’s a sticky note stuck in the ventilation shaft of the AC in the teacher’s lounge. 

Focusing back on the current task, she moves the red bean buns to a plastic ziploc bag. She tucks the ziploc into her purse before resetting everything she’s touched. No one can know she was here. It leads to questions. Of course, she has answers to the questions, but they only make sense to her.

She hurries out the lounge door, locking it behind her and starting her toilsome tread back to her house. She remembers how her mother must be waiting and she feels a strange prick but it is quickly overridden by urgency. Her pace quickens, and she reaches the worn wooden door to her home in no time. She fumbles with her keys, inserts them, and calls into the warm home, “Mom?” 

A snuffled sound of affirmation greets her. It’s uncomfortably hot and Mrs. Chang knows it’ll rack up the heating bill, but her mom hates the cold. She finds her mom wrapped in blankets on the couch, scrolling presumably through Instagram on her phone. 

“I brought you some zhu zhu buns,” Mrs. Chang says, using her childhood nickname for the buns. She passes the ziploc to her mom.

“Doesn’t your school have anything more healthy?” her mom responds scornfully.

Mrs. Chang doesn’t bother telling her that she bought those buns herself. No, if she argues, she will only have to hear hours worth of more disgust. Better to stay quiet and get the interaction over with. It is the smart thing to do. 

Mrs. Chang gives a non-committal shrug and mumbles something she herself can’t decipher. She says she has work to do and leaves her mom with the buns. An hour later, she has only racked up her shorts history. She feels a rumble in her stomach and asks her mom if there are any more buns. Her mother has eaten them all. In fact, the mother scolds her daughter for wanting to eat so late.

“It doesn’t get burned off. It just stays on your body. Haven’t I shown you enough videos?” the targeted comments begin to flow.

Mrs. Chang also scolds herself. Mentally of course. She should’ve known that was coming. She responds with another mumble. She cannot start on the giant pile of work, but she must. She grabs her noise-cancelling headphones and escapes.

Grading flows by until she cannot remember what she has graded or written. Eventually, she goes to bed, exhausted. On better days, she would stay awake and ponder her life. There really wasn’t much to ponder- she had everything figured out. She wanted to help people. She felt better helping people, seeing the joy and happiness in their faces. Even when she was sad, all she had to do was help someone else through their sadness, and she felt happier. It was her destiny. 

Mrs. Chang spends many years in this routine. Many would wonder if she lost her spark, but that’s not possible. She is unwavering in her resolution, and she is always empathetic. Not one student in Halman Middle School can remember a time she has raised a voice. 

Often, students write letters to her. They vary in degree, but everyone loves her. 

“I will miss the way you play pop music on Fridays!”

“You’re the best teacher I’ve met.”

“I’m gonna miss your class so much, Mrs. Chang.”

“I’m going to pursue a science degree because of you!”

Mrs. Chang beams with happiness. Her heart fills itself on the compliments- she needs them like they’re air. It is the last day of school, and her class of eighth graders are graduating.

One last boy waits to give her a card. His name is Henry- she remembers. He has a small frame and large, slightly wide set eyes. He blinks up at her with those dark eyes. He is quiet and he rarely gifts her with a smile, but he smiles now. 

“Hi, Mrs. Chang! I hope you read my card,” he beams.

“Of course! Do you want me to read it right now?” she takes in his smile. He eagerly nods, and so she begins to read.

“Dear Mrs. Chang,

You have been such an inspiration to me. Before I met you, I was constantly quiet because I didn’t want to speak out. I was always scared that someone would pick on me, but you showed me that it’s important to express my feelings. I will never forget the days you sat by me and let me experience what it’s like to have a friend. You made such a big difference in my life, and I’m forever grateful to you. I hope you achieve all your dreams and ambitions. 

Sincerely,

Henry Duscott”

She finishes reading and thanks the boy graciously for his kind letter. He continues smiling, and his eyes are full of a light joy.

“What do you dream of achieving?” he suddenly asks.

The question catches her off guard, but she knows the answer anyway.

“I want to help as many people as I can. I want them to feel better and do wonderful things,” she says.

“That’s not an achievement,” he says, cocking his head in confusion.

It registers as a silly, childish statement to Mrs. Chang. Of course, a kid so young can’t possibly have enough empathy to understand how much of an accomplishment helping someone is.

The boy continues, “That’s just what they want. What do you want? There must be more to your life than others; otherwise, it’s not really your life, is it?”