The Last Time We Met

November 2001-April 2002, West Hills, California

A classroom full of students had their heads bent over their test papers. I didn't know why I had stood up in this life, to loom over a group of kids taking a test. I lifted my hand, saw that I had an empty water bottle. None of the kids seemed to notice that their teacher had stood up, and I haltingly walked to the trash can by the door and gently placed my water bottle so it wouldn't create a distraction.

"You should recycle, Mr. Ruiz," said a girl in the front row.

She had warm brown eyes and light brown hair, the shade of honey, and pink glasses. If I had to guess her age, I'd say she was about eleven years old.

Dutifully, with more students looking at me, I picked my water bottle out of the trash and took it back to my desk.

The girl nodded with a small, proud smile on her face, and went back to her test.

I sat at my desk. Mr. Ruiz, she had called me. A bubble of panic rose up. I wasn't me anymore, until suddenly I remembered everything: my name was Cristofiero Ruiz, and I was a sixth-grade history teacher. It was the week of Thanksgiving break, and tomorrow we would have a half day before two days of no school. The girl's name was Amanda Warner, and she was one of my favorite students.

Chris. I was Chris as an adult. And just like that, I knew Brent was gone.

It was an old wound, but still tender when thoughts of him came out of the blue like that. We were supposed to have been soulmates. To have and to hold was still tattooed on my bicep. I was the one left holding the memory.

Lisa often told me I should move on. "It's been eleven years, Chris." And my coworkers often hinted at potential blind dates, though I hadn't come out to any of them. It was a risk, being a middle school teacher and gay. I needed this job, and it could get me fired, despite all the laws that said otherwise.

"Mr. Ruiz, you're bleeding," Amanda said.

She was standing at my desk with her completed test in hand, and a tissue. I took the tissue without first checking for blood: nosebleeds had become a common enough occurrence. The pinch of pain as my skin grazed hers was also familiar. "Thank you," I whispered.

"I'm finished," she added, handing me her test.

"Good work. You can do something quietly at your desk until everyone's done," I told her.

I watched her walk away. Tilting back in my chair, I closed my eyes and tried to sort through what was happening. Amanda had been a favorite of mine since the first day I met her. She wasn't an exceptional student – she rushed through tests and usually only scored in the B range. Her laugh was too loud and I often had to remind her to stay in her seat. I had chalked it up to her personality being magnetic, only it wasn't magnetic for the other kids in the class. They got annoyed with her and excluded her, and a couple of times she had come to me crying about girls laughing at her or boys shooting spitballs at her, and I knew she wasn't popular.

A kernel of dread in my stomach told me I knew why I was drawn to her.

Eleven years since Brent's death. Amanda was eleven years old.

I opened my eyes and checked the tissue. Folding it over, I pressed it again to my nose, rechecked. The bleeding had stopped. And when I looked up, I saw my students looking back at me. Only instead of sweaters and sweatshirts, they now wore t-shirts and short-sleeves.

"Are you okay, Mr. Ruiz?" Robby Tucker asked.

Amanda's desk was empty.

"I'm fine," I said.