By Coleen Armstrong

The girl caught sight of me from across the hallway and raised her hand in an animated wave. Hurrying to my side, she spoke breathlessly.

“You won’t believe how much homework I have this year,” she exclaimed. “An English assignment due tomorrow, a social studies quiz on Friday...” She rattled on for a couple of moments more before glancing at the clock above us. “Oops, gotta run. Bye!”

I was left standing alone, shaking my head in bewilderment.
 
There would have been nothing puzzling about the encounter, had it occurred with anyone else except Marcy. She had been a student in my class the previous year––and we had not, to put it mildly, gotten along.

She’d frequently worn a sullen expression, springing to life with a smile only when someone tried to give me a rough time. She’d whispered caustic remarks under her breath when I tried to spark a discussion. She’d dashed off notes to her friends when I assigned seat work. At first I stood near her desk, using body language as a deterrent––but rather than turning contrite, she’d feigned smirking innocence.
 
Oh, the comments stopped, and the notes disappeared. But then they resurfaced as soon as my back was turned.
 
She paid for such shenanigans, of course, with counselor referrals and occasional bouts of in-school suspension. But remedies were not solutions. I tried to talk to Marcy privately after school. She tapped her foot, looked bored and then inquired, “Will this take long? I’ll miss my bus.”
 
What Marcy needed, I thought, was a good shaking. But in my heart, I knew she also needed something more: patience. The kids most difficult to reach were often those who desired it most. Somewhere behind Marcy’s brash, insolent behavior was a frightened child. If only I could locate her.
 
Despite my many attempts, I never did.
 
That’s why the following September I was stunned to see such a change. She grinned at me in the hallway, made a point to say hello, stopped at my doorway to chat. The sullen and hostile Marcy was gone, replaced by a charming, well-mannered young lady. But how––and why?
 
Had a months-older perspective granted fresh insights? Was she sorry for the trouble she’d caused?
 
Doubtful. That might not happen for years. Still, she greeted me now as if we were veterans of the same war. And in a peculiar way we were––the eternal battle of diminishing child versus emerging adult. Trying to find a balance between restriction and independence. Between cynicism, rebellion and challenging authority and understanding the universal human need for structure and predictability.
 
She didn’t yet comprehend what had taken place. But she would. Over the next few years and decades she would repeatedly evolve, shedding one skin for another and another and then another. Someday she might even look back at herself at age 15 and, like so many of us, grimace. Meanwhile, I found myself liking and respecting this new Marcy very much.
 
That other girl––she really had been somebody else.

Coleen Armstrong’s distinguished teaching career includes several state and national recognition awards.  She is the author of Please Don’t Call My Mother:  How Schools and Parents can Work Together to Get Kids Back on Track and The Truth about Teaching:  What I Wish the Veterans had Told Me.