Chestnut Street

Chestnut Street

When I was about 14 I fell in love with my wife who wasn’t my wife yet when she and her sister, along with their mom, walked past the open door of Ms. Swanson’s English class as we all sat reading Huck Finn, praying our zits wouldn’t pop during class. There was something so entirely arresting about her — the way she moved, the way she wore her clothes, the shape of her body beneath them. It had to have been mere seconds — I probably saw her take three steps before she was out of my view and down the hallway toward the principal’s office to formally register for school. It was early October, and she, her sister and their mom had just arrived in town after her mother and the person she called her dad divorced.

The next day when I learned she’d be in Ms. Swanson’s English class the same hour as me, I was elated but nervous. Since my last name started with T and hers started with D, the alphabetically arranged classroom had me in one of the last seats in the last row in the room, against the window, right behind Rhonda Rubish. With her D name she’d be in the first row, next to the door and hallway. This would not do.

One of the kids in that first row was Mike Decker. From my calculation, my future wife would be seated just ahead of him. As such, I properly threatened Mr. Decker to switch seats with me and quickly made up something for Ms. Swanson about needing to sit closer to the front of the room so I could see and hear and stay more thoroughly engaged in class. I’m not sure she bought it, but she acquiesced and…