"There's no chalk!" Mrs. Clementine yelled.

She stretched her arms to the ceiling of the chaotic classroom. She looked at me, the only one listening.

I sat in the back row with my head on my desk most of the time. I only seemed like I wasn't listening. But today, on the last day of school, I was looking up.

As Mrs. Clementine lost control of the classroom, her feelings of loss showed in her dark, Russian eyes. Her eyes met mine. I felt a true sympathy for her. She looked like she had lost her teddy bear and had no one to ask where it was.

I understood that look. It was the one I gave my mom every time she picked up her cell phone.

I loved Mrs. Clementine even more for that.

"Do you want me to go get some?" I spoke up for the first time all year.

I dodged a flying airplane in the noisy classroom.

Mrs. Clementine nodded her head.

I got up from my back-row desk and walked between everyone.

Mrs. Clementine frowned and clenched her teeth.

I understood why she was so upset. Kids were texting and surfing the internet on their laptops. They were chatting while she spoke in class. But she was close to retirement. She had to be, at this point.

I listened to her, but hell, my head was on my desk most of the time.

I got up in a rush and left the classroom to look for chalk. I was desperate to find some. I didn't know why.

As I ran from room to room asking for chalk, I thought about Mrs. Clementine.

She never carried a cell phone with her. When I spoke to her after class to explain my absence or why I slept, she always looked me in the eye.

She had short, gray hair, thick hands, and a thick face to match. She was the oldest teacher at Middleton High School. Her English class was known for being disorganized, interesting, and a better treat than the chocolate shakes at Joel's Soda Shop on Birch Street.

None of the classrooms I ran to had any chalk. There were plenty of Smart Boards and students using Powerpoint for their end-of-the-year presentations. But no chalk.

Mrs. Clementine was a Russian immigrant. Her parents dug in the dirt and wore plain clothes stitched by their own hands. And she wanted nothing to do with technology.

"There's a difference between using pencil and paper and typing on a laptop!" she had yelled one day.

When there were no more rooms to check, I ran into the principal's office. I was still determined to find chalk.

There, on the front desk by the high school secretary, was a container. There were two pieces of chalk left: one for Mrs. Clementine and one for me. In case she asked for more later, of course.

I ran back to the classroom. As I reached the door and opened it, the bell rang. The year was over. I had missed the end of her class.

Mrs. Clementine sat at her desk. She was smiling with her wide grin as she talked to another student.

I slumped and walked past all the other students. They ran out of the classroom into the hallway. They all gave me dirty looks. I snored during quizzes, distracting them.

I grabbed my book bag at my desk in the back. I began to walk out of Mrs. Clementine's classroom for the last time that year.

"Ms. Fredricks," Mrs. Clementine said. "May I have a word with you?"

I was terrified.

Mrs. Clementine only spoke to me when I snored in class or when my assignments were late. Or when she caught me laughing at her while my head rested on my desk.

I walked up to her desk and stood silently.

"Thank you for the chalk," she said. She folded her hands on her desk. "I apologize for asking you to leave class at the very end to get it. I was overcome with anxiety. I'm sure a student like you understands that."

I put my book bag onto my shoulders one strap at a time.

"It's okay. I understand," I said.

"Is that why you sleep so much in my class, Ms. Fredricks?" she asked.

"Is what why?" I asked.

"Anxiety," she said.

How was I supposed to tell her about the heavy, cement feeling I had in my stomach all day, every day? Or the cement feeling I had everywhere?

How was I supposed to tell my English teacher that my mom was a single mom who worked six days a week and did her best? That when she was home, she was looking at a computer or talking on the phone? That she never saw me or listened to me?

How was I supposed to tell her that when I went home, I ate alone in my room? My older sister was either gone or on the computer.

How was I supposed to tell her that this cement feeling kept me from having friends?

I mean, I had friends. Lots of them. I was on the softball team and in chorus. I was never at alone at lunch.

But friends I confided in? Friends I talked to about my feelings or what was happening in my house? Not a one.

My mother had always said, "Don't trust anyone! It's us three girls against the world!"

How could I say all of this when she was only asking me about laying my head on my desk?

"No. It's not anxiety. Depression. I've been diagnosed with depression," I said. I shuffled my feet.

Mrs. Clementine's dark, deep-set eyes widened. "Ah, I see. Depression," she said.

She shuffled a few papers. She reached for a book and handed it to me.

"I want you to read this in the next week and write a report on it," she said.

"Moby Dick?" I asked.

"Something wrong with my choice?" she asked.

"It's just that we already read it this year," I said. "And, Mrs. Clementine, it's summer break."

"The class read it, you didn't," Mrs. Clementine said. "I read your paper on it. Nothing was read. And if you'd like to pass this year's English class, you're going to have to write a few book reports. To make up for the reading you didn't do."

I thumbed through the book. I decided to take a strong stand. I handed the book back to Mrs. Clementine.

"I read the first sentence. That's all I needed to know to understand the book," I said.

"And what's the first sentence?" she asked.

I took the book back from her desk. I opened it to the first page.

"Call me Ishmael," I read out loud.

"And what did you understand?" Mrs. Clementine asked.

I stood there with a lump in my throat. How could I explain? I knew exactly what it was like to be orphaned, to be an outcast, to be tossed aside.

I remembered reading that first line. I remembered the cement feeling that took over. I remembered that day in class, how I slept it off with my head on my desk.

"Ms. Fredricks," Mrs. Clementine said, as she looked at me closely. "There's more to the book than just the meaning of Ishmael's name. I think it would do you some good to read about taking one's mask off."

No one had ever talked to me like I was smart. All the teachers thought I was stupid because I didn't raise my hand and always slept in class. And at home, no one listened to me or looked after me. After long hours at work, my mom only had time for her stupid phone.

Not Mrs. Clementine.

She only used chalk. She looked me right in the eye when she spoke to me. She saw right into who I was. She wanted something from me: my best.

And I saw more in her than just an old lady with a weird accent who was old school in her methods. She had stories locked away in her wrinkled hands. She had a playful grin that made me believe she had led many lives before Middleton's English classroom. And she had a twinkle in her eye that meant one thing: she was a friend for me to talk to.

"So, what do you say? Is a week enough time to read Moby Dick and write a report on what you've read?" Mrs. Clementine asked as she stood up from her desk.

I could have hugged her.

"Yes," I said. "A week is enough time."

"Wonderful! The building will still be open, so next week in my classroom it is!" she said.

She grabbed her purple patchwork book bag. She put it over her shoulder as she walked me out of her room.

There was so much I wanted to ask her about. The small scar across her cheek, her accent, her wedding band.

But I could only ask, as I pointed to a poster on her wall, "Mrs. Clementine. Who is Puccini?"

She smiled with a twinkle in her eye.

"We'll talk all about Puccini next week, after we discuss your paper," she said.

"Mom! I can't find my book!" I yelled down the stairs from my bedroom.

Like every other weekday morning, I got no answer.

What was I thinking? Mom was busy getting ready for work, drinking her coffee, talking on her stupid phone.

I had tried reading the book Mrs. Clementine assigned to me, Moby Dick. But it was so hard to keep my attention on it.

Because I felt this cement-like feeling most of the time, I would daydream. The problem is, when you try to read and you daydream a lot, the daydreaming gets in the way.

I had to reread each paragraph over and over. I had only gotten to page five and I was supposed to meet Mrs. Clementine the next day! And now, I couldn't even find the book! How was I supposed to finish my assignment?

Mrs. Clementine wasn't going to pass me without book reports. This first one was off to a bad start. How was I going to explain to her that my attention was so bad I couldn't even read one chapter?

I stopped searching for my book and went downstairs. My older sister was walking out the back door with a bagel in her mouth.

"Jen! Where are you going?" I asked. "Can I come this time?"

"Get lost, creepo," she said, as the screen door slammed shut.

Whatever. I didn't want to go with her, anyway. I just wanted to get out of the house and get my mind off of facing Mrs. Clementine without an essay on Moby Dick.

I didn't know what I was going to tell her. After the break she had given me, what was I going to say? Was she going to fail me? That'd be great, taking the tenth grade all over again.

My teammates would laugh at me. Some would be disappointed because I couldn't play softball next year. I would definitely let my coach down.

"Sweetheart, I have to go," my Mom said, as she came out of the downstairs bathroom. "I'll be home after work. There's turkey in the fridge for a sandwich for lunch."

As she walked out the back door, I switched on the television. None of my favorite TV shows were playing, so I found a movie to watch. It was an adventure movie with lots of action and good music.

At the end of the movie, I went back upstairs to my room. I looked up the movie's theme song on my computer. It was so good, I started dancing by myself.

Ring! Ring!

Over the movie's theme song, I heard our telephone ringing. I turned off the video and ran to the phone.

It was my friend from biology class, Jerry. He wanted to go for a bike ride. Jerry and I weren't sixteen, so we couldn't get our driver's licenses yet.

So many of our classmates could drive. I usually rode with a softball teammate when I needed to get somewhere. But during the summer, most of my teammates worked.

So, it was me and Jerry on our bikes. I didn't mind too much, because we always had fun.