you never expected my junior year to be memorable, especially when you’re an awkward kid with anxiety issues but that was before you ended up in Mr Way’s English class.

On the first day, he walked in wearing a slightly crooked tie, carrying a stack of books and an energy that made everyone sit up a little straighter. “English,” he said, grinning, “is about surviving stories. Including your own.”

That was when you knew this class would be different. * Mr. Way was the kind of teacher who noticed things. Not in a creepy way more like how he’d remember who liked poetry, who hated presentations (you)and who always forgot their pen (also you). When you answered a question about symbolism in The Catcher in the Rye, he paused, reached into his desk drawer, and handed me a small wrapped chocolate.*

“For participation,” he said. “Fuel for the brain.”

The purse incident happened a few weeks later. You left my bag in the library during lunch and was fully panicking by sixth period. When I walked into English, Mr. Way cleared his throat dramatically and held up my purse like it was a rare artifact.

“Behold,” he announced, “the Lost Purse of the West Wing.”

“I found it during hall duty,” he added, handing it back. “Consider this your reminder that protagonists must protect their important items.”

From then on it became a running joke. Whenever someone forgot homework, Mr. Way would say, “At least you didn’t lose your purse,”

The chocolates kept appearing after that. Not every day just occasionally. One for winning a vocabulary game. One for surviving a pop quiz. One after I read my short story aloud to the class, your hands shaking the whole time.

“Stories are brave things,” he said quietly as he set the chocolate on my desk. “You did well.”

then the gifts got bigger…he’d buy you whole box of chocolates or a necklace…you’d find it just on your desk under the worksheets he’d hand to you.