Stacey, as he hated to be called, taught computers to thirteen-year-olds as an excuse to run the ski team. One time he brought my friend to the principal's office and accused him of eating his ice cream bar like a penis. We suspected that was just his own little fantasy.
"Mr. Lazarus," I said with a sly smile, a pipe wrench in my greasy hand.
"Yes? Do I know you?" He appeared to be a bit alarmed. I'd grown a bit since then, physically and otherwise.
"You were my seventh-grade computer teacher at South Junior High."
"What's your name?"
"Mike Vahsen," I mumbled. "Andrew Maroney was in my class, and...."
"Don't remember you. I've had so many students over the years."
His beard and hair had grayed since then. He seemed to have shrunk as well, which didn't seem possible since he was already five-foot-nothing. And he still had that snobby air about him, right down to the strict rules he had posted on the door of the classrom he'd just walked out of.
"Were you a good student or a bad one?"
The question didn't seem appropriate so I fielded it diplomatically.
"I was really good at Oregon Trail..."
He laughed and walked away.
"...the rare times when you let us play it."
Not all of us have changed in these twelve years, Stace.
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