Jelly Beans and Extra Credit

Miss O’Hara looked Irish as her name and somewhat like a student-teacher I had a crush on in high school. This version usually wore a faint smile or one was on the cusp when she greeted our non-degree English 100 Class. Her engagement ring was impressive. When she was making points with that hand, I’d watch for it grabbing light to sparkle. Working the gem slowly, she could have hypnotized me. 

This was my first use of the G.I. Bill. I’d done three years in the Navy. Sometimes I thought she might be about to laugh at us and our chances of ever earning a sheepskin. Her opening remarks made it clear that Conrad and Faulkner were her favorite writers. “I hope they’ll become yours.” 

She was a classy dresser, and wore scarves that were probably made of silk. I’d measure her at 5-10. Her skirts fell well below her knees, always pumps with low heels. She was bustier than Helena. Her blouses were often as colorful as a jelly bean assortment. I worked at Bridge’s Supermarket on Broadway Street. I couldn’t resist breaking open a bag occasionally when I was sweeping aisles to pick at through the day. My usual job was bagging groceries. My former shipmates on the USS Ramply (DD-810) would have gotten a laugh out of my petty larceny before realizing we’d filched jellied candy from lifeboat sea rations. Yeah, they would have howled at my bagboy status. If the toothpick chewing manager, Edward Frost caught me I’d have been fired on the spot. He was as hard as jelly beans were soft. The treats were risky since I had applications in at IBM, Dow Chemical and Coors Brewery for janitorial work.
Miss O’Hara asked for volunteers to read just the opening page. I was the first to speak up. I’d written about Nathaniel Hawthorn’s “Young Goodman Brown.” I concentrated on the serpent-like staff and the Catechism. I included my childhood experiences with garter and green snakes and the Baltimore Catechism. The nun who taught me in fifth grade who some kids called a witch was a match for Brown’s Catechism teacher, Goody.
At Helena’s debut, Miss O’Hara was standing at the door passing back our work. It was as if she’d started to slit her wrists then thought better of it. There were many red comments and corrections on pages. She noted that my grammar was poor and there are typewriters available at the library. Helena raised her hand. “I apologize for missing the first class, I had to work late,” she said. "I did complete the assignment,” she added. “You are forgiven, Miss Lawrence.” I browsed the text table of contents and found a story by a D.H. Lawrence. Miss O’Hara walked over to Helena’s desk and held out her hand for the theme that was in a purple folder then briskly scanned the pages. She removed the outline, waved it as if a tabloid for sale and gave praise. I wrote mine after I finished the writing. “Barns aren’t built without blueprints. You may read toward the end of class, Helena,” She said, then recommended we purchase a writing guide, The Elements of Style.
Helena didn’t orate sitting down. I thought she would have wanted a rest after being on her feet all day at Sal’s Pancake Shack where she’d winked at me a couple of times and called me sweetie. At least her maroon flats looked comfortable. I’d never seen her dark blonde hair out of a net before. The earrings that dangled were pearls and reminded me of vanilla jelly beans of course. She read about her dream of riding quarter horses at Pikes Peak Meadows and called a race as a track announcer would. Lawrence's story was about horse racing! I saw her charging through the stretch winning a race by a nose. She included a stable fire scene to go with the story, “Barn Burning.” Helena’s finale was pulling out a Zippo and flicking an inch of flame. She got away with reading her entire composition. “We need more about Faulkner’s characters and less about you,” suggested Miss O’Hara. I considered raising my hand to ask if the barn in the story was built from an outline or instinct but I backed down. I didn’t want to establish myself as the class wiseass. Miss O’Hara wished us a good night. I thought she might hold Helena back for a word or two but it didn’t happen. Helena hurried out. I was on her tail. The forest-green Corvette waiting for her was a convertible. The top was the color of a gooey, lightly cooked pancake. How could I compete? Miss O’Hara’s hair was brown and curly, often tied back. A couple of times I thought I saw streaks vaguely red, always gold studs in her ears. I liked her best in tweed. She suggested extra credit themes for anyone who’d like to boost their mark. I was carrying a “C-” so I jumped at the opportunity. I changed Helena’s name of course. Well, not too far off, Elena. My effort was about guessing the correct number of jellybeans in a jar. The prize was a log cabin weekend in the Flatirons high above beautiful Boulder and a vintage Austin-Healey. I picked up Elena on the way. She was crawling out of a roadside ditch. The Corvette cad abandoned her when she showed him the horseshoe tattoo on her wrist.
I spotted ticks on her arm and helped pick them off. We found more. Suddenly they reminded me of jelly beans. Elena’s favorite candy was Hot Tamales. They would have been a tough assignment at Bridge’s Super. Elena did not say, “Let’s be friends.” She said, “Let’s be a couple.”
Passing back my paper, Miss O’Hara smiled, and patting the back of my hand, she said, “You are a good man.” Her bride-to-be ring was missing.