Fifth Grade

Fifth grade was a big year for me. For all of the Class of 1983, really, ’cause this was the first year that The Ville decided to break the geographic boundaries that had previously divided us all, decided which school a kid went to.

Prior to fifth grade, I had gone to Main Street School because it was the closest school to my house. Just over four blocks, a straight shot up Chestnut Street, really, though my block was an extra-long block; OK, so, maybe five blocks. Still, a pretty quick walk. And I went to Main Street for kindergarten through fourth grade.

When I was in fifth grade, however, new rules were in place: No more fifth or sixth grade at Main Street, only K-3. Fourth-graders would go to Vine Street School, and fifth- through eighth-graders would go to Moulton Junior High.

This was pretty stressful, too, because suddenly, you went from knowing all of your classmates, most of whom you had known for more than four years, to being mixed in with kids from two other schools. How would you ever get to know all of the new kids? What if you lost track of the old ones? What would the teachers be like? How hard would it be to get around the new school?

Turns out fifth grade wasn’t all that overwhelming, thanks, mostly, to the fact that I had a super-cool teacher — appropriately named Miss Kull (“She drove a Chevy Nova”) — with the neatest handwriting. And she never seemed to mind that I was a total tomboy, or that I talked a lot in class. She even stuck up for me when Mrs. Fitzgerald, who always smelled like this odd mixture of B.O. and booze, gave me a “C” in English.

Gave me. A “C.” In English.

“Do you want me to talk to her? This can’t be right,” Miss Kull said.

I thought about what my mom would want me to do, and how she had always taught me to fight my own battles, and while I really didn’t think I deserved a “C” (I am not sure anyone in that English class ever knew what Mrs. Fitzgerald was talking about, ever), I really couldn’t have Miss Kull trying to get my grade changed.

“It’s OK,” I said. “I’ll just try harder next quarter.”

Fifth grade was the year I won the Shelby County Spelling Bee. After nearly bowing out on the word “hire,” I ended up winning the whole shebang on the word “shield.”

And fifth grade was the year I met Luther Matthies.

Luther was the cutest boy I have ever known. A few years later, after Luther was long gone (his dad was a preacher, and they moved to another state — Iowa, I think — at the end of sixth grade), I saw a boy that looked a little bit like Luther on a movie called On Golden Pond, a boy named Doug McKeon. But Doug looked only a little like Luther ’cause Luther was way cuter.

WAY.

All the girls adored Luther, and all the boys wanted to be friends with Luther. And Luther ... well, he was too cool to notice any of that. He had white-blond hair, not long or anything, but his bangs came straight down. And he had really low, deep voice. He laughed a lot, and he wasn’t a particularly good student. And I remember him wearing only three shirts the whole year: A red T-shirt with a picture of a car on it, a tan T-shirt with a picture of a car on it, and a yellow sorta terry-cloth shirt with brownish stripes.

Rumor had it Luther had a girlfriend who was a sixth-grader. An older woman. Which, at that point, was unheard-of; I mean, there was no consorting with kids in different grades! (By the time I was in eighth grade, I was open to the idea of “dating” younger men ... if you can call writing love notes and talking on the phone for hours but never actually going anywhere “dating” ... in fact, I had two serious boyfriends that year, one who was a seventh-grader and another who was in the sixth grade!)

The fact that Luther had a girlfriend did not keep me from wanting to be his girlfriend, though. And that would have been fine if I hadn’t made a fatal mistake:

I told my stepbrother I liked Luther.

And this kind of information was dangerous in the hands of someone like Bobby, who used to tease me about everything he could think of, and when he ran out of things to tease me about, he started teasing Debra (and vice-versa).

One Friday night when Debra and I were spending the night at Dad’s house, Bobby decided to take matters into his own hands: He was going to call Luther and tell him I liked him.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I yelled as Bobby opened the phone book.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I yelled as he started dialing the phone. (This was in the olden days, when you could reeeeeeaalllllllly take your time dialing someone’s number.)

“Hold on: Let me get on the other line,” I whispered, once the phone started ringing.

: )

I tried to keep perfectly silent while Bobby asked to speak to Luther. And in a few seconds, I heard Luther’s unmistakable voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Luther,” Bobby said, and then he cut right to the chase: “Will you go with Diana Winson?”

“No!” Luther yelled. “I hate her guts!”

“Well, then, you’re nothing but a big pussy!” Bobby yelled back and then hung up.

I’d like to say I was suddenly filled with appreciation for my stepbrother for sticking up for me, but mostly I was simply devastated.

I hate her guts!

And embarrassed! How could I go to school on Monday and face Luther, knowing he hated my guts — and knowing that Bobby had asked him to go with me?

Well, somehow, I managed. Fortunately, Luther did not even acknowledge me that day, let alone bring up the phone call. And soon it was all but forgotten.

A few weeks later, during afternoon recess, just before time to go in, I was up to bat. Our team was losing by two but the bases were loaded, and for some unknown reason, I decided to bat left-handed this time. And I hit the ball farther than I had ever hit it before, clear over the edge of the asphalt playground, which, in our league, was an automatic home run! A grand slam! And our team won the game!

High-fives all around as I scored, and my teammates and I headed inside, victorious.

The next day, teams were being chosen. Usually, all the boys were picked first, and then the handful of girls who played were selected. (Back in the old days, in fourth grade, I would have been one of the team captains, but not here at Moulton.) It was Luther’s team’s turn to pick, and the team captain (probably either Walbright or Pierce) looked over the remaining players.

Then I heard Luther’s voice: “Pick Winson! She’s good!”

I really loved that boy.