Behind closed doors

Dana Buckhorn

There it stands, smugly towering over me, knowing that it’s the only separation between me and the ultra-exclusive, mind-boggling world marked “TEACHERS ONLY.” A single door, unlocked yet bluntly unwelcoming, mocks me every day as if I don’t already know what I’m missing out on.

The teachers’ lounge, the greatest mystery of our generation, leaves even AP students rattled. Teachers coolly cruise in and out of their clubhouse with their brash facial expressions, laughing in my face as if saying, “Oh hey, look where I just came from, did you come from there? No, you’re just a student.”

Still, the blinding white light coming from the room calls my name. I want to know what’s in there. No, I need to know what’s in there.

I crack open the door to the teachers’ lounge, pause for dramatic effect, and continue to open it one centimeter at a time. As suspense begins to climb, my body vibrates, and my brain and legs disconnect; I step inside.

“Am I in heaven? Is that God? No, that’s Mr. Hanson. Stay focused, Dana,” I think as my mind floods, and I inch my way into Utopia.

The teachers’ lounge is the Narnia I never found in my parents’ wardrobe. Butterflies paint pictures in the sky as Mr. Zeckser bakes a cake filled with rainbows and smiles. I can’t help but feel happy.

I observe through glistening eyes as teachers majestically sip their glorious coffee and read glorious mail from their glorious mailboxes. It is all too perfect.

But as I shift back to reality, a sobering fact hits me; I’ll always be just a student, unworthy of the teachers’ lounge and all of its glory.