"You don't?"

"No, no, no… I want to teach you to love learning about math, that's all." He repeated it. "I want you to love learning whatever it is you study."

And Jim nodded, digesting this. He took the note home and he and his parents got a tutor and his grades improved a bit, not much. But he started to get some B minuses. The important thing for Jim, though, wasn't the grade but what his teacher had told him. And he thought now, as he walked through the doorway to Thomas Jefferson Middle on this first day of school, about how the math teacher's words, like Coach LaBell's, had made a real difference in the way he thought about things.

Walking through the cool halls now, Jim smelled fresh paint and girls' perfume and those weird biology lab smells. He got a drink at the fountain and headed for home room.

As he did he passed another classroom and another memory hit him. Ah, Mrs. Peabody's English class. She was a stern, older woman the kids called psychic because she magically knew which students had read the real assignment and which had read the Cliff notes.

Jim thought about the time Mrs. Peabody had given the class a writing assignment. "Write about summer vacation," she said. "Be as creative as you can. But," the stern woman added, as she always did, "make sure you use proper spelling and grammar."

Well, that night Jim sat at his desk at home and stared unhappily at a blank sheet of paper. He didn't want to write a stupid essay about his summer vacation. For one thing it'd been a dog. A water park, two weeks of camp, his paper route. Boring… He'd actually been happy to get back to school.

So he gave up on the assignment and wrote what he wanted to. Not an essay at all but a short story. Science fiction. It was about a distant planet that didn't have summer – it was spring all the time. And it didn't have vacations either. The aliens on the planet worked 24 four hours a day.

The next morning he handed in the story but that night he lay awake until three a.m., thinking, Why did I do that? I totally ignored the assignment. What the heck was I thinking of? And here English was his favorite class. Maybe it'd take Mrs. Peabody a few days to grade the essays. He'd beg her for a chance to write another one, the sort she wanted.

But when he got to class the next morning it turned out that Mrs. Peabody had read and graded the essays.

And when he saw the way she glanced at him with a strange look in her stern, psychic eyes, he wished he'd stayed home sick.

The teacher said, "I'm going to pass back your summer vacation essays in a minute, but I want to say something first. When you write, when you put your words out for other people to read, you have to learn to take criticism. You have to remember that a critic's words aren't attacking you as human beings; they're only an opinion about something you've created, no matter how harsh the opinion seems… And in this case I'm afraid I've got some rather harsh words to say."

I'm in trouble, Jim thought, blushing already, betrayed by his freckles. Staring at the floor.

Mrs. Peabody continued, "Almost everyone in class wrote an essay about his or her summer vacation… Almost everyone."

This's bad, Jim thought. I'm getting an F, I know it.

"But," the teacher said, "one student decided he didn't feel like doing that."

Jim glanced up long enough to see her eyes focused on him.

This's worse than an F… I'm in note-to-the-parents territory now.

Then Mrs. Peabody looked away from Jim and studied the rest of the class. "All of your essays read as if they were written in your sleep. It's clear to me that you didn't take the assignment seriously and none of you spent more than ten minutes on it. Just one of you had the courage to be as imaginative as I asked you to be. Jim Martin is only one who got an A on the assignment. Now I'm going to ask him to come up here and read his story to you as an example of thinking independently and being creative." Then, being Mrs. Peabody, she added sternly, "though he should've a little more attention to proper spelling and grammar."

Hands trembling, Jim walked to the front of the classroom in triumph, as if he were climbing to the summit of Mount Everest or were the first person to step onto the surface of Mars.

What a small thing really, he now reflected as he dodged through the crowded hallway, just a single assignment. But what a difference that moment had made to him.

Strolling into his home room now, Jim unslung his book bag and sat down as the last of the students filed in. He could see that some of them too were filled with excitement, some with anticipation. Some with curiosity.

And some were nervous. Just like him, on this hot, hot Indian Summer morning in September.

Then the bell rang, a jarring noise, and eventually silence filled the room, silence broken only by the shuffle of papers, the click of pens, the snapping clasps of purses. The students looked toward the teacher's desk.

Silence…

Jim took a deep breath, paused and he stood. He turned around and picked up a marker. He wrote on the white board, "Mr. Jim Martin, Home Room and Eighth-grade English." And he added his office hours beneath his name.

He turned back and said, "Good morning, class." And with a smile he looked over his students on this, the first day of school… and his very first day as a teacher. How strange it was, he thought, to be starting his career here at Thomas Jefferson, the same school where he himself had been a student so many years ago and where he'd learned so much.

Like knowing when to fight and when to walk away – but always looking out for left hooks.

And loving learning for itself, whatever the subject you're studying, even if you only get a C plus.

And always having the courage to think for yourself and to be creative – but making sure you use proper spelling and grammar.

Then he pulled his lesson plan and class roster out of his book bag and as he called the name of each of his students he thought again briefly about Coach LaBell and Mr. Carter and Mrs. Peabody and the teachers here and in the other schools Jim had attended throughout his life and he knew that, like them, he too was going to make a difference.

JEFFERY DEAVER is the author of nine suspense novels. He’s twice been nominated for Edgar Awards and is the recipient of the Ellery Queen Readers’ Award for best short story of 1995. His most recent thriller from Viking/Signet, A Maiden’s Grave, was an HBO feature presentation. The Bone Collector is soon to be a film from Universal Pictures.