"Hey, Miss D!"

It took me a second to register my name in the juniors section of Target. I was holding a red t-shirt and not, thankfully, underpants, as I turned to see one of my former students approaching me with a smile.

"Hi, Kris!" I was genuinely happy to see him, and happier still that I remembered his name. We chatted briefly about school starting, whether or not he was excited to be starting at Austin High (he was), whether or not he was happy to not have to wear a uniform anymore (very much so), and his old seventh grade teachers. He spoke clearly, and eloquently, and the once insecure, angry, stand-offish boy I taught was mostly unrecognizable. As was his voice: deeper, older.

He left me for the young men's section, and as he walked off I thought, "Gosh, he turned out ok," followed by a warm fuzzy feeling--not quite pride--that I later identified as relief, for both of us, knowing that he and I survived my first year teaching and neither one of us wound up broken because of it.