I can't talk about my burns. There's a door in my mind I seldom open: too many memories crowding —like Bluebeard's wives in a darkened upstairs room, resigned but still somehow seeking to escape, to scream out into the light. People see my scars, especially my twisted left arm, my half a pinky with a tough, dead piece of nail on the end, and they think they want to know what happened, but they really don't because when I start to tell the story and the words rush out, they just want to get away from me. They offer some platitude like, “Well, but look at you now, so vibrant and beautiful…” And I have to stop my story, like stopping the earth from turning, so painful to push the crying wives back into their room, as small and dark as a closet. I should consider, I suppose, what my high school students must think when first they notice my hand, and then their eyes travel up my arm.

They must think they are imagining things; they blink, and then see that my arm hangs at an odd angle and my skin is knotted and corded like bark, and that there are webs at my elbows and armpits. Since I ignore my scars, some of them never notice them. I have tight, ropy muscles in my limbs that tell a different story than one of a life stopped short. I imagine their conflicted minds must pause; their thoughts stutter and contradict as they seek to comprehend my confused appearance. But still they talk. In biology or gym, they comment on my scars. They are grossed out. They are disgusted. I'm so weird.

All in all, I figure it's good for them. Besides, I have Shakespeare to teach, and Herman Hesse, and Homer, for God's sakes, so I assume they'lljust get passed it and learn to focus on formulating a thesis and passing my class. That's hard enough. Ferejohn and I teach the most rigourous freshman program in the school. The parents appreciate it.

They show up after school and talk to Ferejohn and me about how much their kids are learning. Last year Barbie showed up. Her daughter Nicki is unnervingly silent. She never laughs, she never smiles. That's hard for me because I consider myself hilarious. For better or worse, student laughter is a kind of gauge by which I measure my own teaching, so Nicki's silence and stoicism is a silent, subtle irritation.

Even though she is Asian, Barbie has huge, round eyes. She has a little, clipped nose and huge breasts. She always wears tight tee shirts and jean skirts. Barbie follows me from my final meeting of the day into my classroom. It is five o'clock, and I have been working non-stop since 7:30 this morning. Barbie is smiling up at me. Her big eyes are luminous, her face is as open as the full moon, and she is smiling as if she has a special secret for me. Her eyes never leave my face, her smile never falters as she speaks.

“Nicki talks so much about you. She wants to know what happened to you. She says you start to talk about it (No I don't. I never talk about it. I don't like to talk about it, and can we please not talk about it right now?) But then you stop. She really wants to know what happened to you. The kids are curious. I think you should tell them.”

The air around me suddenly feels thinner. The wives in the unlit room start softly scratching on the door. I have a night class to teach, so I have only a few minutes to tell Barbie that I prefer not to talk abut my scars, and it might be just a bit too much for 9th graders to hear.

Confused and agitated, but desperately dedicated to appearing professional and calm to the hyper-vigilant parents in this college prep program, I manage to end the conversation. Still smiling, Barbie departs, leaving a faint scent of apple cologne in her wake. My breath is pulsing at the top of my chest as I herd my books and binders together, jam them into several large book bags, and scramble to my next job.

Later that night, by the time I have fallen into bed and lie staring at the paisley patterns in the inky blackness, Barbie and her silent daughter have acquired long, Mormon skirts and silent open mouths like black, round stones. They have joined the faceless murmuring mob of wives behind Bluebeard's door. I wait for the housewives to subside, give up, and tire into compliance. Then I deliciously surrender to memories of my childhood before I was burned. This is my room: the farm where I grew up, full of ancient, sentient oak trees, watchful guardian angels and sap green dreams of spring. Soon I am asleep.

Months have passed since Barbie ambushed me. I have grumbled about the incident to Ferejohn and a few of my colleagues. I really could not have been more offended, and my teacher buddies stoke my indignation with their silent sympathy, and wonder privately, I'm sure, exactly what the hell happened to my arms, legs, and feet that have left the skin marbled with flowing textures of fishnet and bread dough.

Meanwhile, I have enough to keep my mind busy and the unhappy wives of Bluebeard are hibernating. Ferejohn and I are reviewing applications for next year's Academy. We have high standards and eliminate students based on their essays, GPA, or teacher recommendations. Our program is not for everyone. For example, Nicki's sister, Jami, applied and her name was ruthlessly slashed from the list. She narrowly missed meeting our criteria. I growl a little when I see her name, and Ferejohn glances at me in empathetic amusement. I hear some mild pounding in my head as I remember the incident with Barbie. I reject Jami with pleasant, self-righteousness, and the door remains implacably and comfortingly slammed closed.

I don't see Barbie again until orientation for the Academy. Parents and expectant eighth graders have arrived in the school library full of terror and anticipation, eager to learn about this new rough, tough but famously worth-it program that Ferejohn and I have developed for freshman. I am surprised to see Barbie and Nicki and a flush of respect and awe thrills through me as I appreciate how classy they are to come and welcome new students to a program into which their own family member was not accepted. Barbie and Nicki are mingling among the crowds of timorous, questioning neophytes, sweetly answering questions. Barbie has her ingenuous smile turned on high, and her full, limpid eyes are holding the gaze of jumpy parents as she explains how her own daughter has grown, learned, matured, challenged herself. I watch her in silence. I feel like crying.

Barbie pulls me aside later and nails me with her round eyes. Jami, she explains, had been reticent to apply to the program and almost didn't, but Nicki told her she had to. It's such a good program. The teachers are so good, so Jami had applied, thoroughly awed and ambivalent, but with a growing sense of optimism. Then she failed, and her young mind experienced utter defeat and resignation to a kind of personal mediocrity and doom. Somehow, as Barbie held me in her gaze, I caught the crashing disappointment, the rollercoaster ride of plunging self-respect, and the dawning realization that, like a missed bus with all your friends on it, an opportunity had passed.

“That's traumatic,” I lamely commented.

Later, after thoroughly explaining at the orientation the hours of homework and number of essays students would write, several parents called the counselors and requested that their children be removed from the program. Ferejohn and I pulled out our application list and plowed through the piles of essays and recommendations, and Jami made it on the second round. I was elected to call Barbie and tell her.

“We need some good news,” she whispered in a feathery voice. “My husband has a kidney disease and has been urinating blood for days. We went to the doctor, and he took blood samples then left for China without telling us the results. I don't know if you know what it's like to try to get medical care nowadays…My husband is suffering…in pain...no one will give us answers…we really needed some good news.”

I felt sickeningly powerful.

Days later, I told the story of Barbie, Nicki, and Jami to my daughter. I knew it was a touching story, but she, only sixteen yet with more insight than I, saw the moral I had missed.

“Don't you see Mom? They wanted to hear your story. They needed to seeand hear that you made it. That you suffered, nearly died, and lived, and now you're OK—you're a teacher.”

Yes, I thought. I was so precious with my indignation. I so reveled in my offense. The doors opened. Bluebeard's wives ran out and dispersed into the rolling countryside, back to their families and their farms. And a window opened, full of sunlight scrubbing the black walls with brilliance. An empty, quiet room full of possibility.