My English Teacher's Crush

I wish I never remembered the way he spoke to me

Photo by Eliott Reyna on Unsplash

My seventh-grade English teacher, Mr. McGrane, was really cool. When I sat in his classroom for the first time, I felt as though I could finally take a deep breath, putting my anxious first-day jitters to rest. The space offered a sense of safety I so desperately craved in an uncomfortable environment that was swamped with hormones.

Middle school was painful for me. I was drawn toward “emo” musicians and bands, which were not entirely popular at my school. I wore eyeliner and had side bangs, and, per a timely Twilight obsession, started shopping at Hot Topic, resulting in being labeled as dark, scary, and goth. But that coincided with Mr. McGrane taking a liking to me when I would come into school wearing band tees.

“Hey, I like your shirt,” he’d say when I sat down for class. I would blush with enthusiasm—Mr. McGrane knew who my favorite bands were?! How cool! 

Mr. McGrane also took time to learn about other musicians I liked, even ones that he’d never heard of before. Paramore was my absolute favorite band who, at the time, had just come out with their third album, brand new eyes.

One day, Mr. McGrane told me that he was going to a festival and Paramore was headlining. Of course, I already knew that my favorite band was going to be nearby, but I was so excited for him.

“I don’t know any of their music, though,” he said. He'd summoned me over at the start of the period while everyone was doing their required independent reading. “Do you think you could make me a mix CD?” 

I don’t even think I let him finish his sentence before I was nodding eagerly, pledging to make one tonight and bring it to class tomorrow. He seemed pleased.

I don’t remember what I put on the CD. I don’t remember making it or giving it to him, or what I most likely scrawled across the reflective surface in Sharpie. I just know that I did it because I was so insanely happy that someone cared about a thing I loved. 

The following Monday when I bounced into class, he told me he really enjoyed Paramore’s set, and he thanked me for the CD. He liked it so much, in fact, that he asked me to make him another one. 

“I just don’t really know any of the popular music right now, and I would like to,” he explained. During class, when he was writing out that evening’s homework assignment, he typed up a special note for me, though it was seen by everyone: “FOR MELLEE: MAKE ME A NEW CD.” 

By now, Mr. McGrane had taken to calling me “Mellee,” a combination of my first and last names. I don’t remember how this nickname came about, but I know that it made me double down on my appreciation for Mr. McGrane.

The following year, I moved up, while Mr. McGrane stayed as a seventh grade English teacher. His classroom became a hotspot for lunch. He had off the same lunch period as many of his students from last year, so word quickly spread that you could hang out there if you wanted; it was an open-door invitation.

I didn’t go to Mr. McGrane’s room every day for lunch, but I went often enough. I had one friend, Lea, who I spent lunch with. We would meet in the hallway after class and decide where to go for lunch. Sometimes it was the cafeteria and sometimes it was Mr. McGrane’s. She didn’t love going to his room, so when we’d arrive, we would split up: She would go chat with peers, while I would make my way to Mr. McGrane’s desk to catch up with him. 

His desk was usually swamped with other students—like I said, he was popular and charismatic. To get his attention, I would usually pipe up about a musician we had in common: “Mr. McGrane, do you like Brand New?” I knew the answer was yes, but I just wanted the attention. He would give it to me, even if it was just for a few moments. We would lock eyes and it would be like this secret interaction, just for us. I felt content with just being acknowledged. 

Throughout eighth grade, my tastes developed a bit more, and so did the outfits I wore. I became much more experimental with my style instead of just wearing t-shirts every day. My cousins, who were on the edge of graduating high school, always gave me cool hand-me-downs that looked like they were for going clubbing. I excitedly accepted them, thrilled to wear heeled suede boots, clunky necklaces, and patterned tights to school. 

The last time I remember hanging out in Mr. McGrane’s for lunch was a day toward the end of the year. I was preparing to graduate and go to high school, which was coincidentally in the same building.

I remember his classroom being sticky with humidity. To cope with the heat, I had a dress on. It had a tank top-style bodice that went down to right above my knees. Our school wasn’t entirely strict on the whole dress code thing, but I know it wasn’t inappropriate. It was just a dress.

With eighth grade being on the precipice of yesteryear, I didn’t really care to hang out with Mr. McGrane anymore. My musical tastes were evolving. Emo was suddenly so childish, and I was onto much more mature things now. I was exploring bands like Coconut Records and The Postal Service, excited to move on to a new era of my youth. 

That day, I didn't hang around Mr. McGrane’s desk. I ate my sandwich at one of the desks next to Lea. Lunch was ending soon, so I got up to throw my garbage away, when Mr. McGrane crossed my path. 

“Hey, Mellee,” he said. Slowly, he looked me up and down. His eyes scanned over my body, starting at my feet and going all the way up my body, taking in my legs, my newly developed curves and budding breasts that were enveloped by my new padded bra from Kohl’s. I remember feeling such discomfort under his gaze. It couldn’t have lasted more than 10 seconds, but I recall it feeling so much longer.

I didn’t say anything in response and felt a sudden urgency to leave, even if I had five minutes before the bell rang. I smiled tightly and reached past him to toss my tin foil ball in the garbage can. 

“Mellee, you’re looking good,” he said from behind me, making me freeze. I turned around to look at him and make sure I was hearing right. “I like this whole… new thing you have going.”

That was it. He went back to his desk, probably to engage with other students. I grabbed my backpack and left. 

I didn’t go to Mr. McGrane’s classroom ever again. I didn’t have a lot of experience with boys, but I knew enough to know that older men like Mr. McGrane shouldn’t be complimenting me like that. I felt so grossed out. I didn’t tell anyone, but I knew it was wrong. I never wanted to be in the same room as him ever again. 

When he said that he liked my “new thing,” I assumed it had been my change in wardrobe. Looking back, I don’t think that’s what it was. Eighth grade is the year I went through puberty, got my period, and lost baby weight. 

—

I didn’t have Mr. McGrane as a teacher again. I started ignoring him every time I saw him in the hallways, so he did the same to me. By the time I was a sophomore, I didn’t even look in his direction when I passed by him. We never spoke again.

Last year, I decided to look him up. Nothing came up on the first search, so I tacked on the name of our school in the second go, but I only received some outdated email directories. I was terrified that his picture would appear on my screen. I can remember exactly what he looks like, but for some reason, seeing his face as an adult woman in the comfort of my own home seemed awful. 

When I Googled him, I think I secretly wanted something bad to come up. Maybe an obituary. Maybe a full-length investigation concluding that he had inappropriate relations with young girls and was in jail for life. Neither popped up. There was barely any digital trail of him at all.

Mr. McGrane was someone who existed briefly in my youth, but I’ve never forgotten him, not even 13 years later. The fact that he didn’t even materialize in a search engine with infinite results somehow seems laughable. 

It was like he never even existed. In his book, I probably never did.

Melissa Lee is a writer and editor based in Pittsburgh, PA. She is passionate about mental health and wellbeing, sexuality, and beauty. When she isn’t trying to keep her house plants alive, she can be found adding new books to her ever-growing TBR list. You can connect with her here.