Mr. Zambor

Mr. Zambor taught 5th grade science at Mountain View Middle School. His last name was more science fiction, like it belonged to some malevolent ruler of a distant galaxy you’d see in a bad movie. The kind who said, “Show the girl to my private quarters. And the boyfriend . . . execute him.”

Like the evil space emperor, Zambor stole the girl of my dreams – Miss Sievers, my 4th grade reading teacher.

In my first years of school, I had mostly female teachers, but they all seemed old enough to be my grandmother. They wore long drab skirts and high collared blouses. Their voices were pinched and condescending. They smelled like mothballs.

Miss Sievers breezed into Mountain View like an April day, tousling the hair of every boy and awakening possibilities for which most of us didn’t even have a name yet. She had a pretty, heart-shaped face, with a small upturned nose and a spray of freckles. She had a flip-up hairdo, like Marlo Thomas on That Girl. She wore colorful dresses, with silk scarves tied at her neck. And she had a soft melody of a voice, with a smile hiding behind every word.

When Miss Sievers asked for a volunteer to read aloud or pass out dittoes, every boy’s arm shot up, with hands waving like mad. Pick me, please pick me.

We loved her, and she seemed to love us back.

A few months into Miss Sievers’ first year, it became apparent, even to us naïve 4th graders that something was going on between her and Mr. Zambor. He’d stand outside our classroom door, signalling. Miss Sievers would glance away from us, smile, then say, “Excuse me for a minute, children . . .” While she was out in the hall, we’d hear the two of them talking softly and laughing. We’d all look around at each other with wide eyes. When Miss Sievers returned, her face was flushed.

Pretty soon I was seeing the two of them holding hands outside the teachers’ room, walking together through the hallways, sitting close at assemblies, his hand resting on her knee. It was too much to bear.

What did Zambor have that I didn’t? Besides the fact that he was an adult, I mean. He was about a foot taller than Miss Sievers. Did she like that? Having his big puffed up chest at her eye level? He had feathered back hair and wore silky shirts. So did I. But at least I wasn’t in my late thirties, trying to act young. He thought he was funny but wasn’t – a deadly combination. Plus, he had bad breath, which he tried to conceal behind furtive blasts of Binaca.

They announced their engagement in the spring. When we returned to school the next fall, Miss Sievers had become Mrs. Zambor. More like Mrs. Zombie. Along with her maiden name, she seemed to have lost everything that made us love her. Her flip-up hairdo was cut short. She started wearing pants suits. And the soft melody in her voice hardened into a scolding tone.

Damn that Zambor. If only I could’ve been in his shoes, I know I could’ve saved Miss Sievers.