You can smell the icky hormones clinging to them like so many grimy phantoms, digging in their yellow claws and eyeballing the world with bitter, studied indifference as they critique the world they will someday inherit.

Adolescent boys. Pukes. The walking carcasses of childhood, the nascent nincompoops of adulthood. Their hair stands on end, rebuking the dull conformity of the comb and the belittling baths of babes and old folks.

Their clothes won’t fit. Their mouths won’t shut, unless you want to talk. They sprout wiry hairs in unfortunate places and cherish these few curly marks of progress in the dark during several of their thirty daily bathroom breaks.

They respect no one, and in turn, are hardly respected. They demand it, though, cajole and ridicule those who resist, while at the same time clinging hard to the many perks of childhood. They fight to figure out themselves and the universe, yet can hardly stand the truths that are revealed.

They are in-betweeners, pinkie-finger-ear-cleaners, nose-picking never preeners, dirty-movie smut screeners. One lives in my house, and another recently retired to the beatific pastures of late teenage enlightenment. So I know.

Also, I was once one of them.

It was the late 1980s, and I was a walking mouth. I loved to hear the sound of my own sizzling vocal chords, and knew — really, just knew — that I was right in every argument I started. I started a bunch.

Also, I ate a lot.

It was a dark period, one only brought to eventual conclusion by a newly discovered identity, a new-found sense of self in relation to the world. Confidence, and humility, all wrapped up in swaddling clothes.

It was an odd event that facilitated much of this growth. Like many students of that or any age, I had a favorite teacher. Sue Turner taught 8th Grade English at Zane Junior High School — and took no bullshit. She was thin and whip-strong, with long salt-and-pepper hair and a loud, infectious laugh.

Our first day of class, she commenced festivities with a high-pitched setting of terms: We were to sit down, shut up, move as little of our stinking bodies as necessary, and learn.

We went home frightened, but the fear wouldn’t last. Ms. Turner — she was married, but not a missus — had a talent for reaching kids by actually listening to what they had to say, and dealing with them like whole human beings.

Soon after, my friends and I made a regular habit out of stopping into her class for lunch, where we’d compete with each other to earn her praise. She told people I had a talent for writing, and that simple observation has fueled the better part of my last 25 years on this planet.

I adored this teacher. And I stole from her.

During one such lunch time conversation months into the school year, I noticed a palm-sized piece of amethyst on her desk. Already tearing through three fantasy novels a week, this of course immediately tickled my imagination. Magic rocks were all the rage.

Rather than appreciate it and set it back down in its place, I stuck it deep in my pants pocket and took it home.

All weekend, I played with the shiny purple stone. I kept it with me as I read, tossed it up toward the ceiling — as close as I could get it without making contact — then set it on my bedside table after accidentally smearing a glob of peanut butter along its refractive edges.

I had no reason to take the stone — I had other toys, better stones, plenty to do and plenty to keep.

In the years since, I’ve thought that maybe I took it to keep a bit of her positivity near me during some chaotic times at home.

Naw. I saw it, and wanted it it. So I took it.

On Monday, I came to school and set about my daily rounds without a care in the world. I’d left the amethyst at home, and it had pretty much run its course in my imagination. I was done with it already, this object I’d apparently had to have, and it was destined to be a forgotten relic under my bed next to the empty bag of taco chips.

When I first came into her classroom, I thought nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She was light on the banter during class, but that came and went with her mood and our subject matter.

As we were leaving class, though, I felt her iron grip on my arm. She held me back while everyone else left the classroom bound for fourth period, yet I still had no clue.

“James, I know you stole my amethyst,” she said, making no effort to hide the hurt in her voice. “I want you to bring it back.”

That was it. She released me. At lunch that day, her room was dark. Her door was locked. I was devastated, ashamed, and at a loss to understand why I’d risk a relationship so important for a trifling object that meant absolutely nothing to me.

That night, I spent an hour trying to wash the last bits of peanut butter off the amethyst. It was a lost cause.

The next morning before school, I ducked into her classroom and while she was distracted talking to other students, I slipped it back in its place on her shelf and ran for freedom.

For the next several weeks, our relationship was all business — polite, and professional as possible for a middle schooler, but distant. Something had definitely changed between us, and I hated myself for it.

Then one afternoon after the last bell, as I walked toward West Avenue to begin the long trek home, I was joined by Ms. Turner, who had her hands full with boxes and papers obviously bound for the home office.

I offered to carry some of her burden as we chatted lightly about the day, and her class, across campus. We finally reached her Honda Civic — rusted but economical, it seemed the ideal car for a teacher — and I helped her load her things inside.

We spoke for only a few minutes then — she asked about my dad, his illness at home, and my mother’s job at the hospital — and then she smiled.

It was, truly, the best smile I’d ever seen. In that moment, forgiveness was realized. She actually, physically, set me free with a few words and a smile, the first smile she’d sent my way since the day I’d stolen from her. Even today, remembering it makes me emotional.

Her example, and my own mistakes, were only a part of the recipe needed to snap me out of my melancholic, adolescent miseries. Yet they were a big part, and somehow I’m positive they’ve shaped me in ways I’ll never quite fathom.

Good teachers can make or break worlds for the students they teach. Ms. Turner was a damn good teacher.

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James Fauk is a writer living in Eureka. He can be reached at faulk.james@yahoo.com.