I’m always entertained at the start of the school year, the palpable energy and whisper of potential as mothers and children pick out school supplies. They agonize over which loose-leaf is best: heavy duty, three inches or four, the one with pockets — or maybe it should have a zipper? On to dividers, paper or plastic; and pens, fine point, ultra fine, or medium, as if these decision will make an iota of a difference to their future. When I see the apathetic child who says “Yeah, whatever” to the supplies her mother waves in her face, I think, this kid gets it. She’ll know the world and her place in it.

But then I think about Dini, and think, maybe not.

Dini was one of the masses. Simply by her existence, she helped define average. She was not too much of anything: not too tall or short or pretty or talented or smart. Not too lively, not too boring, not too witty, not too dull.

Hardly worth taking a second glance at Dini. She’d live out her life in blissful mediocrity, nothing too nice, nor too shabby. Probably marry the fourth boy she dates, at age 20. They would be married in June, and she’d have an average crowd of girls in attendance, the third wedding they’d been at that week. She’d have a child by her first anniversary, and that child would follow in his parents’ path of ordinary. I know the anonymity of mediocrity; it’s a private party that the world is invited to, but no one bothers to show up.

I suppose there was one thing she was “too” of — organized, neat freak, perfectionist. Dini was one of those girls with different color pens following a note-taking system that translated into beauty in its comprehension, and regulation. I saw it with my own eyes, and just for a nanosecond I thought it might be nice to be her. Color coordinated, organized closets; to-do list with everything crossed off by the end of the day; and a mind free of clutter and pressure were all hers. She did it with ease, not out of need, or anxiety, but a natural inclination to orderliness, parameters.

The thing with average though, is that no one thinks they’re ordinary. People will always find some quality, imagined or real, that they believe separates them from the pack, or at least places them in the front of it. It’s frustrating, having people hope and believe they can be more than they are. There are a lot of tears, disappointments, lost dreams. If only people would accept who they are and take their place with grace. But I suppose it’s a lesson that I’ve learned the hard way.

Sometimes though, every once in a while, someone can rise up from the doldrums of mediocrity and do something magical. They simply don’t accept their reality, and instead create a new one, in which they take the starring role. They also end up changing a lot of things, and shifting the balance in the world. It’s usually all about will-power, drive, also a bit of craziness.

That’s not the story of Dini though. Though, maybe it is. Sort of.

The year was 2011, and I was a 12th-grade English teacher. No one noticed Dini. She wasn’t a discipline or academic problem, nor was she a prodigy or a personality; she filled a desk, crude as is it to say.

It’s in 12th grade that these girls get their first taste of how titles and positions can separate and define a person. It’s in 12th grade where every girl is assigned a job in one of three areas: Yearbook, General Extra Curricular, and Play. Job placements reveal status, and what the school administration really thinks of you (or how loud your father’s money talks). There are the top-tiered coveted positions, the somewhere in the middle, and the “You’re this year’s regret.” I knew the system well; it was my alma mater, after all, and my place had been ingrained in my psyche for 20 years.

On top is Chessed, G.O., (yes, it’s an elected position, but who do you think selects the candidates?), School Shabbos, Chinese Auction, Play Manager, and Editor in Chief (never mind if you know how to write). Middle Tier includes Chagigas, Melaveh Malkah, Big and Little Sis, play positions, and assorted yearbook titles. “We’d prefer you don’t tell anyone you attended this institution” jobs are sales, tzedakah, and attendance. Dini was given the title of “Special Editor” to the yearbook. All she was required to do was pose for a picture in the yearbook captioned “Special Editor.”

Obviously, Dini was disappointed when she received her position: it was a disclosure of her status. There was nothing she could do though, all the jobs were assigned and taken; the tears and elation had been doled out.

About two months into school, things were rolling along as usual — yearbook was already behind deadline, play tryouts were, as usual, disappointing. And then Chani Stein’s family made aliyah. Chani Stein was, very obviously, not average. She was taller and prettier and smarter than average. Her family background and financial standing were considerably higher than average as well. To my mind, Chani was a sweet girl, but her popularity was due more to the halo effect than any uniqueness (if my father had money instead of past due notices, who knows what I might have been). Anyway, as could be expected — there was no other contender — she was Play Manager.

Play Manager was the most coveted position in school, probably the most difficult and demanding, as well. It’s not very glamorous, but the thing is, it’s only open to one girl. There is no brainstorming together, compromising, and making it work for the Play Manager. She has executive power. She is chosen from everyone else for this position. There is no one to share the glory; it’s hers, all hers for the taking. Every year, the seniors would wait, a breath inhale stuck in their chest, for the pronouncement of the title. Who would it be? Who would be coronated Best Girl in the Grade?

Well, this past year, there was no fanfare or baited breath. There was no competitor other than Chani Stein. And all the girls were happy for her, believed that she deserved the title, and they stood around waiting for coronation to be official. But then she was gone.

The principals and the 12th-grade mechanchos met to discuss the matter. I can only imagine what went on; I wasn’t invited. They probably eulogized Chani as though she was G-d’s gift to humanity, or at the very least, our school. A half hour would be spent by her mechaneches bemoaning this loss to teachers, classmates, and school spirit. And then, time up, the next period would be starting, and the issue would remain unresolved.

I didn’t really know what happened in that meeting, all I knew was that no decision had been made. I was in the principal’s office, discussing with her the students’ lack of basic reading comprehension, and how it’s very difficult to analyze literature you didn’t understand in the first place, and why elementary schools don’t address this issue earlier, when there was a tentative knock on the door.

There was a windowpane in the door and the principal waved, indicating admittance. Opening silent, only a quarter’s way, the door revealed Dini Klien. I watched the principal’s face flash desperation as she tried to recall Dini’s name. After an uncomfortably long pause, with eyes wide and squinted, the principal remembered. In the most relieved and overly eager voice she said, “Dina! Come in!”

I thought I saw a twitch in Dini’s jaw, like she was going to correct her — Dini, not Dina — but then decided not to. Average people always think it’s impertinent to correct their elders, even when they botch up on something as integral as their name. A rose by any other name won’t smell as sweet, don’t they know that. But I digress.

Dini entered, glancing at me, I suppose she didn’t want me there, but I wasn’t leaving until prompted. I’m always curious to hear why students approach principals — I never bothered with principals myself, maybe I should have.

“Ummm,” Dini started, “Well, I wanted to talk to you about something.” Why are these girls so eloquent, ummm? The principal was gracious, though. “Sure, just let me finish up here. What’s this about?” Hesitation from Dini. Was she going to back down, I wondered.

“Jobs.”

One word and the principal’s face clouded over; she shuffled some papers on her desk meaninglessly, pulled up her shoulders a bit in seeming defense. “There isn’t really anything to discuss, all the jobs have been assigned. I’m sorry if you’re not totally satisfied, but there’s nothing to be done.”

“But Chani Stein left.”

The principal furrowed her brows, and my ears perked up. This impending conversation reeked of potential Teacher’s Room fodder. There was this long silence in where Dini looked directly at the principal and the principal tried her best to avoid her gaze.

Wow, this girl had pluck, to suggest that she could take over the job, real pluck, chutzpah even. Maybe there was a little more to her than I had originally thought. The principal’s brows looked like they were considering swapping sides, they were drawn so close to one another. Heaving a deep breath the principal answered, “You know what, Dina—”

“It’s Dini,” Dini interrupted.

“What?”

“Dini, I’m called Dini,” she said simply.

“Sorry. Dini, I think we should hold off this meeting until tomorrow, by the Minchah break, okay?” The principal didn’t even wait for her response, she disengaged and turned back to me, as though we had never been interrupted.

I think I heard a muffled “ ’Kay, thanks” before the door opened and closed again. Pathetic, the girl almost had my respect, but that departure was weak.

I kept this little incident to myself, and waited to see if I’d hear anything about it. In my corner seat of the teacher’s room, I can take part of any conversation, but I usually just observe, and collect. It took a few days for the news to trickle in, Dini Klien had approached the principal. There were several reactions: “Who? I don’t teach her do I?”; “Dini? Really? Ooookay”; “Chutzpah, approaching the principal like that, and to take over Chani Stein? She only got 7/10 on my last quiz.”

Seriously? And these were my coteachers.

From what I gleaned, she already had her meeting with the principal. In a stammering voice she had presented her case. She was a good girl, never made trouble of any sort. She had good friends and decent grades. Her job was a farce, and a better one was available. And titles and politics aside, she had the qualifications for the job. With her, she had brought her loose-leaf, and little pocket-organizer. She showed the principal her meticulous notes, and copious to-do lists with neat lines running through each item on the agenda.

I thought it was very smart to provide evidence to support her case. It really made her seem like she just wanted to do good and help out and wasn’t looking for the prestige at all, it was just “Hey, I’m really qualified for this job.”

And then Dini closed with the line that had all the teachers atwitter. “I just really think I deserve an opportunity to show what I have. You know, starting from 9th grade, it’s always the same girls over and over who get a chance to try, and maybe even fail, at being head of grade Shabbos, class projects, Melaveh Malkah, and the like. I just think maybe it’s time I got a turn, that’s all.”

She exposed the system.

The system that runs on perceived perfection. Each high school competing for the best girls, and when they get a few, they hoist them high as though they are the school, representative of the entire student body. All smart, pretty, talented, frum, eidel, wealthy. Again and again these few girls are given privileges, so any outsider looking in at any project would say, “Oh, what wonderful girls are doing a wonderful job for what must be a wonderful school.” Always perfect all the time, you can’t have anyone else representing your school, it’s bad PR. The rest of the girls, well, they should learn from the chosen leaders. Thought they probably won’t.

And people ask why I’m cynical.

All teachers know this, and we know it’s wrong, but we kind of hear the school’s side: it’s not about what’s reality, but what seems to be reality. Dini calling the teachers out on this, letting them know that their subtle selections weren’t subtle at all, made them very uncomfortable.

The question now was: What to do? Should Dini be given the position she was very qualified for? Or should they give the job to a different good girl, of higher social and academic standings, who already had been bestowed with a great job, and simply promote her, and fill her vacant position with another better girl, thereby keeping the school’s presentation and hierarchy intact? The principals and mechanchos seemed to think that this was a serious issue that deserved a multitude of meetings. So serious were they, they even asked me what type of student Dini was. I told them the truth — average.

I think it disappointed them; they wanted to hear that at least she was a top student in some subject so they could say, she’s a top something, therefore we can give her this. Rationalize, because average isn’t acceptable.

A week later I heard that they had given the Play Manager position to one of the Chinese Auction heads, and they had given Dini that girl’s position. I suppose they thought that that was a win-win compromise. I think it was just a cop-out.

Play that year was a managerial disaster, as usual. Many of the props were missing or anachronistic. Only half the tickets were sold, because ads only went in two weeks before the play. The sound tracks, mike system, and anything audio related was terrible, as the girls dealing with them never took part in any of the practices. No one expected better; it was like this every year give or take a debacle or two. They all told the Play Manager that she had done a fantastic job. She went on to a top seminary, and a year later married a top boy.

That year’s Chinese Auction was unusually successful. The prizes were impressive: a Canon Elph digital camera, a trip to the Poconos — even I participated. It felt a little untainted with Dini as one of the heads. There were corporate sponsors, donors. Everything — the pamphlets, the signs, the ads — was impeccably designed. Presentation was chic and sophisticated. The school raised over $50,000 on this auction, an auction that they usually, maybe, broke even on.

The school was happy, if baffled. They patted themselves on the back for having the intuition to select the right heads. Yet never were they able to replicate that Chinese Auctions again, for they never understood how the Chinese Auction got to be so successful in the first place. The top job switched from Play Manager to Chinese Auction, and the titles became Play Managers, plural, and Executive Head of Chinese Auction and other junior heads.

Once again Dini faded into oblivion. Even when she won, she lost. Even when she proved her worth she was denied recognition. She got married, to a good boy, her fourth boy. The wedding was in June.

And why would a teacher like me know this about just an average student?

I took her for my son.