Who will live and flourish and grow within the hallways of this building, and who will die inside

I’m wrapping up my last pre-Yom Kippur lesson with my sixth class out of eight.

As I’m keeping one eye on the clock ticking steadily away, and breathless from trying to cram too much into the last 40 minutes, most of my brain is occupied with making sure I’ve given every reminder, every announcement, every handout, while also leaving each class with a meaningful message.

Even my math classes receive an unexpected treat — they close their books seven minutes early and I play them a short clip of Rabbi Baruch Levine’s music video, “Yodati,” with English lyrics.

I’m going away after Yom Tov, and won’t be back in school for a while. My head is full of substitutes and planning and changing timetables, and I try to let each class know who will be teaching them in my absence.

It’s strange to talk about plans for after Succos when Kol Nidrei is tomorrow night, and then the joyous clamor of Succos and meals and guests will be upon us. The girls ask and clarify and nod, and will doubtless forget every detail by the time they’re back to school in three weeks’ time.

Six classes down means two to go. As the bell rings I wish the class a gemar chasimah tovah. And then it happens — again. For the sixth time, I find myself choking up. “Have a meaningful fast, girls, an easy fast, and a wonderful Yom Tov after that!”

They straggle over to lockers, to each other, to the door.

“Thank you.”

“Good Yom Tov.”

I turn to the last few, still at their desks. “A gut, gebentshted yahr,” I wish them again, my throat feeling suddenly full.

They look at me a little strangely. Why am I repeating myself? I pick up my bag and beat a hasty retreat, escaping into the nearest office.

“Every time I wish a class a gemar chasimah tovah, I think I’m going to cry,” I tell a colleague. “I think I’m more emotional about their futures than they are.”

Well, of course. They’re teenagers. They know everything and live forever. What’s there for them to worry about?

I step out into the corridor. Groups of girls rush by, piles of books in hand, heading to the next lesson. Laughing, chattering, smiling.

I think of the question marks in the year ahead. High school life has an Unesaneh Tokef all its own: Who will succeed, who will struggle. Who will fly ahead and who will lag painfully behind. Who will be popular, surrounded by friends, and who will hover on the sidelines, aching at heart.

Who will live and flourish and grow within the hallways of this building, and who will die inside.

I think of the possibilities and I’m afraid.

Who I will touch and who I will turn away. Who I will impact and who I will injure. Who I will be able to help, and who I will thoughtlessly, heedlessly harm in the dash through the day and the chaotic life of a multi-subject high school teacher.

And I’m afraid for them, too.