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Continued from page 63 One afternoon I chat with a few of her former magnet students in Meyzeek's library. "How would you describe Ms. O'Bannon?" I ask. "Hyped up," a girl with turquoise streaks in her hair replies. "Energetic." Another boy leans in, smiling. "When I told a friend who was older that I had her," he says, "they were like, 'Oh my God, you're going to have so much fun.'" Tey tell the Cheryl out-the-window story. Tey chuckle over how O'Bannon-Morton once made a boy dance with his chair. Ten, most disperse after about 20 minutes. But a girl with braces and soccer shorts stays back to share something more personal. She had been under a lot of pressure. It was testing time. Soccer had just started. On top of that she felt like she needed to lose weight. Her food consumption slid down to as low as 150 calories per day. When O'Bannon-Morton discovered this, she grew visibly upset. "Tis could harm you," she told the girl, adding that there were healthy ways to drop pounds. It's a speech any responsible adult would give. Te source made the diference. "I know I can go to her with any problems," the young girl said. "I will never forget her." T he last few minutes of the school day feel like a giant sneeze: buildup, loud commotion, then poof! All clear. Te building exhales. On a recent Monday afternoon O'Bannon-Morton walks through the relaxed hallways. She sees a sixth-grader whose ride didn't show. "Where do you live?" O'Bannon-Morton asks. "Kentucky Street," the girl replies with a smile, baby teeth absent at the corners. "Come on, I'll walk you home," the teacher says. O'Bannon-Morton frequently walks through Smoketown up to Shelby Park to check on old students or meet the families of new ones. (She's also known to escort new Meyzeek principals around for history lessons and handshakes with community parents.) She and the girl head into the fall sunshine. With a convenience store up ahead, O'Bannon-Morton opens her wallet and gives her a few dollars. "Go in and get us a drink. As long as it's not green," she jokes. "I need a little pep in my step." She's always been generous. As a kid, children from around the neighborhood would gather on the front porch of her white, twostory Shelby Park home because she would pass out popsicles to those who didn't have an after-school snack. If her cell phone rings and a former student is on the line, she'll pick up even if dinner's on the stove. She's helped pay for kids' college books. In turn, she can count on Meyzeek graduates showing up to school over the summer to decorate her room, a task she refuses to do herself. O'Bannon-Morton looks over her shoulder at vast dirt plains and belching machinery, the site of the old Sheppard Square apartments now transforming into mixed-income housing. Her old unit tumbled to the ground months ago, as did the homes of hundreds of her old students. Two years ago she could stroll into the maze of barracks-style buildings and catch up with her "babies." Not anymore. "Tat's why I'm sad Sheppard Square's gone," she says. "Progress is good and all that, but I can't fnd kids. . . . Tat makes me nervous." Pepsis in hand, the two head up Jackson Street, talking basketball. Not a lot of students know how good a player she was. 15 8 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 11.13 She's still the second-leading scorer at Male High School. Tat talent earned her a scholarship to the University of Cincinnati. After her frst year she transferred to Bellarmine University, where her name and number — 32 — are part of the school's hall of fame. Teir conversation's interrupted by a gray SUV that pulls up beside them. It's the aunt of the girl she's walking home. "Tank you for saving me from her," O'Bannon-Morton jokes. "I'm Ms. O'Bannon. I teach at Meyzeek. I just wanted to make sure she gets home alright." Almost as soon as the girl drives of, it begins to feel like a parade. First, a girl in a black tank top runs out of her home. "Hi, Ms. O'Bannon!" "Hey Brit-Brit! How's eighth grade treating you?" A graying man riding on his bicycle smiles and shouts, "Sharonda!" "Hey, Dukie!" she responds. Tey grew up together. Over the next hour her name will echo. From porches and street corners eight more voices will exclaim: "Hey, Ms. O'Bannon!!" As we walk under shade trees, over cracked sidewalks, O'Bannon-Morton talks quietly of her own middle school years. She was awkward, a homebody, never going to parties. At night, when her dad would come home, she could recite the television schedule because she was so excited about staying in. Even now, while children animate her, she's reserved, guarded around adults. (Te only reason she agreed to this article is that a close friend urged her.) Part of this shyness she traces back to bullies. It was sixth grade. She had just made the basketball team . . . barely. Tall, yes, but her long limbs handling a basketball looked a little like noodles dribbling a meatball. She picked at her hair. She retreated. By high school, though, her basketball skills ranked her among the best in Louisville. Her confdence grew. Friends followed. Ahead of us, the percussive thumps of basketball enliven otherwise still Shelby Park. As a teenager she'd scrimmage with boys on these courts. A few girls call out to her to come play. She just laughs. "You don't want this!" she says raising her arms. From behind a fence, a boy with a tomato-red sweatshirt and erratic facial hair swaggers toward O'Bannon-Morton. It's all toughness until she notices him. "Boy! What is going on?" Ten he's just a hard candy shell, melting into a hug. "I heard you were at Eastern (High School), just chilling," she says. "What's your grades like?" "A's, B's and C's," he reports. "See, you were always smart. Just bad!" Later, O'Bannon-Morton will describe him as a boy "in and out of every system": juvenile detention, foster care. He's now a high school senior. "I want to see you walk so I can disrupt everything," she jokes. He says he won't cross the stage at any graduation ceremony because he failed freshman English. "You're going to sign up for summer school," she states, letting him know there's an online option. "We can do it at Meyzeek," she says. "Do I have to come get you?" "For real?" he says, hushed, as if he doesn't want his friends standing nearby to hear. "I'm going to sign you up," she says. "I'm not going to forget. You're my baby."