Raindrops

I heard the voice coming from behind. A familiar phrase: "Mister Caven!"
As is so often the case, when riding my bike to and from school, I put up a hand to acknowledge the recognition of this old guy on a bike. I waved.
"Mister Caven!" This time it was more insistent.
I stuck my arm up again, but turned around to see who was calling after me. It was early. It was raining. I didn't have my mind focused on anything but getting myself to school in one more or less dry piece.
"Mister Caven!"
This time, I stopped. When I got a foot down on the wet pavement and looked over my shoulder, I saw nothing but the street sign on the corner.
"Mister Caven!"
I squinted to see from whence this disembodied voice might be emanating. That's when I heard the immediately recognizable sound of the contents of a backpack being shaken and rattled by a young man who was in hot pursuit of Mister Caven. Then I saw Jesse round the corner.
"Mister Caven!" Still running hard, but now that I had a face to go with all the commotion, it made perfect sense. Jesse was now in middle school, having been promoted at the end of last year from our fifth grade. I remembered the hollering from across the playground. Usually Jesse needed me to confer on some injustice that had been perpetrated upon him on the soccer field. Or at four square. Or lining up. Jesse seemed to attract trouble. Now he was chasing me down. I stood in the rain and watched him race toward me.
"Mister Caven!"
"Jesse."
"Are you still in the computer lab?"
"Well, not right now. I'm standing in the rain. How are you doing?"
"I'm good." And then we had run out of initial pleasantries. "That's my bus," he said, hooking a thumb in the direction of the corner.
"Well," I said, ever the teacher, "Don't be late."
"Okay, Mister Caven. See you." Off he ran into the gloomy morning. I turned and stood on my pedals, still three blocks to school. Elementary.