by MK Schiller
“When do you think a girl’s tits are fully developed?” one asked.
“When they no longer fit in my mouth,” my virgin self said.
We joked and lied about our worldliness. Each statement presented a challenge to match wits and measure testosterone. Gaps filled in for me, weaving the back-story of this other life. Elementary and middle school years were spent at the small school on the island, but high school was on the mainland. We were guppies being thrown in with the sharks. They dismissed the islanders as backwater hicks. We kept to ourselves at first. Then I’d made the football team. And everything changed.
I saw her as soon as she walked in. The girl with the huge backpack, tight ponytail, and scuffed boots took the seat next to me. She tugged on my arm.
Fucker.
I sighed, my expression one of annoyance, masking any real feelings for the benefit of the other guys at the table. “What do you want, Scarlett?”
“Can you help me with the math unit we’re working on?”
“I’m busy.” I looked at the faceless friends with a cocky grin.
She took out her math worksheet lined with equations. She slid it toward me with hesitation. “It’ll just take a few minutes. Please?”
I flipped through my messenger bag and shoved my own worksheet toward her. “Here.”
She stared at it blankly. “What’s this?”
“The answers.”
“I know that.” She shoved it right back at me as if the paper was on fire. “I don’t want the answers.”
“Then what the hell do you want?”
“I want to know how you got them. I want to earn the answers.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I didn’t even look at her. “Just copy off me. It’s easier.”
Even in my peripheral, I could see her soft blue eyes blazing so hot, they could have lasered a hole right through where my heart should have been. “I’m not easy.”
The faceless boys snickered in amusement.
She got the double-entendre but ignored it. Instead, she leaned closer, not fearing the lash of the crowd. She smelled like miniature oranges, the kind we used to pick from the grove trees at Durbin Farms. “They are going to put me on the remedial track in most of my classes. Math is the hardest. Mr. C is getting frustrated with me. Please help me.”
I glanced at the worksheet that had taken me less than twenty minutes to complete. It would take Scarlett two hours at least. But knowing her, she’d do it no matter how frustrated she got. If faced with the same constraints, I would not.
If I had to read a paragraph four times to understand it, I would never crack open a book. If people told me I wasn’t smart enough to do something, I would believe them. And if I had an easy way out, like copying off someone else’s paper, I would take it every single time.
I was easy.
These were things I admired about her. Not that I ever told her. And because I always took the easy road, I discovered faking frustration seemed simpler than expressing myself.
I pulled her sheet toward me, trying to make sense of her calculations with the thick pencil lines with backward numbers, some crossed out, others erased so many times the paper had ripped.
“Fine,” I said, acting as if I had better things to do.
“Thank you.”
I took out a clean sheet of notebook paper, and we worked through lunch, drowning out the other voices.
I went through the set of problems, explaining the complexities of slopes, linear functions, and solutions for unknown variables. She concentrated on each sentence, furrowing her brow and mouthing my words back. Our lunches were left uneaten except for a bag of chips we shared.
“Thank you, Flynn,” she said, smoothing out her paper.
“Are we done now? I’m going to charge you if you keep asking me this shit.”
“Let me do a few problems first and you can check them.” She didn’t wait for my reply before she started writing.
“I have to get to class.”
“Just one problem. That’s all. If I get one right, I can probably manage the others.”
I drummed my fingers on the scratched-up table, secure in the fucked-up philosophy that the way to act manly was to be mean.
Sliding her paper toward me with a shaky hand, she said, “Check it, please.”
I barely glanced at her piece of lined paper with its curly edge where she’d ripped it from the notebook. The answer was right. Too bad I wasn’t. I took a highlighter out of my bag. “See what you can do when you actually try.”
Oh yeah, I was a real loser.
She winced before her eyes shifted down. “I am trying.”
Her statement, quiet yet strong, lingered in the air. And like the air, it evaporated, completely wasted on me.
I drew across her paper.
She blinked, her mouth parting. “Did you really just draw a gold star on my worksheet?”
“Yeah, you deserve it. That’s what you are right now. A freaking superstar.” My obnoxious statement should have gotten my ass beat, but instead everyone else at the table laughed, egging me on. “Just don’t become a supernova and burn out. Maybe one day, I’ll explain what that is to you.”
Her face changed. In her blue eyes, there was a hurt so deep I flinched. What the fuck did I just do?
“It was a joke, Scarlett.”
“Funny.” Her voice came out thicker than normal. Her lower lip quivered. She bit into it painfully hard to keep it from shaking.
She snatched my paper. The mechanical pencil she used moved with determined strokes, making marks so sharp and deep, no eraser could undo them.
I followed the lines of the pencil, both curious yet still oblivious. What was she drawing? Maybe a heart to make peace? As she made the lines, it clearly wasn’t a heart or a smiley face. No, it was a flower, the kind that grows from the onion-looking bulbs you bury deep in the ground. Another scratch of the pencil made it clear it was no flower.
My jaw gaped open. “Did you just draw a dick on my worksheet?”
She shoved the paper toward me. “Yes, because you deserve it. Because that’s what you are right now. A big fat dick. Do I need to explain what that is?” She stood, papers rustling to the floor in her wake as she stuffed her backpack. “I will never ask you for help again, Jason Flynn.”
She ran out of the cafeteria. I sat in stoned shock. Faceless friends laughed their asses off. The full weight of remorse hit me straight in the heart. I knocked my chair over as I stood, leaving my bag and tray. A teacher called to me, telling me I was going the wrong way. I ignored her. The bell rang, but I ignored that, too. The hallways filled. I shoved and pushed my way past the crowds, searching for her. Then it all grew quiet as classroom doors closed. She stood with her head buried inside her locker. Her shoulders shook.
I’d made her cry.
“Scarlett.”
“Leave me alone.”
I turned her around. “I won’t.” In the short amount of time she’d been gone, I counted two braids in her hair.
“You turned into a real ass since we got to high school.”
“I know.”
“I thought you were my friend, but you’re just like everyone else. Do you call me a retard behind my back, too?” She beat on my chest with her small fists.
I took her wrists, holding her hands in midair. “I know you hate me right now, and I deserve it. Sometimes I suck at being a decent human being, but I’m gonna try harder. Will you give me another chance?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you’re right. I’m a total dick.”
She cracked a small smile.
“Don’t ever talk to me that way again,” she said.
“I promise I will never disrespect you. Please, let me help you. Really help you with math or anything else.”
She stared at the ground, tracing the lines in the aged linoleum with her shoe. “It doesn’t matter. My guidance counselor said I’m never going to make it to college on my grades
.”
I stared at her face, full of determination and grit. “Is that what you want?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Then screw what anyone else says. We’ll make it happen.”
She wasn’t convinced. I hugged her, not caring if anyone saw. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered repeatedly until her shaking subsided and she hugged me back.
“I can do the work. I just get lost sometimes.”
“Then I’ll find you. I’ll always find you from now on.”
…
Scarlett’s guidance counselor was a bitch. I stared at the note once more because it gave me some sense of courage and purpose in my quest.
Jason, you’ve now made three appointments with me, which I have cancelled. From my understanding, the secretary has told you repeatedly I am not your counselor. However, for reasons unknown, you continue to make appointments with me. I understand the Island School was more casual and this is a big adjustment, but it’s important you grasp our procedures. Please let me spell it out one final time. If you need to meet with a guidance counselor, follow up with Ms. Ferguson, as she is assigned to you. It should be easy to remember. F for Flynn. F for Ferguson.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Dupree
Yeah, Mrs. Dupree, and F for Fuck you very much.
As far as I was concerned, the reasons would continue to remain unknown to her because she was useless. No wonder Scarlett couldn’t get through to her. Clearly, the woman needed to rethink her career path.
But I wouldn’t give up so easily. Right beneath the paper, I’d written Scarlett’s schedule, copied off her binder when we were studying the night before. I’d learned in pre-law what it meant to make an appeal or advocate on behalf of someone. I’d decided to put those principles to good use.
English Lit was easy. The teacher practically fell in love with me when I explained myself. I think her knees even buckled. She would approve my transfer. The American History teacher wasn’t too bad, either, since he also happened to be the assistant football coach and we had a good relationship. Earth Science proved trickier, but Mrs. Duffy caved when I promised to water all her plants during my lunch. Turned out, for an Earth Science teacher she wasn’t so good with plants.
I didn’t expect to get this far, but I wasn’t done yet. I’d saved the worst for last.
Twisting the handle to Mr. Carlson’s classroom, I took a deep breath. Mr. C was a hardass and math was Scarlett’s worst subject. At least we had this class together.
I knew three things about Mr. Carlson—the man loved math, Shakespeare, and colorful bow ties. The math was apparent since he was a math teacher. He either had to love the bow ties or he happened upon a huge clearance sale since he wore them every day. But the Shakespeare I’d found out about because Scarlett told me she’d seen him reading it in the cafeteria. It gave me hope that a man who enjoyed sad stories might just appreciate my play.
He sat at his desk, sunny yellow bow tie around the collar of his short-sleeved shirt, marking up papers. Since he didn’t look up, I waited, trying to be polite but probably coming off as impatient with my Chuck Taylors shuffling against the laminate.
“Is there something I can do for you, Jason? Or are you attempting to dig a groove into the floor?”
“Just needed to talk to you.”
“Of course, but you have no reason to be worried.”
“I don’t?”
He held up my test with a neat 100 written into the corner. He set my paper on top of the thinnest pile on the corner of his desk where a medium and thick stack stood. Mr. C handed back the best grades first. I suspected Scarlett’s was in the medium stack with the other low grades. “You did excellent as usual. But I’m glad you’re here. I need to discuss something with you as well.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to talk to your guidance counselor about elevating you a level. You should be Algebra 2 at least. Maybe even Pre-Calc. I can see you pursuing a career in math or science.”
Shit.
“Um…what if I don’t want to move up?”
He removed his wire-rimmed glasses, looking at me with surprise and something else… annoyance possibly. “I realize you’re on the football team, and it’s popular for young people to act slow-witted these days, but let me assure you acting the dumb jock will get you nowhere in this world.”
“With all due respect, sir, I maybe young, but I’m not naïve. This has nothing to do with my reputation.”
“Oh? Then what possible reason can you have for staying in a class where you don’t belong?”
I swallowed hard, wishing I’d practiced this better. “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m not here about my grade.”
“No?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Scarlett.” He tilted his head in confusion. “Scarlett Jones,” I added as if there were a ton of girls named Scarlett in the school. In fact, there was only one Scarlett. My Scarlett.
“I know who you are referring to. Privacy issues preclude me from discussing another student’s grades with you.” He put his glasses on again and returned to his papers.
“You don’t have to discuss it. She already told me she’s going on the remedial track based on your and her other teachers’ recommendations. I came to ask you the same thing I asked them. They all agreed. I hope you will, too.”
I didn’t realize I was tapping my pencil against his desk until he grabbed it from me. “You certainly have piqued my curiosity. What is your request?”
“Will you hold off on the transfer for a few more weeks?”
His expression turned skeptical. He rolled my pencil back to me. I caught just before it hit the floor.
“The others agreed to this?”
“Yes, it’s just a few weeks.” He turned back to his papers. “Two more weeks,” I added, hoping a precise timeline would convince him. He was a math teacher, after all.
No such luck.
“Just as I told you not to give into peer pressure when it came to football, I also cannot acquiesce and follow my colleagues. As an educator, it would be irresponsible.”
“Sir—”
“The decision is already made.”
I set my books on his desk. They thudded louder than intended, causing him to look up. “Reverse it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Reverse your decision like we do with equations when we’re searching for the answer. If you have the power to make it happen, you have the power to stop it, too.”
“Even though you’re speaking my language, what good would two weeks do? It’s putting off the inevitable.”
“I plan to tutor her. Football’s almost over, and I can devote a lot of time to help her. We have a schedule worked out and everything. I can show it to you if you’d like.”
“You have great faith in yourself. I admire that.”
“You’re wrong, sir.”
“I am?” He arched his thin brow.
“I have faith in her. She wants to be in this class. Your class.”
“Be that as it may, I think she will fare better in Mrs. Dewberry’s classroom. Do you really want your friend to fail? How would that make her feel?”
“She would fail in Mrs. Dewberry’s class anyway. Maybe not in her grades but definitely in how little she’ll learn. C’mon, Mr. C, you know Mrs. Dewberry doesn’t teach. She passes out worksheets. Hell, they watch crappy movies twice a week.”
“Language, Jason.” The fact he mentioned my cuss and not my dig on Mrs. Dewberry told me he agreed with me. I was on the right track.
“Those kids might as well be in study hall. Scarlett deserves better. Not only does she deserve it, but she wants it for herself.”
He folded his spectacles and turned his swivel chair my way. “Did Scarlett ask you to speak to me on her behalf?”
“No!” My heart started pumping at the thought of Scarlett finding out what I was doing. I sucked in a deep breath, trying to stay focused. “No, and pleas
e don’t tell her. She’d be…upset.” Almost said “pissed” but caught myself.
“Well, maybe she didn’t send you, but the issue is something I should be discussing with her mother. You’re a good friend, but she has people to speak for her, son.”
The sarcastic laugh came out of me before I could think. “I’m not going to tell you about who she is outside of this school. You just see a girl who comes to your class with a huge backpack, braids in her hair, and bad handwriting. But I see so much more.” I smacked my chest. “Whether it’s against the rules or not, I don’t care. I’m her friend, and I’m speaking for her. Question is, are you willing to listen?”
He steepled his fingers the way adults did when they’re thinking. “I honestly appreciate what you’re trying to do. I’ve never had a student ask anything like this in all my years of teaching. I doubt any teacher has. And Scarlett does have a passion for learning, but wanting something and being capable of it are two different things. There is no doubt in my mind she works hard. Harder than most.”
Harder than any in my opinion, but I didn’t interrupt him.
“Notwithstanding those facts, there are other considerations. As you are aware, she tends to get behind and asks a great deal of questions. I have twenty-five other students to think of, including you. She distracts from the classroom and places us in jeopardy of falling behind schedule. I am accountable for keeping the class on track and making sure we meet or surpass state standards.”
“Right, so move my seat.”
“Your seat?”
“Yeah, put me in the seat next to her. I’ll answer her questions.”
He shook his head, his smile knowing. “Ay, there’s the rub. You want to sit next to her.”
My mouth gaped at the accusation. “What? You think I want to pass notes to her or something?”
“Or something. Boys have done much more to get a girl’s attention.”
“Sir, if I wanted Scarlett’s attention, I’d be more creative.”