Michael’s voice is high. “Did you just call me an asshole?”
Her eyes widen behind her glasses. “Such language, Mr. Taylor! I may be a batshit crazy old lady with nothing to lose, but I certainly would never call a student an asshole. Even if he is one.” She shuffles back to her seat, plucks another petal off the nearly bald flower, and pops it in her mouth. She’s just starting on the second rose when the morning announcements begin.
I’m following Anna down the portable building steps when there’s a tug on my arm. Tina hisses, “I need to talk to you!” and pulls me off the sidewalk.
I wince because my pants haven’t loosened in the least. I glance down, expecting to see a ring of blood around my waist. It must be rubbed raw by now.
Tina reads the pain as fear. “Don’t worry, I just need to tell you something. When Kara was—”
Anna stomps back to us. “What’s up?”
“This is private,” Tina snaps.
Anna squares off with her. “What, you think that just ’cause you got skinny, you’re too good to hang out with the Nobodies?”
“What’s wrong with you, Anna? We used to be friends!”
“Yeah, used to, until you changed and started hanging out with Abercrombie and Bitch!”
Tina holds up a hand. “Look. I just need to talk to—what’s your name?”
“Colby.” I turn to Anna. “It’s okay. I’ll find Fun Math on my own.” I glance at my schedule. “Room 105, right?”
She frowns. “Yeah. Go in the double doors, and it’s two doors down, on the right. And don’t be late! My big brother told me that Coach Allison is a real dick about tardies.” She gives Tina a warning look and saunters off.
Tina starts over. “Look: When Kara was making fun of your shirt, I didn’t tell her that it used to be mine. I just wanted you to know that. And, to be honest, I’m sorry I sold you that shirt, because I only wore it once.”
I glance down and shrug. “Looks brand-new.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t get it: I only wore it once because Kayley and Kara made fun of me, too. They’ve only started being nice to me since I lost eighty pounds.” She pauses while some kids pass us, then whispers, “My mom bought the shirt at a flea market because it was cheap. She didn’t know that it was a knockoff; that Hollister was spelled wrong. She was just, I guess, happy that I could have a name-brand shirt, since my dad’s disabled and we can’t afford to shop at, you know, the real Hollister store. I’ve never told anyone that, so please don’t repeat it. Anyway, I’m sorry they’re giving you shit about the shirt.”
“It’s okay; it’s not like you planned for this to happen.”
The tardy bell rings. Tina sputters, “I—I just wanted you to know that nobody’s going to find out that you bought your clothes from me. I’ve got Fun Math next, too.” She smiles. “Guess we’ll find out together if he’s a dick about tardies.”
We enter the classroom just as the teacher, Coach Allison, glances up from a clipboard and says, “Second call: Denton, Colby.” He’s of average height with a belly that drapes far over his belt, and his face is shiny with oil. He’s wearing a white collared shirt, black pleated pants, and a black-and-white ball cap with PCHS on it.
“I’m here.” I cram myself into the first empty desk near the door. The pain around my waist has evolved into a burning sensation.
Coach Allison’s voice heavy with an East Texas accent, he blasts, “Number one, Miss Denton, you and your friend are late, and it better not happen again. Number two, open your eyes and you’ll notice that no one else is seated, except for…” He consults his clipboard and jabs a fat finger at the three students in desks: “Anderson, Ian; Bates, Kyle; and Cummings, Kayley. Please join your classmates along the wall. I assign seats alphabetically.”
The only sound is my desk squeaking as I wriggle out of it. He waits as I gather my things to join everyone else lined up along the back wall. I feel everyone’s eyes on me. My foot catches on a chair leg and I stumble. A few people laugh.
I’m almost to the wall when he calls, “Denton, Colby.” I turn, and he points to a desk that’s practically in the same place I was when I first entered…next to rat-faced Kara’s tall friend, Kayley. She smirks at me as I sit down.
He continues, “Ellis, Ryan.”
I had no idea Ryan was in this class! He emerges from behind the American flag in the corner, scowl firmly in place. He throws his binder onto his desk and slides into his seat without acknowledging that he knows me.
The seat assignments continue: “Houston, Anna…Miller, Trent…Odor—I mean, Odum, Tina…” The class explodes in laughter.
Somebody cracks, “What’s that smell?”
Coach Allison barks, “Zip it!…Rodriguez, José…”
José strides up the side aisle, crosses the front of the room, and moves down our row. He swings his bulging backpack and thumps it squarely against Ryan’s face. Ryan makes a sound like “Ooomph!” and clutches his head.
José feigns concern. “Aw, you all right, buddy? My bad.” Then he leans down and hisses, “Pendejo!” His friends snicker. The coach says nothing; just continues seating students.
I reach for Ryan, who’s bent over his desktop. “Are you okay?” He doesn’t answer, and I shake him. He jerks away but keeps his head down. I ask him again but he ignores me.
Coach Allison adjusts his ball cap. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m the head football coach. I am not a math teacher per se; I am merely the person required to monitor this class. You may thank your state legislator for the budget cuts to education, because that is the only, and I repeat, only reason that I am in charge of a remedial math class.”
He slaps his clipboard against his thigh as he paces the front of the room. “This is Fundamentals of Math. I realize that it says ‘Fun Math’ on your schedule, but that is a misnomer. You wouldn’t be in this class if you deserved to have fun in math. Your lack of achievement on last year’s standardized test has saddled you with me. Some of you will earn your way out by midyear and go on to Algebra I. The rest of you will remain stagnant and drown in a cesspool of your own making. There’s nothing I can do about that. The district provides a workbook that you will complete independently. Do yourself a favor: If I’m working on the playbook or I’m on the computer reviewing video of a game, don’t bother me.”
Ryan mutters, “There’s a lot that doesn’t bother you.”
Coach Allison snaps, “Problem, Ellis?…Ryan? You got something to say to me?”
I hiss, “No! You don’t have a problem!”
“What’s that, Miss Denton?” Coach Allison slams his clipboard down on my desk, and I jump. It feels like my stomach miraculously shoots past my waistband and slams onto the floor. I shake my head slowly.
Coach Allison crosses his arms over his chest. “Is that a response?”
I glance sideways at Ryan; he’s scowling, as usual. “N-no, sir.”
“What did you say to Mr. Ellis?”
I swallow and choke on my own spit. “I—was telling Ryan—that—he doesn’t have a problem.”
Ryan plants his elbows on his desk and leans his forehead on his palms.
Coach Allison’s face is bright red. “Now that’s where you’re wrong, Miss Denton.” He steps to Ryan’s desk and addresses the top of his head. “Look at me, boy.”
The room is so silent that when my stomach gurgles, it’s like an alarm going off. I press my hand against my abdomen and try to silence it.
“I said, ‘Look at me,’ boy.” Coach Allison’s fists are on Ryan’s desk, and I see that even his hands are bright red. He’s pissed off from head to toe.
When Ryan won’t raise his eyes, Coach Allison bends down and aligns his face a few feet from Ryan’s, so that he has to meet his stony stare. His voice is low but somehow loud at the same time. “I do not want you in this class, and I am going to do everything in my power to see that you are removed. What you did to Jared Moore was inexcusable. The idea of him s
itting in a jail cell instead of on the fifty-yard line makes me sick.” He leans forward until the two of them are practically nose to nose. “Chief Taylor and I are buddies.”
He backs up the slightest bit; watches Ryan’s face for a reaction. “I know about the false police report your mother filed on Michael for the misunderstanding you boys had in here on the last day of school. Now, I wasn’t present, of course, but I don’t buy that pack of lies you told. You try to make any more problems for my players this year, and you’ll be sorry. Got it?”
Ryan’s jaw muscles flex beneath Coach Allison’s death stare, and his eyes are so dark, they look like charcoal briquettes. Through clenched teeth, he seethes, “Yes.”
The man breathes the words, “Yes…what?”
Ryan’s chest is rising and falling; his flat voice drips hatred from every word, just like it does any time he talks to me. “Sir…Yes…Sir.”
The coach rises and walks hurriedly to the hallway. He looks left and right, then steps back, closes the door, and gestures to a stack of math workbooks by the wall. “Rodriguez and Miller, distribute those to your classmates.” He strides to the whiteboard, writes “Unit 1, Exercises A-E. Due tomorrow,” then plops into his chair and pulls up Solitaire on the computer.
The first thing I notice on the wall outside the life skills classroom is a poster: Normal People Worry Me. The teacher, a young woman with blue eyes and chin-length strawberry blonde hair, shakes the hand of each person as they come through the door. She’s dressed in a long blue tunic and white leggings. “Good morning! Welcome! Sit anywhere.”
Other than Kyle from Fun Math, I don’t recognize anyone from my earlier classes. I slide my backpack onto a chair and sit at a table by myself. There’s a girl sitting alone at another table. She looks familiar: She has a splatter of freckles across her nose, her skin is the color of coffee ice cream, and she has shaggy brownish-black hair. I catch her eye and give her a close-mouthed smile, but she immediately looks away.
The teacher pulls the door closed and moves to stand between our tables. “We’re going to be doing a partner activity today, so I need you two to sit together, please.” When the girl makes no move toward me, I gather my stuff and join her. The teacher smiles, “Thanks…and your name is?”
“Colby.”
“Nice to meet you, Colby. I’m Mrs. Lowe. And you are…?” She glances at my shy table mate, who says softly, “Becca Schuler.”
Becca slouches in her seat, tucks her hair behind her ears, and fingers the pearl buttons on the plaid western shirt she’s wearing. It looks like a man’s shirt, and it’s way too big for her. Her jeans are faded with holes worn in the knees, and she’s the only student I’ve seen so far wearing cowboy boots. Even though Piney Creek is country, the kids dress mostly like they did at my old school in a suburb of Dallas.
I realize where I’ve seen her before: the Goodwill store. She’s the girl that Drew nearly mowed down in her rush to get away from the mangy rabbit vest.
Mrs. Lowe distributes a worksheet with a triangle on it, strides to the whiteboard, and draws a huge triangle. She labels it Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, divides it into five sections, and turns to us. “This class is called life skills, and it’s about learning how to take care of yourself so that you not only survive—you thrive. I’m not going to waste our first day talking to you about how I need you to act in my class; you’re young adults and you know what you need to do at school. But…how do you get your needs met? What are the most important things in life? Go ahead: call out what you think you need to survive.”
One kid says, “Money!”
Mrs. Lowe writes it outside of the triangle. As each person calls out something, she adds to the list: “A car. I need to get off the bus.”…“A smartphone!”…“A laptop.”…“My little brother needs to stay out of my room. Like, forever.”
She makes the time-out sign, then turns and labels the bottom section of the triangle, Physical Needs. “Okay, let’s narrow our focus to this part only, which we could also call Survival Needs. Think: if you don’t have these three things, you die.”
The same kid yells out, “Money!” and everybody laughs. But he wasn’t joking. “Well, don’t you die without it? If you don’t have money, you can’t buy food—”
Mrs. Lowe exclaims, “Ding-ding-ding! Yes!” She jots Food on the board and turns to us. “Exactly how long one can survive without food depends on several things, such as how much a person weighs, their genetics, how good their health is to begin with, and, most importantly, whether or not they are sufficiently hydrated. So, another essential of life is…”
“Water!”
“That’s right: Humans need water to live. We lose water when we sweat, go to the bathroom, and even when we breathe. Your body needs water to survive. That said, some doctors say that people can go three to five days without water. But don’t try it. Don’t even go a day without—” She turns to the board and adds Water to the Physical Needs section of the triangle. “And the last necessity of life is?”
Kyle from Fun Math says, “TV?”
Mrs. Lowe rolls her eyes but smiles. After a few moments of silence, she prompts, “Tell me this, Kyle: Are you going to watch your television inside a cardboard box under a bridge?”
He looks confused at first; then a slow grin spreads across his face. “Oooooh…a place to live.”
“Right.” Mrs. Lowe completes the Physical Needs section with Shelter. “You have to have some kind of structure that protects you from the elements, you know, like freezing weather, Texas heat, tornadoes, hail, and so on.” She steps away and gestures to the triangle like she’s Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. “Physiological needs come first. If your body’s not having its needs met in a healthy way, it’s hard to focus on anything else. Let’s move up to the next level: Safety Needs, the need to feel safe and to trust. Turn to your table partner and come up with three ways that people’s safety needs are met. You have five minutes.” She sets a timer. “Go.”
I try a joke to break the ice with Becca. “Well, I guess one way to feel safe when shopping is to not be knocked over by a seven-year-old.”
She furrows her brow, clearly confused.
“Two Saturdays ago? My little sister plowed into you?” I lean down and whisper, “At the Goodwill store? Remember? I caught you just before you hit the ground and went ‘Splat’?”
Becca looks at me—really looks at me—for the first time, and I see that she remembers. She doesn’t smile. “Oh, yeah.”
“Sorry about that. I told my sister that the rabbit vest she was wearing had a disease, and she freaked out.”
Becca nods and looks down again.
I write my name on my paper. “So, we’re supposed to come up with three ways to feel safe and to trust. Do you have one?”
“I’m finished.” She slides her paper toward me. She’s listed: Mom & Dad, Home, and Best Friend.
I grimace and remember tucking the picture of Dad and that lady—Marcy—into my bra so that no one else would see it. My chest hurts with pangs of jealousy that Becca has parents she can count on. My mom thinks of me as a big fat disaster; I haven’t seen or heard from my father since the day he walked out the door—unless I count the video of him being chased by news reporters as he raced to a motel room where his girlfriend pulled the curtains closed—and now I’m living in a shitty little trailer with a plastic star taped to my ceiling. And…best friend? Of course I’ve had friends, but I’ve never had anybody I was super close to.
“You have a minute and a half,” Mrs. Lowe calls.
I grit my teeth. I can’t write what Becca wrote. “I think Mrs. Lowe means like, you know, smoke alarms or locks on the front door.”
Becca sets her pen on the table and folds her arms.
I write, smoke alarms, locks, and…that’s safety. What about trust?
I picture my dad sliding his arms around my mom and spewing some bullshit about being like honeymooners again in a few years. Package deal, my ass.<
br />
My stomach clenches. I close my eyes.
Mrs. Lowe warns, “Thirty seconds.” Most everyone else is finished and they’re talking about what they did over the summer. I helped destroy my family, and it only took spilling coffee and finding a photo to do it.
I slam down my pen and claw my head. The hum of conversation stops and I feel people staring. Mrs. Lowe puts her hand on my shoulder, leans down, and whispers, “Don’t stress about this, Colby. It’s not for a grade, and there are no wrong answers.”
Tears fill my eyes, and I feel like a kid on the first day of kindergarten. I hate the lump in my throat. I tell myself that it’s stupid to get this upset about an answer on a worksheet, even though I know that’s not what it’s about.
It takes all my self-control not to reach under the table and unfasten the top button on my jeans. I look down and see that my shirt has bunched up against the table, revealing the roll of fat around my middle. I feel myself being watched; I glance up and see that a boy at the table next to mine is staring at my bare skin. He’s got his hand over his mouth, leaning over to the girl by his side. I pull the shirt down and lower my head so that he can’t see me cry. I wish I was home—but the home I picture is the one in Northside: the one that Dad took from us when he forgot that honesty is everything to our family.
I tune out the class discussion of Safety Needs, and I’m relieved when Mrs. Lowe explains Love and Friendship Needs without requiring that I work with Becca. I’m gathering my things to leave class when Mrs. Lowe asks, “Colby? Did you hear the homework assignment?”
I shake my head and pretend to adjust my backpack strap.
“I asked you to consider what Self-Worth Needs are. Just come up with five things that you think a person can do to feel self-worth.” She watches the last few kids leave. “You’re new, right?”
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