by Erin Dionne
My throat squeezes down to the size of a straw. My one-two-three breaths are more like one-two-three wheezes.
Black Widow, I am not.
My hand shakes a little when I bring it up from my lap to the paper. Can I even turn it over? I’m kind of aware of my classmates packing up and leaving—the bell must have buzzed—and then Ms. Walker is in the empty desk beside me.
Focusing on her is just as bad as the test. I don’t know where to look.
“Hester,” she says. “Hess.” I turn to her.
Her frown is deep, and she tucks her hair behind her ears.
“What happened?” she says.
Those are the worst words she could have said. I haven’t even turned the test over, and I know. I know.
I will not cry.
I shrug.
She turns the test over for me.
There’s a big green NC on it—No Credit. I don’t read any of the other words. Why bother? Those two say it all.
“Hess,” she says. “We have a problem. Mr. Sinclair and I are going to talk with you about this today.”
“What is it?” My voice is a dry croak. I swallow what feels like a mouthful of pencil dust, and try again. “What is the problem?”
“Well.” Ms. Walker seems like she doesn’t want to say any more. Her eyes dart around the room, like she’s the one looking for an escape.
Maybe we could both leave and pretend this never happened? Under my desk, my sneakers rub together, doing a nervous dance on their own. The rubber edging around the sole thwaps loudly in the room.
She takes a breath and tries again.
“You aren’t doing well in social studies and math as well, right?”
I nod, my head feeling too heavy for my neck. “I’m going to summer school for those,” I whisper. “It’s all planned.”
“Well, Hester, I’m afraid the district doesn’t allow students to take three courses for summer school. And you are not on track to pass language arts.” She pauses, and my stomach, which has puddled somewhere around my shoes, drops even lower.
“Which means you are not on track to pass eighth grade.”
If this were a movie, she’d offer me a wide grin and say, “Kidding!” with a slap on the back. We’d laugh and leave together.
But this is not a movie, and Ms. Walker watches me closely, as though I could explode at any moment.
I might.
Instead, I nod my head. A little one, which is all I can manage.
“We will discuss this more after fifth period. Are you okay?”
That is a very stupid question. But I just nod again.
She slips out of the desk next to mine, I fumble for my bag, and stand on jellyfish legs.
“Hester,” she says, and I freeze, but don’t turn to look at her.
“I am concerned that you haven’t made any progress,” she says, like she didn’t just drop a bomb on me, like everything is the same as it was at the beginning of the period. “And I would like you to take these packets home and complete them for me, so we can make sure you’re comprehending material appropriately.” She comes into my field of vision holding another stack of papers—a bunch of packets, stapled together. She holds them out to me, and I automatically take them.
“Please go through them by the end of the week.”
I nod again, and move to leave.
This time, I make it out of the classroom.
And that’s when the tears come.
A fat tear rolls down one of my cheeks, and as I’m about to run away and find a dark hole to hide in for the rest of my life, Max appears at my side.
“Hey, Hess, you okay?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, which is good, because I definitely can’t. “Oh, hey, what’re you doing with those? My brother did these for homework last fall. Funny, huh?”
Max’s brother is in fifth grade. I am pretty sure that this is the most humiliating moment of my life.
“Gotta go,” I say, and I do it. Run away. Leave Max in my dust.
Feet slamming against the hallway floor, dodge kids on their way to lunch, kids at their lockers, kids headed to class. Crash into the science wing’s girls’ bathroom, and nearly fall over a yellow wet-floor sign. A terrible smell makes it past my snot-filled nose.
“Out of order!” yells Mr. Robertson, the custodian.
Back out, vision blurry and heart pounding. Shaking. Where can I go? Mr. Sinclair’s office is my usual spot, but today I don’t want anything to do with him or his strategies. They don’t help.
Hug the stupid packets to my chest, and, bag banging at my side, take off toward the gym. I just need to be alone.
But as I get closer, there’s a crowd. The girls’ track team is having a fund-raiser or something, and a bunch of kids are sitting all over the floor, eating cookies and brownies.
Detour down the nearest hall—the arts wing. There, on the right: the AV equipment closet. Miss Vogel showed me where it was last year when I needed a charger for my camera.
Don’t be locked don’t be locked don’t be locked …
I bang into the door, twist the knob, and nearly fall into the dark space. Scrabbling against the wall for a light switch, I sink to the ground in front of metal shelves holding DVD players, cameras, and loads of wires, and close the door when the overhead light flickers on.
And then I cry.
And cry.
And cry.
The tears pour out of me like I’m trying to flood the place.
It sinks in: I’m failing eighth grade. I’m not going to be able to go to high school. My friends will move on and be gone.
I suck back snot, trying to breathe.
Now the Hoot won’t be the only thing I miss. Add to that list the eighth-grade cruise, the end of the year party, and the move-up ceremony where parents send in stupid pictures of their kids to show in a slideshow …
Oh no. My parents. The Shame Pit that I’m in gets even deeper.
I’ve lost it. Deep, shaky sobs roll through my chest. How did I get here?
I’ve tried. I really have.
Haven’t I?
And then … images pop into my head of skipping homework to watch Indiana Jones. Crossing out items on my to-do list without even starting them … not opening The Giver.
I pull my legs even tighter against my body, fold my arms on top of my knees, put my head down.
I’m in a deep well of awfulness—the depths of Mount Doom, the training cave in The Empire Strikes Back, and all of Freddy Krueger’s nightmares—all rolled into one. And there’s no way out.
This sends me into a fresh round of crying. My insides hurt with the force of the sobs, and I have nothing to wipe my nose with, so I use the hem of my shirt. The bell ending lunch rings. I’m supposed to go to science, with Nev and Max … and then my meeting with Ms. Walker and Mr. Sinclair.
The late bell buzzes. I cry some more.
I am never leaving this closet.
I am cried out. My head aches and my eyes feel like overstuffed beanbags. The spot above my upper lip is raw from rubbing with my shirt hem tissue, and my knees creak when I finally straighten them out. I lean my head against the metal shelves behind me and close my eyes.
If this were a movie, I’d fall asleep and be transported into a dream sequence. Maybe it’d be a good dream: one that would give me clues that would help me solve my problem. Or it could be a nightmare: one where Ms. Walker, my parents, and Mr. Sinclair turn into crazy monsters who chase me down the halls of the school. Either way, when I woke up there would be a way out of this mess.
But this is not a movie. I stay still, head back, my insides raw from sobbing, and instead of trying to think of a way out of this situation, I try to pretend that it’s not happening. I try not to think of anything. My only plan is to stay here, basically forever.
The door opens. Someone gasps.
My eyes open and my head snaps forward. Tall, thin Miss Vogel stands frozen in the doorway, one hand over her heart and the other exte
nded to the turned-on light switch. Her mouth is open in an exaggerated O.
“You scared me!” she says after a second. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t.
“Is everything all right?” she asks. She steps into the small room, crouches down to my level, and puts a hand on my shoulder.
I shake my head. Everything is definitely not all right.
My face must look as swollen and red as it feels, because she stands up, extends a hand, and says briskly, “I don’t know where you’re supposed to be right now, but you’re coming with me.”
I don’t move. I’m still not sure I can.
“Come on. This is my free period.”
I let her help me up and follow her to a tiny office behind the theater classroom. She clears a pile of scripts off a chair next to her desk and tells me to sit down, then hands me a box of tissues. I blow my nose for real a few times.
“What class should you be in, Hess?”
“Science.” My raspy throat does still work, after all.
She uses the walkie-talkies that all teachers carry to notify the office that I’m not MIA, then disappears into the classroom and comes back with a small plastic cup of water. It slides down my throat, and my body’s jangled, pulled-apart sensation is replaced by a rolling wave of exhaustion.
“What happened?” she asks, concern and worry all over her face. “Do you need help?”
It takes a few seconds, but I realize what she’s asking me: Am I safe, has someone hurt me? I gulp some more water and shake my head.
“I’m okay. Nothing bad happened.” She rubs her eyes under her glasses and her face relaxes just a little.
Well, that’s a lie, but I have no idea how to tell this story. Where do I start? How do I not freak out again when I tell it?
“Take a breath,” she says. I breathe. My eyes get all watery again and a black void of hurt opens in my chest. I dab my eyes with a tissue and struggle against going into that sobbing dark place again.
“I’m failing,” I say. “Everything.”
And it’s like a gate lifts inside of me and I tell her all of it: how I wanted to do the Hoot so bad, the unsent email to the extra credit movie that I spent so much time on, failing The Giver test, being told that I wasn’t going to pass eighth grade, getting fifth grade homework to do …
“And now I have to go to a stupid meeting with Mr. Sinclair and Ms. Walker so they can all tell me how much I suck!” Tears run down my cheeks, but I’m too wiped out to care. I just blot and blow and wait for Miss Vogel to tell me how I’ve made bad decisions and everything is all my fault and I should stay in eighth grade forever because clearly I can’t handle high school.
“This is just terrible. I’m sorry, Hess. I really am.”
Her words surprise me as much as when Jack dropped an ice cube down my back at a barbecue at the pool last summer. I sit up straight and immediately stop crying. Teachers don’t usually say they are sorry. Or that things are terrible.
She takes her glasses off. Her face seems younger without them. She rubs her eyes again and sighs. The wall clock makes a soft electric buzz. Then she props her elbows on her desk and her chin on her hands, and looks straight at me.
“Look, I probably shouldn’t say this, so don’t spread it around, okay? But lots of creative people struggle with learning—you already know that. There is no one-size-fits-all way to teach people. And no one-size-fits-all way to learn. You’re struggling now, but once you get everything you need in place, it will be much easier.”
I want to believe her, I really do. But I have Mr. Sinclair’s strategies. And my mom’s methods. And nothing seems to be working. But she’s trying to be helpful, so I force a small smile.
She sees right through it.
“Yeah, you’re right,” she continues. “Not helpful. Okay. Well, I have to take you to Mr. Sinclair’s office so you can have your meeting, but … I’d like you to come to Hoot rehearsal tomorrow.”
“But I’m not in it,” I say.
“I know,” she replies. “But there’s someone coming who I want you to meet. Will you try?”
I nod and agree to come, even though the Hoot is the last thing I should be caring about.
She fishes through her desk and takes out a package of face wipes, then offers it to me. Grateful, I pull out the sheet and swab my cheeks and eyes with its coolness. I’m sure I still look bananas, but at least I’m not as sticky.
On the way to Mr. Sinclair’s office, she has me stop into the girls’ bathroom to blot at my now crusty and gross T-shirt. I splash water on my face and avoid looking at myself in the scratched mirror. If I look half as bad as I feel, everyone will be terrified.
We stand outside of Mr. Sinclair’s door.
“You ready?” Miss Vogel asks.
Inside, I say, No.
Outside: “I guess.”
She knocks.
Walking into his office, I am suddenly aware of the missing weight of my camera. I want its comforting bulk at my hip. I wish I were watching all of this through a lens instead of living it.
Mr. Sinclair sits behind his desk and he gestures to the red squashy chairs. I sink down, glad that he and Miss Vogel step out to talk to each other. Miss Vogel is probably telling him about my AV closet breakdown, and you know what? I don’t even care.
When he comes back in, his mouth is turned down in a tight frown. Is he mad at me for ditching class?
“Hess, are you okay?” His face softens and I can tell that it’s not me he’s mad at.
I nod and rub my eyes. I’m so tired, everything feels heavy.
“Your parents are coming in shortly. Why don’t you rest until they get here. We have a lot to discuss, and it seems that the morning took its toll on you.”
Wait—my parents?!
But I can’t even worry about that now. Relieved that he’s not making me talk about my feelings, I curl my knees to my chest and close my eyes.
“Hess?”
What seems like a second later, Mom’s voice wakes me up. A line of drool stretches from the corner of my mouth, and I swipe it away, embarrassed. Was I snoring, too?
I rub my eyes. “Hey, Mom.” She’s wearing the black pants and sweater she had on for work today, and Dad’s here, too. He gives me a small smile, like the one he gives me when I’m home sick with a stomach bug and feeling like death. Why are they at—
Then it comes flooding back in a rush. They’re here because I’m a failure.
Immediately, shame covers me. I stare down at my hands. My blue cuticles are red from picking at them. My hands twist in my lap.
“Come here,” Mom says gently. I don’t want to. The bell rings, signaling the end of fifth period.
She comes to me instead, wrapping me in an awkward hug on the squishy chair. I hug her back, hard.
“I’m so sorry,” I say into her neck. She smooths my hair.
“Don’t be,” she says. “We’ll figure it out.”
I climb off the chair on stiff legs, and Dad squeezes me against his side with his good arm.
Mr. Sinclair peeks around the doorframe.
“Are we ready?” No one answers. “Follow me.”
We go down the hall to the meeting room where I took that awful Giver test. Ms. Walker is already sitting at the table, a stack of papers in front of her. Everyone says hello and I keep my eyes on the blank surface of the table. I don’t sit down until Mom puts her hand in the small of my back and guides me to a chair. My parents sit on either side of me, and I’m grateful.
Ms. Walker begins. She tells them my test scores. Shows them her grade book. Tells them that I don’t seem to be engaged in class. They talk about my executive function disorder. My anxiety.
I want to shrink into a ball and roll away. They are talking about me like I’m not even here, so why bother staying? I count and breathe and sit very, very still.
“… Right, Hester?” Ms. Walker said something that I’m supposed to a
nswer, I guess.
“Um, can you repeat that?” For the first time, I get a good look at her. She seems grumpy, like she’s annoyed that she has to go through all of this.
She frowns, and gives my parents a look like, See what I mean?
“I gave you some other assessment work to do this week?” She turns to my parents and Mr. S. “I’m thinking maybe there’s more here than what’s been diagnosed. Perhaps Hester needs some new strategies, or other ways we can help her.”
It’s taking all of the strategies I have to not bolt.
Mr. Sinclair leans his elbows on the table. “There’s always more to try, but I think what we’re seeing here is that Hess is overwhelmed by the frequency of the exams, and not putting in time at home.”
My parents nod.
“Things have been hectic around the house lately,” Mom says, gesturing to Dad’s arm, “and we haven’t been as on top of her schoolwork as we usually are. We can all do better here.”
“Well, let’s do that,” Ms. Walker says crisply. “Hester is in serious danger of not passing eighth grade at this point. The marking period closes next week, and we can have another conversation at that time, with the assistant principal, about Hester’s eligibility for high school.”
A rock sets into my stomach. Next to me, Mom stiffens.
“Of course,” she says. “And what options does Hester have at this point for raising her grade in your class?”
Ms. Walker shakes her head, her mouth tiny and tight. “We have one more quiz on The Giver, and a vocabulary test. Even perfect scores on both won’t move the needle much, I’m afraid.”
Mom nods. “I see.”
“There has to be something she can do,” Dad says. “An extra assignment?”
Ms. Walker barks out a short laugh. “Extra? That didn’t go well before. I think she’s got enough to handle with what she’s been assigned. Don’t you?”
Mom and Dad look at me, two sets of surprised faces. I shrug. I never told them about what happened with the Sir Oakheart video. Things just got too crazy with Dad’s shoulder.
“We will work on things at home with Hess, and will be in touch with Mr. Sinclair about her progress and strategies,” Mom says. “We’re concerned, but sure there is a way to get her where she needs to be.”