More Than Good Enough

by Crissa-Jean Chappell

  Pippa McCormick goes to this school?

  This girl used to be my best friend. I called her Pippa-Down-The-Street because she lived in my old neighborhood. That was a long time ago, back when we were kids. Pippa didn’t look like a kid anymore. In fact, she looked amazing.

  The guys behind me were mooing like brain-dead cows. Their complete lack of maturity was damn pitiful. It really got me bent. I mean, come on. What was this? Kindergarten?

  When Pippa read the principal’s hit list (aka the “Walk of Shame”), I snapped awake. I must’ve been in a coma or something. For a minute I’d thought she called my name.

  “Could … um … Trent Osceola see the principal in his office?” Even Pippa sounded confused. The words replayed in my head.

  Could I see the principal?

  Sure.

  Would I?

  Not a chance in hell.

  Mrs. Kemp shooed me out the door. Free at last. I made a beeline for the library, my hiding place. As I pounded downstairs, I almost slammed into the guidance counselor, a middle-aged dude with a Looney Tunes tie, Velcro sneakers, and a name I couldn’t remember. He always pretended like he was on your side, but I wasn’t falling for it.

  “Hey kiddo. We need to chat,” Mr. Velcro said, breathing nicotine fumes all over me. The man had no concept of personal space. He stuck out his hand. Obviously, I was supposed to shake it.

  Too bad I’ve never been a fan of handshakes.

  Mr. Velcro dropped his arm to his side. “Guess you got the call.”

  “What call?” I glared at his stupid tie: Wile. E. Coyote waving goodbye as he cartwheeled off a cliff. I always felt sorry for him, not that freaking smartass, Road Runner.

  “You’ve just transferred to this school, Trent, and we’re already hearing reports of you missing class.” Mr. Velcro stroked his wedding band. I tried to imagine who would pledge eternal love to this freak. Maybe someone even freakier.

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Believe me. I’ve got a kid in braces, but I was young once.” He laughed. When I didn’t, he kept blabbing. “So we discussed it and we’re thinking, what the heck? Let’s give you a chance. Hear your side of the story. We feel that’s the right thing to do, in this particular case.”

  We, we, we.

  God, who talks like that? The Queen of France?

  Mr. Velcro steered me into the principal’s office. The walls were covered with laminated posters. Sunsets melting into the beach. Kittens dangling off a window. Feel-good slogans with the empty enthusiasm of a pep rally: Teamwork. Many hands. One goal.

  Above the principal’s chair, a crashing wave urged me to adjust my attitude because it’s a powerful force. You could say the same about hurricanes.

  “Have a seat, Mr … Oss … ” The principal squinted at a paper on his desk. No doubt the legendary “permanent record.”

  Sound it out. Ah-See-Oh-La.

  He was staring at my trapper hat. Yeah, it doesn’t exactly fit South Florida, but it keeps me warm when old lady teachers crank the AC.

  “Trent, could you remove your hat, please?”

  I could, but …

  He took out a hankie and wiped his glasses. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  It sounded like a philosophical question. Why was I here?

  He waited.

  I tugged off my hat and plopped it on my knee. “Well, they called my name on the announcements … ” I trailed off, thinking of Pippa, her sweet voice.

  “True. This is true.” He glanced at Mr. Velcro, who sat next to me, jiggling his sneaker like a bass pedal. “We’ve been going over your records … ”

  Again with the “we.”

  “ … and it seems we’ve detected a pattern.”

  I sunk a little lower in my chair.

  “Your attendance is spotty and you haven’t been here long. You transferred to Palm Hammock with poor grades. Until last year, it looks like you were doing well. Is something going on at home? Maybe you’d like to talk about it?”

  No thanks.

  “Help us out, Trent.” Mr. Velcro woke up. “What’s in your head? Could you share with us?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not big on sharing.”

  At Southwinds, I passed every test without studying. All I had to do was listen. I didn’t even write stuff down or take notes or anything. I just paid attention. That’s the secret. But I flaked out on my homework. That’s what killed my grades. It’s so damn stupid. Why did I have to fill out a worksheet on Reading Comprehension if I already knew all the answers?

  I could’ve asked Mr. Velcro the same thing. Instead, I said, “They put me in all these baby classes.”

  The principal drummed his fat fingers on the desk. “Is that why you haven’t been attending?”

  “I missed homeroom yesterday. That’s because my car died and I live all the way out in the Everglades and my dad won’t get it fixed.”

  “You’re living where?” The principal took off his glasses, as if that would help him hear better.

  Shit.

  “I was at my dad’s house.” Not exactly a lie.

  “So, your family situation … ”

  “What about it?”

  He wouldn’t let up. “You mentioned your father. Our records show that you live with your mother in Kendall.”

  “I’m not talking about my dad, okay? Just leave him out of it.”

  The principal slid open a drawer and grabbed a pen. He scribbled something on his mountain of papers. “At this rate, you’re in danger of repeating your junior year.”

  The word “danger” made me flinch. Believe me. If I dropped out of school, I wasn’t coming back. No reset button. No second chances. Isn’t that what Dad said?

  “You’ve still got time,” Mr. Velcro added. “If you really push through this semester … ”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  I watched his gums flap while I hit the mute button inside my head. Sometimes I make up songs—riffs or lyrical refrains—when people talk at me. At least I put those seconds to good use. It wasn’t like I was missing anything while they pretended to care about my “lack of family structure.”

  Here’s a newsflash. Nobody really cares.

  When he finally shut up, I tuned the volume back on.

  “Any questions?” Mr. Velcro tapped his foot.

  “Yeah,” I said, hopping out of my chair. The hat flopped across the floor like a tumbleweed. I plunked it onto my head. “Can I go now?”

  On the way out, I passed the dust-encrusted TV in the front office. Then I saw Pippa on the TV again and my brain went into some kind of nuclear meltdown. It was more like a stream-of-consciousness, like we talked about in AP English.

  “What class is that?” I jabbed my thumb at the TV.

  The secretary didn’t even look at me. “Digital Filmmaking and Communications.”

  It sounded easy enough.

  “Sign me up,” I said.

  “You’ll have to ask Mr. Bonette for permission,” she said. “The class is very popular. It might already be filled.”

  I didn’t even ask for a late pass. Just stumbled out the door and headed for the stairs.

  “Wait.” The secretary was actually following me like a creeper. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  What a dumb-ass question. I was going to the film class. Or, to be more specific, the TV studio. Walking real careful through the hall. Quietly. Almost Zenlike.

  The secretary didn’t look very Zen. I wanted to explain the concept to her, but she was fired up about my hat.

  “Not allowed on school grounds … ” She was spitting all over me, which was beyond gross. Let’s just say I wasn’t listening.

  I took a step backward, as if pulled by gravitational forces toward the men’s room. The secretary didn’t let up. I half-
expected her to follow me in there.

  “I’m giving you a warning,” she said.

  That’s the part where I was supposed to act all grateful. “Thanks,” I muttered as the door banged shut. Thanks for nothing.

  I leaned against the tiled walls. Recently, I’d spent a lot of time looking for places to hide during class. Sometimes I walked over to the elementary school library. (Not that I’m a pervert or whatever. They had these nice beanbag chairs. I’d sink into my own little corner and read graphic novels.) True, I could’ve finished my junior year on the Rez, but technically my address was still in Kendall. I never thought I’d get stuck in regular school again. Not that Palm Hammock seemed much different than Southwinds. The teachers made you memorize a bunch of pointless facts. Why didn’t they teach something useful, like how to get a refund on your taxes?

  To be totally honest, I figured the film class was an easy A. I couldn’t afford to fail another semester. After watching the morning announcements, my comatose brain put two and two together. That’s when I had an epiphany (my new favorite vocab word):

  Pippa could help me.

  I hid in the bathroom, trying to think of how to approach her. I could walk up, all casual, like Hey, didn’t we used to play pirates?

  The more I thought about it, the dumber it sounded. I could always just bump into her during class and let her do all the talking. That was the cowardly way out. But it’s hard to feel brave when you’re splashing your face in a graffiti-stained sink, hunched under a dozen felt-tip penis doodles.

  As I dipped back into the hallway, I was still juggling opening lines, testing them out like bass guitar riffs. I was so busy concentrating, I didn’t notice Kenzie Shoemaker marching straight toward me. She had a bitchy look on her face and a cell phone in her hand. A bad combo.

  “I just heard what you did to Michelle,” she told me.

  Nice. I’d escaped from one school only to find that Michelle had a posse here too. Sort of like a female mafia. I really wasn’t in the mood to deal with it. I stared at the little blond hairs sparkling above her lip while she gave me the third degree.

  “She deserves so much better,” Kenzie said. “Why did you leave her last night?”

  Now I was pissed. “First of all, Michelle played me. Not the other way around.”

  “Obviously, this proves what she said about you.” Kenzie stood there, waiting for me to ask the inevitable question.

  “Okay. I give up. What did Michelle say?”

  “You’re not good enough for her.”

  This hurt on so many levels. Did Michelle really say that? I mean, did she really think I wasn’t good enough?

  I shoved past Kenzie and crashed into the water fountain. For some reason, it was always clogged. Water dribbled over the edge and splattered all over me. I stared at a wad of gum plopped like a stalagmite near the drain. (Or was it stalactite? I always got them confused.)

  “That was slick,” said Kenzie, walking away.

  My jeans were covered with damp splotches. No way could I talk to Pippa now. I opened my locker and pretended to look for something. What if Pippa walked by? I waited a couple minutes, hoping she’d materialize. Then I saw Kenzie clomping down the hall again. In my mind, I heard the Imperial Death March from Star Wars.

  I’d had enough of Kenzie’s bullshit, so I walked back toward the auditorium. I couldn’t stand having my life broadcast all over this school. Michelle didn’t even go here. It was beyond embarrassing. Not to mention totally unfair.

  The double doors clanked as I slammed my weight into them. All the chairs in the auditorium were folded near the stage, making the walls look bigger than usual. I was kind of nervous about barging into the TV studio, but that’s exactly what I did.

  Heads turned as I marched into the brightly lit room. Already I felt like I’d made a big mistake. The people in this class were probably film geniuses and I was an expert at nothing. In the back was a camera on a tripod, along with lots of bell-shaped lamps, a semicircle of desks, and Pippa.

  She was looking at me. I mean, really looking. I could practically feel it—the stare of epic proportions, like Storm in the X-Men, igniting the classroom into an Apocalypse-worthy solar flare.

  Damn.

  When we were little, Pippa McCormick got mistaken for a boy on a daily basis. I seriously doubted that she had that problem anymore. For one thing, her purple-streaked hair spilled all the way down to her butt. I didn’t know girls could grow it that long. Guess I figured they came with an “off” switch when it reached a certain length, like, say, their shoulder blades or whatever.

  The teacher was sitting on his desk. He was kind of youngish and thin, but not in an anorexic sort of way.

  “Are you looking for Digital Filmmaking and Communications?” he asked. “This class is full. I shouldn’t let anybody else in.”

  “Really? Because I’m pretty good at communicating.”

  I waited for him to get pissed. Instead, he just smirked. “I’m Mr. Bonette. Call me Mr. Bones if you like.”

  Okay. This teacher was definitely not normal.

  Mr. Bones reached into a drawer and took out a folder. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “It’s Trent.” God, this was so awkward.

  “Have you taken any film classes before?” he wanted to know.

  “No, but I’ve watched a lot of movies.”

  The girls in the front row laughed. Yeah, I sounded like a complete idiot.

  He wrote something in his folder. “What kind of movies?”

  At this point, my mind went blank. “Um. I don’t know. Documentaries. Real-life stuff.” I figured this would get him off my case.

  “Excellent. You’re into cinéma vérité.”

  So now we were in French class. “Cinema what?”

  “It means truth-film.”

  The front-row girls were laughing again. They almost fell out of their chairs. Actually, that would be pretty funny.

  “Do you want to be here, Trent?” he asked.

  What was I supposed to say? No, I don’t want to be here at school, talking to a teacher who thinks I’m stupid. I don’t want to be home, either. Wherever that is. Stuck in the Everglades. It didn’t matter where I went, because nobody cared.

  Mr. Bones waited. “Okay, I’ll fit you in. If you want to stay here, grab a chair. We’re about to go over the rule of thirds.”

  Rule of what? I thought we were going to watch movies.

  This class was looking to be a lot harder than I’d thought.

  While Mr. Bones rambled on about framing the subject, I was busy checking out Pippa’s checkered legs. She kept them bouncing at all times, as if listening to a never-ending soundtrack inside her head.

  Pippa used to wear jeans, like, every single day. Now her slamming body was packed into checkered tights and a dress that looked safety-pinned together. Upon closer inspection, I realized the safety pins were staples.

  This was the girl who’d played mad scientist with me. We’d raid the fridge, dump chocolate syrup and mayo in a cup, and dare each other to chug it. We used to talk about all kinds of stuff. Then I got into Southwinds in middle school and we kind of stopped talking. I’m not even sure why.

  Did she remember me?

  The bell rang and everybody jumped like a bunch of dogs. “Listen up, people,” Mr. Bones yelled. “Before you leave,

  let’s talk about your final project for this semester. It’s a group project.”

  Now I had to do a group project? I’d thought this was supposed to be an easy class. My life depended on it. God, this was going to suck so bad.

  “Where’s my documentary fan?” He waved at me. Yeah, just pile on the humiliation. “I need you guys to team up in pairs. You’re going to work together and film Life Portraits—documentaries of each other’s family life.”

  A gro
an washed over the classroom.

  “What if my family life is boring?” I asked.

  “Your partner’s job is to make it not boring,” he said. “There will be a screening of your films at the end of the semester, in the auditorium.”

  Great.

  “No ‘talking head’ interviews like you see on TV,” he went on. “You must use the vocabulary of shots that we’ve discussed in class. Wide Angle, Close up, Reverse … ”

  “All of them?”

  Mr. Bones stared. That’s the problem with teachers. They aren’t fluent in sarcasm.

  “Yes, all of them,” he said. “But not at the same time.”

  Okay. Maybe I was wrong.

  Pippa was the first to grab the sign-up sheet. I got stuck in line behind the front-row girls. They kept arguing about switching partners. It was totally annoying. When I grabbed the sign-up sheet, there were no spaces left.

  My eyes moved across the page. At the top was Pippa’s signature in capital letters, and next to it, she’d written my name.

  four

  As I pushed my way back through the auditorium, a bunch of theater girls shoved themselves in front of me. For some unknown reason, they were carrying one of the legless CPR dummies from health class. Even worse: they were singing “Happy Birthday” to it.

  Pippa was sitting alone on the stage. I headed for the stairs and tripped halfway up. (Who’s dumb enough to fall up stairs? That’s how uncoordinated I am.) Meanwhile, the theater girls were laughing like a public service announcement: We’re having more fun than you.

  “Oh, my god, Trent,” Pippa said. “This is crazy. I was reading the morning announcements and when I saw your name, I was like, whoa. Since when do you go to Palm Hammock?”

  Maybe I could’ve said something about her purple-streaked hair. It looked so amazing, like a punk rock fairy queen. I could’ve mentioned the way she strutted in those crazy boots, so tall and straight, while the other girls slouched around looking insecure. I could’ve asked if she still believed in monsters like the Wendigo.

  I could’ve said a lot of things.