Better With Butter

by Victoria Piontek

  Ms. Day extends her hand to Dad. “You must be Captain McKenna. Your wife mentioned you’d be coming in today. I’m Marvel’s homeroom and core teacher. That means I have her for social studies and language arts. I’m also her main point of contact.”

  Dad pumps her hand vigorously, all warmth and smiles. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  I glance at him, surprised by his revelation. I haven’t mentioned Ms. Day to him once, which means Mom has been talking to him about me. I hope she’s only telling him good stuff.

  Ms. Day touches my shoulder. “I bet it’s nice to have your dad home.”

  I nod. I am happy he’s home, but it makes it harder to hide the realities of my anxiety from him. When he’s at sea, Mom’s the only parent at these meetings and I don’t need to impress her because she’s around me 365 days a year. Our time together isn’t limited.

  “And you’re enjoying the time off?” Ms. Day asks Dad.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s great to have some time at home. These rascals grow like weeds when I’m at sea.” He nudges me and chuckles, like we’re at a backyard barbecue. I’m not sure he understands the gravity of our situation.

  “I bet they do,” Ms. Day says. I can tell she likes Dad. He’s not in uniform, but the way he stands and acts shouts serviceman and military hero. I’d be so proud to introduce him to her if the reasons for this meeting were different.

  “Why don’t you both follow me to the conference room.” Ms. Day ushers us down a hallway and into a small room with a table too large for the tight space. “Principal Huxx will join us momentarily.”

  Dad and I squeeze around the table and sit on the side farthest away from the door. I immediately start to feel trapped and claustrophobic. Dad seems relaxed and not bothered at all. I suppose all his time on ships has trained him to be comfortable in close quarters.

  Ms. Day positions herself across from us and clasps her hands in front of her expectantly.

  As soon as we’re settled, Principal Huxx strides into the room carrying a thick file and sits next to Ms. Day.

  Facing off with them makes my stomach feel hollow, and I bite my bottom lip, dreading what Principal Huxx might say.

  “Glad you could join us today, Captain McKenna,” Principal Huxx says formally, and flips open the overflowing file.

  Dad nods and matches her tone as if he’s finally starting to realize the true nature of this meeting. “Nice to see you again, Principal.”

  Principal Huxx directs her ceremonial niceties toward me. “Recovered from your stage fright?”

  I flinch and cut my eyes to Dad to check his expression. He’s facing forward, so only his profile is visible, but his jaw seems tighter than before and I wonder if that tension is in reaction to learning I’ve developed yet another anxiety to add to the million others I already have or Principal Huxx’s curt tone.

  “Yes,” I lie because she’s the last person on the planet I want to talk to about it, especially with Dad sitting right there.

  “Glad to hear it,” Principal Huxx says, all business. “Marvel, your teachers and I had a chance to talk yesterday, and we’re concerned.”

  My palms start to sweat. Concerned is code for alarmed.

  “Between your tardies and ‘sick days’ ”—Principal Huxx air-quotes sick days so we all understand she doesn’t consider me sick—“your absences are excessive and your grades are suffering.”

  Shame burns my face. My good grades are the one thing I have going for me. I’m a perfectionist, so that usually works in my favor. I do my assignments over and over again until they’re flawless. I sometimes turn in work late because I can’t stop perfecting it, but until this year, it hasn’t been too much of an issue. Most of my lower school teachers appreciated my careful, tidy papers. And let’s face it, in elementary if you’re not nibbling on the Play-Doh, you’re pretty much acing it. The problem is sixth grade. Teachers take points away for lateness. They expect speed and accuracy, and that’s harder to manage. Especially when missed work piles up because of absences and trips to the nurse’s office, but I didn’t realize my grades were actually suffering. Tears sting my eyes.

  Dad glances at me, and I quickly blink them away.

  “Maybe we should have this meeting in private.” Dad’s tone and face are neutral. The tightness in his jaw has been erased, as if he’s purposely wiped away all emotion now that he fully comprehends why we’re here. I guess that’s why he’s a captain. Calm under pressure. I wonder if I’m adopted.

  “I know this is hard for Marvel to hear, but she’s in middle school now. Her grades and her attendance are her responsibility. All her teachers agree.” Principal Huxx motions to Ms. Day for confirmation.

  Unlike Dad, Ms. Day’s an open book. It’s clear she’s uncomfortable with this ambush, but Principal Huxx is her boss, and like I said, everyone is afraid of her. “Her teachers do feel it’s important that Marvel understands the situation as we work toward a solution.”

  Okay. Message received. Time to go. As happy as I am to spend time with Dad, I don’t want to do it in a meeting where Principal Huxx can tell him all the things I don’t want him to know. I push back my chair, ready to bolt. It slams into the pea-green wall.

  Dad puts his hand on my arm to keep me where I am. “A solution? What’s at stake here?”

  Principal Huxx meets Dad’s eyes. She speaks candidly and quickly, like she’s ripping off a Band-Aid. “Her progression to seventh grade.”

  My insides twist, and my eyes burn. I can’t fail sixth grade. All the kids I’ve gone to school with since kindergarten would move on ahead and leave me behind. I’d be completely humiliated. Even talking about it is mortifying.

  As if she hasn’t already said enough, Principal Huxx continues, “Unfortunately, she’s not in elementary school anymore. The grading system, the attendance, everything adds up and matters. She’s lagging in all categories. It’s the spring semester. There’s not much time left to rectify the situation, and after yesterday, I’m very concerned about her end-of-the-year project, the school play. It’s a big percentage of her final grade.”

  I don’t want them to, but tears drip down my cheeks. I turn my head away from Dad, Ms. Day, and Principal Huxx and stare at the puke-colored wall. I’m stunned and frustrated. I try hard to be good at school, but it’s tough. There are so many things to get right.

  Dad pats my arm. “What does she need to do? I’m sure she can catch up. Marvel’s always been a good student.”

  We both know it’s not true. I genuinely like the learning part of school, but I’m bad at all the other stuff that matters—being in the classroom, participation, speeches, plays, friends, lunch. There’s a lot more to school and being a student than adults remember. It’s not only about turning in assignments on time, and even if it were, apparently I’m also not good at that.

  Principal Huxx details the specifics of her plan. “She needs to show up on time each and every day and remain in class the entire time. No late arrivals, early dismissals, or spending the day in the nurse’s office. In addition, she’ll have to do some extra credit to make up for her missed classwork. Ms. Day will work with Marvel on what she needs to do. Most importantly, she needs to participate in the play. Ms. Day will find a small part for her, something manageable, but she’s got to be in it. It’s a requirement for all sixth graders,” Principal Huxx finishes firmly.

  Dad nods as if everything she’s suggested is doable. “I think Marvel can meet those obligations.”

  Ms. Day smiles at me. “We know she can do it.”

  I’m glad they’re confident, because to me, it sounds impossible. There’s makeup work, the play, and facing my classmates again after freezing onstage in front of the entire school. To make matters even worse, my go-tos for survival have been yanked away from me. I can’t stay home sick, hide out with Skippy, or shorten my days by coming in late or leaving early when worry eats away at me until my stomach hurts. If I lean on my old ways, I’m going to flunk sixth grade, an
d I really, really don’t want to be held back.

  The stress of all the things I need to change and get right for promotion to seventh grade makes my chest so tight it feels like an elephant is sitting on it, and my eyes burn with tears again.

  The bell rings, signaling the start of the school day.

  Ms. Day stands. “Why don’t we walk to homeroom together, Marvel?”

  I swipe my tears away and stand up.

  Dad rises and gives me a hug goodbye. I’m so ashamed he had to hear Principal Huxx say those things about me, I can barely return it. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”

  Not likely.

  “Let’s not be late, Marvel,” Ms. Day says, waiting to usher me out of the conference room.

  Nope, wouldn’t want to be late to class.

  I think what’s hard to understand about me and school is that I don’t actually hate it. I know my accumulation of absences, late arrivals, and early exits gives the impression that I do or that I hate other kids. Neither is true. I love to learn new things, and I want friends. It’s the pressure not to mess up that makes everything miserable, to get it all right—the answers, the words, the clothes, the hobbies, the chitchat. It’s a lot to worry about. One misstep and KERPOW, it’s over.

  I know, I know. Everyone says that’s not how life operates, but it does. It just doesn’t work that way all the time, so I can’t plan for it. Life’s gonna get me. The problem is, I never know where, when, or how. That’s the on-edge part.

  Take today, for instance. When I woke up this morning, I never imagined I’d be dragged into a meeting with Principal Huxx and learn that I’m one play performance away from failing sixth grade, but out of nowhere that happened and I still haven’t recovered. In fact, I may never be able to get into the car to go to school again without having flashbacks and feeling a shame so heavy it’s like an anchor holding me in place.

  On the other hand, I had lain awake ALL night and spent the ENTIRE day worried about kids teasing me, and went to great lengths to avoid them—jumped up and run out of my classes as soon as they ended, taken strange routes between rooms to avoid other people, and looked down at all times to prevent eye contact (if I can’t see them, they can’t see me).

  To my total surprise, almost no one has said anything about my presentation. Aside from a few snickers, it’s like the other kids have forgotten all about me. Only one more class to go, and I’m home free. I’m finally starting to relax and believe Mom’s been right for once and no one cares about my speech, which is a huge relief because being on high alert all day takes its toll. When I’m jazzed up, it’s hard to eat or focus. My mind is repeatedly attacked by visions of worst-case scenarios that make my stomach drop and roll with queasiness. It’s like riding on a roller coaster that I desperately want to get off of, but it refuses to stop.

  The great thing is it’s Friday, so that means in one hour the weekend starts. I can go home to Butter, Dad, Mom, and Reef and forget all about this place for two glorious days.

  I slink into language arts and slide into my chair.

  The bell rings, and kids scramble to their seats as Ms. Day takes her place up front.

  We sit at round tables in small groups. My group is Addie, Mercedes, and Theo. The three of them are besties, so that’s awkward for me. Addie is perfect. Theo is kind, and Mercedes is a chatterbox. It’s a good table. One of the better ones, actually, even if we always get in trouble for talking. It’s not me, of course. It’s them, but mostly Mercedes. Having all of us face one another instead of the front of the room, where Ms. Day stands, is too much temptation for her. Mercedes comments on everything. It’s like she live-tweets our school day. I think I got put with them because I’m shy at school. Teachers always do that. They stick the quiet kids with the talkative ones. I don’t mind. I like Mercedes’s chatter.

  Though, our table setup is the reason I don’t notice the screen at first.

  Mercedes gets the seat that faces the front of the room while Addie and Theo get the side views. I look at the back of the classroom. It usually works for me, but today is atypical. Ms. Day has a surprise in store.

  “You were magnificent yesterday!” Ms. Day oozes with first-year-teacher pep.

  I don’t swirl my body around to look at her because, clearly, she isn’t speaking to me and I like to give my neck a break. I sometimes worry the twisting will cause long-term damage to my spine. After all, I’m not part hoot owl.

  “You put your best efforts into your projects, and it showed! That’s why I’m excited you’re going to get a chance to see yourselves, just as the audience did yesterday!”

  I whip my head around, and that’s when I see the screen. My whole body goes cold.

  Ms. Day walks around the room handing out papers. “As you watch, please record each presenter’s name along with one compliment and one critique. I’ll collect them and compile everything into a list for each person.”

  Mercedes sticks her hand in the air.

  Ms. Day stops by our table and drops four papers in the middle. “Yes, Mercedes?”

  “What if we have more than one critique?” Mercedes snatches the handouts and passes each of us one.

  Ms. Day pauses near me. “I want you to keep it to one per person.”

  I put my head on the table like a depressed dog. Eternal video evidence of the most embarrassing moment of my life is the very thing I’ve been worried about. It’s the worst of worst-case scenarios, and it’s more awful than I imagined. In hindsight, I’d rather have my classmates tease me than have to face myself on-screen.

  Ms. Day kneels down next to me and whispers, “Don’t worry, Marvel. I don’t plan on showing your presentation unless you want me to.”

  I shake my head. Ms. Day is banana cakes if she thinks I want anyone, especially myself, to see a replay of my complete full-body meltdown.

  She pats me on the back and heads to the front of the room to start the playbacks.

  In between presenters, Addie sneaks peeks at me.

  She keeps doing it, so I scooch back, creating a cocoon with my arms that allows me to block her out.

  “Marvel,” Addie whispers, and shakes my shoulder. “You okay?”

  I’m not. Not at all. I’m miserable. Just when I was sure everyone had forgotten all about the presentations and I’d almost decided it might be safe for me to move on also, Ms. Day trots out video evidence to jog our memories.

  Addie sighs.

  I hear the speeches, one after another. Everyone is doing great; so far no one has even gotten tripped up or stumbled over their words.

  Theo and Mercedes whisper to each other. It sounds like they’re arguing, but I can’t really hear them with my head down. Addie finally blurts out, “She’s obviously upset about her speech.”

  I don’t lift my head off my arms to acknowledge them.

  Mercedes reaches across the table and pokes me. “Theo’s next.”

  “Mercedes,” Theo says, “leave her alone.”

  I sit up to watch him. It feels like the right thing to do since we’re tablemates.

  Theo went all out for his Steven Spielberg costume. He sprayed his hair gray, wore glasses, and used an old film camera as a prop. Theo’s dad is an animator or director or something. That’s part of the problem with where I live. Everyone is special.

  Up on screen, Theo’s doing a great job, but I’m watching Ms. Day. She’s not paying attention. She seems very distracted by something in her desk drawer. Oh no. She’s texting.

  I need her to look up. I’m next. She’s got to get over to the computer and fast-forward or stop the recording or do whatever it is she planned to do to skip me.

  My eyes bore into her. LOOK UP!

  Addie and Mercedes stare at me staring at Ms. Day.

  My palms start to sweat, and my heart kicks into high gear. For the love of all that is holy, LOOK UP, MS. DAY!

  Theo is focused on his on-screen self. I don’t know how he can stand it.

  “Is something wrong?”
Addie asks.

  My voice is pure panic. “I’m next. She’s supposed to stop it.” The speeches are only thirty seconds long. Even though Ms. Day is a new teacher and pretty young, she’s still old in relation to us. She doesn’t have the texting dexterity we do. She probably types in complete sentences.

  Addie glances at Ms. Day. “Is she texting? Teachers aren’t allowed to do that in class.”

  I nod, helpless.

  Addie elbows Mercedes. “Ms. Day is supposed to stop the recording before it gets to Marvel, but she’s texting.”

  Mercedes checks out Ms. Day.

  Now we’re all staring at her. You would think she’d feel it.

  Ms. Day smiles and starts texting again as Theo’s speech ends. Ms. Day doesn’t notice the speaker on the video change. On-screen, I walk up to the microphone.

  I stop staring at Ms. Day and watch the video.

  All around me, my entire class is utterly silent as yesterday’s horror replays from a completely new perspective—the audience’s viewpoint.

  I watch myself stumble up to the microphone and stand in front of it. I see my mouth open and close like a guppy as I try to say words and forget all of them. Then I do nothing. Absolutely nothing. I stand frozen while the flashlight goes on and off as if it’s yelling, Speak, Marvel. Speak!

  It’s even worse on film. I know it’s me, but that girl on-screen makes no sense. I don’t know why she’s so afraid of everything, even a silly thirty-second speech that other kids ace without an ounce of concern, or how she ended up like that. My heart hurts, and I feel sorry for her because she’s in a cage of her own making, frozen in place by her own fears. Fears she collected as sparks and tended until they burst into an inferno.

  I ball my hands into tight fists and squeeze as hard as I can to try to hold my tears inside. I don’t want to cry in front of my class on top of everything else. It doesn’t work.

  Tears fall from my eyes.

  Addie is the first to react. “Ms. Day!”

  Ms. Day’s head pops up, the smile still fixed to her face. It takes about two seconds for her to figure out what’s happening. She drops her phone into her drawer. The thump echoes. She runs to the computer and starts frantically pressing buttons.