by Ally B
“Yes, there was an email sent to all of your instructors, but we want you to know that your father’s actions will in no way reflect upon you or affect you as a student or a valued member of the Bulldog family.” He continues.
“Mr. Velasquez, with all due respect, I really don’t understand why my teachers were informed about my situation at home. It has nothing to do with my education. You know me as a student, this will in no way affect my grades regardless.” I fling my other backpack strap over my shoulder and tap my foot.
“We just wanted to make sure that you had a proper support system and people to talk to about this. We care about you, Phoebe.” He continues.
“As much as I’d love to continue this physically painful and generally invasive conversation, please tell your email chain of Phoebe Mitchell fans to leave me and my family’s business out of my education. I hear enough of the uninformed gossip outside of school. Thanks so much.” I plaster the fakest smile I can muster onto my face as I walk out of the room in perfect time with the dinging of the bell, heart beating faster as tears well in my eyes.
I begin my speed-walk toward Bio, already late.
“Hey, you all right?” Max stops me.
“Did you really wait?”
“I wanted to be able to pick on you if you got yelled at,” he jokes. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone told all of the teachers about my dad,” I tell him, continuing down the hall.
“You’re fucking kidding me.” He quickly catches up.
“I wish.”
“Who?” He asks.
“No clue. I know it wasn’t my mom.” I tell him, closing my eyes tightly to push back the tears. My mom had dealt with it in our community just as much as I had. The whispers, the finger-pointing, and talking behind our backs. Only she didn’t get the pity, she was accused of being a shitty parent for letting me be in a car with him, and the hushed, ‘she should’ve knowns,’ were enough to drive her away from volunteering at school events and take more shifts at the hospital.
“You don’t think it was my—”
“Neither of your parents would do that.” I cut him off before he can finish his sentence.
“Probably one of the PTA members, or Board of Ed leg-humpers,” he says in a way I can tell he’s just as pissed off as I am.
“Like I wasn’t going to deal with it enough,” I say as we turn into the Science hallway.
“Maybe it’ll all blow over. It’s not like the students know,” he suggests, desperate to give me some kind of hope.
“Ava will,” I tell him. “And once Ava knows, so does Gabby. Then it’s over.” I shake my head.
“Ava isn’t a bad person. She won’t be bitchy about it.”
“She won’t be bitchy, but she’ll still be the reason people find out. We’ll talk later. I don’t want to think about it right now.” I tell him as we reach Mrs. Kumar’s room.
Max grabs the handle and opens the door, allowing me to enter before he does. Every single set of eyes in the near-silent room turns to us, even Mrs. Kumar’s.
“Take your seats, guys, Mr. Velasquez called ahead.” The teacher tells us as I nearly run to my seat in the back row of lab benches, pulling out my notebook and silently scribbling down the notes we’d already missed.
Kumar continues reading from her whiteboard for fifteen minutes before announcing that we’ll be starting a lab today.
“As you may have noticed, we have a lab orphan.” She recites the familiar phrase, earning eye-rolls and groans from nearly everyone in the room. A lab orphan is anyone whose partner is out of class for the day, and apparently new kids as well. “Who wants to adopt him?”
I instantly feel bad for Graham as he chuckles at Kumar. The woman’s sense of humor is odd enough as it is, but it’s even worse when you’re on the receiving end of it.
“We’ll take him.” Max raises his hand, speaking up before I can.
“Isn’t that nice of you.” Mrs. Kumar gives a fake smile as Graham moves his stuff and a stray stool over to our lab bench.
“Welcome to Emerson.” Max chuckles as Graham shakes his head.
Lab instructions are given quickly when Kumar realizes the period is almost over. She tells us just to answer the pre-lab questions, and if we don’t, it’s homework.
Lovely.
“I’m Graham.” The boy offers his hand to Max, which I can tell Max thinks is amusing by the glimmer in his eye as he shakes it.
“Max Sanchez. How much do you hate it here?” He jokes while answering the questions on his paper in his familiar indecipherable chicken scratch.
“It’s not too bad yet,” he says doubtfully. Then asks, “do you guys go all out for football games? I heard there’s one tomorrow night. At my old school, they’re huge.”
I sigh, here we go.
“Some people do, but if they actually want to see a team win, they go to the soccer games,” Max says as casually as his over-enthusiastic heart can handle.
“Is there some kind of rivalry here?” Graham asks.
I know this part of the conversation isn’t going to end well.
“No, there’s not any rivalry,” Max answers nonchalantly. “Because the soccer team is a million times better than the football team.”
“Yes, there’s a rivalry,” I answer. “There are usually games that line up with each other, and everyone has their sport.”
“And what’s yours?” He cocks an eyebrow at me.
“This kid wouldn’t keep me around if I chose football.” I tilt my head toward Max.
“Is it really that big of a deal?” He asks with a slight snicker.
“No, but if you ask anyone at the school if they prefer football or soccer more, they’ll give you a definitive answer,” I tell him.
“So, is there a soccer game tomorrow night?” He asks.
“Home at seven,” Max speaks before I can, yet again.
“It’s a big one, too. It’s against McArthur Prep. They’re our rival team.” I tell him.
“My mom was going to send me there, but my dad didn’t like the lacrosse program.” He chuckles.
Max shakes his head. “You’re lucky you got out of that one.”
“I guess so,” he says, looking at me as the bell rings.
I carefully put my packet into its place in my binder before throwing my backpack over my shoulder.
“Phoebe, where’s room 404?” Graham asks me.
“I’ll meet you at lunch,” I tell Max.
“Nice to meet you, bro,” Graham says.
“You too, dude,” Max replies.
I grin at how incredibly unnatural it sounds coming out of his mouth. ‘Dude?’ I mouth to him, holding back my laughter.
He shakes his head at me as he walks down the hallway.
“Your class is up those stairs. Take a left, a right, and then another left.” I tell him.
“I’m a little directionally challenged, can you show me?” He asks.
“Sure,” I say with a smile, heading down the hall toward the math wing.
“So, what’s with the stars?” He asks me, staring at my earrings as we pass the main office.
“I like stars,” I tell him with a shrug.
“Well, I figured.” His light laugh rings through the hall.
I stare ahead of me and continue walking rather than answering.
“Sorry, that was douchey,” he says after a few moments of awkward silence. “Is there a reason?”
“Not really. That’s what I’m going to school for, though.”
“Astrophysics?” He asks.
“Astronomy and astrophysics, double major. Hopefully.” I add.
“That’s cool,” he says.
“What about you?” I ask him.
“Business or Economics,” he answers. “I haven’t decided yet.”
I’m shocked at the lack of certainty from someone with so many AP classes, but I don’t show it.
“This is Calc,” I say, stopping in front of the clas
sroom.
“Thanks, see you later?” He asks.
“See you,” I give him a warm smile before he enters the room, and I make my way to the stairwell closest to the cafeteria.
Horologium
The Pendulum Clock
“Okayokayokay. The Cat in The Hat versus Barney.” Violet asks as I sit down in my usual seat next to Max—the rest of the table already full.
“Barney’s a dinosaur, man! A dinosaur versus a cat?” Jackson nearly shouts with outrage. Max and I clearly walked into a very important debate.
“Yeah, but have you seen the Cat in The Hat movie?” Kendall questions, “he’s like at least six feet tall.”
“Okay, but dinosaurs are huge.” Jackson defends.
“Actually, Google says Barney’s only six foot.” Max holds out his phone, showing Jackson the results.
“And how tall is the cat? Just so we have an official number?” Violet asks.
After a few seconds, Max slides his phone across the table to Violet. “Six feet tall,” he says.
Violet laughs as Jackson pouts, and I can’t tell if he’s faking or genuinely upset.
“Okay, but who would win?” Kendall asks.
“Have you seen the way the cat’s holding the baseball bat in that meme? There’s a clear winner here.” Max answers her looking down at his phone.
I stand quietly, trying not to interrupt the debate as I head for the lunch line to grab food.
“Hey, Mrs. Webster,” I say with a smile as I pass the cash register, grabbing an apple and pretzel from the vacant lunch line before returning to her till.
“How are you today, Phoebe?” She asks me.
“Good, thanks. And you?” I ask her.
“Good, thanks,” Mrs. Webster responds.
“Have a lovely day,” I say to her.
I’ve always told Mrs. Webster to have a lovely day. It stems from the first day of kindergarten when I’d accidentally almost said, ‘I love you’ to the woman at the cash register. I was so used to saying it to my mom when she took my dishes after lunch before I started school—honestly, one of my worst and most haunting school moments.
“You too, hon,” I hear her say as I leave the line.
“Nice of you to join us,” Max says as I slide back into my chair, setting my food down on the table.
“They still at the Barney versus Cat in The Hat thing?” I ask him quietly, popping a piece of my pretzel in my mouth.
“Yoda versus Superman.” He answers.
“Is that even a question?” I speak a little louder, so Violet, Jackson, and Kendall can hear me.
“Finally, a tie-breaker!” Tommy nearly shouts.
“Yoda. A million percent.” I answer as Jackson groans.
“I told you guys!” Max says proudly.
“You suck,” Kendall grumbles as she stabs a fork into her salad.
“You know it’s true,” I tell her.
“Yoda’s the baddest bitch around,” Violet says with a nonchalant shrug.
Max nods in agreement as he bites into his sandwich.
“What did Camila pack for us today?” Tommy asks as he approaches the table, taking his seat next to Kendall before stealing Max’s bright red lunch pail from across the table, and pulling out a packet of fruit snacks. “I’m stealing these?” He tries to demand, but he’s too nice, and there is no force in his intonation.
“Of course,” Max answers, leaning across the table, taking his lunch pail back and pulling out his bag of Goldfish. “Go ahead, vultures.” He pushes the bag back to the center of the table for the rest of us to pillage.
Camila is a Trader Joe’s hoe—as Max so kindly refers to her—so all of the food in his lunch pail is a whole-wheat, sugar-free, vegan version of what it imitates. The only exception being the bags of Goldfish Max secretly buys at the gas station a few miles from our houses once a week and hides in his room.
“Want some?” He offers his bag of Goldfish.
I hold up my apple signaling ‘no’ before taking a bite.
“How we feeling about the game tomorrow night?” Riley asks, slamming his lunch tray onto the table.
“Great, obviously,” Thomas tells them as they sit.
“Are you guys actually going to beat McArthur this time, or is it going to be a repeat?” Violet asks Jackson, being the only one at the table who would dare make a joke like that and not get shunned.
“We lost during a shoot-out, and St. Paul’s going to be ready this time,” Jackson answers her matter-of-factly, referring to our team’s killer goalie. “He better be,” Riley says.
The boys spend the rest of the period talking about the game, and Violet and I pretend to understand who they’re talking about when they refer to the other team’s players and the way they play. Kendall stays fully engaged in the conversation, even picking a fight with Jackson about the skill of some boy on the other team, defending Thomas for the first time in a long time.
Max throws a Goldfish at me after noticing my disinterest in the conversation and quickly turns away, ‘looking’ for the culprit.
I roll my eyes at him before throwing it back, making sure it hits the center of his forehead.
‘Brat,’ he mouths to me, trying not to make too much noise and disrupt the conversation on the other half of the table.
‘Says you!’ I mouth back, earning an eye-roll and another Goldfish to the face.
The rest of the lunch period is full of soccer talk, which is only entertaining when Max makes jokes about how McArthur’s number twenty-two looks like Timmy Turner from The Fairly Odd Parents.
I can see the relief on Violet’s face when the bell rings. “They can talk all period about soccer, but when I even mention dance, they whine like toddlers.” She rolls her eyes. “See you in Astronomy.”
“See you,” I say to her as she exits the cafeteria in a mad dash to get to her art class on the other side of the school.
“Ready to go get bullied?” I ask Max as we walk toward our English class.
“I don’t understand why she hates me so much,” he huffs. “I do extremely well in her class.”
“You’re kind of an ass to her, though,” I tell him.
“I’m nice to her!” he objects.
“Max…” I shake my head as we enter the room, putting our stuff down at our desks.
“I am!” he whisper-shouts.
“You turned in your sample college essay about how she was an obstacle you overcame.”
“She said to write something that would make us stand out!” He tells me as if I didn’t do the same assignment. “And it’s not like that’s something I could actually get in trouble for.”
“Which is one of the many reasons she hates you,” I tell him.
“Today, we’re starting the prep-work for a new novel.” Mrs. Todd says as soon as the bell rings, closing the classroom door and nearly crushing Jacob in it.
“Jane Austen’s, Emma.” She holds up the book.
“Today we’re going to do our research on the time period. Yes, this means you can use your laptops in class, no that doesn’t mean you get to do whatever you want on them. There’s a page on my website titled Emma WebQuest. You can’t miss it.” She tells the class. “Get to work.”
I pull my mom’s laptop out of my backpack as Max pulls out the brand new one he got for his birthday in May. We elect to work on the maybe-group project together as the rest of the class erupts with chatter. Max’s computer dings with an email notification as it turns on, but he quickly silences it.
“Mr. Sanchez, remember when I said you aren’t supposed to be doing anything but the prep-work?” Mrs. Todd speaks up, causing the rest of the class to go silent as they wait for the sarcasm stand-off about to occur in front of their very eyes.
“It was my email, Mrs. Todd. I just silenced my computer,” he says without even looking up to her.
“You don’t silence your computer before class?”
“I haven’t been on my computer yet today. I
’m so sorry that my single email notification inconvenienced you that much. I’ll make sure to take out my computer to silence it before your class every day on the off chance that I may have to use it.” Max says in a monotone voice, not bothering to look up from his computer screen.
“Mr. Sanchez, would you like to speak in the hallway?” She asks, popping a hand on her hip.
“No, I’m actually doing a WebQuest.” He gives her an innocent smile, turning the computer toward her and gesturing to the biographic page on Austen he’d clicked on moments before.
She opts to accept her defeat rather than argue with Max and takes a seat at her desk—the room returning to its usual conversational buzz.
“You going to be okay tonight?” Max asks me softly, continuing to type.
“Of course,” I tell him. “It’s not a big deal.” I click on another article about Austen on a terribly designed webpage.
“It is a big deal.” He looks over his computer to catch my gaze.
“I’m not that worried about it.” I try to convince him, as well as myself too.
“You can text me whenever,” he says honestly. “I’m great at making up excuses to fool parents.”
“I think I’ve got this one.”
“I expect a full report when you get home,” he says sternly, but his false-expression quickly softens. “Come over after? Maybe I can smuggle some chocolate into the house?”
“You’re going to get chocolate into the Camila Sanchez’s house?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I’m going to try?” he says with uncertainty.
“Then, I’ll see you after…” I pause. “Make it worth my while?”
“Like mini M&M’s worth your while, or Ben and Jerry’s worth your while?”
“I’ll let you know after I leave.” I return to my work.
The bell rings when I’m on the last page of questions. I begrudgingly put the laptop in my backpack and follow Max out of the English classroom, being sure to wish Mrs. Todd a good day on my way out.
Astronomy goes by in a flash. We spend another day staring at computer images of the solar system as Miss Salazar messes up the pronunciation of a million Greek words, but I don’t mind at all.