Colossus

by Jette Harris

  Giggling bounced around the classroom; Witt loathed his middle name, and they knew it. He shot them dirty looks. “No,” he said, “I just like the letter.” He gave Rhodes a look that dared him to challenge his reason.

  Rhodes chuckled. “Well, in that case,”—he made a note on the roster—“I’ll give you the D.” The classroom buzzed with giggles and muffled, shocked gasps. Heather’s eyes went wide. A few teachers were relaxed enough to use colorful humor in private conversations, but she had never heard one crack a lewd joke in class. Rhodes continued as if he could not have possibly meant anything other than acquiescing to Witt’s desire.

  “Your assignment is the complete chapter six review and the chapter eight review. According to Dr. Creighton, these chapters were especially difficult for most of you.” There were muted groans from around the class. “It’s a two-day assignment, so take your time. I’ve looked over the material myself, and it is… fairly dense.”

  “Gaaaay…” Witt moaned.

  “Is it—D?” Heather shot before Rhodes could respond. “Is it really?”

  “Don’t start,” Rhodes warned.

  Witt ignored him. “I mean, it’s stupid.”

  “You should apologize to that poor assignment,” Heather replied. “It might actually be gay and struggling with its true identity.”

  Witt’s face reddened. “I would ask you if you were gay,” he sneered, “but we all know that’s not the case.” He cocked his head toward Z.

  “Shut up!” Z and Monica snapped in unison. Heather’s face flushed.

  “That’s enough!” Rhodes emerged from behind the counter. Everyone fell silent under his stern gaze. “You may think the assignment is stupid, but it’s a large percentage of your unit grade,”—he held Dr. Creighton’s substitute plans up as evidence, then added in an undertone—“and I expect you to respect its life choices.”

  Heather dropped her head to her desk as she attempted to hide her laughter.

  Rhodes’s joke had brought the conflict to a quick end. When the students began to work, or pretended to begin to work, he floated among them to look over shoulders and offer assistance. Each time he passed Witt’s desk, Witt pretended to be asleep, and received a kick in the chair. He “woke” with exaggerated snorting and flailing. Rhodes did not give him the satisfaction of a response, moving along to the next row.

  “Psst!” Monica hissed at Heather, leaning over. “What’s the answer to number three?” Class was almost over, but only a few students had been working diligently. Heather had been one of them; Monica had not.

  Heather flipped back a few pages. “It’s on page 363.”

  Monica should have known better than to ask Heather for a straight answer. She flipped to 363 and skimmed it. “Yeah, but what’s the answer?”

  Heather flicked her eyes up toward Rhodes. He had taken his place at the head of the classroom, leaning on his elbows over the counter that doubled as a teacher’s desk. He watched them intently. Their eyes met, but Heather glanced away as if she were not doing anything wrong.

  “Should I just copy this paragraph?” Monica asked.

  “No, that’s not what the question is asking.”

  “What’s it asking?”

  Z leaned forward, brushing Heather’s shoulder as he reached out to point at Monica’s text book. “You need to figure out, based on the examples, what other uses the practice may have.”

  “Oh… Like what?”

  “Like taxidermy,” Heather replied.

  “Taxidermy?” Monica forgot to whisper. They glanced at Rhodes, who was still watching silently. He raised his eyebrows, inviting them to pose their question to him.

  “Fuck, that’s a good one.” Z flipped his paper over to scratch the word into his answer.

  “Taxidermy…” Monica muttered to herself, trying to figure it out. Failing, she changed the topic. “What question are you on?”

  “I’m done.” Heather flipped her book closed.

  “It’s a two-day assignment!” Monica hissed as Heather went to the front of the classroom. When Rhodes turned his full attention to Heather, Monica twisted around to look at Z. “Hey, lemme see your paper.”

  “No.”

  Heather held her papers up to the sub. “Where should I turn this in?”

  Rhodes glanced skeptically at the assignment. “Well, Just Heather,”—he pulled out a manila folder and opened it—“you turn it in to this folder… tomorrow.”

  “So… I should just hold on to it?”

  Rhodes shook his head. “You can’t be finished. I would have trouble completing this in 90 minutes.” Heather looked down at her paper, then nodded. She held out to him three pages covered front-to-back with her small, neat handwriting. He took them with a sigh. “You wrote out the questions?” he asked. “And answered in complete sentences?”

  “That is classroom procedure.”

  Rhodes glanced over her answers, looking increasingly impressed. He straightened up as he flipped the pages over to skim both sides, then dropped them into the folder. He considered her for a moment. “Name all the bones of the wrist.”

  Heather hesitated, then looked down at her wrist. “Oh!” Surprised she knew the answer, she moved her fingers over the bones as she told him: “Trapezium, scaphoid, lunate, pisiform, capitate, hemate, tri… triquetrum…” She counted, muttered to herself, “I’m forgetting one.” She placed her thumb over the unidentified bone.

  “Trapezoid.” Z came up behind her and tossed his own papers on the counter.

  She looked at him breathlessly, then nodded. “Thanks,” she said. Rhodes observed them both carefully. Heather pursed her lips and dropped her gaze to the top page of Z’s assignment. “You forgot the questions.”

  “God—!” Z stopped himself before he swore. Rhodes and Heather exchanged an amused glance. Holding up a finger, Z indicated he would be right back, then returned to his seat.

  Rhodes returned his attention to Heather. “You’re going to college, I assume.”

  “I start UGA in August.”

  “Are you studying medicine?”

  Frowning, she shook her head and she dropped her gaze. “My mom was a physical therapist, so medical jobs all seem kind of… thankless, for the amount of people you work with. Kind of like teaching.” She gestured toward him.

  “Thankless…” Rhodes nodded. “I can see that.”

  “I’m going to study linguistics.”

  He furrowed his brow. “You can name all the bones in your wrist and you want to study… linguistics.” Glancing at the clock, he began to straighten the papers and books scattered across the counter. “What languages do you speak?” His voice had taken a perfunctory tone.

  “Mostly French and Spanish, but a little Latin and German, some Vietnamese.”

  “Vietnamese?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “My mother was a bui-doi; My grandmother was a war bride.”

  “Ah.” He leaned on the counter again. “Well, you should definitely reconsider studying medicine. You’ll find it’s not all that thankless after all.”

  Heather opened her mouth to respond, but the bell rang. The silent class burst into the chaos of scraping desks and slamming books.

  “I’ll see if I can’t find something to occupy your time tomorrow,” Rhodes told her. Heather could have sworn she caught a mischievous glint in his eye.

  3

  The day was hot, muggy, and threatening to rain—a typical Georgia summer. Swollen clouds flowed across the sky, silently threatening to drop a tornado. Because of their silence, P. E. was still held out on the football field. Within minutes, every student was slick with sweat.

  There was a clear division among the students: the track team was running wind sprints; The cheerleading squad was making up off-color cheers celebrating the end of the year; The football players were tossing balls around and threatening to tackle each other behind Coach Bucknum’s back; Then there were the kids who did not want to participate, eking by with a C—they sat in t
he bleachers, playing on their phones.

  If there was any kind of fluidity among the groups, it was because someone retired to the bleachers, or because something questionable was afoot. Like when Witt pulled off his shoulder pads and went over to the track team and hovered over Heather as she sat on the ground, stretching.

  “Hey, Trakkie,” he said. “How ’bout one more race, for old time’s sake?”

  Heather cast her apathetic expression in iron and wore it as a mask. Witt had moved into the district when they were in elementary school. At his previous school, he had been accustomed to being the fastest kid on the playground. At his new school, he was humiliated to learn, not only was he not the fastest student, but he could lose to a girl. He gave Heather a lifetime of grief for it.

  She finished her stretch before standing. Witt was only an inch taller than her—a fact she savored, standing at 5’3—so she looked him straight in the eye. The other “Trakkies” snickered. Over the years, Witt had put on a lot of muscle mass, and Heather had perfected her pacing. There was no way he could win.

  “Fine.” She put out her hand. He squeezed as he shook it, crushing her fingers. She refused to let the pain show and returned the pressure.

  “I’ll call it.” Kyle, the lanky, bespectacled captain of the track team, stepped forward. Where Heather dominated sprints and speed-oriented competitions, Kyle reigned over the long-distance events she found mind-numbingly tedious.

  “No, you’ll cheat,” Witt replied.

  Heather raised an eyebrow, wondering how he could possibly come to that conclusion. Looking around, she realized everyone was watching them: the bleacher kids, cheerleaders, and even the coach. She hailed Monica, who bounded over.

  “What am I doing?” She ruffled her pom-poms.

  Heather did not answer, turning back to Witt. “Where to?”

  He scanned the track. “From here to the field goal.” He pointed. The goal post wasn’t far, a little over a fourth of the quarter-mile track.

  “One last race,” Heather explained to Monica. She ruffled her pom-poms again, this time in anticipation. “Go stand across from the field goal, and call the winner… if there’s any question as to who reaches it first.”

  Witt shook his head. “There won’t be.” Even Monica snorted, but raised her pom-poms over her mouth to hide it.

  They took their places and waited for Monica to scamper to the goal post. Heather noticed the substitute, Mr. Rhodes, leaning against the fence by Coach Bucknum. It looked as if Coach were explaining their little rivalry. Her face burned at what a biased observer might say. Rhodes looked mildly amused.

  “Ready?” Witt turned as Monica took her place. Heather nodded, crouching on the track.

  “Ready?” Kyle called.

  “Hope you like the taste of track,” Witt muttered.

  “Set!”

  “Hope you like the view of my backside,” Heather sneered.

  “Go!”

  Witt exploded off his mark and charged. Heather sprang forward, head low, arms pumping. Despite his powerful start, she was by his side with a few swift strides. She imagined ravenous wolves biting at her heels, and focused her eyes on the goal post.

  When Witt threatened to come too close, she had to force herself not to turn her head, not to be threatened by his proximity. He ran so close to her side, their sleeves brushed. He was trying to intimidate her. She swore she could feel the scratch of the wiry hairs on his arm. Pushing faster, she tried to outstrip him. Despite their longstanding animosity, she was still alarmed when, in the curve of the track, she felt Witt’s boney elbow dig into her bicep.

  Bracing, she tumbled, hitting the shoulder of the track. Gravel and grit embedded in her knees and arm, but she ignored the burning pain. As soon as she found her feet, she took off again. The collision had slowed Witt down as well. The gap between them dwindled before he reached the goal post.

  When they staggered to a stop, Heather glared at Witt. He looked startled to see her there by his side. Monica was standing, wide-eyed, pom-poms covering her mouth. Glancing at the bleachers, Heather noticed no one was celebrating one way or another. They all stared, waiting.

  “Well?” Witt demanded.

  “It was a tie,” Monica shot, then retreated back behind the pom-poms.

  “Bullshit!”

  “It was!”

  Spitting, he stormed off across the field. Heather stood, still trying to catch her breath, and noticed blood smeared across her arm. Black bits of asphalt speckled her knees. Monica rubbed the back of her neck, glancing at Heather askance, knowing neither of them believed her.

  Heather accepted reluctantly that Monica hadn’t wanted to offend either of them. “Good call,” she puffed, following Witt.

  Monica threw her hands in the air with a groan. “Heather, wait!” She ran to catch up with her. Heather expected her to confess, or apologize for Witt’s unsportsmanlike behavior, but she didn’t. “Me and some of the other cheerleaders have our French II final tomorrow,” she said. “Could you give us some last minute tutoring?”

  Exhaling slowly, Heather was tempted to say no, but she wouldn’t. She was in French IV—the highest level the school offered—and had been Monica’s crutch for much of their high school career. “Sure,” she replied in monotone.

  Monica smiled gratefully. Heather forced herself to half-smile back. She hoped it looked as charming as Rhodes. “Coffee at six, then. And…”—she bit her lip, knowing she was asking too much—“could you give me a ride home, too?”

  “Sure.” Heather could hardly say no when Monica lived next door.

  Coach blew his whistle and everyone began to shuffle. Heather received a lot of pats on the back and high fives for her quick recovery. Even a few of the kids from the bleachers gave her props for humiliating Witt, despite his crooked efforts.

  Pausing to brush the grit from her knee, she didn’t realize Z was standing next to her until she leaned back up. Wordlessly, he handed her a digital camera and hit play. She held her breath as she watched a video of herself as she was bowled over, recovered her feet, then caught up with Witt. When the video finished, she looked up at Z. He smiled proudly. A warmth spread through her chest, but she guarded against letting it show.

  “I never doubted you,” he told her, then followed the other boys into the locker room.

  4

  Heather lingered as she stowed her book bag in her locker. The other seniors did not waste any time; They put their belongings away and hurried out to the courtyard for the senior picnic. As lockers were opened and closed, mirrors glinted, posters of celebrities smiled or scowled, friends and significant others made faces from photographs. Heather pulled her locker door to slam it, but paused. The inside of her locker had only one decoration: A photo of her parents, her mother, Thi, looking so cool with her Vietnamese features, but laughing blue eyes, and her tawny-haired father, Heath, looking like a complete geek. She didn’t see herself in either of them, no matter how much she tugged and pressed her face or played with her hair.

  Her face burned as she realized the halls had emptied while she was staring at her locker door. She could not count the times she had done the exact same thing when the bell rang, announcing she was late. There was no bell for her today: just the slamming of distant doors as others went to have fun. She did not want to go to the senior picnic; She could not imagine it would be different from any other lunch time or gym class, with the addition of ice cream and a dunk tank. Although she was tempted by dunking her favorite teachers, it did not make her walk any faster.

  Turning a corner, she stopped. She was not the only one left behind: Witt was on his hand and knees on the floor in front of his locker, papers scattered around him. Heather’s first impulse was to turn and take a different route. Witt’s stillness made her hesitate. He wasn’t moving to gather the papers; His shoulders shook, rising and falling with heaving breaths. His face was red—more red than usual. He looked like he was having trouble breathing.

 
“Witt?”

  Startled, he scrambled to collect the papers as if he had just dropped them. He glanced up to see who had spoken. “Fuck,” he muttered. His face was wet. “Mind your own fuckin’ business.”

  Ignoring his attitude, Heather knelt to gather some of the papers that lay closer to her feet. She recognized the letterheads of a couple of them: University of Southern California and Ithaca State. Her curiosity was too strong; She glanced over the first paragraph of each letter, finding the word “Congratulations” in both of them. Witt snatched the papers out of her hand.

  “I thought you were going to Auburn?” she asked, too confused to be offended. He had bragged about it for months after his acceptance letter arrived. He would be the fourth generation on his father’s side to attend the university.

  “I thought—” His voice was hard, and it stuck in his throat.

  Every nerve in her body told her to run, but she didn’t. She got on her hands and knees next to him and collected some more letters, handing them to him. He took them silently. Swallowing hard, he fished one out of the pile and handed it to her. The letterhead was the University of Georgia “G,” but it wasn’t an acceptance letter. Heather’s eyes went wide: It was a full-ride football scholarship.

  “W—Wow.”

  Witt sat very still. He tried to speak a few times before he finally managed to say, “I—I don’t know what to do. I haven’t told my father.”

  “Why not?”

  “He would kick my ass.”

  Heather furrowed her brow. This was the first negative thing she had ever heard him say about his father. Whenever Witt mentioned his dad, he sounded proud. Heather had met Frank Witt on more than one occasion; She could not be convinced that he was anything to be proud of. But she wasn’t about to say that.

  “Have you asked Dr. Magee what he thinks?”

  “Dr. Magee went to Fort Valley.”

  “So?”

  Witt’s face flushed. “He won’t help me choose.”

  “What does Z say?”

  Witt covered a sniffle with a sigh. “Z thinks I should go to UGA, just to piss my old man off.”