by Ginger Scott
Somewhere along the way, I begin to nod. Probably around the time she mentions the financial incentives and college stipends that come along with being selected for the program. The dollar numbers are big enough to make even a few of the burnouts sit up straight. When Megan Esher hands me a trifold brochure that’s even more vague than she is, I gobble it up, forcing it deep into my backpack to ensure it won’t somehow fall out before I get home.
“It says meeting slots are open Monday morning,” I whisper across the table.
“Mmm,” my friend hums. He’s holding the brochure at the corners, balanced precariously between both index fingers while his elbows rest on the table. He pushes in, bowing the thick paper a few times before it finally flicks loose and falls to the table. He taps at it a few times, spinning it in its place. Then lifts his chin to meet my stare. There’s an emptiness to his eyes, near defeat in his expression, and without another word, he pulls his hood up over his hair and tugs it low to shadow his eyes. In less than a minute, he’s asleep.
7
Cowboy
She’s right. I’d like to think I never noticed her in the back of our class because I’m busy staring at the white board at the front of the room, but that would be a lie. I sit in the back of the class. Last row. Sure, on the other end, but really, ten steps, fifteen max, and I’m at the table she sits at surrounded by graded tests. Tests she graded for our teacher because she’s the tutor, and because she’s smart as hell, and because nobody in this school gives a shit about privacy rules and other students having power over whether you pass or fail.
Ten fucking steps.
“Hey.” I rehearsed how I would eat crow about a dozen times in the shower this morning. I had some really nice opening lines worked out. My favorite is telling her that they really should give her an office, but “hey” is what comes out. “Hey” is what always comes out. Hey gets me laid, inspires someone to throw a party, or buys me an extra week on an assignment in several of my classes—every class but this one.
She doesn’t even bother to look up. She’s poring over some form stapled to a brochure.
“So, does that offer still stand?” I ask.
She quirks a brow and glances up, blowing at the hair that’s fallen forward, shielding her from disruptions in this classroom—from me and my annoying questions about the length of some piece of a partial triangle and what it has to do with sine and cosine.
I don’t belong in this class.
“What offer? Tutoring is my job. Use me or don’t.” She’s gone back to filling in lines on her form.
“Yeah, you’re super approachable.” Air puffs out my nostrils on a short laugh. I roll up the worksheet I was going to ask her help with and turn to head back to my desk—ten steps away.
“Sorry,” she says in a full-on sigh. “Really. I’m just a little anxious.”
I resist a smirk when I turn around, but I know there’s a hint of one on my lips. She sees it, and matches it with a sneer. She reaches out across the table and I hand over my worksheet, filled with wrong answers. I know they’re wrong because they’re all circled in red with arrows and shit. She probably knows they’re wrong, too, on account of she’s probably the one to make the red marks in the first place.
“Right, this was the quiz last Wednesday.”
She pulls a clean sheet of paper from a stack to her right while I shake my head.
“Quiz?” I mean, not that I could have tried harder knowing it was a quiz or test. I really do max out every brain cell on what I do in here, it’s just that my output, regardless, is so freaking low that it seems I don’t give a shit. I’m really not stupid. I’m just . . . shit, I think maybe I’m lazy. I’ve been conditioned to be lazy.
“As noted by the Q-U-I-Z at the top.” She turns the page around so it faces me, and taps at the word with the eraser of her pencil.
I squeeze my eyes shut and push the heels of my palms into their sockets while I breathe out loud enough to make my lips flap. “Fuhhhhh.” I can’t even finish the consonant sound at the end of that one.
“You get a retake. All of the athletes do. It’s okay,” she says, pulling the paper back. She begins to rewrite all of the problems out. “I mean, it’s not okay. It’s super misogynistic because really, they only have that rule for football, but whatever. I guess I mean it’s okay in terms of don’t get all stressed out; you have a chance to fix this.”
“I probably need to know what I’m doing to make that happen, huh?” I skip over her little rant about football players. We get perks. I get it. It’s unfair. It’s sexist because really, we’re all dudes. More people watch us than the girls’ volleyball team. That’s probably sexist too, but none of it will help me learn trig. And I want to learn. Because the other perk that comes with football is skating by until you end up out of school with absolutely shit for brains.
I will not be a carbon copy of my father. My life will not peak on that football field.
“I’ll make sure you know it.” She’s nearly halfway done rewriting the quiz problems. I bet she made the quiz in the first place.
I pick up the brochure and form she was filling out while she continues to write out my practice test. “This some scholarship or something?”
“No,” she says, offering nothing more. Fine. I’ll read for myself.
It looks like a scholarship application. The first part is about stipends for colleges, and applying transfer credits from Midwestern to any other university on the list. It’s a long list, and the schools don’t look like football schools. I flip the page, and things get really weird.
“What’s . . . Endophotogenesis?” The next page defines it, but I don’t understand a single word in the description except for data points and camera. And really, I only know they’re words in the English language. I have no idea what they’re doing in this paragraph.
My tutor slaps her hand over the brochure and slides it back into her possession, tucking it away under the table.
“It’s an experiment I want to help with. I thought it would be interesting.” She stands and drags her chair to the corner of the table along with the new worksheet she made me.
“A camera experiment?” I lift a brow.
“Not porn,” she rebuffs. Fair enough.
She shuts down my next question before it even leaves my mouth, instead diving right into the first problem that I so obviously bombed. I only half pay attention at first, and it irritates her. I can tell because she sits back and rolls the pencil toward me and tells me to try the next one on my own. I try, and of course, I fail again.
“Don’t waste my time.” She stands and moves her chair back down the table, but before she can crumple up the paper we were working on, I grab it and prepare myself to beg. I’m going to beg. I’ve never, not once, begged.
“I’m sorry.” I’ve never apologized before either. Dad says apologies are for pussies.
She must sense I mean it though, because she stops dragging her chair and plants it where it is, a little farther away than it was, but not a complete abandonment.
“Can I ask you something?” Normally, with her, I’d prepare myself for some really great insult about my intelligence, but that’s not where this is going. There’s a worry divot above her right eyebrow. My mom gets those sometimes. A lot of the time.
I nod rather than speak because “yeah” somehow feels cheap.
“Do you ever feel like you just, I don’t know, want to be anybody else?” She’s plunged her fingers into her hair to keep it from her face while resting the weight of her head on her elbow. The redness in her eyes hits me when her thick black lashes lift like the curtain on a tragedy. She hasn’t been crying. That’s not what this is. But it is more than the eyes of a tired girl. These eyes are lost. My answer won’t help, but it will be honest.
“Every fucking day.” I hold her gaze for several seconds, and her eyes soften and somehow become sadder. I knew my answer wouldn’t help. I also know she hoped it would.
�
��It’s a psych experiment. Sorta.” She bends down and brings the mysterious brochure back to the table. She unfolds it and points to the section that just made my brain hurt. “There’s this tiny camera in a pill—”
“You swallow a camera.” I don’t question; I merely repeat. I want her to hear and confirm how crazy this is from the start.
“Yeah,” she says. One simple word. Like “hey.”
“It’s more like a sensor, and it takes a million readings to determine what makes us . . . you . . . well, me, actually—”
“Makes you what?” I wonder if she’s sick and this is some radical cancer treatment or something.
“It’s supposed to identify what makes me feel like crying all the time. Because I do. I want to cry . . . all the time.” She’s being really honest. People aren’t usually honest with me; they tell me what they think I need to hear so I can do whatever it is they want. My dad tells me I’m special because he wasn’t special enough. “There are times when I just can’t breathe, and I feel like a failure. I just want to tell everyone to fuck off.”
She bursts out a short laugh and cups her mouth, smiling at me with glossy eyes. I grin because this version of her, it’s incredibly cool. Incredible, and cool.
“Me, too.” Again, I give her the truth. I laugh at the thought, and wonder if she imagines standing on her chair in this classroom and shouting “fuck off” at the top of her lungs the way I’m picturing right now. God, would that feel amazing.
It’s a review day, so most of the class is goofing off. The smart kids, the ones more like her, are up front asking questions to ensure they ace the next test. I’m back here, because I’m still trying to master the last one.
“So, you’re gonna take these pills and then, like, be happier? I’m oversimplifying, I know, but really, isn’t what you’re describing the same concept as antidepressants?” I catch the exasperation in her eyes. She liked it better when I was fired up and ready to tell the world to fuck off with her. She liked me better.
“I like who I am. There are things about me, though, that I’d like to tweak. And not like my thighs or my nose or skin or that kind of stuff, but me.” Her palm flattens on her chest. “Inside me. Like the stuff that holds me back. Whatever this thing is might not do the trick, but what if it helps? What if it’s a step, before a leap and a bound?”
I laugh because I think she’s trying to be funny, but I cut it short when I realize she’s not. I swallow down the rest of my amusement, but I’ve already messed up—twice.
“Can I get in on this?” She sees right through my lame attempt to restore legitimacy to her crazy sci-fi feelings robot. I’m a bad actor. Always have been. It’s why I’m shocked every Friday night when Sonny believes that things will be “different this time.”
“No,” she answers, saying what I expect. I actually exhale, because a small part of me worries she’ll say there’s an opening. Shit, I would have to sign up.
“Damn,” I add. She levels me with a deadpan stare, holding it in place until I’m hot from her fucking looking at me. “A’right, a’right. I’m a little skeptical is all.”
Her frozen features morph into a grimace, and she tucks her forms back into the bag at her side.
“It’s fine. Parent interviews are today anyhow. Mine’s in an hour,” she says, quickly moving her focus back to my trig work. I give a wry smile that she doesn’t even look up to see. Jealousy tickles at my chest; her mom is coming to support her in some crazy experiment. The only thing my dad would show up for is a trophy presentation. My mom won’t leave her damn craft room for a tornado warning.
Without much thought, I reach forward and completely cover her hand where it rests over my disaster of a quiz. Every joint flexes and tightens under my touch, and her eyes flash wide while her gaze shoots to my face. Her jolting response renders me temporarily speechless. None of this is planned. I just want to fix my previous screwups, make her not want to yell “fuck off” at me. Only at everyone else.
I recoil my fingers, the tips tickling the top of her palm, which motivates her to yank her hand back into her own lap. Jesus, this is not going well at all.
“I’m sorry, I just wanted . . .” That’s another sorry in the span of ten minutes. Wow. “I want to wish you good luck . . . in the interview. I don’t mean to make a joke or tear you down or whatever. I guess I’m a pessimist.” I shrug, and this time her eyes stick around long enough to witness my wry smile. She mimics it, and for a tiny breath I believe maybe I’ve righted some wrongs and balanced the scales.
“Douchebag!” My head flings forward a few inches from the smack to the back of my skull. His name’s Allan, and he’s my right tackle. He’s failing this class, too. I can see it play out before it happens, but not soon enough to stop it. His hand raises to his chin and his fingers part, forming a V. I shake my head, but it’s too late. Allan flicks his tongue between his fingers like a snake and glances from my tutor—my last hope to actually learn—then back to me. “You eatin’ that shit, yo?”
I’m so stunned, I only have the energy to let my chin fall to my chest so I can see her face. I wish I hadn’t, because I’m certain I’ve gone right from ASSHOLE-written-on-a-notebook status to just plain asshole.
In one swift stroke, she grabs the red Sharpie to her left and crosses out the F on my previous quiz, replaces it with a C, then pushes the paper back to me. “There.” She huffs, arms proudly crossed over her chest. “Now you’re passing.”
Allan laughs, patting me on the back as if I’ve done something to earn it. It’s the kind of laugh my dad lets out when he’s scammed the system. But that isn’t a gift she gave me just now—it’s her version of a middle finger.
“Fuck off, Cowboy.” That’s what she meant with that fat red C.
I stand, leaving the old quiz on the table and taking the new one she wrote out for me so I can try my best to finish it on my own, for real. It’s the only “fuck you” I’ve got left.
8
Villain
It’s stupid to do this.
Sal was shitty at being my mother’s boyfriend. He’ll be shitty at pretending to be my stepdad. But he’s the closest thing I have to a dad, what with Paul being an abusive addict and all. No clue who the real sperm donor is, so Sal wins. And oh, what a prize I am.
“Does Paul have an accent or anything like that? I could be from Brooklyn, or Ireland. I always wanted to sound Irish, aye.”
I jerk the sleeve of his puffy jacket hard enough to mess up the neck and zipper. He shakes me off with a tsk that comes out with a puff of air, then goes back to his usual saunter. He thinks he’s gangster because he steals shit from the pain clinic. Last year he started adding a limp to his walk and pulling his blue scrubs down low on his hips. He also grew out his hair from the buzz cut he had when he and my mom were together. He looks homeless. He’s a veteran, and this job suits him. He’s not an addict, so I guess maybe it does. He earned some half-ass degree in occupational therapy taking mostly online classes at night. He works with other vets, and the homeless population on the Southside—two groups this city sorta forgets about.
He’s going to fuck this up.
“Try not to say too much, and whatever the people in here say, just agree with them. Tell them you approve of me doing this or whatever. Can you do that?” I lift the brow closest to him and he chuckles and ruffles my hair like I’m five. I sigh and smooth it back with my own hands.
“I got you . . . son.” He winks at his clever joke.
My chest constricts.
The interviews have been going on all day. I ditched the morning so I could talk Sal into being my surrogate parent. I keep getting glances from the teachers walking by in the hallway where we wait for the session before us to end. They wonder where I’ve been today, just not enough to ask or care. I bet half of them marked me present.
“Why you wanna be in this study or whatever anyway?”
Sal’s question lingers in the air for a few seconds because I don’t h
ave a solid answer. Only this vague sense that I need to try this. And the money incentive is nice. Might get me out of here, into some college with low standards. Maybe it’s just another way of running away, or maybe . . . maybe it’s her.
The door to my right whooshes open, nearly clipping my elbow. Sal taps his foot on the circle painted on the hallway floor, the warning line for where the door might hit you. I’m right on the edge.
“Heh, heh.” His chuckle is menacing. As decent as Sal is, he’s got a seedy side. He steals drugs from a pain clinic, so he’s pretty much a douchebag.
A short woman with long black hair pulled back in a thick braid rushes by me dragging two young girls out of the room, one in each hand. They’re throwing tantrums, like really good ones, too. The foot stomping is almost cartoonish, and I barely hold my laughter in while the woman threatens them about not getting pizza now and having to skip their favorite TV show tonight as punishment. I pause my breath when she looks over her shoulder.
“Mija, I’ll meet you in the car. Get what you need and I’ll pull around.” Her voice is exasperated, but it’s nothing compared to the one that answers her.
“I can’t leave. I still have physics, Mom.” It’s my mystery girl. And she’s holding back tears again. I bet she thinks nobody can tell, but I can. I can tell. In a short few days, I’ve studied those eyes and what they’re capable of.
Her mom stops her march toward the door and lowers her shoulders.
“It’s one class. You can miss one class. Come on. I’ll call you out, it’s fine . . .” Her words trail off as she’s already turned and heading toward the doors, the wailing tears from the young girls picking up steam.
My girl’s lip quivers. She doesn’t see me.
I reach out my right hand, brushing her arm, and she jumps.
