King of the Screwups

by K L Going

  “I just meant, because you’re the principal and all, I didn’t know if you were also a teacher. Like if you had a teaching degree too, which would qualify you to teach physics, or . . .”

  This is coming out all wrong.

  Principal Mallek turns beet red. It starts on his neck and climbs to the top of his tiny balding head.

  Crap. Crapcrapcrapcrap.

  “I didn’t mean . . . uh . . .”

  Principal Mallek swallows hard. “If I were you, Mr. Geller, I’d worry about your grade. Not my credentials.”

  Now some kids are outright laughing. Principal Mallek takes out a single piece of paper, walks over, and slaps it on my desk.

  “The rest of the class took this pretest yesterday.” He’s all business now, but his eyes seethe. “Write your name on the top. It is timed and it does count toward your grade. Since I’m assuming you had to pass chemistry in order to leave eleventh grade, this should be no problem. The rest of you turn to page eight.”

  I stare at the paper. Timed tests make me nauseous. Plus, I only passed chemistry with a C–, which would have been a D except for the final test I paid some kid to help me study for. I’m looking at the paper, but my mind goes blank and all the words blur together. Principal Mallek’s voice is grating in my ears, distracting me, and I wonder what Darleen will think when she finds out how stupid I am.

  That’s when I start to panic. I think how each thing will affect the next—how I’ll get these questions wrong, which means I’ll fail the quiz, which means I’ll fail the class, and if I fail the class, I might fail school, and then I’ll never get a job and end up homeless.

  The only letters that aren’t blurring into the paper are H2O, so I write the word “water,” then I stare at the clock and wonder how many minutes I have left.

  “Time’s up,” Principal Mallek says, hovering over me.

  What? Time can’t be up. If I’d known it was going to be such a quick pretest, I wouldn’t have wasted all that time counting minutes. Principal Mallek picks up my paper and carries it to the front of the classroom.

  “Let’s see what our new student has impressed us with today,” he says. “Hmmm. Looks like he has answered exactly one question. The question reads, what elements combine to form H2O, and Mr. Geller has responded . . . ‘water.’”

  The class snickers, and I sink low in my chair.

  “Very clever, Mr. Geller,” Principal Mallek says. He walks over so that he’s standing directly above me. “Let me tell you something. There are no free rides in this school. You’re not going to coast by. I expect you to work hard, and if I see that you’re doing that, I’ll work with you, but if you expect to sit here and give me attitude all year, you’d better think again.” He drops the paper onto my desk and turns away.

  “All right, class, the rest of you turn to page ten.”

  Day One, Class One, and already I have screwed up.

  15

  EVERYTHING AFTER PHYSICS IS A BLUR. I sit through French IV, civics, and health, but my mind has shut off. People say hi to me in the halls and introduce themselves. A girl named Jen makes a point of welcoming me to school, and two kids, Joe and Nikki, invite me to sit with them at lunch—but all I can think about is how I messed up.

  It only gets worse. During math I blank out at the exact moment the teacher asks me to solve a problem on the board, and in economics I think I can turn my day around by impressing everyone with my vast knowledge of the World Bank, but I get it all wrong. I thought I could say what it was, since Dad does a lot of work with third-world debt, but the truth is he’s never really explained it to me. How is it that Dad can give national lectures about this stuff and I can’t even define it?

  I’m starting to feel really tired, and then I get lost on the way to my last class and end up in the choir room. I could probably make it if I run, but by this point I think, Screw it. So, I take my time and finally step into the open doorway of classroom number twelve about four minutes late. I pretend to be reading my schedule, like I’ve been studying it hard this whole time or something and that’s why I’m late, so I don’t look up right away.

  “I got a little bit lost, but I’ve got my schedule right here, and I promise it will never happen—”

  I look up and my jaw drops. Orlando is standing in front of my English class. I glance at the number on the classroom door, because now I really do think I read my schedule wrong, but sure enough, this is the right room. My schedule says English IV—Mr. DeSoto. Apparently, that would be Orlando.

  He walks over and takes the schedule out of my hands.

  “Liam,” he says.

  I’m frozen in place. How is it possible that no one thought to tell me Orlando taught senior English? I mean, they said he was the high school English teacher, but why would I assume he taught senior English? Unless, of course, he’s the only English teacher . . .

  “You can take a seat in the front,” Orlando says. “We’re doing some freewriting, so in the future you’ll need to bring a notebook, but today someone can lend you some paper and a pencil. Jen, would you mind?”

  Orlando is tapping on an empty desk, but my feet are lead. I’m thinking, I can’t take English from my uncle’s boyfriend. How should I act? Should I pretend we’ve never met? Say hello?

  I walk slowly across the front of the classroom and take the seat Orlando’s pointing at. He turns back to the class.

  “Okay,” he says. “As I was saying, yesterday we talked about writing personal essays for college applications. Today I want you to write a practice essay. I’ve come up with a pretty broad topic for this first one, something you’ve all done a million times, so I want you to write at least two pages. You can work at your own pace, but I want your pages handed in at the end of class.” Orlando walks to the chalkboard and writes: “The best part of my entire summer was . . .”

  Crap.

  There’s no way I can write about that. My summer sucked. There was no best part. I got grounded immediately, and Mom was going to take me to Milan for a fashion show but Dad said no. Actually, I heard them fighting and what he said was, “It’s not worth going all that way just to take Liam.”

  I’ve got to think of something, so I write, “The best part of my entire summer was the party at Mike’s house.” Then I erase it because actually I got drunk, ended up sleeping with Andrea, who later told everyone it had been a mistake. Then somehow my dad heard something from Andrea’s mother, who said it was all my fault and . . .

  I chew on the top of my pencil and decide I hate essays. They’re so much work, and for what? Not everyone is going to college. I stare out the window. Eventually, I write, “The best part of my entire summer was when I went to Hawaii to see my friend Julio.” Only, when I got home I overheard Mom talking to Dad and she said, “You only sent him to Hawaii because you don’t want to look at him anymore.” I erase that, too.

  Then I put my head down on my desk.

  “Time’s up. Papers forward. Tomorrow we’re going to read the first act of Hamlet, so bring your books.” Orlando’s stacking our papers into one big pile. The bell rings— finally —and I am sooo out of here, but Orlando steps in front of me.

  “Liam, may I see you a moment?”

  I nod and he points at my desk.

  “Have a seat.” He’s holding my paper, and he looks like he can’t quite decide what to say. “You’ve written the word ‘the,’” he says once I sit down. “I gave you an entire class period and a broad topic and you were only able to write the word ‘the.’ Do you want to talk?”

  The answer to that question is definitely no.

  “Is it because I’m dating Pete and now I’m your teacher? Is that a problem? I want you to know I intend to keep school stuff at school. You can trust me on that.”

  I nod as if it’s no big deal.

  “I’m not going to treat you any differently than I treat my other students,” Orlando continues. “Every other student managed to hand in two pages of writing on the assigned
topic. Every other student.”

  He waits a beat.

  “I need you to hand in two pages on the assigned topic.” Orlando hands me back my paper. “I’ve got some lesson plans to go over, so we can sit here until you’re done.”

  I stare at the blank paper. All day I’ve been counting the seconds until I could leave, and now he wants me to sit here trying to answer an unanswerable question?

  “I can’t think of anything,” I say, but Orlando doesn’t look sympathetic.

  “You don’t have one good memory of your entire summer?”

  I shake my head, but I don’t really want to get into it, so I sigh and pick up my pencil. Guess I’d better make one up.

  16

  IT’S SUMMER and we’re living in California for a year. I’m eight years old, and Dad and I are out back, behind our house, enjoying the most perfect June evening ever. He got home from work on time, and Mom’s out running errands, so rather than make dinner, Dad suggested we pack a picnic instead. It’ll be light out for a couple more hours, so we traipse out to my tree fort with a backpack full of peanut butter sandwiches and juice boxes.

  Dad brings Treasure Island and reads it out loud. I’m trying extra hard to be good and sit still, but when Dad isn’t looking I inch closer and closer until I’m pressed up against him, looking at the pages over his shoulder. I put my hand on his arm, and he feels warm and solid. Sometimes, as Dad reads, I watch his face instead of the book.

  “‘Fifteen men on the Dead Man’s Chest—Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest—Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!’” Dad’s voice rings out. A warm breeze blows through the tree branches and a bird flies out of the leaves. We both jump, and I hold my breath in case he gets angry, but then Dad laughs. The laugh fills the tree fort, and finally I laugh, too.

  “‘Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!’” we say together.

  I am completely happy.

  When I get home from school, I call Dad. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.

  I take my cell phone out to the picnic table and call him at work, and his secretary puts me through.

  “Hi, Dad?” I say. “It’s me, Liam.”

  “Yes?” Something about the restrained quality of his voice makes me think there’s probably someone near his office. That and the fact that he’s not hanging up.

  “I thought maybe we could talk,” I say. “It’s been a while since I left, and I want to apologize for everything that happened with Delia. And for calling Pete instead of Gram and Gramps. I know I’ve made a mess of stuff. Again.”

  At first Dad doesn’t say anything, but then he clears his throat.

  “Things aren’t going well for you at your uncle’s?”

  He sounds almost hopeful.

  “Uh . . . everything’s fine,” I say, not sure if this is what he wants to hear or not.

  “I’m sure it is,” he says. “What do you need? I don’t have all day.”

  I stutter, trying to remember why I called. Talking to Dad always throws me, because he’s so much smarter than I am. He says stuff that means two things at once, and while I’m thinking about that I get distracted, so then what I say comes out sounding dumb.

  “I thought maybe I could come home,” I blurt out, even though I didn’t mean to say it yet. “It’s only one more year, and I’ve learned my lesson. I really have. I’m—”

  Dad interrupts before I can finish.

  “Liam,” he says, “let’s not waste our time here. The answer is no. You’re not doing well. You haven’t learned any lessons. Let’s not go through this whole charade.”

  “Dad . . .” I start.

  “I’m hanging up now,” he says. End of discussion.

  “Do you even notice I’m gone?” I ask, just to throw him off. “Do you miss me at all?”

  But the whole time I know he’s already hung up.

  I lie on the picnic table with my head hanging over one edge and my earphones on, and stare up at the clouds, feeling the warm breeze blow over me.

  “‘Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum,’” I whisper, letting all the air collapse out of my lungs. I’m trying to calm myself down with deep cleansing breaths—and I’m doing a pretty good job—until someone stands over me and yells.

  “Could you please move over?”

  It’s a disconcerting feeling when you’re hanging upside down and someone sneaks up on you like that. I nearly fall off the picnic table. I try to turn the volume on my iPod down, turn it up instead, and have to yank the earphones out of my ears.

  “You practically killed me!” I say, sitting up fast enough to get a head rush. Darleen is standing above me and she’s not the least bit apologetic.

  “Of course I didn’t,” she says loudly. “You’re three feet off the ground. And you’re taking up the whole picnic table. I need you to move.”

  “Sorry,” I tell her, sliding over. She sits down as far from me as she can get.

  “I saw you in school today,” I add, for lack of anything better to say.

  “Thanks for the bulletin.”

  “I didn’t intend to imply that you’re fat. The other day, I mean.”

  Her eyes narrow, but she says nothing. After a long time I say, “Do you want to know anything about me? Since we’re neighbors and all.”

  She opens her sketch pad and shakes her head. “You’re Pete’s nephew.” The way she says it implies she’s heard bad things. “You got kicked out of your house and now you need a place to stay until your rich father allows you to come home again.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  “Because,” Darleen says, “Eddie is my dad’s cousin. Eddie told Dad, and Dad told me. Said you were some sort of juvenile delinquent who had no place to go if Pete didn’t take you in. They seem to think I should be really nice to you as an act of charity, but I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “What?” I say. “Why? And just so you know, I’m not a juvenile delinquent.” I think about telling her the whole sordid story of how I ended up here but think better of the idea. “It’s not true about having no place to go, either. I asked to live with Auncle Pete.”

  Darleen shrugs. “Whatever.”

  She keeps on sketching, adding charcoal lines to the pencil outline of Pete’s old boots, which are sitting by the steps. I can’t help staring because she’s transforming these old, cruddy boots into something amazing.

  “That looks good,” I tell her.

  “Thanks,” she says, but it’s flat.

  I wait for a long time without saying anything else, but then I can’t stand it.

  “It’s pretty cool that we have some classes together, don’t you think? I mean, today didn’t go so well, but . . .”

  “I’m trying to concentrate,” she says sharply. “If you want to sit here, don’t let me stop you. Just don’t take up the whole table.”

  The way she says it reminds me of the way Dad says, “I’m busy, Liam,” so I think, Fine. Forget it then.

  “Maybe I’ll go inside,” I threaten. I take a step forward, thinking she’ll feel guilty and call me back, and when she doesn’t I turn and glare at her. “You know,” I say, “I don’t need your charity, but sometimes people are friendly to other people who are new in town just . . . well, because they might need some friends.”

  I expect a look of remorse, but instead she chuckles. Laughs right out loud at my indignant speech. She stops and finally looks at me.

  “Somehow,” she says, “I don’t imagine you’ll be lonely for long. You look like one of those guys who should be doing underwear ads.”

  She says this like it’s a bad thing.

  “And didn’t I see you talking with Joe and Nikki, Pineville’s power couple, today in the hall? Wasn’t that Jen, the head cheerleader, helping you find your classrooms? And if I’m not mistaken, a group of girls hung out at your locker and said they were the Pineville Welcoming Committee? Well, here’s another news bulletin. There is no Pineville Welcoming Commi
ttee. So if you want me to be all nice to you because you’re in need of friends, I really don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”

  “How can . . . I don’t . . . I’m not at all like what you think, and if you gave me a chance . . .”

  She just keeps going.

  “Don’t try to pretend you’re not Mr. Popularity after having been at school eight hours,” she says. “I don’t mean to be rude here, but you and I can enact this nice social parody of being all buddy-buddy because we’re neighbors, or we can save ourselves the time and effort. You’ll do what you do, which, if I’m guessing correctly, is to be wildly and naturally popular, and I’ll do what I do, which is to concentrate on my art. All right?”

  She’s giving me that patronizing look I’ve seen a thousand times before. The I-need-to-speak-slowly-and-simply-because-Liam’s-in-the-room look. But all I can think is, I’m not Mr. Popularity.

  More than anything in the world, I want to prove her wrong.

  “As a matter of fact,” I say, “it’s not all right, because you have just made a lot of assumptions and . . . suppositions . . . and enacted a discriminating ritual based on the wrong, er, information. I am not popular at all, actually. I’m really very unpopular. Wildly unpopular. I was hoping to hang out with you at school, but now I will eat lunch alone beside the garbage pail or something like that. And furthermore,” I say, “I’m going in.” I get up and grab my iPod.

  Darleen sighs. I wait for her to argue, but she starts sketching again.

  “I’m going inside now,” I repeat.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You could at least say good-bye.”

  She puts down her pencil and glares.

  “Fine,” she says at last.

  “Fine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Great.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye.”

  This time I really do go inside. In fact, I stomp into the living room and fling myself onto the couch, which is only half cleared of stuff. Pete walks in, stops short, backs up, stops again, and scratches his beard.