The Boy Next Story

by Tiffany Schmidt

  Keene’s page was a description of Gatsby’s party prep. Clara took over for even more description—an endless thread about his juicer and its two-hundred-orange capacity. Was that exciting back in Fitzgerald’s day? Was that their small talk? Instead of showing off their latest cell phone, they’d brag about the size of their juicer? I sighed and tried to follow along, but what even was “yellow cocktail music”?

  I didn’t belong in this classroom. Not with them all grabbing pens to underline and annotate while we read. I could either move my finger along or try to process it.

  At least something had finally happened. By the time Elinor read, the narrator—new boy in town, Nick Carraway—had been invited to one of Gatsby’s famous parties. He spent the whole of Gemma’s page walking around and feeling uncomfortable. Maybe this was it? Maybe this was me finally having my moment of textual connection? Because painful awkwardness at parties was my MO. Nick’s description of the way people stared at him when he asked where to find Gatsby—that’s exactly how I’d felt at the Rogue Romeo party last week when I was given endless Who are you and why are you here? looks.

  “Annnnnd, stop,” Ms. Gregoire told Huck. “Good class today, people.”

  But wait. We were forty-four pages in and hadn’t met Gatsby! Was that what made him “great”? Did he not appear anywhere on these 180 pages?

  Was this one of those trick endings to make the reader feel dumb? Like that play Merri dragged me to where they waited the whole time for that guy Godot to show up and he never did?

  “Aurora?” Ms. Gregoire stopped by my desk as everyone else packed up. “I’d like to speak to you after class. I’ll write you a pass for your next teacher. Or would you rather talk after school?”

  I’d rather not do it at all. Was that a choice? I picked C: Let’s pretend this conversation never happened.

  I stared at a smudge of charcoal I’d missed on my pinkie. “After class is fine.”

  Clara paused to give me a grim nod of support. Huck gave me a salute with two fingers from the forehead. I managed a half smile in response before Ms. Gregoire shooed them out the door. “Aurora, let’s talk about you and how you’re handling this book.”

  I gripped the cover with both hands, feeling the paperback’s corners curl under my fingers. “What about it?”

  “When we met after school on Monday, we discussed the trouble you were having connecting to the short stories.”

  “Yes.” What more was there to say? I’d been there for that conversation on my failings; I didn’t need to relive it.

  “I’ve since read your paper on Shirley Jackson’s ‘The Lottery’—and it almost seemed like you were equating being admitted to Advanced Art to being selected for the titular lottery.”

  “What? No. I want to be in Advanced Art. I don’t think anyone wants to be chosen to be stoned.” Which I was pretty sure was what happened to the lottery winner in the story. And I was telling the truth, or at least mostly. Unless subconsciously I was writing about how awful art class was? “I—I didn’t mean it?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Ms. Gregoire. “Well, regardless, I’m hoping to see you form a stronger connection with this novel. How do you feel you’re doing?”

  “Fine?”

  “Good.” She smiled at me. “So which characters are you identifying with the most?”

  “Um . . .” I was not prepared for this pop quiz. She’d leaned forward. With her folded hands and her eye contact, she was a portrait of attentiveness and interest. Now I just needed an answer.

  Who was I supposed to identify with? Nick Carraway—the newbie in town, an outsider with plenty of privilege and connections but not nearly as much money? Daisy Buchanan—the pretty girl who whisper-talked and was either vapid or fake-vapid? It certainly wasn’t Tom, Daisy’s racist, abusive, cheating husband.

  “What if I don’t identify with any of them? These characters all feel the same. Everyone’s rich, white, and beautiful. I mean, I’m white, but . . .” I trailed off, cheeks blazing. Did that sound like I was fishing for her to say I was beautiful? Not what I meant. Dangit.

  “Fair point.” She nodded. “Thankfully the books we read throughout the year will contain diverse characters, but I’m also not asking you or your classmates which one you look the most like. I’d hope that regardless of gender, race, appearance, orientation, background, or abilities, there’s a shared level of humanity and common ground you could connect with. Or even reject.” She paused. “That’s a reaction too. I don’t expect your default to be agreement.”

  “Oh.” I fanned the pages with my thumbnail. “Then maybe Nick Carraway? I’m new too and definitely an outsider.”

  “Really?” Ms. Gregoire gave her head a small shake. “That’s unexpected. Hmm. Nick? Are you sure?”

  So clearly there had been a right answer and I hadn’t given it. “Who were you thinking?”

  “While I see where you’re coming from about the outsider perspective—Hero High is a tough assimilation—Nick isn’t the only outsider in the book.” She leaned back and waited for me to connect the dots. When I didn’t, she spread her hands like she was lifting up a tray. “Gatsby!”

  “Gatsby?” I gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. “But we haven’t even met him.” Had we? Was I so confused that I’d missed the part where he appeared?

  “Exactly!” Ms. Gregoire thumped her hands on her lap like I’d made a brilliant point. “And most of your classmates would say the same thing about you. It’s that enigma piece—you both have it. Lots of intrigue and dazzle, but no one is allowed too close. And the speculation—well, it just swirls about you both.”

  Speculation? About me? That I hadn’t heard, but my teacher had. Great.

  She was still looking at me expectantly. “Um, I hope no one here thinks I killed a man.” I swallowed and clarified. “You know, like how the party guests whisper that about Gatsby?”

  Ms. Gregoire tittered. “So you were listening. I wondered. You looked a million miles away during class.”

  “I don’t get this book,” I confessed. “Yellow music, orange juice . . .” I flipped to the page where we’d stopped. “What does ‘spectroscopic gayety’ even mean? And if I don’t understand the words, how am I going to get symbols and stuff?”

  Ms. Gregoire waved away my question with a graceful swipe of gold fingernails. “I’m much less concerned about your vocabulary or grasp of symbolism than I am about what this book means to you. You’ve got so much to say. You just need to be willing to risk trying.”

  I reached up to cup my forehead with both hands while I stared down at my desk. “I’m not smart like Merri. I’m going to disappoint you if you expect that.”

  “Oh, Aurora, no. That’s simply not true.” She sat back in her seat like she was stunned. “There are so many ways to be smart.” I caught the pointed look she gave at my charcoal-stained fingers. “Your talents aren’t lesser, they’re just different. And I know you Campbell girls are going to do extraordinary things here.”

  I wasn’t sure about this Campbell girl, but maybe Merri could be extraordinary enough for both of us. The bell rang and I shoved my book in my bag. “I need to get to science, but I’ll do better. I promise.”

  “Rory.” Ms. Gregoire put a hand on my arm as I stood. “All you need to do is be yourself. People are here to know you, help you. You just need to be.”

  I scrunched my face up. I would not cry. I wouldn’t. “I’m trying so hard.”

  “Maybe you’re putting all your effort into the wrong things,” said Ms. Gregoire gently as she handed me a pass. “Using it to keep people out instead of letting them in or letting them help.”

  “Maybe,” I answered, but her voice sounded hopeful and mine did not.

  4

  My math classroom was a circus of color and posters, each begging to be that day’s distraction. It was like an inspiration factory threw up on the walls in the form of kittens and athletes and fancy hand lettering and You’ve got this clichés.

 
This fountain of encouragement all flowed from the kindest teacher on my schedule. I glanced at the smiling black woman who was currently crouched beside Elinor’s desk, nodding and pointing. Despite what Mrs. Roberts and all the posters said, I didn’t “got this”—I hadn’t the faintest grasp of geometric proofs or linear equations.

  Mrs. Roberts had given us fifteen minutes to complete fifteen problems. There were two minutes left. I was on problem number four. I was pretty sure the first three were wrong.

  I frowned at a poster of a joyful bee. It read Failure only starts when you stop trying. No, actually, failure “started” when you scored below sixty-four. I knew this from experience.

  I wanted to be in my bedroom so badly I could practically feel the texture of my doorknob beneath the fingers I was clenching in my lap. The brass circle was dotted with daubs of paint, dried in layers and smears until the metal barely peeked through. The walls behind my door were white—not that they were visible. I’d started tacking up my own sketches and prints from my favorite artists long before I had permission to do so.

  I kept my art supplies organized in the turret. Each of our bedrooms had something that made them ours. Lilly’s had its own bathroom. Merri’s had a balcony that she used as an escape route for visiting Toby. Mine had a tower. The windows on all sides meant I had a ton of natural light. The low perimeter shelves that Merri claimed were begging for books—I used them to store canvases, brushes, paint, pastels, charcoal, ink, nibs, palettes, and a lifetime’s worth of sketchbooks.

  And that’s where I wanted—no, needed—to be. Wearing yoga pants and one of Dad’s old dress shirts as a smock, with my fishbowl burbling cheerfully. A blank page in front of me, a pencil in my hand. The freedom to take everything explosive and suffocating inside me and turn it into lines and shapes and shading.

  Drawing wasn’t a physical release in the way Merri described running or the way Clara said she felt after kickboxing. Toby would sag with relief after pounding out a particularly demanding piece on piano. My art was escape. It was centering. It wasn’t possible to spend hours focusing entirely on creating while also stressing about real-life problems. Like how I had enough trouble with math when it was just numbers. Once they threw letters into the mix, I was over my head.

  One minute left. I was still on problem four. X and Y still taunted me.

  They straight-up laughed two minutes later when my answers weren’t close to correct. Though, according to the top-hat-wearing monkey on a poster by the pencil sharpener, You lose the same points if you’re wrong by one or wrong by one hundred. Check your work!

  “Let’s get an answer from someone we haven’t heard from yet.” Mrs. Roberts’s gaze roamed across the rows and I ducked. My math survival plan was Keep your head down and write everything down. The first so I wouldn’t be called on, the second in the hope it’d eventually make sense.

  “Miss Campbell, what do you have?”

  And like my score on my last pop quiz, my survival plan was zero percent effective.

  “Um, I’m still working on it.” Technically, I was working on problem four. She’d asked for number eight.

  “We can wait.” Mrs. Roberts drummed the electronic marker she was holding against her navy slacks. She favored dark, solid colors but paired them with gorgeous broaches or statement necklaces. Today’s pin was a hammered copper dragonfly that glowed against her dark skin and burgundy blouse. Her lip stain matched her shirt and her lips stretched into an encouraging smile as she said, “Go ahead and finish up.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, then snapped it shut when I thought I might vomit instead. There were twelve other students in this class. Add in the teacher and that made twenty-six eyes staring at me. See, I could do some math. Just not this stupid geometry. I didn’t need to prove that a triangle’s angles added up to 180 degrees. If the textbook told me it was true, I’d believe it. “Go on now,” said Mrs. Roberts, a hint of some faded southern twang creeping into her voice.

  I picked up my pencil, but my hand was shaking so hard it created a seismograph reading in my notebook instead of a diagram. “Can you come back to me?” I squeaked.

  “Why, sure.” Mrs. Roberts’s brown eyes were sympathetic, but how could she not see this was torture? “You keep working, we’ll circle back.”

  I looked at the book again. At the example on the board. At the shoulders of the guys who sat on either side of me. One was scratching the back of his neck, and the other kicked the desk in front of him as he crossed and uncrossed his ankles. Clara was behind me, but there was no inconspicuous way to turn around, and I doubted she’d help me anyway.

  “Aurora?” Mrs. Roberts prompted. “You ready with number eight?”

  “Thirty-six?” I crossed my fingers.

  She shook her head. “Not quite. Why don’t you take another crack at it and I’ll be over in a moment to help you. The rest of you, start problems sixteen to twenty.”

  I drew a slash through my calculations and flipped to a clean page, where I dutifully recopied the problem and tried again. Thirty-six. The posters mocked me—Never stop asking questions. Well, I’d mastered that part. It was understanding the answers that baffled me.

  Mrs. Roberts caught my eye and held up a one-minute finger, then bent back over the notebook of the kid she was helping.

  I stood and crossed the classroom. By the door, right above the hook holding the bathroom pass, was a poster that read You can’t be a smart cookie with a crummy attitude! I wondered where tossing your cookies fit in that equation, but I wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

  The last thing I saw as the door shut behind me was the rainbow-hued poster on the back: It’s a good day to have a good day.

  I tried not to gag on the irony: Every day at Hero High was . . . not good. I rushed into the bathroom. Not the most creative of hiding spots, but I didn’t have many options. I spent five minutes doubled over in a stall trying to get into a meditative headspace and slow my breathing. My eyes traced the lines of the tile grout and fixated on the one that was set slightly crooked. I was that crooked tile, the one that stood out in a row of matching perfection. The mistake.

  Hello, rock bottom. Because why else would I be comparing myself to bathroom tiles?

  “Rory, are you in here?” If I couldn’t tell who it was by the voice that managed to be both bubbly and authoritative, I would’ve been able to tell by the shoes outside my stall. Only Clara paired her Hero High uniform with designer sneakers covered in navy blue glitter. I was pretty sure they’d come presparkled from Fifth Avenue, but I wouldn’t put it past Clara to glitterize them herself. “Mrs. Roberts sent me to check on you. There’s only three minutes left in class.”

  I slowly slid the latch and peeked out the door. “Does this mean you’re talking to me again?”

  Clara had a curl twined around her finger. She straightened her hair on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, she “let it do its own thing,” which was perfect blond spirals. She gave it a tug and let go, then pointed a manicured finger at me. “Fine. I’m talking to you again. But next time, you’d better tell me when you have the good gossip. I could’ve warned you Monroe Stratford was trouble. He’s had a mean streak since elementary school—I totally would’ve called him using you to get back at Merri for their breakup.”

  “Well, then you would’ve been right.”

  “And what was up with using me as a party-alibi without letting me know? That’s, like, sneaking around 101.” She pushed the stall door open and pulled me out. “Face it, Rory Campbell, you need me.”

  “You’re right.” I rolled my eyes but gave her a smile.

  “Good.” She gave a sharp nod of her chin. “Also, could you pay attention? Bancroft and Dante are about to pull a muscle or fall out of their desks trying to give you the answer.”

  “Give me what?” Was she referring to the same two guys who sat on either side of me and had spent the whole period avoiding eye contact?

  “
Hello! Scratching their necks, crossing their ankles, left sleeve above the elbow?” Clara raised her eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you forgot the—Oh wait!” She smacked her forehead. “You weren’t in fourth grade when we made it up. Well, don’t worry about that now. I’ll teach you the code later.”

  “You all cheat?” This was surprisingly satisfying. Maybe the whole class was as clueless as me. I guess at least one kid had to get it, but maybe all the answers rippled from them.

  “Not really. Never on tests. Just during class so things like today don’t happen. There are rules. I’ll teach you them along with the code. Now wash your hands so we can head back.”

  They’d wanted to help me. I pumped soap onto my palm and rubbed it into lather. My classmates had tried to help me. Of course, because I wasn’t one of them, I hadn’t understood their help. But they’d tried! And that was enough to make me not want to escape down the drain with the soap I was rinsing off.

  Clara watched me in the mirror as she adjusted her headband. She handed me a paper towel, then she swung the bathroom door open wide. “By the way, the answer is X equals one-twenty.”

  5

  “Are you going to the club fair?” asked Huck. He’d drifted over from his locker as I struggled to open mine. I hated all numbers right now—the ones on my lock’s dial, the ones in math class answers, and especially the ones that made up my class averages. Huck bumped my hand out of the way and gave the lock a twist and a tug. It fell open, no combination necessary. “Are you a joiner?”

  I laughed as I thought about all the things I was failing to juggle: schoolwork, artwork, work-work at the family dog boutique. “I don’t have time to be a joiner, but feel free to join away.”

  “So, that’s a no. Between orchestra, school, and sports, I don’t know if I do either. Speaking of, if you feel like going to a lacrosse game, I’ll actually see playing time today.”