“Right.” The teacher nods. There’s a smirk peeking out from his overgrown beard and mustache that makes me wonder if he’s making a mental note to mess her name up for the rest of the year. If he does, he will win the spot of favorite teacher ever on my list.
“Alright, and Jennings? Did Jennings finally make it?”
I must have missed his first trip through the roster.
“Present,” I say, lifting my palm slightly from the desktop. The girl in front of me tucks her head into her shoulder while she twirls a lock of her red hair around a pen. I lean forward enough to catch her eyes and make her blush at getting caught peeking.
“Hi,” I whisper. She whispers Hi back and hunches down in her chair. She shouldn’t be embarrassed. It’s cute when girls check me out; the ultimate compliment, really. I could spend a few more seconds silently flirting with her, but that plan is cut short the moment the teacher attempts another name.
“And Taylor. Or is it Hollis?”
A whirlwind hits me, both mentally and physically, as Hollis flings open the closed door behind me, announcing her arrival in a hurried, disheveled, and chaotic scene. You’d think a hurricane was brewing on the other side of the door, her hair wild and her plaid flannel shirt falling off one arm almost completely.
“Hollis, yeah. That’s me. I’m . . . Hollis.” She’s panting, and her eyes land on the open seat next to me. A look of relief colors her face and she takes it, dropping her heavy backpack at her feet and immediately twisting her hair up in a bun on top of her head. She pokes a pencil in to hold it in place.
“Phew, that was rough. How’s it goin’?” She blows up at the loose hairs on her forehead, her cheeks red.
I lean forward and grip the front of my desk, keeping my eyes on the wood grain and my periphery as closed off from her as I can. It takes her about three seconds to tap my shoulder with the eraser end of her pencil.
“Hey!” she whisper shouts.
I sigh heavily and slowly turn my head to the right, forcing a smile and quick nod to respond. She leans to her side to cut the distance between us.
“What’d I miss?” She’s already got a notebook out, her hands opening the cover while she stares at me.
“We took a quiz,” I joke, shrugging. For a flash, she believes me. I can see it in the way her eyebrows lift and her pupils bleed into the blue of her eyes.
“Ass,” she bites back after a few seconds, moving back into her own space and writing the date at the top of her paper. She must be a good student. That’s a very good student kinda move.
There are seven open seats in this class. An entire row on the far right. Of all the seats, she took this one, but it doesn’t mean I have to stay here. While our teacher flips on a digital screen at the front of the room, I grab the strap on my backpack and twist to the side, ready to make my break for the farthest desk from Pooscooter and Hollis. Before I can make my escape, though, the teacher flashes a layout on the screen that already has us labeled in our seats.
“Welcome to statistics, brought to you by the Allensville School District’s latest technology grant. I’m Dr. Vanetta, but you can call me Dr. V for short. If you could all be cool and do me the solid of staying in your seats, I won’t have to butcher your names ever again, unless I want to.”
Most of the class chuckles at his introduction, and maybe later, when I’m not pissed off at getting stuck next to daddy’s girl, I’ll laugh about it, too. Right now, I’m focused on making myself as closed off as possible, to the point that the guy to my left is sliding his seat from me inches at a time as I encroach on his space.
“This is my first year here, and last semester was my first as a high school teacher. I’m used to college kids, so my expectations are kinda high. Prepare yourselves to work,” he says, switching the screen over to the syllabus. I note the label at the top—PAGE 1 of 12. Jeeeezusss!
I take my phone out and click to the class listing on my school app, pulling up the documents Dr. V is flying through on the screen. The guy is pretty funny, but he wasn’t kidding about expectations. He’s quickly losing his bid to become my favorite teacher. To my right, Hollis is feverishly scribbling, and I could probably clue her in on how to use the app, but she said it herself—I’m an ass.
It takes almost the entire class period for Dr. V to get through his expectations for this semester. I decided somewhere around the fourth assignment that I would be fine taking a C in this class. It won’t affect where I go; I’ll be signed long before that final grade locks in.
While Hollis squeezes her hand and flexes her fingers from writing cramps, I lean back and zone out, mentally preparing for the next month of conditioning before tryouts. It’s almost impossible to ignore my biggest hurdle, though, especially since she’s constantly moving right next to me. I don’t know whether she’s jacked up on caffeine or ADHD or nervous or WTF! Her knee has not stopped bopping since she started taking notes, almost as if her hand’s in a race with her leg to burn calories. If this is what she’s like on the field, I’m
