Becca did like Washington County too, but like her father, she was overqualified. She was currently the top of her eighth-grade class, and she taught high schoolers algebra, which was what she was doing the night her life ended.
“Here, let me show you,” Becca said.
She took the calculator from Kent’s disgruntled hands and typed in the right commands. He watched with meager interest.
“I don’t see the point of all this,” he said, sweeping his hands. “It’s a waste of both of our times. It’s summer, for Christ’s sake.”
“Yes,” Becca said. “And that’s why you need to be prepared for the special examination for Integrated Algebra so that you’ll be ready to take geometry as soon as the year starts.”
“Admit it,” Kent said. “You don’t want me here. You’d rather be at the fair tonight like everyone else.”
“Trying to make sure you can graduate high school is a point as good as any,” she said.
“You’re only doing this because my mom made you,” he said, looking down. “You’d much rather be anywhere else than here with me.”
That was true, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Kent might not be all that great at algebra, but he was good at figuring out why people did certain things.
Kent’s mother had indeed asked if Becca wouldn’t mind but try and help her son graduate high school. She wasn’t confident that he’d end up going to college, but she didn’t want him to make the same mistake she did and drop out of high school. Kent’s mom worked as the caretaker for Becca’s mom during the day when Matt and Becca were at school, and Robbie was off at the lab. She was a nice woman, and she had cash. Becca agreed.
Kent was as stubborn as a new calf, though, constantly wanting to throw himself down in the mud rather than try and learn how to calculate the slopes of multi-level algebraic equations.
They were making progress, even if it was a slow. She showed him how to do the problem.
“The answer is -4/3,” Becca said.
“Well, of course, it is,” Kent said, with mock amusement. “Why didn’t I think of that, super easy to understand the answer?”
There was a crash from downstairs.
“Fuck,” Becca’s father said. Downstairs, there was the sound of cracking and the sound of a broom. He said something else, and then the sliding door opened and closed.
“Don’t eavesdrop,” she said.
Becca pointed to another problem in their Regent’s Prep book. The question had a diagram of a bird falling to the ground from the top of a sunflower, and its shadow beneath it, making a right triangle. One of the sides was labeled “x.”
“To the nearest tenth of a degree, what is the measure of angle x?” Becca said, sliding him back his notebook.
Becca walked over to her window and opened it.
Cow manure greeted her, along with a smell she hoped she’d never have to smell again. She slipped out of the window and into the old fire escape. The metal creaked as she did so, and then she was on the ground. She walked around, listening to the creepers, and crickets. She walked over to the back porch.
She was an hour away from her life ending.
Her father was on the back porch, looking out into the trees behind their house. Robbie McCarthy looked a lot older than Becca had ever seen him. He was a man of usually quick and honest temperament. Lately, though, he hadn’t been as nice. His hands were shaking, although the night wasn’t cold. He dropped his cigarette when she approached.
“Geez, you scared me,” he said. He looked down at the cigarette. “Do you know how long it took me to light that?”
“I’ll help you,” Becca said.
For a moment, he looked as though he was offended, frowning, and looking down at his daughter. Finally, though, he shrugged and took out the carton and the lighter. Both of the objects shook in his hands as he handed them to her.
“I told you I was going to quit,” he said as Becca lit him a cigarette.
“That was before,” she said, handing him the cigarette. His shaking hands snatched it, and for a moment, she was afraid that he might drop this one as well.
But he didn’t. He took it, brought it to his lips, and inhaled.
“That’s an excuse,” he said.
“It’s still true,” Becca said.
“I need more time,” he said, not turning to look at Becca. “If I had more time, I could make all of this work.”
“You don’t have to,” Becca said, walking up beside him. His hands were still shaking, so he put them in his pockets, hoping that doing so would make the Parkinson’s go away, if not forever, then at least this moment between the two of them.
Moonlight shimmered in his water-filled eyes.
“I do, I do,” he said.
“What was the crash about?” she said.
“I dropped a bowl,” he said. “It was wet and slippery. I would have dropped it anyway, even if not for the—” He held out his hand for her to watch as it shook around in the moonlight. He held the cigarette in his mouth as though it were a toothpick, perhaps afraid to go up and grab it, lest he drop it again.
“Anyway,” he said, dropping his hand. “I startled your mother, and then I tried to tell her everything was fine, and then I came out here for a minute or two. In my defense, I hadn’t planned on smoking.”
“You still carry around a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, though?”
“Yep,” he said.
