You (3 page)

“So I'm sitting there, doing my worksheet like he said, and he comes up and goes, ‘Miss Bianchi, what do you think you're doing?' And I'm like,
hello
, I'm doing
your
stupid work, so I go, ‘I'm doing the worksheet,' and he goes—”

Her eyes are not really blue but not green, either. Hazel? And she wears too much eye shadow, sort of a sandy-brown smear on her eyelids. But it's good being close enough to look into her eyes.

Why is it different with her? Other girls, you had
no problem with. With them you talked a couple times, texted a few nights, then made out somewhere. No big deal. But it's different now, with Ashley. You've never wanted to kiss somebody more, never wanted to do more, do it all, but you hold back. She's not like other girls, the kind you fool around with for something to do. You tell yourself that the right time is coming—soon—that you'll tell her how you feel. Maybe not tell her, just show her instead, you don't know yet.

But for right now, for this moment, it's good between you two.

 

H
ere are the Top Ten things that your parents say to you:

• Is that all you're going to do all day, sit in front of that computer?
  
• When I was your age I had two jobs.
  
• Why don't you wear some clothes that fit for a change?
  
• Turn it down. I can hear it all the way over here.
  
• You're not eating that for dinner.
  
• Did you do your homework?
  
• Stop mumbling and speak up.
  
• Now
  what did you do?
  
• Because I said so.
  
• No.
  

T
he second chime is still ringing and you're already out the door. Although Mr. Jansen finds it thrilling, the elastic clause of the U.S. Constitution fails to interest you or any other student in the class. You doubt that Mr. Jansen finds it all that interesting either, just part of that act every teacher puts on, trying to convince you that
this is vital to your
future success
. Last week, when you were actually doing homework, you asked your father about the three-fifths compromise in the Constitution and he said he was never good at math. He had to have sat through the same classes, learned the same crap, which makes you wonder if the only reason they make you learn it is because
they
had to learn it.

It's not that classes are hard. Most of the time they're ridiculously easy. The textbooks are dumbed down to the point where your kid sister could probably read them, and the teachers go over and over and over the same stuff anyway, drilling it into your head so that they can ask you one hundred multiple-choice questions to get it all back out of you again. The teachers complain that the students today are all lazy, ignorant, and stupid. But the truth is that you're smarter than they are. You're not even old enough to drive and you already know that none of this matters. Not the English or the social studies or the math or the science. If it did, if it
really
mattered,
they'd teach it in a way that made you want to learn it. But no, they've got to teach it in the most mind-numbing way possible, moving on without any real discussion to get to the next thing that's going to be on the test—the
standardized
test. Then when you take that
standardized
test they stand there in front of the class and actually tell you, “These tests are to help rate the school and won't affect your grade.” And then they're
shocked
by the results.

And they say that the students are stupid?

So you go down the back hall, past the science labs, past the upper-level math classes, to the stairwell that will bring you out twenty feet from Ashley's locker, which is right across from her next class. It's geographically the farthest point away from your English class and if you talk with her for even two minutes you will be late and you will get detention. But Ashley will probably be staying after school and if she does you'll get the chance to wait for the late bus with her. Detention, you
decide, may be the best thing that will happen to you today.

You push open the stairwell door and start up, two steps at a time. You're at the first landing when you see it, off over near the wall.

You don't carry a wallet. You
have
one, the one your grandmother gave you, but when she died you took everything out of it and put it in your top dresser drawer. It was getting worn out and you wanted it to last. You have that older one, the one with Velcro and a red Power Ranger on it, so it will never be used again. You wad up the few dollars you carry and stuff it with your school ID in your jeans pocket. It's not like you have a license or credit cards to worry about. But obviously somebody does, because sitting there near the wall is a black tri-fold leather wallet.

You look around first before you bend over to pick it up. You don't know why you look around, it's not like you stole it or anything, but you look around.
Maybe it's instinct, some caveman in your deep past learning the hard way to look around before he picked up some other caveman's coconut.

The leather's worn smooth and at the corners the black dye has rubbed thin. It's heavier than any wallet you've ever carried. You flip it open and there are at least ten plastic cards in the little pockets, all lined up so you just see a quarter inch at the top of each one. That's enough to identify most of them at a glance. A driver's license, a Visa card, a Starbucks card, a school ID, another bank card. And in that long slit pocket, two twenties, a five, and a bunch of ones.

There's a second—that's it, a second—when you want to stick the wallet in your pocket and walk away about fifty bucks richer. But that's not you. Later, they'll say that you did things like that—and worse—all the time. But you didn't. And later it won't matter anyway.

With your thumb you slide up the ID. The word
SENIOR
is stamped across the photo like it was a major achievement only attained by the chosen few and not something everybody gets if they hang around long enough. You recognize the guy in the picture, some muscle-headed stereotype, but you don't know his name and there's no way he knows yours. He's a senior and a jock. You're a sophomore and a hoodie. In his world you don't even exist. Until now.

“Excuse me, I believe you have my wallet.”

Okay, that's not what he says, not even close to what he says, but that's what he'll tell the principal he said, and the principal will nod as if this fine young man wouldn't say anything harsher than “golly,” and only that if he were provoked.

But everybody heard what he said. That's what brought the crowd to the stairwell. That and the chance to see some underclassman get the piss beat out of him by a varsity lacrosse player.

You try to tell him that you just found the wallet
in the stairwell and that you were going to take it to the main office and that you're not a thief and you don't need his stupid money, but it's kind of hard to talk when someone's got a fistful of your collar rammed up against your throat. He's shouting at you, chin down, looking up under his eyebrows, the veins along his temples popping out. He spits when he yells and you can feel the spray on your face. You bring a hand up to pull his fist away, but he gives a jerk that catches you on the chin and snaps your mouth shut. Later, Max and Derrick will tell you what you should have done.

“You should have kicked him in the nuts,” Max will say, kicking out an imaginary attacker in case you didn't understand.

“I would have popped that punk upside the head,” Derrick will say in his best homie voice.

What they won't say, but what you all know, is that you couldn't have done a thing. He has sixty pounds on you and at least eight inches, and thousands of
hours in the gym. He all but picked you up when he grabbed you, and when he walks you backward and slams you into the wall so your head bounces forward, your feet hardly touch the floor. He twists his hand a quarter turn and now you can't breathe, your collar tightening around you like a noose. You're holding the wallet out and you can feel your face turning red, but it has nothing to do with being embarrassed. You'll have plenty of time for that later. He brings his left hand up and rips the wallet from your grip, then backhands you hard on your ear. You're gasping now and your head's ringing and you watch as your hands try to claw his balled-up fist away, and then there's a couple of male teachers there pulling him off you. Suddenly you can breathe again and right away you lunge for him, swinging a wide punch that glances off a teacher's shoulder, the other swing, the big one, missing everybody, throwing you off balance, and you stumble forward. The one teacher grabs you now and pins your arms to
your sides. He's old and bald and surprisingly strong.

The red roar in your head recedes and you can hear all of the students in the stairwell. Some are stuck in that “fight, fight, fight” refrain, others are doing the “what happened?” drill, and others, mostly girls, are laughing. The senior is taller and bigger than either of the teachers, but he lets them keep him from getting to you.

“He stole my wallet.” He waves the wallet as he shouts like he's daring you to reach for it again, unable to control your thieving urges.

“I didn't steal it. It was on the floor,” you say, and there's this strange crack in your voice. But nobody really heard it since everybody's shouting now and there are more teachers herding everyone out of the stairwell. The jock's still going on about how you stole his wallet, but the teacher's telling him to be quiet and the teacher that has you—Mr. Harris—lets go of your arms but stands close enough to let you
know you shouldn't try to run. Not that you would, but if you did you sure as hell could outrun him.

They march you down the stairs and through the hall to the principal's office and of course everybody's gotta come out of their rooms and stare. You expect the students to do it—you'd do it—but there's half the teachers, watching you go past with that sour
now what?
look on their faces.

“I said that's enough. Knock it off.” It's Mr. Coriddi, the other teacher, and he's talking to the jock and he's not kidding. He probably had to get up off his ass in the teachers' lounge to deal with this and then there's probably going to be some paperwork he'll have to fill out. He teaches twelfth-grade math. He doesn't like his job and he doesn't care who knows it. You can hear it in his voice. He sounds a lot like your dad.

Coriddi is walking fast—got a card game waiting, no doubt—and the jock's up there with him, walking that swagger that guys like him always walk. You
and Mr. Harris are falling a few steps behind and he's breathing through his nose, but it's loud and there's a whistle to it. It's kinda funny, but you're not ready to let go of that pissed feeling yet. You had Mr. Harris for study hall. There were forty kids in the class and it was only for the first quarter of last year. You didn't think he'd remember you, but then he says, “Kyle, what class are you supposed to be in now?”

“English. Ms. Casey.”

He nods. You don't know why he'd want to know, but you're glad he asked. Up ahead, Coriddi walks past the school's massive trophy case and up to the main office. He pushes open the glass door and points to a row of cafeteria chairs along the wall under a framed flag that you were told once flew over the White House. There's a long counter in the main office, and the receptionist and the secretary and one of the counselors who was looking up some files all turn to watch you come in. The jock sits down at one end, you take the other. He
keeps flipping through his wallet, making sure that everything is still there, going back, flipping through again, just in case you reached over and grabbed something when he wasn't looking.

Coriddi leans against the counter. “Dave in?”

“I'll give him a call,” the secretary says, and picks up a walkie-talkie off her desk.

The counselor looks over at the jock and rolls the file cabinet drawer shut.
“Jake?”
He says it like he can't believe what he's seeing, like the jock had three heads or something.
“Jake Burke?”

“Hey, Mr. Linton,” the jock grunts.

“Jake, what are
you
doing here?”

Seeing Jake in the principal's office is apparently news. Seeing Kyle Chase is not. The jock turns his head to look at you, then looks back at the counselor. “Somebody stole my wallet.”

Coriddi snaps his finger and points at the jock. “No talking.”

“He asked me a question,” Jake says, and now his
voice is going up like he's looking for a fight and you're sitting there wondering how cool it would be if those two went at it right there in the main office. Running that thought through your head keeps you from punching the wall.

It takes ten minutes for the principal to arrive, two minutes for Coriddi to explain how he got it all under control, and two seconds for Mr. Harris to agree. The principal is checking with the secretary to see if he has any appointments coming up when one of the gym teachers comes through the office doors. He's tall and trim, with the kind of square jaw football quarterbacks always have. He's wearing track pants and a black and gold Midlands High Cougars sweatshirt. He's balancing a cup of coffee on the back of a green clipboard. He jerks his right-angle chin at Jake the Jock. “What are you here for?”

Jake's got his head tilted down and he's lost all that swagger. “Hey, Coach.”

“Why are you here?”

Jake looks up to make sure Coriddi is gone. “
Somebody
stole my wallet and I had to get it back.”

The coach looks at you. “You take his wallet?”

“No. I—”

“He's lying, Coach,” Jake says, and he gives this laugh.