For now I’m going to focus on Whitney. I can’t control her relationship with Jay, but I can control my friendship with her. That’s why I’m glad Raegan invited us over to her place tomorrow. Maybe if it’s just the four of us without the guys, things won’t be as awkward.
I copy the example problem from the board. I try and understand it, but I’m already lost in the terminology. I wish Mrs. Donaldson would go easy on us.
Next to me, Alex twitches in his seat. He’s asleep on his arms again, head on top of his notebook. I stare down at my own spiral and realize nothing I’ve written down makes sense.
Mrs. Donaldson sets a wicker basket full of Jolly Ranchers on her desk. “For the last ten minutes we’re going to do some Radical Races.”
I sink in my seat, anxiety swelling in my chest. This is not a game I enjoy. At all. Two people are called up to the board to solve a problem from today’s lesson, and whoever solves it before the timer stops wins a Jolly Rancher.
Blood rushes to my head and whirs in my ears. I know she thinks it’s good practice, but it’s too nerve-wracking for me to be put on the spot. I never won any rounds, but at least I had Whitney to laugh it off with after class. Sometimes she would even give me her Jolly Rancher, and I never thought it of as a sympathy gift. She was just being a good friend. This year I’m completely on my own.
“Mr. Ramos.” Mrs. Donaldson is looking straight at Alex. He startles in his seat before lifting his head to look at her. “Perhaps you’ll join us at the board?”
The whole class is staring at Alex. He blinks away the tiredness in his eyes and says, “Uh—”
“Now, please.”
Alex sighs, then slowly shuffles to the front of the room. With his back to the class, he chooses a blue dry erase marker and waits.
Mrs. Donaldson’s eyes scan the room. I pretend to look really,reallyinterested in the textbook in front of me.
“Miss Seneca?”
Crapsticks.
“Please join him at the board.”
My chest tightens. A cold panic falls over me. Every single nerve in my body is on high alert. I stare down at my spiral one last time, hoping something sticks, but all I see is a blur of numbers and letters that don’t make sense.
I stand next to Alex at the board. God, I hate this. I hate her. I would rather endure a pop quiz, because that way I would be able to fail in privacy.
I pick up a purple marker and stare at the whiteboard in front of me. I try to slow my racing heart by taking a deep breath. It doesn’t work. I know I shouldn’t care what the class thinks, but I do. I remember the look of relief on my classmates’ faces when they were called up to race against me freshman year. They knew it was basically guaranteed they’d win, and they wouldn’t bother hiding their smug looks when they did.
I don’t look at Alex.
Mrs. Donaldson reads the problem to us. As soon as we finish writing it on the board, the timer starts. I stare at the jumble of numbers in front of me, wishing I could somehow decipher how to solve it. I raise my marker, but I can’t make my brain understand the functionality of the problem. I need to write something—God,anything—at this point.
I hear Alex’s marker tapping the board beside me. My anxiety intensifies. I feel my mouth go dry. I’m about to lose to someone who spent the entire classsleeping. And everyone knows it. A lump builds up in my throat. Instead of concentrating on the problem, I blink back tears of frustration.
“Time,” Mrs. Donaldson calls. “Please face the class so they can see your work.”
I hang my head and cap my marker. From beside me, Alex doesn’t make any effort to move, either. I resist the temptation to look at his work.
“Please face the class,” Mrs. Donaldson repeats.
I do. As slowly as possible. From my peripheral vision, I can see Alex turning to face the front as well. Instead of looking at the class, I stare down at my oxfords. I pretend I’m anywhere but here.
A few students let out surprised gasps. That’s followed by a few chuckles. My throat tightens. And then I’m mad. Really mad. I refuse to play a part in this stupid game just to get mocked by my own classmates. I can’t be the only one who doesn’t understand this, but it’smyhumiliation that Mrs. Donaldson chooses to put on display.
Mrs. Donaldson’s voice booms across the room. “Now,what—?”
Before I can fully comprehend what I’m doing, I march to my desk and grab my things. I don’t have to put up with Mrs. Donaldson belittling me by explaining that this problem wasso easyand that Ireally needed to pay better attention.I refuse to be made a mockery in front of my classmates just because I can’t solve one algebra problem.
“Miss Seneca!”
A few hushed whispers fall over the room as I sling my book bag over my shoulder and push my way out the door. Mrs. Donaldson is still calling my name, but I don’t care. There are only a few minutes of class left anyway, and I can’t stand to be in there another second.
I rush to my locker before the bell rings and grab everything I need for my last three classes. Then I think better of it and grab all the books I’ll need to do homework this weekend. I’m embarrassed enough as it is, and now the entire class knows I’mstillan incompetent idiot.
