“Solar eclipse tonight!” Jonathan interrupts from beside her.
I take a deep breath and adjust the Velcro on my huge black boot, ignoring the concerning fact that Jonathan is in eighthgrade and thinks the sun comes out at night. There’s an aching in my calf that I just can’t seem to shake, but I can’t complain. It’s my own fault for refusing to take anything for the pain. I thought resting for a week in bed would help. It had not.
“No. Jonathan, she has a right to know!” Madison’s voice is louder than I’ve ever heard it. You tell him, girl. I’m impressed. But I’m also very, very nervous.
I pull my shoulders back and look between their faces. This class has been one of the best I’ve ever had. They’re hard workers. Mostly kind. And they love to laugh.
“What’s going on?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at Jonathan who puts his hands up in surrender.
“There’s a video of you!” Madison blurts out, her face now covered in crimson blotches while the other students shake their heads and cringe.
“A video?” I ask. I’m not catching what she’s throwing. “For yearbook?”
Madison lowers her head to her desk and Jonathan speaks up.
“We decided not to tell you because—well—it’s not—like?—”
“Who has the video?” I ask, still stuck in the fog.
Twenty blank stares look at me with pity.
“Ms. G,everyonehas the video. It went viral,” Jonathan explains, his words slow and even like when I need to introduce a new formula to a student with a math allergy.
Viral. The internet. Right.
Oh. My. God.
I wheel down the row toward where Jonathan is sitting, rolling over folders and notebooks. There are baskets under the desks, but heaven forbid our students ever use them. I put my hand out.
“Show me,” I squeak.
Jonathan doesn’t move. He looks across the room to someone for help, but nobody dares.
“I can’t. We can’t have phones. Remember?” His eyes are wide. He runs a hand through his hair.
I know they all have their phones. Tucked in socks. Zipped in pencil cases. Snuggled into bras or waist bands. But no one will risk the dreaded “automatic Saturday detention.” I roll my eyes and start to reverse, ignoring the sound of crumpled paper beneath my wheels and the cry of “my toe” that someone fakes as I go. I want to kill Tara. One fucking rule! No videos.
I get to my laptop and type in my name. All that comes up is the school website. The Rutgers University website. The newspaper articles about how I organized a group of teacher volunteers for Chop. No viral video.
“Type in ‘Karaoke Fail’,” Kamaiah tells me from the front row.
And I do.
And there it is.
I press the play button and watch myself. Two slides left. Four steps right. Then the final verse. I look good. Happy. Like I’m having more fun than a kid on a carousel. And then I’m passing the microphone down to Tara who looks legitimately gorgeous staring up at me like I’m Beyonce and she’s my biggest fan. My arms go out. I see the moment I misjudged. The left toe of my flat connects with that stupid black cord. And as I pull my arms in and switch my feet, my mouth forms a round O mirroring my eyes, and the realization on my face as I reach for the microphone stand is nearly too comical to be real as I tumble off the stage, the crowd clearing graciously to assist gravity.
Whoever made the video edited the scene so the moment I disappear beneath the crowd, I reappear in slow motion reverse, rising like a phoenix, my talons clutching the silver pole as I stand back on the stage and fall—over and over again.
Did effing Spielburg produce this video?
You can see every flicker of emotion that crosses over my face: the joy of performing, the confusion, the fear, and finally the flinching resignation. I hit play again and someone gets the lights so I can watch it as it’s meant to be watched.
“Look, Ms. G. 5.3 million views!”
I look up from my laptop screen and toward the voice, confused. It’s Aiden, with his toothy smile pointing at the Smartboard. I look slowly to where he’s pointing and realize my laptop is projecting onto the screen for the whole class to watch. Not that it matters. There’s no way they haven’t seen it already. This is what comes from stepping outside my box and breaking my rules. I’m going to kill Tara. Why did I let her talk me into this mess?
Then my eyes lift over their little heads and find Mr. Donato, the head principal, staring at me like I’ve lost my damned mind. Even his mustache is angry. I snap the laptop shut. The Smartboard goes black and the students groan. The light flicks on. Then a few of the kids follow my gaze, craning their necks to look over their shoulders. I hear some giggles. A few gasps. One muffled curse.
