Lesson 39: Just keep chipping away.
“I volunteer as tribute!”
My eyes find Dana standing in the middle of her group in the back left corner of the room. She’s trying to pretend she hasn’t been swept into the tide of my glorious pre-holiday break fun, Algebra Hunger Games, but her smile tugs at her lips as I hold three fingers up in the air—theHunger Gamessalute. My minions follow suit. My hair is in a high ponytail with a fuzzy scrunchy I borrowed from Syd, and my shirt has a picture of Jennifer Lawrence in full mockingjay costume. Go big or go home.
“Then so you shall be tribute, Dana Vilario. The sixth member of the twenty-fifth annual Algebra Hunger Games?—”
“Damnnnn, Ms. G. You’re old!”
“She made the number up. The books weren’t even out then, Sam. Jesus!” Maddie throws a piece of crumpled paper at him.
“What’s that Samuel? You’d like to take Dana’s spot as tribute?” I ask.
The kids laugh as Sam shakes his head like his hair’s on fire.
“So as I was saying. Tribute Vilario of District Six, take your place in the arena.” I gesture toward the duct tape that spells out arena at the center of the room. Dana picks up the nerf gun suction cup bow and arrow that I bought for obvious reasons and holds it upside down, then adjusts. She narrows her eyes at the whiteboard where I drew a target filled with different point values. “Tributes, are you ready?”
Everyone in the class hoots and hollers and a few people in my hallway shut their doors to block out what is surely recognized as great-times-in-Gallagher’s-class by all but a few teachers I’ve yet to win over. Just give me one more decade.
“Ready! Aimmmmm. Fire!”
She unleashes the arrow and it hits the board with a pop right in the center of the bullseye.
“Katnisssssss Everdeen. Five points! Go, go, go.”
I press the next page button on the Acitvboard and an equation appears on the screen. The sound of furious scribbling in notebooks is so loud that I barely hear the ping from my cell on my desk.
As I move toward my phone, I watch the class. All heads are bent toward their work, sans two. One is Joseph Flint. He is melting in his chair like he might have just eaten a weed brownie in the bathroom. In reality, his ADHD meds are probably out of stock again. The shortages are wreaking havoc on these poor kids. And of course, Jessica Stoner. She is staring into space, her hoodie pulled up over her thinning hair. I bite my cheek and wake up my screen. A flight check-in reminder pops up and my stomach launches into a triple axel. I felt a lot of feels before mylast trip to Chicago, but this is different. Less dread, more top of a rollercoaster with my hands in the air. I touch the toe of my flat to the hard outer casing of my luggage beneath my desk.
“Done!” Dana yells as she stands up, her cheeks flushed from the effort. Two more tributes announce that they’re done and stand up.
“District Six. District Three. District One. In that order. Keep solving, you never know?—”
The bell cuts me off and there is a unanimous groan. I make a heart with my hands and they roll their eyes at me. But I heard the groan! They don’t want to leave math.
“Tributes submit your answer to the reaping basket. We will announce this year’s winner next year! Have an amazing break and a happy New Year! Go forward. Be brave! Take a Starburst.”
Ravenous beasts hold up their hands while I toss candy in their direction. It’s like a piñata bursting at a toddler’s birthday. Except they’re thirteen.
“Bye, Ms. G! Happy Holidays! Thank you!”
I feed them sugar like a good teacher and wave them off as I head toward Jess kneeling to pick up her books from the floor.
“You ready for the break, Jess?”
She shakes her head and stands up, steadying herself on the corner of her desk. Her knuckles protrude from her hand like a range of mountains. She stares at her Air Force Ones.
“Jess,” I start. But then I stop. Wait for her to look up and meet my gaze. It takes a full ten count of silence, but I hold out. “How can I help?”
She shakes her head and the hoodie slides back a little.
“You can’t.” She pulls her shoulders back. “I’m fine,” she says.
Fine. I know that lie.
“I can. And I will. There are ways around your?—”
“I’m ok, Ms. G. Really. My mom’s right. This is just a phase.”
