Charlie ran his hand through his short hair and looked at his watch, trying to visualize the pulsing of the tiny quartz heart that kept him on track, as he tapped his foot to the steady tick, tick, tick.
9:06 and six seconds.
It seemed like those six minutes since class started and he got his unfinished test from Mr. Jennings had already been an eternity. He sighed, trying to drown out the sounds of everyone else scratching away and groaning, and the seemingly constant whir of the pencil sharpener with Marais’s “Bells of St. Genevieve.” Yesterday he had been glad he’d have today to finish. Now, he wished he had gotten it over with already. He was done with the angles and the shapes and the calculations. He’d even been haunted by parallelograms and obtuse angles last night.
Focus!
Charlie started trying to figure out the area of an irregular shape. He related to that shape. A mix of squares and rectangles and circles that he was sure was never claimed by the “pure blood” squares, triangles, and circles.
You’re doing it again.
He’s right, you know…
Charlie shuddered.
If I just focus on the numbers it will stop. Start on the rectangle.
Charlie grabbed his ruler and held it against the edge of the rectangle. 2”. He continued measuring, punching numbers into his trusty TI-86 as he went.
He felt a gentle breeze and took a deep breath.
Ignore the breeze. Mr. Jennings should close that dang window. Too distracting.
Charlie couldn’t help it. He took another deep breath.
The gentle flute of Grieg’s “Morning Mood” began lilting through his mind.
Oh, the smell of spring! The grass, the flowers, the…
Pollen. Don’t forget we have serious hay fever.
Charlie felt his eyes water.
Don’t you dare sneeze.
Charlie took another breath.
Seriously?
Hey, even pollen is better than this horrible stench of pencil shavings and eraser rubber and cheap perfume and “Axe” and hair gel and hairspray.
Did you seriously have to analyze every smell? We’re taking a test right now!
I couldn’t help it!
We need you right now! Focus!
It’s like everyone is faking it.
True… we can use that.
I told you not to do that anymore!
Charlie stole a glance at the window out of the corner of his eye.
Don’t!
Just a quick look?
It’s never just a quick look.
Charlie turned his head and looked out the window.
The vibrant strings of Vivaldi’s Primavera burst through his mind as he gazed longingly at the welcoming rays of sunshine. It was the first day he’d seen the sun’s comforting presence after too many days of spring showers. He noted the fine, whispy, delicate strands of the clouds.
Cirrus uncinus.
Change is coming.
I hope so.
They’re still so beautiful! Like delicate strands of…
We don’t have time for this!
Cirrus uncinus. Like a spell. Maybe a transfiguration spell?
Charlie pointed his pencil at the paper.
Cirrus uncinus!
But the spaces by the questions remained empty.
If you actually used your pencil to write with, those blank spots would be full already!
Ok! I get it.
Circle next.
πr².
How do you use a square pie to measure the area of a circle? They should have left it round.
That was lame.
Was not!
Triangle next ..
Area equals base times height divided by two.
I feel like we’re just a big base and a lot of height but no area.
Pretty much.
Ok. Now transformations.
Hey, these are “transfigurations” in a way.
Don’t start.
Charlie heard a shrill whistle and shouting from the PE field behind the school.
Well, I guess we’ll get to go outside today after all.
Crap. Not what I had in mind.
I hope we’re not “skins” again.
Why the freak does Coach Cruncher insist on torturing us like that?
Can’t think about that now.
He took one more deep breath of the gentle breeze and plowed into a few “transfigurations” with the help of his TI-86. Soon it was the “Flight of the Bumblebees” as he became hopelessly lost in the calculations and the coordinates and the primes and double primes and triple primes, forgetting what he was even doing by the time he wrote all the numbers and lines and dots and erased and drew and erased and drew all the dots and lines and numbers and numbers and lines and dots until his once clean, tidy, orderly graph paper was an unintelligible smudged mess. He stared helplessly at that mangled graph paper. He blew on it and tried to brush the grainy pieces of gray-pink rubber off, but it didn’t help. Defeated, he absently started sliding and flipping his pencil around on his desk, wishing that he could show Mr. Jennings that he got the idea already. Same concept, without the calculations. Change is hard enough as it is.
His stomach grumbled, reminding him he had decided to miss breakfast instead of the bus. He’d stayed up way too late cramming for this dang test, and it had been harder to wake up this morning than usual.
I told you not to procrastinate.
I know. I just had to see if Paul could take down Baron Harkonnen.
You should have been studying.
I was. I just needed a break.
That break lasted two hours.
It was getting intense! The shield wall was down, and…
Just get back to work already!
Charlie leaned forward and sniffed the boy in front of him.
Do you think Dallas’s Old Spice would work the same as Spice Melange? I could seriously use some prescience right now.
Seriously?! If you would have spent more time in the right book you wouldn’t need prescience right now!
Tiffany stood up and walked over to the pencil sharpener. Charlie glanced at her. She was staring out the window behind him with a flirty grin. Charlie shuddered, wondering how many girls watched the arena of the PE field when it was his turn down there.
Charlie started filling circling letters in the multiple choice section.
A
C
D
C
Maybe Mr Jennings has a sense of humor after all.
Or we could be doing these wrong.
His left leg stretched out and kicked his backpack over. He quickly set it back up, quietly apologizing to his sturdy blue companion. That old backpack had been with him through three big “wardrobe changes” -bold, bland, and button-up since he bought it with his yearly allotment of school supply money five years ago, and while it was worn, it looked like it would see him through graduation.
Charlie heard someone clearing his throat. Charlie looked up at Mr. Jennings.
“Looking for anything particular, Mr. Thompson?”
Charlie’s color flowed under his collar, leaving his face cold and his chest hot. He gulped.
His peers snickered.
“No, sir.”
“I hope not.”
Charlie glared at Mr. Jennings as he walked back to his desk.
What a jerk.
Yeah. Like that one time when freaking everyone was at that freaking game and we didn’t even have a regular freaking class and he still told us to put the Odyssey away and work on freaking math.
Charlie’s hands trembled as he leafed through something he could trust. Something real. He found a question asking him to calculate the volume of a prism. It reminded me of a nice quartz crystal, clear, elegant. Hiding nothing. No secrets.
Unlike us.
Shut up.
Charlie continued. He started to wonder if he was taking the wrong test as he ran his tongue along the bottom of his retainer.
Do you think chewing gum would help with geometry?
Nope, too much algebra.
Focus, dummy, focus!
He yawned. It had been a long week.
He looked down again. Question 60. The first story problem. Great. His brain was starting to cramp worse than his hand. He needed a break. Bad.
“Jack wants to estimate the height of a tree. He doesn’t have a tape measure, but he has a box that is one foot tall. How can he estimate the tree’s height?”
Why does he care? Is he planning on jumping out of it or something?Who carries a box around with them?
How the heck would he measure the tree with a tape measure anyway?
A fly buzzed lazily through the open window, and headed straight for Charlie’s head. Its creepy little filthy legs tickled his forehead. He scowled and tried to brush it away, but it wouldn’t leave him alone.
Get a life, Jack with a box.
Hey, maybe he lives in the box.
Oh boy.
He heard the distinct, cheerful tune of a meadowlark outside. He grinned in spite of himself.
Spring!
I love that song. It’s like they are singing “Silver Creek City’s a pretty nice place!”
Except for here…
Hang in there.
The bird sang again.
Such a pretty bird, quiet brown with vibrant yellow.
Yellow. Vibrant yellow.
Charlie’s throat went dry. He put his pencil up to his mouth and started nibbling at the eraser.
Yellow.
It’s ok. It’s ok. They’re from here.
Actually, they migrate…
I… I know, but they’re like, they’re still regulars. Part of nature. Here. Welcome. Not really migrants. Just, like, uh, snowbirds. Like the Clarks.
Ok, just focus on the tree. Jack and his tree. I’ll just visualize it.
Charlie could see a quiet boy, about his height, scrawny, pimples…
Ok, too much detail. We’ve got Jack already. Now the tree.
Charlie pictured a log with a green cloud on top.
Oh, no. Not that tree! That’s an abomination! We need something real!
Ok, the tree. Something… deciduous. Leaves. What time of year? Fall? Orange and red and… oh crap oh crap.
Charlie started nibbling at his pencil again.
Fall, seriously? Why did we have to think of fall?
It’s ok, fall is normal. Fall is normal. The leaves turn orange and… they turn colors every year.
But it happened in the fall.
The fly continued buzzing around his head in circles. He swatted at it angrily.
We can’t go there. Not now.
Got it. Jack stands on the box, then marks where his head is on the trunk with his pocket knife. Then he climbs up the tree, makes sure his foot is at the line where his head had been, then marks where his head is now, and continues until he reaches the top.
Charlie shook his head violently.
There’s no freaking way that’s what Jennings wants.
A low rumbling pulled his attention back out the window. He couldn’t see where it was coming from just yet. He tried to focus on his test again, but he had to see what was going on outside. As the rumbling got nearer, he heard the steady bass of a drum. He tilted his head to the left and raised his right eyebrow. This wasn’t the typical loud, jarring “Thud, thud” he was used to hearing from trucks driving down the road, “treating” everyone to their music whether they liked it or not. This was softer, steadier. Almost like a beating heart. As the music grew louder, he could just make out the gentle strumming of a guitar and the haunting voice of a woman singing in a language that was too close to Spanish. His heart started racing. His mouth went dry as he gripped his desk. That music. Foreign. Vibrant. Nauseating.
Charlie hunted for an escape, gasping for breath, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead, heart hammering in his ears, stomach turning, head spinning , eyes blurring, brain screaming at him to leave, but his body was frozen to that chair, transfixed, pinned like a caterpillar by the siren’s haunting melody. A parrot ruffled its brilliant red and yellow feathers in the corner of his mind.
Charlie felt his pencil snap before he heard it. He jumped. The music continued, haunting, but beautiful. Charlie looked at the broken pencil coldly. He jabbed the jagged side of the eraser end into his khakis, disappointed that it didn’t even sting. He tried again, and this time his hand thumped into something hard in his pocket.
His hand dropped the broken shard and reached into his pocket as the pencil clattered to the floor. He reached past his pen. His fingers brushed something rough and jagged, then smooth.
How?
A jolt coursed through him as his fingers curled around that wedge-shaped rock. It was like that one time Phil had dared him to grab an electric fence and he couldn’t let go.
The rock was pulsing to the heartbeat of the drum. Just like the little quartz heart of his watch. Just like his own heart thudding in his chest.
The parrot lifted itself from its corner and dove over his head and chased him through those menacing blood red blooms of the San Joaquin. Charlie started to cry as he ran toward the pine tree.
The parrot slammed into the back of his head. In a harsh voice, it hissed, “go cry somewhere else, retard! We’re trying not to fail this fucking class down here on planet Earth!”
Charlie rubbed his head, his heart still hammering, hands still quivering, breath still ragged and shallow. How did she… He glanced back quickly. Tiffany glared at him as she set her ruler down.
“Eyes on your own paper, Mr. Thompson,” Mr. Jennings called out. Charlie flushed at the snickering. But at least that meant they didn’t know. And the music was gone.
His fingers released their grip, and his hand yanked out of his pocket.
Stupid Tiffany.
She kind of did us a favor…
Roots are dark. Fake nails chipped. Overdue for a trip to the beauty parlor.
Stop it! I told you not to do that.
His breathing slowly returned to normal.
The green-coated rock that had somehow followed him from the science lab would have to stay in his pocket until he could get rid of it for the third and final time.
Not green. Actually, it’s more like…
SHUT UP!
His head turned back towards the window before he could think of stopping himself.
He saw red.
His breath caught.
The parrot ruffled its feathers.
But it was only a truck parked on the street below.
A big, boxy truck.
A red truck with a white stripe.
Trucks belong in Silver Creek City.
A truck is ok.
As long as he doesn’t have to check the oil.
Or change a tire.
Or drive.
Then he noticed the guy opening the tailgate.
Bronze, bare torso glinting in the sun, muscles rippling as he moved.
He definitely doesn’t use sunscreen.
His fingers started fussing with the top button of his shirt.
Long, flowing, dark hair, blowing in the breeze.
Kind of like…
Don’t!
Grass-stained jeans.
Normal, ordinary, grass green.
The young man turned his head towards the school.
About our age.
He had the carefree smile of a guy who didn’t know he was being watched. Didn’t know about the 461 youth, 24 teachers, two lunch ladies, librarian, janitor, and stern principal in that red brick fortress in front of him. Or didn’t care.
People began to whisper.
Tiffany made a creepy purring sound.
Jake looked across Charlie to the window and growled, “No good drifter!”
“Quiet!” Mr. Jennings warned.
Charlie perched on the edge of his seat and watched the boy put a board down like a ramp and wheel his lawnmower out of his truck bed.
Charlie slipped out the window and leaped from that second-story perch, floating softly to the ground below, soaking in the comforting sun and the gentle breeze that had been beckoning to him.
The guy smiled and waved as Charlie approached. Charlie grinned and waved back. The dude gave him knuckles, and they leaned against the inviting skin of that red truck. Charlie soaked in the warm sun. He peeled his stuff button-up off, his shoulders relaxing as the stiff chrysalis sloughed to the ground. The sun kissed his skin, the gentle breeze caressed his bare chest as he took a deep breath of that fresh spring air. He didn’t even shiver.
The strange tan guy just relaxed next to him. Just was. He didn’t make a big deal of Charlie’s freedom like Cade would. Or tease him about his scrawny chest like Phil.
He looked ahead. Where the cold brick fortress had been were the mountains. Not the steep, jagged Miocene-era Big Junipers, with the remnants of glaciers still clinging to the high mountain valleys, that were behind the school. These were the more rounded, nobby, seemingly gentle, yet still harshly steep, Eocene-era White Horse mountains to the west of the valley.
Charlie’s fingers started stroking his stomach. He stuck his pointer finger in his belly button and started to hum a song he hadn’t sung in a long time.
The boy started walking towards those mountains and beckoned him to follow. Charlie started following him.
A sharp jab stung his side.
Charlie looked down to see a ruler digging into his shirt.
He looked over, frantic.
Jake scowled.
“Shut the fuck up, freak!” he mouthed.
Charlie looked away, then his eyes widened. His button-up was undone, and mostly untucked, his hand stroking his stomach. “It” was stiff and rubbing against his shorts, making its presence known under his khakis. Charlie hurriedly tugged at his pants, hoping desperately that Jake hadn’t noticed, and frantically did up his buttons again, not noticing he was off one when he reached his neck. He untucked his shirt the rest of the way, hoping to slip into a bathroom somewhere along the way to tuck it in again.
Charlie stole a glance at Jake again. Jake was peeking at something just under his desk.
Well, now. That’s interesting. It appears tough Jake needed a little help today.
Stop it.
I’m sure Jennings would love to know about this. Maybe we can come to an understanding with Jake…
I said stop. We don’t do that anymore.
Why not? He wouldn’t mess with us again.
Dang it! I said NO!
Mr. Jennings bellowed, “5 minutes, people! Wrap it up!”
Charlie looked down at his paper in panic.
Five minutes! He was dead.
He had thought he had plenty of time, especially since Mr. Jennings had allowed them to skip the cackling magpies of Channel One News carrying on about some urgent event that would be forgotten the next day.
He could just hear his dad’s voice. “You’re so irresponsible, Charlie! Get your head out of the clouds!” The word was something different than clouds- a part of him that faced the opposite direction- when he was really upset.
The low hum of a lawnmower drew Charlie’s gaze out the window. The guy was proceeding to mow the lawn next door, like he was on a dang vacation, oblivious that he was probably distracting every kid on this side of the building. Charlie scowled. This was all that guy’s fault. If he hadn’t pulled up in his freaking truck and his freaking tan and with his freaking music….
Then Charlie saw friendly Mr. Carson, the janitor, walk across the street. Charlie bit his lip and furrowed his eyebrows. Why would Mr. Carson be going to talk to that… that… dang lawnmower boy?
The screech of the bell jarred Charlie back to reality as the room erupted with the hurried chaos of everyone else fighting with zippers and velcro and dashing out the door.
That settles the valedictorian question.
We were never in a position to give a grand speech on “following your dreams” at graduation anyway.
Charlie glanced at what should have been an empty spot under question 60. There was a rough-looking tree with a bird perched in it. A stick figure in a pair of shorts stood under it, clearly lost. Charlie started. He had no idea how that tree or that boy or that bird had gotten there. Charlie gave him the only answer that made sense, then tossed his TI-86 in his backpack and stood up to make the long walk of shame to Mr. Jenning’s desk.
Charlie crammed the test and the bedraggled piece of graph paper into the stapler and slammed the stapler down, impaling the papers, then tossed the miserable mess into the tray on Mr. Jenning’s desk as his teacher studied each student, probably trying to determine who would be back next year.
He scowled.
Charlie tossed what was left of his shattered pencil in the garbage. At least geometry was over. Now on to…
Oh, shit.
Español.
We almost made it through the semester.
Almost.
If only that freaking half-naked lawnmower boy freak hadn’t shown up, blaring that horrible music.
Charlie choked on his phlegm as he reached for the doorknob with a trembling hand.