“Are you serious?” Miles flipped to the index in the back of his book. “What page?”
“Page six-forty-seven,” said Mr. Helpful. “In the chapter on modern impressionists.”
Graham turned to the page in question. “Your dad’s Randolph Wilson? I went to a show of his work up in Seattle a couple years ago. It was amazing. Why didn’t you tell us?”
I stood up and tossed my uneaten lunch into the nearest trash can. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to talk about it.”
5
31,441; 1,594,323; 4,782,969…
Lissa found me in the girls’ bathroom. It was the one place Nate wouldn’t come looking for me.
129,140,163; 387,420,489; 10,460,353,203…
She hoisted herself up onto the counter and sat in the sink. The position was so bizarre, and potentially wet, that I couldn’t help but start laughing.
“So,” she started. “Nate’s just proven that all boys are idiots. Let me guess, your dad has a Y chromosome and is therefore also an idiot.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“I’m not going to lie to you. I’m a curious person, and now that I know your dad’s semi-famous, I’m going to Google him the second I get home tonight. And I’d be willing to bet money that everyone else Nate just blabbed to is going to do the same thing.”
“Okay.” I leaned against the post separating two of the stalls.
“I’m sure I’ll find a lot of kick-ass artwork. But I’m guessing a pretty picture isn’t the reason you’re currently hiding out in a smelly bathroom.”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and stared at the pattern in the floor tiles. “He left when I was seven. I was dealing with a bunch of other crap — that I don’t want to talk about — at the same time. And it was all more than he could handle. So he just skipped town.”
“Ouch, I probably wouldn’t want to brag about a dad like that either.”
“Yeah, he’s definitely not a candidate for parent of the year, but he has made some pretty kick-ass artwork. You can Google him if you want to.”
“Okay, I will.” Lissa jumped down from her seat in the sink. “You know, not all guys run away. Nate shouldn’t have blabbed about your dad, but deep down, he’s one of the good ones.”
“I know.”
The bell rang, and she swatted me on the butt. “Now get to class and go chew out your lab partner.”
I laughed. “Thanks, Lissa.”
I managed to forgive Nate. He apologized about a million times for bringing it up. I didn’t think he fully understood why I’d been so upset, but oddly, that’s what made it easy for me to forgive him. Lissa had been right — Nate was an idiot, but that also meant he was human. That made him a lot easier to be around. I’d been growing weary of Mr. Perfect.
I’d almost forgotten about the whole thing by the time our art history exams were returned the following week. Everyone in the class received their graded test packet — except me. When Ms. Ball passed my desk, she simply whispered, “Samantha, will you see me after class?”
I nodded and scanned the room, hoping nobody else had noticed. Nate and Miles had, but Graham was busy studying his own paper.
When the final bell rang, everyone got up to leave but me. Nate set his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll meet you by your locker?”
“K,” I said.
Once the classroom had emptied, I walked up to Ms. Ball’s desk, where she was busy organizing her belongings. “Samantha, thanks for staying after. I wanted to discuss some things with you.”
“Okay, what’s up?”
She lifted a large messenger bag off her desk and slung it over her shoulder. “I actually wanted to discuss things with your mom too. She’s meeting us in Ms. Sterling’s office.”
My mom was in the principal’s office? I’d thought I was doing well in this class. How bad had I bombed the test?
Sure enough, when I followed Ms. Ball to the principal’s office, my mom was sitting in front of a large desk facing Ms. Sterling. Another woman with graying hair sat in a chair off to the side. I took the seat next to my mom and reached for her hand. This was second grade all over again. I wanted to throw up.
“Ms. Ball raised some concerns regarding Samantha’s art history exam.” Ms. Sterling placed an exam packet on her desk facing my mom and me.
I scanned the first page of the exam. About half of the words I’d written down were now crossed out and rewritten in red pen. It wasn’t pretty.
“Mrs. Wilson.” Ms. Ball turned to face my mom. “I want you to know, Samantha is an absolute joy to have in class. She’s always engaged and animated. She gets along well with the other students, and her contributions to class discussions help further the knowledge of the class as a whole. I had very high expectations for Samantha on this exam. And once I managed to figure out what she was trying to say, I found that all her answers were correct.”
Were they holding a summit meeting to tell me I’d gotten 100 percent on my art history exam? I waited for the
but.
Ms. Sterling recovered control of the room. “We knew that Samantha was different than the other students when we agreed to her schedule. I’ve spoken with her other teachers and received the same feedback as you just heard from Ms. Ball. She understands the challenging coursework, engages with the other students, contributes to class discussions, and is unable to adequately express her ideas in writing.”
128, 256, 512…
Ms. Sterling kept talking. “Nobody is saying Samantha’s a poor student. She is quite possibly the brightest student in the school. I fully expect that when Samantha leaves Kennedy High School, she will go on to one of the nation’s most competitive universities. It is, however, my fear that choosing to ignore her written shortcomings will leave her ill prepared. It is for that reason that I’ve invited Ms. Chatman to join us this afternoon.”
Ms. Sterling gestured to the gray-haired woman who was now leaning forward in her seat. “Ms. Chatman is our school’s special education teacher. She has agreed to work with Samantha for one period each day to help her pull up her writing skills. I understand Samantha has done extensive phonics training in the past, using the Orton-Gillingham method, I believe.”
8,192; 16,384; 32,768…
“Yes,” my mother said. “Does Ms. Chatman know of another method that could help Samantha?”
262,144; 524,288; 1,048,576…
“I’m hoping that Samantha’s core reading and writing skills are all in place. I would simply be working with Samantha on increasing her sight words, improving her spelling, and strengthening her reading fluency,” Ms. Chatman explained.
4,194,304; 8,388,608; 16,777,216…
I looked around the room at the four adult faces that suddenly all appeared in agreement. I was a smart kid on the brink of failure, and special ed was my only hope? They couldn’t possibly all believe that. I didn’t believe that. “I already have a full schedule. When were you expecting us to meet?”
Ms. Sterling turned in her seat so she was properly facing me. “Samantha, you’re a sophomore taking five advanced placement courses. Calculus is the highest math class offered at this school. And your transcript indicates you took AP Statistics during your freshman year back in San Diego. There are no other math classes we’ll be able to offer you next year. You are also in not one but two advanced science classes. We encourage our students to take a history course each year, but only three years of history is required for graduation. And art history is purely an elective. Any of your advanced placement courses could easily be dropped and then taken again next year without affecting your graduation status.”
“So that’s it. I have to drop a class so there’s time in my schedule for special ed? I’m not retarded. Ms. Ball told you. I got a hundred percent on my exam.”
My mom squeezed my hand tighter. “Nobody is questioning your intelligence. But you aren’t just a smart kid, Sam — you’re a smart dyslexic kid. If Ms. Chatman can help you, you owe it to yourself to let her try.”
My chest tightened and my vision blurred.
134,217,728; 268,435,456; 536,870,912…
Counting couldn’t pull me out of this. I looked at my mom, the Benedict Arnold. Then I looked at Ms. Ball. This was all her fault. She’d gotten me into this mess. Why didn’t she just give me an A and been done with it? “Fine, I’ll drop art history.”
Ms. Ball nodded. “Samantha, it’s been a joy having you in my class. I sincerely hope you find your time with Ms. Chatman useful. I also hope I’ll have the pleasure of teaching you again next year.”
My mom and I walked out of the office together. “Thanks for supporting me back there.”
“Sam, they were right, and you know it. How are you going to survive college, let alone life, if you can’t even spell your own name?”
“I know how to spell my name.”
“What’s your middle name?”
“Annette.”
“And how do you spell
Annette?
”
“A-N-N-something-something-T.”
“I suggest you work on that with Ms. Chatman first.”
I groaned and stormed down the hall in front of her. “Do you need to get anything from your locker before you go?”
My locker. Nate!
“Crap. Nate said he’d take me home. He’s waiting for me at my locker.”
“School’s been out for almost an hour. Do you think he’s still there?”
“I’d better at least check.”
Sure enough, Nate was sitting on the floor in the deserted hallway, reading a book and leaning against my locker. He stood up when he saw my mom and me approaching. “Oh, hello, Ellen. It’s good to see you again.”
Who is this guy? Eddie Haskell?
“It’s good to see you too, Nate. It was kind of you to wait like this. If you have somewhere else you need to be, I can take Samantha home.”
“No, Mom, you should probably get back to work. Nate can take me.”
“Okay, we can talk about everything later tonight.”
My mom left, and I fell forward. Nate caught me and pulled me into a hug. “What happened?” He rubbed my back. “Why is your mom here?”
“I’m not in art history anymore.”
“What?” He held on to my shoulders and took a step back so he could look into my eyes.
“I have Ms. Chatman for seventh period now.”
“The special ed teacher? Why?”
“Nate, you know why.”
He pulled me back into a tight embrace. “It will be okay. You’re still in four AP classes. And I’ve heard Ms. Chatman’s really nice. You’ll probably like her.”
I didn’t want to talk about Ms. Chatman. I didn’t want to think. Nate kissed me on the top of my head, totally and completely in the realm of my role as little sister. I didn’t want to be his little sister. I didn’t want to be in special ed. I didn’t want my stupid, messed-up life. I lifted my chin and kissed him on the lips. Our glasses bumped together, and he jerked backwards. It was the worst first kiss ever.
I turned and ran. “Sam, where are you going?”
“I’ll take the bus home.”
He sprinted after me and caught my arm. He cupped his hand behind my head and pulled me toward him. When our lips met for the second time, it didn’t suck. Maybe he didn’t think of me as a little sister after all.
He pulled away from me, breathless. “How soon is your mom expecting you home? Can we go somewhere and talk?”
“I honestly don’t care when my mom wants me home. I really don’t feel like talking to her right now.”
“Do you feel like talking to me?”
I stared at my shoes. “Yeah, I can think of a few things we should probably talk about.”
He put his arm around me. “Great, I know the perfect spot.”
I
slid into the passenger seat of Nate’s hybrid. He snaked through the hills on the west side of Portland, climbing above the neighborhood where he lived. We parked at the very crown of the tallest hill near a large steel tower adorned with antennas. A blinking red light shone at its top.
“You brought me to a signal tower?”
“No, this is Council Crest. Check out the view, you dummy.”
I looked down on the city through a light drizzle of rain on the windshield. The sun was just beginning to fall, and lights were coming on all across town. The view reminded me of the lovers’ lanes that movies implied existed in every small town across America. “So what are we supposed to do up here? Make out?” I looked around. There weren’t any other cars parked up here with teenagers getting their groove on in the backseats. Maybe we were early.
Nate laughed. “I guess we should talk about that first.” He got out of the car and walked over to a small, stone retaining wall around the base of the signal tower. He sat down and gestured for me to join him.
I hunched my shoulders and dragged myself out of the car. I’d learned that Portlanders didn’t call this sky-spitting-on-you stuff rain. Real rain had to be hard and heavy. I was still a San Diego girl at heart, though, and the sky spitting on me felt like one more injustice on this crappy day.
Nate unzipped his jacket and opened his arms. I sat down on his lap, and he folded his coat around both of us. “So should we start by talking about this?”
I leaned my head back and tried to look at Nate upside-down. He held me close, lovingly. He’d touched me a million times in a million ways over the past month. Why had I been so convinced he wasn’t interested? “Why is this happening today? Why didn’t you kiss me yesterday?”
He tickled my rib. “Hey, for the record, you kissed me first.”
“I know that, and now I’m asking why I had to.”
“Because I’m a big chicken, and you’re too good for me.”
Trying to look at Nate upside-down made my neck hurt, so I sat up to face the city. Fiery orange clouds hung behind the distant snowcapped mountains. He was right — it was an amazing view. “Do you like me at all?”
“Sam, you’re all I ever think about.”
I laced his fingers between mine. “Would you ever consider dating a girl in special ed?”
“I can’t think of anything I want to do more.”
“Learn a sixth language?”
Nate laughed. “You know me too well.”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Please do.”
“Today was my first kiss.”
He squeezed me tighter and nuzzled his face into my hair. “Can I tell you a secret?”