Bright Before Sunrise(6)

Five years.





5

Jonah

1:24 P.M.


HOW DO YOU SAY “FIFTY MINUTES OF TORTURE” IN SPANISH?


Group work. Like we’re eight.

As soon as Se?ora Miller gets to the word “partner” in the English repetition of her directions—“estudiantes, I’m going to let you work with partners—” eyes go wide, darting around the room looking for others whose eyes are darting too. Then faces flush with relief. I wonder if they miss the rest of her directions: “—on this assignment. It’s a review for the final. Come get one worksheet per group. Pass it in at the end of the period.”

I watch their reactions but look away whenever anyone glances in my direction. I don’t want a partner, and if I make eye contact some idiot might feel obligated to ask me out of pity. The threesome on my right is looking at me and having a whispered conference. Before they can decide they’ll do me a favor and subdivide to include me, I grab a worksheet off the stack on Miller’s desk and return to my seat.

Writing “Jonah Prentiss” large enough to fill the whole name line, I scan the worksheet. It won’t be hard. Despite the boasts that “Cross Pointe is a top-tier school—our grads go to such prestigious colleges”—it’s no harder than Hamilton. The difference is the teachers here are younger, dress in labels, drive nicer cars, and spend more time coddling my classmates. I glance at the threesome, relieved to see they’ve gotten to work. The other pairs are scattered around the classroom, gossiping and occasionally jotting down answers.

Thirty-four filled-in blanks later, I stand to hand in the worksheet. I’ve checked my phone under my desk after nearly every question; it’s only five minutes to the bell and Carly still hasn’t responded to my text. Which could mean I’ve done who-knows-what to annoy her, or her phone battery’s dead, or— “Se?or Prentiss, uno momento por favor?”

I pause halfway to my desk and turn back toward the teacher.

“This looks muy bueno, but you forgot your partner’s name. You don’t want to steal all the glory, do you?” She’s smiling an overly cheerful teacher smile, expecting a chuckle and an “oops.”

I meet her eyes. “I did it by myself.”

Her smile dims a bit. “By yourself?”

“Si, Se?ora.”

“You know our school emphasizes the importance of collaborative work.”

I think: Our school? Not so much.

I say: “I know.”

She leans forward. “In the real world, people don’t work in isolation.”

I resist the urge to point out a dozen jobs where people DO, in fact, work pretty much alone: artists, plumbers, postal workers, forest rangers …

Se?ora Miller isn’t ready to let this go. She’s counting the students in the class. “There are dieciocho estudiantes in here. Even.”

The threesome is shooting dagger glances at me, daring me to rat them out for being exclusionary. About half the class watches with passive curiosity.

There’s a copy of the Cross Pointe High Educational Philosophy hanging in every classroom. I’ve spent way too many hours using it as a hypocrisy checklist for my classmates’ actions; I have the damn thing memorized, which is an advantage right now. “I thought I’d find it more personally meaningful if I worked by myself.”

Miller tilts her head as she considers this. “Fair enough. All right, estudiantes, hand in those worksheets and have a great weekend. I’ll see you all on Lunes.”

There’s the usual adioses, “have a good weekend”s, and graciases during the scramble for the classroom door.

A girl with pearls and a ponytail touches my arm as I exit the room. I look from her hand to her face and raise my eyebrows. She removes her fingers and smiles tentatively. “You could’ve paired with us, you know. Maybe next time?”

I just stare at her.

The girl’s smile fades to a scowl. “Or maybe not.”

I stay silent, just like my phone. She takes the hint and leaves.

Why hasn’t Carly answered me? I can’t think of anything I’ve done to earn her silent treatment—again. I push my way through the hallway congested with people making plans and wasting time. I pull out my phone’s battery and reinsert it, hoping it’s a glitch in the programming or it needs to be reset. It’s old, so either of these is possible. The two minutes it takes to reload are painful.

I have a new text message. I curb the urge to fist pump and click on it. Carly.

How soon can U get here?

I do a victory slam of my palm against my locker—the door pops open. So much for Brighton’s fix. But who cares? I exhale as I shut the door. It’s more than forty-eight hours till I’ll have to open it again or walk the halls of a school that’ll never feel like mine.

I make my way to my ten-year-old blue Accord, climb in, and wait impatiently in a line of tricked-out Benzes and BMWs for my turn to make the left down Main Street and drive the two miles to Mom and Paul’s subdivision.

ASAP I text Carly, and fight the urge to blare my horn at the Escalade in front of me where a blonde is holding up traffic to lean out her window and kiss a guy in a CPHS baseball shirt.

“As soon as possible” is not soon enough.