Wednesday

Wednesday

I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open in algebra. We're just doing problem-solving games in an app on our laptops, since we're off the next two days for Thanksgiving, but the equations swim around on the screen.

In English lit, I have to clear my throat twice before Mr. Deavers turns to me. He's writing poetry quotes on the whiteboard. I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, wondering if everyone is staring at my back.

"Yes?" he says. He never smiles. It's always like he looks right through us, especially the girls.

As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.

That's how Mr. Deavers makes me feel. Like I'm something small and insignificant.

"Hello? Can I help you, Miss Leahey?" He sounds annoyed.

"I…," I say. "I need a library pass."

"And, pray tell, what for ?" He draws it out, like he's some fancy Shakespearean actor or something.

"Our paper, for today. My dad didn't have any printer paper, so I couldn't print it out last night and I need a library pass so I can go right now and print my paper in the library and bring it to you. Since you don't take stuff on the portal."

"Yeah, man, save the trees, for god's sake, let us turn stuff in online," someone says.

Mr. Deavers looks around. "Who said that?"

Silence.

He puts one hand on his hip and tilts his head at me. "Miss Leahey."

I wait.

"You've had your syllabus since day one of this class. You've had plenty of time to prepare and print out your paper so that you can hand it in today in this class."

"I just need a pass so I can go print it out right now and come back and give it to you."

"No, you can't, because we have a quiz, or did you forget that, too? Honestly, why do I even make a syllabus if you aren't going to read it ?"

My brain says: To be a giant asshole?

My heart says: Well, I have to agree on that one.

He lets out a giant sigh and shakes his head. Puts the whiteboard marker on his desk and pulls out the drawer. Hauls out a pen like it's the most inconvenient thing ever and starts filling in the library pass.

"Very well, Miss Leahey. You'll have to do this over your lunch hour and then bring it right to me. Here's the pass in case you're late for your class after lunch. Points off the paper for lateness. Take your seat."

There are fifty questions on the quiz and I can't focus on any of them. I can't remember what Juliet's characterization in act 4, scene 2 is. All I know is Romeo and Juliet wanted to be together, the nurse was helpful, and they died in the end and were probably better off for it.

I've got nothing left.

—

In art, I'm smudging some tree branches on my drawing as Ms. Green wanders among our easels, checking work and making comments. She's wearing a floaty green floor-length skirt and a cool pink velvet blazer. I start to tense up as she gets closer to me. I feel bad about slapping the desk yesterday, but I also feel like she could have cut us some slack. It doesn't seem fair that we have to use laptops to submit work at home, but if something goes wrong, it's all our fault. I mean, my dad's Wi-Fi is crappy, though it usually works, but what about those kids who maybe don't even have any Wi-Fi? Like when we all had to stay at home for a year and a half and Cherie had to walk down the street with her mask on and sit in the Burger King parking lot for six hours to use their Wi-Fi just to log on for class?

Ms. Green pauses by my easel, watching as I move the charcoal around. I feel my fingers shake a little, knowing she's watching me. But they were also shaking when I woke up.

"Are we good, Bella?"

My hand freezes over a branch. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The issue with submitting your presentation. I just want to make sure we're back on even footing, you and me."

"Um, sure. Okay."

She studies my tree. "You had some trouble during the group talk yesterday."

I swallow hard, not looking at her, trying to concentrate on my branches. "I guess."

She speaks really slowly, which is something adults do when they know what they're about to say is going to freak you out, or make you mad, or sad. It's like by talking slowly, they think it will soften the blow. It never does, and my heart goes thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

"I have to take some points off your individual participation grade because you didn't contribute to the verbal requirement for the assignment. It wouldn't be fair, otherwise, don't you agree?"

What am I supposed to say? I can't argue with her. I said two words, tops. Am I supposed to ask her to spare me because I freak when I have to stand up in front of people? I'm already standing on the thinnest patch of ice in this class, what with the slapping-the-desk thing.

"Dude, just let her do extra credit," Lemon says, putting down his paintbrush. "She had a meltdown. That seems mental and not, like, lazy or something. I mean, you gave us an extension because I was sick, right?"

I give him a grateful smile, but not so big that Ms. Green can see, because that might piss her off.

"There's no extra credit in my class, Rudy, and you had a doctor's note."

She looks back at me.

"I'm not trying to be mean, Bella. Just fair."

My shoulders sag. My mother is going to kill me when she sees my quarter grades.

"It's fine. Okay? It's just fine."

"Good. Let's move on." She steps closer to my easel. "I'm liking what you've done here with texture and the use of space. But I'm wondering, where are you?"

"What? I'm right here," I say.

"No, I mean here," she says, tapping my canvas. "Part of the assignment was to examine the process of self-portraiture. I'm not sure I'm seeing you here, unless you are the tree. Are you the tree?"

My face flushes with embarrassment. Beside me, Lemon giggles. "Be the tree, Bella."

I look at Lemon's painting and do a double take. What I thought for three weeks was just a mass of chaos is actually a painting that appears to be Lemon: his smiling, dope-happy face made up of many colors. A mosaic of Lemon.

"I'm in the tree," I say. "Just up high, where you can't see it. I'm going to put that in, I swear. I just wanted to get the branches down, since they're more elaborate."

"There are a lot of branches."

"Yeah."

"I wonder how you'll fit yourself in. You'll be all tangled up."

"Well, see, that's what I'm working on, but you're talking to me, so…" Honestly, real artists would never have gotten anything done if people were in their studio all the time, hovering around their marble and chisels and canvases and paints.

Ms. Green nods slowly. "Okay, Bella. I can't wait to see it. We'll have one more week after Thanksgiving break before projects are due."

She moves on to Dawn, who's doing collage for her self-portrait, cool stuff like yarn and paper and leather and buttons and seeds. Dawn's looks really good, fun and interesting. Patty would probably love that on the wall at the diner.

Lemon says, "You totally weren't going to put yourself in that tree, dude."

But I was. I just didn't know how yet.

—

I spend most of lunch hour in the library, waiting for someone to get off one of the computers so I can print out my Wild paper. The printer jams and the librarian takes a long time to fix it, fussing over the tray and roller. I make it to Deavers's classroom just as the bell ending lunch rings.

He's sitting at his desk, drinking a paper cup of coffee and eating a creamy-looking Danish, which makes my stomach growl. You aren't allowed to eat in the library near the computers, so my lunch is still in my bag. I slide the paper onto his desk.

"Happy holiday, Miss Leahey," he murmurs as I rush out the door to history.

—

Kristen catches up with me as I'm waiting for my dad to pick me up.

She's out of breath. "Hey," she says. "What's up with you and Cherie? You weren't at lunch. And that weird girl, what's her name? It looked like she was going to sit with us, but then she just kept walking."

Oh, Dawn. I forgot. Doomed to the toilet stall again.

"I had to print out a paper for Deavers in the library."

"The nonfiction paper? I barely finished my book. I had to copy stuff from the web."

"One of these days you're going to get caught, you know."

"Who cares. I just scramble the words in a different order. No one can tell, trust me. Anyway, what are you doing tomorrow? Some people are gonna hang out at Killian's. Want to go?"

"Kristen, it's Thanksgiving. "

She shrugs. "Eh. Everyone at my house is gonna be passed out by three, you know that. All that turkey. My mom won't care. Come with? Cherie's going out of town."

"I'm not supposed to go to parties right now, remember? You all put me on probation."

She shrugs. "Aren't you with your dad this week? I feel like Amber said that at lunch or something. He'll let you. Also, are you and Amber mad at each other or something? I'm getting a vibe."

"Maybe. She's being weird." I hike my backpack higher on my shoulders. "My dad's girlfriend is making dinner. I don't know if he'll let me."

Kristen rolls her eyes. "Oh, right, the girlfriend situation. I know it well, only with my mother's boyfriends. They'll want you to stay and be nice and pretend to be all family-ish and shit."

I nod. Funny how parents break up and then one day it's just like, Here is a new person, please automatically like and accept them just because I said so.

She reties her ponytail. Her cheeks are flushed from the chilly weather. "Well, if you can get away, let me know. I think Lemon said his friend is going to drive. No big deal. But if you don't wanna go, don't go. I'm not gonna beg you or anything."

She hops off the curb as her mom's red car pulls up. "Text me," she calls, stepping inside.