The jocks have a bet going—every day, they nudge it back an inch, and they’re running a pool to see how long it takes for Mackiewicz to notice that it’s majorly askew. So far that’s half a foot. It doesn’t speak well of the cleaning crew that it stays that way, even less of Mackiewicz that he hasn’t spotted a problem. But the guy’s fairly myopic: thick bifocals, a white monk fringe, and a wispy mustache. If that doesn’t sound enticing enough, he’s also all about baggy cardigans, plaid, and corduroys.
I take my seat, wondering if this is the day when math lightning strikes, and suddenly all of the theorems will make sense. Since fakery seems like the only answer, I get out all my supplies, notebook, pencil, iPad. One cool thing about JFK, we aren’t using textbooks anymore. They’re all available electronically, and the school subsidized iPads. Of course that meant cutting metal shop and drivers ed from the budget. Doesn’t affect me, as I refuse to drive on principle until affordable electric cars are widely available as an alternative; I’d prefer a solar one, but Ryan says I should keep dreaming. As for metal shop? Well, I tried to build a birdhouse in eighth grade. It didn’t end well. God only knows what would happen if I attempted to weld.
I’m fiddling with my supplies when Mackiewicz shuffles into the room. He’s wearing the gray sweater with the red stain. People reluctantly settle down, folding into their desks like grumpy origami dolls. Geometry is the only class where I sit near the burners, who slouch in the back, letting sunglasses and hair hide their bloodshot eyes. Most of them, I suspect, doze off before Mackiewicz sits down at his crooked desk.
The bell rings. Anyone who enters at this point is officially tardy.
Before the teacher can numb my brain with an hour of droning, the door creaks open, and a new kid slides in. New Kid is kind of a big deal because people don’t move to Farmburg, Illinois, by choice; you can guess what’s around here by the name of the town. He’s almost as tall as Ryan with a mop of brown hair, not curly, but messy and hiding most of his face. Though it’s late September, he’s got on an old army surplus jacket, which pretty much hides any sense of chest and shoulders. His legs are long, though, feet encased in battered boots. They’re not Docs, more like something soldiers would actually march in. His jeans are faded, torn up and down one leg, but in his case, I don’t think it’s a fashion statement. You can tell intentional grunge from pure wear. He keeps his head down as he hands a slip to Mackiewicz.
The math teacher skims it, then drops it on his desk. “Please welcome Shane Cavendish, transferring in from Michigan City. Take any empty desk.”
What Mackiewicz hasn’t told New Kid Shane is that he’ll be stuck wherever he sits for the rest of the year. I wish I could warn him. Shane never looks up entirely, his shoulders hunched like this is a horrible ordeal. Though I was thirteen when I first hit JFK, I still remember that awful feeling, like a pit in my stomach, because starting over just sucks so hard, especially when other stuff is bad, too.
Shane skims the room and then he’s coming down the aisle one over from me. He drops into the desk with the uneven leg. It rocks a little, making it annoying to write, but he doesn’t move even after he discovers the fault. It’s like he just wants to disappear, but people watch him get his supplies out like it’s fascinating.
Finally, Mackiewicz gets started on the lesson, and I tune out. Fifty minutes later, my brain switches back on. My notebook is empty. As the bell rings, I scrawl the assignment, which I’ll make a mess of, into my work diary. I’d like to say something to the new kid, but before I can, he’s up like a shot. At the door, Dylan Smith, one of the jocks, shoulder slams Shane into the jamb, and his buddies do the same on the way out. Yeah, I guess they’ve decided where he fits in the pecking order. Because he doesn’t have the right haircut or the right clothes, he’s an auto-reject? It totally sucks.
“You all right?” I ask, but if he heard the question, he’s ignoring me.