He’s gotten the “F.” The rest reads, UCK YOU SPICS. Students press against the far side of the hallway as if they’re afraid the ink will touch them.
The Y falls directly on Andreas’s locker, I know that–I’ve seen him bouncing back and forth from it numerous times. Roberto, rumored to sell weed in the boys’ bathroom, is usually on the other side right under the O, and Preston, ranked third in our class and courted by Ivy League schools for both his soccer skills and his brain, occupies the K.
Ponquogue has changed since I was a kid and Richard was in high school. The influx of immigrant families moving here means there are now several Colombian and Mexican eateries (like Pav’s Place, for which we are all the better) on Main Street. When Richard was on the varsity soccer team, it was primarily a bunch of preppy white kids who grew up taking sailing lessons and then turned to a less expensive sport.
Cassie’s beaten me to the office waiting area. “Did you see the lockers? Who the hell did that?”
When I shake my head, she tugs her camera out of her bag. “Check it out.” Armed and ready to show Mr. Riley the fruits of her artistic labor.
Cassie came to all of my meets and took photos. Her early ones were just-misses–me landing a dismount, coming out of a leap, grimacing as I ran toward the vault. Once she learned the timing, she caught me in the air. Feet kicking over my head, flipping over the balance beam, high-fiving my coach. Strong, flexible, confident. Too confident.
When I scroll through the photos of my handstand, they move like stop-motion animation. Like all of Cassie’s photos, the balance is perfect and every detail is crisp. A wiggle, a waver–there comes the Frisbee.
“It’s like a UFO.” Cass presses the forward button so that the Frisbee moves in, out, back again, and we’re cracking up when the office door opens and a freshman exits with his head down, clearly chastised.
Crap.
“Miss Gregory. Miss Hopeswell,” Mr. Riley greets us in his low, dark voice. He has the broad shoulders, cropped hair, and unwavering gaze of a Navy SEAL.
I bite back the urge to speak before Mr. Riley can open his mouth. I’m sorry, Mr. Riley. Failing one’s road test seven times brings out the delinquent in a person.
“Miss Hopeswell, I’d like to speak with you first.”
Cassie grabs my arm. “Savannah goes with me.”
“Miss Hopeswell, I’m afraid these discussions are confidential.” To Mr. Riley’s credit, his tone never changes.
“I’m just going to tell her everything you tell me anyway.”
Surprisingly, Mr. Riley chuckles. “If you’re sure.”
Once we face him in identical metal chairs, he says, “Miss Hopeswell, there is the matter of your scholarly performance. Your chemistry, English, and precalculus teachers have expressed concerns about your academic output.” Mr. Riley makes each subject sound like doom. “You’re one absence away from failing physical education. It’s only October, Miss Hopeswell. You still have nine months of school.”
Wait, what?
Cass always digs in at the last minute; it’s her greatest source of inspiration. The essays that she types on her crumb-smeared laptop three minutes before the bell are excellent. Detailed and smart, posing probing questions. She achieves the “where did that come from?” score on final exams in math and science, showing hints of her father’s brilliant brain. She doesn’t hit rock bottom.
Mr. Riley is mistaken.
Isn’t he?
I turn to Cassie for confirmation. Her mouth sets in a firm line as she stares straight at Mr. Riley. “Art schools don’t care about flag football.”
Mr. Riley slaps the desk. We both jump. “Do you know how many students think they can slack because they’re talented in one area? There are thousands of applicants working for the same ten spots in art school, Miss Hopeswell. What if it doesn’t pan out? What will you do?”
Bad, meet worse.
She’s staring at her hands. Index finger bent. Crack. Repeat on right hand. Crack. Her bottom lip trembles, but she won’t give in. She won’t break the silence.
My stomach feels as heavy as his words. I want to whisk Cassie out of here, say, “Thanks for your time and concern, but we’ll take care of this.” Whatever glitch has happened with Cassie, I’ll help her out of it. School’s the one thing I’m confident I can still do well. She’ll help me plan for our shenanigans-filled future in the city, and I’ll help get her through this.
“Cassie and I were just talking about precalc.”
Both of their heads turn toward me. My ears are already flaming–they might as well be throwing up smoke signals that say, “She’s lying!”
I soldier forth. “She asked if I could tutor her because she’s been so busy working on her art school portfolio. We’re starting this weekend.”
Mr. Riley offers a curt nod. “I’m pleased to hear that, Ms. Gregory.”
Cass ceases cracking her knuckles. I can see the relief on her face. The lie worked.
“Well, this has been great.” She stands.
“Hold on.” Mr. Riley should voice movie trailers with that booming tone. Cassie freezes. “As for you, Ms. Gregory.”
Oh, God. I steel myself for, I don’t know, my father turning me in himself.
“The Board of Education wants to honor your PSAT scores from the spring.”
Cassie snaps her head toward me.
“Um, wow. That’s really, uh…” Last year, I’d had two goals: place at Level 10 Nationals and blow the SATs out of the water. So I’d studied like hell for the PSAT because although it wasn’t the real test, it’d bring me one step closer.
Any sense of pride is obliterated by the way Cassie stares at me like I’ve betrayed her with my penciled-in answers.
“You had the highest score in the grade,” Mr. Riley says, either obliviously or deliberately rubbing those words into my best friend’s heart with the sole of his stern black shoe. “Your commitment to your studies is impressive. Certainly Ms. Hopeswell will benefit from your assistance.”