I finally have a full appreciation of the term “dead man walking.”
Every second that ticks by feels like I’m waiting for my own funeral. It’s agonizing. But these are the choices I’ve made. And I’m going to live with them. This is my universe now. And I’m going to make the best of it. Who knows what will happen when Fitz reads that essay? But whatever the outcome is, I’ll be ready for it. Monday is sure to be a very interesting day.
I spend the weekend getting my affairs in order. I fold up all but one of my Windsor Academy uniforms and place them in brown paper bags. I take the black frame down from my wall and remove the acceptance letter inside, returning it to my bottom desk drawer. I collect the remainder of the cash in the lockbox and stash it inside an envelope. I’ve addressed it to the Southwest High School library with an anonymous letter suggesting they buy a new copy of Robinson Crusoe to replace the ghost copy.
And then finally, when everything else is done, I go to the website for the county’s public school department, print out an enrollment form, and sign my name.
Fortunately, because I’m eighteen, I don’t require a parent’s signature to register. I just need to hand deliver it to the office. Starting January of next year, I’ll be an official student of Southwest High again.
I’m actually looking forward to going back. To sitting in the smelly cafeteria and walking on the sticky tile floors. It’s only for five months. Maybe I’ll use that time to relaunch the newspaper.
* * *
On Monday morning, I wake once again to the sound of elephants trumpeting and dogs barking and roosters crowing. I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Maybe after I go back to Southwest High I’ll finally be able to get some sleep again.
I roll out of bed and check my phone for messages. So far, nothing from the Windsor Academy. I take a shower, get dressed, and wait outside for Sequoia.
We ride to school in silence. We haven’t said much to each other since that night in front of her house. When we drive through the beautiful black iron gates of the school, I stare at the Windsor Academy logo that parts to let us in. I remember the days when the ornate WA letters signified so much to me. Hope. Dreams. A guaranteed future.
Now, they just feel like an empty symbol that has lost its meaning.
I fully expect the SWAT team to be waiting for me outside of Royce Hall, but all seems normal. Sequoia chatters about our AP history quiz today and how she wishes she had more time to study and I nod and agree in all the right places.
Throughout the entire day, I wait for the backlash to come. Every time a door opens in one of my classrooms, I’m convinced it’s Dean Lewis coming to “retrieve” me or the police coming to drag me off to jail, but it never is.
I check my phone after each class, expecting to see a barrage of missed calls from my parents or alerts in the Windsor Achiever app or an email in my inbox, but none of those come.
And when last period finally rolls around and I walk into Mr. Fitz’s classroom, I’m convinced that he’ll give me a stern look and say, “Stay after class, Ms. Rhodes. We need to chat,” but he barely even glances my way. And when he does, I see nothing in his face that gives me any indication he’s mad or disappointed or even smugly arrogant for correctly predicting my ultimate demise.
It isn’t until the final bell chimes that I come to the conclusion that he simply hasn’t read the essay yet. He probably found it on the floor when he came in this morning and tucked it away in his desk to read later, with the rest of the final PEs.
I don’t know how I’m possibly going to wait. How long will he take to read them? What if it’s days? Weeks? Months?
* * *
By Thursday, I just can’t take it anymore. The anticipation is killing me. I need this to be over with. I need to move on with my life and put this awful part of my past behind me.
After class, I wait for the room to empty before taking a deep breath and approaching his desk. I’m going to make him read it. I’m going to stand there while he does and I’m going to accept whatever punishment he dishes out.
He barely glances up from his laptop. “Yes, Ms. Rhodes?”
I can feel my legs shaking beneath me. “I turned in my final PE last week.”
He nods absentmindedly. “Yes, I received it.”
“I’d like you to read it.” I swallow. “Right now.”
He pulls his glasses from his nose and stares up at me. “And why is that?”
I feel sweat form on my upper lip. “I just need you to read it.”
He studies me with a curious expression. Then, in one decisive motion, he slides his glasses back on and returns his attention to his computer. “I’ve already read it.”
I nearly collapse in shock, my eyes growing wide. “You have?”
“Yes,” he says nonchalantly. “And I’m rejecting it.”
For a moment, I’m certain I misunderstood. “Rejecting it?”
“Yes.”
“What does that even mean?”
He types something into his laptop. “It means I’m not accepting it as your final draft. I’d like you to try again.”
“But…” I argue, suddenly at a loss for words.
Did he read the wrong one?
Did I forget to put my name on it?
“I don’t understand. You must not have read the whole thing.”
Fitz looks up at me again, this time with an air of impatience. “I read every last word. Twice, actually. And I’ve decided it’s not your best work.”
I stand there, openmouthed and completely stunned. “Not my best work? But aren’t you going to show it to Dean Lewis? Aren’t you going to expel me?”
Mr. Fitz sighs and removes his glasses again, this time cleaning them with a small cloth on his desk. “Kennedy,” he begins in a somber tone, “you are one of the best and brightest students I’ve ever had. If not the best student I’ve ever had. I’m not going to let you throw your whole life away because of one misjudgment.”
“Misjudgment,” I spit back in astonishment. “I think stealing tests from teachers and selling them to students is more than just a misjudgment.”
“I don’t,” he says decisively. “I’ve worked here for ten years and I’ve seen so many good students go down bad roads. It happens all the time. If I could have saved all of them, I would have. But I couldn’t. I can save you.”
I stand up taller. “I already told you, I don’t want to be saved.”
“I know,” he says, and I don’t miss the subtle eye roll. “You want to take the noble route. The high road. You want to pay for your mistakes. You want to throw away everything you’ve worked for because you believe it’s the right thing to do.”
“Y-y-yes!” I stammer, unable to believe what I’m hearing. This is definitely not the reaction I was expecting.
“Well, I won’t let you. I’m not going to watch another one of my students drown. Not while I’m five feet away in a working lifeboat. I’ve already ripped up your essay and I’m going to pretend I never saw it. Then, tomorrow, you’re going to come in here with your other draft. The one you turned in a few weeks ago. I’m going to give you an A and we’re never going to speak of this again. Are we clear?”
I stare at him in utter disbelief. Then, as he repeats the question—“Are we clear?”—I see something in his eyes. It’s just a flicker of an emotion—maybe even a micro-expression—but it’s there. I recognize it because I’ve seen it in my own face. And in the face of Sequoia.
It’s fear. Fear of not living up to your potential. Fear of failure.
And, in that moment, I realize something for the very first time.
The students aren’t the only ones who are pressured to succeed in this place. The students aren’t the only ones pushed to exhaustion to fulfill an Ivy League quota. The teachers feel the exact same thing. They suffer the exact same debilitating stress. Fitz probably gets even less sleep than I do.
They’re just another link in the chain. The administration passes it down to the teachers, the teachers pass it down to the students, the students kill themselves until they get those acceptance letters in the mail, and the statistic is upheld.
Then the whole cycle starts all over again the next year.
As I look into Mr. Fitz’s pleading eyes, I know that I’ll never escape. It’s just like Other Me wrote in that original version of her essay. My decisions affect everyone around me. No matter what I do. No matter what I choose.
I chose to come to Windsor and my dad’s life suffered.
I chose to stay at Southwest High and Laney’s life suffered.
If I choose to turn myself in now, I won’t be the only one who suffers the consequences. My teachers will, too. And my parents. And Sequoia. And probably the whole student body.
It’s a never-ending cosmic cycle and I’m trapped in the center.
We all are.
“Yes, Mr. Fitz,” I say quietly. “We’re clear.”