Chapter Thirty
–Haley–
I tap my foot impatiently while Mrs. Markson flips through my test. It’s after three in the afternoon. I’ve been in this classroom since nine this morning. I’m so ready to be out of here, but I couldn’t not take advantage of her giving me as long as I needed on the test. Somehow that gave me this sharp tunnel vision I rarely have when it comes to school stuff.
I glance at my cell phone and nearly scream out loud when I read the first of the slew of text messages I’ve gotten during the day.
LESLIE: u had sex in the girls bathroom??? During summer school? Hope you took the bathroom pass! U drop a whole letter grade for ditching 1 day
KAYLA: I’m confused…did u hook up with Jamie or the mystery guy in the bathroom? Or was it Mira Sylveski? Someone said they saw her taking ur stuff in the bathroom.
AMANDA: U would tell me if ur gay right? I’m cool with that, btw
BAILEY: Mira is kinda hot. Just sayin
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with these people? And mystery guy? That has to be Fletcher. I guess the girl who saw him didn’t know his name. Well, at least one good thing came out of that mess. I check on Mrs. Markson—still grading—and then with a heavy sigh I type a heated text to Leslie. Hopefully this won’t come back to bite me in the ass.
ME: Truth—I got test anxiety, ran to the bathroom to barf, Mrs. Markson asked Mira to bring my stuff, and then Jamie came in to check on me. That’s it. I’m a little busy trying to save my grade so can you just be my best friend and fix this asap?? You know I would do it for you.
So yeah, I left Fletcher out, but it’s still the truth. Mostly. I wait the longest thirty seconds of my life for her reply and then sigh with relief when I see it.
LESLIE: Of course. I’m on it *hugs*
I stuff my phone way down in the bottom of my bag so I won’t be tempted to check for more updates. Finally, Mrs. Markson flips back to page one of my test and scribbles a score on the front—a score I can’t see from my seat. I’m in the desk right across from hers, so there’s really no excuse to stand and peek yet.
“The PowerPoint you and Fletcher turned in over the weekend,” she says, her impassive teacher face plastered on. “How much of that was your effort? Be honest, I’ve already logged the grade, so it doesn’t make a difference either way. I’m aware that Jamie Isaacs did none of his assignment.”
That’s not completely true. His partner, Trinity, asked him to make up a really old person’s name, and he said, “Harold.”
“I have no clue what the conclusion says,” I admit. “But I do know that Barbie isn’t in it.”
She shakes her head, confused probably. “But the rest?”
“I helped with all the rest. I mean, Fletcher is the one who knows how to outline, and I got caught up on the individual sections, and he made sure we had all the pieces at the end…”
“Give me an overview of your project, then,” she says.
Even though I’m dying to know my test grade, I attempt to explain the project in as much detail as possible. We won’t present it until tomorrow, but we had to turn in the hardcover for a grade by Sunday night.
Basically, our PowerPoint was a timeline of voting progression from the signing of the Constitution to present day. Who voted then—the demographics like ages, marital status, gender, race—and now. And then we included each amendment to the Constitution and how that affected voting demographics.
“Okay.” She nods like I’ve managed to satisfy her with my response. “I gave you two a hundred and four percent on the written part. Now I can sleep at night knowing you didn’t bribe my best student into doing it for you.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I protest. Is that so hard to believe? I may have sought out a brainy partner so that I could actually learn something, in addition to getting a good grade. And I did. Learn something. Organization of thoughts never comes easy to me. Fletcher gave me a basic template to use for any project in this realm.
“I’m sure you’ll do well presenting the material. You’ve got a knack for public speaking.” She finally hands me my test. A big red 90 percent is written across the top.
I look up at her, my mouth hanging open. “For real?”
“I checked it twice.” She opens a desk drawer and removes a folder with my name on it. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been leaving questions blank on all your tests and quizzes.”
I take a deep breath and nod. Oh man, is she gonna dock me points for having all this extra time compared to everyone else? It would make sense. It should be the same circumstances for all students. “I almost never finish tests in time. Same thing happened to me on the ACT. I left a bunch blank on each section.”
“So, this is a continuing problem for you?”
I nod, hoping I haven’t opened an ugly can of worms. I don’t have the best grades in the world, but I’d rather they didn’t get any worse because Mrs. Markson looked into my files a bit too carefully.
“Well, unlike the teen-pregnancy workshop I skipped out on, I did attend the test-anxiety workshop,” she says, flipping the folder open. “If you can get a diagnosis from an approved professional, the school and possibly even the ACT board will allow you to have extra time.”
I sink back into my seat. “What kind of diagnosis?”
“Have you had any trouble reading? Or been diagnosed with dyslexia?”
Does having an unread pile of novels in my room count as reading troubles? I shake my head.
“Are you sure? You’d be surprised how many dyslexic kids go undiagnosed,” she says.
“Guess I don’t know for sure. But I know I could read really well in preschool, and no one else could,” I explain. “I got picked all the time by the teachers to show off my skills. I think it gave me a complex.”
Mrs. Markson cracks a smile. “Probably not a reading issue slowing you down.”
“I do have to reread the questions a lot,” I admit. “What else is grounds for extra time?”
“Mood and anxiety disorders, like OCD, autism spectrum, ADHD,” she recites. “Any learning disability may qualify with proper documentation.”
“ADHD?” I wasn’t expecting that. “People get extra time for being hyper?”
“I believe so,” she says. “Mr. Smuttley can give you more specifics and tell you what’s required as far as documentation. Definitely talk to him.”
“Okay.” I nod even though I’d been poised to deny any ADHD labels.
“But right now…” She drops a quiz from two weeks ago onto my desk. “Answer those last three questions for me.”
I stare at her, not sure if she’s serious. But when she doesn’t stop me, I flip to the last page and read the first blank question. My adrenaline is still pumping from all this grade drama, so I get through it quickly. Mrs. Markson takes the paper, gives two questions a red check mark and one a red X. Then, on the front of the test, she changes my 76 percent to an 83 percent.
I open my mouth to respond, but she drops our first exam onto my desk. “You left seven blank on this one. Want to take a stab?”
“I’m not sure—” I start to say, my cheeks warming. Maybe Fletcher waved his magic perfect-student wand and bribed her. As much as I want to take the advantage, I’m not sure it’s right. “I mean, isn’t this cheating?”
“No,” she says, and when I still look doubtful, she explains, “Haley, what do you think the purpose of a high school class is? Try to push through the hazy mixed signals we like to send around here.”
“To get a good grade,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Try again.”
“To pass?” I suggest, less sure.
“Uh-uh.” She flips test one to the page with all the blank answers. “The purpose is to be proficient in the material presented. Mastery. All the grade and test mumbo jumbo is because we teachers have to provide proof of that proficiency or, in some cases, not. And the proof often isn’t an accurate portrayal of proficiency. Are you following me?”
My forehead wrinkles. “Sort of.”
“I take my course material very seriously,” Mrs. Markson says. “God forbid any of you students walk away from my class claiming God as the founder of our country.”
I laugh. “Or the first lady as successor to the vice president.”
“Or that.” She nods. “We haven’t even finished our class, and already those are two mistakes you will no longer make, correct?”
“Correct.” Though I would have never missed Jamie’s George Washington question.
She taps the page in front of me. “Then it’s settled. You’ve learned. Now prove your mastery, and we can both move on.”
I stare down at the test. I’m exhausted, but it doesn’t feel like the academic world is out to get me right now. This helps a lot. The empty classroom without other students flipping pages and shifting around helps a lot, too. And my grade is decent at the moment. I can walk out of here whenever I’ve reached my limit. I’ll just think of these questions as bonus points.
“I’ll give you half credit for any wrong answers you correct,” she says. “I do this for everyone on the last day, but maybe it will help you to have a jump start?”
…
It’s after five by the time I walk out of the school. I’m in dire need of food and beverage and probably a nap, but I’m flying high. My grade in Civics is now a 91 percent, and it will go up higher after Fletcher and I present the Constitution project. I even had a chance to talk to Mr. Smuttley after I finished with the tests.
He didn’t act like my concerns were strange or disordered. He did say extended time with an ADHD diagnosis is tricky if the documentation and testing are less than three years old. I guess kids try to cheat the system. Obviously, I need my parents’ help on this one, but I’d been planning to retake the ACT in October, and Mr. Smuttley said that would give us plenty of time. In the meantime, he suggested I gather any evidence of attention problems in my childhood—old report cards showing underachievement or disciplinary notices. Anything before age twelve.
So, after I hit up Benny’s for a double bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake, I take my food home and drag out the container from the basement labeled “Haley’s School Stuff.”
My mom, who has no organizational disorders, has these sorted by school years, beginning with day care when I was eighteen months. I’m munching on my fries—the burger already devoured—and sifting through piles of daily reports with Little Lamb Nursery across the top. Reports that let my parents know how many times my diaper was changed and any unusual colors that presented in said diapers. I’m sure I’ll find this information extremely useful at some point in my life.
I set aside the Little Lamb box and move on to kindergarten. The report card marks reveal very little. All they expected of me was alphabet reciting, shoe tying, holding scissors properly…real genius production going on in our elementary schools. But in the comments section of the report card, Miss. Jenny—who I don’t think lives in town any more—wrote “Haley is a very sweet girl. She continues to struggle with remaining on her cot during naptime and often spends too much time talking to peers when she should be getting work done. But she has shown exemplary reading skills and is such a wonderful class buddy for Rowen.”
I smile to myself. I remember Rowen. He was autistic, didn’t speak at all, but I figured out ways to play with him. Six-year-olds are creative in that way.
I move on to first grade, and the comments shift to me getting out of my seat too much. Me not finishing daily work. Still nothing too big. Just tiny hints here and there. But when I compile all of them, it does add up to a lot of the same thing over and over. Several teachers mentioned what a great athlete I was—only in Juniper Falls does that make it onto an academic report card—and even drew the conclusion that my constant movement correlated with my athletic abilities. I played every sport when I was a kid—hockey, football, basketball, soccer, swimming…
My middle-school report cards brought much fewer comments and more inconsistent grades. Mostly As and Bs, but some Cs, too, and usually in major subjects. In home ec, art, drama, and PE I had all A+ grades with positive comments from teachers. Maybe I’m destined to be a Stepford Wife with soccer-mom potential? But that would require home organizing skills, and it seems I may be stuck with “poor ability” when it comes to those.
I close the lid to the middle-school box, but when I move to do the same to my Little Lamb Nursery box, a sheet of pink paper stands out amongst the sea of soft yellow daily reports. I tug it from the pile and read the heading: “Incident Report.”
Scandalous. An incident at the Little Lamb Day Care center.
Explanation of incident: During morning snack, Haley chose to place Cheerios into another student’s nose. When asked to stop, she continued the behavior.
Resolution of Incident: After the standard two warnings, Haley was given a three-minute time-out (one min. per year of age) in the red classroom time-out chair. The boy left for the day, and Haley was unable to apologize for her behavior. We discussed apologies and practiced apologies on Waffle, the classroom mascot.
Who Was Notified of Incident: The boy’s family through phone call, and Haley’s parents through this incident report and a conference during pickup time today.
I shouldn’t laugh. I really shouldn’t. But I can’t help it. He was right. And who would have ever thought we’d have actual proof? Given the fact that my parents have documentation of every single diaper change I had from eighteen months to potty training, I should have known there would be something around here.
It says the boy’s family was notified by phone and mine wasn’t. And that he left for the day before I could apologize. Left following morning snack.
I jump up from my spot on the living-room floor and head for the kitchen pantry. I dig around, shoving things aside until my fingers land on a nearly empty box of Cheerios. I scan the label, and right there at the bottom it says “Contains wheat.”
From what I’ve read, the more severe food allergies almost always present themselves in the toddler years. Most likely, Fletch was already allergic to wheat. Among many other things.
So basically, I’ve been poisoning him for years.
The doorbell rings, offering me an excuse to set my guilt aside. I don’t even have to get up to answer it. Jamie walks right in after only a few seconds.
“What if I was walking around naked?” I demand.
“Saw you through the window. Fully dressed.” He flings himself across the couch, shaking the cushions and the foundation of the house in the process. “Don’t you have something to say to me?”
I pull myself upright from my spot on the floor. In all my drama, I completely forgot that today was a big day for Jamie. “Oh my God, what happened? How did you do?” Why hadn’t I just asked Mrs. Markson? I was with her all afternoon.
He leaves me in anticipation for three whole seconds and then a grin spreads across his face. “Passed! Graduated. All that shit. Done.”
I’ve watched Jamie accomplish some amazing things—winning or almost winning state the last four years, getting a hockey scholarship—but never have I seen him look as proud as he does right now. I think I get what Mrs. Markson was trying to explain when she talked about what grades really mean—it’s about leaving the class knowing more than when you came in. Jamie succeeded at that, and it was good enough for the strictest teacher at JFH.
A lump forms in my throat, and my eyes start to well up. Jamie sees me and immediately shakes his head. “No crying! Jesus. You and my mom both.”
“Okay, okay.” I pull myself together and offer him my best smile. “I knew you could do it.”
“No, you didn’t,” he says, but he’s still smiling. “No one saw that coming. Couldn’t have done it without you. And Fletch.”
Hearing Fletch’s name sends my heart racing all over again. I don’t know what’s happening with us. “Did you—I mean, you gave Fletch a ride home, right? Was he okay?”
“He was doped up, but fine.” Jamie reaches for the remainder of my french fries and pops one into his mouth. “You know it’s not gonna work with you two, right?”
“What’s not gonna work?” I say, playing dumb.
Jamie rolls his eyes. “It’s all fucked up. You have to know that. I’ve talked to his friends from the club. He’s into some wild shit.”
“Oh, I see.” I stretch out on the carpet and toss Jamie a look. “I’m too innocent for all that wild shit. Thanks for the inaccurate label.”
“Well, you are sort of innocent,” Jamie agrees. “But I just mean that Fletcher’s not a one-woman man. Never has been from what I hear. And you are definitely not the kinda girl to share your man.”
“What man?” I say, releasing a frustrated breath. “I don’t have a man, and I don’t want one. Not now and not in the near future!”
Jamie allows my heated reply to fall into the space between us until it’s calm and silent again. “But you want him.”
I swallow back another angry reply and rest my head against the floor. “Maybe.”
“Great, that’s just great.” Jamie releases his own frustrated groan. “I’m gonna have to stop being his friend now.”
“Why?” I sit up. “Not for me, I hope. I’m fine with you and Fletch being…whatever you are. Besides, he hasn’t exactly rejected me…”
Jamie gives me a look that says you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me. “Dude’s not gonna change for you. Not that much. You’re a catch and all, but he’s stubborn as hell and kinda paranoid, if I’m being honest. You guys are at one of those, what’s it called when it’s a tie in chess?”
“A draw,” I say.
Jamie nods. “A draw. That’s exactly it. You made a move. He made a move. You and then him. But neither of you got anywhere, and it’s impossible for anyone to win.”
“But technically we could keep playing…” I say slowly.
“You could.” Jamie pops another fry into his mouth and studies my face. “But what’s the point? No one wins. Plus, we aren’t talking about chess. Fooling around without it going anywhere…that’s not for everyone.”
It’s not for me. That’s what he’s trying to say.
But Jamie’s not completely right about all of this. Fletcher does care about me. I saw that today with my own eyes. But does he care enough to make big changes in his life for me? Jamie’s probably right about that being too much too soon. Especially for Fletch, who seems to have an extra aversion to change. I glance at my phone. I’d been about to text him before Jamie showed up.
But maybe I shouldn’t?