Eighteen
SENIOR YEAR
Because my life hasn’t been strange enough, Mr. Hargrove is now my algebra teacher. I knew this was going to happen, because a sub had been filling in until he could officially switch from military duty to teacher duty, but it’s not helping the feeling that junior year is suddenly surrounding me on all sides like some kind of satanic spell circle.
Sitting in his classroom each day while he stands at the front—a live, in-the-flesh person and not just someone I’ve heard about—has made me think a lot about the night at the slushie stand. The one detail I want to recall—whether or not I flapped my gums about the homecoming float’s location—is still eluding me. But other fragmented pieces of that night have been coming back to me. The problem is, I don’t know if they’re real, or alcohol-drenched amalgamations of truth and imagination.
And worse, I suck at algebra.
It’s the last period of the day, and I linger at my desk after the bell rings, packing my things with exaggerated slowness as I try to work up the courage to ask for extra help with the material I can’t seem to grasp.
As if he read my mind, Mr. Hargrove says, “Were you comfortable with today’s lesson, Ms. Atwood?” Before I can answer, he taps the board. “Factoring is fun, isn’t it? It never ceases to amaze me that numbers can be so straightforward and so versatile at the same time. They never lie.”
Math has never been my strongest subject, and Mr. Hargrove teaches it like he’s simply offering a road map to the easiest, most self-explanatory stuff on earth. It’s not that he isn’t nice, but I can’t shake the feeling that he might laugh in my face if I admit that I’m having trouble understanding.
“Maybe numbers don’t lie, but sometimes I feel like they play tricks on me. Even when I think I’m doing the steps right, I still come out with the wrong answer. I don’t think my brain is wired for this.” I wave at the mess of red gibberish on the whiteboard.
Mr. Hargrove motions for me to take a seat. “Everyone’s wired for this. It’s a matter of making the wires connect.”
That’s sort of what I was afraid he’d say. Now I’m dreading letting him see how much sense numbers don’t make to me. Although, if he’s noticed my grades, it’s probably not much of a mystery.
There’s a knock on the door then, and Joel sticks his head into the classroom. “You ready to go, Da—” His eyes fall on me and he waves. “Sorry. I’ll come back later.”
“Nonsense. Come in. Ms. Atwood and I are going to take another stab at factoring.” I’ve never wished for the ability to slip through solid matter—like, say, linoleum floors—quite as hard as I am now. Because I definitely don’t want to do this in front of Joel.
“Ooh, fascinating,” Joel deadpans.
Mr. Hargrove wraps an arm around Joel’s shoulders and squeezes. “Have you met my Joel Matthew? This kid’s an ace at math.” He ruffles Joel’s hair. “And my pride and joy.”
Joel smooths his hair, clearly embarrassed. “We’re friends, Dad,” he mumbles. Then he glances at me, silently asking if that’s true.
I smile in response. “Joel Matthew, huh? That’s a nice name.”
“He’s named after my father,” Mr. Hargrove says. Joel rolls his eyes and shakes his head, and I get the feeling that his father has told this story more than a few times. Joel spins a chair backward and sits on it, looking up at his dad expectantly. “Joel’s mother and I got married young, or at least what’s considered young today. We wanted to start a family right away, but for whatever reason, it wasn’t happening. After almost three years with no luck, we started to lose hope.” He lays a hand on Joel’s shoulder. “Around that time, my father got very sick. He passed away one month shy of his seventieth birthday, and I was devastated that he never got to see that milestone. On the day of his birthday, we found out we were pregnant with Joel.”
“That’s a pretty amazing story.” I look at Joel, but he slings his forearm across the back of the chair and rests his chin on it, like an obedient dog waiting for his master.
“And then to think, three more followed after him. I’ll never understand how people can say they don’t believe in miracles,” Mr. Hargrove continues.
Joel’s head jerks up. “Dad,” he barks. “We’re not in church.”
“I know. But I’ve seen humanity at its worst. I was dropped at death’s door, and I got to pick up my bags and walk away. So to me”—he points a marker at the board—“the idea of God is every bit as concrete and logical as these numbers.” He puts the marker down and walks back over to Joel. “And this kid is a miracle. Matthew, his middle name, means ‘Gift from God.’ ” He runs his hand over Joel’s hair, more gently than before. “And it couldn’t be more appropriate. Because you can do anything you put your mind to, Joel Matthew. Don’t you forget it.”
Joel ducks from his father’s touch and stands up. “I’ll be in the library until you guys are done.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before turning and hightailing it out of the room. I feel like I need to go after him.
“Um, on second thought, I should get going. My dad’ll help me if I get stuck on the homework.”
“Of course,” Mr. Hargrove says as I head to the door. “We can go over it tomorrow if it’s still not clicking.”
Joel must’ve kept up his on-a-mission pace, because I see nothing but an empty hallway when I leave the classroom. I start in the direction of the library, and nearly smash my face into his chest as soon as I turn the corner.
“Sorry. Are you okay?” he asks, holding my arms to steady me.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Me? I’m fine.” He glances in the direction of his father’s classroom. “I just hate when he gets like that. Yeah, he’s been through a lot, and yeah, it’s awesome if your beliefs got you through it. But he never stops to consider that some people might not think exactly the way he does, and maybe they don’t want to be preached to.”
“No, it’s fine. I didn’t think he was preaching. He seems really proud of you. It was a sweet story.”
Joel leans against the locker, the side of his head hitting it with a soft thud. “A story’s all it is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
We start to walk again, at a slower pace this time, and I watch his profile in the pause that follows. He seems hesitant to explain, and his lips are set together like he doesn’t trust himself to do it correctly.
“He gives me too much credit. The way he talks about me, I feel like I’m supposed to sprout wings and walk on water, or some crazy shit like that. I’m not a miracle in the shape of a kid; I’m a kid. But his expectations of me are so high, it’s pretty much inevitable that I’m going to let him down.”
“I don’t know, Joel. You seem to be making him pretty happy just by existing.”
Joel frowns, and suddenly his eyes are oceans of sadness. “He’s happy because I let him keep his delusions.” Before I can react, he turns to me with a wan half smile and touches a finger to my locket. “Have you thought any more about homecoming?”
My mouth goes dry and I clutch the silver heart. I know I need to tell him about Noah, but thinking about Noah reminds me of what I still think may be his false confession about the blackout kiss. If Joel is really the one who kissed me, I want him to tell me. Now. And if there’s a reason he hasn’t come forward, I want to know that, too.
“Is there something else you want to tell me first?”
“There are lots of things I’d like to tell you, Mace,” Joel mumbles. He takes a step back and scratches his head. “But maybe . . . not right now. Okay?”
It’s the same thing he said the night of the blackout, and I’m no less curious than I was then. But staring into his eyes, I know I’m not going to push the issue. He looks almost on the verge of tears. And there’s something else beneath the sadness that makes the skin on my arms prickle with worry—something that looks a lot like fear.
“All right. Then I should tell you something. Someone else sort of asked me to the dance before you did.”
Joel shifts on his feet. “Let me guess. Ben?”
“Ben? God, no. Why would you think that? Ben asked Meredith.”
“Oh. I don’t know.” From the way he rubs the back of his neck, I get the feeling he wishes he’d said anything but that. “I guess I thought—” His arm drops and he blinks. “It was Granger, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” I say.
“Figures.” Joel snorts.
“I haven’t answered him,” I rush to add.
“That’s why he took you to Old Mill, right?”
“How did you know about that?”
He looks at me like he can’t believe how dense I am. “I told you, I had to work.” When my expression stays blank, he adds, “At the Mill Club? Where I’ve been busing tables for a year?”
I knew Joel had a job at a country club. Somehow, which one never came up. But I bet someone else knew all about it.
“So Noah asked me to go because you’d be there?”
He drags a knuckle across his eyebrow. “I guess—I don’t know. I started that job after I left Mortonville, so maybe it’s a long shot. Forget I said anything.” I open my mouth to argue, but it’s like an invisible cell door has closed between us. Joel’s expression is unreadable when he cuts me off with, “You know what, Mace? Do yourself a favor and go with him.”
“But that’s not what—”
He starts to back away. I feel like I’m standing at the water’s edge, watching him drift out of my reach.
“It’s okay.” He takes a few backward strides toward the math hall. “For real. You’re better off.”
His father appears around the corner then and puts an arm around Joel’s shoulders. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah.” Joel eyes me like I’m something he saw emerge from a swamp. “Let’s get out of here.”
Mr. Hargrove waves good-bye when they walk past. Joel does not.
I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open a little bit as they go. First, because in the span of one day, I’ve gone from having two invitations to homecoming to having none at all.
And second, because as I watch Joel retreat toward the main doors with Mr. Hargrove’s arm draped across his back, the image feels all wrong. Because I’m more certain than ever that Joel did say the words “I hate him,” and he said them about the man at his side.