Eliana
I don’t think I’ll ever get over the fact that my guidance counselor’s name is Mr. Person. Is that his real name? Would someone who chose the field of guidance counseling give himself an alias? What if he had to? What if Mr. Person is not merely a guidance counselor? By day, he sits in his five-foot-by-five-foot, poorly lit office, weaving his schedule-balancing magic. By night? He squeezes his desk-trapped gut into figure-flattering spandex and flies around the city of Minneapolis, valiantly moving people’s cars out of unexpected snow tow zones.
“What brings you here today, Eliana?” Mr. Person knows my name without looking into my file. Mr. Person keeps my file in a special place on his desktop for easy access. This is not my first visit to Mr. Person’s rodeo. (Maybe he’s a rodeo clown?)
“I want to drop out of physics,” I tell him. This sounds as pathetic to me as I feel. “Dropping out” is such an extreme expression, like first it’s physics, and then high school, and then I’m competing with Girl Scouts outside the local Walgreens for spare change. But I don’t have any cookies to sell because I also dropped out of Girl Scouts!
“You don’t like Ms. Keeter?” he assumes. I have left three classes since my freshman year based solely on negative teacher vibe. Not this time. “No, she was fine. She seemed to know what she was doing.”
“Glad to hear that.” Mr. Person barely contains his sarcasm. Let it out, I say. The more the merrier.
“I got a C on a test,” I admit.
He waits for more. I have no more. “So I want to drop out,” I say, hoping that he understands.
“Eliana, a C on a test is hardly reason to drop out of a class. Have you never received a C before?” Mr. Person clicks on his keyboard. A piece of me is bummed he doesn’t have my grades memorized.
“I’m sure I have. At some point.” I pretend I don’t remember the exact test and date (seventh grade, algebra, I had a 103 degree fever that day and argued for a retest).
“A C is average, Eliana, and it’s just one test. I’m sure you will do even better on the next one. Why don’t you give it another couple of weeks—”
I cut him off. “Mr. Person, it will be midterms in a couple of weeks. I don’t want to do better. I want out. I don’t like physics. I don’t get physics. I won’t use physics. Just get me out of the class.” He looks down at me scoldingly until I add, “Please?”
“You need at least one more science class before you graduate to fulfill your requirements.” He does his keyboard-clicking thing again. I am nearly certain he is not looking at my file but playing Words with Friends.
“I’m only a sophomore. I can take earth science next year. That will be more practical. I live on Earth. For now.” My head takes me to that sweet place where Doctor Who arrives in the TARDIS just outside Mr. Person’s office to whisk me to a far-off planet where I won’t need a guidance counselor to reschedule my day into a slightly more bearable state than it is currently in.
Mr. Person rudely interrupts. “I have another appointment in three minutes, Eliana. Do you really need to leave physics?” Click. Click. Clickety click click.
“Would I be wasting your time, Mr. Person, if I didn’t really need something?” I realize I’m potentially setting myself up for a roasting, but Mr. Person knows this is a battle he will not win. Not without his spandex suit, anyway.
He puffs out a deflated sigh, does his clicking magic, and presents me with this option. “If we don’t want to rearrange your entire schedule, and I really do not want to do that, we need to fill your third period.”
I’m about to spew a truly inappropriate joke about maxi pads when Mr. Person saves me. “Looks like your only two choices are study hall or the Art and Craft of Cinema.”
“I thought that class was filled! I tried to get into that last year.”
“I recall that appointment.” Mr. Person nods, and I flash back to how I completely lost myself and both cried uncontrollably and called Mr. Person a dicktag when he couldn’t make that happen. I guess he would remember that.
“Is there really an opening?”
“Looks like someone dropped out last week. Maybe they got a C.”
I ignore the guidance counselor sass and relish the rare good fortune. “Can you put me in? Please?” I smile my brightest fake smile at him, which makes no sense because this moment is totally deserving of a real smile, but sometimes my face just can’t make the leap.
Click click and click. “Done. You are now a physics-class dropout and a film student. Your future’s looking bright, Eliana.”
I sneer at him in that charming way I have and say, “Thank you, Mr. Person. Your guidance counseling skills are once again top-notch.”
“I’ll put that on my tombstone,” he retorts.
I leave the tiny office with a reprinted schedule in hand and a spring in my step. Stuff like this never happens to me. I’m out of physics and in film class? That’s luck. That’s kismet. That’s actually good news.
I stop my bouncy walk.
What terrible crap is going to happen to balance it out?
Dmitri
School days after gig nights are the worst, especially if the gig was on a Sunday. As if Mondays need any new reasons to suck.
My mother’s already yelled up the stairs three times—the first two in English, the last one in Greek—for me to get out of bed. It’s not until Yia Yia, my grandmother, pokes her head into the room that I finally stir. She’s wearing the same plain gray dress she always wears. One of these days I’m going to sneak into her closet to see how many of these dresses she owns. She either has like fifteen, or she wears the same one over and over again. Inquiring minds want to know.
“Dmitri-moo.” Her accent is thick, but her voice is sweet. “Don’t make you mother work so hard. Nico ees downstairs already, you go too, nαι?” I like it that Yia Yia speaks to me in English. I know more than enough Greek to converse with her, but she works hard at trying to fit in, to be more American, and I appreciate it. She definitely works harder than my parents.
“Dmitri!” My mother’s voice rattles the window. “Ελλα εδώ τώρα!” Come here, now!
“He coming!” my grandmother shouts. “Give boy a chance!”
“Thanks, Yia Yia,” I say through a yawn. She turns, winks at me, and leaves the room.
I reach for my phone and scroll through the texts from last night. “Great gig!” “You guys killed it!” “The drums never sounded better!” I flop my head back on the pillow and smile.
When I hit the kitchen dressed and ready to go, my brother, Nico, two years younger, is already at the table reading a book. Nicky always has his face buried in a book. I swear it’s why he needs glasses. This one is something called The Last True Love Story.
“How was the gig?” he asks, looking up.
“Great,” I answer. “There were a ton of kids there. What are you reading?”
Nicky kind of smirks. He does that like he’s in on a joke and no one else knows the punch line. “You’d like it. It’s got a punk rock theme with a kick-ass girl bass player.”