Mr Boyne has finishing shuffling the seating and returns to the front of the class. He always wears a bow tie with small fruit patterns on it. Today is bananas. How fitting.
‘All right, eyes to the front. Everyone listen up – which means you, Keverich.’
Beck blinks. Please don’t expect him to use his brain. He’s been up since five, hammering scales and arpeggios, and he’d kill for a nine-hour nap.
‘Now,’ Mr Boyne says, ‘you’ve been paired according to abilities, or lack thereof. A student who is failing with a student who cares about succeeding.’ He eyeballs everyone pointedly.
‘But that’s not fair!’ someone wails.
‘It’s great motivation to work hard,’ Mr Boyne says. ‘Or harder. Or, for the first time this year, work at all. You’re getting a chance to bump up your grades while being tutored. No one is allowed to squander this.’
Beck’s mouth opens by accident. Definitely an accident. Since when does he speak up in class?
‘But to be failing,’ he says, ‘means we’re trying in the first place.’
Snickers. A dark look from Mr Boyne. A curious one from his English partner-to-be.
‘Anyone with something smart to say gets a visit to the principal’s office.’ Mr Boyne adjusts his bow tie. ‘And then the principal will chat with your parents.’
Oh, how scary. As if any of their parents would care. Most of these kids are barely literate ghosts. Here one year, drifting off to work at McDonald’s the next.
Except for Beck, of course. While they’re fighting for a low-income job, he’ll be a famous pianist.
Great.
Mr Boyne clears his throat as if expecting the class will settle. It doesn’t. He raises his voice and rocks on his heels, like if he makes himself taller they’ll pay attention. They won’t.
‘The goal, naturally, is the essay. It will need to be two thousand words – that’s one thousand each – with detail, quotes and examples.’
Examples of what?
‘It’s due in two weeks, which is plenty of time to get to know your partner. You can meet after school or – oh, organise that amongst yourselves.’
Wait, meet after school? That can’t happen. Beck feels his world narrow in suffocation.
‘Remember the subject! The essay must be a detailed comparison of two opposite opinions—’
‘What if we agree on everything?’ someone yells.
‘Then get married,’ Mr Boyne says without blinking.
The class giggles.
‘You will find something,’ Mr Boyne says, ‘and keep in mind hobbies and interests are not allowed. You will be contrasting political, moral, or religious views. Present me a convincing point of view. Be respectful to your partners. Be intelligent.’ He pauses and rubs his bow tie again. ‘Be intelligent if you can.’
Mr Boyne seems to think that covers it. ‘Now, we have ten minutes before the end of this period, so get to know your partner and start discussing topics for your contrast essay.’ He plops behind his desk, apparently done with everyone and everything. For ever.
Beck has questions. Firstly, how is he going to find time to do this? After school? Come on! And secondly, contrast political opinions? He has no opinions. He has nothing but a piano and aching fingers.
August sweeps her hair over her shoulder and shoves her desk closer to his. She then sits on it, and rests her chin on her fist. The rest of the class has erupted into loud conversation – probably unproductive – but August seems curtained off in a bubble of quiet focus.
Focus directed at Beck.
This is so bad.
‘Hi,’ August says.
‘Beck,’ he says, then feels stupid because Mr Boyne bawled everyone’s names across the class. She’s going to know.
‘What’s that short for? Beckett?’
‘Something like that.’ His full name is a topic he’ll never touch with anyone. Ever.
Did he mention not ever?
August’s grin is like a sly wood nymph. Beck can’t stop looking at her hand-printed T-shirt. How can she get away with that while he gets detention for tardiness?
‘Wow, calm down,’ August says. ‘I’m overwhelmed with all the information you’re throwing at me.’
Beck feels trapped. What does he say? ‘This whole assignment is stupid.’ Wait. Did he say that out loud?
‘I won’t disagree.’ August tilts forward on the desk top. Her hands are covered in blue Sharpie doodles and her eyes are as complicated as the ocean. Beck decides to avoid looking at them. She whips out an orange Sharpie and she taps it on his desk. ‘How do you feel about tattoos?’
‘How is that political?’ Beck says.
‘Moral.’ August uncaps the lid and adds a swirl. The orange is nearly lost against her deeply tanned skin. ‘Some places won’t hire you if you’re tattooed.’
‘That seems – wrong.’
August sighs. ‘Agreed. And we’re not supposed to agree. So your turn – suggest something, music boy.’
Beck freezes. How did she – she couldn’t. He’s never breathed a word about the piano to anyone and no one would even catch him with headphones. She couldn’t possibly know about the piano. Unless … He looks at his worksheet, doodled with music notes. He flips it over and flattens his blood-crusted hand over it.
‘Did you punch someone on the way over?’ August says.
If only.
‘I’m not a music boy,’ he says stiffly.
From the sounds the rest of the class is emitting, everyone else considers this a get-to-know-you party. Only half the kids have their phones out already.
‘We could contrast our music tastes – that can be moral too.’ August sprouts a green Sharpie. ‘You know, how people think heavy metal is evil? Well, my dad does.’ She gives a little snort. ‘He was in a rock band when he was my age and now he does yoga to Brahms. What do you listen to?’
‘Nothing.’ He’d rather strangle himself with a piano string than tell her he’s into classical. What kind of fifteen-year-old boy admits to being obsessed – by force or choice, it doesn’t matter when it’s his whole life – with classical music?
The bell roars and the class folds up in one motion, everyone grabbing bags and yelling out times to meet up on the weekend.
‘Great,’ August says. ‘I practically know everything about you.’
Looking at her round face and sparkling eyes, Beck wouldn’t have picked her for the caustic type. But he’s hardly a judge of character.
‘I’m sorry.’ His voice comes out way too high, strangled. ‘I can’t – meet up, I mean. It’s not going to work—’
‘It’s not optional.’ August leans forward, bared Sharpie all too threatening. ‘We have two weeks and I’m not failing an assignment because you’re lazy.’
Lazy.
It must be true if the entire world agrees on it.
Beck tries to keep his face neutral. ‘I have to walk my sister home. Then I –’ play the piano until my fingers bleed.
August’s eyes light up. ‘I’ll walk with you. I’m on Gully Avenue. Number eleven.’
And she lives so close. Seriously? Could the universe not cut him a break? He doesn’t ask much.