Ian’s eyes lower. “Thanks.”
“Oh, shit,” says Lucy, hand flying to her mouth. “Victor Nikiforov from Yuri!!! On Ice. Sick.”
“Language, Ms. Reyes,” Mr. Riley says, loftily, as he passes. He’s usually cool about students swearing, but also spectacularly good at putting on a show when authorities like Principal Moon are around.
She’s in a corner of the cafeteria, watching over us like a high-fashion jail warden.
Cheeks pinking, Lucy turns back to Ian. “Dude, you’re into Y-O-I?”
“Who isn’t into YOI?”
Hello, me! YOI? I don’t know if they’re still talking about anime or a communicable disease.
“Jesus Christ, no. No, no, no,” protests Brook. He jerks a thumb in Lucy’s direction, then says, “You better not be writing fanfiction like this one. It’s not cool.”
“You wouldn’t know cool if it slapped you,” Lucy argues.
“It’s not you.”
“Shut up.” Lucy’s hardcore smiling. That girl is so far gone for Brook, it’s wild.
Ian and Lucy start talking about anime and characters and fanfics like two long-lost friends. Lucy Reyes, president of the Anime Club, all-around legend when it comes to being smooth and confident around others. These are two things on the Things Remy Is Not list.
I glare at my fajita. My stomach shrinks. Death by Inedible Lunch Scum is a gnarly way to end this midday misery.
6
Ms. Amos is leaning against her desk. Her mouth is twisted into a dramatic smile, one far too smug for any high school teacher. It’s unfair. With the swipe of her red pen, she can change our academic futures—seriously, it’s probably one of those inexpensive ones from Target. She shouldn’t be given the right to torture us with silence and deep stares and awkwardness at the beginning of class.
“I’ve made a decision,” she finally says.
Someone mumbles, “Retirement,” coughing into his hand.
No one laughs.
Andrew Cowen is a senior, Brook’s teammate, and hosts the ghost of a failed sitcom-dad in his scrawny, six-foot body. He and Ford share a special throne in Douchebag Hell.
“I guess you’ll find out next year when you repeat my class, Mr. Cowen?” retorts Ms. Amos. Andrew slumping in his chair only broadens Ms. Amos’s grin. “Thanks to Mr. Turner’s colorful excitement over tapping into the works of Tennessee Williams, I’ve decided to move up an assignment I was saving for after the Thanksgiving break.”
A symphony of sighs and groans unites everyone, including me.
Screw you, Ford Turner.
“Please.” Ms. Amos cocks a hip and winks. “Contain your glee.”
I thump my forehead against my notebook. Jesus. The last thing I need is more work in a class I’m barely passing.
“You’ll be composing an essay. A very personal essay.” Ms. Amos crosses to the other side of the room. “The subject is simple: ‘Who am I?’ Write a thought-provoking—and, yes, I realize that’ll be terribly hard for you, Mr. Turner—essay about who you are. What defines you?”
Ford sniffs, chin cocked.
Ms. Amos walks back to her desk. “Are you defined by your race? Religion? By your music tastes?”
A student with a choppy haircut and a questionable face-piercing throws up devil horns and starts headbanging. Behind me, Chloe snorts.
“Are you defined by your privilege?” Ms. Amos stops in front of Ford’s desk.
“Since I’m privileged enough to take your class, I guess not,” replies Ford.
Ms. Amos ignores him and steps over to Chloe’s desk. “Are you defined by your strength?” Then, to Sara, “Are you defined by your family’s history? Your clothes?”
A painful lurch, like the aftershock of an earthquake, moves through my chest when Ms. Amos stops at my desk. “By your name?” To the room, she asks, “By your sexuality?”
From the back of the class, a jock says, “Well, Remy might be.”
How very unoriginal. It’s as if I can see these things coming, these ridiculous, homophobic jokes that I know will always follow me. But I can’t ever predict how my body will react. Will I tighten up in anger? Will I freeze up in fear? Will I blush with embarrassment?
Ms. Amos, unentertained, folds her arms across her chest. “Are you defined by how many days you’ll spend reviewing your life choices after being expelled for bullying? You remember our zero tolerance policy, correct, Terrance?”
Silence blankets the room. If only it was quieter behind my ribs.
“Take this assignment seriously. It’s worth thirty percent of your grade,” Ms. Amos announces.
“That’s basically pass or fail,” Ford says, choking, as his freckled face goes blotchy red.
Ms. Amos nods; the corners of her mouth curl more deeply. “All essays must be typed, double-spaced, and submitted to me the week before Thanksgiving break.” She’s back at her desk, leaning. She’s short, five-foot-nothing; her feet swing, and the toes of her shoes skim the floor. “Also, there’ll be oral presentations of your essays.”
In my peripheral vision, I spot Ford discreetly poking his tongue into his cheek. Of course. He’s imitating a blowjob. Talent like that will look good on his college applications.
Behind him, Hiro Itō hisses, “Knock it off.”
Ford sniffs.
Hiro gives me a small shrug. He’s a senior and super popular in the gamer crowd. I suck at video games; I’ve got no true hand-eye coordination skills. But Hiro and I have a silent respect for each other. We share a singular passion: disdain for bottom-feeders like Ford.
“You can use any art medium you want for presentations: music, photographs, visual media, PowerPoint, whatever.” Ms. Amos’s relaxed shoulders expand. Pointedly, she says, “Help us understand who you are.”
The class is filled with mumbling. A few students are furiously taking notes. Sara’s rubbing her temples. Yeah, my brain is ready to skydive right out of my skull.
When Ms. Amos returns to rambling about Tennessee Williams, I slump so far down in my chair, I nearly split my chin on the desk. This. Is. Perfect. An entire essay on who I am. Essays aren’t among my favorite things. I was banking on studying extremely hard for the final exam to pass.
I need this class to boost my application for Emory. Average student and GSA President aren’t enough. AP Literature is my golden ticket. Ms. Amos’s affiliation to Emory is the key that unlocks the gates. But an essay that determines my final grade?