Today, AP Lit is like forty-five minutes of watching Llama Llama reruns.
I’m daydreaming. Specifically, my mind’s replaying Ian’s face on a constant loop, in perfect high-def quality. The clarity is incredible. I picture his pale-gold skin. His scrunched nose and owlish eyes when I barely took a breath while rambling at him. His thick lower lip, the little tweak of his mouth after he whispered to me.
The images fade to fuzziness after a while, like sitting in the first row at a movie theater. One neon thought lights up my mind: Ian’s hot. Every shifting cell in my body is aware of it. Blood rushes to my face—and somewhere beneath my navel too. Then the train derails. No relationships. No boyfriends.
I focus on the front of the classroom. Ms. Amos is pacing. Besides Mr. Riley, she’s my favorite. She wears colorful print blouses with slacks and always has a twitch at the corner of her mouth, as if she’s trying not to smirk at something moronic a student said.
Bonus point: Ms. Amos used to be a lecturer at Emory. On the wall by her desk is a series of framed essays she’s written, photographs of her with famous authors, articles in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
“Let’s talk about our new book.” In her hand, Ms. Amos holds a book with a red cover and weird stick figures. “It’s by Tennessee Williams.”
Ford, a senior football player, clears his throat.
“Wasn’t he gay?”
I swear, Ford is homegrown, southern realness. He’s freckled-face with buzzed blonde hair and electric blue eyes. He has a hard-on for plaid shirts and boots. A future Chick-Fil-A Employee of the Month.
“He was remarkably talented. A legendary playwright. A dedicated brother who loved fiercely.” Ms. Amos’s mouth begins to curl, and she has a glint in her eyes. “And if you’d like to discuss his sex life, then, yes, Mr. Turner, he was gay. I’m sure you can find further reading about that on Wikipedia, if you’re interested.”
A fuzzy melody of coos and snickers echoes in the room.
Ford’s chapped lips curl into a venomous sneer. Lucy would say Ford’s the paragon of assholes. You don’t gain extra points on the SAT for that, but I’d award ten points to the House of Reyes.
“We have a lot to learn from writers of any gender, race, sexuality, individuality,” Ms. Amos continues. “One of my favorites is Benjamin Alire Sáenz. A wonderful example of a diverse writer and poet creating classics.”
Our AP Lit classroom faces the main lawn, and the view is unobstructed by trees and foliage. Bright, October sunlight washes across the pride etched into Ms. Amos’s face. I love this part—when she dives headfirst into topics that excite her.
“Gay too, right?” Ford’s chuckle is like a cat choking on kibble.
Ms. Amos narrows her eyes; her mouth is pinched as she waves him off.
Ford and I both sit at the front of the class. Three desks separate us. He leans past Sara to leer at me. “Perfect authors for GSA, right, Remy?”
Another harmonic strum of laughter fills the classroom. None of this is new. Ford’s been a dick since middle school and probably before then. Destiny determined Ford’s douchebag legacy a long, long time ago. His popularity only stretches to the small universe of football jocks without a real brain. No one on the baseball or basketball or swim team respects the guy. I think Chloe only tolerates him because of some loyalty to the pigskin gods.
Ms. Amos drops the book on Ford’s desk. “And what could we learn from you, Mr. Turner?”
“How to pick up girls?”
Sara hisses something. In my blurred peripheral vision, Chloe’s raising her notebook as if she might assault him—death by a Five-Star.
“You think so?” Ms. Amos challenges.
“Haven’t had many complaints before.”
Their exchanges turn into white noise in my ears. I’ve heard this before. Ms. Amos says all the proper, teacherly things. Ford retorts with all the typical dude-bro-sarcasm. It goes nowhere.
Unfortunately, my mind does. Ian, Ian, Ian…
“Hey,” Chloe whispers, and I do my worst attempt at not startling. She says, “You’re daydreaming. Where is your mind hiding?”
“Nowhere. Its favorite place.”
She ruffles my hair. “I doubt that, Remy. Someone like you is always somewhere. Always.”
The bell rings. Sara’s out of her chair first and turns to Chloe. “Let’s go. We can catch Lucy if we hurry.”
Groaning, Chloe grabs her notebook and stands.
Ford hovers over my desk like a thundercloud waiting to unleash a hailstorm. “It was a joke, Remy.” Funny, nothing in his artificial smile says that was humorous.
Chloe punches his shoulder. “You’re gonna be the joke by the end of practice today.”
“Wait, come on—”
“You’re screwed, Turner.”
Like a whipped puppy, Ford follows Chloe and Sara out the door, begging for mercy.
All the rush of escaping class has dissipated. I gather my things slowly—pens, a highlighter, notebook. At the front of the room, Ms. Amos stares at me. She doesn’t say anything.
I pause. “Sorry if I wasn’t like…” I wave a hand around; my mind can’t produce real words. “…here today.”
A hint of forgiveness flashes in her eyes. That doesn’t calm the wave of nausea in my belly. I disappointed Ms. Amos by not being as vocally active in class today. I hate disappointing people I admire. I hate that I might’ve let her down.
“Have a great day, Mr. Cameron.”
“Thanks.”
Once I’m outside, I exhale so heavily, my lungs hurt.
Lucy’s right—Monday’s suck so hard.
* * *
Willow scrambles past me the second I swing open the front door. Her sneakers squeak on the hardwood floor. For the entire drive home, I’ve been trying to figure out her wardrobe choices. I’m on the fence. To match her Princess Leia puffs, she’s wearing a ZAP! comic book-style shirt, a ballerina tutu, and orange and black socks to go with her purple high-tops.
“Mom let you go to school like that?”
She drops her backpack in the hallway. After a quick twirl, she throws a hand over her giggling mouth. Her two bottom front teeth fell out two weeks ago. “Yes!”
“Okaaay,” I sing as she rushes off. Willow is a hell of a lot more confident at seven than I am at seventeen.
I barely have my backpack off before Clover’s charging up to me. I drop to my knees. Clover climbs into my lap for face-licks and sniffing.