“Welcome to statistics, brought to you by the Allensville School District’s latest technology grant. I’m Dr. Vanetta, but you can call me Dr. V for short. If you could all be cool and do me the solid of staying in your seats, I won’t have to butcher your names ever again, unless I want to.”
Most of the class chuckles at his introduction, and maybe later, when I’m not pissed off at getting stuck next to daddy’s girl, I’ll laugh about it, too. Right now, I’m focused on making myself as closed off as possible, to the point that the guy to my left is sliding his seat from me inches at a time as I encroach on his space.
“This is my first year here, and last semester was my first as a high school teacher. I’m used to college kids, so my expectations are kinda high. Prepare yourselves to work,” he says, switching the screen over to the syllabus. I note the label at the top—PAGE 1 of 12. Jeeeezusss!
I take my phone out and click to the class listing on my school app, pulling up the documents Dr. V is flying through on the screen. The guy is pretty funny, but he wasn’t kidding about expectations. He’s quickly losing his bid to become my favorite teacher. To my right, Hollis is feverishly scribbling, and I could probably clue her in on how to use the app, but she said it herself—I’m an ass.
It takes almost the entire class period for Dr. V to get through his expectations for this semester. I decided somewhere around the fourth assignment that I would be fine taking a C in this class. It won’t affect where I go; I’ll be signed long before that final grade locks in.
While Hollis squeezes her hand and flexes her fingers from writing cramps, I lean back and zone out, mentally preparing for the next month of conditioning before tryouts. It’s almost impossible to ignore my biggest hurdle, though, especially since she’s constantly moving right next to me. I don’t know whether she’s jacked up on caffeine or ADHD or nervous or WTF! Her knee has not stopped bopping since she started taking notes, almost as if her hand’s in a race with her leg to burn calories. If this is what she’s like on the field, I’m screwed. I’m used to a focused catcher. At my old school, I threw to a guy who was almost three hundred pounds. He wasn’t great at running down balls but he somehow blocked everything, and he could lock me in when I was getting wild. Zack’s got that gift, with the scrappiness to make fucking amazing plays behind the plate. I don’t know why he’s so freaked out about losing the starting position to Hollis. He’s made the all-region team the last two years and he’s proven himself. He’ll do it again.
“Pshh.” My scoff slips out as I laugh silently to myself and lean forward on my elbows. Hollis’s knee stops gyrating, so I quirk a brow and give her a glance.
“What’s funny?” she whispers.
My mouth begins its slow curve because suddenly, so many things amuse me. My tongue pokes out over my bottom lip and I lock it down with my teeth, nodding.
“Just ready for today.” My grin is lopsided and arrogant, and Hollis’s brow dips as she studies me, as if looking for the loophole.
“Better be,” she says, her knee returning to its constant tapping out of Morse code.
We must have made enough noise to catch Dr. V’s attention because he abruptly stops talking. His posture is pretty ready for conflict with his hands clasped in front of his body and his shoulders rolled back, chest puffed and chin high. He’s looking at us through his lenses now—they’ve moved from the tip of his nose to the bridge.
“Mister . . .” He muses for a moment, leaning to the right to check my name on the tablet that shows the seating chart. “Jennings. Right. I made a note by your name. Athlete, I see. You’ll be needing to stay eligible for the season. Let me guess, do you two play doubles tennis?”
He waggles his finger between Hollis and me. I shift in my desk, feeling the rush of blood travel down my neck and spine. I don’t like being made an example of, and Mr. V is officially out of the running for favorite teacher.
“We play baseball, sir.” Hollis speaks up. I wince because of the way she says it, so sure of herself. Her knee has stopped moving again, and her hands are clasped on top of her notebook, mimicking Mr. V’s in a way. A confident smile plays at her lips, and while she seems to grow taller in her seat, I find I’m shrinking in mine.
“Oh, that’s . . . progressive. I didn’t know we had a girl on the team,” he says, engaging and leaning one elbow on his podium.
“We don’t, yet,” I blurt out. It’s my temper—a knee-jerk reaction when I’m embarrassed.
“We will,” Hollis pipes in, turning to face me with the smug mask tightly pressed to her face. She blinks slowly and I shift again in my seat as I make eye contact with her. I hate that I don’t fit in these things, my legs too long to completely bend my knees under the tabletop, and my body too tall to rest my arms comfortably on the desk. I look like a monster breaking out of a cage. I’m not sure how Hollis fits so easily. Girls are just flexible I guess.
“Interesting,” Mr. V says, actually running his palm over his beard while evil ideas appear to swirl in his head. “You two are perfect for my first statistics question. Let’s give it a try, shall we?”
His question lingers in our silent classroom while nobody steps in. I finally shake my head and say, “Sure.”
“Great. Here’s the data set.”
He quickly pushes the screen to the side, exposing a whiteboard underneath. He takes a red marker to the board to write with the same fervor Hollis just did, explaining the details as he writes. Hollis doesn’t seem to be taking notes, and I wonder if the attention is chipping away at her brave face.
“First, we have you, Mr. Jennings,” he says, drawing the male symbol on the board. “And over here, we have Miss—”
“Just call me Hollis,” she interjects.
Her boldness earns a smile that barely breaks through the beard.
“Hollis it is,” he says, drawing the female symbol on the other side. He next writes the number fifty on the board between our names, tapping his marker against the number a few times to punctuate it before turning to face us.
“There is one spot open on the baseball team, and both Hollis and Mr. Jennings are trying to take it.”
He takes out a coin.
“Let’s assign heads to you Hollis, and Mr. Jennings, you’re tails.” He dips his head, peering over his glasses, waiting for us to agree. We both nod. I have no idea where this is going.
Flipping the coin in the air, he waits with an open mouth, eyes eager to see how it lands in his hand before flipping it against his forearm.
“One of you will make the team, and one of you will not. Based on this coin, would you say there is a fifty-percent chance it will be you?”
I shrug and nod as Hollis does the same. Mr. V peels back his fingers to expose the coin, walking through the desks to stand between us so we can verify the coin. It’s tails. I smile as if I actually did something to earn the win.
“Congratulations, you’ve made the team. Hollis, I am sorry,” he says, leaning to her side. Taking this entire scene in stride, Hollis snaps her fingers in front of her, a gesture that says, “Darn.” One side of his mouth lifts with his short laugh.