Part One
Southern California
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Feast of Saint Agatha
The Virgin Mary is giving me the stink eye again. I can feel her watching me as I cross through the courtyard to AP European History. Her open stone hands struggle to make a wagging finger. She wants to chisel a message into me, I know: Don’t think about her! Don’t you dare! Fight your thoughts! Fight your body! Think of me at your age! Think of how brave and willing I was! Think of the heaviness I bore under my skin! You’re not being asked to carry something as huge as the destiny of the Christ child, are you? No! Think of your family duty, like I thought of mine!
I think of you, Mary. I think of my family.
But I also think of Ms. Holden.
I never knew what the word “crush” actually meant—thought it was a stupid, unrealistic word, actually, until January this year, on her first day of school as our long-term substitute, and she wrote her name on the classroom whiteboard for the first time.
When I saw Ms. Holden’s hands, the hands mysteriously scarred, the hint of a long, black tree tattoo peeking out toward her wrists, her limbs so imperfectly beautiful and strong, I was sure she could heal broken bones, hold any falling building upright, squeeze all the wrongness out of my life. The feeling suddenly stomped all over my chest, and then I understood. Crush.
Now, a month later, I try to look at just the floor, because I really can’t handle looking at her.
In my peripheral vision, I sense Ms. Holden nod at me as I take my seat, surrounded by other girls dressed in green plaid skirts and white blouses. I begin my private daily project: trying to be in the world with everyone else, concerned with the numbers and letters spelling out my future, not just obsessing over my crush.
When Melissa and Rika get their quizzes back and wilt, I prepare for my own wilting. They’re headed for famous, one-name schools gathered under the league of a regal-sounding plant, while I have no idea where I’m headed. I’ve never been remarkable; I can’t even keep my homework organized, and there’s nothing special about my story that would make an admissions counselor sit up straight and say, “Aha! I choose her!”
Not like Ms. Holden, former Saint Agatha valedictorian. Ms. Holden, semiprofessional surfer, fluent in German, just for fun. Ms. Holden, who finished her undergraduate courses a year early, finished her PhD coursework at age twenty-two, earned every fellowship under the sun, and now writes her dissertation in between teaching a class for her high school alma mater and surfing every day.
Not that I’m keeping track.
She drops my quiz onto my desk.
“You’ve got a good memory, Tagubio,” she says. “Wish I could borrow it.”
I stare at the paper.
There is a happy face. There is a 100 percent. A percentage I’ve never seen during my three years in high school.
The score sweeps away my caution. I look up.
She’s got black-rimmed glasses and sun-and-saltwater-mussed blond hair trimmed short, and messy, rough bangs swept to the left side of her forehead. Her dark eyes dance at me. She’s a head taller than me, and as she smiles, I instantly memorize all the random tiny gaps in her teeth.
The want springs up before I can tamp it down. I want to put my mouth on the small mole just below her bottom lip.
I’ve never wanted to put my mouth on another person before.
I don’t know where all this want came from.
“I was going to grade the quiz on a curve, since a lot of you seemed to have trouble with it,” Ms. Holden says to the class, blessedly turning away from me. “But one of you messed it up by getting all the questions right.”
The other girls frown at Melissa and Rika, who frown back at them with equally baffled, blemish-free faces. Ms. Holden winks at me over the quiet commotion. I stare down at my desk again, trying to hide whatever’s happening behind my face, and Ms. Holden begins the rest of her lesson.
“So! Osnabrück. What is it?”
The class quiets. Now everyone seems shy and sleepy. Someone coughs. I stare at the sheen of my fake-laminate desk.
“Is Osnabrück the name of my cat?” Ms. Holden asks, leaning one arm against her podium. “Is it a bodily function?”
There are some laughs. I smile, hoping my smile seems as shy and neutral as the class laughing.
“Hmm. This is fun. Okay. If someone can come up and write a short summary of what occurred at Osnabrück in 1648—there, I gave it away, it’s a place—I will raise that person’s entire grade by five percent.”
The class buzzes. I think of the minimum required grade point average for entering a University of California campus.
“But if no one knows the answer, I’ll have to pop you another quiz,” Ms. Holden says.
Melissa and Rika jab their hands into the air.
Melissa says, “Ms. Holden, we don’t think this is very fair, since almost the whole class was at my house studying for the SAT. We’re sorry we didn’t get to the reading.”
I feel anger grip my insides. Then it falls away. I’m unsurprised no one invited me.
“Huh,” Ms. Holden says. “What kinda snacks do your parents provide for your study sessions, Grayson?”
Melissa pauses, confused. “Um, my mom isn’t in charge of cooking, Maria is. She gave us turkey lettuce wraps. Why?”
Melissa doesn’t specify who Maria is. She expects everyone to know Maria is her maid. My middle name is Maria. I hold back a tired sigh.
“Maybe if you bring me some of Maria’s turkey lettuce wraps, you can bribe me into not giving you a pop quiz,” Ms. Holden says. “Anyone else?”
I stifle a laugh. Melissa’s eyes flare toward me, then she looks around for everyone to agree how messed up this is. The other girls nod and glance at each other.
Ms. Holden looks toward me again. I think, Mary! Mom! Dad! Sin! Quiz! I feel my eyes moving fast, flashing these random words to warn me away from wrongdoing, and I force my gaze down again.
“C’mere, Tagubio,” Ms. Holden says.
Oh god.
I rise. Then I trip a little on my backpack strap. Some girls snicker. A smile dances across Ms. Holden’s mouth. I want to see her teeth. What is wrong with me?!
I take the whiteboard marker. I think of my parents; my mom in front of a computer terminal, my dad in someone’s yard. I could bring them the quiz, and the victory of a higher grade, all at once. I could hide, with my grades, the bigger truth: how I’m failing them in this moment, with the crush I can’t control.
“Um,” I say.
“Ja?” Ms. Holden says, and more girls laugh.
I remember a heading on one of our readings. “Peace of Westphalia and the Making of a New Europe.” I write the first three words.
“Which was about?” Ms. Holden says.
“Independence,” I say, since most of history seems to be about that anyway.
“You’re feeding her answers!” Melissa cries.
“You’re full of turkey,” Ms. Holden replies without looking at Melissa, and the class laughs, shocked.
I look at Ms. Holden’s mischievous eyes, her serious mouth. I want her to keep looking at me. I don’t even care anymore that the rest of the class is looking at me too.