A High School Story

7:13

         “We should probably head in.”

Scott turned at the sound of my voice. He exhaled in one long puff, the smoke curling out of nostrils in thin grey lines. “Yeah, yeah, just give me a sec.” I watched him for another moment, watched as he tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, and then we were out, leaving his Camry safe and cold in the parking lot. I turned to him as we made our way to the school. “Atleast it’s Friday.”
         It made little difference. There was no longer solace in that fact. It was Friday, so what? There was still another 7 grueling hours of bullshit till dismissal–still 5 more mind-numbing classes till the weekend. “I fucking hate this place,” he muttered. I merely nodded. Scott and I were not alone. Everybody hated school, loathed it.
         We pushed through the main doors, past the silent groups of Goths and potheads, past the clumps of prima-donnas gossiping about the latest parties. My locker was on the third floor. Scott’s was on the second. His had always been right near mine until this year, senior year. Maybe the honchos in administration had decided to “mix it up a bit”. There were so many students now, it wouldn’t have been surprising. 2250. Two thousand two hundred and fifty class-A eager minds. All just waiting to soak up every bit of educational information thrown their way. What a crock.
         As I got to my locker, I tossed my backpack to the ground. It was heavy. Heavy as a concrete block. There were over 4 textbooks in there, all ranging from Calc 3 to AP Physics, all kinds of fun. I hadn’t wanted to take so many damn hard classes. It wasn’t my fault. It was my teachers’. They had recommended me, ordered me almost, to “challenge myself mentally”. Was I to deny my teachers’ hopes and aspirations? Was I to say, “No, I don’t feel like it. I’d rather sleep and do nothing.”?
         I guess I could’ve. But that would’ve been like taking a fucking stake to their hearts. Besides, I had a gift. Well, that’s what they told me. All right, so I was a math wiz, whatever… but throw me in an advanced English class and tell me to interpret Chaucer…hell, I’d have rather licked shit from a horse’s ass then do that.
         “Hey Josh.” A soft voice caught my ears and I turned, squinting with morning eyes to see who had spoken. It was Jessica. Jessica Milloni. I replied with a raspy “Hi,” trying my best to act casual. I always got nervous around Jess, always had. She just had that effect on people, I guess. And it wasn’t like she was some upper-class, impossible-to-talk-to cheerleader. No, she was nothing like that. She was a soccer player, an academic superstar, and the hottest, nicest girl I had ever met. She had this auburn hair, shoulder length, and these really bright green eyes. Supposedly she was dating some guy, some football quarterback or something, but I knew it wasn’t going to last. She couldn’t be with somebody like that, not for long. She was too cool, too sophisticated. Jocks…hell, their minds were one-way tracks. All they knew were how to flex, how to run, and how to catch a fucking leather ball. Jess probably liked the guy, I mean, I guess she thought he was attractive, but emotionally….on a mental level, that guy was probably sprinting just to keep up.
         Jessica gave me a smile and continued walking. I saw her slip into a crowd of people, standing down the hall around the lockers, and immediately they turned to greet her, their spirits literally livened by her presence. She was popular, real popular, and when it came to social groups, I swore she could be on good terms with anybody. People just liked her. Stoners, nerds, jocks, preps, Goths–all of them.
         My friend, Jack, a short fidgety kid, came to my side. He raised an eyebrow as he followed my gaze to Jess, and gave me a sharp punch to the shoulder. “Infatuated there, buddy?”
         I frowned. “What? No, I was just….”
He studied me for a moment and nodded. I stuffed my backpack and things into my locker, pulling free 2 massive textbooks upon which I had scribbled the words Math and Physics. Jack examined the books. “You do that homework for Physics?”
         I hesitated. “We had homework?”
Jack laughed. He was a student, a real top-notch on-the-ball kind of kid. If there was a project due in two weeks, he was already done. If there was a test to come, he was already hitting the study material. He was basically my alter self–a mirror image of what I would be if I actually applied myself.
         “Yeah, pgs. 12-15–all those problems…?” He waited for me react, but all I could offer was a blank stare.
         “I guess it slipped my mind,” I mumbled, remembering that this was my fourth consecutive missed homework.
         Jack could only shake his head. “You know,” he said, turning more serious, “You could easily get all straight As if you tried.”
         I brushed it off. People always told me that. That I could be a straight-A Principal’s List student. Sure, I could, but what was the point. Was I suppose to devote all my free time to homework? I mean, geez, what more did people want? At least I was taking hard classes in the first place…
         I gave him a shrug. “About that homework…”
He eyed me cautiously. “What about it?”
         I checked the clock. It was 7:28. Homeroom didn’t start for another 12 minutes.
“Wanna…let me take a gander at your–“You don’t have enough time,” he added quickly.
         I smiled as he pushed his glasses back atop his nose. “Or…maybe… you just don’t want to give me your homework…?”
         He seemed struck by this, and swayed nervously. “No, no, seriously, it was pretty involved. The angular velocity problems really took me a while.”
         I frowned, folding my binder under my arm. “Whatever, it’s ok. I think I still have like a 100% in test grades…”
         He jumped up at this. “A 100%!? I barely have a B-average in tests!”
“Well, like 98%,” I corrected, nearly laughing out loud at his sudden outburst.
         “Josh, you’re crazy! Do your homework, and you’d have the highest grade in the class!”
         “I guess,” I admitted, “but he gives us so much. It would take forever…”
Jack shook his head, obviously irritated. It appeared I had rattled his bones a little bit. He was like that, though. A perfectionist. If he knew somebody was bettering him, he would get all flustered, wondering how it was possible.
         I turned as Scott came my way, coughing up a storm. He had only recently started smoking heavily, and it had taken its toll. Once the school’s fastest 1600m and 3200m track runner, he had carelessly allowed himself to regress into what he deemed “the winter blubber stage.” He wasn’t fat, far from it indeed, but as far as his lungs were concerned, he could barely run half a mile without choking on his own phlegm. Being his closest friend, I had urged him countless times to try the patch and things like that, but he was too stubborn, insisting on just pulling the ol’ cold turkey. Unfortunately it seemed the physical addiction was getting the better of him.
         His sophomore year had been the year for track. Second at states with a 4:17 1600, 3rd at states with a 9:26 3200m, and a surprising 3rd as well in the 800m, with a 1:58. I didn’t know much about track, but I knew enough to know that his times that year had been incredible, especially considering they had all been run in the course of one day at the same meet. He had really been the amazing talent, still was, but his days of reign had come to an end, and his respective times had slowed considerably since his 10th grade campaign.
         He gave a playful pound to Jack as he came to a stop beside my locker, and motioned to me. “Heard something that might get your blood pumping.”
         I lurched forward. Scott was a jokester; I was expecting nothing less. “Really…what’s that?”
         He looked from left to right, as if making some kind of drug exchange, and leaned in. “You know that girl Jessica?”
         I could now feel my heart beating. I tried to play it off. “Oh…yeah, the real pretty one?”
         He nodded. “Yeah. Well, as it turns out, she’s been dating that quarterback, Steven Jones, and from what I’ve heard, their relationship is on the rocks.”
         I nodded nonchalantly. I hadn’t told any of my friends how I felt about Jessica–there was no need to. I’m sure they all felt the same way too. A girl like that…she was bound to be the biggest wet dream of any single guy in school.
         Jack gave a wondrous smile. “Jessica….”
Scott laughed, pushing him backwards. “Don’t blow your wad just yet, Hercules.” He looked at me.
         “Supposedly he hooked up with like 3 girls at this party. The guy thinks he can do whatever he wants because he plays on the fucking football team. What a douche.”
         I agreed. “I would be mad too if I found that out. Jesus…”
Scott shook his head. “No, no, that’s just it. She HASN’T found out about it. They were already having trouble before that, but now that this has happened, the relationship is basically doomed.”
         Jack rubbed his chin. “That’s a horrible thing to do.”
I looked away. Something inside me was boiling, like a great vat. I wanted to find that schmuck jock and pound him into the ground. I wanted to throw his fat face against the gym floor and watch his buddies and friends stare in shock. I wanted to stand over him, laughing as I beat the living snot from his broken nose. How could he do that? And to Jessica…that worthless pile of shit…
         Scott must’ve noticed the rush of red to my face, because he was staring at me, his eyes a very grim understanding.
         He cleared his throat. “And that’s not the worst of it. Supposedly these three girls who he hooked up with…supposedly they’re some of Jessica’s closest friends.”

         The bell had rung.

I turned sharply, wrenched from my thoughts. Scott followed my eyes. “I’ll see you at lunch.” I nodded. Jack gave a meek thumbs up. We headed to first period.
         First class was Physics and as I expected, I was the lone outlier–everybody had done their homework but me. When the teacher, Mr. Gratz, a middle-aged cynical man with thinning jet black hair, came to my desk, the class went silent. He stood silently at first and then fumbled with his clipboard, quickly sifting through a wad of clinging papers. “Mr. Cantwell,” he said, his voice sarcastically bitter, “did we complete last night’s homework assignment?”
         I looked around, all eyes on me, and dropped my shoulders. “I forgot…”
He nodded, almost expectantly, and peered over his clipboard to my head. “That’s the fourth incomplete homework assignment this week, Mr. Cantwell. See me after class.”
         I watched as he walked away, back to the board, resuming his explanatory position beside the large chalk-written equation. Jack looked on intuitively. My classmates focused their attention ahead. I began to nod off.
         I was awoken some time later by a deep, pig-like chortle from my left. I turned just in time to see Tim “Twinkie-man” Lepins heaving in laughter. Looking up, I realized that the class had once again turned silent, and once more, all eyes were turned on me. Mr. Gratz was standing five inches from my desk, and looked from Timmy to me, and then back to Timmy. Timmy was a fatty. He was a brown-noser in addition, but first and foremost, he was a fatty. A real lard-pie, the kind of kid that shook with bubbly layers of fat every time he heaved his big-boned frame into a classroom. He was born in the shape of a sphere. I figured his parents hadn’t planned it that way, but, hey, some people are just hefty. Sadly, Timmy was a real hefter. A genuine blubber beast. And, not to mention, he reeked of cat piss. Needless to say, he and I were not on the best of terms.
         Mr. Gratz held his hand out. “That’s enough Tim.” The chortling came to an end. I could see Jack out of the corner of my eye, shaking his head with a smile. Mr. Gratz turned back to me.
         “Have a nice sleep, Mr. Cantwell?”
I frowned. What was the point of lying? May as well tell him the truth.
         “It was ok… I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t be awakened.”
The class laughed. Timmy’s swine-like chuckle resurfaced. Jack looked pleasantly pleased. I yawned.
         Mr. Gratz showed nothing. He was neither smiling nor frowning. It was awkward.
         And then the bell rung, and my classmates rose lazily to their feet, actually disappointed to be leaving so soon.
         As they packed their things and filtered out, Mr. Gratz motioned with his ring finger for me to come to his desk. He extended his arm, offering me what appeared to be a plush swivel seat, and I accepted, plopping down, nearly missing the mark.
         He reclined in his chair, behind his desk, and folded his hands together. I could see his eyes searching my face for something, something revealing, but I did my best to stay impassive.
          “So….” His voice trailed off.
I waited.
         “Josh, I think we both know why you’re here…”
I hesitated. He had never called me Josh. It was abnormal, almost too informal. I felt my palms turning moist. Greeaaat…
         I said nothing; he was going to have to take the reins.
“Josh…Josh…Josh…” he mumbled, his voice sounding eerily similar to my mother’s.
         Once again he pulled out a paper, scrutinizing it with his beady eyes.
“Do you know what your grade is in this class?” It was a simple question. No open-ended responses needed. I gave it a shot.
         “No.”
He nodded. “73.6% as of today. Are you satisfied with that grade, Josh?”
         I shrugged. “It’s a tough class. I’m happy with it.”
He disregarded my answer. “I’m not.”
         I felt my shoulders turn tight. His voice had taken on a daunting tone, and he was staring at me, his eyes boring into my skull like a drill.
         “You could do better. A lot better.” He watched me for any sign of emotion. I could feel my face turning slightly red.
         I stumbled for a retort. “Well, I mean, I could maybe do a little better…”
He ran his hands through his hair and then began fidgeting with his tie. I could see the vein in his neck bulging. Eyes still glued to the fold of his shirt, he murmured something, soft and internal.
         I pretended not to hear, but then he raised his voice and repeated it. This time, I heard it loud and clear.
         “That’s bullshit.”
I tried to talk, tried to counter, but he was quick to the gun, and he had me. Fair and square.
         “You’re a waste,” he hissed. “You’re a pathetic waste of talent.” His pupils flickered, and he got up, pushing his chair out of the way.
         “You have a 98.7% in tests. There are people in this class, certain hard-working individuals, who study their asses off each and every day, only to reach a score half as good as yours…
         “And then there’s you. And what do you do, Josh? Have you ever studied for anything? No. You do nothing. You sleep through more than half my lessons. You lay on that damn desk, doing absolutely nothing.”
         His voice lowered, the blood draining from his face. He turned to face me.
“And yet…. you are by far the smartest student in this school. Things come easy to you, don’t they Josh? You don’t have to do anything. Your brain is able to pick up things in a matter of seconds that other people might take several hours to grasp…”
         Mr. Gratz afforded himself a laugh, a small despairing one, and he walked to the windowsill, his eyes gazing weakly. “You know Josh, people like you are a rarity. And it’s ironic, really, because it always seems to be the smart ones who don’t care. I know you might find all this worthless, I know you think that you can just cruise, just do enough to get by…but when you have all this ability, when you’re capable of goddamn near perfection in school, its more than worth the effort.”
         He let out a breath and scratched his forehead. “I’ve talked to your other teachers. You’re like this in every class, aren’t you? You basically sit in the back, take your naps, have your day-dreams, and do enough work so long as you’re not failing.”
         He frowned. He almost looked older now, as if years of his life had unraveled in only minutes. “I don’t understand you, Josh. I can’t. Nobody can. Only you can. But I don’t want to understand you. I just want to help you. I want you to know that it’s ok to do well. It’s OK to be smart, to show that you know. I bet if your friends were to ask you your grades you would have no trouble, would you? Because your grades are only mediocre. But if your friends were to ask you your scores on, say, the SAT or the ACT, you would most likely lie or pretend to have ‘forgotten’, because, in your mind, you’d rather be just like all the rest… You’d rather go on having everybody think of you as just a normal lazy teenager, as just your average kid…
         “But you’re not average Josh…Average kids don’t think like you, average kids don’t score 2400s, average kids can’t sleep through entire AP classes, wake up, and then display flawless understanding of material they didn’t do. You’re not average, Josh, and I think it’s about time you realize that, because the only one holding you back in life is yourself, and as long as you continue this ridiculous attitude, nothing will ever change.”
         He paused there, and his head shook. It was a meager shake, the kind of thing you’d see from a woman in a retirement home, frail and ginger. I waited for him to say something.
         “Then again maybe that’s how you like it… with nothing ever changing… Is that it, Josh? You just want to keep on living this way? Wasting loads of god-given ability?”
         His eyes swiveled to my hair, and face; he was now waiting for me.
I could feel the vat boiling within, as much as it had boiled when I had heard of the infidelity of Jessica’s boyfriend. But it was a different feeling. It was not hate or anger. It wasn’t disappointment or disgust. It was something else. Something deeper, something I hardly knew. Something I had never felt. It was pride. It was good old brazen pride, and I could feel it filling my veins and lungs, pulsing its rich chemicals through my brain like some kind of perverse laboratory experiment. I swallowed.
         “No. It’s not that.”
He narrowed his eyes. “No?”
         “No. It’s nothing like that at all…”
He was hesitant and I could already hear his next question.
         So then, what is ‘it’?
His nostrils flared. “Then what is it, Josh?”
         I pointed to the classroom. I held my arms out, extended them to my far sides, and I looked about, my eyes devouring every square inch. “It’s this. All this. This classroom. This curriculum. The way you teach. Your expectations. The way my classmates act. It’s all of that…”
         I stood up and I seized my binder, ripping loose a recently assigned homework that I had neglected to do. “This,” I stated, waving the paper about, “is the reason.”
         He was confused. I could tell. And so I explained it further.
“These homeworks, these ‘extra credit’ things… They’re a waste. They’re nothing to me. I don’t have the will to complete them. It wouldn’t be worth my time.”
         I wrinkled the paper and tossed it to the trash can. Mr. Gratz merely watched. “That was a joke. I’m supposed to ‘struggle’ with that? That’s supposed to be hard? Why should I do any of this? Do you know how boring this is? Do you have any idea how damn simple this stuff is for me? It’s not worth a second of my time.”
         I pointed back to my physics section. Mr. Gratz was biting gently at his lip. “And this…” I continued, frowning sardonically, “…this stuff, this ‘work’ as you call it. This is nothing. Momentum driven polarities? Idiotic. Absolutely idiotic. And you want me to show my work? You want me to do it? Fine, I’ll do it. Then what? Then I sit around and wait, that’s what. I sit around and wait for the rest of the class to finish, watch as they don’t even come close to the answer. Then you explain it, and the class retries, and they still do it wrong. And what do I do? I sit there. I lay my head down, and I do nothing. Why the hell should I bother doing this homework? I feel stupid doing it. It’s nothing. It’s a freaking joke.”
         Mr. Gratz seemed to weaken, and he lowered, down into his favorite chair, gazing bleakly to his desk. I almost felt sorry for him, as if somehow I had ruined his dream. I felt like it was my fault, like I had said too much. But then again, what was I supposed to do? I had given him the truth. I had told him how I really felt.
         “I’m sorry that I’ve bored you. I really am.” His eyes saddened. “I wish I could’ve done more for you this semester. A brain like yours deserves to be stimulated… A mind is a terrible thing to waste…
         He came to a rest beside his desk and turned to me. “I want to give you special lessons, one on one.”
         The room was deathly silent. The raucous of chatter and walking had faded in the hallways. Period 2 had begun, but I was still here, in this room, talking about what I had never bothered to consider. It was cold outside, a forlorn gloom. I felt trapped. I was confined to the building, but I didn’t want to be. I wanted to be out there, amid that dim air, by myself.
         Mr. Gratz raised an eyebrow. “What do you say?”
I offered him a tentative response, but I knew it wouldn’t hold.
         “I’ll think about it…”
Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to think about it. I didn’t want to see this guy everyday, just he and I. I was done with this whole high school thing. I was set for the next step, ready to move on. Senior year was coming to a close.
         He knew it too. He knew he couldn’t change me, not now, not this late. He could do nothing but nod. I gave him a last glance, and I pushed myself up, scooping my binder under my arm. He didn’t bother to watch me. He merely sat there, just as I would sit there, and he toyed with his tie; he was somehow absorbed by the damn thing, but I knew his mind sought other things as well.
         I left.
I had forgotten to get a pass, but it wasn’t important. When I walked in late to my next class, Calc 3, the teacher didn’t even notice. Or maybe she did. Who knew? She didn’t care, at least. She gave me a cursory eye, and went right back to her instructions. She knew me by now. She knew my style. Some things just weren’t worth the effort.
         I leaned into my desk, the hard, worn block of wood. It was unpleasant, but fuck it, it’s a desk. When she asked for my homework, I told her I didn’t have it. When she inquired on the status of my soon-to-be-completed project, I told her the truth: that I hadn’t started.
         As she passed out the short quiz on differentiations, I rubbed my eyes. I had forgotten my TI-83. There were no extras. I was going to have to do without one. So I did. I finished the quiz about 15 minutes in, and I rested my head back. I could see everybody around me shifting and squirming, their erases tearing holes into their papers. I cleared my throat. A few turned, viewing me with irritation, but most were too involved in their thinking to take any real notice. After about 40 some minutes, all the quizzes were collected. Everybody was talking about #9. “That one was impossible!” they whispered, their jaws slack with exhaustion. And then, naturally, as it seemed nobody had completed the incredible #9, they turned to me.
         “Josh?” They said.
I pretended not to notice.
         “Josh…!?” At this I turned.
“What?” I asked. I tried to keep my voice steady. I could see the teacher grading the quizzes, and as my voice emerged, she looked up sharply. She wasn’t angry or anything. She looked more intrigued as a matter of fact. She waited for my response. As did the rest of the class.
         “Josh, what was number 9?” This time it was a difference voice.
I turned my head to see Luke, his ears anxiously attuned.
         And so I blurted it out. There was no point in hoarding the info anymore. The quizzes were all collected. It wasn’t like they were going to be able to go back and correct them. “3/6 Pi.”
         Luke looked flabbergasted. The rest of the class exploded in equal bewilderment. The teacher, however, was smiling.
         She stepped up from the pile of papers. “Josh is right. Let’s go over it; that one was the hardest by far.”
         With that, I was out. I hit the sack like a rock. When I awoke, the class was buzzing excitedly. They had grasped the concept. They now all knew what they had done wrong.
         I checked my desk. My graded quiz was sitting there. 65%. All the questions had been answered correctly–extra credit ones too. Number 9 had been counted as extra credit. I dully noticed that the directions were to “SHOW ALL WORK”. I hadn’t shown any of my work. I hadn’t bothered. The teacher had taken notice of this. She knew I understood. She knew how easy this stuff was for me. Still, she had marked off.
         And then the bell rang.
As I was walking down the hall, on my way to the dungeon that was US History, I noticed something.
         Two people, pressed firmly against the locker, a girl and a guy, were eating each other’s faces. They were really necking it, in total disregard to the school’s PDA policy, and I thought it was kind of a cool thing to see. I mean, they were REALLY going at it.
         But then I realized who it was.
It was Jessica Milloni and that meat-headed fucker, Stephen Jones. I felt the bile rise in my throat. He had obviously “smoothed” the bumps of the relationship, and now the both of them were quite dandy. I wanted to puke. He had probably lied straight to her face. If news of the party had reached her ears, he most likely gave her the old spoonful of shit: “No, babe, I would never do that. They’re just jealous. I love you, I would never hurt you.”
         He had said whatever it took. And she had bought it. She had fallen straight into it. Now, she was spreading her legs, he was getting the finest pussy in school, and he was laughing the whole way to the bank.
         As I walked within several feet of them, Steve broke free and looked at me. He didn’t say anything, he just stared. Jessica began to say something, her face light and jovial, but I cut her words to the ground.
         “He fucked your best friends at a party.”
Jessica’s face dampened. “What?”
         Steve was walking toward me, blood rushing his neck. “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
         I didn’t care. Screw him. “I said, you fucked Jessica’s friends at a party.”
He reached out, tearing me by the shirt. Jessica was looking from him to me, her eyes flaring. “Steve, what’s he talking about?”
         “He won’t tell you,” I answered, “because he’s a lying piece of shit.”

And that was the last thing I could say.

         Because 2 seconds later I was hitting the deck, the result of Steve’s fist to my face. I felt the warmth of blood splashing my mouth and teeth. Suddenly he was on top of me. There was screaming. Jessica’s shrill voice hit the air. Feet. People running. The cry of “Fight! Fight!” Teachers scrambling for action.
         My world was spinning, and I could perceive only one image, that of a broad knuckled fist, pounding the shit from my face. I threw my own in advance.
         But I was hit again, and I spit a broken tooth into his eye. There was blood on his hands and shirt, on my face and my shirt. Another one.
         My nose cracked. A searing pain resonated across my face. I cursed and rammed my fist again into his face. This time it hit with impact. He fell off, and I rolled atop, letting loose the fury.
         Left, right, left, right. Bruises all over his fucking face. His voice yelling, bellowing curses and mumbled jargon. A hand grabbed my legs. Another seized my arm. I fought free, broke away. I kicked my legs. And then another body.
         Scott.
Scott fell on top of Steve. It was now the both of us. We were destroying him, wrecking him. Teachers from all over were trying to restrain us. They fought to keep us at bay. “Fuck you, Fuck you!” I was hit, somebody else had hit me. It was Steve’s friend. It was a melee now. Bodies tumbling all about. Shouts for administration. Teachers were strewn on the ground. I threw my fists everywhere. Everything in sight I hit.
         Then a shoe, a flying clodhopper, right to my eyes. I never felt the impact.
It went black before that.


         When I came to, I was in the nurse’s office. My vision was bleary at best and I vaguely grew aware of a throbbing sensation beneath my eyes. Within minutes, that same sensation grew to cover my face and neck, until at last, when what seemed like a good 10 minutes or so, I was confident my whole body was in a state of contusion.
         I was lying in the bed, and a fan was swooshing ahead. It made a dull sound, that lifeless monotonous buzz, like a nagging fly in some rinky-dink summer coffee shop. Pushing myself from the bed, I glanced about. There were posters of “Mr. Toxin”, the evil green glob, and then many children, small and glowing with high spirits, laughing as “Mr. Toxin” disintegrated amid a flush of syringes. It seemed like a really sinister thing, distorted and perverse in its own way. Somehow it reminded me of a drug addict, and I had to struggle hard to erase the thought.
         As I walked to the door of the room, I heard a voice, that of an older man, and then footsteps. The footsteps were growing nearer, and so I slinked back to the bed. I plopped on quickly, further bruising my butt, and watched as a graying bald man–the principal–entered the room.
         He was accompanied by Mrs. Frain, the dependable and selfless nurse, and from the looks of things she had lost her way-too-heralded upbeat disposition. Her eyes were droopy, her face set in stone, and by contrast, the principal actually looked happy.
         He wasn’t, of course. Happy, that is. He wasn’t happy. He was pissed, and while he made a conservative effort to hide it, anybody with remotely functional eyes would know.
         “Mr. Cantwell…” he began.
“That’s the one,” I added smartly, and he looked up, his eyes aflame.
         “I know.” I watched him wipe his forehead, simmering among his thoughts.
         “Let’s get to the point.” He said.
I raised myself up, making sure to fake quite a deal more pain than I was actually experiencing.
         “You were involved in a fight this morning, is that not correct?”
“There was a fight, yes.”
         He raised a tentative eyebrow. “And you were involved in it.”
“I was a part of it, yes.”
         He leaned closer, his hands rubbing together. I watched his head. A wisp of hair, resistant to the force of gravity, was standing nearly upright on his shiny skull. As his head bowed forward, the hair made a scant move, wavered and then returned to its remarkable condition.
         Holding back a laugh, I waited for his next question.
But he had noticed.
Misinterpreting my laughter for something else, he shot upward. His face bulged with red, and a vein, thicker than most fire hoses, flared across his neck.
         “Is this funny to you!?” he screamed. Mrs. Frain, who was actually still standing in the room, edged a step backwards.
         I looked to her and then to the principal. “No.” I answered.
He glared at me, his chest heaving. If anybody was close to a stroke, it was this man.
         “You don’t take anything seriously do you Mr. Cantwell?”
I shook my head, but he continued onward.
         “You know, I would think somebody like you, somebody with your credentials, would have more goddamn sense than to go start the shit you started today.” He threw his arm to the right and his head jolted upward. Mrs. Frain looked ghastly behind him.
         “You think just because you’re some goddamn smart-ass…that you can…that you can just do whatever the hell you want, but let me tell you something Mr. Cantwell…
         “National Merit academic scholar or not–
–“Actually, he was the National Merit Finalist, first perfect score in the country.” The principal whipped around, his demonic eyes now focused on Mrs. Frain. She nodded a quiet sorry, and backed away.
         He turned back to me. “National Merit Finalist or not,” he corrected sardonically, “You don’t pull shit like that again, you hear me?”
         I wasn’t about to test his limits. I conceded. “Alright.”
But he wasn’t finished. “We’ve got a total of 9 students injured. Not to mention Mr. Leihmler, the Agriscience teacher. Somebody punched him in the jaw. Now he’s going to have his mouth wired shut for the next 3 months!”
         He cooled slightly. “You know Mr. Cantwell, I really don’t care what you said to start that fight. Whatever it was, it was obviously a very stupid and irresponsible thing to do. Your actions earlier today are immediate grounds for expulsion, you do realize that?”
         I nodded. “Yeah.”
         He paused. “These events could completely ruin your record.”
He gazed to a clipboard at his lap, and gently grazed through the first several papers.
          “It says here that you’ve been accepted into Cornell, Berkeley and Brown. Quite generous wouldn’t you think, especially considering your relatively modest GPA?”
         I shrugged.
He continued to scan the packet. “2.93 this semester. That’s not even a B average.” He paused. “Class rank… 127.”
         He shot me a dark look. “You certainly don’t put much weight in academics, now do you?”
I said nothing.
         He read the papers for a few more minutes before tossing the clipboard to the side. He turned to me then, and his face turned stern.
          “How would you like to have all those academic scholarships rescinded? That could very well happen, Mr. Cantwell.”
         I fought back the fire. “You couldn’t do that…”
He smiled. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that.” He looked to the nurse and then his eyes swiveled back to me. “I can do whatever I want, Mr. Cantwell. I could even have those perfect standardized test scores of yours completely invalidated.”
          “That’s a lie,” I replied, my voice rising.
The principal seemed to feed on my frustration, and he smiled again. “I’m sure I could convince College Board that you’re a study in bad character. After all, somebody who initiates a brutal fight between students and faculty could easily find a way to cheat on the SAT.”
          “I did not cheat,” I hissed. “You and I both know that.”
He shook his head. “Nothing’s for sure with you, Mr. Cantwell. You’re an enigma even to your closest friends…”
         I stared at him. “What would you know?” I whispered.
He frowned and then turned, motioning to the nurse as he headed for the door. When he reached for the knob, he hesitated, and he shot me one last cunning smile.
         ”Your parents and I have been talking in my office, and we feel it’s time we do what we should’ve done a long time ago.”
         I hesitated. “What’s that?”
“An IQ test of course. It’ll be Tuesday. Bring a #2 pencil. It’s a long one.”
         He smiled and then exited, Mrs. Frain following him out.


         The Stanford-Binet IQ test started at 8:00 am in the library. It was early and I was alone, except for the assigned proctor, some light-haired wrinkly lady, a woman I had never seen in my life.
         She seemed nice enough. She read the instructions, told me how I couldn’t use a calculator, how I wasn’t even allowed to write down the work. It was all to be done mental. The pencil was just to be used to record each answer, or to bubble each scantron circle. Suddenly I felt like I was taking the SAT all over again.
         As I got started, I went to work quickly. The problems were mostly easy, testing all things such as fluid reasoning, knowledge, quantitative reasoning, visual-spatial processing, and working memory.
         As I made my way through it, I glanced over my shoulder, noticing that the proctor was eyeing me, her face disbelieving as I finished section after section in “record” time.
         When I finally completed the whole thing, when she had collected the last section from my hands, she clicked her watch, and a soft beep sounded.
         She proceeded to read a formal statement, and then I was granted my freedom, allowed to leave the library, and, as she so put it, “reengage my regular curricular activities”.
         As I stepped out to head to my 3rd period class, I caught a voice, and I raised my head, my eyes coming to the center of the school lobby.
         It was Jessica.
         She was alone, and she stood hesitantly, slightly favoring her left leg, her blood-red brown tumble of hair tossed to one side, her small emerald eyes gazing almost sadly at the binder in my arm.
         Normally I would be nervous. Normally I would fear her, begin to sweat, my heart jumping and racing as if suddenly injected with pure adrenaline.
         This time, there was no such reaction. I merely stopped, and I stared back, saying nothing, feeling no desire to say anything anyway.
         Suddenly she seemed to be the nervous one. She, not I, seemed to be the one with the dry mouth.
          “Josh…”
I watched her.
          “You just finished, didn’t you?”
I said nothing. I merely stared. She was having trouble. Something inside me turned.
I could see her with Steve Jones, I could see them again, her thighs curled about him, their lips and tongues eternally enlocked in passion. It made me sick. It was disgusting. I could imagine her pleasurable cries as they lay at home, in her bed, Stephen’s bulky body beating against hers, her arms clutching strong as their naked asses shook beneath the covers.
         Suddenly I had nothing to say to her. I had nothing to tell. What did she care? Who was she to try to talk?
          “How was it?” she asked softly, swaying from side to side, her books clasped in her arms.
          “How was it?” I repeated.
She nodded gently.
         I looked at her. “How the hell do you think it was? Do you think I enjoyed it? Do you think I looked forward to it?”
         Jessica seemed to whiten and she furrowed her brows, taken aback. “I just didn’t…
          “You didn’t what?” I hissed. “You didn’t know? Of course you didn’t! Who does? Who the fuck knows what an IQ test is like? Who cares? Who gives a shit!?”
         I saw her lip quiver and I was walking toward her, my books hanging in my hands.
          “You think I enjoy it because I’m smart? Is that it? You think I like this shit, you think I like people always egging on me, telling me how I’m capable of anything, how I’m wasting my ability, how I could do so much better?”
         The fire coiled in my chest, rejuvenated, reincarnated, sweeping my muscles like a contagion. I couldn’t fight, or suppress it. It was impossible. It was no longer inside; it was free, exploding forth, pulling its ugly head free of my control.
          “You think I like being prodded? Investigated and tested like a fucking lab rat!?”
         I threw my books to the floor. Jessica leaped backwards, her mouth emitting a shriek.
          “Josh, please! I didn’t mean an–
–“Why don’t you go running to your boyfriend!?” I screamed. “Go running to that fuckmate of yours–I’m sure he’ll give you everything you want!”
         Before I knew what I was doing, I seized her, and my hands tightened around her small wrists, the skin turning white under my fingers.
         She dropped her books to the floor, and I pressed her against the wall. The hallway was vacant, the doors to each classroom closed and locked, not a teacher or staffmember in sight. Jessica struggled.
         I didn’t care anymore. What was the point? They were still deciding whether or not to expell me. Why not give them their wish? Why not make everybody happy, and show them that I was a “bad-ass”, that I was the one to blame, that Steven Jones, with his school-wide popularity, with his stupid smile and cocky prentenses, was a worthy student, that he was guilty of nothing? Why not show them that I was the one to blame?
         I hardly gave it a thought as I pressed Jessica to the wall. There were no inhibitions, no regrets, no thoughts of right and wrong. And before anybody could do anything, I was already in control.
         I forced her head back, and I shoved my face forward, my lips meeting hers. She tried to fight it, but there was nothing she could do. She was mine, all mine.
         I kissed her fiercely, my mouth almost swallowing hers, my nose and face squashed against her scented skin.
         I could feel her breath, coming in desperate huffs, the air streaming quickly through my mouth, her legs and arms weakening under my grasp. She gasped something, trembling as my hands cupped her hips, and I pulled free, my tongue slipping loose from inside her.
          “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” I whispered.
She merely stared, her bright green eyes wide, her diaphragm rising and falling as she caught her breath. She said nothing, did nothing. She could only watch, her body seemingly paralyzed against the wall. Her red lipstick had smeared, and I could see it sketched along her upper chin, the fragrance still wet in my mouth.
          I walked back to my books and scooped them up.
I began to walk away, but Jessica stopped me, her voice soft. There was no hint of anger, or frustration, not even a speck of embarrassment. It was just soft. Low, honest, and soft.
          “We never did anything,” she said.
I turned.
         Jessica peered to her feet. “He wanted me to. He wanted me to sleep with him.” She shook her head. “I never did. I couldn’t. Not with him. Not like that…”
         She fumbled for something to say. “You were right, you know… It was true…about him cheating on me…
          “I broke up with him that day. I haven’t talked to him since…”
I looked at her. My heart was hammering in my chest, and I saw the color return to Jessica’s face, her mouth blowing the bangs away from her eyes. She shook her head, and she smiled, meeting my gaze.
          “Do you remember freshman year? Miss Golder’s history class?”
I nodded slightly.
          “I remember,” she said. “I remember when I first knew you were different. The way you could answer questions. The way you always knew the answers… You could remember the most random facts, dates of the most insignificant events…
          “It used to fluster me, too…because you did it so casually… You never seemed to care, either. I guess it just came to you. I guess it was easy… I guess most things are easy to you…aren’t they?”
         I slumped my shoulders. “I never asked to be this way. I didn’t want to have this gi–
         –“What bad has it ever done you?” Her voice was quick and innocent. I stared at her. “What?” I asked. She flicked her hair to the side. “What bad has it ever done you? I mean, really. Why do you have to act like being smart is a curse? It’s not, Josh. Plenty of people wish they had what you have. Plenty of people would give a limb to have that brain of yours…”
         I brushed her off. “Jessica, it’s not what you th–
–“It’s not what I think?” She interjected. Her face had turned more serious. She tensed her jaw, shaking her head slowly in disbelief. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think that you’re afraid. I think you’re scared to be yourself, to show what you are really capable of. But why, Josh? Why do you try to hide it?”
         I backed away. It was as if Mr. Gratz had taken her body, as if he had somehow instilled his exact mindset directly into that cranium of hers. I didn’t say anything. What was I to say? How was I to explain it to her? It was no use. It would only be a waste. Slowly, I backed away. Third period was coming to an end, and I heard the bell, that classically conditioned response, and I jolted a step, my arms stiffening around my books as students ushered into the halls.
         Jessica made no effort to stop me. I watched her for a moment, and I turned, shaking my head, her face disappearing into the ever-changing tangle of adolescent bodies.

                   That was the last I ever saw of her.

         Sometime in mid-summer, after the school year had ended, after I had been allowed to finish my senior year, I was walking along my driveway. It was brisk day, a day where the sun-soaked pinetrees seemed aged and forlorn, where a swatter of pollen and insects could be seen, drizzling on the air’s humidity, barely grasping to their insignificant and intolerable lives.
         I was walking to the street, to see things for myself, just to be outside, to be alone, to take a look at the lifeless cul-de-sac, my permanent residence for the last 13 years. I hadn’t seen Jack or Scott since school let out. I hadn’t called them or heard from them. I felt as if they had merely vanished, gone with the memories of high school, melting away like some nostalgic dream from long ago. I didn’t know if I’d see them. I had changed in the passing weeks. Maybe I didn’t want to see them. Maybe it was for the better…
         I heard a low buzz, an automated rink, and I shot a glance to the roads, my eyes catching the hiss of a mailtruck as it came to a stop beside our mailbox. The man reached his arm out the window and plopped in the assigned papers, giving me a look, and then he sped off, hoping his day would be over soon enough.
         When he was out of sight, I opened the box. I could see an assortment of papers, from the every-day “promises” of financial security, to the instant, and gratuitous, “You’ve Won” sweepstakes. I tossed the junk to the side, and my eyes came across something then, something I had allowed myself to forget.
         It was a large white letter, with a single post address, and nothing more than my name at the center of the envelope. Stanford-Binet it read on the front, and I peeled away the envelope, tossing the empty shell to the ground as my eyes scanned the interior papers.
         There was a letter, signed and addressed by the President of Mensa, and it was formally done, congratulating me on my “automatic induction” into the Mensa Society. I gave this paper no more than a few seconds glance, and I shifted my fingers, bringing forth a stapled stack of yellow and green papers.
         At the top of this packet, it read “IQ Score Results”, and there was an official encryption to the right, some sort of universal design, probably to show that what I had taken was in fact authentic and real.
         I looked to the bottom of the first page, and finding nothing of interest, I turned to the next paper in the series, and I stopped. The paper was laid out horizontally, and I turned it as my eyes discerned the large and bold bellcurve graph stretching from right edge to left edge. It was a uniform bellcurve, labeled “Score Distributions” and there was an area, no thicker than a half a centimeter, sketched in black, all the way to the right far tip of the graph.
         An arrow was pointing to this minute black tail of the curve, and there was an “X”. The number below it was .999985.
         It was a percentile, out of the entire world’s population, firmly declaring me to be among the top .0015% of the planet in terms of recorded IQs. I took a moment to stare at this, and my eyes glossed across the accompanying pages, registering the legal statements and various other “FYI” pages of other known individuals with IQs as high or higher.
         When I was done, I gently eased the packet and other papers into the torn envelope. I gazed at the stamp on the front for a moment, and then I took the envelope and my fingers tightened across it.
         Grabbing it as securely as I could, I tossed it. The letter sailed straight out over th street, into the neighboring woods. When it fell amid the forestry of bushes and shrubs, I turned, and I bent to scoop up the remaining mail.
         I became vaguely aware of a smile, wry and weak, gaining strength across my cheeks.

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