During my junior year, I filed and was granted emancipation from my mother. The judge allowed me to live on my own instead of in a foster home after my mom was found passed out in the home we shared, the needle still sticking out of her arm from the heroin, which subsequently caused her overdose. I don’t know how many times I have thanked destiny, fate, or divine intervention that it was her scumbag boyfriend who found her lying in the bathroom instead of me. No matter how much I despise that woman, it’s not an image I’d want to carry with me for the rest of my life. Fortunately, or unfortunate depending on who you ask, she survived. I don’t know what I would have done if I were placed in foster care. My mother’s addiction and unwillingness to find a stable job had forced me to be self-sufficient from a very young age. This life is nothing I’m not already accustomed to.
“Who is Mr. Ryan?” Em asks, her voice yanking me out of my memories. She’s been leaning over my arm, reading my schedule for who knows how long, while I’ve been off in the Land of Horrific Memories Past.
“Huh?”
“You have a Mr. Ryan for 6th period. Calculus. I’ve never heard of him before.”
I look down at the piece of paper in my hands. “No clue. Must be a newbie.” She makes a face at me, one of disgust.
“Calculus? Really, Tatum? Why are you being so hard on yourself this semester? French, calculus…it’s our senior year! You should be taking it easy.”
I sigh and repeat my reasons again. I feel like I’ve told her this a hundred times. “You know I need a good academic record for college. I don’t have any money put away for school. The only way I’ll make it is on scholarships.”
“You’re smart. I know you’ll find a way to college. If anyone deserves to go, it’s you,” she says seriously.
I wish I believed that. I really do. But people like me don’t go to college. People, with parents like mine, who act like I do just don’t make it that far. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. More like the damn tree didn’t bother spreading its branches out far enough for the apple to have much of a future besides becoming rotted, mushy animal food. If only she’d tried a little harder to put me in a position to see the sun. It’s a hard reality to swallow sometimes, but after the shit went down with my mom, I’ve become accustomed to the taste.
The first day of the semester is boring, filled with syllabuses and expectations and lectures. I was expecting very much the same when I walked into 6th period calculus class. It’s my last class of the day, as I get scheduled for early release from school in order to get to my job as a CNA by three o’clock. Because my grades were near perfect, it was a condition the judge granted so I could keep my job and still be able to make a living.
I saunter in, taking my preferred seat on the far left column near the middle row.
At five past the start of class, students are still chatting amongst themselves relatively oblivious to our missing professor. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I remove it to display a text from Wyatt. Your place tonight?
I work ‘til 11. Ill call when I’m off.
Late night rendezvous with Wyatt are well worth it, and it makes my lonely nights a little less lonely. I can’t say between school and working full time I have a lot of spare time for socializing. I don’t date, but I use sex as a distraction. Wyatt is one of the few people who understands me. That understanding makes our arrangement mutually beneficial.
At ten past with the teacher a no-show, I contemplate ditching out early. Mrs. Marsden has been going downhill lately, and I wouldn’t mind spending a little extra time with her this evening. I pack my notebook and pencils back into my bag, having made up my mind, and go to stand just as the assuming Mr. Ryan breezes into the room. I slump back into my chair dismayed.
“Sorry, sorry I’m late,” he says as he rushes to his desk. Nice first impression. When I glance up from resituating my book bag, my breath catches. Oh no. No, no, no. Damnit! What deity did I manage to piss off to deserve this?
Mr. Ryan is Ryan; Good Samaritan Ryan. Do-gooder Ryan. Fucking amazing kisser—stop that right now!
He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I take a moment to really look him over. He’s out of breath and slightly red in the face. A light brown mop of shaggy hair sits messily upon his head, and I can’t tell if he’s styled it that way intentionally or if it’s disheveled from whatever made him late. Thinking of what kinds of activities result in the hairstyle he’s sporting takes root in my brain like a nasty virus. It clouds my vision as I take in the rest of his appearance—the loosely knotted tie, haphazardly tucked in shirt, down…down to the hastily and half zipped fly of his black slacks.
I snort. Loudly. There’s no way I can sit through a class with him.
“Afternoon delight, Ryan?” I call out. His face flushes a brilliant deep shade of red.
“Excuse me?” He looks incredulous; his mouth hanging open slightly at the brazen remark even I’m surprised came out of my mouth. He scans the room in anger, but when his eyes finally rest on mine, they widen in surprise.
I shoulder my backpack and stand. “Don’t worry. I’ll show myself out.” Snickers of my classmates follow me down the aisle into the back of the classroom. Maybe it’s not too late to get my schedule changed.
“I didn’t ask you to leave. Sit down!” he calls after me, but I ignore his request. Instead, I flick my hand in the air in a sign of retreat, before adding “I’ll show myself to the office.” Feeling like I’ve already dug myself into a deep hole, I add, “Oh yeah, and fix your fly.” More chuckles and hoots of laughter follow me out into the empty hallway.
After a leisurely pit stop at my locker to dispose of the books I won’t need, I stroll down the halls to the double doors leading into the senior parking lot. To my dismay, I’m met by the school liaison officer and the principal himself. Crap. Mr. Ryan is a tattle tale, too.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stephenson,” I say sweetly, hoping he isn’t here to haul me back to my calculus room for apologies. Damn me and my big mouth.
“Miss Krause. My office please,” he responds sternly.
“Yes, Sir.” I spin on my heel and lead the two men up to the second floor offices I’ve only been to a handful of times. Mr. Stephenson and I are by no means strangers, but I’ve never spent any significant amount of time with him being reprimanded. I have a feeling I’m in for a really long lecture.
I seat myself in the hard blue plastic chair he keeps situated in the front of his large mahogany desk, as he rounds the back to perch himself in the black leather rolling chair. He sits; staring, studying, looking at me as if he is trying to read me like a foreign instruction manual. He steeples his fingers beneath his chin, contemplating where to start, I’m guessing. His kind blue eyes look more stern than usual as he takes me in. He’s an older man with a short cut of salt and pepper hair on his head. More than once in the past year, I allowed myself to wonder what it would be like to have him as a father figure.
“Miss Krause,” he begins. I force myself to maintain eye contact. “You know why you are here, yes?”
“It wouldn’t be to discuss my outstanding academic achievement during the last year, would it?” My mother said I was born a smartass. Although a handy feature, I’ve never been able to turn it off when appropriate.
“We are quite proud of your achievements, Miss Krause, especially considering your circumstances; however, that does not give you the right to skip out on class and show blatant disrespect for your teachers.”
I sit silently, willing myself to hold my chin high even though I have an overwhelming urge to stare at my hands and bite my finger nails. What am I supposed to say to that?