A true high school story

I'm fifteen years old, a sophomore in high school, sitting in 4th period biology class. I sit in the center, third desk back, far enough away that Mr. Flemming's* spit can't reach my face. Mr. Flemming always spits when he talks. And he talks a lot, mostly about living creatures and cells and spinal cords, because duh, it's biology and not ceramics, which you'd think is easy but everyone I knew who took it all got Cs. Mr. Flemming does another thing a lot. He pits out. Every day. He wears these long sleeved striped or plaid printed shirts in neutral tones, and everyday I watch as his pits turn yellow. It's really disgusting and can't be helped, on account of how much arm waving he does, like when he sings the Cell Bugaloo.  For someone who knows so much about how living things grow and develop, you'd think he'd know more about perspiration.

One thing he does that drives me insane is say "when you run down the basket ball field" or "when you are on the football court." And I'm not even an athlete. I bet it drives the football players in our class mad. I can visualize the steam coming from Parker's ears. Even though Mr. Flemming is kind of gross in an awkward biology teacher sort of way, I like his class. I like his class for two reasons.

Reason #1: He grades on a curve. And okay, not to brag or anything, but I set the curve. It's really the only thing I'm good at. I'm not a soccer girl, or an ASB girl, and I don't get cast very often in plays even though I try out, but I totally set the curve in biology. People always get mad because usually I get 99% or something, and that doesn't help them out much if they haven't studied, but I don't let them know I set the curve. I keep all my tests private and don't brag about it to anybody. But they found out it was me by February. They're like "who is 002646 and why do they always score so high?" By process of elimination, they found out it was me.

Reason #2 why I like biology: Jake* is in my class. I've had a crush on Jake since freshman year. He's got these gorgeous cerulean eyes and a good sense of humor. Right now he sits behind me in class. Having the guy you like sit behind you in class is not nearly as good as having him sit in front of you, and here's why. When Jake sits behind me, I have to think about if he's watching me chew on my pencil or if my butt crack is showing even though I am fully wearing underwear and have tucked in my shirt, and I get really self-conscious. When Jake is sitting in front of me, then I can stare at the back of his ears and watch him instead.

Jake's nice, but I am fairly certain he is using me. He asks me for answers on worksheets, and he thinks I'll know because I set the curve and everything, but here's the thing of it: I can't do my homework in class. There is no way I can concentrate with him there, staring at me, waiting for an answer. I have to think about these things.

So there I am, Tuesday morning, right before lunch. Mr. Flemming has given us some dumb worksheet, and we have seven minutes to start it before class gets out. The class is quiet, and then Jake whispers to me "hey Joelle, what did you get for number five?" I look down at my paper, and by some miracle I actually have the answer already, even though I have a Greek god sitting behind me and can barely concentrate. Without looking at Jake, I lean back to whisper my response, only, he had been leaning forward and I didn't know it so we accidentally bump heads. Of course it becomes the most exhilarating moment of my life since last year when Jake and I had English together and he complimented my poem on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

My mouth turns dry but somehow I manage to say "I think it's arthropods." Which you know, is really romantic. And that's it really.

Jake says "Oh hey, that's what I was thinking?" Was he? And two minutes later the bell rings for lunch.

The next day I'm sitting in class trying to shield my eyes from Mr. Flemmings stained pits when I start to day dream about if we had an armed intruder drill. There's this tiny back room, more of a closet really, and in the first week of school Mr. Flemming told us that if there is an armed intruder drill, we are all supposed to smash into the supply closet, because our classroom has so many windows and we could be machine-gunned down. It doesn't seem like an entirely safe bet, that back room, considering that is where the formaldehyde drenched dead cats are (in the freezer, but still).

Pretty soon my mind starts to wander more, and I think, what if it's not a drill, what if it's real? What if we have to be crammed in that closet for two hours or something while the police try to catch the psycho, and I am in there squished next to Jake? Or maybe there are bullets and Jake shields me from them. Or maybe we'll be so crammed in that closet that I'll have to like, press myself into his chest so my leg doesn't get shot to smithereens or something. Or maybe Jake gets shot and I have to apply pressure with gauze. Mr. Flemming is probably talking about mitosis or blastocytes or whatever, and I'm wishing that one of the drama kids would lose his marbles and come seeking revenge so that I could be stuck inside the supply closet with Jake. Well, Jake and the 27 other kids in class. Plus Mr. Flemming. With my luck, in all the chaos I would get squished next to Mr. Flemming, nose right in those sweaty pits of his. For two hours. I shake the image from my head, try to snap back to reality.

There I am, fifteen years old. Wearing a retainer because I just got my braces off, sitting in biology class with a boy I ache to be friends with, and I can't do anything. I can't flutter my eyelashes, or say something witty, or impress him with soccer skills, or talk about snowboarding or anything, because all I can do is one thing. I can set the curve.


*names have been changed for my protection, not theirs.