coming. I had dreamt about it, good dreams and bad. Trained for it. Drew pictures of it. Hydrated. Stretched.
The Math Test.
After the world’s longest 23 minutes of my or anyone else’s life, I grabbed the p.o.s. three papers and marched them, crumpled now – and doodled on, possibly drool-stained because sometimes my mouth hangs open when I’m concentrating – up to Mr. Simmons.
His head was down, his light brown hair parted to reveal a perfectly circular bald spot on the top of his head. He was staring intently at a book, or I should say, a book tucked within a book. He wasn’t nearly as sneaky as he thought: Everyone in that classroom knew he was reading comics and not Anthropological Complexities of the Macedonian Empire, as the larger, outer hardcover title might suggest.
“I’m done with this p.o.s.” I said, dangling in front of him the culprit that robbed me of my joy and freedom for almost 26 minutes now.
I stood squared up against his desk. Even though the rest of the school was relatively new, this desk was one of those outdated brown metal beasts. Its top was the fake wood grain that peeled and bubbled, adorned further down its strained metal body by metallic feet that seemed slouched to one side like an old tired woman who shifts her weight to one hip all the time. I wondered how old it was, what stories those scratches creeping down the front of it could tell, how long that rust had been accumulating on the front legs.
Mr. Simmons put his book(s) down carefully. He stared at me, sighed, and then shook his head as he smoothed his skinny fingers over the same brown-striped tie he donned daily. There was so much brown happening in front of me. And not the lovely soft brown of fresh dirt. The sad, icky brown that needs flushing. I giggled.
Mr. Simmons’ look of casual annoyance went to full irritation.
“Back to the principal’s office, Eve,” he clipped in his tenor voice, his weak little wrist waving me away.
I should offer here that I don’t know what “p.o.s.” stands for. I’ve heard my mom say it. A lot. Upon recounting the brief conversation with the school secretary when she inquired why she was seeing me again, Ms. Secretary speculated that this acronym is what landed me there. She looked at me, one eyebrow raised in anticipation as though a confession were imminent. My only confession here would be guilt over never committing her name to memory given the number of times I’m loitering in front of her desk, awaiting whatever asinine accusation has made its way to the principal’s ears. I caught her gaze briefly and shrugged.
Why was I in the principal’s office again? I figured that my incredible albeit a bit bloody and graphic rendering of dragon v dragon combat that decorated the bottom of my math test was too much for delicate Mr. Simmons to handle. Or perhaps my mind-blowing theorem on black holes and tertiary portal travel that I frequently doodled on desks is what landed me there. Like, clearly humanity, let alone Beecher Junior High, was not yet ready for my genius. Turns out though that no, that wasn’t it. The first thing. The thing about what I now know to be an expletive-charged phrase is what landed me there.
Thanks, Mom.
I reached into the stretched-out left-hand pocket of my hoodie and pulled out a Nutter Butter wrapper, a broken hair-tie, a purple paperclip, and a pad of Post-It notes I must have swiped from somewhere. I frowned and reached into the other pocket, wondering if I had stashed my phone on my right side rather than my left. Before I made it back to Mr. Simmons’ awful room, I wanted to text my mom how her acronym-swearing had turned into a cautionary tale.
I sighed, realizing my phone was exactly where I always left it: on my bed under my pillow (likely with the alarm still going) at home. I really could have used my mom’s quick wit and encouraging words at that moment. She was the only person I really ever texted, a fact that my sister teased me mercilessly over. Another sigh escaped me, this one long and capitulating. I’d recount the day’s events for them both anyway that night over dinner.
I was in no hurry to return to Mr. Simmons’ den of broken dreams. I let my hand skim the wall as I walked, wondering if the bottoms of dragon talons have the same tactile sensitivity my fingertips have. As I reentered my class, I expected applause. Their hero had returned!
My classmates had their heads down, some still finishing that p.o. – wait, no, sorry – that non-swear-word-y math test, some reading books that were depressingly juvenile. Sure, I didn’t do anything that was maybe overtly heroic. I hadn’t saved anyone, or invented something, or risked life for the greater good. But I bravely and nobly challenged ideas. Quietly. Ok, silently maybe. But they should just know the radical expanse of new thought and thrilling breakthroughs happening in my brain at any given time is nothing short of heroic. Plus, I show up to this science experiment of stunted potential every day. Eve Archer: Dragonologist/Child Hero.
I just stood there in front of the class, awkwardly awaiting some sort of acknowledgment. No one stirred. I coughed loudly (that got a few people’s attention; several looked up) and trudged over to the ancient desk again.
I apologized to Mr. Simmons for my linguistic oversight and couldn’t help but notice that his mustache and beard were remarkably ungroomed, swarming around his nose and mouth. As he spoke, a few rogue hairs kept creeping over the corners of his lips and touching his tongue. It was enough to make a child genius dry heave. If I had a dragon handy, I could singe that right off for him.
“Do you understand, Eve?”
I stared blankly at him, uncertain what he had been yammering on about.
“Sure,” I responded coolly, giving him a thumbs up just for good measure. I had no idea what I was understanding; I was just relying on the fact that I understand pretty much all things all the time. He opened his book(s) back up and waved me away. I turned to walk back to my desk when his voice stopped me in my tracks.
“The white boards will be free in a minute. Then you can get to cleaning them.”
I slumped forward. Apparently, I had understood that I was not to swear (even though technically I hadn’t) and that I was to clean all seventeen white boards in the north commons. Good thing I stretched and hydrated, I guess.
This is why math tests are the worst.