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Twelfth grade. My final year at Sterling Senior High and I meant to live every minute of it. I, Brigitte Pink, would approach every moment as if it were there to serve me. I’d not only be in fashion; I’d set the fashion. I’d have dozens of friends, go to all the big social events, be invited to the best parties. I’d be the girl every boy wanted.
At least, that was my dream until standing in the hallway staring at the back of Nelson Trader. Suddenly, I didn’t want every boy. I wanted that boy. And I no longer cared how many friends I had or what parties I went to. All of those wishes were vapors anyhow. I had only one goal – to get his attention.
My book bag hooked over my left shoulder, I watched him laugh with his friends, saw Tiffany Schaefer, perky pep-squad leader, give him a hug, and in that instant, knew everything wrong with me in great detail.
I was neither short and cute nor tall and graceful. I didn’t have golden, blonde locks, a flawless complexion, and bow-shaped lips. My breasts were too small, my feet too big. I had a crooked little finger, the result of an accident when I was five, and a serious allergy to peanuts. There was nothing ... nothing ... that a guy as great as Nelson would notice. He was six feet of lean, well-packed testosterone with amber eyes and a sexy shock of hair that fell over his forehead just so. He exhaled and every girl for two hundred yards turned her head.
“Move Punk.”
I jostled awake at the deliberate bump of Terry Rosado’s arm, and set my feet toward my locker. Punk, a nickname I hadn’t minded until now as it implied rebellion I didn’t really participate in. It gave me an identity. I wasn’t just Brigitte, the girl who lived on Westhouse Lane, or Brigitte, the A-student in Mrs. Palmer’s English class. I was Punk, the girl with an edge to her, worth talking to, worth associating with.
My mood dived. What a joke. The only edge I had was a pair of worn sneakers with a hole in the toe. I turned my back on Nelson and switched my books in my locker. Then, the heels of my shoes squeaking on the tile, I moved snail-like up the stairs to class.
Third desk, second row, I took a seat between Martin Edwards and Dante White, who smelled like cabbage for some reason. Sliding down in my chair until my spine was bent in a u, I willed myself invisible from the rest of the class. Three minutes later, the bell rang and those not already in place, made their way to their chairs. Handshakes and back slaps were exchanged. Samuel Evans threw a wad of paper at Delana Prescott’s head. Then, Mrs. Palmer appeared from somewhere deep in the supply closet, a smile on her face.
“Good morning, class,” she said, her floral skirt swishing around her legs. “This will be another great year. Some of you had me for literature last year, so you’ll be familiar with the rules. Just the same, we have to go over them for those who don’t.”
A chorus of groans erupted from the other students. Personally, I didn’t mind reading the rules because I had great respect for doing what I was told. Yet another reason why I was ordinary.
Mrs. Palmer made her way to the front of the line of desks, depositing exactly the right number for each student in the row, and we handed them backwards, over our heads. I went to pass mine to Martin and discovered he’d moved closer to Alana. I guess they had a thing going. Annoyed, I got up and toted them further back. I was about to sit down again when the classroom door opened.
Nelson Trader. His weight on one hip, his book bag slung over his shoulder, he paused in the entrance, scanning the room, then, spotting the only empty desk, made his way my direction as if he wasn’t late and no one cared.
I stared at him, twisting around, open-mouthed, when he took his seat, and a crooked smile formed on his lips. “Keep looking. I might do a trick,” he said.
I snapped my mouth shut and faced forward, his eyes burning the back of my head. An entire school year with Nelson behind me? That had to be a sign of something, though at that point, I wasn’t sure what.
“Mr. Trader, Miss Pink, if I could see you both for a moment.”
Halted by the teacher’s voice, Nelson turned in a circle. The other students, Punk being the exception, were gone in a flash, their voices blending in with the cacophony in the hallway. The classroom door eased shut with a click.
“I’m going to speak openly because this problem needs to be addressed and, Miss Pink, I believe you’re the solution.”
“Me, ma’am?”
Mrs. Palmer took a seat on the corner of her desk, one leg raised higher than the other, her hand draped in her lap. “Mr. Trader, your reading problem has been brought to my attention.”
“I can read.”
Lips pressed tight, Mrs. Palmer blew out a loud breath. “Not well enough to graduate, and I’m concerned.”
“I’ve been working on it,” he continued, aware his voice had formed a whine. “I understood what you read today.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but understanding a subject when it’s read to you and knowing context for yourself are two different things. We have two book reports planned for this year. Plus, there are SATs. You may not plan on going to college, but having a diploma is vital toward getting most any job.”
Nelson exhaled. He’d heard this speech before from his dad, and he’d tried harder for a time. But this was twelfth grade, his supposed best year in high school, and he wanted to enjoy it, not put his nose to the grindstone.
Mrs. Palmer switched her gaze to Punk’s face, and he followed suit.
He’d had classes with her since sixth and knew the basics of her life. She was an only child. Her dad sold insurance. Her mom ... he wasn’t sure what she did, but she picked Punk up from school every day. There was really nothing remarkable about her, except she seemed to have a crush on him. That, he’d tried to ignore.
Her cheeks as pink as her last name, she flicked him a glance, a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment registered in her brown-eyed gaze. A wavy strand of hair fell out from behind her ear to lie across her cheek.
“Would you object to tutoring Mr. Trader after school?” Mrs. Palmer asked.
Punk’s reaction to the teacher’s question was as violent as his. Her eyes wide, hands flexing, she took a step back. “Me?”
“I don’t need tutoring,” Nelson replied over top her question. The last thing he wanted to do was waste his free time studying.
“I think you would benefit from some personal instruction, just a few hours a week, and Miss Pink is one of my best students,” Mrs. Palmer continued. “So if she’s agreeable, I’m going to ask you to spend at least two afternoons together, specifically reading. I’ll make it a point to help you with your comprehension, but being able to recognize the words is the first step. Miss Pink, is that okay with you?”
Punk opened and closed her mouth, looking like she was uncertain, and desperation seized him. “It’s not okay with me,” he blurted. “I’ve made it this far on my own, and I don’t need her help ...”
“God forbid.”
Head held high, chin lifted, Punk faced him, and for a fleeting second, he saw something new. Then, his belligerence returned. “I’ll be just fine,” he said.
Punk snorted and readjusted her grip on her books. “Thanks for thinking of me, Mrs. Palmer, but he’ll have to beg before I’ll even consider it.” Without another word, she turned her back and left.
Mrs. Palmer’s motherly gaze landed hard on his face. She stood to her feet, smoothing her skirt. “I’d beg if I were you. There’s a test at the end of the week.”
I made it a point to avoid Nelson as much as possible for the rest of the day and on into the week. It was kind of hard because seems like the stuff you avoid gets in your way more than usual. Plus, he did sit behind me in English. I refused to look back though, his insult stuck in my thinking. Come Friday, Mrs. Palmer passed out the test papers, halting briefly in front of us before moving on.
I was done in a flash. It was, after all, only a review of the rules. But I could hear Nelson behind me huffing and puffing a lot. The fact he couldn’t read well had come as a complete surprise. I get why she’d chosen me to help him though. English was my favorite class. I loved reading, writing, anything involving words and sentences. I also get why he’d reacted like he had. His only opinion of me was how I stared at him all the time.
I leaned back in my seat, listening to him shuffle his paper, and started at his finger pointed into my back.
“Number three,” he whispered. “What’s that second word?”
Number three? It was a twenty question quiz, and he’d only gotten to number three? I looked down. I could tell him, but then, that’d defeat the purpose. My mom always said sometimes you have to fall down in order to stand up. “Sound it out,” I replied.
I could hear him muttering beneath his breath. He heaved a sigh. “In-con-se-quence? But I don’t know what that is.”
Which was exactly Mrs. Palmer’s point. And precisely mine. Having Nelson want anything from me was an entirely new perspective. I’d always seen myself as the bottom of the heap, but here I was on top. This new point of view also altered how he looked as well. Suddenly, he wasn’t so perfect, and I asked myself if that mattered. I’d wanted him to look at me, but I’d wanted it as the underling I’d always been. What did I want now?
Class ended, and Mrs. Palmer took up our papers as we filed out. She stared long at Nelson’s then glanced at me. I smiled in return and left. I didn’t expect him to catch up with me in the hallway, and he didn’t. I didn’t even expect him to find me after school. Therefore, when my mom came to find me at seven p.m. saying a boy was on the stoop, the last face I thought would be there was his.
He bowed his head, almost sheepish. “Thanks, Mrs. Pink.”
My mom stood there a moment longer then returned inside. I shut the front door. “Well?”
His thumb hooked in a loop of his blue jeans, he leaned on one hip then the other. “If I fail, my dad’s gonna kill me.”
That wasn’t begging. I turned aside, unable to believe I was doing so. Nelson Trader was at my house, and I was angry enough to walk away. “It’s late,” I said. “If you don’t mind, there’s a TV program I want to watch.”
Before I could take hold of the knob, however, he grabbed my arm.
“Listen, Punk ...”
I looked down at his hand, then up at his face. “Brigitte,” I interrupted. “My name’s Brigitte, or call me Pink, if that’s easier. I’ve decided I don’t like Punk at all. I’m not really the type.”
He dipped his chin, removing his hand. “I’m asking for help. I know I failed today’s test.”
I’d figured he did but wasn’t cruel enough to bring it up.
“I have to graduate,” he continued. “Repeating twelfth grade will be the end of me. Please?”
Almost a beg. I wavered, my mind going back to day one, me in the hallway thinking he was the best guy ever, and I realized right then I still felt that way. But now, he was human, and my opinion of myself worth his respect.
I opened the door and stepped into the foyer. A little, brown moth fluttered in with me. “You coming?” I asked, holding the door open.
He hesitated for a second. Then, squeezing between me and the door frame, he followed me inside. I led him through the foyer into the living room and waved him to a seat. He perched on the edge of the couch, looking really uneasy. I made no effort to change that but left him there and headed for my bedroom. Digging in the bottom of my closet, I pulled out a book I’d read back in eighth grade and returned to the living room.
Nelson looked about as comfortable as a mime at a rock concert. Not commenting, I took a seat opposite and tossed him the book. He caught hold for a second then dropped it like it scalded. “That’s ... that’s ...”
“What you’re going to read,” I said. I’m not sure if I was feeling hateful or determined, maybe both. But truth was, I didn’t have many books for him to choose from, and that was the easiest one. Not my fault it was a teen romance story.
“Can’t I try ... I don’t know ... a magazine?”
I retrieved the book from the floor and extended it in his direction. “You want my help, you’ll read this book, or you can go home and fail.”
He stared at the book, then at me. Not taking it, his gaze deepened. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”
In other words, keep it to myself, his pride was at stake. Though I was inclined to care, I decided to cut him some slack. So, he wanted it all to be a secret. If he would make the effort to learn, then how it happened shouldn’t be any big deal to me.
I replied with a shrug and stretched my arm further. His hand closed over the cover, his fingertips brushing mine, and he paused. The look on his face spiked a tingle in my chest. I inhaled, swallowing it, and motioned toward the book.
“Page one,” I said, pretending he didn’t just look at me like I was a girl for the first time. Surely, I’d imagined it.
His head bowed, he pulled opened the cover and cleared his throat. “Sarah Jane was an ... or ... or ... din-ar-y ... ordinar-y girl ...”
According to our agreement when Nelson left my house Friday night, he’d come over on Mondays and Thursdays at seven p.m. I made no claim about what he did with the book the rest of the week, except not to lose it. I vowed to myself not to embarrass him in public and to stop following him around.
Therefore, I entered school Monday morning and headed straight to my locker, not turning my head to find him. I switched out my books and angled for the stairs. Opening the heavy, metal door, I surged through, intent on sprinting to class and, head down, my eyes on my feet, didn’t bother to look too closely at what or who was in front of me.
I smacked into a firm chest and spiraled backwards, my books sailing in three directions along with the books of whoever I’d hit. Together, we tipped over, me, landing hard on my side, him, landing atop. The wind knocked out of me, I gulped like a fish.
The face hanging over me gradually came into view. “Nelson?” I spoke his name in a parrot-like squawk.
His cheeks were red, and I assumed that was from the position we were in. I was now fully aware of how great he was physically, as he was the opposite about me, but I couldn’t extricate myself until he’d risen. It was then I saw the crowd around us, both Vice Principal Watson and the Phys-Ed teacher-slash-coach, Mr. Carole, as well. I could feel a bruise growing on my side. This was going to hurt tomorrow. However, the reason for Nelson’s flushed expression became clear, and it had nothing to do with the collision.
Mr. Carole extended a stack of books and papers he’d gathered, some of mine and some of Nelson’s. On top was the book I’d given Nelson to read. My brow wrinkled. He’d brought it to school? Why? I wanted to ask, but worse, saw the huge hole he was about to bury himself in if I did.
“Thanks, Mr. Carole,” I said instead.
“Maybe you should see the school nurse,” he suggested. “Looks like you have a few cuts.”
I glanced down at the specks of blood on my t-shirt and worked up a smile. “Sure. I ... I’ll do that.”
“I’ll go with you,” Nelson said. He cleared his throat. “The ... the least I can do.”
Tucking the books to my chest, I spun around and headed back into the hallway. He fell in at my side. Neither one of us spoke until we’d well-cleared the crowd.
“Thanks,” he said softly. “I couldn’t go home before seven to get it.”
I nodded. Shuffling through the stack in my hands, I handed him his portion, tucking the book in his English folder. “No problem. It is my book,” I replied.
Quiet claimed us again, and we continued forward. The door to the nurse’s office appeared in view, and I came to a halt.
“Just the same,” he continued. “Thanks.”
Our eyes met, and I soaked in the contrition and gratitude on his face, then not speaking, walked inside. But, the nurse hovering over me, minutes later, it hit me how low I felt and my opinion of Nelson shifted again. The respect I deserved he wasn’t going to give me, not now and maybe, not ever. I’d do better to focus my thoughts on someone else.
Yet, as soon as I said that to myself, I knew I wouldn’t.