So Much Closer (12 page)

“Seriously?”

“We’re both admirers of your big brain.”

“Stop.”

“Come on. You know it’s true. Why don’t you just admit you’re a genius already?”

A shard of panic stabs my chest. “Did Mr. Peterson tell you that?”

“Tell me what?”

“Nothing. Can we not talk about school?”

“Kitchenette is down here,” Sadie offers. “We should go sometime. Their cupcakes rival Crumbs.”

“I’m in.”

“So I went back to Rite Aid.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Did you ask him out?”

“No, I didn’t ask him
out
. I could hardly even look at him.”

“What better way to gain boy confidence than to ask one out?”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re gorgeous.”

“Did you have a side of demented for lunch?”

“If I looked like you, I wouldn’t have a problem asking anyone out.”

Why Sadie has such low self-esteem is beyond me. Was she rejected by a boy before? Did she have a bad experience with someone she loved, like I did?

Sadie’s right about this walk we’re on. It’s amazing. Not because of any one thing. It’s more like the synergy of the water and the buildings and the streetlights and the people. All of it’s making me feel overwhelmed. There’s something about the energy that’s evoking all of the emotions I felt back home, wanting to be here so desperately. The deep sense of desire. The longing for the excitement and passion of city life. And it’s different from walking by myself. Sharing this with Sadie somehow makes the experience more intense, even though she doesn’t know how much it means to me. I hope this rush of finally getting to be a part of everything I dreamed about never goes away.

We pass an old paper factory with faded lettering. I love discovering buildings that used to be something else. It’s sweet how they can have the chance to reinvent themselves.

“That’s so cool,” I say.

“What?”

“That building. See how it says it used to be a paper factory?”

“Oh. Yeah, that is cool.”

“And that water tower over there.”

“You look at water towers?”

“Of course. I love them.”

“Why?”

“I just think they’re beautiful.”

“Oh. I’ve never noticed.”

I remember the first time I saw Ree sketching. I was so jealous that she’d been living here her whole life surrounded by the energy and lights and buildings. But maybe those things are like background noise if you’re from here. Maybe you have to experience this as a whole new place to appreciate it the way I do. Unless you’re John. But he’s not like anyone else.

“It’s cool how you can do that,” Sadie says. “It’s like you only see the good parts of the city.”

“It’s amazing what you see when you look up.”

“I guess I’m too busy looking down. Don’t want to step in anything.”

“Ew.”

“Harsh, but true.”

“Well, I’ve wanted to live here for a really long time. I’m sort of ... infatuated.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You’re the first person I’ve told here.” I don’t know if it’s this amazing walk or having an unexpected new friend or all the excitement of everything that’s happened since I got here. I just suddenly want to tell Sadie why I’m here. I want to share it with someone who isn’t scandalized by my decision like Candice or stuck in the middle like April. I took this huge, life-altering leap without really being able to experience it with anyone.

But I can’t tell her yet. Scott has to be the first to know. And hopefully, he’ll like what he hears.

When Mr. Peterson
asks me to stay after class, I immediately know what it’s about. I can tell by the way he looks at me when he says we need to talk. It’s the same look my old teachers got when they found out about me. I was hoping to avoid all that here. Why can’t I just be the new girl, stopping by for senior year without all the pressure?

“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re a genius?” Mr. Peterson wants to know.

“I’m really not.”

“Your IQ is well above the genius level. That makes you a genius.”

I stare at a broken piece of chalk on the floor. When Mr. Peterson gets amped over whatever he’s putting on the board, the chalk goes flying.

“How did you find out?” I ask.

“I’ve become increasingly fascinated by you.” He leans back against the board, which is always a mistake for him. Mr. Peterson is one of those teachers who have perpetual chalk dust on their butt. “Your logic skills are the most impressive I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been teaching longer than you’ve been alive. You’re able to remember an incredible amount of detail after being exposed to something only once. All of your work is outstanding. I wanted to know more about your background, so I checked your file.”

“You checked my
file
?”

“Teachers are allowed to do that.”

He may be right, but that doesn’t make me feel any less violated.

“I also asked your other teachers about you.” My face must be giving away my rage because he quickly adds, “It’s my responsibility to confirm that all of my tutors are maintaining at least an eighty-five average. You’re the only one who’s not. At this point in the marking period your average is seventy-three. You and I both know it should be a lot higher.”

Even though this school is more challenging than my old one, I can still put in minimal effort and get passing grades. I study a little for tests and get high scores on those, so everything else just averages out in the C range.

My standard procedure for enduring these I’m So Disappointed in You lectures is to tune out and let whatever adult is on my case talk at me. I’ve perfected the technique after tolerating way too many speeches from my mom. And my old teachers. And assorted administrative types. Like it’s some big crime to choose how you want to live your life while you’re in high school.

I can’t believe I have to hear all of this crap again. It’s bad enough when kids have attitude in class just because I’m the only one who understands what the teacher is talking about or I remember some random piece of information from a reading. It’s not like I’ve ever flaunted any of this. It’s just the opposite. Life is so much easier when you get along with people, when you can fit in instead of being labeled as a freak. And once teachers know the truth, they expect tons more from me. The last thing I want to do is a bunch of extra work. So I’ve always downplayed my talents. Like when we took those IQ tests in eighth grade. April told me her IQ, but when she asked me what mine was I reduced it. By a lot.

“I’m doing okay in your class,” I remind him.

“True. But I’m guessing that’s because my class has a creative aspect to it that motivates you to work harder.”

He’s right, of course. Not that I’m admitting anything. In an interrogation, saying less is always best.

“So here’s what I want to know,” Mr. Peterson says. “Why aren’t you doing the kind of work that everyone knows you can do with half your brain tied behind your back?”

I don’t know why, but my determination to tune out during another speech on how much I’m disappointing the world is crumbling. If I have to sit through one more of these, I swear I’m going to lose it. It’s really annoying how Mr. Peterson went poking around in my file, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Why can’t he just leave me alone?

“The work,” I explain, “is part of a system with which I do not agree.”

“Which system is that?”

“The public school system.”

“Ah.” He nods up at the ceiling. “It does have a lot of problems, doesn’t it?”

Wow. That’s the first time I’ve heard a teacher come even remotely close to admitting that the system majorly sucks.

“What’s the main problem, in your opinion?” he says.

“There are so many. But I think the biggest problem is that schools offer this dimwitted curriculum that couldn’t be more boring and then teachers get mad when students aren’t interested in their classes. It’s so stupid.”

“I’ve noticed that problem as well. That’s why I created Outside the Box.”

“This is the only interesting class I’ve ever taken. Classes like this didn’t even exist at my old school.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Schools teach to the test and then they make these sweeping judgments about students based on their answers to a few pointless questions that they’re just going to forget after the test anyway. And they have the nerve to call that an education. They’re doing it wrong.” I should probably shut up, but my rage is boiling. “How is force-feeding us stuff that we don’t care about making us smarter? And why should I be forced to become part of something I don’t believe in? Like, what, just because I’m capable, it automatically means I have to play into a corrupt system? I know you’re disappointed in me, but I’m disappointed in the quality of education we’re being offered. Doesn’t
that
matter?”

The expression on Mr. Peterson’s face is hard to read at first. But then I think I recognize it.

It’s respect.

For the first time in the history of us, talking to April is hard. Talking to April shouldn’t be anywhere near hard. I can’t figure out what’s wrong. When I moved we promised to talk every day, which we did for the first couple of weeks. Then things shifted. There wasn’t any dramatic change or anything. It was probably imperceptible at first, already happening before I noticed. But today, it’s obvious.

The weirdness starts when I ask April if she thinks Candice will ever talk to me again.

“I don’t know,” April says.

I wait for her to continue. She doesn’t.

“Well, is she still insanely mad at me?” I ask. “Or just kind of mad?”

“I’d say she’s still insanely mad.”

“Does she talk about me?”

“You really need to stop asking me about Candice.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not fair to put me in the middle.”

“But you see Candice every day. I moved away, remember?”

“Oh,
I
remember. Maybe you should remember, too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Remember how Candice liked Scott? And how you knew that but you went after him anyway?”

“But that was so long ago! And he didn’t even like her back!”

“It doesn’t matter. You knew that she liked him and you went after him anyway. How did you think that would make her feel?”

“Are you on her side or something?”

April sighs. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m just saying.”

“Because it sounds like you’re on her side.”

This is so ridiculous. Candice got mad because I followed Scott here. I get that. But is she going to stay mad forever? How long will it take before we can move on?

As if my day wasn’t stressful enough. I’m still pissed at Mr. Peterson for getting in my face. I guess it could have been worse, though. If I’d vented my anti-corrupt-system opinions to any other teacher, they probably would have suspended me. It feels so good to be not only understood but also listened to. It really seemed like Mr. Peterson sympathized with what I was saying. But then he said that if I don’t get my average up to 85, I’d be kicked out of tutoring.

“It’s the rule,” he threw down.

“Some rules are meant to be broken,” I countered.

“Nice try. You have three weeks to get your average up or you won’t be tutoring with us anymore.”

Like I care. Tutoring wasn’t something I wanted to do anyway. I just joined to get Sadie off my back. So what if I get kicked out? There are plenty of other people who could help John. Okay, maybe not plenty, but there has to be someone.

“I’m sorry if you feel like you’re stuck in the middle,” I tell April. “I’m just trying to ask about Candice.”

“Well, don’t. When she’s ready to talk to you, she will.”

I’ve been cleaning my room the whole time we’ve been talking. My bag is a mess. I turn it over on my bed and shake everything out. Then I find his note.

“Oh my god,” I say.

“What?”

“I think Scott wrote me a note. I just found it in my bag.” But reality sets in when I realize that my name isn’t written in his handwriting. I don’t recognize the writing at all.

“What does it say?”

I open it. My heart sinks. I was still hoping it could be from Scott.

“It’s from Espresso Boy.”

“From the coffeehouse?”

“Yeah. He must have snuck it into my bag yesterday when I got up for a snack. He put his number in it.”

“Are you going to call him?”

“I don’t think so. No. Calling him to say I like someone else would be cruel. It would be worse than not calling. Don’t you think?”

“Are you sure you don’t like him?”

“Um, I moved here for Scott?”

Silence. April and I would normally analyze some boy liking one of us for hours. But things are so tense that I can tell this part of the conversation is over.