The class twitches, everyone glancing around the room, guessing to see who they’ve been stuck with. I do too, caught up in the mass tension. There is no way I’m going to be able to get along with any of these kids, all valedictorians and yearbook editors, and me with my GED, majoring in six months off my sentence if I passed.
Before I can speak, Julian’s hand shoots up again. A coal-black head of long hair shakes in his direction, but he ignores her. “How much total participa
tion will be weighed in the final product? I’m not comfortable working in a group setting if everyone doesn’t uphold their end of the work. Last year I was—”
“I assure you, Mr. Erikssen, there will be no problems. I will be meeting with everyone, both individually and as a group, and you all will have a chance to discuss your participation. Besides. This is a program for exceptional students, remember? No slackers here,” he says. He laughs and straightens his shirt. “Well, except me, of course.”
“But—”
“I work better alone,” I announce. Heads swivel to the back of the room, but I only look at the teacher.
“A group setting is part of this program, Mr. Tyrell, I’m quite sure you’re aware of this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Does everyone in this place have access to my record? I’d seen Burnett lock my file away, but this guy is eyeing me like a judge.
Dr. Anders shakes his head, gives me a lame attempt at a smile. “The groups are mandatory. In most academic and professional situations, a collective sharing of ideas and skills yields more creative and successful results than a singular approach. For instance, the Manhattan think-tank project of World War II, the Parisian expatriate writers of the early 1900’s, the La Mama Experimental Theatre Club, even the grunge scene of Seattle—”
Who is this guy? I look around at the others, but they are enthralled by his babbling. His eyes are still on me though, and I rise to the challenge of the condescending smirk on his face.
I stand up, my chair scraping against the floor. “Look, I’d really rather—”
“Rather what, Mr. Tyrell? Go back home?” His easygoing banter from before is gone, and the air snaps between us as the age-old ego battle of student and teacher raises its ugly head. I wonder how far I can push him, but I suspect his threat isn’t empty. I grab my chair and drag it on the ground a few noisy inches, and sit down under the weight of his stare. He moves to the other side of the desk. “I thought not.”
Asshole.
While a couple more kids ask questions, all eager to get started, I try to calm down. Anders is right, and my caseworker had warned me this place focused on cooperative learning or some crap. My fault for not paying attention to the fine print. Not that I have any alternative.
I take a deep breath and begin the calming technique Mary insisted I learn on my fingers at my first counseling session. Ten, nine eight... I start, counting down and focusing on a point in the distance, still hearing her voice as she counted with me, the twelve year old no teacher or foster parent could control ...two, one, breathe out, one, two, three, four...
Memory’s bare shoulders come into view when she moves her hair off her face. Her skin glows, smooth and perfect and there’s a loose strand of black against her white neck and I imagine it through my camera lens. I’d use a use a zoom setting, something that pixilated like retro movie film, to go with the plastic cherries hanging from her ears.
“Hey.” The whisper comes from my right. I glance to the side and take in the blond hair and eyes with lashes a mile long, covered in the gunk girls wear so you know that they are inviting you to look. I look. She clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Can you believe he’s assigning the groups?”
I shrug. I wonder what her deal is, what she wants from me, why she’s being chatty at the one hard case in the room, and then I take another deep breath. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...
The blond smiles, nice. “Maybe we’ll be in the same one together.” She’s acting like I belong there, like I’m one of them.
I can do this. Whatever topic the professor gives, the work should be easy on my part. Five, four, point, shoot and click. The magic of photography, the distance of the camera is my shield and my weapon, perfect digital aim. Mentally, I frame a shot. Three, two, one… smile at the pretty girl. “Maybe so.”
“I’ve left your group assignments in an envelope on the front table,” Dr. Anders says. “Your names are on the front, with the number of your study office. The topic is inside. I’d like to see a list with three to five directions of research by class tomorrow. If you are struggling with this, please see me for suggestions.”
Memory reaches the table first, grabs the stack of envelopes and calls out names.
*
My plan is to follow Anders to his office and beg out of this group thing. I’ll tell him it’s best for everyone if I’m not forced to play with others, but the throng of students hanging around to kiss teacher-butt and ask pay-attention-to-me questions is too thick, and by the time I give up and drop my backpack off in the dorm I’m hauling ass not to be late.
The note Jeremy gave me from Burnett instructs me to go to the side door of the dining hall, and the kitchen racket and blast of steam to my already sweaty face tells me I’m in the right place. I hold up the scrap of paper and read the name again.
Constance Cory, Food Services Manager.
I look around for whoever could be in charge of this zoo, past the women by the ovens and the younger men washing dishes, and my eyes finally land on a small black woman with her hair back in a net and a spotless white apron hanging from her neck, yelling at a boy carrying a huge tub of applesauce out to the hot tables. She’s the commander-in-chief of this army, the way they snap to attention at her voice.
Her eyes narrow at me and she waves me over. I go, taking care not to step in a huge puddle of water on the floor.
“Ethan, is it? You’re late,” she says, waving her hand to the girl at the stove, gesturing to keep stirring a large pot of... something.
I peer into the murky brown substance, stew or gravy or—I decide I’d rather not know.