Beauty and the Baller

“You and Ronan, huh? That was fast.”

“We met in New York years ago.”

“Ah. I’ll be honest. I’m disappointed . . .” He stalls and looks away from me, then rubs his neck. “Sorry. That’s not really appropriate since . . .”

“No, it isn’t,” I snap.

He winces. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

And I’ll have Ronan as my buffer.

I turn to go in my classroom.

Bruno leans his elbows on his book. “Ms. Morgan, this crap is boring.”

I zero in on him. A dark-haired boy with a big smile, he’s part of my third period.

I cross my arms and blow at the hair that’s falling around my face. Also, my lipstick is gone, I stapled my finger, and I got a paper cut.

I’m worn down to a frazzle.

When I walked in my first period, everyone was talking, two girls were out of their seats arguing over a boy, and the boy was in the middle egging it on. One girl was at my desk going through the teacher’s textbook, and another was trying to be her lookout. Someone had written Suck My Cock on the whiteboard, and my chair was turned upside down.

I raised my voice and pretended like they were the worst toddlers I’d ever encountered. I crossed my arms and glared as I announced my one and only preschool rule: Sit down and listen with eager ears!

By the time everything was put back together and I called roll, I realized they hadn’t read their homework from their previous teachers, so we read Shakespeare aloud. Some of the students grumbled, one called me the b-word under his breath, and one student—a guy named Caleb Carson, the one who’d bumped into me when I’d walked in this morning—abruptly stood and left my class when I called on him. Something about his hunched shoulders pricked at me, but I couldn’t leave my class. I wasn’t taking my eyes off this bunch.

Second period was minimally better, and now I’m on my last class.

Bruno flashes me a charming smile, but I don’t trust him an inch. “You agree it’s boring,” he announces.

“Absolutely not.” I shake my head, my face in what I hope is a “This literature is fabulous” look, then sweep my gaze over the class, mostly football players, with a few girls. Most of this period read the assignment, and we had a decent discussion earlier.

“Do we have to answer the questions at the end of the scene? We have a game Friday, and I need to focus.” Bruno again.

I pinch my nose. “Friday is four days away.”

Milo, who’s sitting across from him, gives him a fist bump. “Ms. Tyler let us talk and hang out in class. And she was going to let us watch the movie instead of reading the play. She was cool.”

“I’m not cool,” I reply.

Bruno lets out a jaw-splitting yawn and stands up. “I need to hit the restroom. Where’s the hall pass?”

I ease up from my desk. “Sit down, Bruno. You’re a big boy. Running back, right? You can hold it for five minutes, then hit the bathroom between classes.”

He lingers near the door, debating, and I narrow my eyes at him.

“Don’t test me. I will give you a time-out.” I have no idea what a time-out means for a teenager, but I can come up with something on the fly . . . “You can stand in the corner for the rest of the period. Your choice. Your consequences.”

He heaves out an egregious exhale and plops down at his desk.

I walk to the front of my desk and lean against it. “You’re more than just football players; you’re smart young men who need this class. You need to pass to play football.”

Bruno rolls his eyes. “Just give us an easy A. Or a B. We won’t tell.”

I resist the urge to tap him on the nose like Sparky.

Toby shifts at his desk. “We can do the questions at the end, Ms. Morgan.”

Bruno guffaws. “You’re just being nice because you like Sabiiiiine.”

I take a step to Bruno’s desk, my voice sharp. “No talking about my sister.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, eyes widening. “She’s a nice girl. Real cool for a freshman. Like super awesome.”

I open his book, flip the pages, and point. “Read this aloud. Act one, scene two, here.”

Looking annoyed, he leans down. “‘But, for mine own part, it was Greek to me.’”

“Good,” I say. “It’s a common saying we use every day, although most people get the actual quote wrong. Instead, we say, ‘It’s all Greek to me.’ Do you know what it means?”

“That the speaker didn’t understand what was said.” He smirks. “A lot like this play. I keep reading it, and nothing makes sense.”

Everyone laughs.

I nod. “Maybe reading it is like slogging through mud . . . or tackling a big defensive player. Do you let those players beat you?”