okay.” I pull a desk up close to his and sit. “A rough day yesterday?”
“Yeah. Pretty rough,” he says quietly.
“Anything I can do?”
He looks up at me, and his eyes seem to search mine like he’s measuring the sincerity of my question. Suddenly I have a feeling the one thing this kid needs is the one thing I can’t give him—a hug or maybe a friend he can really talk to.
“No,” he says, palming the back of his neck. “But thanks.”
“You look tired.” Depressed is what I’m really thinking. When he doesn’t respond, I decide to make one of those accommodations Ms. Lincoln spoke of. “You know, you don’t have to take this test,” I say, reaching for it. “I’m not worried about your mastery of this unit. You’ve mastered it. I can just double your last—”
“No. I can take the test,” he says, flattening his hand on the paper to hold it in place. I notice he’s not wearing a class ring.
“Okay. But, you know, I have a daughter. She’s going to be pretty upset if I don’t pick her up from her day care before dark.”
He drops his head and then, suddenly agitated, runs his hand over his short blond hair a few times, then sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mac.” He grips his pencil and punches down the lead a few clicks. “I’ll have it done in a few minutes.”
A few minutes? I don’t think so. Not even for Robert. “It’s okay.” I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I have some time. How about I walk you through the test? Maybe that will help you focus.”
I don’t wait for him to answer. I collect a pencil and a few sheets of printer paper from my desk and sit back down. On the blank paper, I quickly review the first section, then wait while he works through the set of problems. I guess something about me sitting there with him chases away the distractions—he’s quick and he’s precise, making his marks with his distinct handwriting, which is tiny but highly legible.
When he’s finished, he twists his head up to me.
“Nicely done,” I say, smiling. It feels good when he smiles back.
I place a big check mark over the section, and we move on to the next. While Robert is working, I find myself studying his face—the straight line of his nose, the freckle at the base of his neatly trimmed sideburn, the stray blond hairs on his jaw that he missed shaving this morning—and I can’t help wishing that I’d known him when I was in high school.
Aside from the fact that he’s a stellar student and a nice-looking kid, here’s what I know about Robert:
1. He’s a member of the band guard. The only male member in fact. I might not have known this—I don’t attend football games. No time with school and grad classes in the fall, and Kiki—but it seems to be an endless source of amusement for Jennifer.
2. He has a boyfriend. Nicholas Taylor—Nic—cheerleader, ditzy blond, ghetto queen, Whore-Hay. All the kids call him that. Jorge, Whore-Hay. It’s the year-round, fluorescent-lamp-enhanced tan, I think. I honestly don’t get what Robert sees in Nic. The kid’s a pretentious, over-the-top, party boy. Not his type at all.
3. Robert is one hell of a brave kid. (See numbers 1 and 2.) I’d never have had the courage to be 100 percent O-U-T in high school. And he’s not just Out; he’s got that quiet confidence that draws other kids to him. I don’t know if he knows it, but he does a lot to bring skeptics into the fold on our campus. You just can’t not like him or respect him.
And right now, I can’t not look at him.
When he finishes the set, he looks up at me, and I drop my eyes to the test and make a quick assessment of his answers.
Another big check mark and we move on. The next set is a little more challenging. I force myself to focus on this work. A couple of times he missteps, but a quick uh-uh from me makes him stop, rethink, erase, then move forward on the right track.
The last section is the trickiest, and I get a kick out of watching him wrestle with the problems. He looks at me a couple of times, but I just raise my brows and shrug. He takes that as a challenge. I don’t help him on this section, so when he missteps, he finds himself in a tangle and has to back up. I’m proud of him when he finishes the last problem and slides the test across his desk to mine.
“I knew you could do it.”
“You did, huh?”
I check that section, then close the test and scrawl a big 100 across the top before I look back at him. “Yeah, I did.”
We enjoy a moment of what I think is mutual admiration, and then I clap him on the shoulder and take the test with me back to my desk.
Robert stands, stretches, then grabs his letter jacket off the back of the desk chair as I enter his grade in the computer. I’d like to close out my grade book, but I have some Algebra kids who are under water and need a lifeline, which I will attempt to provide over the next couple of days before grades are due.
As he leans down to zip up his backpack, I take a quick inventory of the letters on his jacket—academics, band, guard, choir. They should give letters for courage too.
He grabs his backpack by the strap and shoulders it, but seems reluctant to leave.
“I’m really sorry about your dad. How are you holding up?” I ask, coming around the desk. I lean against it and slide my hands in my pockets.
He chews on his bottom lip a moment, then says, “I don’t even know how to answer that, Mr. Mac.”
How do I respond to that? I hate this. They don’t train us for this kind of stuff. There are things I want to convey to him: I’m here for you if you need to talk. I know what it’s like to lose someone. But all that sticks in my throat, because the truth is, I’m a teacher—not a friend, not a counselor. And I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone; my own parents are safe and sound in Oklahoma. I’ve not lost a single person in my life, not permanently at least. Besides, does he even want my sympathy? Kids can be so hard to read.
Jennifer Went makes my indecision moot when she chooses that moment to stick her head in the door.
“Oh. You’re done,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say as she steps into the room. Robert mumbles a thank you, hitches up his backpack, and slips past her and out the door.
“They’re making them big these days, aren’t they?” she says, sticking her head back out the door to watch him go. “Mmm-mmm. He’s a hottie.”
“You’re not going all Mary Kay Letourneau on me, are you?”
“I don’t know. I might be willing to spend a few years in prison for a few minutes in heaven with that one—”
“Arrgghh. Kidding, right?”
“—even if he is a little light on his feet,” she finishes, then laughs.
I ignore the slur.
“So,
