Previous Chapter:

SINISTER

8.

“Your final assignment is to answer one last question.”

Mr. Creedy was the school’s oldest faculty member. He couldn’t move around very well, so he taught Senior Composition from behind his desk. Regardless of his decrepit, immobile state, or maybe to make up for it, he made his class a complete bitch. Surviving Senior Comp was a SMCA’s rite of passage.

“It’s a question that some of you may not be able to answer.”

I’d already turned in my thesis, a ridiculous paper about literature and its anti-Christian nature, and I knew I couldn’t retain any more info before the final, so I was idling in neutral; half-listening and doodling in my notebook.

“This assignment has no minimum page count. In fact, it has no minimum word requirement. It may be as long or as short as you feel is necessary to answer the question.”

My collar seemed tighter than usual and made my neck itch. I pulled at my clip-on tie and scratched around my neck. Sometimes I thought about Garren’s high school and how lucky he was that he got to wear normal clothes instead of a blue and white costume. SMCA wanted us all to look like cousins; red ties, blue blazers and white oxford shirts. The illusion would’ve worked had we all been white kids, but I ruined it. I was the school’s one brown boy, the lone oddity.

“Your answer must be presented as a persuasive argument .”

When my parents were together it seemed perfectly normal that my mom was short and dark skinned and my father was tall and pale. It wasn’t until SMCA that I realized I wasn’t normal. I’d understood just how deep the difference separated me from my classmates when one of them told me I wouldn’t be allowed in his house because his family didn’t really, “Trust any of the Mexicans.”

“And your argument must make sense. I repeat, your argument must make sense!”

My mom had consoled me. “You have your father’s good looks and height,” she’d said, “and you have my black hair and beautiful brown skin. This means that God made sure you got the best out of both of us, so he really loves you and that’s all you need to know.”

I’d nodded and told her, “I didn’t want to go over to that stupid kid’s house anyway.” I’d forced myself to stop crying and pretended that her explanation had made me feel better even though it hadn’t.

“Are you ready for the question?”

Jesus, could Creedy be any more annoying? He bugged the shit out of me sometimes… I positioned my pencil.

“Does everything have a soul,” Creedy said. “That’s what you are to think about and answer.”

Easy, I thought. No.

“I’ll remind you one final time that your answer must be in the form of a persuasive argument.”

The bell rang and I folded my notebook closed. Then I looked up and met Creedy’s pale gaze. I don’t know why I looked up. I guess I’d sensed him staring at me from his desk. He waved a gnarled hand at me and gestured for me to approach. I sighed internally and, as my classmates departed, I went to him and stood at his side, obedient. The room emptied out fast. Quiet sunk all around us and it was just me and him.

“Are you all right, Anthony?”

“Yeah, I’m great,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“You appeared distracted in today’s class,” he said, “and very tired.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess I didn’t sleep much last night.”

After the paralyzing moments when I thought a shadow was moving in my room, I’d thrashed completely out of bed and turned on my light. Nothing had been moving in the corner of my room. Nothing was there but Garren’s ugly guitar. I’d only had a few hours of semi-drunk slumber when the nightmare had rattled me awake and I’d slept bad the rest of the night.

“I had weird dreams,” I added.

“Senior jitters,” he said.

It was a good drunk rather than nervousness, I knew, but I told him, “Probably,” and gave him my agreeable, schoolboy smile.

Creedy leaned forward. I swear I heard old bones cracking. He reached for a stack of papers on his desk. Automatically, I pushed the pile toward him. How old was he, I wondered? Seventy? Eighty-something? His hands were mottled with purplish spots, like bruises that had never healed.

“Thank you,” he said and fingered through the stack. “I enjoyed your work overall, but you must watch your tenses.”

“My tenses?”

“Yes,” he said. “For example, ‘we are talking’ is present tense and ‘we talked’ is past tense. You should not use multiple tenses in the same paper, much less the same paragraph, unless you are doing so intentionally. Review your fundamentals, then revise and resubmit your paper.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I am not,” he said and held my thesis out to me. “You have sufficient time and it’s the difference between an A and a poor grade.”

“If I don’t redo the paper will I pass the class?”

“You’ll have a solid C,” he said, “contingent on not failing the final.”

“I won’t blow the final and I’m cool with a C.”

His old fingers touched his chin and he stared hard at me. “It means average. You don’t strike me as an average boy.”

“In some things I’m really, truly average.”

“I had no idea,” he nodded. “Is your mother aware of this?”

Not fair, I thought, dragging her into this. I took the paper from him and, all at once, I wanted a beer. I could feel the weight of the bottle in my hand, the cold glass against my fingers and, most of all, I could taste it as I sucked it down.

“How is your mom these days? We work together and I rarely see her.”

“She’s fine,” I said.

“Remember, watch your tenses.”

“Okay.”

“Are you ready for final exams?”

“I’m ready to graduate,” I said. And forget about this school, blue blazers and clip-on ties for the rest of my life.

“I hope you sleep better tonight.”

I told him goodbye, like a respectful school kid would.

The paper was 12 pages long. That was a lot of typing and it ruined my plans.

Does everything have a soul?

No – English Comp teachers are obviously soulless, the bastards…

Next Chapter: