Okay. So I had no idea what Mr. Connelly was up to. Maybe he just saw me as one really pathetic, lonely student whose father was an ass to deny her Mexican food, and decided buying me lunch would be his good deed for the year. Why the focus on me, though? There were tons of other losers at this school who could benefit from his kindness. And why would he take the time (and risk) to write me a note and stick it in my locker? Was I over-thinking it?
“Mr. Connelly? Do you have a girlfriend?” I heard from the back of the classroom.
I perked up immediately. A girlfriend? No way. Just the other day his mother was trying to set him up.
“Well, that has nothing to do with factorials, and I’m pretty sure it’s inappropriate for you to ask me about my personal life,” Mr. Connelly replied.
The class laughed.
“Seriously, Mr. Connelly,” Derek said. “You never share anything with us. I thought you were supposed to be a cool teacher.”
“Cool teacher, huh? I guess I totally fooled you with my kicks,” Mr. Connelly said.
More laughter.
“Oh, just tell us!” a girl pleaded.
“Why do you care about my life?” he asked. He was stalling. Just answer the question!
“Because we find you fascinating,” Kara said. “Now answer the questions. Why do you like teaching teenagers, and do you have a girlfriend?”
Mr. Connelly scanned the room. I guess he figured no one would pay any more attention if he didn’t answer the questions first.
“I haven’t decided if I like teaching teens yet,” he said. “I’m only a few years in.”
A few chuckles.
I held my breath for the second answer. I don’t know why. I knew he didn’t have a girlfriend.
Mr. Connelly glanced at me for the briefest second. But it was long enough for me to see him make a decision. “Yes. I’m dating someone.”
Some of the girls squealed. Others groaned. I made no noise; I just listened for the fracturing of my heart. How? How was that possible?
“Where did you meet her?” Trisha asked.
Mr. Connelly smirked. “It was a set-up.”
God, my stomach hurt! All of a sudden, it hurt like hell. I guess my heart fragments punctured it or something.
“How long have you been dating?”
“It’s brand new,” Mr. Connelly replied.
“Are you gonna marry her?” came a question from the far side of the room. The girls giggled.
“Moving on,” Mr. Connelly said.
I stopped gripping the sides of my desk. I hadn’t realized I was doing it. I guess it was a reaction to my aching stomach.
I kept my head lowered for the rest of the period. I didn’t hear a thing about factorials. I just doodled in my notebook, writing the same word over and over. Sometimes in bubble letters. Sometimes in block letters. Sometimes in cursive. Sometimes in all caps. By the end of class, I had a nicely decorated page filled with the same word.
“Stupid.”
I thought it was over—the bullying. I made it three weeks without any incidents apart from the occasional hate note slid through the slats of my locker, and figured the bullies had moved on to someone else because I was boring. And because I had a new lock. But then on Monday I opened my locker to flour. Lots and lots of flour dumped all over my books and binders, coating my hands and dusting the front of my shirt and tops of my shoes as I pulled out a notebook. I heard snickers across the hall and ignored them. I couldn’t hide my irritation, though. I kind of liked the outfit I was wearing, and now it looked ridiculous.
“Want me to say something?”
I jumped then whirled around. Oliver was standing behind me with his fists clenched. I shook my head.
“Don’t bother. And anyway, it could make things worse,” I replied. “Thanks, though.”
He nodded. “Want me to walk with you to class?”
I grinned. I kind of liked the idea of having a bodyguard, but I really didn’t want Oliver to go to the trouble. I didn’t want him fighting my battles or turning into me: an outcast. Well, semi-outcast. I had Nicole and Riley. At least during lunch.
“I’m a big girl, Ollie. I’ll be okay.”
He nodded again and left in the opposite direction. I hurried to calculus to beat the tardy bell. No time to wash my hands first.
I walked into the room and took my seat, ignoring the laughter behind me. What I couldn’t ignore was the gossip. I heard “Cadence,” “crack,” and “gun.” I really wanted to turn around and set the record straight. First off, I wasn’t high on crack. It was cocaine. Totally different thing. Crack was like the poor man’s cocaine. A cheap version of the white powder that jacked you up quickly but brought you down just as fast. I was high on really expensive cocaine, or so I was told. And it was a high that lasted a while. Second, I wasn’t holding the weapon. And it wasn’t a real gun. It was a tranquilizer gun. Because the people I was with were total morons.
The bell rang, and class began with a review of last night’s homework. I settled into a sort of numbness, listening halfheartedly to something about derivatives and linear approximation. I rested my chin in my hands, staring off to a point past the white board. Or maybe it was a point inside the white board. I’m not sure. I just know that Mr. Connelly’s voice was soothing, and it transported me to a silly daydream. Gracie was in it, and we were ten years old, passing notes back and forth during vacation Bible school. They were about our teacher, Mr. Arnold, and we were making fun of his receding hairline. He confiscated the notes, and we were in major trouble.
I grinned, thinking about the lecture I received from Dad about manners and respecting your elders. Mr. Connelly smiled back, jolting me out of the dream. The bell rang, and I was once again fully immersed in my reality.