“Yeah?”
As Carson was walking to the desk, Mr. Robinson got up and rounded it. That was another way he was cool. He didn’t sit behind his desk like a dick with some authority and lord over you that way. He also didn’t stand behind it like he had to have the desk between so you wouldn’t infect him with high school loser-ness.
He got close. Man to man.
Respect.
Yeah, Carson liked him. “You good?” Mr. Robinson asked when he stopped close but not too close. Friendly. Natural.
“Yeah,” Carson replied, not asking why he’d asked because he had a bruise on his cheek and one on his temple so he knew why Mr. Robinson asked.
Carson didn’t hide it. He never hid it. Everyone saw it. They always did.
He didn’t really care. It was his life for now.
Then he’d be gone.
But only Mr. Robinson would call it out. School had started over a month ago, the first time he had Mr. Robinson’s class, and the man had been giving him looks for a while.
Carson knew right then the teacher was done with just looks.
Mr. Robinson leaned a hip against the desk and put a fist to his other one. He then tipped his chin to Carson’s face and dipped his voice quiet.
“Looks like something got rough for you recently.”
“It’s all good,” Carson lied.
Mr. Robinson gave him a long look before he sighed.
Then he said, “Talked with some of your teachers.”
Carson said nothing.
“Your grades are good, Carson, very good. Especially for a kid who only half the time turns in homework.”
Carson had no reply to that either.
“You turned it in more often, you’d be on the honor roll,” Mr. Robinson shared.
Carson had no interest in the honor roll.
He had an interest in saving for a car, then saving every dime he could make, and the second he turned eighteen, getting the fuck out of Dodge.
Something moved over Mr. Robinson’s face when Carson didn’t reply. It was something Carson had never seen. He hadn’t seen it so he couldn’t get a lock on it. It could be pity. It could be sadness. It could be frustration. Whatever it was, it made Carson feel warm and cold at the same time.
“You’re exceptionally bright,” Mr. Robinson said quietly.
“Thanks,” Carson replied lamely.
“I’ve been teaching seven years and not once have I come across a student with your capabilities.”
What?
He didn’t ask but Mr. Robinson told him.
“You think with both sides of your brain. You excel in shop. You excel in art. You excel in chemistry. You excel in trigonometry. And you excel in history. You do this simply by paying attention in class and making a half-assed attempt at studying when you’re home.”
Carson was a little shocked the man used the word half-assed but it only upped his cool factor.
“You have no test anxiety,” Mr. Robinson went on. “Your teachers have noted you pay close attention and take copious notes in class. When you’re there, you’re there. We have you. Totally. I wonder, if you applied yourself, what that could mean.”
“Not much, and it doesn’t have to, seein’ as alls I’m gonna be is a mechanic,” Carson shared.
“I take issue with ‘all you’re gonna be,’ Carson. A mechanic is a worthy profession,” Mr. Robinson replied instantly. “Though, not an easy one. You have to study to be a mechanic.”
“Know that,” Carson muttered.
“I figure you do. And if you want it, you’ll be a good one. But it would be a shame if you were a mechanic when you had it in your head to design cars, engineer them. Make them maneuver better. Safer. Or use different forms of fuel.”
“Hardly got that in me, Mr. Robinson,” Carson told him the truth.
“How would you know?” Mr. Robinson shot back.
Carson felt his body still.
“Usually, by your age, teachers can see where students are leaning,” Mr. Robinson continued. “Where they have aptitude. Languages. Arts. Science. Math. Computers. Manual skills that are no less admirable than any of the rest. Some can show partiality to several of these. I’ve never met a student who shows gifts with all of them.”
Carson shook his head, not getting why the guy was on about this crap. “Nothin’ special about me, Mr. Robinson. Just a kid who likes history.”
“No, you would think that, seeing as whoever puts bruises on your face or makes you take your seat at your desk slowly because your ribs hurt would make you believe nothing about you was special, Carson. But the truth of it is, they are very wrong, and so are you.”
He wanted that to feel good.
But he wasn’t the one who was wrong.
Mr. Robinson was.
He liked the guy. Respected him.
But they were not talking about this.
“We done here?” Carson asked and watched the teacher’s head jerk.
“Carson—”
“I dig you give a shit, but none of your business.”
“Car—”
“So, we done?”
Mr. Robinson shut his mouth.
It took a couple beats before he opened it again to say, “If you ever need to speak with someone, I’m here.”
“No offense, your class rocks, you’re the best teacher in the school, everyone thinks so, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“That’s a shame, Carson, because I can help.”
Okay, enough was enough.
“Yeah?” he asked sharply. “Can you give me a ma who gave a shit enough to hang around to see me start crawlin’?” Carson asked.
Mr. Robinson’s lips thinned, “I—”
“Or give me a dad who wasn’t okay with leavin’ me at eight to go out and get laid so the neighbor lady had to bring over food so I’d eat?”
Mr. Robinson’s face turned to stone. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Sixteen, almost seventeen, less than two years I gotta wait, Mr. Robinson. Been waitin’ a long time to be free, now you wanna fuck that up for me?”