First period is ACAS. I am the lone sophomore in a room full of seniors. I find a seat in the back, near the window, and think of Evan, no doubt already in a glazed-eyes state of lust over Miss Powell’s sartorial selections du jour.
Ms. Benitez is wearing a severe dress with creases sharp enough to slice Romano cheese. Her chin comes to a threatening point, recalling to mind Evan’s dad. I’m beginning to think I made a mistake signing up for this class.
I tune in as she’s ranting about the word nice. Ms. Benitez is apparently a general in a holy war against this word. She seeks nothing less than total annihilation.
“Eliminate this word from your vocabularies,” she insists. “Not just in this class, but in all your classes, in your lives. This is not a word that describes, that evokes, that conjures. It’s useless. It’s meaningless,” she rails, “and you all use it constantly. ‘He’s nice. She’s nice. How was the dance? It was nice.’”
As though possessed by the need to emphasize her point, she scrawls the word on the whiteboard in ten-inch-high letters and then X’s through it savagely.
“Nice is the white bread of the English language adjective breadbox. It’s tasteless, bland, and forgettable. When you speak, when you write,” she says with the air of a fire-and-brimstone preacher, “I want you to do it multigrain.”
I’ve changed my mind. I was totally right to take this class. Evan can have super-hot Miss Powell. I think I’m in love with Ms. Benitez.
I catch up with Aneesa between classes. “How’s your first day?”
“Good. Good.” I’m glad she didn’t say nice, a word that hitherto had seemed innocuous but is now ragingly offensive to my linguistic palette. She’s distracted, juggling her books and a sheet of paper. I help out with a spare hand.
“Thanks,” she says. “Where is ‘Tinselly 2’? I have a class there, like, two minutes ago.”
“Oh, that’s inside the band room. You have to go through the band room, and there’s a little hallway, and Tinselly 2 is back there.”
“How am I supposed to know that? On the map, it looks like—”
“I’ll take you,” I tell her. I march ahead confidently, and since I still have her books, she has no choice but to follow.
“Other than the mysterious labyrinth within which lies Tinselly 2, how’s it going?”
She shrugs, a little more calm now that her destination is no longer a mystery. “Fine. I guess. A little annoyed at how white bread all the reading is.”
Nice is the white bread of the English language adjective breadbox.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s all this old stuff,” she complains.
“Hey, I like old stuff!”
“Oh, so you don’t mind a steady diet of old white men?” The challenge in her voice is unmistakable. There is a right answer and a wrong answer to this question.
And, I suppose, an honest answer.
“I never thought about it that way,” I admit. “I just always try to extract some meaning from what’s in front of me. Whatever it is.”
She considers this. “And I guess I never thought of it that way.”
“Someone once told me there’s a reason we’re all different.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a smart-ass, too?” she says drolly. “Band room! Excellent. Thank you, kind sir.” She mock-curtseys, swipes her books, and disappears inside.
I make a mad dash for my next class.
It usually takes a few days for me to adjust to the new school year, and this year is no different. By Thursday of the first week, I’ve figured out when I can listen, when I can tune out. The syllabus for Ms. Benitez’s class is rigorous, but not surprising, so I fade from class for a moment to consider the upcoming weekend and the first filming of a Chef Sebastian video concurrent with the school year. I want to craft something unexpected. I want, to use Ms. Benitez’s parlance, to bake multigrain. To prove to people—and to myself—that being back at school has not dulled my culinary wits.
I’m so focused on possible recipes that I nearly miss Ms. Benitez’s pronouncement.
“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” she says, “and I’ve decided to add something to the syllabus.”
A groan erupts around the room. The workload in ACAS is onerous enough without adding more.
She holds up a hand to forestall complaints, her mouth set in a grim, resolute line. “Enough. This is simply one more assignment. I’m confident you can all handle it. You’ll have the entire semester to work on it, so you can fit it in between other assignments.
“I used to make this particular assignment mandatory,” she goes on, “but I stopped a few years ago. I’ve been thinking recently, though, that most of you could benefit from it.” She stares unnervingly at us, somehow making it seem as though she’s staring at each of us individually. “You’re not babies anymore. You’re not children. You are young men and women, and I expect you to act like young men and women. Which means thinking of your futures. College or whatever your plans are. If you’re in this class, though, I can’t imagine your future plans don’t include college.
“No matter what you do in life, you’ll need to think critically. And you’ll also need to think self-critically. To examine your own actions and look for ways to improve. And to get into college, you’re going to need to write about yourselves.
“So. The assignment is this: You will write an essay about a significant event in your life, and what you would or would not change about it. The essay is not due until the end of the semester, but I expect you to be thinking about it and working on it throughout. You’ll want to touch base with me at least a couple of times through the semester to make sure you’re on the right path.”
And she goes on and on, and then she drops it and starts teaching, but I hear only white noise and see only red.
A significant event in your life, and what you would or would not change about it.
A significant event in your life.
And what you would
Or would not
Change about it.
Are you fucking kidding me?
How about: not pulled the fucking trigger?
When the bell rings, I abandon English like it’s the Titanic, racing from there as though the room were filling rapidly with water and piranha. I stumble through the halls toward my locker, the sounds around me muted, the sights blurred.
She can’t mean—
She can’t want me to—
But what else is there? What else is there?