Mr. Mason is looking at his phone, with his feet up on the desk.
Soon-Lee flips her hair to the left side, twists the ends, and begins working out a problem in her notebook. I peer over to see what she’s deciphering.
Mr. Mason looks up. “A question, Janna?”
“Sir, I don’t remember some of the topics in this package. Is everything in here going to be on the exam?”
“Everything.” He goes back to his phone.
Robby pokes me with a pencil. I turn to him with a frown. His package is open to the second-to-last page, and he’s pointing at the bottom. There are the remains of a website name that’s only been half blocked off. I check the other pages in my package. They all show a rectangular outline near the edge of the page, like letters have been covered up before being photocopied. It’s evident this is something Mr. Mason pulled from online somewhere.
No wonder it doesn’t match what we’ve done in class.
Robby leans in to whisper. “We didn’t learn half this shit.”
Soon-Lee glances over. I point out the website remains to her. She goes through her own package, disbelief growing on her face.
“So which one of you is going to let Mason know this isn’t fair?” His voice a thick whisper, Robby peers up at both of us from his slumped form on the desk.
Soon-Lee stares at him over her dark glasses. She peels a sticky note off a pad. Her pen moves across the yellow paper.
She passes it to me. Why does it have to be one of US? MAN UP Robby.
I crumple the note and drop it on Robby’s desk, a smile on my face. He reads it and gives Soon-Lee the finger.
I pick out a highlighter from my pencil case and commence highlighting each topic we haven’t covered. There’s a lot.
From behind Soon-Lee, Pradeep passes Robby a note that makes him crack up and nod.
“Robby, may I suggest you concentrate on your own learning.” Mr. Mason raises his eyebrows. His phone is on his desk, and for the rest of the period he watches us.
? ? ?
“Maybe it’s an experiment,” Soon-Lee says. “A twisted experiment where he wants to check how well we can teach ourselves.”
We’re in the library at a pair of study carrels. Soon-Lee’s got her iPad propped up, and it’s been running a steady supply of YouTube videos demonstrating the new concepts we need to learn.
I show her Dad’s message for today to make her feel better: To spring back after failure, you only need two things: energy fueled by the memory of past successes and a vivid mental image of your success scenario. It’s in your grasp if you spring immediately.
“What does that even mean?” She pauses from recording formulas into her notebook. Her writing’s gone from tiny, perfectly formed letters to chicken scratch.
“It means we need to concentrate on beating this thing with a positive attitude.”
“We have less than a week before the exam, Janna. There isn’t anything positive about that.”
Familiar hyena-like laughter reaches us from the bank of printers and photocopiers along the half wall separating the checkout area and the book stacks. I motion to Soon-Lee, whispering, “Robby and Pradeep.”
We make our way to the bookshelves behind us. Through the gaps in books, Robby and Pradeep are visible, standing by a printer. Pradeep’s backpack is open, and he’s shoving in each freshly printed page.
“There’s no way they should be this happy right after that math class,” Soon-Lee whispers. “Unless . . .”
She steps out from the bookshelves, a pen still in her hand. “Hey, guys, what’s up?”
Pradeep zips his bag and shoulders it. “Nothing, just wondering what that smell was. But then you showed.”
Robby laughs and thumps Pradeep on the back. “Korean BBQ, meet Mr. Hacker.”
“Shut up, man.” Pradeep heads out through the turnstiles, clutching his backpack in his arms. Robby scrambles after him.
Soon-Lee beelines to the printer they were at, still humming as it prints out a blank page that says seven of seven. She pushes the menu button and selects Jobs list, from which she presses reprint.
The machine starts up again and spits out another seven pages. I turn the printout over. It’s an exam, with the same website link from our course review lining the bottom of each page.
“What was that your dad said about springing immediately?” Soon-Lee says with a grin.
I let her make a copy for me. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to use it.
? ? ?
After school I lie in bed, a buzz of thoughts swirling in my mind: hoping Fizz doesn’t call again, debating whether to wear my hijab to gym tomorrow, wondering if Jeremy is going to talk to me in the morning. I’m also mustering the courage to take a careful look at the exam. As I sit up to rummage in my bag for the contraband matter, Muhammad barges in. “Dad’s on Skype.”
Muhammad sets up his laptop so that we’re sitting on the couch with the window behind us, the rest of the apartment strategically hidden from view. We’d agreed that this is the best setup for video chatting with Dad as he sometimes starts asking about Mom’s buying habits if he glimpses anything new in the apartment. I guess he’s careful about his child support payments being put to good use.
“Greetings, people of Eastspring. What’s the latest from the hinterlands?” Dad’s wearing a suit and tie, but I can tell he’s at home because he’s holding Luke on his knee. We call the baby laddoo, like those Indian dessert balls, due to some serious chubbiness all around and due to the fact that Dad’s company is one of the premier prepackaged Indian sweet makers in North America. We call our other half-brother, Logan, laddoo too. The laddoos are a year apart.
“Hi, laddoo,” I say, waving. “Dad, we’re going to Chicago this weekend. For the Islamic Quiz Bowl tournament. Are we going to see you?”
“Coming here? Your mother never told me,” says Dad. He starts frowning, swatting the laddoo’s hands away to stop him from stuffing the tie into his mouth.
Muhammad nudges my knee with his. “We just found out this past weekend,” he says. “We’re driving up for the day with others, so maybe we can have dinner together.”
“Nonsense, you have to stay with me for the night,” Dad says. “You can take the bus back, or, Mo, why don’t you drive up on your own?”
“Because he wants to go with Sarah,” I say.
Muhammad nudges my knee again, harder.
“Sarah? And who is Sarah?” Dad’s brows are knotting up.
“Sarah is this girl who I’m getting to know, for, you know, marriage purposes,” Muhammad says.
“Your mother never told me anything about that,” Dad says. “I thought we’d agreed on an open communication plan. I don’t want to be finding out that you’re getting married in this way.”
“I’m not getting married, Dad,” says Muhammad, stepping on my toes.
“Ouch!” I say. “Dad, he’s getting mad at me because I’m telling you all this.”
“Is your mother there?” Dad asks. “I would like her to be involved in a renewal of our essential agreements. That our family operates in the same way regardless of whether we are a merged entity or not.”