I ALWAYS HEAR PEOPLE COMPLAINING ABOUT MONDAYS, but Tuesday is the true evil of the week. You still have the whole week ahead, and you’re already exhausted. During the dragging haze of fifth-period English on Tuesday, I’m so worn down, all I can do is write my first-act monologue on my desk, lazily drawing the words.
You tell me, “Don’t be ungrateful, Faina. Don’t be loud, Faina; don’t question, Faina; don’t ask for a thing, Faina! Don’t say a word, Faina!” Am I not allowed to speak, to ask? To grasp for more? Am I not allowed to yearn, to live, as my life trickles down like a bead of honey from a comb—it will fall soon, Father, don’t you see?
“Kat?” says Mr. García.
I flatten my hand over the writing. “Uh, what?” I try not to feel twenty-five pairs of eyes fixing on me.
“Prospero. Any idea what he might symbolize?”
Shit. The Tempest. Definitely didn’t read it. “Does it matter?” I say instinctively.
“Ha. Interesting question,” García says, resting his yardstick on his shoulder. “Does symbolism matter?”
He pauses for an overlong moment, as if he’s legitimately wondering whether it doesn’t matter and his whole job is a lie. Then he says, “Here’s the thing. When we look at symbols, we’re playing God. Symbolism gives us a bigger picture than just actions and events. That lens organizes stories and gives them resonance; it adds an order we never see in the chaos of the real world. As for The Tempest, symbolism matters especially with Prospero, who’s often read as . . .” He writes across the chalkboard, his handwriting freakishly close to Times New Roman. “Shakespeare’s mirror, guys. A shameless self-insertion, basically.”
He puts down the chalk and carefully brushes white dust off his jacket. “So, let’s turn to page thirty-six in the text . . .”
I go back to writing on my desk.
When the bell rings, García says, “Kat, could I see you for a second?”
The rest of the students mutter and snicker to one another. I shove through to the front, ignoring them. “Yeah?” I say, stopping before García’s desk as people file out.
“What class do you have next?” he asks, sitting down.
“Nothing. Free period.”
“Great, that’s great. Want to sit down?”
“Not . . . particularly?” I glance at the door. The last person out shuts it with a click.
“Suit yourself,” he says. “I wanted to ask if you’re doing okay.”
“Why would I not be okay?”
He shrugs. “There are lots of reasons you could be not okay, from personal issues to a problem with this class, which could explain why you haven’t turned in an assignment for three weeks now.”
Ah. So it’s about that. He could’ve just said so.
“So I’m failing, huh?” I say. “What do you want me to do?”
“Well, first of all, start coming to class regularly,” he says. I’m surprised he hasn’t brought it up before now. García has this militant attendance policy for himself—he says that as long as one student shows up, he owes it to us to be there to teach, no exceptions.
It’s actually sort of gross. He was sick for maybe half of September and still didn’t miss class. Though, to be fair, he didn’t get anyone else sick. Probably because, in true germophobe fashion, he has, like, twelve things of hand sanitizer lined up on his desk.
He opens one of his drawers, thumbs through several binders with color-coded tabs, and unclips a sheet of paper. “I’ve got a makeup assignment here,” he says, handing me the sheet. “An essay on The Tempest. It’ll turn your last two zeroes into fifties. Won’t exactly get you an A, but it’ll help.”
I stuff the page into my backpack, looking at García skeptically. He has to know I haven’t read this play. He can’t be that idealistic.
He doesn’t say anything, so I assume we’re done. I half turn, but he says, “Kat, wait.”
I stop. “What?”
“I was serious, you know, asking if you were okay.” He folds his hands. “This isn’t just about the class. It’s barely November; the course is graded year-long. You can get your grade up by May. I know you can.”
Not the way you grade things, I want to say. The last essay I got back from the guy looked as if it took a bath in red ink.
“I’m serious,” he says. “We’ve got a lot of grades between now and then. You stay on top of things, do that makeup work, and you’ll be fine. That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“So . . .”
“It’s that alongside your missing assignments and—today excepted—your lack of class participation, I haven’t seen you smile or laugh or even talk to anyone in weeks. Here or at rehearsal.”
The accusation jolts me. “Um, okay, have you been keeping notes or something?” I say, knowing how defensive I sound. “What does it matter to you if I’m smiling? Am I, like, obliged to be happy?”
“No, of course not. But if there’s anything I can do to—”