Call It What You Want(4)

I already heard.





CHAPTER FIVE

Rob

Time for calculus. Let the learning begin.

I’m actually pretty good at math. I’m good at most of my classes. When Dad was a bigwig—or, really, pretending to be a bigwig, if you want to split hairs—he insisted on it. You can’t brag about your son being at the top of his class if he isn’t actually there. I’m not number one or anything, but I’m in the top twenty-five. I used to be in the top fifty, but that was when I had a social life and money for lacrosse. Now I’ve got nothing to do, so it’s late-night fantasy novels and homework.

There was a time when I would have mocked a kid like me.

What’s Nelson doing at this party? Isn’t he supposed to be at home waiting on his acceptance letter from Hogwarts?

The joke would have been on me. Harry Potter isn’t too bad a read.

Sometimes I wish I’d gone to a private school. Not because I’m a snob—though I probably was, if I want to get technical. But no: when Dad got caught and our assets were frozen, I would have had to quit a private school. I would have been able to switch to a public school where no one knew me.

But also no. It’s been public school all the way. Dad wanted people to know we were a part of the community. Not too good for public school, no sir.

Everyone can be a millionaire! You just have to invest wisely with good ol’ Rob Lachlan Sr.

Seriously. He had commercials. There are fraud parodies all over YouTube.

It’s probably a miracle we got to keep our house. That was titled in my mom’s name alone, so it wasn’t seized when everything else was. I don’t know if Dad planned ahead or what, but we weren’t out on the street.

Mom had to go back to work, though. They fought about that. Before he pulled the trigger.

I remember the arguments. She screamed that we had a $5,000 painting on the wall, but we didn’t have money for groceries. The bank accounts were frozen. Their credit cards were frozen. He kept assuring her it would all blow over.

It’s okay, Carolyn. It’s fine. It’s a misunderstanding. Please, honey. You’ll see.

Oh yeah. We saw. In a spray of red all over the den wall.

So. Calculus.

Our teacher’s name is Mrs. Quick. She’s fine. Nothing special. Khakis and T-shirts, olive skin, straight brown hair, rectangular glasses. She might be thirty, she might be forty, I have no idea. She doesn’t take any crap, but she doesn’t give any, either. Some teachers have colorful classrooms with lots of flair and decoration, but hers is sparse, with mostly blank walls, except for a few bulletin boards sporting equations in black and white. Even her desk is neat and orderly, with papers kept in a locked drawer. The only hint of quirk or attitude lies in the clock over the white board: the numbers have been replaced with equations, like the square root of four in place of the two.

I like her class because everyone shuts up and works. I don’t need to interact.

And then I realize she’s saying, “… like you to find a partner for a group project that we’ll be working on over the next two weeks. Some work will be done outside the classroom, so you’ll need to be able to meet outside of school.”

I quickly scan the room. Students are scrambling to change seats and partner up. Outside of my corner, there’s a lot of giggling and fist bumping.

Maybe there’s an odd number of kids in here, and I’ll be able to do this independently.

No. Wait. Maybe Mrs. Quick would make me form a trio. That’s worse.

I look out over the class again. Everyone seems to be settling into partners.

My breathing quickens. Like in the library, I’ve been sitting here too long spinning my wheels. I need to talk to Mrs. Quick. Maybe she’ll take pity on me.

Maegan Day is already talking to her. I barely know Maegan, but she’s the only other student not scrambling to pair up. She got into trouble for cheating on the SAT last year, but I don’t know the details. I was buried too deeply in my own family’s mess.

I know her dad, though. He was the first cop to question us when Mom called nine-one-one.

Mrs. Quick looks up. “Does everyone have a partner? Maegan needs a partner.”

The room quiets. No one says anything. Including me.

I hear someone mutter, “Cheater’s gonna cheat.”

“I can do the project independently,” Maegan says quickly. She sounds like this is what she’s hoping for. We have that in common.

Mrs. Quick turns back to her. “I’d like this to be done in teams. Find a group and join them, please. Three will be fine.”

That means she’ll assign me to a group, too.

I clear my throat. “I need a partner.”

I might as well be saying, I need a colonoscopy.

“Thank you, Rob,” says Mrs. Quick. “Maegan, go ahead.”

Maegan hesitates, then turns. She returns to her desk and sits down.

There is an empty desk beside me—because I sit in the farthest back corner of the room. My preferred spot unless a teacher assigns seats. Maegan could have grabbed her things and moved back here.

But there’s an empty desk beside her, too, because the front row is rarely a favorite.

I don’t want to move.

She doesn’t want to move.

Mrs. Quick doesn’t suffer fools. “Rob, please move beside Maegan so you can start the assignment together.”