Tell Me Three Things(47)

“All right, then, back to Crime and Punishment,” Mrs. Pollack says, and redirects the class. I feel Ethan behind me, though, and I can’t turn, can’t even utter a pathetic thank you, because I’m scared of what my face looks like, and I’m scared I’m going to cry.

So I keep my head down. As if by avoiding eye contact I can render myself invisible. Nothing to see here. I think of SN wanting to be a chameleon, blending into the background. I somehow make it to the end of class, my eyes focused only on the desk in front of me. Someone has carved into the wood Axel loves Fig Newtons. Really, someone took the time to deface the desk to profess their love for a cookie. Unless, of course, there was a student here actually named Fig Newtons, which, considering the fact that we have three Hannibals, four Romeos, and two Apples, is totally possible. As soon as the bell rings, I grab my bag and run for the door. I don’t even wait for Dri.

“Jessie, a word, please,” Mrs. Pollack says just before I make my exit.

“Now?” I ask. I want to leave this room, get as far away from these people as I can, find someplace where I can be alone and cry, preferably with an ice pack on my nose. I try to focus on Axel and his love of Fig—I’ve written their whole tragic love story in my head—but instead, Gem’s words play on repeat: Whore. Slut. Fat ugly bitch. Like song lyrics earworming my brain. They’d sound good set to Auto-Tune: Whore. Slut. Fat ugly bitch. Perhaps I should offer them to Oville.

“Yes. If you don’t mind.” I do mind. I mind very much, but I can’t find the way to say so out loud. Mrs. Pollack motions toward a chair in the front of the room, and I sit and wait for the rest of the class to file out. Theo. Crystal. Gem. Dri. I notice Ethan hovering for a second—deciding whether to say something to me? to Mrs. Pollack?—but then he taps my chair with his book and leaves too, and now it’s just me and her concerned face and all I want in the world is to get through the next five minutes without crying. Please, God, I beg, though my relationship with God is something I have not yet sorted out, please let me get out of here without embarrassing myself any more than I already have.

I can’t stare at Axel’s declaration of love here, so instead, I stare at a poster of Shakespeare, a man in a ruffled collar, with a quote underneath: To be or not to be: that is the question.

No, that’s not really the question at all. Being seems to be the only thing not entirely up to us.

“I didn’t do anything,” I say, which I realize is not the point. She’s not mad at me—I’m the obvious victim here—but I’m choosing anger over the tears. Anger is slightly less humiliating. Anger is more consistent with the vibe Agnes claims I give off: badass and above it all.

Mrs. Pollack pulls her desk chair out and straddles it backward. She too wants to seem cool and casual. Like she’s a student, not a teacher.

“I just wanted to see how things were going. If there was anything you wanted to talk about,” she says.

“Nope.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. The tears are filling my eyes but have not yet betrayed me by falling. They wait on the verge. If I ever write a memoir, that’s what I’ll call it: On the Verge. “I tripped. It happens.”

“Switching schools can be tough.”

“I’m fine.”

“And I hate to say it, but girls in particular can be really cruel at your age.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not sure what to do here. I mean, I can talk to Principal Hochman. We have a zero-tolerance policy toward bullying.”

“I’m fine.”

“But I have a feeling that just might make things worse for you. Gem’s dad is a big donor here, and—”

“Seriously, I’m fine.” She looks at me expectantly. What does she want from me?

Whore. Slut. Fat ugly bitch.

“Did you do something to cause her to say those things? I’m just trying to understand,” she says, and leans on the pillow she has made with her arms. As if to say We’re just hanging, no problem.

“Are you asking me if I did something to deserve Gem tripping me and calling me a whore, a slut, and a fat ugly bitch? Seriously? You are asking me that?” I forget that this woman is responsible for one-sixth of my GPA, that she can keep me from getting a college scholarship. I should play nice, but it turns out anger is not only preferable but easier. Comes naturally.

“I didn’t mean…I’m sorry, I’m just trying to understand—” She looks hurt now, like she’s the one who’s about to cry. Like she’s the one who just busted her face in front of the entire class.

“The answer is no. I have not touched a single guy in this school or actually pretty much ever, not that that would justify a fellow student calling me a whore or a slut. And as for the ‘fat ugly bitch’? I presume that’s subjective.” If I weren’t so upset, I’d take a moment to revel in the fact that I found the right words for once, that I said exactly what I wanted to say. But I don’t feel like reveling. I feel like running away. “Do you need my BMI? I’m sure that can be arranged.”

“No, you got it all wrong. I didn’t mean—”

“Are we done here?” I ask. Screw it. It wasn’t like my grades were going to be so stellar at Wood Valley anyway. I’m pretty sure that college scholarship thing was just a pipe dream. And at least one mystery has been solved: Gem can do or say whatever she wants because her dad pays off the administration. I guess that’s what a little tax fraud buys you.