A Thousand Perfect Notes(5)

She grabs the vacated desk next to him and dumps her books, with actual notes on the assignment. Beck angles himself to peek, but her handwriting is tiny and cramped, and he’s not so hot at reading sideways. Or front ways.

She gives him a small smile and Beck looks down. He’s never sure how to react to kids in his class. If he smiles, they might think he’s friendly, and then what? He’ll have to wear a poster board that says, If I ever make a friend my mother will noose me.

Mr Boyne has finishing shuffling the seating and returns to the front of the class. He always wears a bow tie with small fruit patterns on it. Today is bananas. How fitting.

‘All right, eyes to the front. Everyone listen up – which means you, Keverich.’

Beck blinks. Please don’t expect him to use his brain. He’s been up since five, hammering scales and arpeggios, and he’d kill for a nine-hour nap.

‘Now,’ Mr Boyne says, ‘you’ve been paired according to abilities, or lack thereof. A student who is failing with a student who cares about succeeding.’ He eyeballs everyone pointedly.

‘But that’s not fair!’ someone wails.

‘It’s great motivation to work hard,’ Mr Boyne says. ‘Or harder. Or, for the first time this year, work at all. You’re getting a chance to bump up your grades while being tutored. No one is allowed to squander this.’

Beck’s mouth opens by accident. Definitely an accident. Since when does he speak up in class?

‘But to be failing,’ he says, ‘means we’re trying in the first place.’

Snickers. A dark look from Mr Boyne. A curious one from his English partner-to-be.

‘Anyone with something smart to say gets a visit to the principal’s office.’ Mr Boyne adjusts his bow tie. ‘And then the principal will chat with your parents.’

Oh, how scary. As if any of their parents would care. Most of these kids are barely literate ghosts. Here one year, drifting off to work at McDonald’s the next.

Except for Beck, of course. While they’re fighting for a low-income job, he’ll be a famous pianist.

Great.

Mr Boyne clears his throat as if expecting the class will settle. It doesn’t. He raises his voice and rocks on his heels, like if he makes himself taller they’ll pay attention. They won’t.

‘The goal, naturally, is the essay. It will need to be two thousand words – that’s one thousand each – with detail, quotes and examples.’

Examples of what?

‘It’s due in two weeks, which is plenty of time to get to know your partner. You can meet after school or – oh, organise that amongst yourselves.’

Wait, meet after school? That can’t happen. Beck feels his world narrow in suffocation.

‘Remember the subject! The essay must be a detailed comparison of two opposite opinions—’

‘What if we agree on everything?’ someone yells.

‘Then get married,’ Mr Boyne says without blinking.

The class giggles.

‘You will find something,’ Mr Boyne says, ‘and keep in mind hobbies and interests are not allowed. You will be contrasting political, moral, or religious views. Present me a convincing point of view. Be respectful to your partners. Be intelligent.’ He pauses and rubs his bow tie again. ‘Be intelligent if you can.’

Mr Boyne seems to think that covers it. ‘Now, we have ten minutes before the end of this period, so get to know your partner and start discussing topics for your contrast essay.’ He plops behind his desk, apparently done with everyone and everything. For ever.

Beck has questions. Firstly, how is he going to find time to do this? After school? Come on! And secondly, contrast political opinions? He has no opinions. He has nothing but a piano and aching fingers.

August sweeps her hair over her shoulder and shoves her desk closer to his. She then sits on it, and rests her chin on her fist. The rest of the class has erupted into loud conversation – probably unproductive – but August seems curtained off in a bubble of quiet focus.

Focus directed at Beck.

This is so bad.

‘Hi,’ August says.

‘Beck,’ he says, then feels stupid because Mr Boyne bawled everyone’s names across the class. She’s going to know.

‘What’s that short for? Beckett?’

‘Something like that.’ His full name is a topic he’ll never touch with anyone. Ever.

Did he mention not ever?

August’s grin is like a sly wood nymph. Beck can’t stop looking at her hand-printed T-shirt. How can she get away with that while he gets detention for tardiness?

‘Wow, calm down,’ August says. ‘I’m overwhelmed with all the information you’re throwing at me.’

Beck feels trapped. What does he say? ‘This whole assignment is stupid.’ Wait. Did he say that out loud?

‘I won’t disagree.’ August tilts forward on the desk top. Her hands are covered in blue Sharpie doodles and her eyes are as complicated as the ocean. Beck decides to avoid looking at them. She whips out an orange Sharpie and she taps it on his desk. ‘How do you feel about tattoos?’

‘How is that political?’ Beck says.

‘Moral.’ August uncaps the lid and adds a swirl. The orange is nearly lost against her deeply tanned skin. ‘Some places won’t hire you if you’re tattooed.’