The Sea of Tranquility(6)
Author: Katja Millay

I like Mr. Turner, but he doesn’t care whether I like him or not. He wants my respect and he has that, too. What he tells me to do, I do. He’s one of the few people who don’t mind expecting things from me. At this point, I think I’ve learned as much from Mr. Turner as I did from my dad.

Mr. Turner’s been running this program for as long as anyone can remember, years before I got here, when it wasn’t anything more than a cop-out elective. Now it’s one of the premier programs in the state. He runs it like a business wrapped around a master class in craftsmanship. In the advanced classes, our work raises the money for the materials and the equipment. We take orders, fill them and that money gets filtered back into the program.

You don’t get into the advanced classes without going through the introductory levels first and even that isn’t a guarantee. Mr. Turner only takes the students who live up to his expectations in terms of work ethic and ability. That’s how he keeps the upper level classes so small. You need his approval to get in, and in a school with overflowing electives around every corner, he’s still able to get away with it because he’s that good.

When I get to his desk, he asks about my summer. He’s trying to be polite but he knows me well enough that he doesn’t have to bother. I’ve been in one of his classes every year since ninth grade. He knows my shit and he knows me. All I really want to do is build stuff and be left alone and he allows me both. I answer in as few words as possible and he nods, knowing we’re done with the pretense.

“Theater department wants shelving built in their prop storage room. Can you head over there, take the measurements, plan it out and make a list of what we need? You don’t need to be here for all this.” He picks up a stack of papers, which I assume are handouts on rules and procedures, with a measured amount of boredom and resignation. He just wants to build, too. But he also doesn’t want someone losing a finger. “Bring me what you come up with at the end of class and I’ll get you what you need. You can probably have it finished up in a week or so.”

“No problem.” I hold back a smile. The preliminary crap is the only part of this class I don’t like and I’ve just been freed from it. I get to build, even if it is just shelves. And I get to do it away from everybody else.

I scrawl my signature across the bottom of the waivers and hand them back to him. Then I grab my books in time to see a couple other kids coming in. There shouldn’t be many‌—‌probably only about a dozen or so students‌—‌in this section. I know everybody who’s come in so far, except for one person; the girl from the courtyard‌—‌the one who was watching me. She can’t possibly be in this class. She must agree, judging by the look on her face as she scans the room, taking in everything from the high ceilings down to the industrial power tools. Her eyes narrow just slightly with curiosity, but that’s all I see of her because this time she turns and catches me looking.

I watch people a lot. Normally it’s not an issue because no one really looks at me, and if they do, I’m pretty adept at looking away fast. Very fast. But damn if that girl wasn’t faster. I know she’s new here. If not, she’s made some drastic, unfortunate transformation over the summer, because I’m more than aware of most of the people on this campus, and even if I wasn’t, I’d remember the girl who comes to school looking like an undead whore. Regardless, I’m out the door about ten seconds later and I’m pretty sure they’ll have worked out her schedule before I get back.

***

I hole up in the theater prop room for all of fourth period, measuring and drawing up plans and material lists for the shelving they need. There’s no clock in here and I’m not ready when the bell rings. I shove the legal pad with my notes on it into my backpack and head out towards the English wing. I get to Ms. McAllister’s room and walk past everyone still milling around in the hallway, eking out every last second to socialize before the bell rings. The door is propped open and Ms. McAllister looks up when I walk in.

“Aah, Mr. Bennett. We meet again.” I had her last year. They must have moved her up from junior to senior English.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Polite as always. How was your summer?”

“You’re the third person who’s asked.”

“Non-answer. Try again.”

“Hot.”

“Still loquacious,” she smiles.

“Still ironic.”

“I suppose we are both nothing if not consistent.” She stands up and turns to pick up her roster and three stacks of papers off the top of the file cabinet behind her.

“Can you bring that desk up to the front for me?” She points at a lopsided desk in the corner of the room. I drop my things on a desk in the back and walk over to pick up the broken one and move it to the front. “Just put it there.” She motions in front of the whiteboard. “I just need something to put all of this on so I can talk.” She drops the stacks of papers onto the desk as the warning bell rings.

“You need a podium.”

“Josh, I’m lucky to have a desk with a working drawer,” she notes with forced exasperation, walking over to the open classroom door without missing a beat. “You fools better get in here before that bell rings because I do believe in giving detention on the first day of school and I give morning detention not afternoon.” She sing-songs the last couple of words as a mass of students barrels into the room just before the tardy bell goes off.

Ms. McAllister doesn’t do bullshit. She’s not intimidated by the popular kids or the ones with the rich parents and she doesn’t want to be your friend. Last year, she managed to convince me that there was actually something here that might be worth learning without ever once making me talk in class.

Generally, I have two types of teachers. There are the ones who ignore me completely and pretend I don’t exist, and there are the ones who call me out and force attention on me because they think it’s good for me‌—‌or maybe just because it gives them some sort of control-freakish thrill to know that they can. Ms. McAllister isn’t either of those. She leaves me alone without ignoring me; so as teachers go, she’s damn near perfect.

She pulls out the doorstop just as Drew slips through the opening.

“Hey, Ms. McAllister.” He smiles and winks because he has no shame.

“Immune to your charms, Mr. Leighton.”