Unteachable(5)
Author: Leah Raeder

“That’s a weird name.”

I laughed, despite myself. Dammit. The ground was all rutted and lumpy. Would’ve been faster to walk my bike out.

“I’ve seen you here before,” Wesley said, following me with a cloud of herbal smoke. Clove cigarettes.

“Great,” I said, “so you’re a stalker.”

“It’s not stalking if I was here first.”

I stopped, my shoes slapping into the dirt. “Look. Whoever you are, it’s nice to meet you, but this isn’t going to work out. I don’t want a friend, boyfriend, groupie, or big brother. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not going to happen.”

The cherry arced off into the darkness. “You’re M. O’Malley, aren’t you?”

Ice in my heart. “What?”

Crinkling. He opened something white and fluttery in front of my face. Moonlight turned it bluish. I could just make out laser print.

“They dropped me from film class. Someone took my seat. The lady in the office said it was a girl who looked like Snow White. She went on and on about how ‘talented’ you are.”

“Shit,” I breathed.

“I’m not mad,” Wesley said. “But the least you could do is tell me why you need that class so bad.”

I didn’t even know about E. Wilke yet. How it would feel to need someone. Right then, I just wanted something of my own. Something I’d made. Something no one could take away from me.

I stuck out my hand.

Wesley frowned at it, then shook. His skin was dry and rough, like a corn husk.

“Maise,” I said.

“Huh?”

“That’s my name.”

I gave it easily, freely, no strings.

You remember these things later, when they matter.

“And the reason I need that class,” I said, “is so I can get the f**k out of this town.”

He smiled, a big, crooked grin. “Good. That’s a worthy reason to f**k me over.”

Wesley walked me home. Not intentionally, but the conversation just kept going. Turns out he’s into movies, too, but more the technical side: cameras, cinematography, video editing. I respect people who get nerdy as f**k about something they love. He spent most of the walk explaining the difference between 24, 30, and 48 frames per second, and how human eyes work. How our brains fill in the gap between frames. How when we’re watching a movie, half of what we “see” isn’t even real—we’re making it up in our heads.

I thought about seeing Mom at one frame per day. The way I blurred her life into something to fill the gaps.

I wondered if Evan was doing the same to me in his head.

When we got to my house, Wesley pulled out his phone. “Want to trade numbers?”

I didn’t want to say yes too easily. High school boys are so presumptuous. “Are you going to guilt trip me about that class?”

He shrugged. “If I miss anything life-changing, you can tell me.”

We traded numbers.

“You lied,” Wesley said, grinning.

“About what?”

“Not wanting new friends.”

“We’re not friends,” I said coolly, walking toward the porch.

Mistake. I thought I was being flippant, not coy. This isn’t fourth grade. We’re not going to instantly become BFFs because we have the same cartoon character on our backpacks.

But what Wesley heard was, I have not ruled out the possibility of f**king you.

You’re never saying what you think you’re saying.

First day of school.

It felt like life was beginning all over again. That September sun, still a smoldering summer ember but starting to fail, to slant a little more heavily. The shadows of leaves flickering like pixels on the sidewalks. All the voices were relaxed, happy to shake off the terrible freedom of summer and slip back into comfortable straitjackets, schedules and routines. Everything had a golden powdercoat, the autumn decay setting in slowly, breaking the world into molecules of sun and dust.

7:55. First bell, bright and comforting. My insides arranged themselves obediently, preparing for the role we were going to play for the next ten months. I waded through suntanned bodies, the ocean mist of gel and perfume. Everyone’s face was jammed against a phone, getting in their last few precious minutes of airtime before they severed all contact with the outside world. I tossed mine casually into my locker. Wesley had texted me: Lunch 4th period? And I said, See you there.

So began the first day of my “new job,” as I’d told Evan. I wondered where he was, if he’d started his yet.

In retrospect you want to scream at yourself: don’t you feel it? Don’t you feel that strange edginess in your blood, the way it vibrates, as if some nearby force is disturbing it? Don’t you notice the disturbance, Luke?

I slammed my locker closed.

A Mean Girl stalked past, lip curled. Her eyes slid down my body like a viper’s tongue.

Okay, I hadn’t totally remade myself. I wasn’t Mother freaking Teresa. I wore shorts a hair’s width within dress code regs, and a button-up boy’s shirt that I hadn’t buttoned very diligently. The funny thing was, even in my hillbilly attire and zero makeup, I looked a hundred times better than this girl who’d spent all morning tweezing and abrading just to end up resembling a chihuahua. I smiled at her sweetly, and her sneer deepened. You could almost see the circuits sparking behind her eyeballs as she scanned me: Target acquired. Terminate.

8:00-9:05, Calculus. Save the worst for first, as Mom says. I was alert, assiduous. I took old-school paper and pencil notes. Some kids tapped at laptops and tablets. This is a dual lesson in class stratification, I thought.

9:10-10:10, World History. This involved numbers, too, but not enough. My mind wandered. Here’s a history of the world: Girl meets boy. Girl f**ks boy. Girl gets scared and skips out on boy. Boy builds civilization to lure girl back.

After class, I made a beeline for my locker to text Wesley, but froze up. What’s the polite way to say, I need comfort but am unwilling to reciprocate or share any titillating details? Whatever. We didn’t even know each other. Who was getting presumptuous now?

Chin up, sport, I told myself. Next class was Film Studies. My first taste of the future. And then I’d have an excuse to text Wesley and gloat about what he’d missed.

As I swam upstairs through the crush of bodies, I thought about what Evan had said. It’s a classic. Well, mister, if it’s such a classic I’m sure we’ll study it.

Like watching a lamb prance cluelessly toward the knife.

Room 209 was at the end of a hall, a huge window beside it like a portal straight to the sun. I spent a second soaking in the light, photons beaming through my eyelids. When I walked into the room my vision danced with microscopic explosions of blood vessels, a hazy red sparkle.

I saw him first.

I didn’t blink. Everything inside me came to a full stop. He wore pressed slacks and a collared shirt, clean-shaven, hair combed neatly, a silver watch gleaming on his wrist, but it was undeniably him. I knew those hands. I knew that mouth. I’d pictured that face, grizzly with stubble, his eyes half-shut, nuzzling at my neck as I lay in bed and got myself off.

I knew instantly, unequivocally. Evan Wilke. Starting his new job as a teacher at Riverland High.

My teacher.

10:15-11:45, Intro to the End of the World.

He raised his head and swept a generic, acknowledging smile over the room, starting with the far side. It took all of two seconds to reach me but I felt it coming like thunder, sensing my imminent doom and yet paralyzed, unable to run.

He reached me and paused. His face fell. Not into dismay—all expression went out of it. Shock.

A kid nudged me aside and walked in. I stood stupidly in the doorway. It felt like a series of small eternities, but it was only seconds.

Evan stared at me dazedly. I think he was confused. I don’t think he realized I was a student yet. I made myself step in and took the seat nearest the door.

His mouth opened slightly.

What did we do wrong, Your Honor?

I was eighteen. He wasn’t my teacher yet.

I drank. Everyone drinks.

He purchased alcohol for me. I lied about my age. Not his fault.

I rest my case.

My eyes were open, but I wasn’t conscious of having seen anything for a minute. A gray-out, Mom called it. You didn’t pass out but you just…weren’t there for a while.

The room was starting to fill up.

Evan shuffled papers around his desk. Then he stood there, staring at the surface, only his eyes moving, a rapid back-and-forth like REM.

Was this a dream? It felt distinctly nightmarish.

He straightened and walked toward the door, pausing beside me.

“Can I see you outside?”

Soft, discreet. No hint of emotion.

I stood without looking at him. I hadn’t brought anything to this class. I thought I had everything I needed in my head.

He waited in the sun. Kids streamed past in and out of a bathroom. All their noise seemed fuzzy and far away, behind glass.

I’d imagined what I’d do if I ever saw him again. Rush into his arms. Apologize for skipping out. Touch his face. Kiss him, kiss him.

Instead we stood with two feet of solid sunlight between us.

“Maise,” he said.

My head rose as if his voice had lifted it.

“Is that your real name?”

“Yes.”

“I am so sorry.”

I wasn’t prepared for this. I’d expected anger. You lied to me. You ran off. “Why?” I said.

He only shook his head.

“I’m eighteen,” I said quickly. Darted a glance at the kids around us. No one seemed to see anything out of the ordinary—just a teacher talking to a student. “I was eighteen then, too. So—don’t, you know. Be sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

I think I’m starting to be. “Yeah.”

He rocked on his toes. It made him seem young. God, how old was he, anyway? I figured past his twenties, but I had no real f**king idea. Two feet of sunlight wasn’t enough to block out that suede smell, tame and subtle now, but unmistakable.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “You tell me what you want. You can transfer to another class. Or I can—I can submit my resignation, right now. I’ll do it. Just give the word.”

He was talking crazy, and it made my heart expand like a balloon. You’re guilty. Flustered. You know this will be a disaster if we pretend like nothing happened. Because you still feel something.

The warning bell rang. One minute.

Evan didn’t move. His gaze focused unerringly on me.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I whispered, conscious of the emptying hall. “And I don’t want to transfer to another class.”

“Maise,” he said. Just my name.

“And I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have left like that.”

Thirty seconds. Lockers slammed. Footsteps hurried.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he said.

“It’ll be fine.” I swallowed every bit of spit in my mouth to add, “Mr. Wilke.”

We were staring at each other when the final bell rang. Together, we walked back into class.