Shift

My attention is completely consumed with social media chatter when I feel the soft tickle of paper flutter across my arms. Mrs. Collins, my history teacher, taps the screen of my phone with her long, glossy, coffee-colored fingernail, and between the quick glance at the F on the paper she just dropped in my lap and the scowl waiting on her face when I look up, I’m feeling pretty screwed.

“Sorry,” I say, leaning to one side to push my phone into my pocket. I pull my paper to the top of my desk and trace the bright red F with my finger. Why do they have to use such a glaring color? Couldn’t this information have been delivered by, say, faint pencil markings?

“See me after class,” she says, pushing my paper down flat with the same shiny fingernail. Those suckers are like weapons, honestly. It doesn’t seem right that girls have to turn nail files in to the office because they could be used as knives but Wolverine claws are fine.

I nod and sink back in my chair. I don’t even remember taking this test. It’s my handwriting, though, so I must have. I read over the first few answers and my lip ticks up, amused. I’m a dumbass, sure, but I’m a fu

The question: What ended in 1933.

My answer: 1932.

I fold the test in half and flatten my palms on top while I fake engage with the last few minutes of class. My eyes are on my teacher’s face, and I think there’s a hint of a smile on my lips, but I don’t hear a word. I’m calculating how quickly I can get to south Phoenix and back on Friday before the Straights, maybe squeeze in two races and make a little headway toward earning back my cash.

The bell dings and the entire classroom erupts with shuffling papers, feet, and backpacks. Zippers go one way then back as serious students take their tests home to study for the final. I’ll be lucky to find mine an hour from now.

I lean forward in my desk, pulling my feet under as I fidget with the folded edges of my test. My heart is pounding, which is such a foreign sensation. I’m not the kind of guy who gets nervous, but something about school zeroes in on all my insecurities. Years of missed parent-teacher conferences, detentions and threats of expulsion for fighting, or worse—home visits. When it comes to life, I feel prepared, probably more than most. I know how to handle myself in the real world. I’m ready for all things cruel and unfair. But at school, in situations that are academic, I have always felt stupid. The heat from everyone’s eyes on me when Mrs. Collins asked to talk to me after class still burns hot at my neck even though everyone’s gone. I brace myself for the worst as Mrs. Collins turns the desk in front of me around and takes a seat.

“Dustin, I’m not going to dance around this topic. You’re not going to pass this class. You won’t graduate with the rest of your class. It’s a mathematical impossibility.” She actually looks sympathetic, which helps tamp down my instinct to become defensive.

“Oh,” I say instead. The word comes out quiet and I study the blank side of my test as I spin it on my desk in slow circles.

I glance up with an arched brow.

“Are there, like, retakes or something?” I lift a shoulder and am encouraged by her soft smile, but I can tell by the way her eyes still and hold their lock on mine that there aren’t.

“There’s summer school, and with just one class, you could have your credit done in four weeks. If we get you enrolled, maybe I can talk to the principal about letting you walk the graduation line with your friends. You won’t get an actual diploma, though.”

I chuckle at the thought.

“So, like, what? I’ll get a prop?” I imagine a blank piece of construction paper with a gold ribbon tied around the middle.

“Something like that,” she says, flattening my amusement with the hard truth. Yeah, I’ll get a fake diploma. I fucked up getting the real one. Tommy and Ha

“What if . . .” I suck in my lips as I hold in my thought. My eyes blink rapidly, eventually opening on Mrs. Collins’. Her hands are clasped together on the desk, and if I hold my breath, I swear I can hear the tick of the second hand on her gold watch. I wonder how much that thing is worth.

“What if I just didn’t finish. Like, I end up one credit short, and maybe later I finish or get a GED or something? Is that an option?”

Her mouth falls at the corners and her eyes become flat with disappointment.

“Dropping out is always an option, but I think it’s a coward’s way out.”

Wow. She’s not exactly warm and fuzzy. Kinda makes me respect her a little more. I don’t know much about Mrs. Collins, or any of the teachers at this school. She lives in town, though. She knows about life here, she knows my story, and she has spent a few years at the very least in this environment.

“I understand,” I say, and she breathes out a sigh as her shoulders relax. She thinks she’s gotten through to me, and I feel bad because she has, but not in the way she thinks.

“It’s just, I’m not going to college. My skill set isn’t something that comes from schooling, and four weeks of my summer is four more weeks in a place that has done nothing for me since the day I was born. I don’t think it’s for me, is all. No offense.”

I step up from my desk and tuck my test in the small hole in the top of my backpack. It’s the last I’ll see of it. I sling a strap over my right shoulder and hold out my hand to thank Mrs. Collins for at least caring enough to talk to me in private. Most teachers would have embarrassed me and dished about my sucky grades in front of everyone else.

She blinks twice as she stares at my hand, but eventually takes it as she stands, covering the top with her other palm. It’s a caring gesture that immediately pricks the hairs on the back of my neck. When people do this, it has to be a trick. I feel trapped. My jaw tightens in response, my muscles rigid and ready for someone to knock me down.

“Think about it, Dustin. And don’t sell yourself short. There are people here who want to see you succeed. Just because this is a small town doesn’t mean we can’t have big dreams.”

I have big dreams, and I want to shout that at her, but suddenly, I have a hard time meeting her gaze. I force my eyes up for one quick glance, long enough to gauge how genuine all of this is. Her grip on my hand is firm enough to hold me in place, and her lips don’t wear a fake smile. My heartbeat picks up again, and I hate the vulnerable feeling that seems to be snaking its way into my body. I feel powerless. Clearing my throat, I jostle my hand free and give her a quick nod.

“Yeah, sure. I can think about it.” I say. My body thrums with anxiety.

I head straight for the door and don’t look back, but I know she is staring at me, waiting for one more chance to zap my nerves. I’m buzzing as I walk the hallway, and the last thing I want to do is sit through my math class where I’m sure I’ll be told the same thing. I can’t fathom that I’m passing that class either. I haven’t done a damn thing all semester. I’m so out of it that when I round the corner, I slam into another body and send papers flying in all directions. Ha

“Damn, I’m sorry Han,” I stutter out.