Now That You Mention It

“Sullivan Fletcher was convicted of underage drinking and illegal drug use after a devastating car accident in which he was the driver,” I began. “Tragically, his twin brother, Luke Fletcher, was also in the car at the time and suffered the complete severing of his penis.”

The class burst out in surprised laughter. Except for Luke.

The rest of the speech followed the fictional life of juvenile delinquent Sully Fletcher, his poor-quality education, the violence he would encounter in our woefully underfunded correctional facilities, his difficulties in getting a job, finding a wife, his high odds of divorce and becoming a deadbeat dad. I talked about his struggles with drug use and alcoholism.

I walked between the rows of desks, addressing the students by name. “Picture that, Lonnie. Seven out of ten. What if you were in the bunch? Caroline, you have a little sister. Imagine if she had to visit you in State.”

I ended by stopping by Sullivan’s desk. “I hope you’re never in an accident, big guy,” I said fondly, as if I could actually have a conversation with a Fletcher boy, let alone call him by a nickname. Then I turned to his twin. “And, Luke, I hope your parts stay intact.” Another big laugh. “But now you all know what to expect once you start down the dark road of a criminal.”

Then...shockingly...applause. I think Xiaowen started it.

“Very entertaining, Nora,” said Mr. Abernathy. “Well done.”

I went back to my seat, my face now burning, the sweat now drenching me, my face so slick with oil that I could write my name in it, but the speech was over. I had faked my way through that composed, relaxed, funny persona, and it worked. The minute class was over, I bolted for the bathroom before my bowels melted.

I had to miss my next class, thanks to nervous diarrhea.

The next week, when our speech papers came back, there was a big fat A-plus at the top of mine.

I covered my grade with my hand, but Luke saw mine...and I saw his. A-minus.

He gave me a cool, assessing look. In that moment, it seemed like Luke Fletcher realized that he might not get something he wanted. Something he felt was his due.

Later that day, he hip-checked me in the hall, sending me sprawling, my corduroy jumper riding up over my thick thighs, my books splaying all around me. “Watch where you’re going, Troll,” he said, his voice the same sneer the Cheetos used, slashing like a razor because it came from his perfect mouth.

He stepped on my notebook and pivoted, tearing the cover.

He had never called me Troll before.

It was November; the semester would be ending in December, just before Christmas. Per Dr. Perez’s request, our grades would not be posted from now until the announcement. We had midterms coming up, and based on what I knew, I ran the numbers.

Despite the A-minus on his presentation, Luke was more than likely going to pull an A, if not an A-plus, in English. Because of my stupid gym grade, even if I got a perfect score on every test (as I fully intended to do), Luke’s GPA would be 0.008 higher than mine. He’d get the scholarship. He’d go to Tufts.

I’d have to go somewhere else. I’d be saddled with debt, have to take on a couple of jobs, try for every merit scholarship there was. It was possible. I could do it.

I’d applied to the colleges like Harvard and Yale that had huge endowments for kids in my shoes, but I wasn’t likely to get in. All their applicants had fabulous grades, too, and grades were the only thing I had going for me. I lacked any extracurriculars aside from the Math Olympics, too busy studying. No sports to sweeten the pot, no hours of community service, no trips abroad to dig wells.

I wanted to be a doctor—I loved science, and I could see myself in surgery, saving lives, beloved by my peers, not having to worry about clothes because of scrubs. For that career to come true, I needed great grades from a great college to help me get into med school, which would cost at least another quarter of a million dollars.

It would be a long, long road without the Perez Scholarship.

The Fletcher boys had everything. Two parents who loved them and each other. Their father owned the boatyard, his mother was not only the postmistress of our town but also ran the general store (same building, very cute, a must-visit if you were a tourist). As year-rounders went, they were set. They weren’t wealthy but they were solid. I imagined that Luke would be accepted at many colleges, get plenty of merit and sports scholarships.

But I needed the Perez Scholarship. And it looked like I wasn’t going to get it.

One day in early December, as I sat in the cafeteria, not eating (chubby girls didn’t eat in public), reading The Scarlet Letter, Luke approached me, his sycophants trailing behind him.

“Hey, Troll, guess who called me yesterday?”

Even as he insulted me, I couldn’t help the blush of attraction that burned my chest and throat. “I don’t know.”

“The soccer coach from Tufts. Said he can’t wait to have me on the team. Guess the scholarship’s mine. Nice try. But you knew it would go to me, didn’t you? Deep down inside that fatty heart of yours?”

His fan club laughed. He rapped his knuckles on my table, making me jump, getting another laugh, then left.

Tears stung my eyes, and hatred—for Luke, for high school, for myself—churned in my stomach. There had to be something I could do. Something that Luke couldn’t. What that was, I had no idea.

Finals were approaching, and both Luke and I knew we had to ace every damn test. Uncharacteristically, he was studying, no doubt to make sure he wouldn’t hand me the win. Every day after school, I saw him in the library, once my refuge, and he’d mouth, “Sorry, Troll.”

I was doomed.

With two weeks left in the semester, with the January announcement of the Perez Scholarship recipient coming just after break, I was desperate. I pored over my report cards, doing the math again and again. Even if I got an A-plus on every exam, if Luke did the same, he’d win.

But there was that matter of the A-plus on my speech to his A-minus. The tiny ray of hope. It was possible that one A-minus could drop his term grade to an A, and if that happened...well, shit. Even if that happened, he’d still be the tiniest bit ahead.

On the last day of classes before exams, Mr. Abernathy wished us luck, told us to study hard. “Won’t make a difference,” Luke said as he passed my desk, bumping it with his hip.

I sat there, my face burning, pretending to take a few last notes, waiting for everyone to leave. It didn’t take long.

“Everything okay, Nora?” Mr. Abernathy asked, gathering up his own stuff from his cluttered desk.

“Oh, sure,” I lied.

“I have a meeting, I’m afraid. Do you mind turning out the lights?”

“Not at all, Mr. A.”

He smiled and left, and I sat there for another minute. Told myself I’d done all I could. That the University of Maine would give me a good package. Or maybe I’d go to community college for a couple of years and then transfer somewhere. I told myself that while the road to my adult life would be longer and harder without the scholarship, it was still a road I could travel.

But my heart, that stupid organ, ached. My stomach, that bottomless pit, growled. I’d go home, stuff my face, have a cry and a binge before Lily came back from whatever she did after school.

Tufts had been so close. A free ride. The beautiful dorm room. Expenses. The pizzas. The friends.

I got up to turn off the lights.

Then I saw it.

There, on the messy, dusty blackboard filled with quotes from Shakespeare and Frederick Douglass and Sojourner Truth and homework assignments from the last two months, was my chance.

It had been there all along, written in Mr. A’s messy scrawl on the very first week of school, on the far left-hand side of the board. Underneath a caricature of Edgar Allan Poe and above a quote from Heart of Darkness, was my future.