Chapter 16

“How many roads must a man walk down?”
—Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

14 NOVEMBER 2018

Sometimes I feel very old. Like I’m an eighty-year-old trapped in a fifteen-year-old body. The whole issue with getting out of Algebra shouldn’t have been that hard. If my parents had taken the initiative, they could have used the exact same arguments I did, the exact same tone of voice, and the exact same demands. There’d have been no problem. I’d have been moved and they would have been seen as involved parents seeking the best for their child. For me to have done it, though, I was disrespectful and didn’t understand the way things worked. I guess I need to try harder to act my age. Only this time, when I say it, it means to act like a kid instead of an adult.

I looked at my journal entry with a critical eye. I was choosing my words carefully but expressing my thoughts and feelings. I was an eighty-year-old trapped in a fifteen-year-old body. Of course, I couldn’t tell anyone that but I could express how it feels. I protected my Moleskine journal and the gel pen I wrote in it with. I wish I’d been able to find a fountain pen but I suppose that for this age, that would be pretentious.

Inside my security backpack, there was a zippered compartment with large holes in the pull. I bought a small but reliable padlock and fastened it closed when I finished writing and put the journal and pen in the pocket. Paranoid? I suppose. I just really didn’t want Em or Francie or Pey or, especially, my parents to stumble on it and read my innermost thoughts—even the slightly censored version.

Ms. Levy was another thing. She’d suggested I keep this journal. It was different than the literary response journal that we had to keep with us at all times! She periodically gave us assignments of what we were to write in that composition book. She had some very specific requirements for it. It was to be wide-ruled, 100 sheets 7.5x9.75 inches. We were to write in ink. There were specific instructions for editing our work, including crossing out things we didn’t like and writing in inserts. Periodically, these were shared with classmates or she collected them. We were to use a red pen to edit our classmate’s writing, using the proper proofreading notation. Her rules made sense.

Or I was just too infatuated with her to complain.

I didn’t know if she would ever ask to see my daily journal. It was about the same size as the LRJ but was college ruled and had a soft cover. As I started to write in it, I didn’t know exactly what to say. After a few days, though, I realized I was writing it for her. I wasn’t talking about her but as if I was talking to her. Just exposing my thoughts a little while trying not to expose my real story. I sort of hoped she did ask to read it.

Thursday after school Beca and I stood at Mr. Richards’ door and waited for the last stragglers to leave so we could present our proposal.

“Hmm. I can’t say that it surprises me that you two found each other,” he said. “What can I do for you.”

“Sir, I’d like to move to the AP level class. I have a couple of reasons for this and a proposal that might make it work,” I said. He nodded and suggested I fill him in. “Well, first of all, I really enjoy this subject. It ties history and geography and, to some extent, even psychology together in a way I’d never considered before. Second, Rebeca and I have developed a project plan that we would like to work together on for the final. It would be more convenient if we were in the same class. I know that it is late in the term to be switching classes and I’m still trying to get caught up in a few after having missed so many while I was injured. I have read all the text and find that I’m looking online for additional resources. I thought that perhaps if I could look at the AP material for the rest of this term—even if I can’t actually switch classes—it might prepare me to make that move next semester with your approval.”

“Hmm. I can see the possibility. Your work has certainly been acceptable in these two weeks and you have just three more exams to take until you are all caught up with where we are. It would be difficult to move you this semester but there is a possibility that it could work next term. Tell me about this project you’ve put together,” he answered. That was encouraging. At least he wasn’t shooting us down just because we came with our own suggestion.

“It started when I sat down at lunch to welcome the new kid to school,” Beca said. “Over the next few days, I pointed out groups that always sat together, starting with the table that Jacob had chosen. It seems that is always the table where new kids sit to scope out the territory. Most of them move on as they make friends.”

“Then there were behavior patterns we saw,” I continued. “They range from what people wear on what day of the week to what days they buy lunch and what days they pack it. We noticed there were groups that shifted tables around, too. That was what made me think of the theme for the class regarding how people shape the geography. We believe we could draw parallels between what we see in the cafeteria to settlement patterns during migration.”

“I think we could put a video camera in a corner of the cafeteria and no one would even realize it was running. We could record and edit together repeated patterns,” Beca added.

“We might even be able to interview some of the groups or do a general survey form.”

“That’s an ambitious undertaking,” Mr. Richards mused. “Definitely AP work. Okay. Here’s what I want to happen between now and the end of this semester. You both seem to be committed to this as a joint idea so I want you to start studying together. Rebeca, you need to get Jacob caught up on the semester’s AP assignments. Jacob, you’ll find that the two classes cover the same material but the AP class gets more homework. I hope you’re serious about this. If you complete the AP coursework by the end of the semester and it is acceptable, I’ll recommend moving you into that class next semester.”

“Thank you, sir.” It worked! Well, maybe that was because we presented our idea to a rational human being instead of an incompetent bitch.

“In order to make this project work, I suggest you do some groundwork before the end of this semester. Assume it is a baseline. After the semester break there are always changes in class schedules and groups. For example, you might find a shift of importance between football jocks and basketball jocks. I’ll want your full proposal the first week of second semester since you have chosen a project that will take all semester to complete. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” we both responded.

“Then get to it.”

“Hey, Em. Could we give Beca a lift home?”

“Is this your girlfriend, J?”

“We’re ... um ... just friends,” I stumbled. I didn’t think she was my girlfriend.

“We’re study partners,” Beca said, almost rushing over me. “We just got assigned a project in Human Geography.”

“Hmm. A boy and a girl studying Human Geography,” Francie laughed. “Be sure to chart all the curves, Jacob.”

“Francie!” Shit. I knew I shouldn’t have suggested that we’d take Beca home. I’d no more make a pass at her than at Pey. She was like a kid sister.

“They’re teasing, Jacob,” Beca whispered. “Let it slide.”

“Sorry. They try to embarrass me.”

“That’s because we love you, brother. Where to, Beca? And tell us about your project.”

The rest of the ride was okay and we got Beca home to a development not far from where we lived. It looked a little older than our neighborhood and maybe a little smaller, too.

Pey was home already by the time we got there so it was way too late for Francie and me to fool around. Fuck. It was too late for us to fuck. Francie and I never fooled around about it. I had a PT appointment and evaluation tomorrow afternoon so there was no way we’d be meeting before next week.

We managed a little kiss and mutual grope as we got out of the car before Pey could see us.

Friday afternoon, I met a smiling Molly in the PT gym. She gave me a quick hug and gently took my crutches from me.

“I’ve missed you, Molly,” I said. The hug was enough to start me swelling.

“I can tell. Now show me how well you can walk between the bars.” I grasped the two handrails and limped from one end to the other. I was definitely feeling stronger. I was using my hands to support part of my weight, though. Of course, when I reached the end of the twelve-foot course, she made me turn around and do it again.

“Good! You are getting stronger. Let’s run the basic strength and endurance tests to quantify the progress. I’ll show you a couple of new exercises you can take to your coach for daily workouts.” Molly put me through my paces, testing the increase in arm and leg strength and my flexibility. I’d been doing regular sit-ups, pushups, curls and leg presses. Molly said that had served to immediately get my strength up to where she thought I could start adding exercises. I was told, however, to keep the weights minimal and repeat the reps. “And I also want you to start working on the treadmill. You are not to exceed two miles per hour and you are to keep your hands on the side rails at all times. I don’t want you working there unattended, so I’ll call and talk to Mr. Anderson about getting assistance. Now let’s go rub down those sore muscles.”