Relief

The test felt like maybe, just maybe, I wasn't a complete failure. That was a relief. I was beginning to get a complex.

I was a complete failure in band because I couldn't hit that stupid high C. I felt like I deserved something of a break for that: I played the baritone, for God's sake.

I was a complete failure at work because I always forgot to ask if customers wanted dessert. If someone wanted their stupid dessert, they'd ask for it. That whiny mother was awfully bitter for complaining to my manager.

Mostly, though, I was a failure at math because I'd gotten a D on my last test. Screw math, anyway.

I hated math.



I hated derivatives and I hated trig. I hated second period with its freezing classroom in some forsaken hellhole corner of the building. I hated my stupid math teacher with his stupid flannel shirts that didn't fit and his stupid little beard that didn't hide his double chin.

"Jen, how'd you do?" asked Dan. Dan sat behind me and always put his feet on my chair. He was an atomic leg jiggler--you know, the kind that shakes the whole damn floor--but he was a phenomenally great math tutor, if perhaps a little arrogant.

I decided not to answer. If I said anything, I might jinx it. Besides, Dan was one of those give-an-inch-take-a-mile guys. He thought my admission of, "I need help in math" was really "I"m in love with you" when it was really just "I need help in math."

That was my life in a nutshell. Cocky tutors who may or may not have been nice--the jury was still out on that one--and very nearly flunking math.

Dan threw his arm around me. He did stuff like this a whole hell of a lot. It was sort of an annoyance but sort of a relief to know that there was always a boy who would hang and teach me math and want to kiss me, even if I didn't necessarily want him to.

Things like this, though, always did seem a bit brighter after maybe-just-maybe-but-let's -not-get-ahead-of-ourselves not failing a math test.