Becoming Who We Are Ch 03

Thank you for joining me in Chapter Three!

Copyright © 2021 to the author.

**

When Luke reported to his math teacher Monday after school, he didn't expect to see papers covering her desk. Normally, she kept it bare except for whatever she needed to complete the task at hand. He slipped into a chair, but she beckoned him forward.

"Well, Luke," she said, fixing him with a gaze which suggested he had better pay attention, "I took the liberty last week of requesting your transcript from your former school." She tapped one of the papers. "That's what this is."

Luke swallowed. This could be only bad news.

"Then I took the further liberty of calling a Mr. Washington, who, I believe, taught you last year."

She had called Mr. Washington? Luke's knees felt weak. The man had hated him from the day Luke had walked into his classroom.

"Do you know what he told me?"

Luke shook his head. He didn't trust his voice.

"He said you had struggled all year, and in his opinion, you lacked the foundation for that level of mathematics. He said he had recommended you take advanced algebra and trigonometry this year rather than pre-calculus because you need a firmer grasp of the basics."

Mrs. Shuman noticed then how pale the boy had become.

"Have a seat, Luke," she said, her voice kinder. "I concur with Mr. Washington. You do not have the foundation necessary to succeed in my class. You and I are going to the guidance office right now to transfer you to advanced algebra. Fortunately, it meets during the same period, so you don't have to juggle the rest of your schedule. I have already written your parents a letter explaining the situation, which will go out in this afternoon's mail."

Luke slumped forward, his hands covering his face.

"There's no shame in transferring to another class, Luke," Mrs. Shuman said, concerned at his reaction.

"You don't know," the boy finally said. "You don't know. My parents will kill me. Nothing I ever do is good enough for them, and this will just be another nail in my coffin."

"Surely it's not that bad," she said.

"Yes it is. They'll say I'm lazy, I don't work hard enough, all I ever do is let them down. And it's true. They're right. I'm a failure at everything."

"You know that's not true, Luke. Mr. Washington said you were the talk of the English department at your last school, that you wrote wonderful stories."

"Stories don't matter to my parents," Luke said. "Stories won't put food on the table."

"Tell that to Stephen King," Mrs. Shuman said dryly. "Getting back to the issue at hand, isn't it better to take a class you can handle and at which you may possibly excel, rather than one you're almost certain to fail?"

"That's not the point. The point is I

should

be able to handle it."

"What you should and should not be able to do are not the issues here. What you can do is. Now I'm sorry it has to be this way, Luke, but it does. You are simply not performing up to standard. The sooner you make the switch, the better off you will be. You can't afford to lose any more days in that class. It may be easier than pre-calculus, but advanced algebra is no picnic."

She stood, briskly smoothed her skirt, and looked expectantly at Luke. His eyes searched her face, but he could find no clue to her thoughts. Feeling like a rabbit caught in a trap, he picked up his books and followed her into the hall. They walked in silence to the office.

**

The next day, Luke reported to his new class as early as he could. His sneakers carried him silently to the teacher sitting at a battered metal desk. He wore a red and white polo shirt with "Coach" embroidered on the pocket. He appeared engrossed in a sports magazine, and Luke hesitated before speaking.

"Excuse me," he finally said as a few others students wandered in.

"Huh?" The man started, then frowned as he saw who had interrupted him.

"Uh, my name is Luke Tang. Mrs. Shuman switched me to your class yesterday."

The man tossed the magazine to a bare spot on his desk and sifted through some papers.

"Yeah. You're coming from pre-cal?"

Luke nodded.

The man appraised Luke's face for a couple of seconds.

"Wouldn't think

you'd

have any trouble with pre-cal."

Luke shrugged, unsure of what to say.

The man grunted, turned around and stretched a long, beefy arm out to grab a textbook from a shelf behind him. He slapped it down on his desk near the boy.

"Here's your book. Get a cover on it by tomorrow. We're in the middle of Chapter One."

He pointed at the third desk in the row nearest the window.

"That's your desk. Sit down. Oh, and we have second lunch. That means we're here for twenty minutes, then we go to lunch, then come back for forty minutes."

Luke picked up the textbook and edged to his seat, wondering if Mr. Spencer always acted that way. As he slid into the smooth plastic chair, the bell rang.

The teacher dug out his roll book and called the students' names in a bored voice.

"Beatty. Chester. Collins. Anyone know if Collins is here today?"

Luke tuned out the monotone and glanced around the room to see if he knew anyone. His gaze fell upon the profile of a blond boy two rows over. It seemed familiar, but Luke couldn't place it.

As Luke tried to remember, the boy turned toward him. His cold blue eyes passed over Luke's face, then locked onto it.

Luke's heart sank.

Jeff Rohrbach smiled.

**

Mrs. Shuman's letter arrived on Wednesday. Luke raced home after school to intercept it before his mother could arrive for her daily afternoon break from the restaurant. He had not yet told her about the switch, and he did not want her to see the letter before he had a chance to prepare her for it. He had a feeling she would not take it well.

He trotted around the corner, puffing from the exercise and the heat. He saw his mother's car parked in front of the house. Oh no. She had come home early. His trot slowed to a trudge.

His mother sat in the living room, her back straight and stiff as a sword. She called to him as soon as he opened the door. Wincing at the anger in her voice, he went to her. When he saw her face, he bowed his head.

"What is this?" she hissed, brandishing the letter.

"Uh, a letter from my teacher?" he stammered.

"School has not been in session two weeks, and already your teacher writes to tell me you're too lazy and stupid to do the work the other students have no trouble doing. She writes she had you transferred to another class, an easier one. Knowing you, it's probably the class they put the retarded boys in. How do you expect to get into college taking remedial courses?"

"Advanced algebra is not a remedial course," Luke whispered, staring at the family photographs covering the wall behind his mother. The face of his dead brother grinned at him over his mother's shoulder. "It's not for retarded boys."

"If you're in it, it must be," his mother spat, rising from the sofa and stepping up to him. Luke concentrated on his feet, as if by focusing on them, he could stop his mother's tirade.

"You will go back to your teacher and tell her you know you don't deserve another chance, but if she will give you one, you'll study all night if you have to."

"I can't," Luke mumbled, trembling.

"You will!"

"I can't. She told me she will not take me back, that her decision is final. She said advanced algebra is the best match for my abilities."

His mother's eyes widened. A fiery red blotch appeared on each of her carefully made-up cheeks.

"What?! First you contradict me, then you tell me she thinks you're too stupid for pre-calculus? How dare you speak back to me?"

Luke shut his eyes tightly and folded his arms across his chest.

"I'm not too stupid. I just don't have the background to do the level she expects."

"You stupid, stupid boy!" Luke felt a stinging blow as she slapped him. "You listen to me, you worthless, lazy piece of garbage. I know all about you. I know you spend your time reading useless trash and writing stupid stories instead of studying. And I know if you did spend your time well, studying and working hard instead of going off in a dream every chance you get, you wouldn't have to take slow learner math. Every night I pray for God to give you the kind of brains and talents He gave your brothers John and Mark, and every day you prove to me you have neither!"

She stopped speaking and took a deep breath, exhaling it through gritted teeth. When she spoke again, her voice had its usual tone.

"I will tell your father of your latest failure tonight, after the dinner rush," she said coldly. "Now go to your room and don't let me see your face again today."

Luke whirled and stumbled from the room. His face still felt the weight of his mother's hand. Tears burned twin trails down his cheeks. She was right. He was worthless and lazy. As he climbed the stairs, more portraits of John, Mark and Mary smiled at him. Only one image of Luke hung among them. In that picture, he had an arm around his twin as the two mugged for the camera.

Once he reached his room, he closed the door and crept onto his bed. Hugging his pillow to his chest, he sobbed, alone, and infinitely sad.

**

After the game Saturday, Pete had quietly cornered Melina and asked her again to go out Friday. Rather flattered, she had accepted. She liked the stocky blond. He always seemed to have a wry observation or funny story about the other kids. She could tell from the way others sought him out that they found in him the same charisma she did. That reassured her. She knew from past relocations that the first kid to try to make friends often turned out to be the one nobody else liked. When she told her parents that night that she had a date, they had seemed genuinely pleased, especially once she told them he wanted to come in and meet them before he took her to dinner.

"Sounds like a nice guy," her father had said. "And if his parents are both musicians, you may learn a few things about that world."

Her mother had given her a radiant smile.

"This is nice," she had said. "I'm glad you're making friends so fast here. We were worried you'd be lonely without Julie at home, but it sounds like we'd better worry we might forget what you look like."

By Friday morning, Melina had worked herself into a state of nervous anticipation. In the other places she had lived, she had gone out with boys to dances and movies, but always with other friends. This would be her first solo date.

The weird thing about it, she had thought several times during the week, was that before Pete had asked her out, she had felt free to laugh and talk with him about anything. Now she felt awkward and shy around him, and she couldn't understand why. Nothing had changed between them, except they now had plans to eat dinner together. So what was the big deal?

Mark wasn't exactly helping, either. Since Saturday, when he had heard about their plans, he had cooled towards her. They still talked in homeroom and bantered before practice, but the spark between them had died. She couldn't imagine what was wrong with him. It wasn't like they were anything but friends.

She had considered calling her sister for advice, but their father discouraged long-distance calls, saying letters were a better way to communicate -- and cheaper too. Besides, Julie had a big meet that weekend. Melina also considered confiding in Lakeesha, who had turned up in her English and chemistry classes, but she decided against it. She liked Lakeesha, but just didn't know her well enough to feel comfortable confessing her feelings. Maybe in another month, she thought regretfully, wishing she were the sort of person who could bare her soul to the world. Life would certainly be easier. But she wasn't, so she fretted and told no one.

If Pete noticed the shift in her personality, he gave no sign of it. As the week marched toward D-Day, as she thought of it, he continued to joke and flirt, apparently not noticing that her responses had become hesitant. Friday after band, he turned to her as they packed up their trumpets.

"So I'll pick you up at six-thirty?"

She nodded.

"Sounds fine. By the way, what kind of restaurant are we going to? Do I need to dress up?"

He shook his head.

"No. You always look great, although I would prefer it if you didn't wear your band uniform."

"Geez, Pete, that ruins my plans."

He chuckled.

"You'll just have find something else. Anyway, there's a new Chinese place in town I thought we could try, if you like Chinese food."

"I love it. That sounds great."

"And afterward, there's a concert at the college. My mother's playing in a quartet. Do you like chamber music?"

"I don't know much about it."

"It's different from your average symphony orchestra. You can hear each instrument, for one thing. Lately, I've gotten into it. I used to hate it when I was little. Thought it was the most boring music ever invented, outside of Gregorian chants."

"It sounds interesting. I'm sure I'll like it."

He closed his trumpet case and latched it.

"Good. See you later, then."

With a final smile, he stood and sauntered to the instrument closet.

In her room that evening, Melina surveyed the clothes in her closet and frowned. Nothing looked right. A knock on her bedroom door startled her.

"Come in," she called.

Her mother peered into the room.

"Trying to decide what to wear, sweetie?"

Yeah," Melina sighed unhappily. "We're going to a Chinese restaurant, then to a concert his mother's playing in. He said not to dress up, but a concert sounds like I ought to wear a skirt at least, especially since I'll probably meet his mother afterward. I don't want her to think I'm a slob or anything."

"Hmm," her mother said, touching her lips with an index finger the way she always did when considering a problem. "A tough decision. Well, tell me what you've already rejected."

"Jeans are out. The church dress is out. All I have left are pants. I can't find my skirt anywhere. Either Julie took it with her, or it got lost in the move. It doesn't matter because I didn't really like it anyway. But that still leaves me with nothing for tonight."

"Hmm. It's not always such a good idea to be a tomboy, is it?"

Her mother's voice sounded contemplative, not critical, so Melina didn't take offense.

"And you don't have any dressy blouses either."

Both stared into the closet as if hoping something would magically appear.

"Tell you what," Mrs. Taylor finally said. "Why don't you pick out a pair of slacks and I'll lend you that periwinkle blue silk blouse you like so much. That way, you won't be overdressed, but you'll still look like you made an effort."

Melina stared at her mother. She never let her daughters wear her clothes.

"You'd lend me the blue silk shirt?"

"Well, normally I wouldn't, but since this is a special occasion, I'll break my rule for you. You'd better swear you won't stain it, though. I have my limits!"

"I promise."

Mrs. Taylor heard the sincerity in her daughter's voice and smiled at her. When had she become such a young lady?

"And tomorrow, we'll go shopping and get you some clothes that are a little dressier than what I see in your closet. I was so busy with the move here and with Julie leaving, I just didn't realize how little you have. I'm sorry, sweetie."

"It's not your fault," Melina said. "I was planning to wait a couple of weeks to buy new things, after I saw what everyone else was wearing and when things would be on sale."

Her mother touched her hair fondly.

"That's sweet of you, honey, but we're not so strapped for cash that we can't buy a few things now."

She glanced past her daughter to the nightstand clock.

"Oh, dear. It's five after six. I'll get out and let you finish getting ready. In fact, I'll go and get you the blue blouse while you find some slacks."

As her mother closed the door, Melina returned to her closet. How great of her mom to come through like that. Her outstretched hand wavered, then clutched a pair of navy slacks. They'd look good with the blouse, and she had a pair of navy flats to go with them.

She pulled the slacks on and wriggled into the shoes.

"I'm putting the blouse on your doorknob," her mother called.

When she heard her mother's step recede down the hall, Melina opened the door and grabbed the blouse. Almost reverently, she slipped it on, buttoned it, and tucked it in, savoring the smooth feel of the silk on her skin. She turned to her mirror. Perfect. It looked as good on her as it did on her mother.

She hurried to the bathroom to apply some make-up. Her skin looked clear, a miracle in itself, so she used only a little blush, mascara and lip color. No use overdoing it, she thought. Julie had always told her she didn't need to use much make-up because she already had good skin, and covering flaws was pretty much the point of cosmetics. She missed Julie. They'd have had a good time tonight, getting ready to go out, because Julie would have had a date tonight too, no doubt.

She decided on a thin silver chain and small silver earrings, nothing too elaborate. As she centered the necklace, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," she called, running down the stairs. She took a deep breath and let it out before she opened the door. Pete stood before her, wearing khakis and an oxford shirt. Melina grinned at him, pleased at her own choice of clothing. She had guessed well.

"Hi, Pete. Come on in."

"Hi, Melina. You look terrific."

"Thanks."

She led him to the kitchen, where her parents were making dinner.

"Mom and Dad, this is Pete Hess."

Her father put down the vegetable peeler, wiped his hands on a towel and extended his right had to the boy.

"Pleased to meet you, Pete. I'm Mr. Taylor."

Pete returned the man's pressure. The kid had a nice grip, Melina's father thought.

"Hello, sir. You prefer Mister? I thought Melina told me you were an officer."

The boy had done his homework, Mr. Taylor thought, liking him more by the second.

"Yes, I am, but I'm not one of those officers who insist on being addressed by rank when I'm peeling carrots and obviously not on duty. Mister is fine."

"Okay, Mr. Taylor," Pete smiled. He turned to Melina's mother, whose hands were immersed in chicken and flour.

"Hi, Pete. Let's skip the hand shaking, unless you like the feeling of chicken juice and flour between your fingers."

"Well, normally I adore that sensation, but since we need to get going, I'll refrain this once. Next time, though?"

"You're on."

Pete ran a hand through his hair. Mrs. Taylor had very cute dimples, just like Melina.

"Well, it was nice to meet you," he said. "We need to go, since the concert starts at eight. I'll have her back by eleven, sir."

"Sounds fine," Mr. Taylor said. "Nice to meet you, Pete. Come back any time."

"See you later," Mrs. Taylor added. "Have a good time."

The teens said goodbye and left. The Taylors looked at each as soon as they heard the front door close.

"He certainly seems like a nice kid," Mrs. Taylor said. "Good manners and a sense of humor."

"Good handshake too," Mr. Taylor said.

His wife laughed.

"I have never known anyone so obsessed with handshakes. I pity the poor kid who gives you a dead fish."

"We all have our little tests," he said with dignity. "You see if you can get them to smile, and I see if they have a good grip. It's a fine system."

Pete smiled to himself as he put his car into first and pulled away from the curb. The father had definitely liked him. Sliding in that bit about having her home by eleven hadn't hurt either. She had told him her curfew was midnight on weekends. Pete had dated enough to know first impressions mean everything to parents, and the smart guy made sure he left a good one. Getting her home early meant he could be trusted. So did a firm handshake. In his experience, parents would forgive later transgressions if they believed in his integrity from the start.