“I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. Looked away.
“What can I do to get you to come back to class?”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not looking to strike a deal.”
“But we need your voice in the classroom,” he said. “What you just said to me here, right now—I want to hear you say that in class. You’re allowed to tell me when I’m messing up, too, okay? But if you walk away the second it gets hard, how will any of us ever learn? Who will be there to guide us?”
“Maybe you can look it up. Visit a library.”
He laughed. Sighed. Sat back in his chair. “I get it,” he said, throwing up his hands in defeat. “I do. It’s not your job to educate the ignorant.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not. I’m tired as hell, Mr. Jordan. I’ve been trying to educate people for years and it’s exhausting. I’m tired of being patient with bigots. I’m tired of trying to explain why I don’t deserve to be treated like a piece of shit all the time. I’m tired of begging everyone to understand that people of color aren’t all the same, that we don’t all believe the same things or feel the same things or experience the world the same way.” I shook my head, hard. “I’m just—I’m sick and tired of trying to explain to the world why racism is bad, okay? Why is that my job?”
“It’s not.”
“You’re right,” I said. “It’s not.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
He leaned forward. “Come back to class,” he said. “Please. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Jordan was wearing me down.
I’d never talked to a teacher like this before, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised I was getting away with it. He also seemed—I don’t know? He actually seemed genuine. It made me want to give him another chance.
Still, I said, “Listen, I appreciate your apology, but I don’t know if you’d actually want me back in your class.”
He seemed surprised. “Why not?”
“Because,” I said, “if you pull another stunt like this I’m liable to tell you to go to hell in front of all your students.”
He seemed unfazed. “I can accept these terms.”
Finally, I said, “Fine.”
Mr. Jordan smiled so big I thought it might break his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, whatever.” I stood up.
“It’s going to be a great semester,” he said. “You won’t regret it.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mr. Jordan stood up, too. “By the way—I’m really excited to see you guys perform in the talent show. Congratulations.”
I froze. “Excuse me?”
“The school talent show,” he said. He looked confused. “The breakdancing club—?”
“What about it?”
“Your brother signed you guys up two weeks ago. He didn’t tell you? Your application was accepted today. It’s a really big deal, actually—”
“Oh, shit,” I said, and groaned.
“Hey—it’ll be great—you guys will do great—”
“Yeah, I have to go,” I said. And I had one foot out the door when Mr. Jordan called my name.
I turned back to look at him.
His eyes were suddenly sad. “I really hope you won’t let this stuff get you down,” he said. “Life gets way better after high school, I swear.”
I wanted to say, Then why are you still here? But I decided to cut him some slack. Instead, I shot him a half smile and bolted.
15
Fifteen
I walked into practice and Navid clapped his hands together, grinned, and said, “Big news.”
“Oh yeah?” I dropped my bag on the ground. I wanted to kill him.
“School talent show,” he said, and smiled wider. “It’s a couple weeks after we get back from winter break, which means we’ve got about three months to prepare. And we’re going to start now.”
“Bullshit, Navid.”
His smile disappeared. “Hey,” he said, “I thought you were going to be nicer now. What happened to that new plan?”
I rolled my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you signed us up for the freaking school talent show?”
“I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Well I mind, okay? I mind. I have no idea why you’d think I’d want to perform in front of the whole school. I hate this school.”
“Yes, but, to be fair,” he said, pointing at me, “you kind of hate everything.”
“You guys are okay with this?” I said, spinning around. Jacobi, Carlos, and Bijan had been pretending they couldn’t hear our conversation, and they looked up, suddenly. “All three of you want to perform in front of the school?”
Carlos shrugged.
Bijan chose that moment to drink deeply from his water bottle.
Jacobi just laughed at me. “I mean, I’m not mad at it,” he said. “It could be cool.”
Great. So I was overreacting. I was the only one here who thought this was a stupid idea. That was just great.
I sighed, said, “Whatever,” and sat down. I’d changed into my sneakers too quickly today and hadn’t yet tied my shoes.
“Hey, it’ll be fun,” Navid said to me. “I promise.”
“I can barely even hold a pose right now,” I said, and glared at him. “How will that be fun? I’m going to make an ass out of myself.”
“Let me worry about that, okay? You’re getting better every day. We’ve still got time.”
I grumbled something under my breath.
Bijan came over and sat next to me. I looked up at him out of the corner of my eye. “What?” I said.
“Nothing.” He was wearing big, square diamond studs, one in each ear. His eyebrows were perfect. His teeth were super white. I noticed this last bit because he was suddenly smiling at me.
“What?” I said again.
“What is your deal?” he said, and laughed. “Why are you sweatin’ this so much?”
I finished tying my shoelaces. “I’m not. It’s fine.”
“All right,” he said. “Get up.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m going to teach you to do a backflip.”
My eyes widened.
He waved a hand. “Up, please.”
“Why?” I said.
Bijan laughed. “Because it’s fun. You’re small, but you look strong. Shouldn’t be too hard for you.”
It was hard.
In fact, I was pretty sure I nearly broke both my arms. And my back. But yeah, it turned out to be fun, too. Bijan had been, in a former life, a gymnast. His moves were so clean and strong I couldn’t help but be surprised he was willing to waste his time here, with our little club. Still, I was grateful. Bijan seemed to feel sorry for me in a way that I found only a little demeaning, so I didn’t mind his company. And it didn’t bother me too much that he spent the rest of the hour basically making fun of me.
After what felt like my hundredth failed attempt at a backflip, I finally fell down and didn’t get back up. I was breathing hard. My arms and legs were shaking. Navid was walking around the dance room on his hands, doing scissor kicks. Jacobi was practicing windmills, a classic power move he’d long ago perfected; he was trying now to turn his windmills into flares in the same routine. Carlos was watching him, hands on his hips, a helmet under his arm. Carlos could do head spins for days; he didn’t even need the helmet. I felt at once excited and inferior as I stared at them. I was, by far, the least talented of the group. Of course they felt more comfortable performing in public. They were already so good.
Me, on the other hand, I needed a lot of work.
“You’ll be fine,” Bijan said to me, and nudged my arm.
I looked up at him.
“And you’re not the only one who hates high school, you know? You didn’t invent that.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I didn’t think I did.”