“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask him slowly.
“Nothing. Sorry.”
Joey pushes the bread of his hoagie with a finger. “I just really need your help, Emmy. I wouldn’t ask, I know I’m supposed to be doing it all myself, but I’m so tired. You got to do your homework at Hank’s. It’s almost nine-thirty and I’m just starting mine.”
His shoulders sag. He drops his head in his hands. I think back to when he first got home from Blue Spruce, how his head was high.
It seems to have been dropping lower and lower the longer he’s been back.
“Can’t you…can’t you text your tutor or something?”
“I can’t text her this late,” he says softly. “Just forget it. It’s fine.”
My phone pings.
U coming
I look at my brother, hunched over the table, his sandwich forgotten, the circles under his eyes prominent from working late and studying late. My mom is working him too hard, and it isn’t fair. And here I am trying to get away from him so I can go kiss a boy in his bedroom.
I take a deep breath. “It’s okay, Joey. It’s all right.”
My heart deflating, I take off my sweater, hang it on the back of the dining room chair, and sit down.
“Show me,” I say. “Show me where you’re having problems.”
Joey pushes his iPad to me.
My phone lights up, but I turn it off.
“Here,” Joey says quietly. “This stuff. It makes no sense to me.”
My brother smells of oil and onions, and he’s so tired, he can’t even finish his sandwich and his eyelids are drooping.
“Let me,” I say. “I’ll do it. Just go up to bed, okay? I’ll finish.”
“I can’t let you do that, Em. I won’t learn it. I have to learn it for the test.” He’s whispering.
“You can ask Amber about it tomorrow. She can talk you through it.”
“Emmy.”
“Go, Joey. Just go.”
* * *
—
I finally get to bed at midnight after finishing Joey’s math and then the flashing of my phone wakes me up. It’s 2:14 in the morning and my eyes struggle to read the text.
Come to the window
Why
Just do it
I get out of bed and limp to my window, parting the drapes. Fuzzy snuffles and rearranges herself on my bed.
Gage is in his own window, looking back, wearing a white T-shirt and gray pajama pants.
I missed you tonight
You did?
Yeah
I missed you, too
He holds up his phone and takes a photograph of me, the flash pinging like a star.
Hey! What was that for? I type.
Because I missed you. You look cute all sleepy like that
Okay then. I smile.
I hold up my phone, take a picture of him.
How do you like it!
He’s looking at his phone.
Raise your shirt a little
What
I stare at him. Take a step back.
Like with your hand, so I can see your skin No
I’ve seen it before. It’s just a picture. I have to go to a pitching camp this weekend. Need something to remember you with. For…you know.
I stare at the words of his text.
Just raise it a little
There’s a warmth spreading through me that’s kind of confusing but also feels good. I put my phone on the windowsill, take a fistful of my T-shirt, and raise it along my belly.
That’s nice maybe a little higher
I raise it a little higher.
From his window, he motions for me to raise it even higher.
I shake my head, No.
He watches me for a minute and then hooks his fingers in the waistband of his pajama pants and pushes them down one hip. He motions for me to do the same.
You promise you won’t show anyone?
I would never do that, Emmy
I push one side of my pants down and hold it there, keeping my eyes on his face.
He holds up his phone. The flash brightens like a tiny star again.
Beautiful, he says. Perfect.
Mis_Educated
Today was a good day
Sometimes you win:
Go forth, Watsoners, and create
Your own list of classic reads.
We’ve been released.
No more Lolita, no more Hester Prynne, No more West Egg, East Egg
Bring forth your hobbits and faeries
Bring forth girl queens with swords
Bring forth the damn pig and spider
Your Whartons and Riordans
Your Lewises and Woolfs
Your Baldwins and Morrisons
And you can even read Proust
（what a boring old gas bag, tho）。
What shall we take on next
The extremely sad practice
Of dismembering frogs in bio?
How about woodshop? I mean,
Who puts kids in charge of heavy machinery?
What about Kramer’s visual art
Is it all white people?
I was today-years-old when I learned
Those marble statues turned white Over time
They were as colorful as sunsets
Just like people
On to other things:
Fall Fest is coming up
What sort of drama is going to happen?
Young hearts, a dance, some
Thumpin bass and a little something
Snuck into the punch bowl
Should do the trick.
Who’s getting ready for the dance?
233 likes
#heywoodhaulers #heywoodhigh #heywoodhypocrisy #revolutionnow #heywoodfallfestival #millhaven
NatetheGreat nobody ever dances with me WoodyB i’m picking The Wimpy Kid books, jk GentleBen I don’t want to cut those frogs poor little froggies MandyMandy I love Edith Wharton! Detention was totally worth our book boycott, btw LzySusan I can’t believe you guys got to Watson like that BlakeMars Did you hear about the mill? Might get sold so richy riches can have nice apartments and meanwhile me and my mom are stomping on roaches every hour MrPoppersPenguins Anyone seen a little blond girl named Carly? She’s my sister. Been missing from Dover since last May. DM me LucyK Candy loved dances. She was on the dance team, remember? She taught me how to dance in eighth grade. She was so beautiful when she was dancing.
TashaJack Anybody want to do anything about Helen Hoover the History Teacher from Hell telling us slavery was a necessary evil? I’ll wait.
22
MAX DEVOS STARES AT the paper in his hand like he’s never actually seen a paper product before. “So, like, you’re saying I can read any book I want? Any book?”
Mr. Watson is fiddling with a pen. He looks at us all sternly.
“Yes. Any book. A minimum of two hundred pages. It must be fiction. And you must write a thirty-page paper on why you think this is a piece of classic literature that should be read by students of your age. You’ll need to use at least ten of the literary terms that I’ll discuss during the remainder of our classes and you must use them correctly. You must cite your sources of support for your arguments. Typed, titled, double-spaced. You may not use illustrations. That means drawing, Max.”
“I know that, I’m not stupid,” Max says huffily.
You can just tell Mr. Watson wants to say Are you sure? by the flicker of his mouth, but somehow, he reins it in.
Someone says meekly, “Thirty pages? Don’t you think that’s a—”
Mr. Watson holds up one long, wrinkly finger. “I’m asking you to read one book. One. You can write the paper. I’ll have no more discussion on this. This is what you wanted, this is what you get. No tests, but a paper. Your one goal is to make me want to read the book. Are we in agreement?”