Confessions of a Teenage Caffeine Addict

14 // Dusters

We know what we are,

but not what we may be. —William Shakespeare

____________________________________

JAKE

JANUARY // WEEK 5

In European History that afternoon, Derek and I sat next to each other, more nervous than the time Coach Hawthorne showed up at my house wanted to play hockey with us. Mr. Douglas was ambling up and down the rows, passing back reports—the ones that were due last Wednesday. Derek and I needed a good grade on this report or we faced the very real consequence of getting benched. King High's policy was that every student needed to have at least a B- average to play sports; however, coach decided that no player of his was going to have a B- in any class. Period. End of discussion.

B- = Benched, or what our team liked to refer to as dusters. Dusters basically sat on the bench collecting dust because they never got any play time and Jake Roswell and Derek Leighton were sure as hell NOT dusters. They were the 2-seconds-left-game-winning-goal players.

I usually did well in school—nothing below a B+, and that was on a bad day; however, Mr. Douglas had it out for me and apparently every other hockey player here. It's not like I was going to quit hockey in hopes that he might give me better grades.

"Excellent job, Haley and Julianne." I heard Mr. Douglas say to my girlfriend and her best friend.

I looked over my shoulder to see that Haley and Jules's history report was comprised of pink paper—I guarantee you that it was scented—some girly font on the title page, and their names were written in sparkles... Typical Jules. All too soon, Mr. Douglas tossed mine and Derek's report onto our table with an exasperated sigh, like this was a complete waste of his time. Yeah, I'd be pretty fed up too if my hair looked like his.

Derek and I looked at the report and then at each other. He slid it towards me. "Open it, bro," he said in a tentative voice, knowing our grade was on the last page.

I pushed the report back over to him. "No way, man, you open it."

"Okay, let's do it together." He exhaled a breath and took one corner of the page while I took the other.

"1," I said.

"2," he continued

"3!" We both shouted and flipped through our report quicker than a kid on Christmas morning.

"Is that a nine?" I asked Derek, tilting my head to the right, as if looking at it from a different angle would make the number stand out more.

"Uh-huh." Derek nodded his head in confirmation with wide eyes.

I peered closer at the report. "And a five..." I trailed off.

"Weird," Derek said to me as we laid the report flat on the table.

"Dude," I said still dazed that two hockey players in Mr. Douglas' history class had just received a grade higher than a 91.

"We did it, Jake!" Derek said to me excitedly, and him and I were just about to high-five when Mr. Douglas called our names. Derek and I looked over at him to see a wicked smile spread across his face.

"I'm sorry, boys, but I think I gave you the wrong report. I saw the name Jake on it and I just handed it to you. But this is Jake Winchester and Ally McKnight's report—from the other class." He tried to tell us in the most apologetic tone he could muster, before swiping the almost victory our of our hands. I had been at this high school for two and a half years now and my bullshit detector was pretty accurate. "This," he held up a wrinkly report, "is yours," he said, sneering at us, before literally dropping it on the ground and stepping all over it.