Hoops and Dreams

[6] Darnell:1, Hazel:0

Basketball practice runs from three to five. And because of that I only have forty-five minutes between the end of class and the start of practice to get through lunch, hand in overdue assignments, and change into my sports gear. Which explains why I'm a little antsy as the minutes drag along to two. Or maybe antsy is too delicate a word for my state.

It happened in my AP math class.

Our instructor isn't what anyone would describe as easygoing, from his homework assignments to his teaching methods. For that reason, I make sure that I'm at my mental best in math and science classes. If it means drinking watered-down coffee and going over the topics well ahead of time then so be it. It must have been the collision with Darnell in PE or my late-night altercation with Xavier but either way I was totally off my already floundering game.

We were going over a new topic, something flowery about derivatives. And that's when he called on me to differentiate the math on the board. Let's just say the board wasn't the only thing that was blank.

The figures scrawled in black marker didn't resonate with me in the slightest. It was the longest minute of my life. I sat back down and someone else stood to try and solve the question. Successfully I might add. The lesson dragged from there on as the hour hand inched towards two and I sat angry at myself and the instructor, blocking out the rest of the class. When it ended I started to stack my books and shove them back into my bag. Hoping to leave early enough, because this particular class was notorious for its lectures. And my performance today was pretty damn deserving of a lecture.

Now Mr. Turner waves me over to his desk as the rest of our class heads out.

I stand in front of him for a beat before he looks up to acknowledge me. Classic educator intimidation tactics. I don't flinch, refusing to be fazed.

He clears his throat and finally looks at me, "Ms. Monroe how long have you been in my class?"

"One or two months maybe, uh, this is my first year," I respond.

"Hmm, Advanced math is a difficult course and not everyone can handle it in their junior year." He says pressing down on the pen he was writing with until it clicks. I get what he's saying. I do. But I need to stay in this class if I'm going to write my SATs this school year."I'd understand if you chose to switch back to Ms. Phelps course and transfer again next year."

"Wait, you got all that from me failing one question." The with all due respect in that sentence is implied.

Another sigh reaches me from his end of the line. He shuffles a few papers and pulls out three test papers. They're all mine and the red ink on them is disheartening.

"Thus far you haven't even managed to keep your grade a C average." I can't even disagree with the proof that is staring me in the face. "The lowest in the class."

"Is there anything distracting you, because your grades last year were much stronger?"

This time he waits for me to say something in response and when I don't he continues with a low note of resignation.

"What I'm saying is maybe you should reconsider taking my class when your grades and your GPA could be higher with a different course." Then he goes on to say: "These grades, your extracurricular activities will matter on every single application you write out next year."

I nod again struggling to swallow my saliva as well as my pride. It makes sense, why take harder math when I could barely handle regular math.

"It might seem like a step backwards but it could also be a step in the right direction. If you do intend to stay, I need to see some improvement, get that D to a C and work your way up from there."