Dear December

Chapter 2

The boy collapses into the creaky seat next to me. I was perfectly happy with it being empty if I'm honest with you. He stretches out his long legs under the table; his height intrigues me almost as much as it makes me jealous- I could barely sit and touch my toes to the floor until sophomore year.

The edge of his thigh lightly touches mine under the desk, but he doesn't move it away. Neither do I. The only sign that he's actually acknowledged me is the quick, close-lipped smile he sends my way before hunching over his test paper and scratching his name onto the page.

"You have twenty minutes to complete this test." Mr Inson swings left and right on his turntable chair, threading his purple fingers together. "You may begin."

I clench the pen between my fingers. I can do this.

The sound of frantic scribbling fills the silence among the desks. Absolutely everybody in the whole room knows exactly what they're doing. I mean, so do I obviously; I learnt plenty in Nevada. Actually no. That's a lie. I made my way through junior year using surreptitious copying and stealthy cheat tactics.

I furtively slide my eyes over to the boy's page next to mine.

Oh come on. This stuff is too complicated to even copy! I breathe an exhalation of total defeat and pitifully resort to tapping my pen quietly on the desk for at least five minutes. This is ridiculous.

I chide myself in my head: I have to write something.

Picking up my calculator with clammy finger-tips, I take a deep breath. Man, do I hate calculus. I look back and forth between the question and the grey buttons lining the calculator. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Wait a second. Is my calculator even in the right mode?

I suddenly become very mindful of the clock that is ticking away above Mr Inson's head. It's been ten minutes already? What kind of sick joke is this? I glance at the boy sat next to me again. Eyes alight and two pages into the test, he's practically tap-dancing his way through this exam.

Me on the other hand? I've barely looked at the first question.

I have to do something.

Anything.

At the speed of a broken escalator, I start to type in the first numbers I see on the page, sprinkling in a few 'add' and 'divide' signs for good measure.

Equals seven-hundred and eighty over 53. I frown dubiously. Glancing at the guy next to me again, his first answer doesn't even include a fraction. And he got a negative too.

You know what April. He's probably wrong anyway.

It's within the following five minutes that I come to learn he was most definitely not wrong. Upon swapping tests with the him, listening to Mr Inson monotonously read answers off a grey sheet of paper, I find myself swiping angry ticks across every single one of his answers. I try not to torture myself watching as he carefully scratches tiny crosses next to mine.

"Did you even have your calculator on the right mode?" He turns to give me a tragically piteous look. I scowl in response, partly because I'm offended. Mostly because I don't actually know. I was ill on the day we learnt modes- I've been flunking it for two whole years now.

When the time comes to hand the tests back over, I don't even have to prepare myself for the humiliating mark. A large '1/18' is circled on the front of my paper, right beside a small, innocent question mark. Is that really necessary?