Not The One

Ch. 3

I switched my weight from leg to leg, extremely nervous, looking at my sorry classmates as we stood in front of the class to present our philosophy on care ethnics versus deontology. Mr. Wilkerson had a rubric and pen poised in his hand, ready to mark up the sheet, and I knew I was sweating bullets.

The five of us had been assembled together randomly, and I shot an S.O.S look at Jazzy who returned it with a sympathetic glance. No one in the group could stand each other, and though I had done my part and the research, I was doubting everything about my work. There was Don, the slacker and class joke who everyone in the group wanted to choke, me included. Amanda, who was loud and moody as hell, and held the "it's my way or the highway" mentality that got on my nerves. It was no wonder she was doing most of the talking, making it seem like she'd done most of the work.

Kelly was the shyest and had volunteered to click through the slides on Mr. Wilkerson's computer, which didn't require her to say a thing. In fact, I was reading her slides and mine. Owen, the fifth and final member was, surprise-surprise, not in class. Jazzy and I were still trying to figure out how he planned to graduate when he only showed up to school maybe once week. Sure he did his work. Mostly. But the state of Florida didn't play that and with his snarky and condescending attitude, no tears would shed from these eyes come May.

One of the questions we had to address in our presentation was, as a group, which ethical approach would be better to apply to our society. I was paraphrasing the question, but the ultimate dilemma was that in the three weeks we'd had this assignment, we'd met a grand total of two times: in class, the day we were assigned the project, and last night when only the girls showed up at the library to quickly put our slides of information in order.

"Umm, so we think that deontology is best applied to the society we live in, because it's rule based and rules mean structure, which is a valuable thing...." I read off of Kelly's slide, mentally pulling the skin off my face. When I'd first scrolled through the PowerPoint and got to the end, my only thoughts had been Jesus take the wheel. Mr. Wilkerson would have to have pity for us to give us a C. Maybe a B minus if I crossed my fingers tight enough.

I made it to the end of the day in one piece, the philosophy disaster behind me, and was headed to the art room to speak to Mrs. Suarez about some photo project she'd mentioned to me when the school year started. After school, the art room was always full, and I hoped I could get in and get out as soon as possible. There was a slice of cake at home with my name on it! I walked in to find Mrs. Suarez talking to another teacher, deep in conversation. I groaned, feeling it deep in the back of my throat. I would have been better off coming in the morning.

Mrs. Suarez, with her long brown hair that twirled at the end, doe eyes and standard dressy-college attire, caused me and many other students to see her more as a peer than a teacher at times. On the first day of my freshman year when I'd gotten lost trying to find one of my classes, I'd run into her, and she'd become one of my favorite people on the planet. Mrs. Suarez was always on campus around seven, but I didn't pull up until five minutes before school began and valued my sleep.

I squeezed through a group of students and was careful not to get any paint on my clothes. I found a spot in the back where the woodshop kids liked to gather and dropped my bag to the floor. I pulled a scratch sheet of notebook paper and reached for a box of Crayola crayons. My doodling skills weren't too terrible, and from my seat I could keep an eye on Mrs. Suarez. When I looked again, I spotted Anderson's dark red Jansport backpack and pursed my lips in thought. Sure enough, when I looked around I found him hunched over a painting with the aid of similar image on his tablet.

"Anderson?"

I watched as his head bobbed up and he turned around. "Georgia!" He grinned and gave me a wave with his paint stained fingers. I moved over to stand beside him and shook my head. In the art room, it seemed as if everyone and their mamas could make art while I struggled with basic stick figures.