In English class, we're expected to write a five thousand word analysis based on a poem written by E.E. Cummings about love.
I'm not sure I know what love is. I have Andrew, who stays on my waking mind constantly. But is it love? I don't know. Still, I felt different with him. With my hand in his, I felt warm and safe. I didn't feel like a total mess. I felt like I mattered.
And if that wasn't love, then I don't know what love is.
Over the last week, Ms. A has decided that deciphering symbolism was a group effort, so she put us into pairs and lined our desks up by twos. My writing partner is Olivia West. She's nice, but the clean cut kind of nice. She wears new skinny jeans and sweaters or shirts with patterned fabric or cardigans, and she has at least five different pairs of shoes. She's bright. The kind of bright that teachers like to nurture, the kind of bright that could get her into college. And she doesn't bother hiding it. She's a front-of-the-classroom kind of kid.
When we worked together, which was mostly only when we had to, she did most of the work while I drew sketches in pen. She gave me sideways glances, but she never said anything.
I used to like English. It was like painting, but with words. But I haven't really liked anything lately. Especially art.
Ms. A is starting to panic, I think. When we did our last quiz on symbolism, only a few people passed. I didn't bother writing anything. Now, though, she's standing in front of the classroom constantly, underlining and double circling words that nobody understands.
I'd been taking advanced English classes since I'd started middle school, so symbolism isn't a major jump for me. Last year in English I'd managed to pull the top percentage in that class.
Too bad that couldn't last.
The bell rings, echoing through the overhead speakers. Ms. A sighs, like having her lecture about mood interrupted is so terribly tragic.
"Homework will be online on the website," she finishes, as most students rush out of her classroom. I stay behind, carefully placing my folders and notebooks back into my backpack. I hate the hallway rush.
Ms. A scoots closer to my desk until she's a looming shadow above me. I zip up my bag, pretended not to notice.
"Wait. Aspen." She places a hand on my shoulder as I stand up. "I recently saw your state test scores from last year." I don't say anything, don't look at her. "You scored in the top percentiles for all of your subjects. Especially English." I don't want to be lectured about how I'm wasting my potential. Not now. Not by her, somebody who barely knows me. Test scores don't determine anything. Test scores don't make me good enough. "What happened? You used to care. But what happened?"
I shake my head. What happened? Something I'd rather forget.
I leave the room without uttering a single word.