She's new, and different, and I think that's why we all like her instead of egging her car and burning holes in her desk. When she walks into the room, the whole damn class finally shut their traps for once in their lives. Instead of the frumpy dresses and outdated shirts that teachers like Stevenson in the English department wears, she has on jeans that look 10 years old and the oldest and most sun-bleached AC/DC tee shirt I've ever seen. And she's wearing converse. Black friggin converse sneakers – high tops. We have never seen anything like her.
She sits on the edge of her desk, swinging her legs back and forth, her jeans making a soft swishing noise. And no one makes a sound. They're too busy trying not to let their jaws hit the floor. In the back of the room, I actually look up. But not because I'm told to, no way in hell. It's completely out of curiosity. Our math class has only ever been this quiet when JJ was arrested for possession, and then I think that class is over and I just forgot to leave, or someone died. Or - and this is a very unlikely situation – someone has actually managed to get us to shut up. Well, not really us, just them. I never say much – never have. I'm silent and try to keep to myself. But no one messes with me, cause they'll get messed up good. Everyone knows it. But there was no way that any teacher is going to get the rest of them to pay attention.
We're the reject class, the kind that sentimental people want to write success stories about. And they would have some big name actress cast as the teacher and she would completely change these kids lives, because deep down she knew that they were oh-so-much-more than they seemed to be. Bull. The kids in this class are the drug dealers and the thieves and the abused and the ignored. And do we care at all? No. We take care of each other and ourselves. We're all we need, and no teacher, sentimental or not, is going to change us. The administration finally figured that out when Peyton pulled a knife on a security guard after they tried to tell Lucas that he was expelled. Where Peyton got a knife is beyond me, but Lucas is still sitting in the third row, next to the window just so that his cigarette smoke doesn't bother anyone else.
I'm not any of that stuff, you should know that right now. No way, I'm clean as a whistle, never done drugs in my life. And the only thing I've ever stolen was a tee shirt from the circus, but they were giving them out for free anyway. I'm a good kid. Always have been, always will be.
When I look up and see her, I don't think she's anything special. She's just another rookie trying to do something for the world. Well, she isn't going to get her Nobel Peace Prize or her Humanitarian Award here. No way in hell. We aren't someone's science project. But the class doesn't know what to do with her.
"I'm your new teacher." She says it as if we don't know, and smiles a thousand-watt smile and it reminds me of the billboard sign on Jefferson Avenue that has the toothpaste add on it. Maybe she is the one in the picture, but probably not. The girl on the board is a brunette. The teacher in front of us is a blonde.
"So, maybe we could go around and say our names." This lady must think we're in first grade or something, because I haven't done "circle games" since kindergarten. But she has this hopefulness to her voice, and while it gets on my nerves, I'm kind of intrigued by it. "What do say?"
Peyton, who is up near the front, does this sniggering thing that she does when she gets annoyed and then turns in her seat to look at me. Peyton may be my sister – my twin sister to boot – but we are nothing alike. She's blond; I'm not. She's short; I'm tall. She talks – enough for the both of us; and I don't. I really don't know how we ended up being blood related, but both of us try to deny it all the time.
"What do you say?" She asks me, looking at me like I'm going to give her a goddamn answer. I want to tell her I'm not a friggin answer book, but that would require opening my mouth and I just don't feel up to a challenge at the moment. So I do the shrug. Peyton knows that shrug. It means that she's pissing me off and she should leave me the hell alone. But Peyton, while she knows the signs, doesn't always like to listen to them.
"What do you say? Should we?" I have no idea I wanted to shout at her. But instead, I glare a little, my hazel eyes squinting in her direction. She grins, then turns and nods to Cross next to her. Cross is the first kid in the first row of the room. Lucky him.
"The name's Cross." He says confidently, then waits for her reaction. She's looking at her grade book – the sure sign that she's a dorky teacher – and she has the craziest look on her face. She's probably thinking, there's no Cross on this thing. Well, if she thinks that this is the wackiest name she'll get, she's sadly mistaken. But I feel no sympathy for her. She should know what she's getting into. But then she does something that I never imagine any teacher ever doing.
"Okay then. This is not going to help me, huh?" She crumples the class list, and without even looking, she tosses it over her shoulder and it hits the edge of the trashcan rim before it drops in, making a hollow knocking noise. She reaches into her book bag at the bottom of the desk and pulls out a notebook, then a pen out of her back pocket.
"So," she says, as she draws little boxes on her piece of paper. I can see her counting the number of desks in the classroom in her head; I can see the little numbers floating around. "How bout we start over." Again with the smile.
I zone her out, and focus on the drawing I'm working on. Peyton posed for it. Well, I kind of just copied her eyes – the upside of having her around. And, what seems like a minute later, everyone's looking at me again. Do I look like I even know what's going on? Do I look like I even care? But even when I look back down for a second and then back up, everyone is still doing nothing better with their time than stare at me. Finally, I catch Peyton's eye, and she breaks out of her daydream trance. She falls into a lot, but she always pulls through in a cinch.
"That's Brooke." Says one blond to the other. Peyton offers no other explanation; no reason for why I just didn't say it myself. And for now – in her best interest – the new teacher keeps her mouth shut about the whole thing.
"Well, I'm Ms. James and…" She's cut off by the bell. Kids grab their unopened bags and head out the door. As usual, I'm the last one out of the room, and I can't help but notice that Ms. James is staring at me, like she's trying to figure me out.