"So, did you two get your schedules today?" he asks. His voice is level; it's not much of a question. He already knows we got our schedules today. Now he's opening up the flood gates, preparing us for an onslaught of follow-up questions and criticisms on our classes and teachers. I nod my head slightly and shove my peas around on my plate a bit, flinching as my fork scraps against the porcelain and admiring the green dots as they roll into my mashed potatoes and bump up against my untouched medium-well steak. He scolds me, "Mark, don't scratch up your mother's good china."
I can hear Cindy swallow next to me, and I'm tempted to make a face—hearing people eat disgusts me—but I raise my glass of milk to my lips instead, knowing how unappreciated the gesture would be. Cindy would pout, mom would look at me disapprovingly, and dad would tell me to apologize or go to bed without dessert; and while I would throw my hands up in mock surrender and joke that it was just a little face, it'd blow up into something more, like there's actually a deeper meaning to it, and the direct insult actually shows how much I loath my twin sister and how I secretly hope she chokes on the chunk of meat she just swallowed. Nothing in my family is ever taken lightly, so I gulp my milk, keep quiet, and make sure the look on my face cannot be used against me. When Cindy begins to speak, I know my parents' eyes are now on her, and it's safe for me to put my glass back down.
"Yup, we went and picked them up this afternoon," she replies with a proud smile on her face. She's proud because today was her first time driving without mom or dad in the car. We both turned seventeen last week, but she only just got her driver's license yesterday. It's not that she's a bad driver, per se, she just likes to claim she was too busy this past year to get it. "Everything on mine looks fine; except it turns out Randall isn't teaching Chemistry this year, Smith is. I talked to Lisa, though, and she's seems to be under the impression that Smith is even better than Randall, so I guess I can't really complain." Dad looks at her, tries to smile like he's interested, and moves on to me.
"Mark?"
There's a particularly dry lump of mashed potatoes in the back of my throat, so I take another quick swig of milk and cough to clear it. "Yeah, mine's fine, too. AP Calculus with McAtee, AP European History with Roberts, AP Literature with Rosario, French IV with Andre, AP Biology with Owens, and gym," I spit out hurriedly. It's a mouthful and I've managed to memorize it in only a few hours—each class, in what order, and with what teacher; I knew I'd be quizzed on it at dinner. I also knew he'd be perfectly content with my schedule, except for one tiny little thing…
"Gym?"
"Yeah, gym. Football and Soccer, 7th period with Johnson," I mumble.
"Why would you take gym? I thought you were going to be in AP Humanities?"
"I was going to be, until my counselor told me I needed a gym credit to graduate. Believe me, it's not like I want to be in it—have you seen me play football and soccer? It's a sorry sight," I try to joke. I even give it a little laugh and a half smile, but he's not laughing along. He's pulled a slight frown and his eyes are focused on the table's centerpiece—a nice little array of lilies my mom picked up on her way home from work.
He lets out an indigent huff, like he can't believe I actually have to take gym. Like it's completely ludicrous that a child would need to take gym to graduate, when gym is just a bunch of running around and chasing after a ball and won't do anybody any good in the real world. "That's going to lower your GPA," he says matter-of-factly.
"I know," I tell him. I've eaten all of my peas and carrots and mashed potatoes and drank all of my milk. If I really want to distract myself from saying anymore more, I'm going to have to resort to cutting up my steak. Being a vegetarian is far from admired in my family; it's almost frowned upon, actually, so my mom makes a point to throw some meat on my plate every night, no matter how many times I tell her I don't want it and no matter how many times I don't eat it. She'd rather it go to waste than not serve it to me at all. I raise my knife tentatively, stab my fork into the slab of beef, and cut off a small bite. As I shove it into my mouth, I think I see Cindy smirk at me smugly. She doesn't get scolded for her faces.
He shoves away from the table roughly and throws the napkin that was resting in his lap onto his cleaned plate. "After you clear the table, I want to see you in the den." His voice has dropped nearly a whole octave, and I know that even the sight of me grinding a bite of steak between my teeth won't subdue his dissatisfaction with me right now.
Somehow, the fact that a gym credit is one of the graduation requirements at my school is my fault. He'll twist it so it's my fault. He's gotten it into his head, and will try to get it into mine, that now, because of this gym class, I'll never get into Columbia. I'll never be Pre-Med. I'll end up graduating high school without honors and become just another one of those broke, starving, cold, pathetic hoodlums polluting the streets of New York City. I'll be without a family, without friends, without a home, and without a purpose. I'll stumble through life with just the clothes on my back and memories of a golden childhood when my parents gave me every opportunity they'd never had; until one day, when it's snowing and all I have to protect me from the cold is a thin sweater and a tattered old scarf, I'll simply collapse beside a dumpster and never wake up. I'll die alone. And no one will even be around to claim my body.
All because I had to take Football and Soccer, instead of AP Humanities.