Lessons in Love Page 5

  “No, I was just writing anything,” Alex bluffed. “I just wanted to look like I was working; don’t want Mr. Simmons giving me another detention.”

  “Really? I wish he’d give me a detention,” Claire enthused. “I’d love to be alone in a room with him.”

  “You’ve got a dirty mind,” Alex teased.

  “A dirty mind is a healthy mind.” Claire smiled and the girls walked down the corridor, arm in arm, to their next class.

  ****

  Mark Simmons had a free period that day, so he used the time to grade the papers of the test he’d had his seniors turn in earlier that morning.

  Grading papers was easily his least favorite aspect of teaching. He found it to be repetitive. Usually an entire class would be at a similar point in terms of a grade curve. As the new guy among the faculty at Woodsdale High, he’d been assigned one of the lower set senior mathematics classes. He predicted them all to be operating at a C grade average, possibly lower, and as he worked his way through the pile of test papers, he seemed to be correct.

  That was until he came upon a paper that stopped him in his tracks. He was shocked to see that the calculations for each problem had been done correctly; however, in the end, each problem had the right answer, but it had been rubbed out and replaced with an answer that was either a few too high or too low.

  Mark looked through the calculations, bemused why a student would be so competent, display such an affinity for algebra, and then change their answers at the end to make them wrong. The owner of the paper appeared to be deliberately failing. Mark checked the name at the top of the paper. It had been written in neat, cursive handwriting, a pleasant change from the usual scrawl his students used, their handwriting growing increasingly poor as they became ever dependent on technology.

  Alexandra Heron

  The paper belonged to head cheerleader Alex, which only further piqued Mark’s interest. He knew that he needed to speak with her to discuss her paper further.

  ****

  “So I’m pretty sure that the party will be at Jeff’s house.” Claire gave her friend an update over lunch.

  The girls sat inside the busy school cafeteria. Alex and Claire were joined by a few other members of the cheerleading squad, and at the end of the table a few of the school’s football team had congregated. The table was located directly in the center of the cafeteria, at the heart of the action, and reserved exclusively for the high school elite. Alex had heard other students talk about how they wished that they could sit there. As much as she enjoyed being there, she didn’t understand their aspirations. She’d much rather sit with some more interesting students who’d discuss some great music they’d heard, a movie they just loved or a book they just couldn’t put down. Instead, Alex had to spend her lunchtime discussing the issues that afflicted the popular, like which party to go to and which outfit to wear.

  “Jeff’s house is huge,” Claire added. “His dad’s a lawyer or something.”

  “Impressive,” Alex mumbled, not really paying attention. She absently played with the salad on her plate, her stomach rumbling angrily, wishing she’d been brave enough to order something more substantial, like a cheeseburger, but the last time she’d done that the team had almost blackballed her.

  “A burger!” Sophie had marched up to her in the hallway in outrage.

  “Huh?”

  “You ordered a burger?” Sophie gasped in shock. “Are you mad? You’re head cheerleader! Eat what crap you want at home, but here you set an example.”

  “With what I eat?” Alex was stunned.

  “Your entire life is now up for scrutiny. You represent the ideal, the life others wish to lead. This includes everything from what you wear to what you eat. So from now on you eat what the rest of us do.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Salad with mineral water or Diet Coke. Followed by an apple. Nothing else can pass your lips while you’re at school.”

  “That seems…strict.” Alex frowned.

  “Head cheerleader is hard work. Now if you want to go back to eating burgers, I’d happily step up to the role,” Sophie offered, smirking.

  “No, it’s fine. I like salad.” Alex forced a fake smile and walked off, wondering how she’d survive eating so little during the long school day.

  Alex’s solution to the strict diet had been to stash food into her backpack and secretly eat it on the way to and from school. She’d always enjoyed her food, ever since she was a little girl. Her father used to take the family to fancy restaurants, insisting that he wanted his children to understand and appreciate fine cuisine. Alex couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a meal that hadn’t previously been frozen.

  “What will you wear to the party?” Taylor Jenkins asked Claire excitedly between delicately sipping her mineral water.

  “I don’t know.” Claire pondered the question thoroughly, as though she had just been asked how she thought it was best to resolve the conflict within North Korea.

  “I might have to go shopping,” she concluded.

  “Ooh, can I come?” Taylor almost squealed in delight.

  “Yeah, course! You in, Alex?”

  “Huh?” Alex was struggling to keep up with the conversation.

  “Shopping, tomorrow, for Jeff’s party. You in?”

  The last time Alex had gone shopping with some of her fellow cheerleaders had been a disaster. They all frequented designer boutique stores, and buckling beneath pressure, she’d purchased a dress that cost $300.00. A dress that she’d hurriedly returned the following day. Luckily, the shop assistant took pity on her and refunded the credit card Alex had been given under strict instructions to use only in emergencies.

  “I can’t go shopping.” Alex shook her head. “I’ve got to look after my brother.” For once her excuse was actually truthful.

  “That sucks.” Claire sighed. “But you’ll be at the party, right?”

  “Sure.” Alex smiled sweetly, already knowing that she had no intention of going to the party.

  “Great, I know Jeff is desperate for you to be there.” Claire giggled conspiratorially.

  ****

  In registration that afternoon, Alex sat near the window, letting the afternoon sun warm her skin.

  She waited for her name, ready to raise her arm at the appropriate moment. Miss Steele, their form tutor, was in her late fifties, with white hair and sharp eyes.

  “Alexandra Heron,” she called. No matter how many times Alex asked for her name to be shortened, Miss Steele always insisted on reading it out in its entirety. Alex lifted her hand and nodded, but Miss Steele wasn’t looking across at her; she was focused on the register she held in her hand.

  “Oh, Miss Heron, there’s a note that you need to go and see Mr. Simmons after school about your math paper.”

  Alex’s eyes widened in shock. What could be wrong with her paper?

  “Ooh, private time with Mr. Sexy himself,” Claire leaned across and whispered.

  “I’m probably in trouble.” Alex sighed.

  “You better hope so!” Claire teased, winking at her friend.

  ****

  As the bell screamed to signal the start of the weekend, Alex was unable to join the jubilant hordes that were fleeing the school grounds, eager to enjoy two days off. Instead, she wandered back to the classroom where Mr. Simmons taught math, unsure what he wanted to see her about.

  Maybe he was going to confront her over her outburst about her father. Alex steeled herself for that possibility, prepared to tell Mr. Simmons to mind his own business and stay out of hers. He had no right to pry into her family situation. She was eighteen now, basically an adult herself.

  She pushed open the door to the classroom and spotted Mr. Simmons sitting behind his desk, bent over some papers.

  Alex cleared her throat awkwardly, and he looked up at her.

  “You wanted to see me?” she asked sheepishly.

  “Yes, I did. Thanks for coming.” Mr. Simmons flashed her a s
mile that momentarily made Alex’s knees go weak. She steadied herself as he gestured towards the empty desks before him.

  “Take a seat,” he instructed.

  Alex obliged and nervously settled herself in one of the desks in the front row.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the test paper you did this morning,” Mr. Simmons explained, producing the paper in question and handing it to Alex. In the top left-hand corner in neat red pen was the letter C accompanied by a + symbol.

  “Isn’t a C plus okay?” Alex queried.

  “C plus is great,” Mr. Simmons admitted. “Most students in this class would be thrilled with a C plus.”

  He looked over at Alex, studying her intently.

  “I sense a but coming,” Alex admitted uneasily.

  “But, you’re not most students. You almost got an A.”

  “Almost an A?” Alex echoed.

  “Your work is all accurate. In fact, you even wrote the correct answers to all the problems. Then you crossed them out and changed them a few numbers off.”

  “I got the answers wrong, big deal.” Alex tried to feign indifference. She bit her lip and looked out of the window, envious of the students who were heading back to their nice houses and their complete families.

  “The point I’m making is that I think you got the answers wrong deliberately,” Mr. Simmons suggested, his tone soft and nonconfrontational.

  “So what? You think I’m doing the opposite of cheating? Like failing on purpose?” Alex said, trying to make the suggestion sound preposterous. “Why would anyone do that?” she scoffed.

  “You tell me,” Mr. Simmons asked, still keeping his same, gentle tone.

  “I can’t tell you because that’s not what’s happening. I got my answers wrong; it happens. I’m not that good at math.”

  “But I think you are. In fact, I think you’re very good at math.”

  “I’m not.” Alex shook her head and, feeling uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny, folded her arms protectively across her chest.

  “I think that you hide how smart you actually are and pretend to be some dumb blonde cheerleader just because you want to fit in.” Mr. Simmons stood and came to lean against his desk, shortening the distance between them.

  “Are you insulting me?” Alex hugged herself tighter. “Because it sounded like you called me a dumb blonde.”

  “I said you’re pretending to be a dumb blonde,” Mr. Simmons corrected her.

  “Maybe I’m just dumb!” Alex protested, getting agitated.

  “Or maybe you pretend to be because you want to fit in. But as someone older and hopefully wiser, let me tell you that fitting in isn’t as important as you think it is. There’s more to life than being popular.”

  “Not in high school there isn’t,” Alex told him sadly. “Here, you’re either rich or popular. If you aren’t one of those, you’re nothing.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. You’ve just forgotten because it’s been so long since you were sitting here as a student!” Alex was now yelling at her math teacher, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t about to let him catch her in a lie and uncover the truth about her life beyond Woodsdale High. She’d worked too hard to become head cheerleader; she wasn’t about to let some overly observant teacher ruin everything for her.

  “Alex, you can trust me. Tell me why you’re hiding your intelligence,” Mr. Simmons pleaded with her. “You’re risking your entire future by messing up your grades in your senior year. I wish you could see the bigger picture.”

  Alex felt frozen beneath Mr. Simmons’ gaze. She knew the bigger picture; she was subjected to it each and every day. Her life would amount to nothing. She wouldn’t be allowed to go to college because her mother would need her to get a job straight out of high school to help earn the family some much-needed money. Alex’s childhood dreams of studying math at an elitist college had died with her father. Here, in high school, these would be the best days of her life. She was desperate to make the most of them, to be someone others envied while she could be, for too soon she’d be in the real world and nothing more than trailer trash.

  “There are worse things than being labelled a brain,” Mr. Simmons continued.

  “Trust me, Mr. Simmons,” Alex began, her voice cold. “I’m aware of just how cruel and wicked this world can be, and in relation to such things, name calling is most certainly nothing at all.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Mr. Simmons asked delicately.

  “Talk about what?” Alex questioned, but she could feel her hard exterior beginning to chip. Her true self and all the baggage she struggled beneath was threatening to break through. It didn’t help that the incident at the 7-Eleven still burned freshly in her mind.

  “Whatever it is that makes you so angry.”

  “I’m so angry?” Alex retorted, knowing full well that she was. Each day she had to control the rage building up inside her. She was angry that her father was dead, she was angry that her family had lost everything, she was angry that everyone else’s life seemed so happy and carefree when all hers ever seemed to be was hard. She missed her old life, in her huge house where she’d had her own bedroom, which even had its own bathroom.

  If she closed her eyes, she could still remember her old room. The four-poster princess bed in the center of the room, covered in pale green and pink bed sheets. Everything had matched, from the curtains to the bed linen, even the wallpaper and carpets.

  She’d had a dressing table and a four-door wardrobe, all in solid oak. Just before the shooting, her father had installed a chalkboard wall for her, where Alex would sit and write music or do advanced mathematics for fun. On the wall, she’d stick up pictures of her friends from school and scribble down messages and dreams. It didn’t match the feminine tone of the rest of the bedroom, but Alex felt like it was the strongest reflection of the woman she was becoming, and by installing it, her father showed that he recognized that in her.

  While her mother wanted Alex to be a prim and proper lady, her father noticed the books she was reading and the music she was listening to, and he encouraged her to be her own person.

  He’d even bought her a record player so she could sit and listen to some of her favorite music on vinyl discs. Her favorite was the album Rumours by Fleetwood Mac. But all those things had been sold. Alex was allowed to keep a fraction of the contents of her wardrobe and the record player, but in time that too had been sold to help pay the ever-mounting bills that seemed endless.

  Alex wanted to go back to her old bedroom. To put on one of her favorite records and look out at the garden. She loved to sit by the window and watch the trees in the backyard sway in the breeze. Everything was so peaceful there; it was sanctuary from the craziness of the world. But now she had nowhere that was her own, no place she could run and hide in when she needed solace.

  Her innocence, her privacy and her dreams had all been taken from her by the pulling of a trigger. It shocked her to think how one bullet could do so much damage, not just to the body it landed in but to all those connected to the person who fell.

  “I’m angry because life isn’t fair,” Alex admitted to Mr. Simmons, casting her eyes down to the desk, not wanting to meet his gaze.

  “I’m sure a lot of people your age think life isn’t fair,” he told her gently.

  “But most people didn’t see their dad get shot in front of them when they were fourteen,” Alex admitted the truth, feeling the warmth of tears running down her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry.” Mr. Simmons’ mouth fell open in shock. “I…I had no idea. I assumed you were just trying to fit in.”

  “I am.” Alex’s lips began to quiver. She tried to stay in control, not wanting to cry here in her math classroom. But she was powerless against the wave of emotion that suddenly engulfed her. She lifted her hands to her eyes and began to weep.

  Mr. Simmons was immediately by her side, wrapping comforting arms around her. Alex fell against his strong shoulders, gr
ateful of the support.

  He held her as she wept and shuddered, waiting for her sobs to die down to just soft muffles.

  “I’m sorry.” Alex eventually pulled away from him, wiping at her eyes.

  “It’s okay.” Mr. Simmons remained close.

  “Your shirt is all wet,” Alex noticed.

  “It’s okay.” Mr. Simmons shrugged. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break down on you like that. I just, I don’t know. I put so much energy into pretending it didn’t happen.”

  “Do your friends know what happened to your dad?”

  “No.” Alex shook her head and then laughed. “Doesn’t really say much about our friendship, does it?”

  “Why don’t you tell them?”

  “Because I want to fit in. I don’t want to be the girl everyone pities.”

  “I don’t think they’d pity you; they’d just feel for you,” Mr. Simmons told her soothingly.

  “No, they’d pity me.” Alex sighed. “They’d pity me because money talks, even here in high school. They say we live in a world committed to free speech, but the truth is that whoever has the most money gets to shout the loudest. If people knew the truth, about me and my family, they wouldn’t respect me anymore. I’d become a nobody to them.”

  Mr. Simmons pulled a chair up so he could sit beside her. She noticed how good he smelt, like coffee and cologne. He leaned up next to her and placed a comforting hand over her own. His skin was soft yet more rugged than her own, suggesting he did outdoor activities when he wasn’t teaching.

  He looked deep into her eyes, and Alex felt her heart flutter.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened with your dad?” His voice was so soft yet so deep at the same time. Alex felt the hair on the back of her neck bristle in titillation. She knew she had to calm her impulses, and so she decided to tell him about her father and what happened four years ago, knowing he was the first person within Woodsdale High who would have heard the truth.