Prince Charming (7 page)

“Good morning, class.” Langston stood up from his desk. He wore a cheesy but festive red sweater with white trim around the collar and cuffs. He had minimal crumbs on his chest, and part of me was proud of him for that. “Please turn to page 175 in your text. The first paragraph.” A whoosh flooded the room as we all followed his orders. “Nichole, can you please read?”

“Yes, Mr. Langston.” Nichole Reese sucked in a large breath. “Classical British poetry can first be traced . . .”

She read several paragraphs from the text about the definition of classical poetry in great detail, before three sharp raps at the door rescued us. A collective rumble passed through the class, and a couple of kids giggled. We all knew what the knocks meant.

“Well, I guess Cupid is here,” Mr. Langston said as he walked over to the door. He said this in a cheesy way, like it should come as a surprise. When he opened the door, a boy and girl from Student Council stood on the other side, one holding multicolored carnations and the other holding a basket full of small chocolate baskets.

“Candy grams and carnations!” they shouted in unison. I saw a few girls’ faces turn pink with anticipation.

“Well, feel free to deliver them,” said Mr. Langston as he moved out of the way of the door. “I won’t stand in the way of true love.”

I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes because Mr. Langston said “true” like “twue” and “love” like “wuv.”Just hearing it grated my ears. Why did he always have to speak to us the same way he would talk to five-year-olds? He always added a condescending flair to everything. Thank God I’d read a chapter ahead in the text, and school came easy to me. I couldn’t have stood his insipid teaching any other way.

“Here’s one for Heather,” the girl holding carnations said. Heather got up from her desk and took the carnation, just like an actress would take her award at the Golden Globes—even sinking into a long bow once she had the flower in hand.

“I have chocolates for Josh,” the boy said.

“Ooooohhhhhhhhh!” tittered a few of the other kids in the class.

When I glanced back at Josh, his face had turned redder than Mr. Langston’s sweater. Sheepish, he slid out of his fifth row seat and retrieved the box of Whitman’s candy. I shot him a grin, and knew I’d tease him about it later.

“This one is for Kendall.”

“And look, one for Adam.”

And so it went, for another five minutes. Students waited to hear their names, and then bounded to the front to accept their gifts. I tuned most of it out by doodling on the back page of a worksheet in my binder, and it almost worked.

Until I heard my own name.

“I have some candy for Geoff Miller.”

My head snapped up, and I stared at the front of the room. “What?”

“Yeah, Geoff,” the girl said.“The last candy gram in the basket is for you.”

“What?” Several students in the class laughed. People didn’t give me things on Valentine’s Day. Especially not things they bought from the Student Council. “What?”

“Just go up there and get it, Geoff,” Mr. Langston said, with a sweep of his fat arm.

“Geoff Megadeth,” I heard a student whisper a few rows behind me.

I got out of my seat, walked to the front, and retrieved the small gold box, large enough to hold four chocolates. A fancy red bow tied a small white note to the box. I read it under my desk when I got back to my seat.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Judgmental
.

I
found her in the parking lot across the street from campus after school, just about to get in her RAV4. She stood out from the rest of the crowd in a bright blue puffy coat. For some reason, the coat made her hair remind me of a sunflower.

Once she’d finished talking to her friends I walked right up to her, faking my confidence, and hoping she wouldn’t notice that I’d rehearsed my introduction to her about one hundred times in my head before I’d say it aloud.

“So. Mr. Judgmental.”

She whirled around, a smile already on her face, and leaned against the open car door.

“That your new nickname for me, Laine?”

“Depends.”

“Thanks for the chocolate.”

She shrugged. “Best chocolates three bucks can buy.”

“I’d like to add that I stretched them out. Made them last for eight bites, instead of four.” Of course, I left out the part about how I tucked the note into my back jeans pocket and planned to save it in the bottom of my sock drawer. I could be a sentimental schmuck like that sometimes.

“I’m sure that was torture,” she deadpanned. “How ever did you manage?”

“Did you get enough carnations to make a bouquet this year?” I cursed myself as soon as I said it. Goddamn it, I knew way too much about her.
Way
too much. And, worst of all, here I was letting her know it. I had to stop that shit.

“You remember that?” She tossed me a quizzical expression.

“Well . . . yeah . . . I mean . . .” I struggled to come up with an excuse that didn’t end in me admitting how much I’d stalked her on Facebook. I had to think of some excuse. Any excuse. I just had to get out of creepy territory, and fast. “I just remember something . . . someone said something about it.”

“Yeah, well, I was so stupid sophomore year,” she admitted. “I kinda strung a bunch of guys along.”

“I’m sure they didn’t mind.”

“You’d be surprised.” Her hands tapped out a beat on the car door seal. Around us, the parking lot had almost emptied. Seventy-five juniors and seniors parked there every day, but right then, only about ten were left. I liked that. Less of a chance I’d have to give some gossipy kid a reason for why I stood there, talking to the most captivating girl in a ten-mile radius.

“Listen,” she said after a couple of beats. “I need to get home and get ready to cheer at the basketball game, so can we talk more later? Maybe on Facebook?” She winked at me, and my mouth went dry from panic.

Oh shit. Had she figured out the reason why I knew so much about her?

“Facebook?” I feigned innocence.

“Yeah. Facebook. Aren’t we friends on there?”

We weren’t. I knew it. Most of my Facebook stalking of this girl happened via third party comments and photo tags. A couple of times, I’d hovered the mouse over the friend request button, but I always backed out before I went through with it. Better to be outside her loop of friends than wind up in Facebook purgatory—a forever pending friend request with no answer from her.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll friend request you,” she said as she put one leg in the car. “Are you on Twitter?”

“Yep.”

“Me too. Instagram?”

“Who isn’t?”

“Perfect.” She sat down in the driver’s seat. “I’ll talk to you later, Geoff.”

“Bye.”

She closed the door, started the engine, waved, and pulled out of the parking lot. About an hour later, my phone buzzed.

She’d followed through with her promise.

––––––––

W
EDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 20TH

––––––––

“A
H, MR. MILLER. PLEASE sit down.” Mr. Henderson looked up from his desktop computer and flashed a yellow-toothed smile at me. I shut the door and sat down in a metal chair with too much stuffing in the bottom cushion.

“I got a note that you wanted to see me,” I replied. My words came out as more of a question than a statement.

“Yes. Well. We’re meeting with all the seniors individually.” Mr. Henderson folded his hands on the desk, and gave me a slight grin. “Mrs. Lawrence is meeting with the girls, and I’m meeting with the boys. And I’ll meet with you again before the year’s up, since you are one of the top students here at Heritage.”

“Again?”

“Yes, Geoff. More than once. We meet with the top five students more than once.”

I gave him a plastic smile. Repeated meetings with the school guidance counselor? Another perk of my status as class salutatorian, and just what I wanted.

“I see you are going with UVA,” Mr. Henderson said as he opened the thick manila folder that must have contained every aspect of my twelve years of life in the Heritage school system. “Charlottesville. Lovely place in the fall.”

“Guess I am going to find out.”

He blinked at me, three times. “Of course, we are very proud of you and your accomplishments.”

“Thanks.”

“Heritage is an excellent school system. We really have given you a rigorous education.” He looked down at the chart. “And, I see here, you are in all advanced classes.”

“Not just advanced classes. I’m taking mostly AP classes this year.” I paused. “Doesn’t it say that in my file?”

“Right. Of course it does.” He closed the folder.

I glanced at the clock. How long was this meeting going to last? Too bad I couldn’t think of any old excuse to get myself out of a meeting with the guidance counselor. They called bullshit on students faster than the rest of the teachers.

“I’m a little worried about your grades this year, Mr. Miller.”

My eyes snapped back in his direction. “Why?”

“Your teachers tell me you’re listless. Bored. And your grades are—”

“I have straight As.”

“There are As, Mr. Miller, and there are As. You have the former.”

“Huh?”

He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Some of your teachers have said your overall percentages in their classes have slipped. For example, Mr. Langston told me that you had an overall 98 percent in English at the beginning of the year. Now, you have a 95.”

Not Mr. Langston again.

“A 95 is still an A,” I pointed out.

“But it’s not the A you used to have.” His voice turned warmer, more fatherly. “It’s not what we’re used to from you.” He leaned across the desk. “I want to help you figure out what is bothering you. Why you’re slipping this year.”

I frowned, and sat back further in my chair. “But I’m not slipping.”

“Have you given any real thought as to what you want to major in next year at Virginia?”

“Umm . . .”

Mr. Henderson squinted at me. “Well, you must have some sort of an idea of what you want to do with your life.”

“A little.” Sinking further into the chair, I rubbed my eyebrow. “I’ve thought about it some.”

“And what are you interested in the most?”

Jesus.
Each question that came out of his mouth sounded loaded, as if at any moment he wanted to make me fall over a verbal land mine. “I like history. Russian History. Communism. World War Two.” I thought about it some more. “Maybe I’ll try to do something with that.”

“Something with Russian History?”

“Maybe. But I also like writing.”

“You’re good at Math, Mr. Miller.”

I licked my lips. “Yeah, Math is okay, I guess.”

“You’re in, what—AP Calculus and AP Bio this year?”

Oh. So he had read my transcript. Imagine that. “Yeah, Mr. Henderson, I am.”

“Seems like a kid like you should major in Engineering or Bio Chemistry. Maybe work for P&G when you grow up.” His voice sounded firm and final, as if he’d come to the answer of my future through one quick calculation in his head.

“Everyone around here works for P&G,” I pointed out. It wasn’t too much of a stretch from the truth. Most of my classmates lived in nice houses and went to summer camps on money made by their corporate-ladder ascending parents. P&G held the purse strings for most of Greater Cincinnati.

“It’s a perfectly good company,” he said, tapping his fingers on the desk. “Excellent company. Fortune 500. And that’s saying something.”

“I know, but—”

“You should be happy to work for a company like that one.” He tapped his fingers on the folder that held my life inside. “You know, seems to me like a waste of a perfectly good education if you go to Virginia and major in something other than Law, Business, Science or Engineering. Those kinds of degrees get a person somewhere in life.”

“Like a job here?”

Mr. Henderson narrowed his eyes. “Are you being funny with me, Mr. Miller?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I just don’t want to be stuck here in Cincinnati for the rest of my life.” I wrinkled my nose at the thought. “Yuck.”

“Most people wouldn’t call life here ‘being stuck.’”

“I would.”

“It sounds to me like you are being a little judgmental about the opportunities you have out there. Life isn’t about that.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll get a lot further if you stop and think about others. Stop, get to know them, and realize you aren’t better than anyone else.”

“I don’t think I am better than anyone else,” I insisted.

“What are you going to do with a degree in Russian History?” He blanched. “The Cold War’s over.”

“I know, but I think—”

“Virginia is an expensive school.” He glanced at the ceiling, as if doing another math problem in his head. “It could cost your parents about a hundred thousand dollars when you are finished.”

“But I got some scholarships.” I gulped. Just the week before, I’d shuddered when I’d seen the packet breakdown the school sent me of expected expenses for the 2014 freshman class. Books alone could cost $700 bucks—used. “I know. It’s not cheap.”

“The point is, if you’re going to spend money like that it is important to think about what value you’re getting. Just getting a degree in history won’t pay the bills, Mr. Miller. You have to have a plan, and execute it. That’s the best way to get things done.”