All for an "A"

All For An "A"

Inspired by a true story

My pen cannot move fast enough. There is not enough time. Forty five minutes; the clock peers down in a grimace above me. If only I had conquered this sooner. If only I had listened to all those sermons in Study Skills about avoiding procrastination. Lessons pour down the drain at the touch of my Nintendo remote.

Focus! Handing over this dreaded, backpack weathered, juice stained copy of The Good Earth will release 24 hours of pent up stress. I can barely annotate a competent thought with Mrs. Gold scratching away on the chalk board. I know this algebra lesson like the back of my hand. Math comes easy for me; it is always the same. I don’t have to worry about getting the tone of a number right or analyzing a division problem with the correct amount of comments.

“Mr. Barker, is that your math homework?” My heart sinks.

“N-no, Mrs. Gold, I’m not working ahead, I promise.”

“Put it away, before I take it.” She threatens, kindly. I always appreciated Mrs. Gold for her simple instructions and easy going nature. I think she has a soft spot for me too. I have a way of getting on the teacher’s good side. Maybe I have a natural persuasive tendency. 

Shoving the novel under my cumbersome algebra text book, I continue to characterize Olan in the sizeable margins, sneakily glancing at the chalkboard now and again to show increased attention.

“Mr. Barker,” Firmer now than before, “I told you to put your homework away. This is your last warning.” Mrs. Gold stares at me with her deep brown eyes, unmoving wood against my sweating brow. I am desperate. My hand shoots up simultaneously with an inspired thought.

“Mrs. Gold, may I use the restroom?” With her nod of approval, I book it out of room 211 and head for sanctuary. The cold tile floor provides my only serenity in this chamber of clicking pens and ticking clocks. I need to finish this assignment before 1:45 hits and my lazy habits slap me in the face. A good grade on this assignment and I will be golden for the remainder of the school year. Why didn’t I understand the burden of this pressure two nights ago? The only burden I felt was the rock accumulated in the bottom of my stomach from Cheetos and Cola. Now my stomach lies uncomfortably on the floor for another reason.

I sit in the bathroom for what seems like five hasty minutes, rid of distraction, and finish my assignment. Yes, I am done! Before letting any more time pass, I run to the front office and slip my paper into the mail box of my English teacher. Running back to the 4 remaining minutes of algebra, I take my first deep breath since 3pm yesterday and walk coolly back to my seat.

“Mr. Barker! Where have you been all this time? I sent half of the class to search for you!” My brows furrow in utter bewilderment, an outer portrayal of my inward reeling. Could I really have been working for an entire half hour? Quickly I think of a response;

“I-I’m so sorry Mrs. Gold, I wasn’t feeling too good so I went to the nurse.” Pfew, a sure gut saver there, the nurse argument always wins.

“Really?” She replies, her face softens with an inkling of compassion, “But I just got off the phone with the nurse.”

Off the phone! How am I going to squeeze out of this one? I dig in the back corners of my mind where story stretching works its finest.

“May I go talk to the nurse?” I ask frantically. I need to plot my next move.

“Um, sure, I guess that is fine. Please have her call me when you are done.” I quickly withdrew and walked slowly to the front office. A scheme was forming. This had better work.

At the sight of me, the nurse lights up. “Hello Matt, how are you feeling?” Through band-aid needs and head ache complaints; we have established a basis of friendship that will hopefully aid my present suffering.

“Wow…” I said, looking in to the distance for dramatic effect. I really have to draw this one out, in order for her to believe me. I raise my hand to my head and wince, let out a soft groan. “This is too weird,” I leave the floor open for her response.

“What, Matt? What is weird?” She is buying it!

“Well, when I got to the bathroom I was feeling so dizzy and nauseous. While kneeling over the toilet I knew I needed to go see the nurse, and from what I can remember, I did. Next thing I know, I am kneeling over the toilet again, with my head on my arm and I feel pretty awful. I must have passed out and dreamt that I came here. I can’t believe this.” I give a sure confused look and make it seem as if I am all shook up inside. The nurse looks terrified and my terror begins to release. She calls my teacher and explains what happened to me during those dark thirty minutes in the men’s room. I didn’t notice the tension in my muscles until they began to release. Finally, it’s taken care of.

“Matt, you need to have a drug test right away.”

The bell rings. Already the grey haired woman I once called friend reaches in betrayal to phone my mother. Just when I thought my heart couldn’t sink any lower, she tramples over it with her Velcro white tennis shoes. Before I can think of another excuse my mother is on her way to retrieve her son with whom she is very disappointed. I can see her car pull into the parking lot outside and I prepare myself to face her shameful stare.

We don’t talk during the ride to the doctor. What is there to say? No explanation can be given on my part, even if there were my mother would not want to hear it. She has a way of communicating silently. What was I thinking, making up a story like this? It’s not like me to drag out a lie, especially to a teacher. Being taken to the doctor for a fake illness! This is not happening to me.

My mind is anywhere but present as we enter the familiar building. I am struck by the smell of rubbing alcohol and elastic gloves; something I haven’t smelt since the annual physical check up last August. The poignancy in my nostrils reminds me of my guilt. A nice secretary allows us straight in to see Dr. Brown. I hate the crinkly paper; it always bunches up when I try to sit on it. Avoiding eye contact with all authority, my gaze remains on the tile floor. I can feel my mother’s eyes on me and can only assume what she must be thinking. Dr. Brown enters, his glasses half way down his nose, reading his clipboard with a complete record of my childhood visits.

“So, Matthew, What brings you here today?” He says in his methodical monotone voice, raising his glasses to rest on the top of his balding head.

Here it goes again. “Well, I kinda passed out in the bathroom.”

“You weren’t feeling well?” He probes.

“No, I asked to go to the bathroom during algebra class. When I got there I was feeling terribly sick. Really nauseous, so I sat down with my head over the toilet.” His nodding of the head is good. His steady gaze continues, brow furrowing with any addition of details. As I talk I become more confident and increasingly shamed, knowing I need to correctly complete my lie.

“I must have dreamt I went to the nurse because I honestly believed I had. When I went back to algebra class I told my teacher I had visited the nurse. She was confused because after talking with the nurse on the phone, there still had been no sign of me. I finally did go to the nurse and she sent me here.” My mother’s slow head shake turns my stomach.

“Have you been doing drugs, Matt?” Her eyes shoot up, worried, to my reddened face.

“No, I can promise you that I haven’t. It really was just a freak thing; I don’t know why everyone is so worried.” I explain. I just want to get off this uncomfortable table and hide in my room! My project is turned in, that was the goal. I should be relaxing right now, without the stress of turning in a late assignment. Why couldn’t I just fess up the first time?

“We are required to run a drug test, and I am going to have the nurse take your blood. I know you’re an honest kid, Matt, but we don’t take any chances here.”

The nurse trots in with her equipment and discontinues the blood flow from my right arm. My mother’s silence screams expletives in my direction, she looks near to tears. I feel teary eyed as well, and a little pinch as the nurse inserts the needle. I promise, I will never tell anyone the truth about what happened today. I will take this secret to the grave. What would my mother think? And my teachers? I would probably fail English and be known the rest of high school as the kid who would do anything for an “A”. I don’t feel so good. The room is fading a little bit, is shame literally beginning to cover my eyes? It seems a bit dark in here. I try to ask the nurse to turn the lights back on. My arm stops telling me there is a needle inside. My eyes close under a heavy spell.

I dreamt I went home that time.