Not My Problem

I looked from the paper in my hand to the open drawer, up to Ms. Devlin’s face. I’d seen her angry before, but this was something special.

She held her hand out for the sheet and I stood up. I contemplated whether it would fit in my mouth if I scrunched it up. I wouldn’t put it past her to fish it out of my mouth, if I was honest. I handed the sheet over. She inspected it. I watched her take in whatever Angela had written on it, knowing that there was nothing identifiable on the paper now that it was detached from Angela’s homework.

She folded it and put it in her pocket. “Come with me,” she said.

I followed behind her in silence, through the halls, across the field, into the sports complex, and down the hall to her office.

Ms. Devlin sat and gestured to a chair opposite her desk. She didn’t say anything. I wondered if she was waiting for an explanation, and that felt like a trap. I took in the office. There wasn’t much to it, except for a stack of cones in the corner and a succulent on the desk. I hadn’t been in it before. Seeing as Ms. Devlin loved to have private chats with me, I figured she kept her office for only the most serious infractions.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said.

“This isn’t the time, Aideen,” she said. I hadn’t heard her use that tone before. The one that didn’t have any humor in it.

She took the piece of paper from her pocket. “Did you write this?”

I nodded. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to say yes to her face.

“And what were you doing in Mr. Walker’s drawers?”

I resisted every urge to say that I would never, ever go near Mr. Walker’s drawers; I didn’t think she’d appreciate the double entendre.

“I didn’t want him to see it. I accidentally handed it in with homework.”

Thank God I actually had Mr. Walker for geography or I don’t know how I’d have explained that.

Ms. Devlin narrowed her eyes. Then she wiggled her mouse and typed in the password on her computer. I tried to follow what it was. You never know when you might need these things. It started with S4, but unfortunately that was all I got.

Ms. Devlin peered at her screen, typing in a few things, scrolling, and eventually reading something.

“You haven’t had geography today. And from what I can see here, you haven’t handed in homework in at least two weeks.”

“I . . . I had geography on Monday, I handed it in then. I only realized today I lost this sheet. I waited for Mr. Walker to go to the bathroom during lunch and snuck in and got it. I know it was wrong but I didn’t want him to read what I wrote. I was only thinking of his feelings, you know.”

I tried to apply some of my charm and smiled innocently.

It didn’t work.

“I spoke to Miss Sullivan yesterday,” she said.

Shit.

“She said you’ve handed in three assignments since the start of term?” Her brows were knitted together and she seemed more worried than her usual gruff self.

“I knew you were struggling in English and Maths, but French too?” She looked at her screen. “And geography, evidently.”

And business studies, home ec, and biology.

“Miss, I got one A, four Cs, and five Ds in my junior. It can’t really be a surprise that I’m not good at school.”

“How could you be good?” she said, exasperated. “You don’t try!”

“I’m not academic,” I said, thinking of what Mam had said when I’d got my results. She said I had other abilities, but she didn’t elaborate on what they were.

“You’re a bright girl. I’m not asking you to get all As. I’m asking you to live up to your potential,” she said.

Here it came. An inspirational speech. I’d heard them before. They came right before whatever do-gooder had seized on you completely gave up because you didn’t turn your life around based on their sage wisdom.

“You’re unfocused and I know that you’ve had a difficult time in the past with your mother. There’s been social work involvement? How are things now?”

I sighed, annoyed.

“I am so sick of hearing about potential,” I said, sidestepping the social work bits. No way was I going into that. “What if this is my potential? What if this is the best I can do—what then? Look at my first year and you’ll see I was getting Ds back then too. You might see the odd C. Why would I work my butt off when that’s the best I can do anyway? Some people are never going to be able to do better! As much as you want to have your inspiring teacher moment, I’m only going to disappoint you!”

Ms. Devlin looked taken aback at my sudden serious outburst and I regretted it only slightly.

“You won’t disappoint me if you try,” she said. She was so earnest I felt sad for her. She needed a life of her own to worry about.

“You need me to be terrible,” I said. “If everyone can get As if they only try hard enough, then As become totally meaningless. It’s not designed for everyone to succeed. A few people will be exceptional. Everyone else is getting by in the middle. But you need me at the bottom. I’m the low bar everyone else can jump over.”

Ms. Devlin seemed to be trying to think of something she could say. I could tell I’d surprised her. I’d surprised myself with how true those words sounded. It had taken me ages to work out that feeling and I’d never said it out loud. I’d wrestled with this thorny, tangledy mess and somehow over the years managed to sort it into an idea that rang as true as a bell inside me.

“If that’s true,” she said finally, “and I’m not saying it is. But if it is true, I want you to game the system. Don’t let it beat you.”

There was a part of me that wanted to say, Yes, I’ll do what you want and work really hard and then you’ll be happy. I didn’t blame her. She was only doing her job, and she was new to being my form tutor so she hadn’t been worn into the ground by my perpetual failure yet. But I knew I couldn’t give her the thing she wanted. She wanted me to buck up and get a B and then she could be proud that I achieved something. Then she could feel like she’d helped the bad student blossom.

I’d give her that moment if I could. She probably deserved it. But I didn’t have it in me. In first year I thought maybe, just maybe, it would be different in secondary school. People would be my friend and I wouldn’t feel lost every time I tried to follow what was going on in class. And I tried. I tried so, so hard for a while. But nothing ever clicked. Maths felt like someone was trying to teach me a foreign language by speaking another foreign language. English was some kind of riddle where people said things but meant other things and I was supposed to be the author’s therapist and analyze it all. And everything else required some kind of photographic memory. I couldn’t remember what happened on Fair City last week, never mind everything everyone in history ever said or did from the Aztecs up to Michael Collins.

“The only way to beat it is if you want to do my homework for me,” I said. “And while I think it would be nice for you to have a hobby, I don’t think this will expand your horizons.”

“I can’t fix the problem by doing it for you,” she said, taking everything way too seriously again. “But I can try and give you the tools you need to fix it yourself. What about tutoring?”

Tutoring costs money. I mean, aside from the utter pointlessness. If I didn’t understand it in class, then how was I going to understand it after class when my brain was already fried?

“I can’t give up my cigarette and cider money for a tutor, miss,” I said, trying to make a joke of it. I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me but I wanted her not to push it.

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” she said. “I don’t see how that will help you in any way. But I won’t be able to protect you from it if you keep carrying on like this, and if you did get in serious trouble, I’m afraid it will set you down a bad path.”

“I think that path leads to my front door already, miss.”

She looked sad.

“I did my French homework for today,” I offered.

She closed her eyes. “I will help you in any way I can, Aideen. But you have to tell me what’s going on.”

“Everything is fine, miss. I promise.”

She gave me a long look. “You remind me so much of myself at your age. Unfocused. Out of her depth. You’re not a bad kid. You do need some discipline though.”

“Sadly, caning is now illegal, miss.”

“Sadly indeed. However, I meant a different kind of discipline. After school. Fifty laps of the track.”

I nearly choked. “MISS!”

She leaned back in her chair and fixed her eyes on me. There was a glint of her usual sense of humor there.

“Unless you have a note?” she said, sounding completely innocent. “That you can show me right this minute?”

We both knew today was not a PE day.

There was no note.

There was no escape.