Speak
STUDENT DIVIDED BY CONFUSION EQUALS ALGEBRA
I slide into my desk with ten minutes left in algebra class. Mr. Stetman stares at my late pass for a long time. I pull out a clean sheet of paper so I can copy the problems off the board.
I sit in the back row, where I can keep my eye on everyone, as well as whatever is going on in the parking lot. I think of myself as the Emergency Warning System of the class. I plan disaster drills.
How would we escape if the chemistry lab exploded? What if an earthquake hit Central New York?
A tornado?
It is impossible to stay focused on algebra. It's not that I'm bad at math. I tested at the top of the class last year--that's how I got Dad to pay for my new bike. Math is easy because there is no room for debate. The answer is right or it is wrong. Give me a sheet of math problems and I'll get 98 percent of them right.
But I can't get my head around algebra. I knew why I had to memorize my multiplication tables.
Understanding fractions, and decimals, and percentages, and even geometry--all that was practical.
Toolz eye kan youz. It made so much sense I never thought about it. I did the work. Made honor roll.
But algebra? Every single day, someone asks Mr. Stetman why we have to learn algebra. You can tell this causes him great personal pain. Mr. Stetman loves algebra. He is poetic about it, in an integral-number sort of way. He talks about algebra the way some guys talk about their cars. Ask him why algebra and he launches into a thousand and one stories why algebra. None of them makes sense.
Mr. Stetman asks if anyone can explain the wangdiddler's role in the negative hotchka theorem.
Heather has the answer. She is wrong. Stetman tries again. Me? I shake my head with a sad smile. Not this time, try me again in twenty years. He calls me to the board.
Mr. Stetman: “Who wants to help Melinda understand how we work our way through this problem? Rachel? Great.”
My head explodes with the noise of fire trucks leaving the station. This is a real disaster.
Rachel/Rachelle clogs up to the board, dressed in an outrageous Dutch/Scandinavian ensemble. She looks half-cute, half-sophisticated. She has red laser eyes that burn my forehead. I wear basic Dumpster togs-- smelly gray turtleneck and jeans. I just this minute remember that I need to wash my hair.
Rachelle's mouth moves and her hand glides over the board, drawing funny shapes and numbers. I pull my lower lip all the way in between my teeth. If I try hard enough, maybe I can gobble my whole self this way. Mr. Stetman drones something and Rachelle flutters her eyelids. She nudges me. We are supposed to sit down. The class giggles as we walk back to our seats. I didn't try hard enough to swallow myself.
My brain doesn't think we should spend any time hanging around algebra. We have better things to think about. It's a shame. Mr. Stetman seems like a nice guy.
