struggle.
“That was brutal,” he said over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I said, slowing to fall in with him. In fact I had enjoyed it.
“The number of quizzes in this class is a fucking joke,” Graham said, coming down on the penultimate word with savage relish.
“I know,” I said. “It sucks.” I was trying to use words like
sucks
more. And then I heard a croaking voice calling my name, and Bill Fleig was hurrying out of the classroom after us. From a distance of more than ten years, I can see how he recognized me as a kindred spirit: my dull wardrobe; my habitual look of beatific concentration; my unfortunate haircut, which swooped out from my ears in smooth shallow curves describable by quadratic equations. But at the time it felt like he had arbitrarily chosen to mark me by association.
“Do you know Pascal?” he asked. He had a way of jumping straight to the substance of conversations, treating greetings and pleasantries as noise.
“Nuh-uh,” I said as Graham looked on.
“I was talking to Mr. Gestetner,” Bill said. “He says he’ll teach Pascal classes after school if I can find one other person who wants to do it.”
This proposal was not without its appeal. I was frustrated with the limitations of BASIC and eager to become a more sophisticatedprogrammer. But allying myself with Bill, or publicly expressing an interest in computers, would be a catastrophic error.
“Pascal is retarded,” I said, proud to be disowning my nerd impulses. And then Graham gave me a quizzical look and I realized my mistake: I should have said,
What the fuck is Pascal
? Instead I had outed myself as someone who had opinions about programming languages.
“So does that mean you won’t do it?” Bill asked. “Because if I can’t find someone else, Gestetner won’t teach the class.” Graham was heading off toward his locker.
“Well, boo hoo,” I said, and turned my back on Bill Fleig. Feeling defeated, I grabbed my coat and books and made my way out of the building to the school’s front steps where my mom would pick me up. Plastic bags and sheets of loose-leaf paper soared and sank in the wind. I waited on the bottom step, at the far left, where my mom always looked for me, and watching the cars I realized: they were all driven by other students. That’s when my mom’s pale blue Nissan pulled up, and she leaned over the passenger side and waved, and there I was, the only kid at my high school getting picked up by his mom. As I got in, it was as if some adult version of me, someone capable and self-reliant, was watching and protesting:
That’s just a kid! That little kid is going around pretending to be me
!
When I started at MLK Mom had, temporarily and with great bureaucratic effort, adjusted her schedule at the doctor’s office where she worked reception. We’d anticipated that I would meet other kids who lived in Sheridan and my mom would arrange a car pool with their parents. But I had not yet met any such kids, and if I had I don’t think I could have said,
Hey—you live in Sheridan? We should carpool
! Most of the older kids drove or got rides with friends; the younger ones took the municipal bus. But then, most of the kids at MLK didn’t live in Sheridan, off the city bus routes.
It was warm in the car. “Hey, sugar,” Mom said. She pulled awayfrom the curb, humming with the radio. We stopped at the end of the street as a gaggle of kids crossed in front of us.
“So how was school?” Mom asked me.
“It was fine,” I said, slouching in my seat, hoping I wouldn’t be seen.
“I was thinking of doing tuna casserole tonight,” she said. “And
L.A. Law
.” My mother and I enjoyed this show, but I wasn’t in the mood. For the first time, the fundamental syllogism of adolescence occurred to me:
Your mom loves you. Your mom is biologically obliged to love you, even if you’re a total loser. Therefore her love means nothing, and you probably are a total loser
.
“That’s great, Mom,” I
“That was brutal,” he said over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I said, slowing to fall in with him. In fact I had enjoyed it.
“The number of quizzes in this class is a fucking joke,” Graham said, coming down on the penultimate word with savage relish.
“I know,” I said. “It sucks.” I was trying to use words like
sucks
more. And then I heard a croaking voice calling my name, and Bill Fleig was hurrying out of the classroom after us. From a distance of more than ten years, I can see how he recognized me as a kindred spirit: my dull wardrobe; my habitual look of beatific concentration; my unfortunate haircut, which swooped out from my ears in smooth shallow curves describable by quadratic equations. But at the time it felt like he had arbitrarily chosen to mark me by association.
“Do you know Pascal?” he asked. He had a way of jumping straight to the substance of conversations, treating greetings and pleasantries as noise.
“Nuh-uh,” I said as Graham looked on.
“I was talking to Mr. Gestetner,” Bill said. “He says he’ll teach Pascal classes after school if I can find one other person who wants to do it.”
This proposal was not without its appeal. I was frustrated with the limitations of BASIC and eager to become a more sophisticatedprogrammer. But allying myself with Bill, or publicly expressing an interest in computers, would be a catastrophic error.
“Pascal is retarded,” I said, proud to be disowning my nerd impulses. And then Graham gave me a quizzical look and I realized my mistake: I should have said,
What the fuck is Pascal
? Instead I had outed myself as someone who had opinions about programming languages.
“So does that mean you won’t do it?” Bill asked. “Because if I can’t find someone else, Gestetner won’t teach the class.” Graham was heading off toward his locker.
“Well, boo hoo,” I said, and turned my back on Bill Fleig. Feeling defeated, I grabbed my coat and books and made my way out of the building to the school’s front steps where my mom would pick me up. Plastic bags and sheets of loose-leaf paper soared and sank in the wind. I waited on the bottom step, at the far left, where my mom always looked for me, and watching the cars I realized: they were all driven by other students. That’s when my mom’s pale blue Nissan pulled up, and she leaned over the passenger side and waved, and there I was, the only kid at my high school getting picked up by his mom. As I got in, it was as if some adult version of me, someone capable and self-reliant, was watching and protesting:
That’s just a kid! That little kid is going around pretending to be me
!
When I started at MLK Mom had, temporarily and with great bureaucratic effort, adjusted her schedule at the doctor’s office where she worked reception. We’d anticipated that I would meet other kids who lived in Sheridan and my mom would arrange a car pool with their parents. But I had not yet met any such kids, and if I had I don’t think I could have said,
Hey—you live in Sheridan? We should carpool
! Most of the older kids drove or got rides with friends; the younger ones took the municipal bus. But then, most of the kids at MLK didn’t live in Sheridan, off the city bus routes.
It was warm in the car. “Hey, sugar,” Mom said. She pulled awayfrom the curb, humming with the radio. We stopped at the end of the street as a gaggle of kids crossed in front of us.
“So how was school?” Mom asked me.
“It was fine,” I said, slouching in my seat, hoping I wouldn’t be seen.
“I was thinking of doing tuna casserole tonight,” she said. “And
L.A. Law
.” My mother and I enjoyed this show, but I wasn’t in the mood. For the first time, the fundamental syllogism of adolescence occurred to me:
Your mom loves you. Your mom is biologically obliged to love you, even if you’re a total loser. Therefore her love means nothing, and you probably are a total loser
.
“That’s great, Mom,” I
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