her when she was little in years. She made one for each of us. They were made especially to help calm our hunger. Not that there is any special power imbued in them, they were just simple fabric, but they were filled with our mom’s love and compassion for her children’s curse. I haven’t seen Van’s blanket in a very long time. I sleep with mine every night, though.
When Ivy is far enough away from me, I get out of the truck, lock it up, and follow her. And that’s pretty much what I do all day. Along with her address and license plate number, I looked up her schedule. At the time, I had memorized her classes in order to avoid her as much as possible. That should still be my goal. It’s obviously not, though, when I skip my lunch hour in order to get some help on my calculus homework.
When I walk through the door, most of the eyes in the room peer up at me. I focus on my favorite teacher, and leave the rest to stare all they want. Mr. Dalton grins and gestures for me to come in.
“Zander, what brings you to my homeroom?”
“Got a minute to help me with my calc homework?” I ask.
Mr. Dalton was my trigonometry teacher last year, and aside from being a likable guy, he was one of the few teachers who believed I wasn’t just another brainless jock who expected to get passed because of my athletic abilities. First test, he nailed me for screwing up a bunch of problems. It’s not so much that I’m not smart, it’s more that I’ve got a lot going on with sports, my hunger, family issues, and such that I don’t always find time to study. The last two years have been especially hard for several reasons, and Mr. Dalton really helped pull me through it.
He gestures me over to his desk. “Of course I’ve got time. All I do in homeroom is keep the delinquents from doing anything too stupid. Isn’t that right, Arnold?”
Some pimply, angry-looking sophomore sitting by the window pops his head up long enough to glare before hunkering down in his seat even further. Mr. Dalton laughs and shakes his head. “So, what are you getting stuck on?”
“Derivatives of continuous polynomial functions. It’s just not making sense to me.”
“Who do you have his year?”
“Raeburn.”
Mr. Dalton winces. “No wonder you’re struggling. She is all theoretical, never bothers to put a problem into real world terms so kids can understand why they’re doing what they’re doing. Here, let me get a different book.”
He stands up and wanders into the tiny shared office situated between his room and the next. I really do need help with my calc homework, but the desire to turn around and scan the room for her has my foot tapping. I can’t resist. Attempting to look casual, I note each face, and am disappointed when I don’t find Ivy’s. I want to check again, but Mr. Dalton reappears with a book in hand.
“Here,” he says, “this should help.”
I stare at the book doubtfully. “This looks like a college textbook.”
“It is. Calculus for business and economics. I teach it at night over at UNM. It isn’t any harder than what you’re doing now, but it’s put into practical terms, like finding the optimal price for movie tickets. It explains why you’re finding a derivative or doing integrations.”
“That sounds great, but I’m still struggling with how to do it, not just why,” I argue.
Mr. Dalton shakes his head. “I worked with you all last year. You’ll understand the how better if you understand the why. Let’s go through a few problems together, and then you can try some on your own.”
I’m not convinced, but he saved me last year, and I trust him. So we get to work. The minutes pass slowly as he runs through the basic instructions for me and tries to apply them to a real situation I can understand. I won’t lie and say I latch onto it right away, but it does start to make a little more sense. He’s pointing out a small error I made when I hear the classroom door open. Instantly, I can feel
When Ivy is far enough away from me, I get out of the truck, lock it up, and follow her. And that’s pretty much what I do all day. Along with her address and license plate number, I looked up her schedule. At the time, I had memorized her classes in order to avoid her as much as possible. That should still be my goal. It’s obviously not, though, when I skip my lunch hour in order to get some help on my calculus homework.
When I walk through the door, most of the eyes in the room peer up at me. I focus on my favorite teacher, and leave the rest to stare all they want. Mr. Dalton grins and gestures for me to come in.
“Zander, what brings you to my homeroom?”
“Got a minute to help me with my calc homework?” I ask.
Mr. Dalton was my trigonometry teacher last year, and aside from being a likable guy, he was one of the few teachers who believed I wasn’t just another brainless jock who expected to get passed because of my athletic abilities. First test, he nailed me for screwing up a bunch of problems. It’s not so much that I’m not smart, it’s more that I’ve got a lot going on with sports, my hunger, family issues, and such that I don’t always find time to study. The last two years have been especially hard for several reasons, and Mr. Dalton really helped pull me through it.
He gestures me over to his desk. “Of course I’ve got time. All I do in homeroom is keep the delinquents from doing anything too stupid. Isn’t that right, Arnold?”
Some pimply, angry-looking sophomore sitting by the window pops his head up long enough to glare before hunkering down in his seat even further. Mr. Dalton laughs and shakes his head. “So, what are you getting stuck on?”
“Derivatives of continuous polynomial functions. It’s just not making sense to me.”
“Who do you have his year?”
“Raeburn.”
Mr. Dalton winces. “No wonder you’re struggling. She is all theoretical, never bothers to put a problem into real world terms so kids can understand why they’re doing what they’re doing. Here, let me get a different book.”
He stands up and wanders into the tiny shared office situated between his room and the next. I really do need help with my calc homework, but the desire to turn around and scan the room for her has my foot tapping. I can’t resist. Attempting to look casual, I note each face, and am disappointed when I don’t find Ivy’s. I want to check again, but Mr. Dalton reappears with a book in hand.
“Here,” he says, “this should help.”
I stare at the book doubtfully. “This looks like a college textbook.”
“It is. Calculus for business and economics. I teach it at night over at UNM. It isn’t any harder than what you’re doing now, but it’s put into practical terms, like finding the optimal price for movie tickets. It explains why you’re finding a derivative or doing integrations.”
“That sounds great, but I’m still struggling with how to do it, not just why,” I argue.
Mr. Dalton shakes his head. “I worked with you all last year. You’ll understand the how better if you understand the why. Let’s go through a few problems together, and then you can try some on your own.”
I’m not convinced, but he saved me last year, and I trust him. So we get to work. The minutes pass slowly as he runs through the basic instructions for me and tries to apply them to a real situation I can understand. I won’t lie and say I latch onto it right away, but it does start to make a little more sense. He’s pointing out a small error I made when I hear the classroom door open. Instantly, I can feel
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