Claws

Ms. Cahill writes out the homework assignment with such force that I can hear the chalk dust fall to the ground. It’s more than I can see of what she’s writing. My desk, in the little cluster of five she organized us into at the beginning of the year, faces the window and is blocked from the board by Tiago, the tallest boy in class. Fitting, I guess, that the shortest girl be forced to sit next to him.

The only one in our group with a seat directly facing the board is Jonathan, who is too busy flicking eraser shaving at Victoria and Diane, sitting across from me in their matching pink and blue sweatsuits. One of the shavings lands on Diane’s brown thumb, but she flicks it off without even turning away from the front of the class.

I’ve spent the past few minutes leaning over my desk to see past Tiago’s Portugal soccer jersey, furiously scribbling down every number I can make out. But clearly, Ms. Cahill has run out of room and moves to the other side of the board to write out the next set of questions. There is a barely audible sigh of exasperation from the group in the front left corner of the classroom; it’s probably Jesse—currently known as Cleavage Boy due to an unfortunately phrased question asked during science class on Monday.

I lean back in my chair, trying not to rock on the back legs, to see the rest of the board. Instead, my eyes focus on the dark fuzz at the back of Anthony’s head. He should technically be in high school, but his family just arrived as refugees from Africa earlier this year, and he’s behind in school. I wonder if he feels as anxious in math class as I do. English, I excel at. I can handle words, but numbers just overwhelm me. Maybe it’s the opposite for him.

The chalk clatters on the board’s ledge, and I rush to finish writing down the assignment as Ms. Cahill scans over the sweaty classroom. Her eyes are shards of coal stabbed into her doughy face. Her tiny mouth tight-lipped.

“Any questions?” she asks.

Nobody speaks.

Her eyes dart to the back of the classroom, and I notice that the T.A., Ms. Ryan, is tucked behind the prayer cabinet, arms folded over her slim red turtleneck. Her eyebrow raises.

Ms. Cahill claps her hands; everyone jumps.

“Pages one-oh-five and one-oh-six, numbers one to twelve. Get to it.”

The entire class flips their textbooks to the right pages, opens their notebooks, and writes as Ms. Cahill lumbers to the back, squeezing between the desk groups. The feel of her stomach brushing the back of my head has my pencil speed up. Upon reaching Ms. Ryan, Ms. Cahill nods firmly, then slips out the door, Ms. Ryan close behind.

The room holds its breath (four… three… two… one…) until we’re certain Kinda-Big-Hill is out of earshot.

Cleavage Boy lets out a bark of laughter, and the chatter begins.

Victoria’s sandy ponytail whips her cheek as she turns to grin at Tiago. “Better pray you’re on our team in gym tomorrow,” she says, slipping her pink sleeve under Diane’s blue one.

Diane hums in agreement, eyes on her paper.

Tiago props a hand under his chin. “Is that a challenge, ladies?” he smiles and wiggles his thick eyebrows. “Because I thought us boys did pretty well last week.”

Because you didn’t have me holding you back, I think bitterly.

“Yeah!” Jonathan laughs, rocking on his back chair legs. As usual, I fight the urge to pull his pants up. “We totally beat you at that basketball game!”

“But this is volleyball—”

Shaking my head slightly to drown out the gym talk, I read over the textbook pages and barely suppress a groan: long division.

I grip my pencil and get to work on the first few questions. They’re easy enough, I guess. The real issue is that they’re both made up of several mini questions, which make me feel like the work with never end. Finally, I make it question three, a situation problem.

Before I can stop myself, I’m glancing over the Anthony again. His pencil goes slowly, shaking somewhat in his smooth hand. He mouths the question as he writes, and like many times before, I can’t help but wonder if his lips feel as plush as they look. Thankfully, he doesn’t catch me watching.

I turn back to my own work, only realize that someone else is staring at me. Tiago’s eyes glint behind his glasses, and he smiles down in a way I’ve become quite familiar with.

Here we go, I sigh internally.

“Eilish,” he purrs, “my little kitty-cat, how are you?”

Victoria is already biting back her giggle, while Diane glances up from her work to shoot a sympathetic smile.

Not today, please. I slump forward, pressing my nose against my notebook; my zits stain the page.

Tiago shakes his head, chuckling. “Kitty-cat, must you ignore me?”

Jonathan sniggers, “Yeah, kitty-cat! Come on!”

Shut up!

I focus on my work. I write the number three in the page margin. I read over the question:

Tommy has—

“You know, Eilish,” Tiago drawls, “it’s rude to ignore someone trying to—”

With a sharp drop of my pencil, I grip the edges of my textbook and, in a now old habit, lift it to act as a barricade. Tiago raises his long arm in protest, but I place the book between us with a dull thud and push my pencil case against the page to hold it in place.

Both Diane and Victoria are folded over laughing now. Tiago peers over the top of the book with puppy dog eyes, but he has the decency to keep quiet as I return to my work.

The same can't said for Jonathan.

“Aw!” he whines, no longer rocking on his chair. “You’re no fun, Eilish.”

I imagine that I’m holding one of Mom’s stress balls in my left hand and curl my fingers in with a tight squeeze.

“Eilish!” Jonathan singsongs, inching his hand towards my pudgy left arm.

I focus on the question:

Tommy has forty marbles—

“If you don’t put that book down, you love Tiago.”

—Jen has eight jars.

“If you keep ignoring me, you love me!”

How many marbles—

“Oh! You love us both, kitty-cat?”

—go into each—

“Hey, kitty-cat! Kitty—”

THWACK!!!

It takes me a moment to clue into what happened. What I see first are just pieces: Jonathan’s wide eyes. His cradled hand. My own hand—no, my fist snapping back to my desk.

My first thought is: I could hit him harder. My hand doesn’t even sting. I could punch him in his stupid babyface right now and knock out four teeth.

The grip around my pencil tightens.

Then, I notice all sound has left the room.

Twenty-four heads have snapped towards me, their eyebrows at the hairline, mouths frozen mid-syllable. Tiago, Victoria, and Diane have clutched each other in horror. Jonathan stares at his hand, shell-shocked.

Crap…

The stunned faces quickly morph into vicious smirks, and a choir of “oohs” rises from the silence.

Cleavage Boy looks smug.

“Well!” he cries. “Eilish!”

Everybody is cackling now. Over the cacophony, I make out someone saying, “Wait until Kinda-Big-Hill find out!” and my body goes bloodless. I duck behind my textbook, try to reread the question, try to solve the equation, but all I can think about is how I’m going to get detention, how this will go on my permanent record, how I’m going to have to face the principal and Ms. Cahill. Oh, God! Ms. Cahill!

In my numbed-out state, the chatter sounds little more than a loud whisper, but I can still taste the glee pouring from everyone’s words. I dare to peek at Anthony’s table and my stomach curls inward.

He’s looking at me, squinting in confusion.

Quiet but commanding footsteps approach the door, and the class goes silent. As Ms. Cahill enters the room, we all once again play the dutiful students, focused only on our notebooks. I can feel her beady eyes burn into me as she makes her way to her desk, but she says nothing. She sits down. Only pencil scratches fill the air, everyone so focused on their equations.

My skeleton trembles. I want to scream.

Say something, you jerks! Come on!

Nobody speaks.