incorrect, when something didn’t add up, and the mathematical figures scrawled on the dry erase board at the front of Mrs. O’Brien’s empty classroom most definitely didn’t add up.
“Incorrect. Incorrect. Wrong in every way,” Rom said as he erased old numbers and put in numbers of his own. “She must be senile. That is the only explanation.”
He stepped back from the board and found Mrs. O’Brien now standing next to him, her arms crossed. As good as Rom was with numbers, though, was inversely matched by how bad he was with reading emotions. Rom had no idea Mrs. O’Brien was displeased with him despite the scowl on her face.
Rom stepped back up to the board and looked at the numbers again. “Was that a three or a four you had here?” he asked her. She didn’t answer. “I’ll just say it was a four. It doesn’t really matter. They’re both incorrect. They’re wrong, Mrs. O’Brien. Do…you…understand?” He said the last part like he was speaking to a five year old.
Mrs. O’Brien wasn’t moved by his condensation. She held out her hand. Rom stared at it for a long moment. Then he finally got it. He handed over the marker he was holding and backed away. He had crossed some line that he never understood but had crossed it enough to know it when he did.
Rom quickly retreated from the room and entered into the stream of kids leaving campus for the day. They headed for the buses out front or the car pool line to the side of the school or out back to the student parking lot. That’s where Rom found Farrell and Izzy not so patiently waiting for him.
“Four years, eight months, six hours and one day,” Rom declared as he joined them. “That’s when my math teacher, Mrs. O’Brien, is going to die. It’ll be heart attack. Unfortunately I’ll have graduated by then.”
“You won’t have graduated by then because we’re not really here to go to school, Rom,” Izzy told him as the three began to wind their way around the cars in the lot and towards their light blue Citroen.
“Not to mention the fact that you said you wouldn’t do any more age analysis on people,” Farrell chastised his younger brother.
“It’s a total invasion of privacy,” Izzy added. “The date someone is going to die is their business, not yours.”
“But her class is so boring,” Rom whined. “Calculating cell division is the only interesting thing I have to do.”
Farrell, ever the gentleman, opened the passenger side door of the Citroen for Izzy as Rom stood impatiently next to her waiting for Farrell to open the back door for him. Farrell instead brushed by him and headed around the car to the driver’s side. Rom finally gave up waiting and slid into the back seat, throwing his backpack in before him.
The car started up with a sputter, the engine attempting to crank a few times before it actually roared to life. Its old metal parts grinded away and it made a racket new cars didn’t make. Farrell began to pull out of his parking space but only made it half way into the lane in the lot when a loud honk drowned out even the very loud Citroen engine. It was Andre Davies driving a car that was stopped mere feet from Farrell’s bumper. He was at the wheel of a ridiculously expensive BMW convertible and had his ridiculously expensive looking girlfriend, Nora Evans, beside him.
“Nice car, loser,” Andre yelled through Izzy’s open window at Farrell. “Is that what they drive back in Africa?” Nora just sat looking straight ahead. It was hard to tell whether she was embarrassed or bored.
“Actually, we fly space ships where I come from,” Farrell shot back, which prompted a hard punch to the leg from Izzy. “As if he’d understand,” Farrell whispered to her.
“Whatever, dude,” Andre said and he put his car in gear. His car tires squealed as he peeled out of the parking lot, blonde hair, his and Nora’s, blowing back in the wind.
Rom sat slumped in the back seat. “We should get a nicer
“Incorrect. Incorrect. Wrong in every way,” Rom said as he erased old numbers and put in numbers of his own. “She must be senile. That is the only explanation.”
He stepped back from the board and found Mrs. O’Brien now standing next to him, her arms crossed. As good as Rom was with numbers, though, was inversely matched by how bad he was with reading emotions. Rom had no idea Mrs. O’Brien was displeased with him despite the scowl on her face.
Rom stepped back up to the board and looked at the numbers again. “Was that a three or a four you had here?” he asked her. She didn’t answer. “I’ll just say it was a four. It doesn’t really matter. They’re both incorrect. They’re wrong, Mrs. O’Brien. Do…you…understand?” He said the last part like he was speaking to a five year old.
Mrs. O’Brien wasn’t moved by his condensation. She held out her hand. Rom stared at it for a long moment. Then he finally got it. He handed over the marker he was holding and backed away. He had crossed some line that he never understood but had crossed it enough to know it when he did.
Rom quickly retreated from the room and entered into the stream of kids leaving campus for the day. They headed for the buses out front or the car pool line to the side of the school or out back to the student parking lot. That’s where Rom found Farrell and Izzy not so patiently waiting for him.
“Four years, eight months, six hours and one day,” Rom declared as he joined them. “That’s when my math teacher, Mrs. O’Brien, is going to die. It’ll be heart attack. Unfortunately I’ll have graduated by then.”
“You won’t have graduated by then because we’re not really here to go to school, Rom,” Izzy told him as the three began to wind their way around the cars in the lot and towards their light blue Citroen.
“Not to mention the fact that you said you wouldn’t do any more age analysis on people,” Farrell chastised his younger brother.
“It’s a total invasion of privacy,” Izzy added. “The date someone is going to die is their business, not yours.”
“But her class is so boring,” Rom whined. “Calculating cell division is the only interesting thing I have to do.”
Farrell, ever the gentleman, opened the passenger side door of the Citroen for Izzy as Rom stood impatiently next to her waiting for Farrell to open the back door for him. Farrell instead brushed by him and headed around the car to the driver’s side. Rom finally gave up waiting and slid into the back seat, throwing his backpack in before him.
The car started up with a sputter, the engine attempting to crank a few times before it actually roared to life. Its old metal parts grinded away and it made a racket new cars didn’t make. Farrell began to pull out of his parking space but only made it half way into the lane in the lot when a loud honk drowned out even the very loud Citroen engine. It was Andre Davies driving a car that was stopped mere feet from Farrell’s bumper. He was at the wheel of a ridiculously expensive BMW convertible and had his ridiculously expensive looking girlfriend, Nora Evans, beside him.
“Nice car, loser,” Andre yelled through Izzy’s open window at Farrell. “Is that what they drive back in Africa?” Nora just sat looking straight ahead. It was hard to tell whether she was embarrassed or bored.
“Actually, we fly space ships where I come from,” Farrell shot back, which prompted a hard punch to the leg from Izzy. “As if he’d understand,” Farrell whispered to her.
“Whatever, dude,” Andre said and he put his car in gear. His car tires squealed as he peeled out of the parking lot, blonde hair, his and Nora’s, blowing back in the wind.
Rom sat slumped in the back seat. “We should get a nicer
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