Page 4 of Eye of the Beholder
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a fireman. I loved fire engines; I had eight or nine, each of them bright red. One of them even had a little hose that unfurled. But the thing that made me want to be a fireman most was the seemingly constant presence of Dalmatians. Once I realized that wasn’t how that worked, I reconsidered. For a long time, I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life. I thought about being a policeman, like my older brother, Ian, but it just didn’t really click with me.
But last year, I started this web series on American history. I was looking for a way to get my history grade up. I thought I hated history classes, but it turns out I just didn’t like my teachers—because this lecture was awesome. The series was just a video feed from a history professor’s class, and he made the whole thing come alive. I felt like I was there, in 1776, listening to the Second Continental Congress argue about the Declaration of Independence—just from listening to this guy speak. It felt real, and it was really interesting. I went through the entire series in three days, and I looked up more about all that stuff when I finished. After that, I looked up more. And then more, and then more. And I discovered that I really do love history.
So, I don’t know. It would be kind of cool to be able to teach like that, as a professor. It would be cool to be able to make history come alive. And the school I’m looking at has a good history program and good grad programs for teaching. But if my ACT score isn’t high enough, that idea is toast.
When the day ends—this infernally long day of waiting—I go to football practice. It’s a welcome relief, honestly. At least at practice I can work out some of my agitation with sheer physical exertion. There comes a point where you’re so exhausted that you don’t have the energy to be antsy or anxious. I welcome that point now. Jack is on the team, and he provides some comic relief. He can tell I’m tense.
“Dude, lighten up,” he says. “It will be fine.”
He doesn’t know what “it” is, because he doesn’t know why I’m so uptight, but he says it anyway, which is cool of him. Just looking at us, no one would ever think us friends. I’m straight, but even I can recognize that Jack is good looking. I, on the other hand, am about as ugly as they come. It took me a while, but I’ve embraced it. My only other option is to live in constant fear of ridicule, and that sounds miserable.
“Hey,” Jack says, squinting at the bleachers. “What’s going on with you and Virginia?”
I turn to follow his gaze, and sure enough, there’s Virginia—along with her loyal followers.
Look, I’m not the kind of guy to call every ex-girlfriend a “psycho ex.” That’s not me. Sometimes things just don’t work out. I get it.
But Virginia…she’s skirting psycho-ex territory.
I run my thumb over the scar on my lips as I look at her. I’m not certain why we dated in the first place. Virginia’s track record shows that she likes attractive men on her arm; whatever else she might be, she’s gorgeous. I fall short of that standard by a wide margin. I’ve wondered since then if she was just using me to make someone jealous. It seems like the kind of thing she’d do.
“Nothing’s going on,” I say in answer to Jack’s question, grimacing and turning away from where Virginia sits in the bleachers.
“You sure?” Jack says, waving at Virginia. “Because she seems to think something’s going on.”
“I’m aware,” I say, clenching my teeth. I chug some of my water and sigh in relief. It’s pretty cool outside, but after the physical exertion of practice, I’m burning up.
“You gonna get back together?” Jack says, finally looking back to me.
“Definitely not,” I say. The decisiveness in my voice must surprise Jack, because he laughs.
“She’s hot, man.”
“Smoking hot,” I agree. “And totally full of herself. And willing to resort to extreme measures to get attention.” I turn to Jack. “Did you see her at lunch? She was acting like we never broke up. She kept trying to sit on my lap—”
“I saw,” Jack says, his voice dry as he absently kicks at the grass with his shoe. He looks over his shoulder at her. “Would you be annoyed if I asked her out?”
“Would you care if I were?” I say, grinning.
Jack grins back. “Maybe.”
“Have at it,” I say. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Jack shrugs. “Maybe the two of you just weren’t a good fit.”
We definitely weren’t a good fit. Maybe Virginia just wanted Jack all along and was trying to get his attention by dating me. Who knows? So I just shrug. “Could be. Go for it.”
We head back to the locker room. I reek in the way that only teenage boys can, so it feels good to change and shower off. But the anxiety starts to creep in again now that I’m not exhausting myself. I have to force myself not to rush out, but my walk is still more hurried than usual as I go to my car.
When I get home, my mom is nowhere to be seen—perfect. I sit at the computer, placed inconveniently in the middle of the living room, and pull up the ACT site to check my score.
It’s there. The score is there.
And it’s too low.
I try to hold in a groan as I fight the sinking feeling in my gut. This score is too low to be of any use to me. I’m going to have to take the test again.
I should feel relieved that I bothered to take it so early so that I have some retake options left. But I just feel faintly sick.
