Alison Stine - Supervision

Someone sprinted around a corner and plowed into me.

I was knocked to my knees. My bag shot off my back and onto the floor, the zipper splitting open. The boy who had knocked me down pushed himself up with a squeal of his sneakers and took off. “Hey,” I said. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

He dashed around the next corner and was gone.

“Jerk,” I said.

In the empty hallway, I stood and gathered my stuff. I collected the loose papers that had fallen from the folder that was supposed to travel with me to the office: my permanent record from New York. Words leapt out at me from the file: distracted … disrespectful … loner … antisocial … underachiever … daydreamer … lives in a fantasy world …

The words began to blur. No, I would not cry. Not on the first day of school. I shoved the pages back into the folder. Somehow, I found my classroom. A science lab. Students perched at tables, looking bored. There was one empty stool so I took it.

“All right,” the teacher said. She looked up. She was going to make some sort of announcement, introduce me, something embarrassing.

I tensed, waiting for it.

The door shot open and a boy came in, looking flustered. He headed straight for me.

He ran up to me. Then he sat on me—or tried to, sat right on my stool, on my lap. I pushed him as hard as I could, and he tumbled off the stool onto the ground. He looked up, his face blanching.

The class laughed, everyone at once. The teacher rolled her eyes and told them to be nice, told the boy to be more careful. He stood and reached for my stool again, and I backed up, scooting the stool with me.

“Sit in the back, Ron,” the teacher said. “I don’t think that chair likes you.”

“The chair?” I said. “Hello? I have a name.”

But Ron moved away, and no one asked me what my name was. The teacher didn’t do an announcement, or give me a book. She didn’t even take roll. She started the class like nothing was different. “So,” she said. “Today we’re going to talk about something that actually matters to us, matters to our history here in Wellstone.”

“History matters?” some boy said.

“The locomotive,” the teacher said. “You might be surprised to learn the steam locomotive has something in common with an aircraft carrier. Anyone know what?”

I looked around. No one knew my name here yet. No one knew my nickname— Miss Wrong —or had given it to me, thinking they were being smart, thinking they were being new. Slowly I raised my hand.

“The steam locomotive and an aircraft carrier. What do they have in common?”

I pumped my hand. I waved it.

“Anyone?” the teacher said.

“Excuse me?” I said. “They both convert heat into motion.”

The teacher sighed. “They both convert heat into motion.”

I lowered my hand.

“Take out your books,” the teacher said. “I know we’ve all got senioritis here, but there are three weeks left of school and we’re going to make them count. Read chapter twelve to yourselves, please, then we’ll do the questions together.”

Everyone fumbled with their books. Everyone but me.

I waited for the teacher to notice. I waited for her to give me a book, to ask my name, to see me. But she never did.

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