Charles Benoit: You

Probably not.

And would they have even caught you?

Hardly.

But this was different. It was trespassing, sure, but it was more than that. And while technically you didn’t have to break in when you entered, you’ve seen enough cop shows to know that’s the way it would have read on the police report, Breaking & Entering.

You’re lying there safe in your own house, in the bed you’ve had since you were twelve, and it dawns on you what would have happened if you’d been caught. And all of a sudden your stomach flips over and you’re cold and you start shaking and you feel guilty and ashamed and scared all at the same time and you think you’re going to puke.

But you don’t. The feeling passes, and what two hours ago was the most criminal thing you had ever done seems suddenly insignificant.

Another line crossed. And you didn’t even notice.

Ten minutes later you’re asleep.

Mr. Nagle asked you to stick around a moment after the bell.

“I’ll admit, you have been working harder in class, and when you’ve done the lab work it’s always been very good, and I haven’t had to speak to you about not paying attention in quite a while. But…”

There’s always a but .

It’s a magical word. You can say anything you want, go on for as long as you want, and then all you have to do is add the magic word and instantly everything you said is erased, turned meaningless, just like that.

You’re a really nice guy…

Your mother thinks you need a new computer…

You’ve been working harder in class…

But.

You keep looking at Mr. Nagle as he explains how a few zero homework grades really knock down your average. You nod, and you’re thinking that everything he is saying is true.

You are smarter than this.

You could be getting all As.

You could be on the High Honor Roll.

And that if you don’t straighten up soon, you won’t get into college.

You won’t be able to find a decent job.

You won’t amount to anything.

And you know it’s all true.

But.

“So I go, ‘I was gonna apply for that job,’ and she’s like, ‘Well, you should have,’ and I go, ‘I’m the one that told you about it,’ and she goes, ‘Oh well,’ like it’s not her problem, right?”

You nod your head. You’ve got no clue what she’s going on about, but it’s Ashley, and you’d listen to her read the phone book if you could sit this close to her. You’re sitting on the curb, waiting for the late bus, Ashley because she was getting help in math, you because you had detention. There’re some other kids over by the benches and a couple of guys kicking a Hacky Sack-which you didn’t think anybody did anymore-and it’s surprisingly warm out and sunny and you’re sitting next to Ashley, listening to her talk about nothing and you’re pretty sure that this right here is the highlight of your year so far.

You met last year when you were both in the same science class, and almost every week you were lab partners. She liked working with you because you knew most of the stuff already anyway and you always got the labs done on time. Back in seventh grade you were in science club and you met after school to do experiments, sometimes even on the weekends. But you didn’t tell her that. And she liked working with you because you weren’t hitting on her all the time like the other guys in the class, mostly tenth graders who were repeating ninth-grade science. And she liked the cologne you wore, which was this after-shave your dad had given you last Christmas, as if you needed to start shaving.

And you liked working with Ashley because what guy wouldn’t want to work with Ashley? Your friends called her cute but said she was kinda small in the boob department. You called your friends idiots and said they were kinda small everywhere. No you didn’t. You didn’t say anything. The less you got them noticing how hot she was, the better chance you had.

It started with science class, then sometimes you’d sit with her at lunch, not just you two but as part of a group. She didn’t really hang out with the hoodies or the jocks or the drama club, just kinda floated around from clique to clique. She got along with everybody, and at Midlands that was a hell of an accomplishment.

“So I’m sitting there, doing my worksheet like he said, and he comes up and goes, ‘Miss Bianchi, what do you think you’re doing?’ And I’m like, hello , I’m doing your stupid work, so I go, ‘I’m doing the worksheet,’ and he goes-”

Her eyes are not really blue but not green, either. Hazel? And she wears too much eye shadow, sort of a sandy-brown smear on her eyelids. But it’s good being close enough to look into her eyes.

Why is it different with her? Other girls, you had no problem with. With them you talked a couple times, texted a few nights, then made out somewhere. No big deal. But it’s different now, with Ashley. You’ve never wanted to kiss somebody more, never wanted to do more, do it all, but you hold back. She’s not like other girls, the kind you fool around with for something to do. You tell yourself that the right time is coming-soon-that you’ll tell her how you feel. Maybe not tell her, just show her instead, you don’t know yet.

But for right now, for this moment, it’s good between you two.

Here are the Top Ten things that your parents say to you:

· Is that all you’re going to do all day, sit in front of that computer?

· When I was your age I had two jobs.

· Why don’t you wear some clothes that fit for a change?

· Turn it down. I can hear it all the way over here.

· You’re not eating that for dinner.

· Did you do your homework?

· Stop mumbling and speak up.

· Now what did you do?

· Because I said so.

· No.

The second chime is still ringing and you’re already out the door. Although Mr. Jansen finds it thrilling, the elastic clause of the U.S. Constitution fails to interest you or any other student in the class. You doubt that Mr. Jansen finds it all that interesting either, just part of that act every teacher puts on, trying to convince you that this is vital to your future success . Last week, when you were actually doing homework, you asked your father about the three-fifths compromise in the Constitution and he said he was never good at math. He had to have sat through the same classes, learned the same crap, which makes you wonder if the only reason they make you learn it is because they had to learn it.

It’s not that classes are hard. Most of the time they’re ridiculously easy. The textbooks are dumbed down to the point where your kid sister could probably read them, and the teachers go over and over and over the same stuff anyway, drilling it into your head so that they can ask you one hundred multiple-choice questions to get it all back out of you again. The teachers complain that the students today are all lazy, ignorant, and stupid. But the truth is that you’re smarter than they are. You’re not even old enough to drive and you already know that none of this matters. Not the English or the social studies or the math or the science. If it did, if it really mattered, they’d teach it in a way that made you want to learn it. But no, they’ve got to teach it in the most mind-numbing way possible, moving on without any real discussion to get to the next thing that’s going to be on the test-the standardized test. Then when you take that standardized test they stand there in front of the class and actually tell you, “These tests are to help rate the school and won’t affect your grade.” And then they’re shocked by the results.