Seventeen
Sarah
Iwould never forget the morning Peter Thompson learned my name. It was simultaneously the most horrifying and wonderful moment of my middle school career.
Fourth period, seventh grade, Mrs. Owen’s class.
First quiz of the year.
I’d known Peter practically my entire life.
We attended the same elementary and middle school.
He existed like a permanent fixture in the background of my childhood, his name constantly whispered behind cupped hands of little girls who obsessed over his wavy dark hair, round brown eyes, and olive skin.
Because he played on the basketball team and I cheered, I attended every single one of his games and got to know his sisters.
He was the team’s point guard that year and had a flawless free throw.
Sometimes, watching his easy smile as he dribbled through warm ups, I remembered that day on the playground all those years ago.
When he humored a little girl who wanted to catch the sun.
But, based on the fact we’d had no interaction ever since, I figured he had no recollection of that day.
Or recollection of me for that matter. He probably didn’t even know I existed.
And I was fine with that. Honestly, thinking about my wild-child self sitting on top of the dome, purposefully trying to get a sunburn, made my cheeks grow warm anyway. I hoped he didn’t remember. I probably seemed like a freak.
For years we had orbited the same circles, but our paths never crossed. We always had different classes. Different lunches. Different friends. Different everything.
But all that changed in Ms. Owen’s math class.
Because my desk was right next to his.
To say I suffered in school would be a vast understatement.
My dad was so outraged by my grades last year that he ordered me to summer school, which just made me hate school more than I already did.
He threatened to send me back the following summer if I didn’t do better.
But all I wanted was to do the bare minimum and finally break free.
So when Mrs. Owens doled out that surprise math quiz in August, it seemed like sheer providence that the smartest kid in class happened to be sitting right next to me.
Peter Thompson.
He wore a gray t-shirt with his hallmark Rockies hat backward over his head. I marveled at the way his pencil flicked across the page as if he didn’t even have to think about the answers. Raking my eyes across the quiz, I saw fractions, square roots, and too many “solve for x.”
Already working on the bottom of the page, he left the top half of his quiz in perfect view. So I pulled the bill of my “Life is Good” hat down lower on my forehead and leaned a little to my right.
I locked in, scribbling down his answers for questions one through six. Because I stressed he would finish and flip over his page, I didn’t bother to show my work, just wrote the answer and prayed Mrs. Owens would believe me to be a math prodigy.
Holding my breath, I got halfway through set two.
Then Peter’s open hand covered my next problem—nine. Startling out of my intense focus, my gaze flicked to his face to find those deep brown eyes staring into mine. On his lips toyed a disbelieving smile as his brows furrowed in confusion and shock.
I yanked my gaze back to my own paper and lifted my right hand to the back of my neck, hiding behind it. Like I’d been thrown into a furnace, my skin erupted with fire. I could hardly breathe as I slowly came to terms with what had just happened.
Why was this my first noteworthy interaction with him? It would forever define me. To Peter, I would always be the cheater now. Gritting my teeth against the sting in my eyes, I told myself that I didn’t care. All I cared about were decent grades, by whatever means necessary.
But would he tattle? What if Mrs. Owens emailed my mom about this? She would definitely tell Dad. And Dad wouldn’t let it go with a stern warning. I would be endlessly berated, at best. Or have to physically protect myself, at worst. My lips trembled so I pressed them together.
Certain he was still staring at me, I tipped my chin to the left so my hat would block his view.
Then someone tapped my arm—the motion quick and rough.
With the bill of my hat nearly perpendicular to the desk, I slowly turned, stealing a glance at Peter. He wasn’t looking at me, but his test was pushed all the way to the left side of his desk and he leaned back in his chair—giving me full view.
My heart tripped.
Did he want me to…keep cheating?
I twisted my lips, uncertain.
Then he plucked a black ink-point pen out of his pencil box and scratched something on the palm of his hand. Discreetly, he turned it toward me.
Show your work, sunshine girl.
My jaw went slack.
Sunshine girl? Did that mean he remembered me?
My eyes flicked up to his in search of the answer. But he jerked his head down at the page as if to say hurry up. So I tucked into my quiz, scribbling meaningless numbers and letters faster than I ever had in my entire life.
When I finished, Peter flipped his quiz—face down.
And so did I.