Free Love and Other Unknown Variables by Shannon Alexander Page B

solve? Isolate the variable.
    If Ms. Finch can refuse to give us feedback in the form of a grade on that stupid novel, then we’ll withhold our feedback, too. All of it. Every last word.

2.7
    “ S o we’re really doing this, eh, Chuck?” Greta asks Monday morning on our way into school.
    “It’s what the people want.” I grab the heavy exterior door before it closes in my face. “As the valedictorian, it’s my duty to lead.”
    “In your dreams,” Greta hisses, squeezing through the door before me. “This moves forward because I made it so. Without me, you’d be the only jerk-off in class playing this little game.”
    James chuckles. I scratch my nose with my middle finger. He grins even wider.
    “You’re right. We’re a team.”
    James tosses his meaty arms around our shoulders. “The A-Team.”
    Greta and I both groan.
    By lunch, Greta confirms every student in our English class is committed to my plan. If this is going to work, we have to be all in.
    Class starts as usual. We’re in our seats as Ms. Finch rushes in sipping coffee seconds after the bell. She sets her coffee down on her podium, picks up the novel she’s reading to us, and tells us to shut our traps. Thing is, no one’s trap is open. Everyone is silent, with hands folded on their desks, looking anywhere but at Ms. Finch. The lecture begins and we take notes, but no one asks questions or makes any unnecessary noise.
    The silence is eerie. And awesome.
    Ms. Finch pauses at one point during the lecture and gazes out over the class, a crease in her brow. “Any questions?”
    Silence.
    “Oh-kay,” she continues. “Kinda weird, but okay.” The way she’s biting her bottom lip lets on how un-okay today’s class has been. “I tell you what,” she says. “I’ll give ten extra credit points to the first person who can tell me the difference between an epic and an ode.”
    Nothing. Which she realizes may mean we weren’t listening when she went over that crap earlier, so she tries again. “Too hard? Twenty points to the student who can tell me who wrote Shakespeare’s sonnets.”
    She looks triumphant, like surely even lit-illiterates like us can figure out that one. Still, no one answers. I know it’s killing them. It’s killing me. Twenty free points going to waste.
    “It’s Shakespeare, guys. Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare’s sonnets.”
    We look through her.
    She sighs, “Right. Um…so use the rest of class to work in your project groups. Anyone need a pass for the library?”
    A few people look at me. They’ve already forfeited extra credit points, and using this time to do research on our stupid projects would save valuable after-school time for research we care about. I shake my head once and look at my hands.
    I steal a glance around and notice everyone has his or her back turned away from the front of the room where Ms. Finch watches us with a furled brow.
    And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you isolate a variable.
    If Ms. Finch has a compulsion to be the best, then our ignoring her should get so far under her skin, she’ll want to peel it off layer by layer to get to us. And while she’s peeling away, Charlotte should be able to enjoy her life for a little while with no interruptions. Perhaps she’ll enjoy some of that free time with me, in my room, in the dark—
    ---
    I t started raining during English, so I’m free from my indentured servitude for the day. Charlotte’s car is parked in its normal spot on the curb when I get home. The joke around the house these days is that Charlotte hangs out all the time because Mom loads the pantry with junk food. Mom says as long as Charlotte stays, she’ll keep buying the good stuff. That’s how thrilled my parents are about Becca socializing for once. They are willing to slowly poison us with artificial flavors and preservatives. I say hurray for junk food, but sometimes it feels more like Charlotte is hiding out at our place, like we’ve taken in a