The picture and caption I posted on socials:

Then everyone’s favorite Royal Highness immediately texted:

This is just one class twice a week, and I wasn’t too concerned about second grade since I’d subbed that grade several times last year.

At that point, however, I’d been used to middle schoolers. Little kids are a different species. I didn’t know the cutesy tricks the lower grade teachers use like, “Quiet Coyote” and “One, two, three, eyes on me,” to which the students respond, “One, two, eyes on you.”

Who comes up with this stuff?

But before my appointed day with the littles, I sat with their teachers at lunch to get advice, explaining I was nervous since I only knew middle school. They said, “Ohhh! Middle school! Those kids are scary.”

Hilarious how it’s all about perspective. Each age group is wildly different. I’ve also done high school, though they frighten me. I don’t think I could handle Kindergarten. They frighten me even more.

Middle school was my sweet spot. I mostly did grammar and lit, so when we’d finish up early, I’d pull out what one student called “The Awesome Book of Awesomeness.” Then I would read to them, like so. [Clears throat.]

Story time!

I sometimes wished I was invisible, just to make life easier. That was the ironic part.

Four down three to go, I thought when the bell announced the end of fourth period. That and, Shoot. There goes my stuff. The shrill ring jolted me back to the present, scattering my thoughts along with the notebook and pen on my desk. Someone behind me snickered, but I was used to that.

It’s almost over, I reminded myself, running through my home-stretch mantra. Only two months to go.

So much for Mom’s prediction that high school would be the best time of my life with friends, plural. I had precisely one friend, Isaac, which was fine with me. He was all I needed. But what would our friendship look like once high school was over?

One thing at a time. Just graduate. Worry about college without Isaac later.

It was hard to imagine life without my sidekick. Okay, fine, I was his. Still, we’d been basically inseparable for the past four years. But Isaac didn’t belong at University of Michigan any more than I belonged wherever he was going, probably MIT. I tried asking, but whenever I brought up the college subject, he quickly changed it. Apparently, he wasn’t keen to discuss our imminent separation any more than I was.

I sighed, collected my stuff into my bag, and filed out of the classroom.

“Hey, Ana,” someone said. “Where were you last period? The moon, or had your mind gone to Uranus?”

“I heard that one in eighth grade,” I called over my shoulder as I walked away.

The bullying toward Isaac and me was comically lame at this point, like they did it more out of habit than actual desire. They’d all but given up after the Great Social Media Blitz of Junior Year had failed to rattle us. Someone’s deepfake AI-generated image of Isaac and me together in a less than flattering pose had gone viral around the school. It caused us the briefest of awkward moments consisting of, “Did you see it?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yep.”

Then we shrugged it off. At least we had each other to help endure this annoyance.

As if on cue, Isaac fell into step beside me, his sandy blond hair flopping over his green eyes. He pushed it aside, only to have it fall back again, as always, which made me smile. I loved the predictability of him.

“Any good ones today?” he asked.

“Nope. Just a throwback to the old space cadet stuff. You?”

“Jim called me Beaker Brain.”

“I’ve always liked that one. The alliteration alone.”

“Then Brad shoved me after third period.”

My forehead scrunched. “You all right?”

“Yeah. He’ll have to try harder to make me fall.”

“Nice.” I held up a hand. He slapped me a half-hearted five.

“Aaaaannnddd, looks like he’s about to try harder.” Isaac nodded ahead.

Sure enough, Brad threaded the crowd toward us, a look of determination on his face, but it was directed at me this time.

“Hey, Ana,” he called with a sick grin.

Isaac pulled what looked like wax paper from his pocket and, with a quick flick of his wrist, tossed something clear and gelatinous on the floor. Brad slipped and fell. Hard. Everyone laughed until he glared them down.

We casually stepped around him.

“Thanks,” I said.

“I got you.” He nudged my arm with his elbow and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

When the laughter reignited, we turned to see Brad trying to get up. He slipped again, the goo having stuck to his shoe.

“What’s your hurry, Brad?” Isaac asked him. “Why not stick around?”

Brad scowled.

I gripped Isaac’s arm as we walked away. “Oh my gosh. That was amazing.”

He grinned for a millisecond.

“What was that stuff anyway?” I asked.

“Just a little slime of my own creation,” he said, crumpling the wax paper and returning it to his pocket.

“Well done.”

He shrugged, not with his usual modest grin, but in an “eh, whatever” sort of way.

What’s up with him? He should have enjoyed that more.

“You know what’s wrong with our classmates?” he said.

“Where to begin.”

“They lack brains and imagination.”

I smiled. “Fortunately, we have plenty of both.”

I waited for a quippy line about his over-sized brain and my over-active imagination, but it didn’t come.

“Are you okay, Isaac?”

Without looking at me, he raised a hand in farewell as he headed off to his next class. “See you in chem.”

I slowed to a stop and watched him go, my forehead creasing. Something was off with him.

Muffled laughter followed me down the hallway. Brad was walking off balance, a shoe in one hand, or rather, hanging from his hand. Apparently, he had tried to take the slime off, only to have it adhere to his skin.

I might’ve felt bad for him if a little retaliation weren’t sorely overdue. He was the worst of them all.

Smirking, I stepped into my economics classroom, taking my usual seat in the back corner by the window. Paying attention here would be hard enough without Isaac’s strange mood on my mind. Did he somehow know I was keeping the news of my U of M acceptance from him? I groaned. It was stupid of me to believe I could hide anything from him. I just wasn’t ready to have that conversation. Is that what was bothering him? Knowing we still had to talk about it but not wanting to bring it up?

Once economics passed in a haze of supply and benefits, costs and demands, I eagerly entered the chemistry lab. Over the low buzz of the malfunctioning fluorescent lights, feet shuffled and chairs scraped across the tile floor. I slipped into my seat next to Isaac and tried to act natural. “So, how’s it lookin’ today?”

He nodded toward the front of the room with little enthusiasm despite this being his favorite subject. “I’m thinking sludge lab.”

I bobbed my head as though I knew what that meant.

Large, multi-colored jars of unknown concoctions sat on Miss Mendle’s desk. Some held swirling particles. Others had unsavory-looking chunks at the bottom.

Weird brew of stuff–sludge. Got it.

On a normal day, I would’ve come up with a story behind at least half those jars, but now I was certain today was not a normal day. The off-ness I had sensed in Isaac before had become more pronounced.

He tapped his worn-out sneakers against the floor, his legs bouncing so much even the ancient Soundgarden T-shirt he wore wiggled over his narrow frame. This had to be more than just the college issue. I furrowed my brow at the uncomfortable feeling of not knowing what was up with him. Normally, we could read each other’s thoughts.

Instead of scribbling secret formulas in his own brand of hieroglyphics/cuneiform/Chinese calligraphy, oblivious to the rest of us, he focused on Miss Mendle as she placed one mystery jar on each double desk. The pretty blonde girls got an attractive blue jar. Isaac’s and mine looked like it contained a pureed baby rhinoceros.

“The goal for this week is to use all the methods you’ve learned to identify the chemical content of every substance dissolved or mixed inside your jar. I want it down to the element.” Miss Mendle pressed her fingers together under her chin and smiled. “Now get to it.”

I had to hand it to her. This close to the end of the school year, most teachers had started counting down to summer vacation with more eagerness than the students. Even in April, Miss Mendle still had that new car smell.

I looked at our jar and sighed. At this point, Isaac would normally leave me to fumble with the graduated cylinders and test tubes. He’d be knee deep in his notebook but would still gesture with his pen and half a glance, saying, “You should pour that one into this one first.” I’d try my best, but down to the last twenty minutes, he’d take over. It was nice of him to give me a crack at it first.

Today, however, I sat back, startled, as Isaac pushed me aside with a sweep of his arm. Lighting the Bunsen Burner in seconds, he began distilling some component out of our jar. A rubber cork, glass straw, and test tube were soon in place. While that percolated, he spoke in a near whisper.

“I screwed up, Ana.” He rubbed his hands across his jeans.

“How? You just started. Besides, wouldn’t that be like Michelangelo screwing up painting a fence?”

“Not the lab,” he hissed. “My experiments. At home. I really messed up, and now I’m in trouble.”

“What are you talking about?”

Miss Mendle, doing the rounds, approached our table. “Looking good, you two.” Since our labs were always perfect, she paid little attention to us. The labs of those close enough to watch Isaac were often near perfect, if they could keep up with him. He always ignored their whispered pleas to slow down.

A yell and the sound of breaking glass from the other side of the room sent Miss Mendle scurrying.

“I told you to use the crucible tongs, Sean,” Tommy said.

Amateurs.

I turned my attention back to Isaac, who was dropping a completed test tube into a wooden holder with one hand while inserting a glass straw into a new tube with the other. He cranked up the flame on the burner, ready to evaporate out the next substance.

“What do you mean you’re in—”

“Now now. Can you come over after school?”

Since when did he need to ask? But I nodded and watched in silence as he continued the experiment. I struggled to keep up as he dictated observations and conclusions for our lab sheet. When he finished, I carried our equipment to the sinks, watching him over my shoulder as I scrubbed out a tube with a skinny wire brush. His feet had gone back to tapping. He stared at the clock and ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand up.

When I rejoined him, he seemed tense, like a jack waiting to spring from its box.

“I’m going home now. I probably shouldn’t have come at all.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder. “I may be underestimating him,” he added so quietly I’m not sure he meant for me to hear.

“Underestimating who?” And because I couldn’t help pointing out how weird it was, I added, “You’re actually skipping last period?” I almost felt his forehead.

His eyes were intense when he looked at me. “I need to get ready. Just come over as soon as you can, okay?”

“Get ready?”

But the bell rang, and he was out the door before I could even pick up my bag.

Old Q: Edward Taylor’s work on mythology and Joseph Campbell’s work comparing Jesus, Moses, and Buddha led to the creation of the theory of the monomyth or “Hero’s Journey.”

New Q: (One everyone has an equal chance of getting right, not just Andrew!) What is my favorite line from the above story?