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M
r. Epperson up there winking at me. Asking 'bout my opponent and how well I did against him. Only I ain't sure which one he talking about. The boy I wrestled last night or algebra? Or someone in this class? Then he stick my last test paper in my hand.

Peaches jumping up and down, screaming, after she get her paper. “Nice job. A hundred percent,” Mr. E. say, loosening her arms from around his neck. “Autumn. Finish handing these out.”

Calling out names, sitting papers on desks or sticking 'em in hands, I get to see how everybody else did.

If grades was trees, mine would be the root. At the bottom, way down low. Nobody did worse on this test than me.

December got a ninety-two. A'Destiny got a seventy-six. When I take my seat, she turn around, asking what I got. I make a D in the air with my finger. Sitting at his desk, Mr. E. saying maybe now Peaches's mom will get off his case. He smiling. But I know what he mean.

The whole period Peaches leave her A paper sitting out like a prize she won. She and me. We talk about everything. Our periods. Cute teachers we wish we could date. Miss Pattie and the PTA president arguing the other night. But cheating … on the test. She ain't mentioned it yet.

Picking up my paper, I shake my head. 'Cause today really sucks. This morning Miss Baker say she calling my mother. And report cards come out soon.

Mr. E. ask to see me when class ends. Jaxxon and a couple of more people get called up, too. He concerned we don't understand the material. If we get any further behind, he afraid we never gonna catch up. The six of us crowd around him, hoping people walking out the room can't hear.

“You six. You're all in competition with one another.” He points to us one by one. “For last place.”

Markey takes his eyes off the floor. And looks at me.

Mr. E. lets everyone hear what my grade average is so far. I get to hear theirs.

“Is this legal?” Markey wanna know.

Mr. E.'s eyes smile. “Miss Knight. If this were a wrestling match … you would win against them. You're an A-plus wrestler. So tell me. How can you be a D student?”

Mr. E. looking at Michelle from Mrs. Carolyn's book club. Her average almost as low as mine. He asking how many books she read this month. “Three.” He ask Markey if he belong to any clubs or teams. He don't. “Go to church?” Markey says yes. Mr. E. closing his grade book. “Out there”— he's pointing toward the window — “you all do your best. In here … the bottom is good enough for you. I need to know, why?”

Markey's hands, deep in his pockets. He saying he gonna be honest. “I can't do it. I quit trying.”

Jaxxon laughs, listening to all of us say the same sorta thing. Mr. E., holding on to his suspenders. He want to know if Jaxxon got something to contribute to the conversation.

We need to get to class, we saying.

He ask Jaxxon to stay. “Tutoring, folks. Tomorrow. Or else.”

On the way out, I'm listening to Mr. E. apologizing for yelling at Jaxxon again the other day.

In the hall, running fast as I can, I think about Peaches happy with a A she didn't earn. Taking the steps down to the first floor, I'm trying not to think of nothing to do with school. Got practice later today. Gonna get a A in that.

All summer I did drills. Sprints. Leg lifts. Back hops. Knee ups. Sweating in a hundred-degree heat. Lost two pounds a week sometimes. Quit getting perms. I ain't pass my reading tests when I got back to school. But I passed Coach's test. “Condition. Lift. Run. Wrestle. Strategize.” That was
my
summer homework.

I
t doesn't seem to bother Autumn that puddles are underneath my wheels. She is still kissing me. Her lips are as warm as July at high noon. Firecrackers heat up my body. Her smile fills up the sky.

I sit up, wondering about that dream. Lying back down, I can still hear her say it: “I love you.” I reach over to my nightstand, reading her note again. How many times have I read it? Every day. Three times a day, sometimes:
(u + me) = perfect.

At night in my dreams, it is worse than ever. She won't quit saying it. Or showing up.

Smashing pillows over my head, putting two more between my thighs, I close my eyes. I have been thinking that I might quit the library. Work isn't getting done.
I like everything in order. I want to know what to expect every day. Autumn means that nothing is the way it's supposed to be. Chaos should be her name.

Closing my eyes, I remember her cupcakes. Ma texted her to say they were exceptional. Now a seven-layer coconut cake is sitting on our table. Ma paid Autumn to bake it. I had a slice before I fell asleep. It was the best I've ever tasted.

I can make myself dream whenever I like. Or stop my dreams like they're wheels at a high curb. This time when I hear her laughing, I do not try to run. Watching her sit on my lap again, it occurs to me: I've never had a girl love me before. Even when they've liked me, something felt wrong. Cuddling Autumn, I remember I do not really have any friends. Just people I do things for. Those girls, they wanted things, too. Raven asked if I would tutor her right before the movie lights went down.

Autumn is talking a mile a minute, so I kiss her. When I stand up, she hits the floor.
Girls always want something,
I think. I hold on to my dream, even though Ma is calling, trying to wake me up. And Autumn is back on my lap, asking again if I'd like more of her cupcake kisses.

 

“Coconut cake for breakfast, Ma?” I take ham from the fridge. Yesterday's dinner, fried up with eggs, is what I'll eat.

Ma does not have a slice of coconut cake on her plate. It's a hunk. “She's just a kid,” she says. “How does she bake so well? Like a professional?” Her fork slides slowly into her mouth. Closing her eyes, she sits back, enjoying every bite. She makes me wish I had a slice.

We are going over our schedules. It will be a busy day with wrestling, and her double shift. Lately I've been asleep before she's gotten in. Coach offered me a ride.

I'm not talking much after a while. I am planning out my day in my mind. But Autumn keeps popping up. Ma will say her name or I will remember something she did in the library to upset me. The funny thing is, sometimes when I come off the van, I'm expecting her. When she is late for school or absent, it feels weird. Then she comes, and I am really, really angry that she's there. At the library she pesters me; in the hallway she follows me, I'm telling Ma. She says that I am smart about so many things. However, this time, I'll need more than my brain to figure things out.

S
low, like something deep inside him is broke, my father gets off the couch. Stopping in front of me, lifting my chin up, he make sure we seeing eye to eye.

“Your grades don't surprise us none. But … well … we not gonna help hold your head underwater no more, and cry about you drowning.”

I bring up Friday's match. “Y'all coming? Bancock High is three blocks from here.” I'm staring at the floor when I say it.

He look at Mom. She looking at me, holding her hand out for my jacket.

I can't walk. Not one more inch. Six guys came to practice late. Every time one walked in, Coach made us do another lap. Someone mouthed off. That meant extra
drills later on. Coach was in a bad mood. “Mom. Can you get me a towel?”

Sitting on the floor, pulling off my sneakers and wet socks, I bring up my ranking. Eighth in the city. Number one girl in the state. I can do better.

“You listening?” Mom's reading off grades. I only did a little bit worse than last quarter. It's hard doing sports and being a good student, I'm saying. She sit on the floor beside me, tucking her skirt between her long legs. “No more wrestling. This season anyhow.”

“I got a two-point-zero. They let you wrestle with that.”

“You gonna be …” She looking down at the rug. “Like me …”

He swallows. “And me,” he says, sitting beside her.

I stand up over them like the flag outside our school, my arms and hands waving. Pointing at them, I say it's their fault. Moving like trains all the time. Pulling me outta schools. “Kids called me stupid, because of y'all.”

“We —” Mom stops herself.

Walking in circles with them in the middle, I tell 'em what I never told nobody. “Wrestling was all I had when y'all ain't care.”

Dad's tired eyes following me. His fingers lying over Mom's hand, scratching her nail polish. “We always cared,” he whispers.

“Not about reading.”

All I had when I went to a new school was wrestling. When teachers gave me Ds and notes for home saying maybe I should be tested for special ed, I had WWE and two old mattresses that moved whenever we did.

In sixth grade, when the moving stopped, I got on the team. Even though I wasn't no A student or grade-level reader, it was me shining for once. Like wrestlers on TV.

Yelling. My voice filling the room like ragweed in spring, I tell 'em, “I ain't quitting!”

Mom tiptoeing into the kitchen. Coach is on speakerphone when she get back.

“Tell 'em, Coach. I gotta wrestle!”

Dad saying he got bad news. Today is my last day on the team. Until maybe next year.

Screaming at the top of my lungs. Turning over the coffee table. Throwing magazines. I threaten 'em. “If you don't let me wrestle —”

Coach tries to look out for me. “Autumn! What's going on over there?”

“Y'all can't stop me!” I push my mother. “Regionals … the state championship … they starting in a couple of weeks.”

Dad steps in front of me. He asks Coach if he seen my grades.

“No. But —”

Mom spits the Ds out like they sour grapes.

Coach wants me to finish the season. They not great grades, but they good enough to keep me on the team, he saying. “Mr. and Mrs. Knight, I'll tutor her myself.” He stops and asks his daughter to leave the room. Mom listens while he tells her how hard I've worked. What an asset I am to the team. “She can pull those grades up next semester. Can't ya, Auddy?”

Last year my report card wasn't so good, either. I brought up my grades, some. Mom telling Coach, “Long as she reading below grade level —”

I walk out the room. Slamming the china cabinet door. Banging on the kitchen table. Kicking the pile of clothes Mom ironed and folded. My father asking if I'm crazy, saying I got five minutes to pull myself together.

Homemade pineapple upside-down cake sitting on the table, under glass. I take a slice, biting into it, crying. “Y'all got me eating.” Crumbs fall on the floor. “I ain't supposed to …” Opening the door, I throw the whole cake into the snow. “We got weigh-ins tomorrow. I can't get fat.”

In the living room, I hear Coach asking if there's anything he can say or do to change the situation. “We count on Autumn. She's one of our best.” The season's
gonna end in about six weeks, he tells 'em. “Maybe … after everyone is more calm, ya can discuss things.”

My father and mother sorry, they saying, to let down our team. “But we can't keep letting her down.” Mom cracking her knuckles. “She ours.” She clears her throat. “Who gonna look out for her, if we don't?”

Dad asking Coach if he know how it feel to read poorly.

It takes him a while to answer. “No, sir, Mr. Knight. I've always been pretty good at it.”

Dad brings up the jobs he ain't get 'cause he couldn't read the applications. “If I did get the job, I ain't have the best benefits. Couldn't read good enough to choose the right health plan for myself.”

Mom's crying. “Me. A grown woman. Asking people at work … to read … my paycheck.”

Coach say he'll leave us to our private time and see me tomorrow to talk.

On my knees, begging, promising anything, I say, “I'll be good … I'll study. Every day. All day. Please, Mommy … please.”

Her and Daddy walk into the kitchen, holding hands, talking 'bout Miss Pattie. They gonna call her in a little while.