I tucked my A+ essay into my Trapper Keeper, safe from Casey Miller’s eyes.

“Come on, let me read it,” he teased, leaning forward toward me, lifting the back two legs of his chair, trying to sneak a peek at the Courier type. Casey and I were not friends. He was a stranger who had been sitting diagonally from me for the last few months in Mr. Fazio’s AP English class.

I ignored Casey and the snicker from Hannah, who sat directly behind me. I shot her a look and she swiftly covered her flaring impetigo with her right hand. No matter how much salve she smeared on the gaping sores, she was contagious. Her hair shot up to the ceiling, a teased, multicolored bird’s nest. Because we weren’t friends, I never knew if she was a fan of Duran Duran, Flock of Seagulls, or Howard Jones. Each week, she rotated through three chunky Benetton sweaters and a knit ESPIRIT midi skirt and some how managed to earn “best dressed”.

It didn’t matter what I thought of Hannah or Casey. Somehow the world had determined they were popular, smart, athletic, and better than me. But today, for a moment, I was aligned with them by my A+ AP English assignment and Casey Miller couldn’t stand it.

Casey was the king of AP English. Mr. Fazio loved Casey. Every day when I walked into class, Casey and Mr. Fazio were at the front of the room, talking like they were best buds. Maybe it was because the two of them looked like a pair of elves, two Hobbits who never eclipsed five foot three. They both wore goofy grins, revealing what years of tongue thrusting can do to the space between your front teeth. Mr. Fazio was the faculty advisor to the senior class play that Casey was starring in and the student council that Casey was a member of. Casey, Casey, Casey…

Weeks earlier, Mr. Fazio had read Casey’s assignment out loud. A perfect example of A+ work. As he read the story, Mr. Fazio became animated like a little blue Smurf, hopping on his toes at every punchline. I don’t remember what the story was about, but everyone laughed. Even Steve Taverns, slightly effeminate, always in a tie, trying too hard, laughed, though he was usually hazed by Casey. Two brains fighting for A+ attention.

“Why didn’t Mr. Fazio read your story out loud?” Casey chirped at my back.

I wondered about that too. But my story wasn’t funny. It was about my maternal grandfather and a memory of sledding in his backyard one Saturday evening. Fluffy snow had accumulated to perfect snowball consistency. Grandpa’s driveway became a slalom for one night, my sisters and I careening down the hill in hysterics, slamming into a soft snowbank. Our bodies made snow angels. I remember the stillness of the night, the quiet, snowflakes melting on my cheeks.

Casey must not have liked my refusal to engage. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my bare calf. He swiped across the prickly hairs I had missed shaving and flicked my leg, sending it into a lopsided swing.

“Holy shit, you have no muscle tone!” Casey laughed, the captain of the soccer team. Hannah, a fall season field hockey player joined in a giggle, this time not bothering to cover her mouth sores. Her John Taylor pompadour shook.

A teenage heat flash passed over me. I crossed my ankles and looked up at Mr. Fazio to see if he had noticed Casey touch my leg. He was busy writing on the chalkboard the next reading assignment, Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. Around me, classmates chattered, some sulked in their seats, chairs scraped in anticipation of the bell. My A+ hidden and tucked away, I looked down at my blank notebook, fingering the white lines.