The Brightest Star in a Constellation

14: The Basement Floor

☽ Peter ☽

On Tuesday, I meet Ms. Crozier in the club room a few minutes between classes, the sign-up sheet on the desk in front of me. My name is at the top, followed by Nicole, and then Evan. Three names, and three blank spaces left to fill. Are we ever going to get there? This feels like we're one point away from a passing grade, one step away from success.

And I don't want to settle for that.

"Well, you're halfway there," Ms. Crozier says. "That's progress. How about the telescopes?"

I spent the weekend pouring over the sheet she gave me, and after many hours of research (that included a temporary break to post about it for facts at midnight), I had come to somewhat of a relative conclusion. "As far as beginner telescopes go, I was trying to find one that would be easy to set up, and relatively light. It's, uh... this one."

I rifle through my pockets and unfold the paper I've been keeping with the model number etched on it. "Celestron. It comes with two lenses, a ten millimetre and a twenty millimetre, and we'd probably have to find our own moon filter and a Barlow lens, but, I mean, all things considered..."

"Wow, I wasn't expecting you to do such in-depth research," she says. "I'll have to make a note of those—what are they, lenses?—to bring it up to the faculty. And if you have the time, would you mind seeing if you can find them? If not, I can figure it out—I'll mark it down as an expense either way—in preparation for the next week. We can worry about the semantics of it when we get there." She copies the number from me with a smile. "Okay, got it. These two thingies you need are supposed to do what, exactly?"

"Uh, the Barlow lens increases the magnification. And the moon filter is... pretty self-explanatory, it makes it easier to view the moon—it would look much too bright if we don't have one."

"Right." She nods. "Thank you. I wouldn't have known about any of that otherwise. I can take care of getting the telescope. Are you fine with looking for the lenses?"

I guess this is what I get for accepting the unofficial-official role of Club President. The one that Nicole unceremoniously shoved me into, but I digress. "Sure."

☆ ☽ ☆

My restless legs are shaking under the desk, and I press my hands against the table as a stabilizer. It's the day of the class presentations for history, and I'm next in the queue. Practicing aloud never serves me well, so I have my script written out in front of me, on a sheet of loose-leaf paper littered with reminders from Nicole in the margin, written in a variety of glitter gel pens. Keep going! You got this. Kick ass, and if anyone tells you to speak up, punch them in the face.

When my name is called, I get to my feet and cast a smile at the student who offered to stay and change the PowerPoint for me, Charlotte Johnson. Part of being in the French program is that the class size is small; the same group ends up in every class. Normally, I find this fact comforting. There was a familiarity in seeing the same twenty faces for three years. Right now, it just feels like they know too much, that they know me. I didn't give this class permission to know me, and I didn't want that.

I gave Sam permission. That was, blatantly, the wrong decision.

The presentation starts as expected. I stay on script, and I periodically glance to the ceiling, pretending to look at the class. Eye contact is part of the grade, it always is, and if I could get away with taking off my glasses to make the world so blurry that I wouldn't be able to see each person staring directly at me, I would do it. Unfortunately, I tried that once before, and I couldn't manage to see the page either. Quoi faire? Ça sera ce que ça sera. (What to do? It will be what it will be.)