In The Heat of Summer

2 : A Similar Situation

     "You're falling behind." The words stung, sharper than he wanted to admit. He'd known it—of course he had. Twenty-two absences this quarter alone. He'd counted every one of them, each a reminder of things he couldn't control, and now his counselor's voice just made it feel worse. Mrs. Anderson spoke calmly, trying to reach him, her words careful and measured, but to him, it was as if her voice was coming through water. He fixed his gaze on the ground, tapping his foot against the chair leg. The rhythm grounded him, steady in a way nothing else felt these days.

     Mrs. Anderson sighed, noticing his detachment, but her tone remained gentle. "You won't be able to pass your grade," she added firmly. At that, he finally looked up, meeting her gaze with a guarded expression. His face was blank, a mask he'd worn often lately, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.

"...unless you attend remedial classes this summer."

     Mrs. Anderson softened her tone, leaning forward. "Summer school would give you the chance to catch up on those assignments, get back on track," she suggested, as though she were offering him a lifeline. He clenched his jaw, resentment simmering beneath his carefully composed expression. She has no idea, he thought, a familiar bitterness rising within him. To her, I'm just another name on a list, another grade to fix.

     He couldn't expect her to understand, he knew that. She didn't know what his life looked like outside these walls—the weight he carried, the nights he spent making sure things held together. In her eyes, his absences were just numbers, another mark against his record. She didn't see him staying up late, waiting for the next call from the hospital, or pulling his little sister's chair up to the table to explain a homework problem she couldn't solve on her own. That was his life, but he doubted she'd even consider it.

     He gave a stiff nod, refusing to let any of his frustration show. He wouldn't make it easy for her to read him, and he didn't care to explain. She wouldn't understand, anyway. To her, summer school was the answer, a way to clean up the numbers on his report card. But for him, the classroom wasn't the only place he was falling behind, and it was harder to ignore how that gap between his world and everyone else's kept widening.

     A memory flashed in his mind, as sharp and uninvited as all the others. He could see it clearly: coming home after school one evening, his body aching with exhaustion and his mind too full of things he hadn't done. But his worries were shoved aside the moment he walked through the door. His little sister sat at the table, struggling over her math worksheet, her cheeks streaked with tears. He remembered putting his own books down without hesitation, sliding into the seat next to her, his voice calm and patient even as fatigue weighed down on him. He guided her through each problem, reassuring her until she'd finished, a relieved smile finally replacing her tears.

     Then came dinner, thrown together from whatever was in the pantry—canned soup, boxed pasta. As he moved through each task, cleaning dishes and folding clothes, he'd sometimes glance at his mom's empty room, the door slightly ajar, and feel a familiar knot of fear settle in his stomach. She was miles away, at the hospital, and each day without her felt heavier than the last.

     This was his reality, but no one else had to know. Not his teachers, and certainly not his friends. It was easier for them to think he just didn't care, the guy who was too cool or too distracted to bother with school. Letting them believe that spared him the uncomfortable questions and sympathetic glances he didn't want. They could think he was indifferent; he'd prefer it that way.

     So, when Mrs. Anderson confirmed the summer school requirement, he nodded again, offering no resistance. There was no use fighting it, and he didn't have the energy to explain or argue. Summer school would just be one more thing to shoulder, one more thing to get through. He'd manage somehow, just as he always did. He'd show up, put in the hours, and handle it on his own.

     As he stood up to leave her office, he felt an odd blend of weariness and resolve settle over him. It wasn't anger or even resignation—it was something quieter, almost steely. He didn't need anyone to understand, and he didn't need their sympathy. Summer school would be just another hurdle, and he would take it on like all the others: silently, moving forward on a path that he'd long accepted was his alone to walk.

Archer