Easter Egg (Gawsten)

Red

"Excuse me, is Ms. Costello accepting teacher's aide applications?"

"Yes."

"Is there a spot available for fifth period?"

"Yes, there is. Do you have a form?"

"I do. Here it is."

"Thank you very much. You'll get a notice by tomorrow."

"Thanks a bunch."

"You're welcome."

Awsten nodded and walked out of the office.

God-damned woodshop.

He swore, if Ms. Costello didn't let him be her TA, he would spend fifth period locked in the supply closet. His klutzy, twitchy hands could never measure straight, any cut he got bigger than a pinprick required rubbing alcohol and a Band-Aid applied within fifteen seconds, and god forbid his weak little arms hold anything heavier than an apple-why had woodshop of all electives been his counselor's first choice for him? He hadn't even put it on his preference form.

Whatever. His mom was waiting in front with her car. The first day of second semester was one: over and two: never important. He could simply go on home and pray he got the position.

Which is exactly what he did.

And the next morning in homeroom, Awsten held his breath through the entire announcements, just waiting for Mr. Smith to call up the students who'd had their schedules changed since the previous day. He swore to Jesus and Gabe Saporta's lush asshole that if he wasn't on that list, he would have a temper tantrum. He would not do woodshop.

Finally Mr. Smith began to read the list.

There were a bunch of irrelevant names Awsten didn't care about. Then Smith called out "Dena Judson" and he perked up. He had to fucking be next.

"Awsten Knight."

Hurriedly, Awsten pushed in his chair and stumbled up to Mr. Smith's desk. The schedules were laid out in front, the names facing the class, waiting to be received lovingly by the anxious-to-transfer students. Or whatever they were.

Awsten scanned the desk for his name. In less than ten seconds, he found his new schedule. He swept it up and bolted back to his desk, impatient to see whether he'd gotten what he wanted.

There it was, clearly marked, between lunch and sixth period:

"Teacher's Aide: R. 302, A. Costello."

"Yes!" he internally screamed. No God-forsaken woodshop. He could sit quietly in the back of Ms. Costello's classroom and sort papers or something instead of having to handle power tools and die from a horrible disease he contracted after cutting himself with a slightly dirty chisel. Not to mention the hassle of having to dispose of the chisel in a government-issued container, or at the very least, boil it with missile-proof gloves on.

"You're TA-ing for that class?"

Awsten looked up. Peering over his shoulder, looking down at his schedule, was none other than Melanie. "Why do you care?" he shot back at her.

"I'm just wondering," she asked. "You chose to do that one?"

"Um, yeah," he said, turning back around.

"Why?"

He sighed and looked back at her. "Because I like Ms. Costello?"

"Yeah," she said, "but what about her students?"