Mr. B. Urie

2

(^Ariella^)

The diagnostic is haunting me. Ever since I left the class yesterday I've been worrying that I'll be kicked out of AP English. Now it's the end of third period, and I wait anxiously for the bell. It rings loudly and I scramble to grab my things, practically running to Mr. Urie's classroom.

"Hello, Ariella!" He smiles as I stumble through the door. He's the only other person in the room and I set my stuff on my desk, catching my breath.

"Did I fail that diagnostic? Am I getting booted from AP?" He lowers his eyebrows in confusion and shuffles through the papers on his desk. As he does, his hair flops forward and I resist the urge to touch it.

"You're not going to get kicked out, but you're right about not doing so well. If you'd like, you can stay after class and I can help you work on the questions you were struggling with." He offers, showing me my test. I got a 50% which is just a passing grade.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Urie!" I sit down, handing him back the paper as the rest of the class trickles in.

*****

"Alright, everybody, tomorrow is Friday," the class gives a little cheer for the weekend and Mr. Urie quiets them. "I'd like to do a little bit of freewriting on Fridays. So, tomorrow bring a writing prompt, photo or art piece to base your free-write on. I'll give you about half an hour and then we'll share our work with each other. Have a good night everyone," he turns and starts to erase the board as the bell sounds for the end of the day.

When everyone is gone, he walks over to his desk and sits across from me. "Where should we start?" He asks, his lips turning up into a small smile. I take out a piece of paper and write the date at the top.

"What's my worst feature?" He looks at me sideways, letting out a breathy laugh.

"I don't think that I'm allowed to answer that question . . ." He smirks, looking down at my diagnostic. "Let's start at question 5, that's where your work went a little shitty." As soon as the word comes out of his mouth, my jaw drops. "Oh, shit, sorry!"

"Nice cover," I laugh, jotting down a five in the margin of my page. He bites back a smile and clears his throat.

"'Write a well-organized paragraph on why cell phones are good or bad for today's society.' So, you need to start by picking a side. What side do you think is easier to argue?"

"Probably that they're bad, considering the issues they pose." I start to write down my argument and Mr. Urie makes a face. "What?"

"Well . . . Anyone who has a phone can also see the awesomeness of technology. But, if you want to argue the harder side, that's fine. Just make sure you have good arguments." He shrugs, standing from his desk and moving around so he's squatting beside me. "What I want you to do is answer the question, and then I'll read it and give you some tips, okay?"

"Alright," I bite my lip, thinking of what to say. I write down a few sentences and he stays crouched beside me. "Mr. Urie, you know that there are chairs right?" I gesture at the one on top of the desk behind him.

"Chairs are for wimps!" He chuckles but takes one down anyways. I drop my pencil and cross my arms at him.

"Are you calling me a wimp?" I feign offence.

"Statistically . . ." He teases. I've never been teased by a teacher before. It feels too informal, just like him telling the class that they can call him Brendon (which I refuse to do). At the same time, it makes me smile. My expression must be confusing because he raises his eyebrows. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Alright, then put your pen to the paper and write that paragraph." He smirks, leaning back in his chair. I pick up my pencil and continue writing, at least until I realize that he's just staring at me. I try to ignore him, but my eyes keep travelling back to him.

"I, uh, I think I should go home." I stutter, gathering my work and shoving it into my bag.

"Of course, it's already 4:00, that's plenty late to stay here. I'll see you tomorrow, remember to bring a writing prompt." Mr. Urie smiles up at me from his chair. "Have a good night, Ariella."

****

He's a teacher, but he's racing through my mind. He does normal, every day, teacher things like writing on the whiteboard and wearing glasses, but somehow he does them better. I shake my head and look through my photo album for a good picture prompt. I flip the page and see one of my mother holding me when I was a baby.

I pull it out of its cover and put it in my school bag. That's going to give me a lot to write about tomorrow, but I won't share it with the class. I lay down on the couch and fall asleep.

"My beautiful baby girl, I think I'll name you Ariella." My mother looks down at me smiling. "What do you think, honey?" She looks behind her shoulder and my perspective changes. I see Brendon marking some papers at my kitchen table.

"What do I think about what, Arie?" He asks, looking up at me, his glasses sliding down his nose.

I wake up with a start and look at the clock: 2:00 am. I rub my eyes and tumble off the couch, making my way up to my bedroom. Why was I dreaming about Mr. Urie? Why did he call me Arie? And, most importantly, why did I call him Brendon? This is starting to get out of hand . . .