𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄, 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 / 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

ᴜɴᴏ

September 1993

The first essays of the year are marked with bright, red ink on the very first page, with a score out of one-hundred circled at the top just under the name of each student. Mr. Baylor strolls easily between the rows of desks, pursing his lips and flipping through the thick stack in his arms until he finds what he's looking for. He hands each student their work, sharing his thoughts on their papers with squinted eyes and a voice that carries throughout the classroom.

When Eddie receives his, he takes it and waits for a comment, looking up at Mr. Baylor timidly while his foot jiggles against the floor. Mr. Baylor studies him briefly and moves on without a word.

Eddie smooths the paper out over his desk and sighs dejectedly; there's a sixty-five circled under his name, with a note beneath that reads:

'I'm not sure you understood the issue here. Read the work again and come see me if you have any questions.'

Eddie isn't stupid, he understands how to format a paper and state his opinion without coming off as an arrogant asshole. However, through his high school years he has struggled with English and Literature class, specifically analyzing texts and drawing themes from the words of someone else. Math, science and history are his strengths. Each one makes sense, follows structures and rules and emphasizes memorization, the things he is most comfortable with.

English is his last period, and when the bell rings he ducks out of the classroom quickly before Mr. Baylor can call him back to talk. It's warm out, and with the mass of his peers crowding around him Eddie sweats along his hairline while heading for his locker. He holds his breath the last ten feet or so while passing by a guy who has no idea what deodorant is, holding back a gag when he opens his mouth and tastes the stench of sweat and body odor.

As Eddie gets his locker open and starts exchanging his books, he thinks of his grades from last year. Usually he does quite well, English class aside, but junior year had been difficult. Ben moved away, leaving another hole in their group beside the one left by Bill their freshman year, when his family decided that the ghost of Georgie was too much to deal with and uprooted the Denbroughs to the other side of the country. Ben lives in Portland where his mother was able to find a better job, but he never writes or calls, just like Bill. Eddie tries not to think about it, tries not to get too far into his own head to miss the things his remaining friends need of him. Bev, Mike, Richie and Eddie were so torn up that none of them had even realized how far down Stan was spiraling, until he slit his wrists on Halloween last year and almost bled out in his parent's bathtub while the pair were out of town. Richie, with his habit of sneaking through his friend's windows, showed up randomly and found Stan fully dressed and unconscious, soaking wet and covered in blood. Though both are hesitant to discuss it, Eddie has heard a little bit of that night from Richie.

It's no excuse for poor grades, but Eddie spent a lot of time keeping a closer eye on Stan and finished off the year barely scraping by. His mother threatened to keep him on a stricter set of restrictions if things didn't turn around his senior year, and to get him a tutor to keep him on track . A tutor isn't bad, but restrictions? As it is he still has a hard time getting her to let him do anything, and has had to sneak out on more than one occasion, resulting in arguments and words exchanged he never thought he'd say to his own mother.

He takes his heavy English book and shoves it on the top shelf of his locker, considering just how screwed he is. He should take the book home and try to tackle his homework, but he's not going to understand it anyway, so he leaves it there.

Eddie weaves between bodies in the hall, glad to be considerably taller than he used to be when he is able to easily spot his friends waiting out on the steps in front of the school. Richie is taller than the rest of them and is the first he sees, and beside him is Bev with her short, copper hair shining in the sunlight; Mike is laughing hard at something, one arm resting over Beverly's shoulders while Stan rolls his eyes and shakes his longer, curly hair away from his forehead.