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Mr. Philips holds his attendance book against his chest and crosses his arms over it as he leans his weight into his desk.
“Right, because you went the long way. Go on,” he indulges. This isn’t my first go around with him. He moved into economics fulltime after spending a decade teaching third form students. He had to deal with me in eighth grade, and I was an ADHD handful. I get the distinct sense he wants to see where I take this.
“Exactly,” I say, pointing to him and buying myself time to work out a great story. I slide back in my seat and man spread, which gets a few groans and even more muffled laughter. Physical comedy is where I excel.
“And let me guess, Mr. Hass. A tornado whisked by and ripped your pants from your body.” His mouth rests in a straight, tired line.
“Pfft, that’s ridiculous,” I say, pulling myself back upright to sit tall. My knee bobs with my nervous energy. “I ran into a mysterious man walking the opposite direction. He needed pants, which . . .I know, weird, right?He stopped me and asked if I had any to spare, which technically, I did. I would survive without pants for the day, and this man was carrying a very expensive brief case and looked like he was going somewhere incredibly important. The pants were far more valuable to him. But you’d be proud of me, Mr. Philips.”
He sighs, pulling his glasses from his face to rub the bridge of his nose. He puts them back on and shifts his weight to the opposite leg.
“And why is that?” He’s such a good sport. Always has been.
“Ah, see . . . because I used what I’ve learned in economics to barter with him. I knew the pants were of greater value to him than me, so I refused his first offer of fifty dollars.”
Mr. Philips holds his palm to his cheek and blinks slowly.
“I see,” he says.
“And I know what you’re thinking—”
“You couldn’t possibly,” he responds.
The entire class laughs.
“You’re thinking maybe I got lucky and bargained him up ten more bucks. And he tried that. Believe me. We went through several rounds, and each time he raised his offer by ten dollars. Finally, when I refused a hundred, he turned the tables and asked me what it would take. I nodded toward his briefcase.”
“Of course you did,” Mr. Philips says through a forced smile. He glances at his watch, probably to check how much time I’m sucking up with this. Instead of kicking me out straight away, though, he twirls his finger in the air, urging me to speed this story up.
“I told him the pants were his for the contents of his briefcase. The man was no dummy, though. He insisted on getting the pants first. I had no choice. My gut told me that whatever was in that briefcase was far more valuable. I stepped out of my slacks in seconds and tossed them to him. He put them on, to ensure a good fit.”
“Sure, yeah. Of course.” A faint smile sneaks through his practiced stern face.
“Satisfied, the man bent down and opened up his briefcase. I waited patiently, my mind racing through the possibilities. What could it be? Millions? Diamonds? The deed to a mansion?” I glance around the room to find everyone rapt by my story.
“Well?” Brooklyn’s voice draws my eyes to the back of the room. Her red lips showing off the perfect smirk, she clicks the pen in her hand as I twist in my desk enough to stare at her easily.
“He handed me five magic beans. He told me to plant them, which I did on my way into this room. That’s why I was late. I had to cover them with dirt and somehow get enough water to their spot to help them grow.” I sell the childhood fable like I’m Denzel delivering Shakespeare.
Brooklyn’s smirk curves deeper and she leans forward, setting her pen on her notebook and clasping her hands in front of her, just like the courtroom lawyers do at my internship.
“Let me guess. They will grow into a beanstalk that reaches the sky, where a giant is hoarding gold,” she says.
I hold her stare for a few solid seconds, mentally debating which way to go with the end of my tale. Crinkling up my face, I wave my hand at her, spit out a laugh, and spin around to return my focus to Mr. Philips, who is already holding out the pink slip—my ticket to one visit with the headmaster.
“Just another Starbucks, I’m afraid. The beans should make a lovely Italian roast.”
“Mr. Hass.” This time my teacher’s calling of my name comes with the clearing of his throat.
“That’s my cue,” I say with a grin as I stand. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I pluck the slip from Mr. Philips’s hand and exit to a round of applause. The regret doesn’t sink in until I’m halfway to the headmaster’s office, catching glares from prospective students and their parents.
I shift my backpack and clutch it to my waist when I enter the office, as if that will somehow mask the bright red and green boxers catching everyone’s eyes. I slide my pink slip across the desk to Karen, the school admin, who pulls it toward her with a drag of her index finger while tilting her head to the side in that perfectly disappointed way.
“Hey, it’s been a while.” I shrug.
“Has it?” She purses her lips then scans the note from Mr. Philips, lifting up in her seat after reading it to take in the evidence standing on the other side of her credenza. I flash a smile, which earns me a quiet chuckle as she shakes her head.
“Wait here. I don’t want you mingling with anyone like that,” she says, taking the pink slip to the office door behind her where she knocks gently.
