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4x+(3y+4)i=21+7i
Evaluate y.
Okay, complex numbers, what do I remember about complex numbers?
Y=, y=….what does y=?
“Y=1,” Noah drawls, sounding bored, but ultimately saving me from further embarrassment.
“I don’t think your name is Ms. Ames, Mr. Fontaine,” Mr. Evans chides. “Please give your new colleague time to get the answer herself.”
“Then we’ll be here all day waiting for her to get the answer right,” Noah quips back.
The class laughs, and tears threaten in my eyes.
Get your shit together,I curse myself. The last thing I need is to burst into tears right now. I’m sure Noah would have a field day with that.
I really would have to run out of the school in that case.
With a slanted frown, Mr. Evans moves on, and thankfully doesn’t call on me for the rest of class.
But the lesson has been learned. Noah won’t be my friend here.
It feels like hours later that the bell rings, signaling class is over. I’m exhausted, like one period has been the equivalent of half my life span.
Noah strolls out of the room without a glance back, a gaggle of people following him desperately.
Mr. Evans shoots me a sympathetic smile as I drag myself from my desk.
“Just try and stay out of his way. School will run much smoother if you do,” he says softly, and of course I know he’s talking about Noah.
Hysterical laughter bubbles up inside me…because how do you stay away from someone you live with?
“And if you need extra help, I have tutoring available,” he adds helpfully.
“Thank you,” I squeak, before rushing out of the room. I’ve done such a good job of setting myself up with a stellar first impression. The man probably thinks I’m a moron.
I spot Daisy as soon as I walk out into the hallway, and my jaw drops. Not with shock, but in utter awe. The girl is basically holding court. Similar to the way Noah is across the way. She has at least twenty people gathered around her, all of them listening avidly to whatever story she’s telling.
I love my sister. But I can’t help the hot envy that catches in my throat. I’ve just embarrassed myself for an hour and a half, and in that same time she’s managed to cement herself into school lore.
The envy is laced with self-loathing, and I put my head down and tuck my backpack close to my chest as I rush down the hall to the class I’m hoping will offer me some sort of solace.
English.
I’m early as I step into the room; the bell won’t go off for another few minutes, but as the door closes behind me, it immediately feels like a safe place.
There’s a woman in a navy cardigan typing at a laptop, her hair in a haphazard bun, and a pair of librarian glasses perched on her nose. Exactly what I like to see in an English teacher. As the door closes behind me, her eyes meet mine and she offers a stiff smile that’s not unkind. It’s like she’s awkward too, and that’s the best she can do under the circumstances. My schedule said the teacher’s name is Ms. Julian, so I assume that’s her.
“You’re Skylar, aren’t you?” she asks quietly, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. When she pronounces my name correctly right off the bat, I like her even more.
“Yes,” I answer…just as quietly.
“One of your teachers actually reached out to me from your old school.” She shuffles through some papers on her desk before grabbing one. “Mrs. Higgins?”
I perk up. Mrs. Higgins was my favorite person at that school. I’d had her as my English teacher for the past two years and like Daisy, she had this thing about her. Like she’d seemed to believe in me and my capabilities. I’d shown her my stories, something I didn’t show anyone. And she’d always acted like she liked them, giving me constructive feedback whenever she’d felt I could learn from it.
“Oh?” I respond.
