Getting ready for day one of grade seven in August of  ‘74, washing and drying and brushing, Katie worried about her dad. He’d been up since midnight, pacing and waking Katie, like it was him, not her, who’d have to find Mr. Potter’s Q-R-S homeroom while getting bumped along the loud crowded halls of Pikesville Junior High, the cinderblock dump where she’d been dumped and deposited by geographic accident, but not really by accident because that’s where they lived after her parents left Park Heights in ‘69 without asking Katie’s permission. 

Private school was out of the question, though her mom agreed Katie needed that extra attention. Katie was special and smart but asked too many questions that got her in trouble. It helped when someone besides her mom gave Katie attention and answered questions. Katie’s mom begged her dad to finish the forms to qualify for extra money, but he forgot. Katie’s mom got so angry. Katie’s mom was angry so often, her mom’s anger problems needed special attention. 

Once dressed nice and made up, Katie joined her dad at the table for eggs that ran, which Katie couldn’t stand, the way the yolks spread on her plate, so she coated them in salt and sopped them with toast that she didn’t care to eat either, but her dad fixed the eggs and toasted the bread with a fork over the gas oven burner. Her dad never made breakfast. Katie didn’t know her dad knew how to make breakfast. “It’s a big day,” her dad said.  

Katie’s mom watched the flame as her dad toasted the bread on a fork. She said the place would explode if he wasn’t careful. Katie couldn’t believe how her mom got so jealous when she saw that her dad knew how to make breakfast.

After eating, Katie’s dad leaned in and touched the band-aid on her chin. That hands-on attention felt good, but it hurt. He pressed too hard. That was her dad, always pressing too hard. That’s how he was. Katie was happy he cared.  

“But—” He said, sitting back. “Do you gotta wear that big band-aid?”    

“Like I said,” Katie said calmly, like she was explaining how to lick out the Oreo frosting and stick the wafers back together to save them for later. “It’s gross, the hugest zit.”  

Three days earlier, at the worst time in the history of the world, Katie got a pimple on her chin. Not a blackhead she could ease out with her fingernails and not leave a mark, but a massive red mound filled with pus deep down that looked infected already when she first saw it. Katie found a needle and drained it. The pus came back. She picked it open and dug around to get to the bottom. It bled. It gaped open. She dabbed at it with a tissue until it was glistening and dry, and she could see far down inside, what her face looked like underneath. Then the opening filled again and scabbed over and got even larger. It itched all around. 

The third time Katie went back to do further surgery, her mom caught her and asked if the needle was heated. “Why?” Katie asked. “For sterilization,” her mom said. Heating a needle had never occurred to Katie. So she hadn’t.

“You know, for being a smart kid, sometimes you have no sense in your head,” her mom said. Katie looked in the mirror. Her chin was oozy and throbbing. She felt stupid and embarrassed and ashamed. Dealing with pimples was something she’d never done before. How should she know? And now she might actually have an infection, according to her mom. “Here,” her mom said, “be sure to wear this.” Her mom gave her the band-aid.

“They’ll tease that you cut yourself shaving,” her dad said.

“What?” Katie said.

“Boys,” her dad said.

“Not all boys tease, Sam,” Katie’s mom said. “And the band-aid is better for germs.” Katie’s mom didn’t care about germs. What her mom meant was that Katie looked hideous with that huge crusty weeping wound on her chin. Also, her mom never minded her dad’s good moods.  Her mom couldn’t help but pick and pick and pick.

Katie’s dad shrugged. “As a kid, I would have teased about shaving.” He winked. “Of course, you might have kicked my ass right on the spot.”  He raised his fists and snapped his head back, like he’d been hit. He was in such a good mood.

“Stop it, Sam,” Katie’s mom said. 

Katie wanted to go to the bathroom to check under the band-aid again to see if things had improved. It had been twenty minutes since she last looked. But she didn’t go. Katie stayed. She stayed to listen as her dad, in his good mood, kept talking. Usually, he’d have gone quiet by now.

“Or maybe I would have teased about fighting. Like, you busted your chin open fighting.  I might have thought that. Who knows?” He rubbed his eyes. “Say, do you remember that mover who had you ride in the cab, the one who said you’d be pound for pound protection?”

 “Gumdropweight,” Katie said, grinning. That was one of her favorite memories, how fun that had been in the cab, eating candy and talking while the truck hauled them away from Park Heights. She jabbed with her left, but a little too hard. She almost hit her dad in the face. He laughed and grabbed her fist with his hand. He was so strong, to catch her fist just like that. He laughed again. Her dad was so fun in such a good mood.

“Right,” her dad said. “That guy was quick on his feet, for being such a lard-ass.” He looked down. He sighed. He rubbed his eyes. “You know, I didn’t want to leave Park Heights either. But—ah, Jesus Christ—”  

Katie couldn’t believe her ears. It had been five years. Her parents never discussed it. They always refused when she had her questions. Why now? She wanted to ask, but before she could speak, her dad waved her off. “Listen, Katie. Listen. Listen.” He rested both forearms on the table, suddenly a lot less happy. “Do you know what my old man said when I started seventh grade?”

Katie never met her grandfather. He died before Katie was born. She’d never even seen a picture.  

“Katie needs to go,” her mom said. Katie wanted her mom to go. Her dad was talking to her, not to her mom. He was telling Katie things she deserved to know. Why couldn’t Katie’s mom mind her own business?  

“What did he say?” Katie said.  

“Please, Sam. It’s hardly the time,” Katie’s mom said.  

Katie’s dad banged his fist on the table. The breakfast dishes crashed and clattered. So much for her dad’s good mood, thanks to her mom’s constant pestering.  

“He didn’t say anything.” Her dad said. Then he laughed. But not a happy laugh. “He took his belt to me like a red-headed stepchild until I could hardly walk. Do you understand? I could hardly walk.”

Katie didn’t know what to do.  Her mom left the room.  

“When he was done, then he talked. Remember who you are. That’s what he said.” Her dad’s hands were squeezed into white-knuckle fists.

Katie didn’t know what to do. Her mom returned. She felt her mom’s hands on her chair, inching it away from the table. “Katie you can’t be late. The first day—first impressions, you know—they matter so much. You’ll see.”

Katie tried to pull her mom’s hand off the chair.  Her mom was too strong. “Let go! I’m not a baby!” Katie yelled.

“It is time to go. Now!” Her mom said.

“I never graduated,” Katie’s dad said. “High school, okay. I dropped out to work. Okay?  I’d never hurt you like that, like my dad did. But we had to move.” Her dad wasn’t making sense. And he was crying.

Katie didn’t know what to do.  

“Katie, please. You need to go,” Katie’s mom said.

Katie saw the clock. She did have to go. She ran to the bathroom and lifted the band-aid. Her chin was worse than ever. Her mom was right, she had to keep the band-aid on. And her dad was right that if she got teased she’d handle herself just fine. But otherwise Katie wasn’t right, she didn’t feel right, not one bit. She had no idea what had just happened, or what to make of it, or what to do.

With his big gut and long nose, Mr. Potter resembled a plaid teapot with a crewcut lid. “Welcome to seventh grade … when all your screws are gonna come loose. My job, ladies and gents, is to keep ‘em nice and tight. That’s right, nice and tight.”  

“His wife must have frightful long nights,” Katie said. The words came, just like rain, like Katie’s words always came. She didn’t mean to speak, nor did she try to be quiet. Someone laughed. Katie looked. It was a boy she’d never seen. The boy looked at Katie.

Chalk sailed between them, overhead, and crashed against the blackboard in back, where someone had written Life is struggle. Struggle is opportunity. Life is opportunity. Katie whispered, “That’s math—” but didn’t get to finish because Mr. Potter lifted both of them up by their arms, squeezing hard so they couldn’t squirm loose, and pushed them into the hallway.

“Roth. Reynolds. Good names. You two want me to remember your names? I only remember the troublemakers. Are you two troublemakers?”

The boy looked at the ground. “I’ll take that as a No,” Mr. Potter said.

He looked at Katie. “What about you?”  

“I have a question,” Katie said. “Where it says Life is Opportunity—is that the commutative property? Is that math?”  

“Why is it always the girls?” Mr. Potter said. “What have I done to deserve girls who show up on the first day, year after year, always trying to be funny?” Katie hadn’t been kicked out of class before. Maybe this counted. But the door was open. The whole class was watching. Technically, Katie was in class—just not in the classroom. And the teacher was with her.

“Those funny girls,” Mr. Potter said, interrupting her thought. “Some of them straighten out, others just drop out. Which one are you?”

Katie twitched. He didn’t have to be so rude, calling her a troublemaker like that and saying that she would probably drop out. She’d asked a legitimate math question that other kids probably didn’t even know yet. 

“I asked you a question,” Mr. Potter said. 

The whole class was watching.  

“I think you’re being unfair,” Katie said.

“I’ll take that as a Yes,” Mr. Potter said. “That you are a troublemaker. Reynolds, back in class and not one more word. Roth, go to the office.”  

“But what about my question?” Katie said.

Mr. Potter closed the door. Katie kicked the floor all the way to the office. 

From there, Katie was famous. She was the first kid in the whole seventh grade to get kicked out of class and sent to the office. And she’d been booted from homeroom, where nothing even happened. Rumors started about Katie’s daring. By the end of first period, kids were saying that she’d flashed a knife at the boy, not caring that Mr. Potter was standing right there. By lunch, the story had changed and people were saying that Katie had threatened to drop Potter himself with one punch, one pop to the jaw like a champ. Already Katie was legendary.  

Girls looked away when Katie approached, like she was contagious, except for the few who nodded and gave a thumbs up. Boys thought Katie might wanna make out after lunch, second base at least, or if not that then go smoke by the dumpsters out back, where it was shady and maybe grab a quick kiss before coming back.  

Katie went to the bathroom and cried. She remembered her dad, how he’d been crying, and for some reason that made her go numb. She splashed her face with water to hide the red in her eyes, then was genuinely surprised to see that she’d pulled loose the band-aid covering her chin. She’d forgotten. She dried it off with a paper towel and pressed as hard as she could, but it wouldn’t stay stuck on again. She threw the band-aid away and, with her chin all scabby and crusty and her eyes all red-rimmed and puffy, Katie slumped back toward Mr. Potter’s room for fifth period seventh grade math, the class she’d been most excited to take at Pikesville Junior High, the dump where she’d been lumped and dumped and deposited, and now had become the main character in stories that weren’t even true. Katie didn’t know what to do.  

Mr. Potter stood at his door. “Roth. I remember you.” Katie tried to get past him, but his big gut blocked her path. “Your question,” he said. “The words on my board. Life is opportunity. You’re right, Roth. That is the commutative property.” He smiled. Katie didn’t answer. She was too sad to be glad about being right.

“Now sit down and don’t screw around for one hour. Can you do that?” Mr. Potter said.

Katie nodded. She found her seat and took out her notebook, not looking up. A minute later, Mr. Potter walked past. His fingers brushed her desk. When Katie looked, she saw an unopened band-aid, the exact same size she’d had on earlier, before hers came loose.

“Roth,” Mr. Potter said from the front. “If you need to use the restroom, I’ll give you thirty seconds. Run!”

Katie ran. She ran as fast as she could. She wanted to run and run and run and never return, but also she wanted to get back to class. She’d always liked math the best, and Mr. Potter seemed like he might be okay.