Page 18 of Penalty Shots
I'm still standing in front of her like the good daughter she expects me to be. Listening. Taking it.
Because honestly, there's no arguing with her once she’s made up her mind. There’s a reason why Professor Elena Lopezis known as the Literary Tyrant of English 102. She doesn’t mess around.
She came here from Puerto Rico when she was twelve and taught herself to master the English language after being bullied for her accent in middle school. She promised herself she would dominate it better than any natural-born English speaker.
She read dictionaries. She memorized poetry. She excelled in spelling bees. When it came time for her to decide what she wanted to dedicate her life to, she knew it was an English professor. Just to prove to all those who ever doubted her that you don’t mess with Elena Dayanara Munoz-Velazquez de Lopez.
The other side of that is that I’m the daughter of a woman whose ego and expectations are so big that she makes it almost impossible to uphold her standards.
“You know I can’t stand a complainer, Katarina. You do, or you don’t. There’s no in-between,” she says, her accent even thicker now that she’s upset.
“Do or do not—there is no try,” I say.
She looks up from the paper she’s now scouring. “Que?”
“It’s Yoda.”
She stares at me, puzzled.
"Star Wars, Ma."
She sighs. “And that’s what’s wrong with kids these days. They quote Star Wars but can’t recognize art when it slaps them in the face.” She slams the paper down onto her desk and looks at the door just as the first student enters.
“Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth,” the voice behind me says. A rare smile cracks on my mother’s face as she watches him approach.
“Thoreau,” she says appreciatively. “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
The guy steps up to my mother’s desk and I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
“Wilde,” he says.
“Very good. See what I mean?” My mom motions to Keelan. “Someone whogetsit.”
I look at him, and he winks. “I’ll save you a seat,Katarina,” he says, my given name rolling ther, then he confidently takes the steps of the auditorium two at a time.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t bother,” I mutter behind him before turning back to my mom.
“You can keep standing there attempting to convince me to no avail, Katarina. Or you can take a seat and crack open a book until class begins.”
“What’s the point? You’re going to fail me regardless.” I grab my backpack and toss it over my shoulder, finding a seat somewhere away from my roommate’s boyfriend.
“Those who make the worst use of their time are the first to complain of its brevity,” Mom recites. And I know it’s from a book I haven’t read.
“Gruyere!” Keelan says excitedly from his seat.
“That’s right,” Mom says, now standing in front of her desk as more students pour into class one by one.
I glare at Keelan, who sits back comfortably in his seat, arms resting behind his head and feet propped over the seat in front of him. He’s a few rows above me on the opposite side of the room, but his face turns to me and beams.
I turn away from him and grab the book before me, bringing it up to my face abruptly. But I can see in my peripheral that he’s still looking at me, shaking his head.
We arenotfriends. Especially now that he’s officially my mom’s teacher’s pet. I’m sure he has every single professor in this school wrapped around his finger. That’s just the kind of guy that Keelan is.
Charming, confident, and fun-loving. Students and teachers alike find him endearing. I watch as the seats around him fill up first: cheer squad girls, hockey bros, and guys that he breakdances with out in the courtyard. They approach him and do secret handshakes. The girls hug him. And Keelan justlivesfor the attention.
Honestly, I don’t realize I’m staring at him until he turns to look at me again. I scramble, setting the book down and grabbing my phone to look busy.
A text comes through just as my mom begins her lesson.