I've Got 99 Problems and Math is All of Them
I’m behind the bright blue counter at Café Camelot, Nesbit High’s student-run coffee shop, fighting back rising panic.
My coworker, Isaiah, is late again; The register is broken; I burned the blueberry muffins; And, to top it all off, Mrs. Hess, my supervisor, is stuck in some stupid meeting which means I’m flailing out here on my own.
If I had a choice, I’d be anywhere except the cramped concession stand the café operates out of. I sure wouldn’t be wearing a stupid apron emblazoned with the coffee-drinking, fully helmeted knight that comprises the Café’s logo while trying desperately to ignore the fact that the line already stretches to the gymnasium on the other side of the hall.
But choice is in short supply in my life, so here I am: Third week into Junior year, reprising my role as world’s slowest cashier. All because my parents voluntold me to apply for another year of Café Camelot servitude.
They believe–despite all evidence to the contrary–the experience will provide me with better math skills.
What it actually provides?
Daily mathematical humiliation.
As demonstrated this morning by Kadarius Deloach, resident metalhead and perpetual pain-in-my-ass. Our lives shouldn’t intersect–he’s a senior, dresses like Hot Topic vomited on him, and is ‘twice exceptional’, which is adult for ‘can you believe this disabled kid is smart?’
My only exceptional claim is how exceptionally bad I am at math.
But I’m always at his house to practice for dance comps with his baby sister, Jayla, and he dutifully films us for her YouTube channel, Take a Dance On Me. And in case you’re thinking that’s awfully generous of him, let me correct that misconception. He only does it for the opportunity to razz us. Just like he’s taking the time to razz me right the freak now.
He’s cross-eyed so only one eye is looking directly up at me, but he only needs one eye to pull off disbelieving judgment. Not even his thick-rimmed glasses or the finger coils falling into his face hide it. “Fuck outta here, Westberry. You can’t count change?”
Snickers break out from the queue of students behind him. There’s even a heavy sigh, and (of course) a stage whispered, “Bruh.”
“I lost count,” I complain, giving him what I hope is a quelling glare. Yeah, it’s embarrassing to be a junior in high school with my pathetic counting abilities, but I’d be a lot faster if people would shut up while I was trying to count their change. “Now I’ve gotta start all over.”
“Bruh. You’re a dancer. I’ve seen you count beats.” Kadarius leans against the wall, crumpling an empty wax paper in his left hand. His black nail polish is chipped. That’s an aesthetic choice. I think.
I grit my teeth. “Those only go up to eight.”
A grin creeps across Kadarius’s face. “Didn’t realize ten was too high for you.”
I grip one of the apron strings that dangle over my shoulder, resisting the urge to gnaw it. Chewing is a calming activity, but it gets me teased as often as my shitty math skills. “Listen here, shorty, if I couldn’t count to ten I’d be in self-contained.”
Let the record show I’m an inclusion student: Neither my Autism nor my ADHD are severe enough to warrant placing me in a segregated classroom. But sometimes a self-contained classroom sounds appealing. I mean, it’s not like I’m thriving out here in gen ed.
Kadarius’s grin widens. “Do you even know what ‘shorty’ means?”
“It means you’re short.”
“Whatever you say, white boy.”
There’s more snickering from the queue. Someone shouts, “We don’t have all day!”
Kadarius drops his empty wax paper into the trash can conveniently located beside the concession stand and takes pity on me. “There ya go,” he says, using his forearm to push most of the coins across the counter. He limps off in a zigzagging line without another word. Not even goodbye.
I’ve only just recovered from Kadarius’s teasing when I spy a conspicuously bearded, lumberjack figure amidst my peers.
Shit. It’s Mr. Myrick, my Algebra II teacher. The last person I want to witness my cashiering skills.
The line dwindles as I continue taking orders, and I can’t help stealing glances at my approaching doom.
I hand Zoya Saudagar regular coffee instead of decaf, earning disgruntled grumbles from our peers when I remake her order.
Two customers later, three cinnamon rolls slip from my grasp in quick succession. The haste with which I wipe up doesn’t completely remove the sticky residue, so now I’m tracking glazed footprints across the floor.
I’m holding another cinnamon roll when I push my bangs out of my eyes. I only notice the dark hairs stuck to it when I’m handing it to Leo Suarez, who shoves it back at me with a complaint about sanitation.
And when the wicker creamer basket is empty, I reflexively throw the replacement creamers into the trash.
It’s all unraveling.
By the time my teacher steps up to the counter, I’m roughly two seconds away from hyperventilating myself into oblivion.
Myrick is no Agatha Trunchbull, but if he could legally yeet me out a window for giving wrong answers in class, he would. And honestly, I would also like to yeet myself out a window in his class.
But just because we share the same opinion on me and windows doesn’t mean we get along. In fact, I thought we were both counting down the days until I never have to step foot in his classroom again; It’s highly suspicious he’s forcing his presence on me at a time that isn’t his Algebra II class.
Where’s our understanding, Mr. Myrick?
I hope we at least have an understanding that this interaction needs to end as quickly as possible.
His order is simple: A regular coffee.
There’s a hollow gnawing in my stomach as my brain whispers this is too simple. What’s the catch? Where am I going to mess things up?
My hands shake as I pour coffee into a blue paper cup. The lid doesn’t want to go on; when I squash it down the whole cup collapses. Coffee sloshes across the counter to drip mockingly onto the floor and the black rubber of my shoe guards. By some miracle it doesn’t splash my legs, exposed as they are by my choice to wear shorts. Which, yeah, safety hazard where coffee is concerned, but you try wearing long pants in Georgia in August.
Mr. Myrick is unnervingly silent. Just how judgmental are his thoughts right now?
My imagination provides plenty of answers.
A groan escapes my lips instead of the apology I intend to make. I grab the nearest washcloth, hastily mop up the counter and fix another coffee. As I move from one station to the next I slosh molten caffeine across the floor to go with the earlier glaze.
Although I’m shaking worse than ever, I get the remake coffee into Myrick’s hands without spilling it. This should be his cue to leave, but he’s in no hurry. If he was, he would give me exact change. Instead, he hands over a five and now I have to break it down without the help of the cash register. Which, by the way, is the kind of task fairytale princesses assign suitors when they don’t wanna get married.
Forcing my brain to contemplate counting is a herculean effort, so when I shove the coins across the counter it’s with zero confidence and a hundred percent prayers for miracles.
Myrick dresses like a cowboy, but he tallies up the coins with the speed of an accountant. “This is incorrect, Mr. Westberry.”
My brain refuses to cooperate with a second try. As a matter of fact, its trying to convince me I’ve never seen a quarter before.
The tap, tap, tap of Myrick’s fingers against his arms draws my eyes away from the coins I’m failing to count.
“How much change do you owe me?”
I swallow and toy with the straps of my apron. “Two dollars and Eighty-seven cents.” My voice is barely audible over the pot of coffee bubbling behind me.
Myrick sips his coffee, leaving me to sweat before asking, “And how many quarters did you give me?”
I slowly separate the quarters from the rest of the coins. “Three.”
“And how many dimes did you give me?”
My answer is quicker; there are only dimes left. “Two.”
“How much does that make?”
Static crackles in my brain. “Ummm.” Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five plus twenty is… “One hundred and fifteen,” I offer.
Myrick’s sigh speaks for both of us. “That would be correct if you had three quarters and four dimes.”
I whisper under my breath as I add. “Seventy-five…eighty-five…ninety-five.” I repeat this last number louder.
Mr. Myrick closes his eyes. “Yes, ninety-five. Try to speed up your arithmetic, Mr. Westberry.”
Replacing the dime with two pennies ought to be an easy task. Just drop them into Myrick’s outstretched palm and be finally, mercifully done.
But I’m not done fucking everything up. No. My aim is off, and they plummet straight to the sticky atrium floor.
Myrick takes a deep breath, the kind that suggests he’s debating the merits of strangling students, and says, “I trust you’ll study hard this semester. I’ll see you in class.”
It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to remain where I am instead of fleeing as Mr. Myrick walks away
By the time the first period bell rings, I’m beyond ready to make my escape. I fling my apron at the laundry basket and flee, grabbing my cat-eared Cats hoodie from where it’s hanging on the door.
Contrary to what some people claim, I wear the hoodie out of loyalty to the stage musical, not the movie. I saw it downtown at the Fox when I was twelve and I had never seen anything so spectacular. Which is saying something, because my parents raised me and my brother on the competition circuit.
The movie, on the other hand, was definitely not the most spectacular thing I’ve ever seen. In fact, it was terrible. But it was still the Cats musical.
Plus, it had Les Twins. So terrible or not, I’m legally obligated to defend it.
Les Twins are dance Gods, and also brother goals. No, seriously, I wish my brother and I were that good or that close.
But that’s not happening. Everything about me frustrates Jackson, my one-year-younger little brother. He would never agree to a project that ties his image that closely to mine. Not when Coolness is his whole thing, and the last word anyone would use to describe me.
We’re both tall with brown eyes, brown hair, and an unnatural ability to not sunburn. But the resemblance ends there. He’s single-handedly keeping the hair gel industry afloat and has a new girlfriend every other month. I’m more of a track shorts and t-shirts kind of guy and I’ve had a girlfriend…never. On account of the whole thing where I’m into guys.
In theory.
In practice, my interest is from a safe distance that only involves other people as a fantasy.
But the one major difference between me and Jackson? The one my parents care about more than any other?
Jackson is making all A’s. As for me? Let's just say my grades would be a lot better if school involved fewer numbers and more Les Twins.
Unfortunately, zero of my classes involve Les Twins.
Even more unfortunately, Algebra II is my First Period. Because I haven’t had enough math this morning-or enough Myrick.
I debate skipping—not that I’m entirely clear on how skipping works given Nesbit High is big on enabling parental stalking—but my feet betray me, dragging me down the math corridor and into Algebra hell against my will.
Before I enter class, I pull my hoodie as far down as I can. Logically, I know this won’t prevent him from seeing me, but illogically, I feel like it ought to.
Myrick looks directly at me with zero respect for the fact I’m trying to be invisible. “Mr. Westberry. Hoodie off.”
I push the hoodie down reluctantly. This is one rule I wish our school would ditch.
“Much better, Mr. Westberry," he says. And then, because calling me out over my hoodie wasn’t enough, he continues with, “Now, if you’ll come here for a moment, you and I have something we need to discuss.”
My stomach leaps about in my throat like it’s dancing the Trepak from The Nutcracker. Nothing good ever comes from adults wanting to discuss things.
I trudge to the far corner of the room, where my math teacher is sitting at the most freakishly organized desk known to man. Two red pennants hang on the wall–one I recognize as the Atlanta Falcons’ logo. The other has the word ‘Huskers’ written on it in white. Whatever a Husker is.
“What?” I ask, shivering; not only did I forget the potential for coffee mishaps when getting dressed this morning, I also forgot how teachers think. Outside is Hot As Hell, so of course classroom temps are Hell: Frozen Over.
“I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends,” he begins, which must be a joke. “But you didn’t submit Friday’s homework.”
His words turn my veins to ice to match my legs.
Homework.
Oh.
Crap.
“Well?” Mr. Myrick prompts. His fingers are steepled in the diabolical gesture of someone who chose a teaching career because torturer wasn’t an option.
I grab my hoodie drawstrings for emotional support as I rock onto the sides of my feet. “I forgot.”
“You forgot.”
I tug uneasily on one drawstring, searching Myrick’s desk for some clue what the next step in this ritual is supposed to be. No clues materialize.
“I forgot…sir?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t need to remember, Mr. Westberry. All you need to do is check ClassLink for assignments.”
That sounds like it still involves remembering, but I’m not about to argue with a teacher. I hang my head, now chewing on the drawstring I’m fidgeting with. "Sorry," I say. Or that's what I try to say. It comes out a little mushy since I've still got my drawstring in my mouth.
Myrick doesn't acknowledge my apology. Or maybe it's not good enough, because he says, “I want you to write an apology letter for forgetting your homework. Get to your seat.”
The drawstring drops from my mouth as I gape at him in horror. What, my actual, in person apology wasn't enough? I have to write it down? Over some stupid homework assignment? I should be the one getting an apology for having to bring math home.
At my desk I prop my laptop open and lay my head on my arms, wishing I could go to sleep and wake up in a world without Algebra. How is constant failure supposed to help me? I’m not learning anything, I’m just crashing. Over and over.
I’m still wallowing in self-pity when Ava Blalock slips into the desk behind me. She greets me with, “Did your dumbass brother tell you about Chloe?”
I don’t need to turn around to know her lip is curled in disgust. Ava started dating my younger brother during regionals, and their relationship lasted all the way until Summer Intensives, which ended in spectacular drama when Jackson broke up with her for Chloe Tang.
I don’t know why their breakup surprised Ava.
Before her was Ava Caldwell.
And Aniyah Cunningham.
And Kinley Durham.
And Suneeta Senapati.
I don’t lift my head. “What about Chloe?” Maybe she broke up with Jackson. That’d be something new.
“She got scouted. By the Rockettes.” Ava kicks the back of my chair.
My laptop slides precariously toward the edge of my desk. I yank it to safety, still not lifting my head. “Good for her.”
Ava kicks the back of my chair again.
“I mean.” I scramble to correct course in the face of her aggressive displeasure. “What? When did that even happen?” Chloe hasn’t missed any dance classes, and it’s not like Georgia to New York is a quick trip.
There’s an audible huff in my ear. “Some TikTok of hers went viral. The Rockettes saw it. They DMed her. It’s so unfair. Any one of us is as good as she is!”
I finally lift my head and turn, dangling both arms over the back of my chair. “I think I’m too tall to be a Rockette.”
“Ha. Ha.”
That wasn’t a joke. Sheesh. “Don’t they have a height limit?”
“Yeah, but–”
There’s an ominous cough from Mr. Myrick. Ava falls silent.
I swivel back around to face the front.
Mr. Myrick is glaring at both of us. I sink as far into my seat as I can; My legs stick comically out into the aisle.
“I hope you’ve all been studying,” he begins, which is the teacher equivalent of ‘any last words?’
I drop my gaze to my desk and hope he can’t read the answer on my face. Not looking at him may save me from his mind-reading, but it doesn’t protect against his warning that we’re taking a pop quiz after morning announcements.
Is it Mr. Myrick’s personal mission in life to make mine a living math horror show? Why else would he give us a pop quiz the same day he shows up at Café Camelot? And in the third week of school, no less. Like that’s enough time to get your school-brain back.
As soon as the quiz is in front of me, I realize one simple truth: there’s no way I’ll finish this before class ends.
Once upon a time, I had an IEP with accommodations for extra testing time. This year, things are different. Not because I got better at math, but because this year I only get accommodations if I ask each teacher individually so I can practice being assertive.
You have no idea how much I don’t want to do that. I’d rather endure the hell that’s struggling through a math quiz than confront Mr. Myrick about my IEP. And that’s saying something, because math was invented specifically to torture me.
As this quiz is emphasizing. Numbers swim before my eyes as I scratch out my answers with desperate prayers to the Algebra gods.
Turns out they don’t answer the prayers of math heretics. If my prayers have been answered at all, it’s by a demonic snail. My brain is moving slower and slower with each number or symbol I contemplate.
Doodling scared faces on all the numbers and flames licking up the page expresses my frustration, but it doesn’t exorcize the snail demon.
Eventually, I give up on effort and make wild guesses. At least this way all the problems will have an answer. It’ll be the wrong answer, but still. The other option is turning in a quiz where I’ve answered two out of ten equations–and still got those two answers wrong.
Even with my new, improved ‘write-anything-and-pray’ strategy, I only part with my quiz when the bell leaves me no other choice, making me the last student to finish.
Like always.
The floor is easier to look at than Myrick as I hold out my quiz. He snatches it from my hand.
I didn’t even manage half the equations; I don’t want to know what my score is going to be.
My parents are gonna flip, and I won’t get any warning because they know my grades before I do: Dad practically stalks InfiniteCampus for the joy of knowing exactly how enraged he should be when I get home.
So I’ll learn my grade while my parents are murdering me.
But there's one silver lining to my future death.
At least I won't have to do math anymore.