Date: Sat, 19 Mar 2005 17:06:38 -0800
From: Cole Parker <colepark@gmail.com>
Subject: 8th Grade, Chapter 3

The following is a work of fiction.  If you don't know the meaning of
that, then you shouldn't be reading this, as the story is more complex
than that statement and you won't understand it.

This story will contain some sex between consenting partners.  Both
partners will be boys.  If that isn't your cup of tea, I respectfully
suggest you find your beverage of choice elsewhere.   If you
shouldn't be reading this, please don't.  I don't want either of us to
get in trouble, particularly me.

This story will not contain a lot of sex, in fact, just the exact amount
appropriate for this story.  Imagine that!  If you want a lot of sex,
you probably should read a different story.  There are a lot on this
website.

Any remarks can be addressed to: Cole Parker <colepark@gmail.com>


				 8th Grade

				 Chapter 3


When my last class was over, I gathered my things and headed to my
locker.  There I deposited everything but my math book, a notebook that
still had a lot of empty pages and a couple pencils.  Then it was off
to the detention room.

Detention was held down in the basement in a large classroom that was
no longer used for teaching.  It was a gloomy, rather dilapidated place
that smelled of mildew and unwashed, stressed teenagers.  The detention
duty was shared by all the teachers and I was in luck.  Today's
guardian of the doomed, meaning us problem children, was one of my
favorite teachers, Mr. Bloomberg.  He taught art, a subject I enjoyed
with enthusiasm if not talent; I think Mr. Bloomberg liked my spirit
and ignored my lack of skill.  As so many students were anything but
enthusiastic in his class and wasted everyone's time fooling around, he
appreciated my interest and perhaps for that reason liked me as well.

I approached him at the front of the room.  He seemed puzzled to see
me, which wasn't surprising as I was a very low key kid in school,
practically invisible in fact, and never had been to detention before.
I told him I was going to work with Brad on math and asked if it was
all right with him if we spoke quietly while trying to do some
problems.  He okayed it, so we were going to be home free, at least
today.

Brad came in, looking pissed, and I motioned him to join me in the rear
corner of the room.  He did so, plopped his backpack on an empty desk
next to us and sat down.  He was angry and unhappy and looked gorgeous.
Mr. Bloomberg called roll, then told us all to do homework, stay in our
seats, not make any noise and we'd be released in an hour and a half.
Anyone causing a disturbance would be given additional detentions.

"Brad, I told Mr. Bloomberg we'd be working together and he said we
could talk.  First off, can you tell me what your problem is?  I know
you're smart.  You're in advanced math so you must have done well in
math before.  What's going on?"

Brad looked at me, and although his eyes were difficult to read I could
tell he was debating with himself about how much he wanted to say.
After all, we didn't know each other, I'd indirectly caused him a lot
of trouble today, I'd got an F while he'd got a D, and perhaps worst of
all, I was a dork and he was practically king of the school.  At 13,
kids were afraid dorkishness could rub off.  Their reputations and
social standing could be destroyed just by talking to a kid like me.
And just how much help could I be, with my F and all?  Then, I could
see a change in his eyes, almost as if  he'd decided, what the hell,
why not give this a try?

"I don't know," he answered, not angrily as I was expecting but sort of
dispiritedly.  "I've never really liked math, but it wasn't that hard
for me.  But this year, I just don't get a lot of it.  Everything's
different.  Unknowns and equations and reducing improper fractions and
negative quantities and square roots... it's just difficult."

"We're not being helped much by Mrs. Graedon, either," I replied,
attempting to be supportive, trying to show him I was on his side and
that I agreed with him.  "She explains things in a way that makes them
harder to understand, not easier.  Take today's quiz, for example.  She
had us reducing equations with parenthetical quantities on both sides,
and she only touched briefly on how to do that during the week, and
even then didn't explain it very well."

"Yeah," Brad agreed, with some emotion.  "I couldn't remember what
you're supposed to do first."

"Well then, here, let me give you a trick my father showed me.  He said
there are several ways to remember how do to this, but the one I found
easiest to remember was, when you have a complex equation or function
with parentheses and raised powers and such, you use the phrase 'Please
Expect My Dear Aunt Sally.'  You can remember that, can't you?"

"Huh?"  Brad asked, looking at me like maybe my mind had blown a gasket
or something.

I held back a giggle, but did smile.  "Well, you have to decide which
operations to do in what order to get the right answer.  That's what the
phrase tells you.  It stands for Parentheses, then Exponents, then Multiply
and Divide, then Add and Subtract.  So, looking at the problem, first you
do everything inside the parentheses, then you do all the operations
involving exponents, then any multiplying and dividing, then finish up
with any adding and subtracting.  If you do it in that order, you end
up with the right answer."

I then wrote out a problem like the one we were quizzed on today and
had him work it out.  I wrote P,E,MD,AS on the top of the page for him
to refer to, and in a surprisingly quick time, glancing up occasionally
to where I'd jotted the reminder, he got the right answer.  I then made
up three more equations, and he got them all.  "Hey," he said with a
smile, "this isn't so hard.  Why didn't she show us this?"

" 'Cause she's an asshole," I snorted.  "Now let's see what else you're
struggling with."

For the next hour we reviewed the book, and he kept asking questions
about almost everything we'd learned this term.  He always seemed to be
caught up on just one or two points he'd missed from Mrs. Graedon,
which in algebra can be deadly as the trick is mostly following weird rules.  I
would explain things, and he'd get a great smile as he caught on to
something that had stumped him before.  He kept saying, "Wow, now I get
it."  But that smile!  It lit up the room.  He kept grabbing my arm
with his enthusiasm bubbling over and his great beaming smile lighting
his face and I was having the problem I hoped I wouldn't.  It a big
way, if you get my meaning.  Luckily, I'd come prepared.  I'd brought
my jacked and it had been strategically draped across my lap.  It's
always a good idea to plan ahead.

Brad had lots of questions and by the time the hour and a half was over
we'd only got about a quarter of the way through what had been covered
in class so far this year.  But Brad was really happy.  And there
seemed to be something, some chemistry building between us.  I felt
really comfortable with him, other than of course the hard problem I
was dealing with.   When Mr. Bloomberg let us go, Brad jumped up and
stood waiting for me.  That was a little awkward, of course, but
standing up with my jacket held casually and apparently unintentionally
in front of me, I was able to walk out with him without stopping
traffic or scaring small children or their mothers, or, more
importantly, causing young teenagers to point and laugh.

"Hey, this went great," Brad said as we reached the lockers.  "I didn't
think I was smart enough to get this stuff, but you make it almost
easy.  Thanks a lot for the help, man."

"Brad, I want to apologize again for getting you into this mess.  I
feel really bad about it.  And you might even miss a game because
of me.  I'm sorry, and I'm glad you're being so nice about it.  You
don't have to be.  It was all my fault."

"No, no, that's no prob," he reassured me.  "It's only a practice
scrimmage this week and the coach won't give me any shit anyway.  My
parents will be a little angry, but when I tell them how algebra is
making sense to me, that now I really understand it, they'll forget
about everything else.  In the long run, this detention will be a real
help.  We're doing this again tomorrow, right?"  When I nodded, he went
on.  "Thanks again, Danny, but now I've got to book."  With that, he
was off running for the door.

I opened my locker.  I couldn't stop smiling.  His energy and spirit
were like a little kid's and his face had been radiant when he had
thanked me.  I wasn't going to have a shortage of fantasy material to
make my evening enjoyable tonight.