Jemma-Algebra Can't Solve Anything

Algebra Can’t Solve Anything

Ayelet Schrek

The air buzzed with a strange excitement. Heads, lowered, mouths moving frantically, a nervous energy filled the air of the math classroom. I sat at my desk, surrounded by people, all of them whispering to each other. I rolled my eyes to myself. All this upset. It was just another test.

“If anyone is out of their seats or still talking when I start handing out this test, it’s an automatic zero.”

That shut everyone up. I’ll hand it to Ms. Capp, she sure can keep a class quiet. She has short, straight brown hair and small, piercing blue eyes. She’s known throughout the school for her brightly colored wool sweaters and her test questions that belong more in an English literature class than on a math test. She takes math seriously, but not in an obsessive, pathetic, math-is-my-life kind of way. No, she just loves it. She’s the kind of teacher who cares more about trying than getting the right answer. Which would be kind of nice I guess if I tried. But why bother?

Anyway, everyone sat down and fell silent, although the energy in the room never faltered. As more and more people received their tests and got to work, the energy settled, focused. Ms. Capp handed me my test and hesitated a moment, making sure she caught my attention, and looked me square in the eye. What a loaded look. I know she expects me to do better, and I could; I'm good at math, I just don’t bother. The other day, she called me into the classroom at lunch and confronted me.

Jemma, she had said, as I fiddled with the small, plain silver ring my grandmother had given me before she died, the color stark against my golden-brown skin, avoiding eye contact at all cost. What’s going on here? You’re a C student with a perfect test average. That’s not right. You could be acing this class. Why do you never complete your homework? All I need is a little effort, and I’d be happy to boost your grade up to a B. Why don’t you try?

Poor Ms. Capp. She simply can’t understand. See, I'm not completely clueless. I know I could be doing so much better. But there’s just no motivation. How can math help me in life? It won’t bring me happiness, or find me true love. It doesn’t stop my mom from leaving us every Friday night to meet that bastard who she’s cheating with. Work my ass. You don’t come home drunk from work.

I quickly shook my head to dispel my thoughts. No need to deal with that now. I looked at the first question, did some quick mental calculations, and scrawled an answer on the thick sheet of paper. The numbers blurred as I whisked past them. The harder the equation, the less I had to think. Last page, word problems. Sacks of flour, average rainfall in Washington vs. Mississippi, building a house…

I stopped dead, head reeling. I glanced around quickly, and then returned to the page, staring at the problem intently. There was no way…

But the words were there. The equation was simple, less than thirty seconds worth of brainpower. But the equation was irrelevant. The numbers lost all meaning, hidden by the words that were supposed to bring them to life.

A wife is cheating on her husband. Seven words, simple, basic words.

She knew. She must have known. I quickly glanced at Ms. Capp, trying to discern if she really did know. I caught her eye and she smiled at me. Either she was a very well-practiced liar, or she had no idea. But what a coincidence…

I looked back at those words. That nameless wife. That nameless husband. Are there any kids? How old? Do they know that their mom is cheating? The question continued on to some random thing about a PI and photographs, but my attention kept returning to that first sentence. A wife is cheating on her husband. So inconsequential, when stated that way. Something that can be solved using algebra. It’s a lie, this problem. Nothing is simple. Algebra can’t solve anything.

Does the husband know? He must, if he’s hiring a PI. My dad, oh he knows, he’s known for a while. So why doesn’t he do something? No, he pretends, pretends nothing’s happening, pretends mom loves us. It’s a lie too, just like the equation. Suddenly, some song lyrics from a favorite band pop into my head. How do you sleep at night when you’re drowning in your own lies? How does he do it? Why does he do it? Does he know what it’s doing to me?

But really, he’s not the one to blame.

She is. And I do, I blame her for my entire screwed up life. I truly hate her sometimes, for what she’s done to our family. I know she doesn’t love me, never has, but if she’s so sick of us, why not just get a divorce? It’s better than cheating. And she doesn’t even care enough to hide it. The least she could do is try.

Hmm. Try. It’s an interesting word, no? I guess I can’t blame her for not trying, it would be rather hypocritical of me, but at least when I don’t try, the only person I'm hurting is myself. I try for others all the time. I try so damn hard for others, trying to fit in and make everyone comfortable, trying to be nice but still cool, trying to be the kind of person people want to be around, and my own mother can't even try to hide the fact that she’s betraying us all? The more and more I thought about this, the angrier I became. Seriously, she has no right to do what she’s doing, to tear us apart, to turn who used to be the cheeriest man you’ll ever know into a mute, withdrawn shadow, turn me into…what? I don’t know. But it isn’t good. How dare she!

I heard a small snapping sound. I looked down to see that my pencil tip had broken. I had subconsciously been grinding it down on the table this whole time, and it had finally given up the fight to stay whole. I sighed. Perfect.

I slowly got up out of my seat, feeling like I had a hundred pounds on each shoulder. I walked lethargically to the pencil sharpener, letting my feet drag. I was passing by the seats of two of the boys in my class when one of them leaned into the other, whispering, “The husband probably didn’t even need the PI. A woman like that would take the pictures herself.”

“Goddamnit!” I screamed. The energy in the room flat lined, and then spiked. I looked at all those faces, expectant, anticipatory, curious, frightened, confused. I was sick of it, so sick of the lies, the secrets, but still. She was my mom. Standing up for mothers is an instinctual, necessary thing for children to do. I really had no choice. Did she deserve my protection? No. But something reared up inside me, a protective force, a natural shield. I couldn’t help it. And then all of a sudden, I was furious. Furious at those boys for their unintentional slur of my mother, furious at Ms. Capp for writing the stupid question, and for believing in me when I didn’t deserve it, furious at my dad for doing nothing, furious at myself for being so angry…

I ran from the room. No one tried to stop me.

I ran, up the stairs, to the right, into a deserted hallway, where I heaved myself to the ground. I rested my weighted back against the wall, curling my legs to my chest. My breaths were wild, erratic. I closed my eyes and refused to think. Calm, I told myself, calm. I needed to recover myself. Too late for that, I reminded myself. My cover was blown. All that trying to act normal for nothing.

My heart throbbed and my head pounded, but I did not cry. I haven’t cried in a very long time. It makes me feel weak, the inability to cry.

A few deep breaths. Another. Another. I knew I needed to do something. But what?

I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to get up and walk right out the front door to my car, and then I wanted to drive home and confront my mom. Not a very practical, realistic idea, but a tempting one all the same.

What else could I do?

I got up, slowly, the weights on my shoulders trying to drag me down. I shook them off, and walked, down the stairs, one step at a time, back to the classroom. Everyone stared when I walked in. Ms. Capp looked at me. “What do you need?”

“I need to finish my test.”

She nodded, and I sat down and finished it.