Page 7 of Forging Legacy

I’m really looking forward to this, rather than feeling nervous. I like explaining things to other people. I like it when they ask me questions because seeing what others are confused by is a really interesting way for me to rethink the concepts. And I’m not in charge of the curriculum—just making sure the students grasp the material Dr. Yoon lays out.

Recitation is graded pass/fail based entirely on attendance, so I don’t even have to worry about anyone getting mad at me over grades. I have my roster printed in a folder full of notes and a ton of extra copies of the syllabus. I did look over the names and there are a handful of older students. I’m assuming they couldn’t fit the required math class into their schedule until now. Or maybe they forgot they had to take it to graduate. Or maybe they’re just bad at math. For now!

I have daydreams of convincing them all that the language of the universe can be applied everywhere. I know they won’t all leave here in love with algebra, but I know I can help them understand how to approach these concepts and how to succeed in this class.

I arrive at the towering building, with students streaming in and out of the revolving doors. I hold my head high as I type 23 on the elevator call box, and soon, I’m zooming up to one of the newer classrooms, full of projectors, whiteboards, and everything I need to write out complex equations larger than life.

I write my name on the board with ALGEBRA 1 RECITATION.

I spread my things on the podium at the front of the room but then decide I’d rather we all sit in a circle, so I picked a desk for my stuff and arrange the other chairs in a ring so we’re all facing each other—or we will be once the students start showing up.

I slide into my seat and run my finger along my printed roster. I come across a student named Wyatt DeLuca. My cheeks heat, remembering my night with a different Wyatt.

Thora was right. Sex is a huge stress reliever. I couldn’t walk properly for a day and a half after my night with Wyatt Moyer, but I took a hot bath, touched myself thinking of how I got that sore and went into this first week of class of my final semester of college feeling more relaxed than ever.

I shake these thoughts away as the first groups of students trickle in. I smile at them. “Hey, I’m Fern. Sit anywhere you like!” They do, mostly ignoring me and one another as they check their phones or work on the crossword from the student paper. I check my watch, and it’s exactly ten, so I get up and walk toward the door to close it just as the last straggling students slip in.

I stumble when I see Wyatt—my Wyatt—duck into the room with a muttered apology. I back up toward my desk, hitting it and knocking my folder to the ground in a flutter of papers. He crouches to pick up the pile of syllabi, and his eyes meet mine as he hands them to me. I freeze in horror as I realize he’s a student in this class. Why the hell would he lie about his name?

Chapter7

Wyatt

“Mom,I have to go. I’m late for class.” She always calls at the worst times. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, knowing my mother means well but also wishing she’d butt out just a little. Most parents aren’t intimately familiar with the process of getting signed to a professional sports team. Lucky me, both my mom and my stepdad coach professional sports teams.

I am lucky. I have amazing parents. I mutter this to myself as Mom keeps on offering pointers.

“You really should touch base with Brian. I can have Dad talk to him if you want. We’d love you to stay here in Pittsburgh. Imagine if you could play for your dad? Wouldn’t that be so fun?” My stepdad, Hawk Moyer, is the only real father I’ve ever known. He embodies that role so completely it’s hard for me to remember that I have a biological father…and I never use that word in reference to Nick.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Like I told you, Brian is talking to teams in Mexico. I’m really focused on finishing my degree right now, Mom. And I’m going to be late for the math class I should have taken four years ago.”

She hums. “Okay, honey. I just love you so much, and I’m so proud of you.” Her voice catches. “You’ve overcome so much.”

“I love you, too, Mom.” I see the last group of students walk into the classroom I’m supposed to join. The teacher, presumably, comes to the door to close it. “Gotta go, bye.”

I hang up on my mom and jog to the door just as it’s closing, and in my haste, I bump into the teacher’s desk, sending a pile of papers fluttering to the ground. I worry I hurt her or something because she stiffens and doesn’t move to pick anything up. I tug my hat lower on my head and crouch. I really wanted to get here early to remind the professor they’re not supposed to say my name during roll call.

For one thing, I hate when other students in class identify me as “that soccer player.” They don’t know anything about me except that I’m good at sports. I wish there were a way to just … be a professional athlete and not talk to fans. All the press conferences and fan fests just remind me of being in custody court. My parents are always talking to reporters. I should be used to the recognition, but it all makes my skin crawl.

I gather the last of the papers and look up to hand them to the professor. Except it’s not a professor. It’s Fern. From the other night.

Her eyes are wide, and she stands frozen in the middle of the classroom. I look around and see ALGEBRA 1 RECITATION written on the board … along with Fern’s name. Shit.

“Are you my professor?”

The question seems to snap her out of her shock, and she snatches the pile of papers from my hand. She strides over to her seat and clears her throat. I take this as my cue to pour myself into a desk. I was hoping to hide in the back, but she has all the chairs arranged in a circle so everyone can see everyone else. Great.

“I’m Fern and I’m the TA for this recitation,” she says in a thin voice so unlike her confident bartender voice or even the voice she used in my bedroom. I cannot let myself think about her in the bedroom, especially if she really is my teacher. I tug on my hat again. I need to face the fact that she is in charge of my grade for this course.

I fucked my professor.

Fern takes a deep breath and holds up a piece of paper. “I passed the syllabus around, so you should each take one of those and look it over. I know it’s weird that the semester started on a Thursday, and you’re having recitation before you even meet Dr. Yoon. They will lecture on Mondays and Wednesdays. And of course, we meet on Fridays.” She laughs a little nervously, and some of the other students join in, but most don’t, and Fern’s cheeks turn a little pink.

I’ve heard her make better jokes. “Anyway, today we’re just going to review the schedule, and if there’s time, I can preview the topics for next week’s lectures.”

She summarizes the syllabus, and students around me highlight the dates for the exams, which Fern will help administer but not be grading. “Oh, speaking of grades,” she pulls out a folder. “Recitation is one credit, and that’s entirely based on attendance. Everyone gets two absences, no questions asked, but after that …” She points to the syllabus, where I can see that there’s a basic rubric for how many points off we get for being late or absent. “So, I guess I should take roll.” Fern starts reading out names, and the students around me grunt or wave in response.

My heart starts racing. Students look around, eyeing each other up and looking for recognition as the names are read. It’s only a matter of minutes until they recognize me from billboards and last year’s college soccer video game. I need to head this shit off at the pass. I blurt, “I’m Wyatt. I’m here.”

---