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Leif sits alone in the back of Mr. Houston’s woodworking classroom. He has a football practice to run, but they have permission to be in the room alone, so long as they don’t turn on any of the machines. Today, that’s just fine. They don’t need the drill press for this.
Tears run down Leif’s face as they sob openly, the sound echoing slightly off the shitty school ceiling. It won’t carry outside this room, though – the shop is soundproofed so it won’t disturb other classes nearby. This is the best place for Leif to come on days like this, when shame and disappointment fills them to the brim and they don’t want to carry it home.
Their report card remains clutched between their hands even as they cry.
There is only one quarter of the school year left before graduation. Leif has to graduate. They can’t afford to stay in high school any longer, it’s killing them. Art classes are the only thing saving them at all. They have ceramics with Ms. Lori, wood shop with Mr. Houston, advanced drawing, and advanced photography. But they also have chemistry, physics, and language and composition. The art classes sit steady with Bs, which feels like a miracle next to the D and Fs in the language class and sciences.
If they can’t get those grades up, they won’t be allowed to graduate. They’ll have to stay in school another semester, if not another year, and that means more time without a full-time job, not helping Mama with the bills or the trailer or anything; more time stuck in this hellish building while their friends in their grade move on, and they become the weirdo super-senior who’s only good for what they can bring to a party no one wants them to stay at.
With another sob and an uncontrollable shudder, the report card crumples in Leif’s hands.
The classroom door opens, and Leif chokes on a gasp when they look up and see Mr. Houston in the doorway, looking surprised, and quickly concerned.
“Leif? You’re still here, kiddo?”
Oh, God, they can’t do this right now. Leif sniffles and scrubs their face with the sleeve of their jacket, stuffing their wrinkled report card into their messenger bag and stumbling up onto their feet.
“S-Sorry, Mr. Houston, lo-lost track of time… Won’t happen ag-gain!”
They try to hurry past him, so they can at least get outside where they can find somewhere else to hunker down for a bit. But a big hand stops them, carefully settling on their shoulder. Leif shudders, a choked whimper eking through their clenched teeth. Mr. Houston squeezes gently.
“Hey. I’m not upset. Okay?” He doesn’t grab them with his other hand, or try to make them meet his gaze. Leif doesn’t think they could do eye contact right now. “You know you can come in here whenever. I trust you. I’m just worried. Don’t usually see you broken up like this.”
Mr. Houston doesn’t ask directly, but Leif hears the question anyway. They take a shuddering breath and wipe at their eyes again.
“My grades aren’t… good. I… They’ve never been… I’m not honor roll, or anythin’.” Their lip wobbles, and another squeeze from Mr. Houston reminds them to breathe. “I’m failing my core classes. An’ I’m not gonna graduate if I can’t get ‘em up to at least all high Ds. I’m so fucked .” They look up, eyes tearful, still not quite able to meet Mr. Houston’s gaze. “I know ‘s not th’ end’a th’ world… But I… I can’t take another semester here, I can’t…”
Mr. Houston guides them over to one of the desks at the front of the room, where they can sit and lay their head on their arms as they dissolve back into tears. His hand remains on their shoulder, warm and steady, a reminder that they’re not alone. He doesn’t say anything, but that doesn’t surprise Leif at all. Mr. Houston’s not a chatty guy. The fact that he hasn’t told them off or outright judged them is enough to know he actually is worried.
When Leif’s tears finally lull, Mr. Houston grabs them a box of tissues from his desk.
“Here… Tomorrow, during homeroom, come see me, okay? I don’t have a class for that, I’m usually getting the gym cleaned up after weights with the team. But I’ll be here, instead, tomorrow, and we can go talk to one’a the counselors about makin’ a plan for ya.” He hesitates. “That… sound okay?”
It’s a real teacher answer, but Leif can’t help the gratefulness that fills their chest. Someone cares enough to make some extra effort for them, and that’s such a relief they can hardly breathe for a moment.
“Yeah,” Leif croaks. “Yeah, I can do that.” They sniffle and blow their nose, standing to throw the tissue away. They feel more steady on their feet now, and can breathe easier. “Thank you, Mr. Houston.”
He offers a small smile and a nod. “Don’t mention it, kiddo. We’ll get you outta here, no problem.”
Leif manages a weak smile and nods back, shuffling out into the hall. They don’t need to hide in the woods before they make it home.