I’m a regular kid. I like school, I have friends, but my main problem in life is my algebra teacher. I was doing proofs until midnight yesterday, and I’m feeling the lack of sleep now. It’s cozy and warm here in the back row, and my sweatshirt is a nice pillow. But I can’t fall asleep, can’t fall asleep because Mrs. Witch will get me in trouble. She’s a scary woman that has jet black hair, four inch heels, and a face that is all sharp angles. Yeah, her actual name is

Mrs. Witch. Ironic, right?

“Darren. DARREN.”

“Muph. Huh? What?”

“Darren, for the third time please go up to the board and find the missing angle of this right triangle using trigonometric ratios.”
I walk up to the board. It’s like I’ve got gum on the bottom of my shoes. I can feel the sweat running down my back; why are my eyes darting everywhere? I can’t think, I have no idea what the trig ratios are, and I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of the entire class.

I try to think, honestly, I do try. I think back on proofs, theorems, substitution, even the distance formula. But my mind is blank, and I just stand there clutching the marker. My palms are so sweaty. Mrs. Witch glares at me, and that breaks my focus even more.

“See me after class,” she says in her raspy voice. My head gives a blunt nod. I’ve been dreading those four words.

The third period bell rings faster than I ever expected. Gathering up my books and basketball, I head over to the witch’s lair. It’s not as bad as I expected, just a whole lot of family photos and books. The overpowering smell of roses and cinnamon attacks my nose. Why do women spray perfume over everything?

Mrs. Witch looks over from erasing the whiteboard and gestures for me to pull out a chair. Oh joy. What a great conversation this will be.

“So, Darren, I see that you’re not paying attention in class. What do you think I should do?”

I haven’t been expecting that. I was expecting a long lecture on listening attentively, remedial classes, detention, and the principal’s office. Brent says Mrs. Witch gave him detention just for snapping his lead in the middle of a test.

“Well, uh, you could let me do some extra credit,” I mumble under my breath.

Mrs. Witch looks at me beneath her glasses, and for the first time I see a little sympathy in her eyes. “I’ll make a deal with you. You sit in the front row, you keep your eyes open, and you try your best. In the meantime, I won’t give you detention or call home. Deal? ”

I can’t believe I got off this easy. But I also know I can’t let this happen again, because the look in the witch’s eyes means business. “Deal,” I say, shouldering my backpack and preparing to walk out. Mrs. Witch gives me something that looks like a cross between a smile and a frown. I’ve never been more relieved to get out of a classroom.

Once I get home, Mom is setting out the gold plates and silverware, the kind we only use when company comes. The good smells of cloves and apples waft out of the kitchen, tickling my nose. Grabbing some food, I run upstairs to shower and change into nicer clothes.

Brent, my bro, is in his room, blasting Eminem from the radio as usual.

“Hey,” I say, leaning against his doorframe.

“Witch gave you a hard time, didn’t she? Dude, it’s only the third week. She’ll lighten up. ” He doesn’t even look up from his computer.

“Naw, it’s not that. I fell asleep in class. She let me off easy. No detention, nothing.”

Brent finally turns around to face me. “Lucky. Maybe she just likes you or something. Maybe she thinks we’re not related.”

“DARREN. BRENT. HURRY UP; THE GUESTS ARE COMING IN TWO MINUTES!” Mom’s shout echoes throughout the house.

I grab my pants and collared shirt, changing as fast as I can. Brent does the same, and we run downstairs just as the doorbell rings. Dad opens the door, lo and behold; it’s my algebra teacher and her husband.

Mrs. Witch smiles at my parents, gives a nod to Brent and me. I start shaking inside. My parents can’t find out that I’ve been napping in algebra; I’d be grounded for life. I start sweating again. Dang, why do I always start sweating when something goes wrong?

Three minutes later, we are all settled around the table and Mom starts piling the food on our plates. Apparently, Mrs. Witch’s husband is a big realtor and Dad wants to buy some property. Mom chats with the witch while Brent and I stare at our plates and try to eat.

Halfway through dessert, the question comes.

“So I understand that Darren is in your algebra class? How is he doing?”

My heart starts pounding so loud I swear my grandma in Virginia can hear it.
Mrs. Witch has this half-smile on her face, and she glances at me before saying, “Darren, he’s, he is a good student. With some more concentration he’ll do fine.”

My leg stops doing its jittery dance under the table. I don’t know, but I think that
Mrs. Witch just let me off the hook. Thanks, I mouth. She winks at me. Huh. Mrs. Witch may not be such a witch after all.