Chapter 3: The Miracle Grade

JAXSON

Jaxson

The ice was sharp, bright, and loud. The scrape of twenty pairs of skates sounded like a chainsaw tearing through my skull.

I didn't care about the noise, though. I cared about the puck. Or rather, the two pucks that were currently gliding across the blue line.

I took a shot, aiming for the one on the left. The stick hit empty air. The real puck bounced off the boards, and the whistle blew.

I bit back a curse, my fists curling in frustration.

“Alright, wrap it up!” Coach Wallace barked from the bench. “Good hustle, boys. Hit the showers.”

In the locker room, the guys were already tossing around plans. “Yo, Rivers,” Tommy yelled, throwing a towel at me. “Alpha House is having a pre-playoff rager. Everyone’s going. You in?”

“Nah,” I said, not looking up as I unlaced my skates. My eyes were burning, a dull, pulsing ache throbbing right behind my forehead. “I’m good. Just tired.”

“Tired?” Caleb Sterling, my best friend, slipped onto the bench next to me, an easy smile in his face as he nudged me. “You’ve been sneaking off a lot lately after hours, man. Got a secret girl or something?”

I forced my mouth into a practiced, easy grin. “Yeah, Caleb. I’m madly in love with sleep. We’re eloping.”

Caleb laughed, clapping my back. “Alright, alright. Don't lose your edge, Captain.”

I hurried out before anyone else could question me.

My vision was swimming, the headlights in the parking lot stretching into long, dizzying ribbons of white and red.

At 8:10 PM, I walked back into the rink. Feya was there, but she didn't have her textbook open.

Instead, she had an array of orange and blue weighted practice pucks lined up on the equipment trunk, along with strips of neon tape.

“You are late again,” she said without looking up. “Ten minutes.”

“I was busy,” I muttered, dropping my bag.

“Right. Two days ago, you complained that the letters were moving, missed grabbing a pen. It seems you struggle visually.”

My stomach dropped into my shoes. “I don't have vision issues. I told you the lights were flickering,” I lied, my voice turning sharp and defensive. I couldn’t have vision issues. I was the Captain and Center of my team and I was needed.

Feya didn't blink or react, remaining calm in a way that was maddening.

“I am not a fool. If you do not pass this test, you are off the team, and Vanguard loses the championship; and I get expelled and my time is ruined. If I do not tutor you, I get expelled and my life is ruined. Don’t waste my time here.”

I stared at her. Her directness was like a bucket of ice water to the face. No one ever talked to me like that, except Arthur.

“Fine,” I rasped, suddenly tired again and sitting down. “What is this?”

“Since your brain struggles with flat data on white paper, we are going to use tactile spatial models,” she said, her tone switching into a strange, commanding confidence. “This blue puck represents mass. This orange puck represents acceleration.”

She went on explaining and for the first time all week, I seemed to actually completely understand what she was saying.

For the next forty minutes, the room was quiet except for our voices. It was the easiest lessson I’d had in months.

Immediately it was 9pm, she packed up and left and left me staring at the color tape, hope building in my chest.

The next three nights at eight, we met and tackled topics. It was hard, and my head still throbbed, but I was doing it. I was actually solving them.

The following Tuesday, the moment of truth arrived.

The Advanced Physics lecturer walked down the aisle, dropping midterm sheets onto desks with a succession of dull thuds.

When he reached my desk, he stopped. He slapped the paper face-down on my table. He didn't say a word, but he gave me a critical, intense, silent eye. The kind of look that usually meant 'pack your bags, Rivers.'

Then, he moved on.

My heart hammered against my ribs. “Oh, I’m so fucked. I know it.” I whispered to myself, unable to bring myself to look at my grade.

I waited till the bell rang and quickly left the lecture room, ignoring Caleb calling out my name for me to slow down.

I ducked into a secluded stairwell, the air smelling of concrete and old dust.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, squeezed my eyes shut for close to a minute, tapping a finger rhythmically on my thigh to let the double vision clear, and then finally, flipped the paper over.

A shocked, ragged breath left my lungs as my head reared back in disbelief.

There, stamped at the very top of the page in bright red ink, was a B-.