Color Theory

By Nia Hogan

When one hears the phrase: color theory, the color wheel might come to mind. Remove the word 'theory' and 'color' takes on a whole new meaning. Color Theory is a novel about changing your perspective on the people around you. Charletta Thompson-a self-proclaimed anxious introvert-gives a candid and witty account of her junior year in high school

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nia Hogan
• Release date: Dec 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735965710

Book preview

1

SWING

Mrs. Robinson’s out again. That makes seven days since school started. Only reason I know this is because I overheard Mr. Louis and Ms. King talking about it the last time she was out. You wouldn’t need to check her attendance records to know she hates her job, though.

Last time, one of the Deans had to cover our class, but today, we’ve got a sub. Her name is Ms. Henry. She doesn’t know Mrs. Robinson doesn’t let anyone touch the Expo markers on her desk. She already used the raspberry one to write her name in the empty ‘homework’ section on the whiteboard.

I missed her little introduction cuz I was late from trying to find a working water fountain that wasn’t bath water temperature with a chlorine aftertaste. Had I known Robinson was out, I would’ve just come straight here and asked for a pass to save myself the tardy.

I know when my mom finds out about this and the other two tardies I’ve gotten this quarter, I’ll be getting an hour-long lecture about why dehydration isn’t a good enough reason to be late to class.

The sub already took attendance and had to announce it to the whole class, as if I didn’t hear the bell while I was speed walking to get here. Robinson doesn’t write passes for anybody. If it’s a real emergency, you might as well just walk outta class. Kids do it all the time and she’ll just lock ’em out for the rest of the period.

Ms. Henry looks young. She must still be in college. That hair looks synthetic, but the bob is a good look on her. I love her nails! Coffin-shaped with a matte, powder blue polish. Each finger has a ring on it, except the wedding ring one. I hope when I get in my twenties, I’m not as desperate for people to know I’m single.

She’s wearing too much highlighter and her belt is so tight, it looks like it’s the only thing connecting her top to her bottom.

She finishes reading the instructions left on the board in Mrs. Robinson’s ugly chicken-scratch handwriting, lookin’ like Drake’s If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late, mixtape cover, with sharp lines in all caps. Page 37-39, all odd problems. Complete independently and show your work. Due at the end of class.

I take four pieces of paper outta my yellow math folder and put everything except for my book and a pencil in the wrack under my chair. Everybody is talking, ignoring the ‘independent’ part of the instructions.

As long as you keep your voices down, I don’t care if you talk. Ms. Henry says, as if they needed an invitation to.

They’ve already moved half the desks around from Mrs. Robinson’s perfectly rowed seating chart. I leave my desk right where it’s at. No reason to move it; I don’t have any friends in this class.

My best friends are Sasha and Tami. Sasha is the loud one—she says what’s on her mind. Tami’s the goofy one—she can make anybody laugh. And I’m the quiet one—I talk if I have something worth saying. We’ve been friends since the fourth grade.

According to a personality quiz I took once, I’m what they call an anxious introvert. It means I keep to myself and don’t go out of my way to vibe with people I don’t know. I just don’t like talking to people that much, but I can act like it if I have to. It also means I’m a little awkward and a little self-conscious.

I had Sasha and Tami take the quiz, too. Sasha was an extroverted sensor; she loves getting out, doing things, and talking about it. And Tami was an extroverted feeler. She gets people; that’s what makes her so funny.

It’s so loud in here, I don’t know how anybody can focus. I don’t have time to play with these people’s kids today. I’m tryna do dual-enrollment next year, so I have to stay focused.

Everyone’s messin’ around, laughing, actin’ like we don’t have a full-class period worth of work on the board that they know Mrs. Robinson will take for a grade. That’s not my business, though. Not my grade. I know I’m gonna get an A (or B) in this class, point, blank, period.

I’m getting pretty good at math. Robinson taught this lesson yesterday, so I think I know what I’m doin’. I’ve been going to after-school tutoring twice a week and we’ve been practicing upcoming standards so we’re not totally lost whenever we start a new unit in class.

It’s been really helpful with keeping up, seeing as Mrs. Robinson just bulldozes through her lessons, then casts us out into Number-land to figure out the rest by ourselves.

A few people are complaining to the sub that they’ve never learned this. She points to the part in the lesson plans Mrs. Robinson left that says she taught this lesson already.

They huff and stomp back to their desks, slamming their books down like this lady cares about their attitudes. Usually, I don’t mind helping people, but I know they’ll just sit next to me and copy my work.

I scribble Charletta Thompson onto the top right corner of my paper. It never fits on one line, so I have to stack it. I put the page numbers for the assignment at the top, in the center like Mrs. Robinson likes it and open up my book.

Jasmin Elroy is sitting in the middle of the room. Normally, her seat is in the very back row. She’s tall and wide, so seeing above and beyond her isn’t easy for someone of regular proportions. I watch her lean forward in her seat, whispering to her homegirls, Darian and Little. Little’s first name is also Jasmin, but they call her Little cuz she looks like Jasmin Elroy ate half of her.

Jasmin’s holding a straw from the lunchroom. They give them out at breakfast with those nasty little juice packs. She picks a tiny piece of chewed up paper off of her tongue and sticks it to the front of the straw. Darian and Little watch like a UFC Fight is about to start. Jasmin puts the straw up to her thick, crusty lips and uses it like a blowgun.

The spitball hits Cora on the back of her white t-shirt. She doesn’t even notice. Cora’s quiet—quieter than me. She minds her business and she doesn't mess with nobody. I bet if she took that quiz, she’d be a restrained introvert. She only talks in class if a teacher calls on her, or if she’s working with a partner. She’s really smart and she’s one of the youngest people in our class.

I got paired up with her in Chemistry a few times and the girl knows her stuff. She’s sweet, so I don't know why Jasmin is always bothering her. Cora is sitting in the middle seat in the now non-existent first row, still working.

Cora, I call her twice.

The second time, she turns around and looks back. She pushes her cherry-colored glasses up on her face. She glances at Jasmin and I as she attempts to figure out who called her name.

You wanna come work with me? I ask, hoping she’ll say yes, so I can get her out of the line of Jasmin’s spitfire.

No, thanks. She lets me down easy with a smile and goes right back to work.

Scary ass, Jasmin says under her breath and bucks at me from her seat. I don’t know what kind of extrovert Jasmin would be, but she’s definitely one of them.

"Oh, please girl. It is not that serious." I roll my eyes and get back to work.

Jasmin might be bigger than me, but I’m not scared of her. We’ve been going to school together since elementary. I remember when she fell down the steps and peed on herself in fifth grade. I couldn’t take her seriously after that. She’s the type of person that will talk, talk, talk and somehow talk her way out of a fight.

I watch her load another spitball. Before I can even warn Cora this time, it lands on the back of her puff. It holds on for a minute, then rolls down her neck and disappears in the back of her shirt. Jasmin and the Twits just laugh. I roll my eyes. We’re sixteen and seventeen-years-old and they’re over there actin’ like they’re twelve.

I get up from my seat and walk over to Cora, who’s now trying to fish the wet paper out from the back of her t-shirt. I walk up to her desk and face the front of the room, pretending to read the board.

Just shake it out. It’s a spitball, I tell her quietly.

She stands and fans the back of her shirt. The little paper ball drops out from the bottom, onto her seat and she uses her paper to scoop it onto the floor.

Thanks, she says. I can tell she’s embarrassed.

No, problem. Come, sit with me. We don’t have to work together.

Cora gets all her stuff and I stand there to protect her from any other flying objects. She moves to an empty desk that’s near me.

"Why you always tryna be somebody’s mama?" Jasmin asks, exchanging the wet paper in her mouth for a green piece of gum.

"Why are you always bothering people for no reason?" I ask, returning the same hostile energy she’s servin’ across the room.

She snacks her teeth. "You mad annoyin’."

So? Ole, ugly self.

The whole class is watching now. Eyes go back and forth between us, but nobody says anything, not even the sub. Isn’t she supposed to be in charge?

"You wish you looked this good."

I can’t help but laugh out loud. A few people laugh with me. That triggers her.

"Jealous. Jealous, she repeats, flipping her badly blended sew-in at us. You especially."

"Jasmin, stop talking to me."

"Jasmin, stop talking to me," she mocks and of course, Darian and Little think that’s hilarious.

Alright, cut it out, Ms. Henry says, waving her hand at us.

My ears are getting hot at the top. I rub them, one at a time to stop the tingling. I look back down at my work. I need to get focused. I’ve only done four problems and I’m not gonna finish if I keep worrying about what Jasmin and her minions are up to.

I scratch the next question onto my paper. Mrs. Robinson takes points off if you don’t copy the problem. I see something flying in my direction, but I can’t react fast enough.

It hits the side of my face, right next to my eye. A freshly sharpened pencil falls in my lap, then rolls onto the floor. The spot it hits starts to sting. I press my finger on it; it’s bleeding a little.

Yooo! What the—! I stop myself, You almost hit me in my eye!

I said, cut it out! The sub yells out from behind her desk.

Oh, now she wants to do something?

Miss! Did you not just see her throw a pencil at my eye?

Who? Ms. Henry questions.

She sounds like she doesn’t believe me. You would think I’m inconveniencing her from the look on her face.

The entire class is watching; waiting to see what happens next.

I point. Her!

Get out, the sub says to Jasmin. She motions to the door like that’s enough.

I’m not goin’ nowhere. She leans back in her chair.

I stand up.

Jeremy Tiller creeps in between us and peels back his hood. I got it, Miss, Jeremy pauses,Jasmin, just go.

Jeremy would be a cross between a thinking introvert and an extroverted feeler. He’s a natural mediator. He’s cute too, even with all those deep craters on his face from acne.

Jeremy is in almost all of my classes, so he knows I’ve got a short fuse. I don’t fight, but I definitely don’t let nobody try me. He blocks Jasmin from my line of sight.

Just chill, he whispers to me.

"I’m not goin’ anywhere," Jasmin tells Jeremy.

Both of you, get out! Ms. Henry yells, now leaning over the desk.

Make me, Jasmin challenges her.

Ms. Henry looks at her like she got the right one today and comes out from around the desk.

I don’t know whatchu comin’ around that desk for. You ain’t gon do nothin’.

Get. Out.

Jeremy tries to get Jasmin up. But before he can, I snatch my textbook off the desk, storm over to her and swing.

2

THE OFFICE

Everything in Dean Hill’s office, from the walls to the rugs, are a different shade of brown. There’s a stained wood wall hanger with the quote: Don’t sit down and wait for opportunities to come. Get up and make them hanging above her desk. My sandals sink into the caramel overtone carpet, as I wait for my sentencing.

A dusty Brown Sugar & Chestnut candle collects dust on top of her desk next to a brown cocker spaniel bobblehead figurine that’s judging me with its eyes. I reach for a mint from the cinnamon-colored glass jar. I’d take a handful, but I feel like that dog is actually a camera.

Dean Hill opens the door to her office and clears her throat. She lowers the volume on her walkie talkie and puts her lipstick-stained mug down on a brown mosaic coaster. She sits down in her squeaky chair and just looks at me.

Dean Hill is an older black lady. She always wears these short curly wigs, trying to hide her melting hairline. She always wears the same dark brown lipstick. It makes her look like a smoker, but who am I to tell her that. If her husband loved her, he’d be the one to say it.

The moles on her face that cover her cheeks and nose distract from the deep scar on her chin that she tries to fill in with liquid foundation. Don’t get me started on her fifty shades of brown wardrobe either. The woman needs a makeover.

Ms. Thompson, you know we have a zero-tolerance policy for fighting here, correct? she asks in her syrupy-sweet voice.

Yes, ma’am.

I sit up straight, trying to look the part of the innocent. After all, I didn’t act, I reacted. It was self-defense.

And as much as it pains me to send you home early today, it’s what I have to do.

What? Why?

This was the last thing I was expecting to come out of her mouth. Lunch detention? Maybe. Sending me home early? Not good.

Did you, or did you not, hit someone in the side of the head with a book?

Yeah, but I had a good reason.

Dean Hill cocks her head to the side. I could suspend you for ten days.

Please, Dean Hill. Can I explain what happened?

She grabs a pen off her desk and plays with the cap. Go ahead, Ms. Thompson.

The sigh that comes with it tells me she already doesn’t believe me. I can’t get sent home early. I can’t.

"Jasmin was shooting spitballs at this girl named Cora. Every day she bothers this girl, for no reason. I was trying to stop her. She got mad at me, then she almost hit me in the eye with a pencil, I emphasize with my fingers how close it was from taking my eye out. I was bleeding! Then, she wouldn’t leave me alone."

And at no point did you think to tell the sub? She could have deescalated the situation.

Here we go, blaming the victim. "She tried to kick us both outta class before I even hit Jasmin." I hold my hands out in front of me as if to say, what other choice did I have? I was defending myself.

¸She just stares at me, unbothered. "I hear you, Ms. Thompson, which is why I’m not making you serve detention or suspending you. I think sending you home for the afternoon is more than fair."

I try to keep it together. I hate crying in front of people.

"Dean Hill, please. I’ll serve as many detentions that equal being sent home today."

If I send either of you back to class, then other students are going to think it’s acceptable to fight in my school.

"Pleaseeee, Dean Hill. I am begging you. I cannot get sent home."

I still have to call home even if I give you the detention. Let’s just get this over with and you come back tomorrow with a clean slate.

I slump down in the seat and cover my eyes with my hands. I can’t stop the tears so the least I can do is sop ’em up. My heart is punching my chest like