1+1=2

Everyone knows that.

Except it isn’t true. Time and time again I saw how two became one. Or maybe they became infinity? After all, a single point in the first dimension believes they are everything and nothing else exists. Edwin Abbott Abbott theorized that in his seminal mathematical romance and my favorite book of all times: Flatland. Why could no one else see it? The irrefutable truth?

As I walk on the linoleum flatland of Grandville High, the clicking of my pointed black heels is drowned out by the cacophonous sound of thousands of teens and their teachers. The rush of footsteps, the banging of metal lockers, the giggles of friends, the rustling of paper, the hum of conversations. As I pass by, I catch snippets.

“—party at Peter’s Saturday—”

“—APUSH is gonna be the death of me—”

“—and then we kissed—”

I bend down to pick up the non-existent pencil I dropped.

“Really?” the girl’s friend gasps. “How was it?”

“Well… he was amazing, but…” the first teen responds.

“What? Spill the deets girl! Was he a bad-kisser? I knew it!”

“No, nothing like that! I just felt a little self-conscious—after dinner—ya know?”

I smirk to myself, pulling out a small metal tin from my side bag. Then I straighten up and walk right up to the two girls moving away from me quickly.

“Excuse me, ladies,” I interject while resting my hand on the kisser’s shoulder. The two girls turn to me, obviously worried they might be in trouble for some reason. “I think you may have dropped this,” I smile as I hand the tiny box of mints to the pretty brunette.

“No, Teach— I didn’t—” she stutters with wide eyes.

“Good idea to carry them with you,” I interrupt with a smile. “You know, dig the well before you are thirsty.” Then, with a wink, I leave the baffled girls behind.

Sometimes I feel like a polyhedron living among polygons: able to see dimensions no one else can. While the ridged lines before them restrict their view, I float above, seeing inside those polygons moving on that flat plane. I see patterns in the turn of his head, the flip of her hair, the bite of their lip. I don’t even mean to eavesdrop on their romantic lives, I just… do.

A short, thin boy with thick square glasses peeks over his book nervously. Following his line of sight leads me to one of those popular kids with a letterman jacket. He has his arm slung around a prep, but his body is tilted away from her. His eyes are glazed in disinterest. His hand: unnaturally stiff on her shoulder, shifting from clenched to relaxed too frequently.

Huh. A beard. I wonder if she knows.

A peek into Ms. Perez’s Spanish class as I walk past reveals her grinning at her phone behind her desk. Lovesick for sure. Probably texting Billy again, but he’s not the type to take the initiative. How many times do I need to encourage her to just ask him out? I wonder how I can bring up the topic naturally the next time we talk…

“I already told you, Barrett, I’m not interested.”

I halt just before turning the corner into a hallway leading to the back staircases.

“Come on Sirena, you used to be fun,” a young male croons lazily.

Barrett… Sirena… Do I know those names? I don’t think I’ve ever had them in my class before.

“I’m still fun, thank you very much. I just don’t find getting high at school to be very fun,” the girl snaps.

Not a romantic rejection then. Just a refusal to smoke pot. Disappointing.

I step forward, intending to turn the corner and continue my walk to my classroom.

“You’re just trying to impress Ms. Goodie-Two-Shoes.”

I halt, curious again.

“And you wonder why I stopped spending time with you. Ever since you started hanging out with those guys you’ve turned into a total ass.”

“You think you’re better than me, but you’ll come crawling back when Isabella rejects you.”

“Let go, Barrett.”

My whole body tenses for a moment, then I rush forward.

Bright green eyes meet mine in surprise. A sandy blonde boy with a thin vine tattoo curling up his right neck steps back from an auburn haired girl when he sees me. She spins to face me, showing me her own lacy white tattoos and ice blue eyes, expanded wide. My mind eases slightly at seeing her unrestrained and unharmed.

“Miss Sirena,” I smile in what I hope is a disarming way. “How lovely to see you again this year. Did you have a nice summer?” I step slightly between her and the boy subtly trying to coax them apart.

“Uh, yeah, Teach. I did,” she responds with furrowed brows, understandably confused why a random teacher is pretending to know her.

“Good. Tell me about it on the way to class?” I motion towards the stairs and her confusion breaks into grateful relief.

“Ok,” she smiles shyly.

We leave plant boy at the foot of the stairwell without a second glance. Once we reach the second platform, Sirena speaks again.

“I guess you overheard us.”

“Difficult not to,” I concede.

“Well, thanks for… ya know.”

I nod once, straightening my back. “Of course, that’s what teachers are here for.”

“I thought your job was to, ya know, teach.”

I grin at the simplicity of her statement. Such a one dimensional way of viewing my work. My behavior at school may not fall under the district’s guidelines of teachers’ responsibilities, but I believe that is simply because the bureaucrats who wrote those policies are unable to see all the dimensions. Or rather, one dimension in particular: love.

“Educating young minds is secondary to ensuring the safety and happiness of my students. So tell me, has that boy—Barrett’s his name?—ever hurt you before?”

“Uh, no,” she lies. I can always tell when they lie to me.

I scowl, troubled by her response.

“I mean, we spar and stuff,” she hastens to clarify.

A hobby? Martial arts? This does little to ease my mind. I hate fighting.

“Well, if he ever bullies you again or pressures you to do something you don’t want to do, please let either me or one of the other teachers know. Even if you are not in my class, my door is always open. My name is Ms. Huang, by the way. I teach precalc in room 204.”