Mark received his freshman yearbook and promptly stuffed it into his backpack.
He flipped through it when he got home, but left in on his bedroom floor the next day.
"Are you gonna take it to school?" I asked. "So your friends can sign it?"
"Nah," he said, dismissively. "It's too heavy."
He didn't bring it the next day, or the next day after that.
"I'll bring it on the last day, when we're done with finals," he told me. "All we do on the last day of school is walk around and sign our books."
I noticed the year book a couple days later, and flipped through it myself. Only four people had written messages, including this one:
I cracked up when I read that. Only Mark!
The other three messages told Mark that he was annoying, and really funny. I stopped laughing then, and wanted to smack those kids. I realized why Mark probably didn't bring his yearbook for people to sign after that.
"Did you sign your own yearbook?" I asked him that evening.
He laughed and said he did.
Then he said, "Apparently, I'm annoying," referring to the other messages.
"And really funny," I reminded him.
"Whatever," he said.
"Did you leave your book at home because of those messages?" I asked. I was worried his feelings were hurt, and maybe he didn't want pages of people telling him he's annoying.
"No," he answered, shrugging. "I really just forgot it. And I was just goofing around when I signed it myself."
"And that's why you're really funny!" I said.
Because honestly, he is. Even if he is a little annoying (aren't we all, in our own ways?), he makes me laugh every day, just by being his goofy, silly self.
And I didn't need a yearbook to tell me that.
Before school ended, I attended Mark's open house. This confused me for a number of reasons, including:
* It was the first I'd heard about it.
* I wasn't sure what to expect from a high school open house.
Usually the schools floods me with reminders for every event, but they were completely silent on this one. I figured it out when Mark gleefully told me he had two minimum days that week.
"For what?" I asked, but he just shrugged and mumbled "I dunno."
Then I remembered. "For open house?" I asked, and he immediately answered, "No."
I asked him again later, and he grudgingly admitted that yes, it was for open house.
"But the teachers said they won't talk about grades or behavior at all," he quickly added.
I sighed. I was totally happy to blow off open house, but here was strike two in Suspicious Mark behavior. Obviously, he was trying to hide something at school.
And so we went. We went to his Spanish class first, because he really likes his teacher and talks about her a lot. He said she totally gets his sense of humor.
I was expecting the teacher to like Mark. What I wasn't expecting was that the teacher LOVES Mark!
"Ay!" she cried when she saw him, and flew into a million words a minute--in Spanish. Which I don't speak. I caught a few words here and there (He's so funny! He's so nice! He's ALWAYS talking!). She said a lot I didn't know, like "payasito," which she repeated again and again, playfully shaking her finger at him.
"He's a little clown!" she translated. "He makes everyone laugh! Sometimes, I have to look away so I don't laugh in class."
I smiled.
"I can totally relate to that!" I said. Mark has derailed plenty of scoldings simply by making me laugh in the middle of them.
"He has a fan club," she confided. "The other kids in the class, even the juniors and seniors. My teacher's assistant loves him!"
I looked at Mark, who just smiled slyly.
It wasn't until later, after we'd left the room, that I realized the teacher hadn't told me anything about Mark's academic performance, only how social he was. I certainly didn't learn anything new there!
Next up was English. Mark's teacher was so chill, he made me sleepy. His room was filled with artwork of great literature, and there was a giant plant traversing the entire ceiling. He invited me to look over a folder with Mark's work.
English is a painful subject for us both. It's my favorite class, and Mark's least favorite. I'm a professional writer, and Mark misspells his own name sometimes (true story--he honestly can't spell his middle name!) I beg him to let me help with his essays but he physically runs away from me instead.
I read over his assignments.
"The teacher is right," I said, pointing to the written comments on his papers.
"That's not the teacher, it's a peer review," Mark said. "The girl next to me marks it up. Man, she writes TOOOOOO much every time!"
"Well, she's right," I said. "You're lucky you sit next to a smart girl. You should listen to her."
But Mark was not listening to anyone about English, most of all me.
Next up was science class. The teacher was thrilled to see us, and another set of parents, and excitedly handed us a paper with a science experiment to perform.
"We already did this in class today," Mark groaned, pointing at two cups of water and food coloring in them. "The ice in the fresh water melts faster."
"One cup is fresh water, and one cup is salt water," the teacher told us, plopping ice cubes into both. "Hypothesize which cube will melt faster, and why."
"I think the fresh water cube will melt faster!" I said, loudly. Mark rolled his eyes at me and groaned again. He clearly did not appreciate my intellect or deduction skills.
"Why does it melt faster in the fresh water, Mom?" the little stinker asked me, equally loud. "What is your hypothesis?"
The man behind us worded it in a far more eloquent manner, remarking on the salt density being higher, and insulating the water molecules, acting like a conductor, blah blah blah. I couldn't see him, so he might have read all the big words straight out of the science book, but I doubt it. He seemed reasonably sure of his logic, so I waited until he finished talking, then whispered to Mark, "Yeah, what he said." Out loud, I said, "He is correct, I concur with his opinion."
Mark rolled his eyes again. "Can we go???" he whined.
Then, suddenly, he noticed a teenage girl on the other side of the room with her parents. He called out hi and waved to her, then took over our project. He swirled the cups and took the paper out of my hands, writing a bunch of gibberish, speaking loudly and continually trying to catch her eye.
"Seriously?" I asked. "A girl walks into the room, and now you care about the assignment? Suddenly you have to show off for her?"
"Um, yeah," he answered, rolling his eyes again. "That's how high school works!"
And so it did. He'd broken the ice, both with the girl and with our experiment. We both lost interest in the assignment, and skipped out of class early.
I stopped to say hello to a mom I knew, and watched Mark walk on toward a group of friends.
"How's Mark doing in high school?" my friend asked.
I opened my mouth to say I wasn't sure, because none of the teachers talked about his academic progress. But then I looked over at Mark. I watched my kid high-five his basketball teammates, and nod hello to a group of girls. I watched him yell, "Call me!" to two different kids, and nod ever so slightly at another girl, hoping I didn't notice.
And I realized that I didn't need the teachers to tell me how Mark was doing--Mark was telling me himself. Maybe he wasn't the most focused student around, but I saw something much more important--I saw Mark. I saw that he fit in socially, that he was a happy kid, that he enjoyed his classes well enough (and really well when the girls showed up!). I saw that he was outgoing, well-adjusted, and got along great with his teachers and his peers.
"He's doing great," I told my friend, and I smiled, a big wide smile, because honestly, he was.
And because I hadn't expected anything at all from open house, but turns out, I'd learned quite a lot.
