“Does anyone else have an opposing viewpoint? You don’t have to give it to me in terms of a math problem,” Mrs. Sinclair asked the class.
One of the boys on the swim team answered.
“David’s a star player on the football team. Everyone knows that jocks get better treatment than everyone else. That being the case, his quiz will be much easier than the one you made for the class.”
It seemed like a large percentage of the class agreed with that statement. Mrs. Sinclair had a smug smile as she turned to me.
“Mr. Dawson, do you think the class has been given a fair choice?”
I was tempted to say no, but she told them I thought I was a math whiz and gave me a chance to point out the folly of going all or nothing, and then let some idiot make a wild assumption.
“Yes, ma’am, I do. Everyone gets to make his or her own choice. I actually think you’re providing everyone with an excellent lesson: choices have consequences.”
Mrs. Sinclair wasn’t done with her fun and games.
“Each of you will declare which quiz you’re going to take. We’ll start with Mr. Dawson.”
“Since I like a challenge, and you took the time to make me a special quiz, I’ll take that one.”
I cringed each time someone said they’d take my quiz. She gave us this question.
My grandson is as many days as my son is in weeks, and my grandson is as many months as I am in years. My grandson, my son and I together are 120 years. Can you tell me my age in years?
I hate story problems. I did as Suzanne taught me and converted it into a math problem. Ten minutes later I was done. I was the first one, and I took my quiz up to Mrs. Sinclair’s desk so she could look at it.
“I’d like you to explain how you came up with the answer.”
I nodded and sat down to wait. Mrs. Sinclair interrupted the quiz-takers.
“If anyone would like to trade in Mr. Dawson’s quiz for one that was prepared for the class, please come forward.”
There was a rush to the front of the room to make the trade. There was one girl that I didn’t know who kept my quiz and worked on it diligently.
Twenty minutes passed.
“Pencils down and hand in your quizzes,” Mrs. Sinclair announced.
“Okay, I’m going to hand out Mr. Dawson’s quiz,” she said after all the quizzes had been handed in.
“Please note that not only does he consider himself a math whiz, I also think he’s pretty good. If you noticed, this problem took him ten minutes to complete. I’m going to let him explain the answer to you.”
“The grandmother is 72.”
The girl that kept the quiz smiled when she heard the answer. I was glad to see she got it right. I wrote on the board as I talked.
“Let ‘m’ be the grandmother’s age in years. If ‘s’ is her son’s age in years, then her son is 52s weeks old. If ‘g’ is her grandson’s age in years, then her grandson is 365g days old.
“365g = 52s. The grandson’s age in days equals the son’s age in weeks.
“Since the grandson is 12g months old, 12g = m.
“The grandson, son and grandmother together are 120 years, g + s + m = 120.
“We have three equations and three unknowns—g, s and m. They can be solved as follows:
m / 12 + 365 m / (52 x 12) + m = 120 or
52 m + 365 m + 624 m = 624 x 120 or
m = 624 x 120 / 1041 = 72.”
I turned around to the class and pointed to my answer.
“So, grandma is 72 years old.”
“I got most of it, but where did you get 1041?” asked the guy who called me a ‘dumb jock.’
“52 + 365 + 624 = 1041”
Mrs. Sinclair came back in front of the class.
“Thank you, David. For extra credit, I’d like you to solve the problem for both the son and father’s age. You have until Monday. Does everyone have the equation written down? Okay, open your books to page 112.”
I wrote a quick note.
12g = m and m = 72. g = 6
6 + s + 72 = 120, or 78–120 = s, or 42
At the end of class, I handed in my extra credit to Mrs. Sinclair.
“Smartass,” she chuckled, so only I could hear. Then to the class, “I have an additional rule about the extra credit: no one can ask Mr. Dawson for help. Now get out of here and go win a football game or do something productive, like getting a life.”
The class chuckled. It looked like Mrs. Sinclair and I would survive the semester.
BY LUNCHTIME, THE TEACHERS decided we weren’t going to learn anything new that day so we did fun activities. Chemistry class made peanut brittle as a science project. Art class made signs for the caravan that would be leaving at 4:00. PE was a giant dodgeball game where the boys had to throw opposite-handed. Everyone had a great afternoon.
A little before 4:00 p.m., two buses pulled up. One was a fancy travel-coach bus. The other was your typical school bus. A couple of the junior benchwarmers were harassing Wolf and Ed. Apparently the juniors thought it was okay to haze them.
“Freshmen have to ride on the school bus,” Coach Engels said.
Ed was going to say something because he saw me load my new luggage on the nice bus. I gave him a signal not to push it. He and Wolf looked dejected as they climbed onto the school bus with their bags. The asshole juniors laughed it up. I chuckled because I knew that the cheerleaders would ride the school bus. I grabbed my football bags and walked to the school bus.
“Where are you going?” Luke asked.
“Freshmen have to ride the school bus. The nice bus is for upperclassmen.”
He looked confused but didn’t say anything. When I got on the bus, Wolf and Ed had big grins.
“Okay guys, I’ll let you in on a little secret. At lunch, the head cheerleader told me that this bus would have the trainers, equipment managers and the cheerleaders. Would you rather spend several hours with those nitwits or with the best-looking women in school?”
After almost everyone was on the buses, the cheerleaders came out as a group. Ed, Wolf, and I helped get their bags and escorted them to their seats. As we were loading the cheerleaders, Luke bounded out of the nice bus.
“Dawson, you suck!”
“Luke, sorry man, freshmen only on this bus. Talk to the junior buttheads who decided to haze Ed and Wolf. Otherwise, you probably could have joined us.”
He got on the nice bus, and I could hear him yell at everyone. A few minutes later, Coach Lambert got off the other bus and stuck his head in ours. He saw us surrounded by a bevy of beauties, shook his head, and headed back. I think if he had the choice, he would have joined us. The equipment managers saw all the hot girls and sat by the bus driver. The last to get on the bus were the trainers, Jill and Becky, and the cheerleading coach, Pam Lowden.
We were having a good time until about thirty minutes into the trip. Then it became ‘tell stories about David’ time. The trainers took full advantage.
“He’s such a little baby, but good lord he has a silver tongue. He went to the hospital because of a little twinge. The doctor bought his story and gave him some muscle relaxants. They had the side effect of giving him motormouth,” Jill said.
“The boy can charm you. I’m looking at this fifteen-year-old hunk thinking if he were three years older, I’d be all over him. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s statutory rape and I would lose my license. His detailed description of how he was going to go down on me had me on edge for weeks,” Becky added.
Wolf piled on.
“He has no shame. I went to therapy Saturday and in strolls David. The next thing I know he strips buck-naked, and these two act like he does it all the time.”
“He does. And I swear we never asked him to; but technically, we never told him not to, either.”