The Size of Your Dreams by - (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📖

“What is my goal in taking this class?” Jarod Miller stared at the sheet in his hands, eyebrows shooting up. “What kind of math test is this?”

“I never called it a math test,” Mr. Griffin said.

Trigonometry had been a disaster ever since Mr. Higgs suffered a stroke in late September. They’d transferred as many students as possible into Mrs. Northrup’s class but had to stop when they hit the 30 student limit. During the weeks since, the school shuffled in a stream of substitutes, and most of the remaining students dropped out, leaving just four of us, all seniors. None of us knew where they dug up Mr. Griffin.

Despite there only being four of us left, Jarod moved right past me to the back of the room, because Jarod always sat in the back. His hair still had that just-got-out-of-bed rustle, though it was already fifth period. Stout and muscular, ahe could have been an athlete but gave up sports years ago when he gave up everything else school related. His main workouts now came behind a lawnmower or snow blower.

“Oh no!” Christy Mendez walked in and took a paper. “You’re handing out a test? That’s so unfair.”

“Is there a problem, Christy?”

“You know my name?”

“Yes, I know all of your names.” Mr. Griffin’s piercing blue eyes caught each of ours. I couldn’t help but look away. “Now the problem?”

“You haven’t taught us anything yet.”

“Agreed. This is to make sure we change that.”

Christy mouthed to Jarod, “you’ve got to be kidding me” and eased into the seat next to his. She eyed Mr. Griffin as she pulled her coffee-colored hair into a ponytail. Besides being captain of the girls’ swim team, Christy studied harder than almost anyone. She was sizing up this new guy—she needed trig to get into college.

Darnell Jones lugged himself in, sweaty and winded, just as the bell rang. Jarod liked to joke that Darnell and Billy Jenks were playing a chess match to see who would graduate the fattest, with Billy playing the white pieces, and Darnell, one of only a handful of African Americans in school, playing the black. Darnell squeezed his oversized frame into the desk next to mine and tipped a quick nod in my direction.

“Whatever you call this paper, isn’t the answer obvious?” Jarod asked.

“Is it, Jarod? Perhaps I’ve underestimated you. Today is, after all, my first day teaching. How about you go ahead and fill it out, and we’ll see how obvious it is. Fifteen minutes should be enough.”

Mr. Griffin sat atop one of the student desks, reading off some note cards and mumbling to himself. He was a surprisingly tall figure. Trimly cropped black hair topped his lean face. He wore a raven-black dress shirt and khakis that fell smoothly over his loafers. His legs pumped back and forth, showing off purple polka-dotted socks.

“Not looking good,” Jarod whispered to Christy. “Even I can read without moving my lips.”

It only took me a few seconds to answer the question. When I finished, everyone except Darnell had stopped writing. A moment later, his pencil hit the table as well.

Mr. Griffin was so immersed in his notecards, he didn’t even notice we were all done. “Uh, Mr. Griffin?” I said.

He looked up from his cards. “Yes, Kelvin? Do you need me to clarify the assignment?”

“No. It’s just…. We’re all done.”

“All of you?” He scanned the room. “Already?”

“Well, yeah,” Darnell said. “The question was kind of easy.”

“Was it? Personally, I consider it to be quite difficult. But pass back your papers. Let’s see how you’ve all done.”

Jarod grabbed Christy’s and stretched forward to pass theirs up to me. With three rows of empty chairs between us, I still had to get up to take them. I grabbed Darnell’s on my way back and handed all four to Mr. Griffin.

“Darnell,” Mr. Griffin said, “you wrote that your goal this year is to learn trigonometry. Why is that important to you?

Darnell shrugged. “It’s important stuff to know.”

“Is it? Can you give me one example of how you anticipate using trigonometry later in your life?”

Darnell wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Uh…”

“Your homework, Darnell, will be to ask your parents what math skills they still use and try to ascertain in what grade they learned them. The answer might surprise you.”

Mr. Griffin turned to my test. “Kelvin, your goal is to learn how to think better. Are you saying that trigonometry is like a game to test your mind?”

“Yeah, sort of,” I said. “It helps you think analytically.”

“And do you believe trigonometry is the most effective tool available for teaching analytical thinking? Do you find that math pushes you to your intellectual limits, Kelvin?”

“Not really. I usually get A’s without trying too hard.”

Jarod scoffed behind me.

“Oh leave him alone, Jarod,” Christy said. “It may not come as easy for me as for Kelvin, but I’m also here to get an A.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Griffin said, “getting an A was what you listed as your goal. Why is that important to you?”

“I need to get a scholarship for college.”

“Come on, Christy,” Jarod said, “if you get a scholarship it’s going to be for your swimming. You’re better off working on your breaststroke.”

“Grades can play a role too, especially at the better schools. Besides, now that coach is gone, I doubt my times will improve any.”

“And you, Jarod?” Mr. Griffin said. “Care to share with the class what you wrote?”

“I’m here for one reason and one reason only. To graduate. I need one more math credit before they’ll let me out of this place.”

“So your goal in this class is just to get through it?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, it’s nice to know that each of you has such low expectations,” Mr. Griffin said. “That certainly takes pressure off me. I expect we can achieve most of that quite easily.”

Low expectations? Collectively we’d said that we wanted to learn the subject matter, strengthen our thinking abilities, get good grades, and fulfill our educational requirements. What else were we in school for? I raised my hand, but didn’t wait to be called on before saying, “What about you, Mr. Griffin? You seem unimpressed with our goals for the class. What are yours?”

“I’m glad you asked, Kelvin.” Mr. Griffin picked up a notecard from his desk and read: