ordinary people.

Oh God, he looks stressed. The way he’s scratching his head like that, is that normal? And his eyes, darting all across the room like that, what about that? Are these signs? They told us to look for the signs, but how do I know what the signs are? After all, I didn’t know last time.

It’s so weird how things can go downhill so quickly. He was always a good kid, that Jarrett boy, a good student. He was quiet but reliable and hard-working, not to mention a real natural with numbers. He never caused any problems in class, just did what he was told. Simple kid, it seemed. I always liked him for that. Heck, that’s what got me into math back in the day- the simplicity of it all. With math, you’re either right or you’re wrong; there’s no “but-if-you-look-at-it-from-this-angle” wiggle room or some broad “circle of interpretation.” Yes or no. Right or wrong. Pass or fail. Jarrett seemed to really understand that part of it. He was never one of those annoying kids who clicked their pens too loudly and tried to get their gum to stick to the ceiling while asking me obnoxious questions with no real answers. You know, the typical, “When are we ever gonna need to use this in life?” I know I’m supposed to feed them some line about being well-rounded and the power of learning, but I just can’t. I don’t know when they’ll use this in life. I just know the simple stuff: here’s the problem, here’s the formula to be used to solve the problem, here are the steps to use the formula, here’s the answer to the problem. Yes or no. Right or wrong. Pass or fail.

Jarrett never questioned me, not once. He just absorbed everything I taught, took it all at face value, and aced every test up until that one quiz on inverse functions right before Christmas break last year. It’s not like the rest of the class did well on it either; it was the only quiz that no one got 100 on. But there were still a few grades in the mid-90s, and many scored in the 80s. I got to Jarrett’s paper and felt relieved at what would be a surefire good grade. But he hadn’t answered a single question. Something was up then; that was a sign. I should’ve known. I should’ve done something.

Goddamn it, Simmons, don’t be stupid. Remember what they told you at that meeting. They called all the faculty members in early that first Monday after the break. “One of our students, a junior, Conrad Jarrett, attempted suicide last week.” Everyone was shocked; like I said, he was a good kid, had a solid reputation. The principal kept talking for a while, explaining how we were to handle the situation. It was a five step process, he said.

Step One: Do not avoid the issue if asked about it. Doing so will only facilitate rumors.

Step Two: Protect the Jarrett family’s privacy at all times. His mother specifically requested this. Say simply that Conrad is receiving medical treatment. Nothing more.

Step Three: Approach any student who seems particularly distressed, and ask if they would like to speak to a counselor. Counselors will be available for students and staff at all times throughout the day in the Guidance Office.

“The last two steps relate to all of you, especially those of you who have taught Conrad Jarrett,” the principal said, pausing for dramatic effect.

Step Four: Ask for help for yourself if necessary. As mentioned previously, counselors are here to work with you and help us all get through this.

Step Five: Do not blame yourself for this. It is our natural human inclination to do so, but none of us are at fault for this. Conrad Jarrett was a disturbed young man, and there is nothing you could have done to prevent this unfortunate incident. Do not overanalyze every interaction you had with Conrad for any “signs” you might have missed. It is not your fault.

But really, who took any of that to heart? There had to be signs. Everyone knows there were signs- when Jarrett came back to school this year, the principal warned us at another early-morning meeting to “beware of signs,” for crying out loud! God, when I gave that quiz back to Jarrett with Incomplete scribbled across the top and a request for him to see me after class… the kid looked crushed. I asked him what happened; I meant it light-heartedly, I know everyone’s entitled to an off day and it was a tough quiz. He mumbled something about the formulas not making any sense, something about how the numbers just didn’t make sense, about how nothing made sense. I thought he was going to start crying right then and there so I wrote him a pass and he left. I found out later that he cut the rest of the day. What if that’s when it all started? What if it was my fault? What if I pushed him too hard in class, or put too much pressure on him?

What if I was the one whose skills were Incomplete, and it was me who pushed him over the edge? I know I’ll never really know, but how am I supposed to live with that hanging over my head?

What was I thinking today, giving a pop quiz to his class?! Oh God, he really does look stressed. The way he’s scratching his head like that? It can’t be normal. And his eyes, darting all across the room like that? It can’t be right. Are these signs? ARE THEY?!

In a world where anything can be a sign if you obsess over it long enough… is anything ever really a sign?

God, Simmons. Snap out of it.

“Time’s up! Pass up your quizzes.”