CHAPTER 1

Could the clock really move that slowly? It's Monday and onlyfifteen minutes into algebra, and it feels like time is standing still!Why did a decent guy like Coach Hunter—or Coach H. as the guyscall him—ever decide to teach algebra anyway? Here he is thecoach of the high school baseball team, and he chose a geekysubject like math to teach. Why not something like PE thateveryone could respect?

"Davis!"

Ouch. Where did that come from? Coach H. has a way withchalk erasers. If you aren't "in the game," as he calls it, you'll likelycatch an eraser upside the head.

"Sorry, Coach," I mumble as I check for blood where theeraser hit the top of my head. Coach H. played baseball in collegefor a couple years. That was before he tore a rotator cuff anddecided to teach math instead. He still throws a mean fastballthough—or eraser, in this case. He won't stand for anyone dozingoff or daydreaming in class. For some strange reason that no onecan quite figure out, he is crazy about math—well, more specificallyalgebra.

"Listen, Davis. You've gotta get in the game. You missorder of operations, and you'll be treadin' water for the next sixmonths. What's come over you lately? You've gotta focus."

"I know, I know. I'll do better," I say as I rub the bumpthat is forming on the top of my head.

The truth is, I'm having a hard time focusing on anythinglately. Between work, school, basketball, and girls, nothing seems tobe going right. I'd better not start on that now; gotta get back inthe game.

"Okay class, back to order of operations," Coach H.continues. "Who can tell me which comes first when solving anequation: addition or multiplication?"

Of course Samantha Wilmington would raise her hand.

"Multiplication."

"That's right, Samantha. Good job. Now, how aboutsubtraction or division?"

No one jumps at this one, not even Samantha. Another ofthe great mysteries of the universe—even more puzzling thanCoach H.'s obsession with algebra—is how did a cute girl likeSamantha Wilmington get so good at math? She even seems to likeit. Seriously, who likes math? And how is Samantha ever supposedto dig a kid like me who barely passed geometry in the ninth grade?

"Come on, guys. Somebody give it a shot," Coach H.prods.

What the heck.

"How about division?" I guess timidly.

"Is that a question or an answer, Davis? You've got to say itlike you mean it: division!" Coach H. says as he pounds on hisdesk. "That's right. Division."

"You've got to remember three key rules," he continues."First, anything within parentheses happens first. Second,multiplication and division always happen before addition andsubtraction. Finally, once the first two rules have been satisfied, youwork from left to right—just like reading a book."

How am I ever going to use this in real life, I think as I lean backin my chair and stretch my legs out under my desk. I can see how Imight use the things I am learning in English, my first class of theday. I'll surely need to write and communicate clearly. Auto body,my second class, is a fun class and has always been intriguing tome. My third class of the day, PE, is at least fun if not useful forlife. After algebra, my fourth class, I have Spanish and art. Giventhe huge population of Hispanics in our small town, Spanish isinvaluable. Art, like auto body, is another hobby I really enjoy. Allof the classes are at least potentially useful if not fun—all butalgebra. It just doesn't connect in my mind how I can ever use allof these letters, numbers, and rules in life to help me accomplishanything.

Okay, I've gotta get back in the game.

Coach H. is going on about the order of operations.

"Let's do a practice problem guys," he says as I mentallyjoin them again.

He writes on the board as he talks:

A × (B + C) - D = E

A = 4

B = 3

C = 2

D = 6

"What does E equal?" Coach asks as he finishes. This is hisroutine. He explains a concept, writes up a problem and then letsus try it out.

Now what did he say comes first? Oh yeah, multiplication.A times B would be 12. Then, going left to right: 12 plus 2 minus 6equals 8. So E equals 8. I raise my hand.

Samantha, of course, already has her hand up. Coach H.calls on her, and she says "Fourteen."

"That's right, Samantha." Coach H. smiles.

Now, how in the world did she get 14?

Coach H. explains as I look back through my notes.

"Remember the rules: first, parentheses; second,multiplication and division; and third, left to right."

Oh yeah, parentheses first.

The rest of the class is a blur as Coach H. writes problemson the board and we work through them together. If this is all wehave to do, I think I can handle it. Of course, we're only a fewweeks into the semester, so chances are it's only getting tougher.

I look back over at Samantha and see her workingfeverishly as Coach H. writes another equation on the board. We'vebeen in the same classes since elementary school—though I'm notsure she knows that I exist—and for some reason, she's always hada way with math. I, on the other hand, just get by in math, at leastpassing so I can play sports but usually not much better. She willprobably go on to be some famous scientist or mathematician. Idon't aspire to anything like that. I guess I've decided that businesswould suit me better. I'm pretty good with people and enjoy sellingthings. We'll see. For now, I need to figure out a way to passalgebra so I can finish out the basketball season.

The bell finally rings, and I pack up my books to head forthe door. As I make my way through the desks, Coach H. catchesup with me.

"Davis!"

"Yeah, Coach?"

"Can you swing by after school today?" he asks. "We needto talk."

"Sure," I say as I head out the door.

Great, just what I need—another pep talk from the mathteacher. It's the same every year. About a week or two into class,the teacher pulls me aside and gives me the same "You know, ifyou applied yourself ..." speech. It's not that I'm a bad student; Ijust don't really care for math.

CHAPTER 2

Spanish and art creep by like an old freight train headed for a brickwall. Any time a teacher asks you to come talk after school ... well,let's just say there are things I'd rather do with my afternoon. Asthe hallways clear out, I make my way back toward the math room.I have to wait outside for a minute while Coach H. finishes talkingto another poor soul, probably practicing his speech for me.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, it's my turn.Preparing for the worst, I knock on his office door.

"Coach, you wanted to talk to me?" I stick my head in thedoor as he cleans a few books off his desk.

"Yeah, come on in Davis," he says, and he points to a chair.

"Thanks," I mumble.

"So, how is the basketball season going this year? I came tothe game last week. You played well, but you guys sure got lickedby old Skyline," he says with a grin. He grins because he can. Lastspring, the baseball team took state, beating "old" Skyline in thedivision championship.

"Yeah, it's been hit-and-miss this year. We've had a couplegood games and then ... well, a couple of games like last week. Nottoo consistent yet, but we're working on it."

It's the truth. We play well occasionally, but we can't do iton command, that's for sure.

"So," he continues, "tell me, what else is going on in life?"

I'll give him credit. Coach H. has a way of talking that putsyou at ease and makes you feel like you can open up.

"I don't know. Things are good."

I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want to hear my sob story.What could a math teacher do, anyway, to solve a kid's problems?

"Well, I know something's eatin' at you. I've watchedenough kids in class and on the team that I can tell whensomething's bothering a guy. You're not with us in class, and Iknow you're a bright guy."

Here it comes: the "You're a bright guy if you'd just applyyourself" speech.

When I don't respond, he continues, "You're probablythinking that I'm going to tell you that you just need to applyyourself. Don't worry, I'm not. I'm sure you've heard the `applyyourself speech' before and don't want to hear it again."

I try to hide a smile. He's good. It's like he sees right through me.Now that he's onto me, I guess there's no harm in telling him why I can't seemto stay in the game in class.

Where to start? Work, school, basketball, girls—nothingseems to be going that well these days.

Coach beats me to it as I begin to open my mouth, "How'swork these days? You work down at the mall, don't you?"

"Yeah, I got a job last spring at the sports store in the mall.I thought it would be a good fit for me. It's been pretty good, butmy boss always seems to be on my case. He wrote me up last weekfor the second time—says my stats aren't good enough. One morewrite-up, and I'm out. I hustle, but it seems like the harder I workthe worse my stats get. I'm not sure what to do. If I get fired, I'll behard-pressed to find another job in the mall."

"So what kind of stats are they measuring?" Coach asks.

"Two, really. The first is Average Sale—overall sales dividedby the number of transactions during a shift. The second is Items perTransaction—or IPT—the total number of items sold during a daydivided by the number of transactions."

"Interesting." Coach leans back in his chair and puts hishands behind his head. Finally, he moves on. "Tell me aboutbasketball. That's going pretty well, isn't it? You run point, right?Seems like you're the star of the show."

"I guess its okay. I've played pretty well, but we'restruggling as a team. As the captain, the team is looking to me toturn things around, but I'm not sure where to start. We have a lotof talent but can't seem to put it all together on the floor. We'dlove a shot at state but are on the brink of being out of therunning."

Coach moves on, without commenting on what I said. "SoI've seen you watching Samantha. She's a cute girl. Have you askedher out?"

"No way. I don't even think she'd go out with me if Iasked. Anyway, I'm too busy with basketball and work and tryingto stay on top of school. I don't have time for dates."

Another nice lie. If I thought I had a prayer, I'd give it a try,but I don't have the guts to get shot down by a girl like Samantha.I'd be the talk of the school.

"So what about school?" Coach asks. "I guess as a teacher Iought to ask about that too, right?"

"I guess so." I shrug. How can I tell him everything isgoing pretty well except algebra? I guess if anyone already knows,it's probably him.

"I'm doing okay in most of my classes, but algebra seems tobe giving me a run for my money. I'm having a hard time gettinghow I'll ever use all these letters, numbers, and equations in reallife. It's just not clicking for me."

"I know where you're coming from, Davis," Coach beginsslowly. "You probably couldn't guess it now, but twelve or fifteenyears ago, I was sitting in your shoes. I was hoping and praying thatI could at least get a good enough grade to pass algebra so I couldplay baseball. The last thing on my mind was that someday I'd bean algebra teacher."

"So what flipped the switch for ya, Coach?" I ask, "I mean,you're great at math now. Especially algebra."

"That's a great question and even a better story, Davis.Probably too much for tonight. I'll tell you another time. Youbetter get going to work so you're not late."

I grab my bag and stand up. As I reach for the door, Coachthrows me a curve, "Listen, Davis. You may not buy this now, butI think I can help you with most of the problems you've talkedabout here. Believe it or not, algebra is more useful than you think.Come by tomorrow before school, and we can talk about it somemore."

I thank him for his time and hustle down the hallway. I'mgoing to have to book it to get to work on time. The last thing Ineed is to be late. Luckily, I don't think Jimmy, my boss, is workingtonight. That should give me some time to think about what I needto do to make sure I don't end up out of work and out of cash.

My old beater of a car is right where I left it this morning—unfortunately.I've often thought it would be nice if someonewould steal it so my parents would let me get a new one. Theyalways remind me though that a car is meant to get you from pointA to point B, and as long as mine does that, I'm stuck with it. It'syet another reason that I have a hard time believing SamanthaWilmington would want to go out with me. What girl would wantto be caught dead in a bright orange, beat-up El Camino?

I gun out of the parking lot, barely missing a driver'seducation car headed out for practice. That ought to give thatfreshman a rush.

As I jump on the road into town, I start thinking aboutCoach H.'s last comment. For the life of me, I can't imagine howalgebra could solve any of my problems—let alone all of them. Butif there is a secret that can get me a girlfriend, help me pass algebra,kick-start our basketball team, and salvage my job, I'm willing togive it a try. I don't believe it, but it can't hurt to hear him out.

I pull into the parking lot at the mall and start looking for aparking spot close to the entrance by our store. Some guys have allthe luck, and I'm definitely not one of them. I make it to the storejust in time. To my surprise, Jimmy is working tonight. He explainsthat the district manager—or DM as we call him—is coming by inthe morning. Jimmy wants to clean up the store so it will be readyfor the visit tomorrow.

I was hoping it would be a quiet night, but I know we'vegot our work cut out for us. Jimmy has been so focused on "stats"lately that we haven't done a great job of keeping the store clean.

Jimmy is a nice enough guy. He hired me to help out part-timein the evenings and on the weekends. At first, he was prettycool, but as time has gone on, he's gotten more uptight about ourstats. We have to report them nightly on the stat board in thebackroom, and lately, my name has been sliding down the board.I'm sure the visit from the DM tomorrow won't help. It alwaysseems like, for a few weeks after these visits, Jimmy gets moreworked up about the stats.

Maybe it's because our store's been slipping a little the lastfew months compared to the other stores our DM manages. We'restill one of the top stores in the company though, and I don'tunderstand why everyone gets so worried about a few littlenumbers.

I head to the backroom to start straightening things up. Atleast I can't get into trouble for my stats being bad tonight. As longas I'm in the backroom, I won't have to sell, and I'll be off thehook. It might be my chance to think a little.

As I open the door to the backroom, I stop at the statboard. There they are: the two lists. One ranking all employees byAverage Sale, and the other ranking all employees by Items perTransaction or IPT. Jimmy says these are the bread-and-butter ofretail and that every retailer in the mall tracks these stats. He alwayssays that if you can drive these two numbers, you can drive yourbusiness. I'm driving them all right—driving them right into theground. I guess that's the problem.

I hang my jacket over the stat board so it won't remind meof my failure and get to work on cleaning up the backroom. By thetime my shift is over, everything is organized, the floor is mopped,and all of the hangers and bags are stacked neatly in their bins.

I open the door and holler for Jimmy to come and checkout my work. He and Larry are just finishing straightening the T-shirtson some shelves, and he says he'll be back in a minute.

When he finally comes, he's impressed with my work.

"You know, Davis. If you could sell as well as you clean, wewould be in business."

I guess that's supposed to be a compliment, so I thank himand head out of the store. It will be interesting to get the report onhow the visit with the DM goes. I'll probably get the wrath onWednesday, when I work again, for bringing down the store statsand making Jimmy look bad.

As I drive home, I start to think again about Coach'swords—"you may not buy this now, but I think I can help youwith most of the problems you've talked about here. Believe it ornot, algebra is more useful than you think."

I have to admit, I'm interested.