Things Are Gonna Get Ugly (8 page)

I want to kick him in his belly and rip away the bag of Cool Ranch tortilla chips from his doughy white hand. I want to shake him and tell that I am
not
ugly and desperate. HE IS! All of those e-mails
to me, clogging up my pages on MySpace with his dumb comments. Those pathetic puppy-dog looks. That is gross. I am
not
gross. I have to do this. He didn't have to do any of that. “Can't you face up to reality?” I bellow. “Look in the mirror, dude.” Why can't I shut up? My mouth is definitely not going to help me get Winslow to dance with me.

Winslow shuffles from me, disappearing in a new wave of kids hustling to make it to class before the second bell rings, and I feel relieved to be rid of him, but then Dribble passes me in the hallway and he's wearing his frowny face so that his bushy mustache curls into this upside down
U
. He's shaking his head at me. Omigod. I'm blowing this, big-time. What's my problem?

Simple

“I'll pay you,” I say, catching up to Winslow and tugging on his ponytail.

“What?” He turns around. Was that a glare he just gave
moi
?

“Money. I'll pay you. Twenty-five bucks.”

He puckers like I'm a human lemon and he's going to, like, spit out the seeds back at me.

“So what's your answer?” I ask him.

“What's the question?” he says.

“You know the question,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Two hundred.” His squints so that his eyes become slits.

“One hundred.” Why do I feel like I've entered an eBay auction?

Suddenly, he smiles. “I've changed my mind. A thousand.”

“A thousand dollars! Are you wacko? Where would I get that kind of money? In a week, maybe, I could get one babysitting job. Two tops.”

He's moving away from me again. The second bell rings loudly, and you'd think they're warning us of an impending nuclear disaster. Winslow grimaces, and takes these giant steps with his clumsy clown feet down the hallway.

With my new, out-of-shape body, I huff, trying to keep up with him.

He looks at his digital
Star Wars
watch as everyone else races to get to their class.

“What? What could I do? I'll do anything. Winslow. Anee-thing. Okay. Just tell me. I'll do it. All right? Okay?”

“Anee-thing?” Winslow stops in his tracks and
peers at me like I'm the beginning of an alien infestation. The halls are about empty, except for some straggler skateboarder types, who look like they're still in a half-pipe.

“Yes, anything.” I am starting to feel hopeful. He's taking the bait. Reel reel reel him in. That's my boy.

“Hmmmm, let's see here”—he taps his chin with the love patch—“you did just attack me, so maybe…” Winslow gazes into my eyes and I shudder.

Please. God. Love me. Shine your light on me at this moment.

Winslow, still deep gazing, pulls on one of the canvas shoulder straps of his backpack. “You're serious, aren't you? Okay, I want you to do the algebra homework for me for one week.”

“Algebra? Are you kidding!” I hate algebra. I'd rather scrub the toilets. I'd rather fold clothes or…but it could be worse. Winslow could want me to get cozy with him. I can feel the oxygen come back into my body and I exhale deeply. There are worse things, right? “Just one week?”

“Yup. That's it.” He hands me a ripped, stained assignment sheet on using the FOIL method to multiply two binomials, then turns the corner and slips into science class.

Ack. I'm Back.

As the bell rings, I sit down in one of the only seats left, which naturally is in the front row. Petra scowls at me. “What are
you
doing here?”

“It's called science class.” I don't want to have to deal with this anymore. At least it's already sixth period, because I can't take another second of school or seeing my friends when I'm not me. And I certainly don't want to be looking over at Winslow, who's sitting in the back corner. But I can't help it. I do. I turn around and catch him, scanning his warrior-covered notebook. He doesn't glance up, or say hi, or give me a thumbs-up on our little math deal. Nope, he's deep in battle.

For a second, I scan the first problem in the stupid algebra homework:
The lesson on the distributive property explained how to multiply a monomial or a single term such as 7 by a binomial such as (3+8x). Use the FOIL method to multiply the following two binomials: (24+8x)(5+2x)

For a moment, it all seems familiar. But that's crazy! I don't even understand what a monomial is in the first place. Mono, I know is a disease. Algebra is definitely one too.
Okay, calm down, Taf. One week.
I can do this. One. Week. He didn't say the answers had to be perfect, right? He just said I had to do the homework.

I can feel someone pinching me. It's Petra. “Hello! This is
my
seat.” She throws up her hands like a cross. “And don't start kissing me.”

“Actually I'm Chewbacca's girlfriend. Don't have a fit.” I get up. “I didn't see your name engraved on the desk.”

Petra's brows lift and her lips form an
o
. “The geek's got attitude. Want some advice?”

“No,” I say, sitting down in the desk across from her. “Not really.”

Making smooching sounds, Petra grabs my backpack and slams it down on the ground so books and pencils clatter onto the floor. I'm not going to react. This is not my drama. Bending down, I stuff my binder and textbooks back into my backpack, and think about how Winslow just, like, twenty-four hours ago, was panting all over me.

Home Not Sweet

Sitting up in bed with pillows propped up against my headboard, I take a look at the algebra homework and I start to feel unbelievably drowsy. There is no cable
TV in this house to keep me awake, no DVR, and no Mom around. I am now falling asleep, even though it's only seven thirty. But that's okay, I tell myself as my head hits the pillow. I'll do it in the morning. And then it occurs to me. I didn't go to swim practice today, yet I'm still bone-and body-tired. Starting last year, I began swimming five days a week, with some weight training on Saturdays. Wow, I actually didn't go to swim practice today, and I don't need to go tomorrow.

I feel a little guilty about that.

Not really.

I'm a liar.

Parallel Universe

As I get to school, the bell is ringing to end social studies, which means somehow my alarm clock didn't go off and I slept until eight o'clock, which means I didn't have a chance to actually do the stupid algebra homework. For some reason, I thought I could get it done during social studies. Yeah, right. The more that I gaze at Winslow's sheet of algebra homework the more I know that I'm in deep. Brushing past the last group of students leaving Dribble's classroom, I hold up the algebra problems.

Dribble glances up from his desk, which is heaped with magazines, textbooks, and student papers he's dripped green pickle juice onto. He's reading
Time
magazine, the People section, and twirling his mustache. “Yes, ma'am. You wanted to talk?”

“Yes, I WANT to talk. Winslow did
not
want to dance with me, so I really can't help him. I mean, he's willing, but only if I do this!” I shove the math homework at Dribble.

He glances down at the assignment and pulls on his mustache. “Okaaaay.”

“Winslow wants me to cheat for him, okay? I don't think that's the right thing to do. Do you?” Got ya. You're a teacher. What educator would be all, like,
Yeah, go ahead and cheat
?

He leans back in his chair and puts his feet on the desk, right onto a stack of graded papers. “Okaaaaay, if you think it's wrong. Then, there's your answer.”

“It doesn't matter what I think. Right? You said I had to rectify. And get Winslow to dance with me. So if I want him to dance with me this is what I have to do—his algebra homework.” Actually, it's also my algebra homework, but it's not like I've completely done that before either. It's hard to concentrate
when a really good program is on TV, or a decent one, or a bad one.

Dribble stands up. “I've got a staff meeting, so if you'll excuse me, ma'am. It's time for your math class, isn't it?”

I bang my math book down on his desk. “This is insane. You have to do something.”

He breaks into a huge grin so I can see his banana-colored teeth. “No, ma'am. I think it is
you
who has to do something.”

Math Makes Me Sick

Outside of algebra class, I tell Winslow the bad news. He's standing in front of the water fountain completely oblivious that his huge form is blocking anyone from taking a drink. “I kind of got sick last night,” I explain.

“Well, don't give it to me.”

Folding his arms in front of the Milky Way galaxy on his T-shirt with an arrow that says YOU ARE HERE, he takes a side step away from me. The chain on his belt loop clangs against his leg. His duct-taped shoes squeak against the floor.

A clump of seventh-grade girls, their hands in their shoulder sacks, text away until a teacher passes.
I lean forward. “I just couldn't get to the homework. Okay?” I wave my hands in his face.

“What? But you…Oh, forget it.” He looks like he's going to throw his big canvas backpack at me. “So you were really sick, huh?”

“Yes, very. I shouldn't even be in school, but my mom's a big believer in sharing whatever you have.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, moving farther away from me and almost banging into Petra and Caylin, who're discussing how lame somebody's outfit is. Mine, probably.

“Tomorrow. I swear. I'll make it up. You said a week. Just give me an extra day or something.” The bell is ringing and now I'm the one sidestepping into Mrs. Grund's classroom. Now I'm actually feeling sick.

Before I know it, Mrs. Grund is making me sit at my desk and do math problems in class. I've always HATED math but I've always loved Mrs. Grund. If I close my eyes I can just see her ruffling her head of pink-blond hair, smiling at me, Petra, and Caylin and saying, “Oh, you girls. They put you to work all the time, I'm telling you. Go ahead. Sell your dance grams. But silently, okay?” She loves Leadership girls and lets them get out of doing EVERYTHING. Dance grams are a major La Cambia institution. They're
these messages people buy for three dollars which Leadership posts up on the wall during dances, and EVERYBODY reads them. Mrs. Grund understands that. I mean, she might have a bad perm that makes her head look like a rose-colored dandelion, but she really gets it. But now, she's not letting me talk to my friends. Of course, right at the moment, I have no friends. I raise my hand and do the only thing I know will work with Mrs. Grund to get out of class. I tell her that I'm going to be sick. My life suddenly has a theme.

It's the Principal

“Who?” asks Mrs. Barnes, principal and mom of Caylin. She looks nothing like her daughter, though. While Caylin is perky, Mrs. Barnes lost perky long ago. She frosts her hair so it looks stripy and the beige foundation that she spreads on her entire face sparkles with sweat by midmorning. And she wears shirts that are too tight so she looks lumpy. But at least she doesn't wear pajamas. That's a leg up on my mom.

“You know, the social studies teacher, Mr. Dribble,” I say. “No, I mean Mr. Drab.”

“Mr. Drabner?”

“Yes, him.” I shrug. “The kids all call him Dribble.
Because of the pickle juice and the spit that flies out of his mouth when he starts a rant.”

“Look. If you're having issues, I'd be happy to have Mrs. Acorn”—she nods over at the secretary sitting behind the booth—“schedule an appointment with Mr. Ramirez.” That would be the school counselor. The one for kids with problems.

“This isn't about me. It's about
him
. Mr. Dribble has…he's, well…magic. I think he has special powers.”

“Uh-huh.” Mrs. Barnes puts one end of her glasses into her mouth. I worry she's about to chew into the plastic and get poisoned. She mumbles, “Magic. Okay, keep going. As in tricks. Card tricks?”

“Real stuff. He…only uses it on special people he claims he wants to help.”

“Okay. And you're one of the”—she makes little quotes—“‘special people.'”

“I think. No, I know that….”

She pops the glasses out of her mouth. “Have you been getting enough attention at home? Would you like more attention?” She eyes me, nodding and smiling at her cleverness.

This takes me by surprise. I notice there're a lot of books on her shelf about problem children:
the high-needs child, the explosive adolescent, the anxious one. Am I now one of these problem kids? Yup. As I stomp out of Mrs. Barnes's office I can hear her murmur to her secretary, “Definitely call the counselor; we have another kid with identity issues.” You can say that again!

She's a Cheater?

I really have to go to the bathroom, so when nobody is looking I pop into the more-or-less off-limits faculty restroom.

While I'm in the stall, I hear the click of high heels on the tile floor. “So it's just an experiment, but I'm sure that if we test earlier it will make a difference,” says a voice. A voice I recognize, a principal-ish voice.

Through the crack in the door, I spot Mrs. Barnes and she's on the cell phone to someone.

“Our scores have always been the highest in Menlo Park. Heck, better than Palo Alto. And that's saying a lot because all of the Stanford faculty brats. Yeah, I know. But what am I supposed to do with these guys? I mean, let's get real here.” She's cradling the phone against her ear as she washes her hands in the sink. “Uh-huh, they're all English-language learners fresh from Oaxaca. And it's not fair to me that they're
transferring them all into La Cambia. They're not even officially in the district. Yeah. Exactly. Totally. They're going to bring the scores down for the whole school. So if we test in January, when most of them are going to be Mexico then…perfect, right?” She yanks paper towels out of the dispenser so hard the thing rattles.