Things Are Gonna Get Ugly (11 page)

Winslow bows his head so that his ponytail flops over his shoulder. He says, “I totally agree, it's not the best locale,” which completely surprises me. I thought he didn't care what ANYONE thought about him. “Next time, why don't you give it to me before sixth period during the fifteen-minute break?”

“Works for me,” I say, as he gives me a lopsided
grin. Then, like a magnet, Olivia draws toward us, and, just in time, I duck and run for the cover of the girls' room.

The Ride

“Ernestine, I'm not driving you!” Mom calls out from her bedroom. I can hear her munching on sesame sticks. For breakfast, I'm surprised she doesn't put them in her cereal bowl with some milk.

“Mom, pleeeeeease. I've been up all night doing algebra with Olivia. And when I stay up all night, I mean it. No sleep. Lots of Reese's Pieces to keep me awake.” Of course, Dad wanted to talk last night too. Of all times. I spoke with him for, like, three minutes because I was going through all the bookshelves in the apartment trying to figure out what book I want to pick for my oral report. Can this really be moi? The things's not due for a week. I really am such a geek now.

Mom glances at the clock. “Honey, the Realtor's meeting me here at the apartment in ten minutes to sign some house-sale papers. It never ends. You have your pajamas on,” she says, almost laughing as I pass by her room.

Was I actually going to go to school in my pink
floral flannel pajama bottoms? That's so sick. Running upstairs, I pull out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and put them on. Mom peeks her head out of her bedroom. “Your shirt's on backward,” she says, smiling.

Okay—when did I become a clone of my mom?

So I bike to school on Mom's bicycle built for two because the chain on my bike fell off as soon as I tried it. Me pedal to school on Mom's dinosaur? Who woulda thunk? But, you know, I am tired of not doing anything physical. And even though, solo, I look ridiculous, I don't care because it's not like anyone knows me, exactly.

Dribble Dribbles

Before I have a moment to recover, Dribble hobbles toward me with this bogus concerned look on his face. “How's it going?” he asks.

“Are you serious? How's it going? Like, la la, just another day? It sucks, that's how it's going.”

He shrugs and his orange mustache seesaws. “Okay, anyhoo, just checking in.”

“Checking in? How can you be so casual? Because you're making me look, feel, and act INSANE!”

As a student approaches his desk, Dribble shifts his gaze and glares at me. “If you continue to use that
tone of voice, young lady, I'll have to write you up.”

Write you up?
He's the one who should be written up. Giant warnings blasted all across the state. The country. THE UNIVERSE!

He leans into me and I can smell pickles. “Sorry. Need to act like a teacher around”—he lowers his voice—“the others.”

“So you're implying you're not a teacher?” I blurt.

“And you're not Ernestine,” he says in a low voice.

“You're so…”

“Frustrated. I can see you most certainly are.” He bangs down on his desk. “Don't give up. Keep your eyes on the prize. Remember what you really want, because things are going to get ugly.”

“Thanks for the pep talk. You're
so
helpful.” Not.

“Anytime, Ms. Smith.” As I walk away, he's chomping on a pickle, of course. Maybe he's pregnant or something.

Stepping Up

In algebra, a roll of toilet paper smacks the back of Olivia's head.

Mrs. Grund whips around and peers at the class. “Okay, who did it?”

Of course, nobody raises their hand. I mean there are some dumb kids at La Cambia but not THAT dumb.

“I did it,” I overhear Petra whisper to Invisible Girl who sits in front of her. She's that friend of Maggie the Mushroom. “I wanted to draw attention to Olivia because she looked SO beautiful today.”

“I heard what you said, Petra. And it makes me mad.” I know my voice is rising but I can't help it. I lean into her. “Do you know what that's called, Petra? Projection. You must think you're
not
so beautiful today. Maybe your five-foot-two mother called you an Amazon again because she didn't sell a house so she's afraid she can't make the Lexus payments since your dad is an embezzler. Or maybe Caylin is ignoring you. We all know the only reason she keeps you around is to be her bodyguard.”

Petra gives me her best withering death stare. Meanwhile, Olivia leans over my desk and murmurs, “Thank you.” And when she says you—and means me—I feel like she means me for the first time.

Blahh!

As the bell rings for fifth period, Ninai catches up to me in the hallway in the music building. “Mr. Takashama wants us to really go over the second movement of the concerto. Does that sound good, Ms. Soloist?”

No, that does not.
I'm planning on spending fifth period in the bathroom again. And I've got that doctor's excuse note, thank you!

Then Mr. Takashama pops his head out into the hallway. “Great, you're back.”

I shake my head and pat my elbow. “Still hurting.”

“But you're not in therapy today.” He smiles at me. “That must mean something.”

Yes, that means I'm busted.
“There was a cancellation,” I explain so he doesn't think I'll be in class tomorrow.

He shrugs. “I think we need to talk to your mother about scheduling these appointments after school.” He grabs his cell phone and flips it open. “Want me to call?”

Chill, Taffeta. Don't let him see you sweat.
“No worries,” I say, smiling. “It was just a weeklong therapy sort of thing. With this specialist guy. But I'm done with that, so no need to bother my mom at work.”

“I'm glad to know that you're back,” he says, putting down his phone. “Sure you can't play today?”

“Maybe soon.”

“But you
can
sit down with us.” He opens up the doors to the orchestra room and ushers me inside.

Blahh. Looks like I'm going to have to
actually
sit through orchestra today.

Special Delivery

I amble into the library after fifth period to give Winslow his homework when I see Olivia stamping
Seventeen
magazines. What is she doing here? Oh, right. Olivia has library skills for her elective. Olivia spots me, so I shuffle over to the desk as she grabs a stack of books taller than the Eiffel Tower and shoves them onto a shelf. “What's up?” I ask.

“I am ready now to use my powers on Winslow.” She gives her big crooked-tooth smile.

“Okaaaay.” Suddenly, I'm feeling guilty. I'm picturing Olivia watching me dancing with Winslow at Winterfest.

“I'm going to focus on Winslow for real. I think if I just concentrate and, you know”—she squints and flicks her fingers—“la mangia wahza doolia!” The stack of
Seventeen
magazines on her desk drop
with a loud thud onto the tile floor, nearly crushing a potted plant. “Whoops, I felt that. Did you? All of this energy moving.”

“Well, some magazines did move,” I admit.

“In the hallway yesterday, I was thinking about Winslow, and then, poof, he appeared at the water fountain. I think I called him to me telepathically. So maybe”—her eyes sparkle—“I'll telepathically invite him to Winterfest, too.” Olivia starts swaying her hips and singing high and off-key, “We'll make magic on the dance floor.” She's apparently out of touch with reality
and
with her vocal range.

I'm grabbing the magazines and stacking them back neatly, spine out, and saying very quietly, “That's a brilliant idea, Liv. I'm sure it'll work. But maybe you ought to try, you know, regular flirting with him too.”

She tilts her head to gaze at me. “I'm not so sure. But stranger things have happened.”

Yes, I think, as I start backing up. Stranger things
have
happened. “Well, I've got to go into the computer lab and figure out what I'm doing for my oral report thingie, but keep on working on your powers.” I walk backward into the computer room, glad to be rid of her so I can finally give Winslow
some more homework. Wouldn't it be nice if I could telepathically give it to him?

Frantic Phone Call

I can't believe I'm back at my so-called home, having to think about algebra
again
. Mom's out working on a special project for her photography class on the metamorphosis of Main Street. So far she's photographed cement trash cans in front of Rite Aid and a McDonald's in East Palo Alto and then the JZ Cool Eatery on Santa Cruz Avenue. Of course her medium, Tosh, suggested this brilliant trash-can idea and she actually asked if I wanted to come with her. For some reason, she thought me learning how to shoot trash would be educational. Ha. It was because she needed someone to lug around all of that heavy equipment. That's why. She even tried to sweeten the deal with promises that we could later play around on Photoshop together. As if, even without having swim practice these days, I have time to mess around on the computer when I have to pay attention to stupid algebra EVERY DAY!

My desk is my bed because apparently there isn't enough room in my bedroom for an actual desk. My back hurts, even though I've got pillows propped up
against the backboard as I flip through my algebra book. Numbers are SO annoying because they are always the same. I think they would be much more interesting if you could accessorize them, say with a purse, or cool pair of heels from Marc Jacobs.

Olivia and Ninai, SOS! I IM them. I need help on this algebra homework and I'm thinking about going on a bike ride so I ask if they'd like to join me. The truth is I'm almost thinking that I don't need their help, but then I'd be all by myself thinking about numbers. And I hate being alone with numbers. And, even more than that, I hate being alone with me.

Freedom. Not!

Another day of surviving, of seeing Dribble and knowing that he knows but won't do anything about it. Leaving me all alone to do important things like count the cracks in the tile floor and listen to him drone on about an important unit test coming up in five days, on December 15 (four days before my birthday and Winterfest). Something about the Constitution and the founding of the United States and letting freedom ring. I'm not exactly relating to freedom right now, Mr. Dribble. I'm fighting my own Revolutionary War. Maybe I could write an authentic essay and tell the world about my life, Mr. Dribble; would that count for a grade?

Not My Favorite Facility These Days

After algebra, I'm standing by the sink that won't stop running when The Girls file into the bathroom. They squint at me, smirking in their knowing way. I glance at them with their tight jeans, flip-flops, smooth, silky hair, big teeth, and chatter. They give off a certain energy, as if everything fantastic in the universe swirls around only them, and if you're not them, life's a black hole.

They chat like they're all psyched about the limo they'll be taking to Winterfest. How could they be talking about the limo?—my idea, for my birthday! “It'll be sooooo cool,” I hear Caylin say, her voice all enthusiastic, as she leans forward in the mirror, reapplying lip gloss.

“I bet it'll have a refrigerator,” says Petra, “With an endless supply of soda and energy drinks.”

“Hey, wouldn't it be fun if we all matched? The color of the limo, I mean,” says Caylin.

“Ew, bad idea,” I say, committing instant blurtation. “That'll be, like, over the top.”

Petra's chin drops and her lower lip sags. I think I can see her tonsils. But she recovers and says, “Who asked you, freak?”

“I guess not you,” I say. “I was just listening to you, or whatever.”

Caylin wrinkles her nose and shakes her head at me. She does this when she feels sorry for someone.

I ache to tell Caylin that doing favors for Winslow is BEYOND awful. The very thought of it makes my stomach clench. I mean, really, to have to work so hard to get his attention feels unnatural. Besides, if I get too close to him I might not be able to resist tearing that silly little wannabe soul patch off his lower lip and cutting off that unkempt ponytail.

Strange and Mysterious

As Ms. Stuckley allows us to work on organizing our oral presentations, I stare at the book I've chosen,
Oliver Twist
. At first, I chose it because I've seen the musical and wouldn't have to read the book, but it's actually pretty short and even exciting so, despite my best intentions, I'm really reading it. Weird.

When I look over at Caylin turning the pages of
Holes,
I don't feel jealous (I'd wanted that one because I had seen
that
movie, too). Weirder.

Sick of It

“Sick again?” says Mr. Takashama, shaking his floppy hair in a gesture that looks like he's auditioning to play in a Beatles tribute band. “Oh, Ernestine,” he sighs, scratching the back of his head. “Noooooo. And right before the concert, too.”

I can feel every red blood cell draining from my circulatory system. I need to get out of here for so many reasons.

“Wowee,” says Mr. Takashama. “You aren't yourself, are you?” I don't know how to best and most accurately answer that question.

Yes, you're right, Mr. T, I'm not myself. I'm a completely different person or I appear to be in a parallel universe, Mr. T. Me. But a different version of me, as if I had made different choices. A fresh start. Or, if you look at my complexion, I would say a stale start. Sounds familiar? Sounds insane, Mr. T? That's okay, because that's exactly how I'm feeling at the moment.

Special Delivery #3

I pull out
Seventeen
magazine and flop down in a library chair, stretching out my legs. Delivering homework to Winslow can wait a second. I flip through the fashion section, and then peruse the articles.