Things Are Gonna Get Ugly (9 page)

I pull my legs up on the stall. Somehow, I don't think that Mrs. Barnes would be too pleased to know that I am in here. I'm clearly not supposed to hear this convo. But I do know this much: It's really disgusting what's she's planning to do, treating ESL—English as a Second Language—students like they're some kind of super virus about to invade her school. Had Mrs. Barnes ever heard of Olivia Marquez? Hello. She might dress medievally, even Russian sometimes, but she's probably one of the smartest kids at the school. And her parents speak Spanish at home and probably go down to Mexico in January.

My heart hammers in my ears and throat.

What could I do with info like this? That my principal is planning on having the whole school cheat so she can look good. It is all about appearances and
not
about reality. It makes me sick.

For a moment, I think about flushing the toilet
and screaming, “I know you're going to cheat!” But I don't. I can't. After all, I was a cheater too.

I Want My Dada

Instead of copying whatever homework assignment is on the board, I pencil my name on the corner of the blank, ruled piece of paper in my binder. My
real
name. TAFFETA in big letters, and then, in a fit of paranoia that somebody has seen this, I begin erasing so vigorously that I rub a hole in the paper.

My English teacher, Ms. Stuckley, peers at me, her forehead wrinkling like a bulldog's. When she turns toward me, I want to laugh because she has a thing about her profile. In the yearbook, she only takes sideways photos, never full face on. I always imagined that it was because she wanted to be on money someday. Petra says it's because she knows only half of her is bearable to look at.

“Are you all right, Ernestine?” Ms. Stuckley asks in her pseudo English accent. “I am concerned about you.”

Ms. Stuckley is worried about me? Language Arts diva, who snips, “Sit down,” the moment I stroll into class? Ms. I-graduated-from-Wellesley-and-did-
graduate-work-at-Oxford-so-I've-got-a-tattoo-of-C.S. Lewis-on-the-back-of-my-neck? Two days ago, the woman thought I was a complete bumblebrain. Her words.

Ms. Stuckley smiles, revealing her giant, rabbit-teeth overbite. “As I'm sure you all remember, last week everyone recited poems, four to six stanzas, using voice modulation, tone, and gestures expressively to enhance the meaning, and Olivia recited
Unda Canto
, which is a prime example of Dadaism. And since most of you all had no idea what Dadaism is, I wanted Ernestine to elaborate.”

My lips move like I'm a fish trapped in a bowl.

“Gather your thoughts,” says Ms. Stuckely, patting her close-cropped dark hair. “As I recall, you really provoked quite the debate.”

Dadaism. What was that? I'm still working on the FOIL method.

I clear my throat to buy time and say, “I've really been hogging the convo, so I'd like someone else to have a chance to speak.”

Score. Good save.

Ms. Stuckley's bottom lip droops down. “You're so generous, but please proceed.” Winslow actually flickers a half a second of some real eye contact with
me. I remember—could it only be a couple of days ago?—when he gave me such intense looks. It's weird but, in a funny kind of way, I almost miss it. He's only two seats away in the front row. It's like he's waiting for my answer. He won't talk to me outside of class unless I'm bribing him, but I can tell right now he's waiting for my words.

“I think da-daism is straight-up the best thing,” I say, thrilled with my vagueness.

Ms. Stuckley taps the small gold earring by her left nostril.

“Because…?”

For some reason, this thought flies into my brain:
Dadaism is the precursor to abstract painting and performance art. It started in Switzerland during World War I and focused on its antiwar stance by rejecting standards in art through anti-art cultural works.
Huh? What part of my brain is that?

I grip the eraser and dig into the sponginess with my nails. Dadaism. I know that. “Because Dadas are as important as Mamas, so it's wrong to be biased toward one parent. I love the Mamas and the Dadas' music, too!”

Everybody in the classroom laughs, especially Winslow.

“That, I assume, was a joke,” says Ms. Stuckley, in a tight, pinched sort of voice.

“Yeah,” I say, but inside I'm not feeling too jokey.

“Sounds like she needs a hint,” says Winslow to the class. Great, Winslow thinks I'm ugly
and
dumb, a winning combination for any girl.

“So, class, you want to know what Dadaism is really?” says Ms. Stuckley, glaring right at me. “It's actually a cultural movement started in Zurich as an antiwar protest during World War I. Artists created works rejecting the standards of the time.”

Whoa! Wow. That's what I was thinking in my head. Me! My brain! I actually knew the answer and even a little better than Ms. Stuckley. What else does Ernestine know? I'm starting to feel a little curious. Weird.

Phone Tag

When I get home, there's a message on the phone. I scroll through the caller ID numbers, and I see the familiar L.A. area code. Dad. I am pleased. It's Friday afternoon. A whole two days before Sunday, our day to talk.

I play the message. “What's up? It was good to hear your voice. You sounded upset and that had me all freaked. I can't wait to see you on your b-day.
I can't believe you're going to be the big one and four. You're making me feel old, girl. I gotta tell you about this TV show that we saw filming in Santa Monica. Reminded me of
Arrested Development
mixed with
Entourage
. You would have loved it, totally. Talk to ya lat-er.”

Holding the rock that I picked up from our old yard as a souvenir, I call him back, but I get the machine and his voice mail on the cell. “Call me,” I plead.

I can't believe it! We missed each other. On the counter, I spot a plate of nachos and pop a cheesy chip into my mouth and taste…meat. I haven't eaten meat in, like, six months and now I'm shoveling the chips into my mouth. I'm so hungry I can't stop eating. Maybe I want to get sick. And it's not like I need to worry about getting a cramp at swim practice because I don't have swim practice anymore. Ernestine apparently doesn't worry about keeping in shape.

Shoving another cheesy, meaty chip into my mouth, I glance over and see Mom, who is on the computer going over her most recent shots of the Culler twins in their Teletubby outfits. The desk space in front of her computer is littered with scraps of paper, pieces of chewed gum, bags of sesame sticks, various wrappers, pens, bills, and tissues. Behind the
computer she has stacks of paper and notebooks filled with photos. There's so much mess, I didn't realize she was in the room. Usually, she's out doing her photography stuff. It feels so weird to have her here with me. I've gotten so used to being by myself after school that part of me feels really happy and the other part resents the intrusion.

I wait for the
I told you so
, but she doesn't say anything about Dad. I almost liked it better when she RANTED because it was like he was still around. Now, it's like he never existed at all.

If
I divorce—but that SO won't happen because I'm going to make sure it's the real deal before I take the plunge—but if I do, and that's a big IF, I'll make sure to talk about my ex and have a couple of photos up, because it's not like he'd be dead or anything.

Just look at her. Mom clicks and scrolls using her latest Photoshop software. It's three thirty and she's still in PAJAMAS and hasn't run a brush through her hair. Can you blame Dad for leaving her for Big Lips, who was twenty-six and wore Juicy jeans? Not that he's with Big Lips now. But that's a whole other story.

Mom notices me for the first time, I think.

“How was school?” she asks.

“Good,” I say. Would it do me any
good
to tell her the truth?

Prove It!

It's Sunday night, and I stare at the first problem in the algebra set and feel lost. I'm not sure what happened to Saturday. Spent it mostly hoping that my life would change back.

It didn't.

Did I ever figure out what FOIL stands for? No. Wait a minute. Friday, in Stuckley's class some part of part of my brain did know what Dadaism was…so maybe. Shutting my eyes, I sit quietly for a minute and…

NOTHING.

Except for what FOIL, in this case, isn't: something you use to wrap potatoes within the oven.

Getting something over on someone.

Then it comes to me! FOIL is an acronym, which stands for First, Outer, Inner, Last. The order that you multiply each grouping in the equation.

Could this be right? Do I actually know what I'm doing?

Petra is really good at math, but I can't exactly call her, and Mom uses a calculator for easy addition, and claims that anything with numbers flew out of
her head years ago. And Dad. He's actually decent at math. But can I reach him? NO!

I hop onto the Web and look up the FOIL method and this site called Algebra Help.

YES! YES! YES! My brain/Ernestine's brain was correct.

Although it isn't easy-peasy pie and I actually have to work hard, before I know it, I've conquered eight problems.

Time to E-mail

I couldn't sign it Ernestine. Just couldn't.

Huh?

Dribble is writing on the board about the Constitutional Congress, but the first thing he writes is this: “This is only a glimpse.”

The words sparkle, then he winks at me and
continues writing. I glance around the room to see if anyone sees the weirdness, but the rest of the class appears to be going about their regular lives of doodling in the margins of their lined notebook paper or, if you're Olivia, listening intently, as if she can't wait for another boring lecture on men in white wigs. You'd think if anyone could see sparkles, it would be Olivia.

I sit in the back of my class and stare at the chalkboard thinking about my life. A glimpse—glimpse of what?

A Glimpse

From the
American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language
:

Yes, it's all cleared up right now. I understand everything. Next thing that will probably happen is that world will stop spinning and everyone will fall off. Ha.

Actually, I do have hope. Implied in the word “glimpse” is the word “brief.” Maybe this is like a forty-eight-hour thing, like a flu.

Erase Me!

Before algebra, the now-dreaded Mrs. Grund's class where I actually have to do math, I shove the homework at Winslow. “Here,” I say.

He doesn't even say thank you. He just folds it and smashes it into his back pocket. One day down. Four more to go.

But then, suddenly, Winslow reaches into his pocket and scans the now-crumpled papers, nodding his head. His buddy Sneed lopes up next to him and murmurs. “Ernestine wrote Winslow a luuuuuuv note and he likes it.” He begins howling with laughter, his cheeks blowing up like a trumpet player's.

“Idiot,” says Winslow. “It's called algebra homework. See.” He shows him the math sheet.

“But look at the way she forms her eights,” says
Sneed. “Sexy!” Other outcasts, small geek boys I don't know the names of, crowd around and begin to bray like donkeys. I've apparently made their day.

Winslow. Winslow. Winslow. My life is going to be tortured by a chunky geek lord. I mosey down the hallway, feeling sorry for myself, thinking that I didn't even know the word “mosey” before…that only cows mosey, that I never used to eat cows…that I used to have a conscience about that, at least. What has happened to me???? AWWWWWHHGGGGG!!!!

What the Dickens?

The next period, Ms. Stuckley gazes at me like I'm the next poet laureate of America—as if I have already prepared brilliantly for our next assignment written up on the board in swirly cursive. This is all too much for a Monday morning.