“Miss Reed? Are you with us?”
“Yes, Mr. Kramer.” I snapped my eyes to the front.
“Well, that’s good. From the way you were staring at the back of Colby’s head, I wasn’t sure you were paying any attention at all.”
Everyone in the class began to chuckle, and if it wouldn’t have been completely wrong and even more embarrassing, I would have gotten up and run from the room. As it was, I had a choice—ride it out, or succumb to the humiliation.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kramer. I was figuring out the equation in my mind, and sometimes I zone out while I’m doing that.” That part was true. “And I apologize to the back of Colby’s head. I didn’t mean to stare at it.” That was also mostly true. I was looking at Colby on purpose—the back-of-the-head thing just happened because he was sitting in front of me.
“And what is the answer?”
“Forty-two, sir. The answer to everything is forty-two.” Again, truth.
Everyone laughed again, but this time, it was on my terms. Mr. Kramer pressed his lips together, even though the corner of his mouth twitched, and I could see that he was amused despite himself. “And your real answer?”
“Could you repeat the question?”
He did, his patience obviously ready to disintegrate.
I thought it through, careful to be sure to stare at the back of Colby’s head again to validate my previous statement, and then answered. “Ninety-seven.”
“Very good, Miss Reed.” He strolled away and left me alone for the rest of the class period. Thank goodness.
After class was dismissed, I made my way to the front. I didn’t want to do this today. Okay, I didn’t want to do it at all, but today would be especially bad after what had just happened. But I knew that if I started veering off the schedule, I wouldn’t get everything done. I’d start making excuses, and before I knew it, three weeks would have gone by and I’d be in trouble.
“Mr. Kramer? Can I talk to you?”
My irascible teacher glanced up from his paperwork. “Yes, Miss Reed?”
“I’d like to discuss the B- you gave me.”
“Yes, I’d like to discuss it too.”
“It’s really not the grade I’d like.” There—that was better. I could skirt around the whole “undeserved” part, right? I absolutely could not see myself trying to tell him that I really ought to have a higher grade. My pants would catch fire.
“And what do you want me to do about it?”
“I’d like to discuss getting a better grade.” I thought I’d made that clear, but I guessed not.
“We can discuss that. My question to you is, what are you willing to do to get a better grade? Are you willing to put that brain of yours to work, or are you going to keep telling yourself that you’re too stupid to do math?”
I blinked. “What?” I had no idea what he was talking about.
“The little stunt you pulled earlier, trying to get out of admitting that you have a crush on Colby. How did you arrive at the answer?”
I felt my face grow hot. “That was total desperation.”
“But you were able to do it.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Miss Reed, have you ever stopped to consider why I’m so hard on you?”
Because you’re a mean, mean man who eats high school students for breakfast and then flosses your teeth with their backpack straps? “No, Mr. Kramer.” I had always just assumed that he hated me.
“You sabotage yourself at every opportunity. You’ve decided that you’re only smart in some areas, but that you’re dumb in others. I’m going to tell you a secret, Miss Reed. The question I asked you wasn’t easy. It wasn’t even hard. It was an extremely difficult question, and you gave me the correct answer from your head. I don’t ever want to see you give me less than that again. You’re selling yourself short, and it’s no one’s fault but yours.”
I blinked again. Several times. Rapidly. I didn’t know why I was suddenly getting teary. I’d certainly heard much harsher words from Mr. Kramer in the past. But this time, he was being harsh because he thought I was smart. I’d written myself off as a lost cause when it came to math, and he was sick of it. He cared enough to yell at me because of it.
“Okay,” I said after a long minute of trying to hold back tears and not sniffle.
Mr. Kramer slid open his desk drawer and riffled through the pages inside. “I’ll tell you what. If you come back here after school, I’ll let you retake your last exam. Let’s see if we can pull that B- up a little bit. But I’m not going to go easy on you, Miss Reed. You’re going to earn every percentage point.”
“Okay, Mr. Kramer. I’ll come back.”
I stumbled out of the room, a little numb. That had gone very differently from what I had expected. But I was filled with something I hadn’t felt for a long time—hope.
Chapter Ten
Dylan and Amanda both waited for me while I took Mr. Kramer up on his offer. I had texted Mom to let her know why I’d be late, and then I hunkered down in the desk on the front row where Mr. Kramer had asked me to sit. No, taking this test wasn’t on the list of things I had to do to keep Bruce happy—this was something I was doing for myself.
I stared at the paper in front of me, trying to harness my latent math-doing abilities. I was totally clueless on how to do that. Did I just let my mind go blank, or did I concentrate extra hard, or what?
“Why are you scowling, Miss Reed?”
“I’m trying to get into the math zone.”
“You’re making this entirely too hard on yourself.” Mr. Kramer stood up from behind his desk and walked over to me. “What were you thinking about earlier when you gave me the correct answer?”
“Nothing, really—I was just trying to save myself a whole lot of embarrassment.”
“Because of Colby.”
I sighed. Might as well tell him the truth this time. “Yes, because of Colby.”
Mr. Kramer twitched a smile. I couldn’t decide if it made him look more friendly or more predatory. “Your ability to do math is not dependent on being in a zone, Miss Reed. Just relax.”
I swear the ticking of the clock grew louder as I worked my way down the page. Several times, I wanted to bang my head on the desk with frustration, but Mr. Kramer was watching me, so I couldn’t. He was watching me so intently, it’s like he was a judge at a tennis match or something.
I got to the end, wrote down my answer, and handed it over. I rose to leave, but Mr. Kramer held up his hand. “Don’t you want to know your score?”
“Well, sure. I guess.” If there was a way to get out of it, I probably would have taken it. I didn’t have to know my score, did I? Wasn’t it purely optional?
“Stick around a minute and I’ll grade it right now.”
I played with the ends of my hair while I waited. It might be time for another trim. Or was it time for a whole new style—I’d have to think about that. And ask Amanda. She knew hair. She’d probably have fits if she saw the way I was pulling it through my fingers—I’d get one of her lectures on split ends.
Finally Mr. Kramer stood and walked back over to my desk. “Congratulations,” he said, sliding the paper toward me. At the top was a B+.
“It’s not a huge improvement, but it’s significant. And I’m sure that with your new mindset, you’ll be able to get into the A range next time.”
“My new mindset, huh?”
“Yes. Telling yourself you can instead of constantly telling yourself you can’t.”
Funny. As I walked out of the classroom, Mr. Kramer didn’t seem quite so ogre-like as before.
It was time to proofread the paper again—the week had flown by in some ways, and dragged on in others. I pulled up my email to download the proof Colby would have sent over by now, but my first email wasn’t from Colby—it was from Bruce. I scowled. Why was he emailing me, and how had he gotten my address? Oh, yeah, that’s right—he had a computer hacker under his thumb.
Jill,
; How’s it going? Just wanted to make sure you’re still keeping up your end of the bargain. I wouldn’t want you thinking you can slack off or anything. I really will make this list public.
I gritted my teeth. That little … I flexed my fingers.
Bruce,
I’m not going to back out—I honor my promises. Don’t worry.
After hitting send, I checked my other emails. There was the proof. It was our shorter, two-page version this time—shouldn’t take me very long to check it so I could get on with my homework.
Bruce must have been online because his reply showed up while I was reading the headline.
Have fun!
I could hear his snide little voice in my head. That was creepy. Made me want to wash my brain out with soap.
I took a deep breath and opened the email from Ms. Young. As I scanned the letters, I heaved a sigh—none of them were very hard at all. In fact, they were almost too easy, as if Ms. Young had purposely chosen simple ones so I’d get a break. I wasn’t about to question her—I’d just be grateful.
I only found two typos in the paper, which I noted in an email to Colby. Then I checked my list for the next day so I’d know what to expect. The first thing on it was to try out for the school play.
Um, what?
Okay, I remembered giving that advice, and I sort of vaguely remembered Dylan mentioning it when he made the list. I must have put up some pretty hefty psychological blocks against it or something because it had gone clean out of my mind after that. I hate being on stage. Or even near a stage. I’m almost allergic to being in the same room as a stage. Okay, I’ll go see plays and stuff, but if there’s any chance at all that I’d be asked to participate, no. We’re talking, hives and hyperventilating.
I read the wording of the exact advice I’d given in the column. Was there a loophole? Maybe I could get away with just saying hello to the drama teacher or something.
You can’t hide yourself away forever—march yourself right on down to the drama room and try out for the lead in the next school play. Stop cringing every time someone calls your name—be brave. Show your true inner courage.
Are you kidding me? Had I really written that? What kind of sappy, lame-brained advice was that, anyway? Someone, shoot me now . . .
Oh, and I had to complain about my lunch, too. I rolled my eyes. Bruce was going to be the death of me.
I approached the lunchroom counter with more than a little reluctance the next afternoon. I was so glad Mrs. Hansen wasn’t the one standing there—I loved Mrs. Hansen. She was like, the brownie fairy godmother.
This lunch lady was someone I’d had a few small altercations with before. Nothing major—just things like the lack of ketchup on French Fry Day. As I walked up to her, I could see that she remembered who I was. I couldn’t pull her name out of my memory banks, though.
“Excuse me, but I need to make a complaint.”
She looked at me over the tops of her glasses. “And what might that complaint be?”
I waved my hand in the general direction of the food line. “Lunch is boring.”
“And dinner is the most exciting meal of the day, I suppose?” She put her hands on her hips. “Listen, young lady. I know this isn’t some fancy restaurant in Paris, or even McDonald’s. But your meals are mandated by the state. Every school has a similar menu, and we can’t just go and turn everything on its head because you think it’s boring. Mrs. Hansen already spoils you as it is. What more do you want?”
I nodded. That was the answer I feared she’d give me. What had I been thinking when I’d advised “Hungry in Homeroom” to complain about the chicken nuggets? Why hadn’t I realized that the lunch ladies were probably about as sick of it as we were?
“Thanks for hearing me out,” I said lamely, trying to excuse myself with as much grace as I could. I took a step backward, but she held up a hand.
“Since you’re so concerned about the doings in the lunchroom, perhaps you could give us a hand and make a real change around here. We’re a little shorthanded today, and that garbage needs emptying.” She gestured across the room to where a pile of napkins and milk containers teetered precariously on top of a plastic-lined trashcan.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re running things exactly right,” I hedged, taking another step back.
“But I insist that you have a chance to experience for yourself the workings of our system. That way, you can understand it better.” She pulled a new can liner from a box on the counter and thrust it into my hands. “I trust you know where the dumpster is outside.”
I did. And it was smelly.
“Go on with you, then.”
I sighed and started walking toward the trash. How had this happened, exactly? It hadn’t been my intention to end up on lunch detail, but somehow, she had snared me.
I managed to maneuver the heavy sack out of the can, tie a knot in the top, and put the new liner inside. Then I pushed my way through the heavy metal door on the west end of the cafeteria, the one closest to the industrial-sized dumpster.
The nearer I got to it, the worse it smelled. I held my breath, ran up to it, and threw the sack in, hoping I could beat a hasty retreat and be on my way. But the sack slid off the top and fell back on the ground.
I picked it up and flung it again. This time it went in, but by the time I got a safe distance away from the stench, my lungs were burning, and I gasped for air several times before going back inside.
Dylan and Amanda were waiting at our table.
“That was really nice of you to take out the garbage,” Amanda said.
“I don’t remember that being on your list.” Dylan pulled his copy from his pocket to double-check.
“Oh, come on. She can do something out of the goodness of her heart, can’t she?” Amanda snatched the list from his hands. “See, there’s nothing about garbage on here. Jill’s just a nice person.”
“Actually, I only did it because that mean lunch lady made me.” I gestured over my shoulder with my thumb. “It was my punishment for complaining about lunch.”
“And that is on the list. See?” Dylan pointed at the sheet of paper, and Amanda swatted his hand away.
“Well, I still think it was a nice thing to do.” Amanda gave the list back to Dylan and picked up her glass of water. “So, what else is on the agenda for today?”
“Oh, nothing.” I concentrated on the table. I should be grabbing some food, but the smell of the trash had turned my stomach, and I couldn’t imagine eating anything right now.
“That’s not true,” Dylan said. “You’re supposed to audition for the play.”
“Oh, Jill hates drama. That won’t be any fun for her at all.”
“It’s worse than that,” I said. “According to the wording of the original column, I have to try out for the lead.”
Dylan laughed, Amanda gave me a sympathetic look, and my stomach gave another churn. Yep, lunch was absolutely not happening for me that day.
“Stupid Bruce,” I muttered.
“What does Bruce have to do with this?” Amanda asked.
Oh, crud. “He’s . . . um . . . the blackmailer,” I said. “But you can’t tell anyone. Not a soul.” After I swore them both to secrecy, I scolded myself. Way to stick to your code of conduct, Jill.
Chapter Eleven
My stomach was in absolute knots as I walked toward the drama room. I didn’t want to do this—okay, that was a serious understatement. How about, I would rather lick a frog than do this. The only thing that kept me from running to hide in the bathroom was my over-inflated sense of duty and friendship. I cursed myself for being so doggoned dependable.
I stuck my head through the doorway, hoping to find the room empty. No such luck. Mr. Bell, the drama teacher, was sitting at his desk, and his gaze immediately flicked up to meet mine.
“Hi, Jill. What brings you by?”
I edged into the room, trying to look casual, like coming in here wasn’t the most terrifying thing ever. I’d done an article
on him the year before and knew he was a nice guy, but that didn’t help my nerves any. I’m pretty sure my shaking knees gave me away because Mr. Bell stood up and pushed a chair closer to me. I sat gratefully.
“It must be pretty important for you to stay after school to talk to me.”
I had planned it that way so I could experience my humiliation with as small an audience as possible. I do realize that was a pun—if you’re in drama, you do have an audience. But all I had to do was try out—there was no law that said I had to do that in front of the whole class.
“Um, I’d like to try out for the lead in the play.”
Mr. Bell raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t realize you were interested in drama.”
“I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t. Not until recently.” I wiped my palms on the knees of my jeans. “Do I need to be a member of the drama club or anything before I try out?”
“No, you can audition. The drama club members do tend to be more experienced, of course, because they perform regularly, but we’re open to anyone who would like to participate. I’m glad you came in now, though—I’m posting the parts on Tuesday.”
“So, can I do it while I’m here? Audition? For the lead?” My voice squeaked a little.
Mr. Bell chuckled. “Let’s have you read, and we’ll see how you do.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a script. “Our play this year is Anne of Green Gables. Do you have any objection to dying your hair or wearing a wig?”
“No, that would be fine.” No need to worry about that, though—it’s not like I was going to get the part.
Mr. Bell had me turn to the page where Anne is driving home from the train station with Matthew and talking his ear off. I’d read the entire series of Anne books at least three times, and I owned the movies on DVD. Reading the script was very much like watching the film, but with a few tweaks to adapt it to the stage. At first, I felt clumsy and self-conscious and completely stupid, but then I fell into the story. I read the script the way I always imagined Anne speaking when I read the books. I imagined the White Way of Delight, Matthew’s head bobbing as he rode beside me on the seat of the wagon, and the feel of the carpet bag handle between my fingers. After a moment, I looked up to see Mr. Bell staring at me.
Take My Advice Page 7
