Mom steps aside, and I hurry through the door, laying my backpack down beside the couch. “So, this is what hap—”
“What happened?” Mom’s shrill tone puts me on edge.
“Mom, calm down. This is why I wanted to tell Dad.”
That apparently was the wrong thing to say. She runs a hand through her brown pixie cut. “Oh, so you wanted to tell Dad and Dom.” After Dad left Mom for Dom, she’s hated men ever since. Well, she doesn’t really loathe Dad and Dom. Mom gets along with them fine now, but she likes to be the one in charge.
I avoid her stare. “They wouldn’t have overreacted.”
Mom purses her lips. “I’m overreacting? The principal calls me and says you were accused of assaulting some boy. There wasn’t enough evidence for suspension, but now you have to do community service?”
“No, Mom. I don’t know why he’s calling it that. It’s volunteering at Piggy Palooza.”
Her pursed lips begin to relax. “Oh. That’s not so bad, then.”
“It is,” I whine.
“Did you really punch this kid?” Her face is in full scowl mode.
“I did. But, he was being ridiculous. I didn’t mean to punch him—it just happened.”
“Well, what did he do? Was he trying to force you into doing things?” Mom becomes even more livid.
“Gross, Mom. No. Not that it’s gross to do things.” Her eyebrows shoot up, so I hurry on, “But I wouldn’t know.”
“Go on,” she insists.
I rub at my temples. “This jerk at school keeps calling me Miss Ophelia, so I told him to stop. The other guy named Kiev asked me if I was named after Ophelia from Hamlet, and I was like, who names their kids after some stupid play? Then I said who the heck names their kid after the capitol of Russia, and Kiev said it’s Ukraine. Then kapow. My fist wasn’t thinking, Mom.”
Mom shoots me a hard stare and then starts to laugh, not a small laugh either. But it’s one of those silent laughs with no sound escaping, like she can barely breathe. Then the witch cackling or whatever the heck it is takes form. I’ve seen her laugh heavily maybe one time in my life—it’s usually small little grunts.
“What, Mom?”
She holds up a finger and wraps her other arm around her stomach and leans over to laugh more. “Hold on.”
“Mom, it’s not even funny.” I frown because it really isn’t.
Finally, she stands up and takes several deep breaths. “Oh, Ophelia, Ophelia, Ophelia.”
“Not you, too.” Mom hasn’t called me that in years besides when I walked through the door earlier.
Mom places a hand on my shoulder. “You were named after the Hamlet play.”
I rip my shoulder out of Mom’s grasp. “What? You never told me that.” I know Mom has a whole collection of Shakespeare plays, but I never put two and two together.
“I didn’t?”
“No,” I grumble.
“Now you know.” She appears slightly sorry. “But, it sounds like you should probably study up on geography.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “You probably didn’t know the answer either.”
“Well, I’m not a geography major either, and I didn’t punch anyone in the face.” She pauses for a millisecond. “You’re also grounded.”
“You know I’ll be at Dad’s the whole weekend. He’s got a bacon contest to worry about.” That means I won’t be grounded.
“I’ll talk to him. You can start by doing chores now.”
I nod my head because I deserve it.
After sweeping, mopping, and vacuuming, Mom sends me over to my dads’ apartment to get the rest of my punishment.
Dad swings open the door after I knock and lets me in, his auburn hair not in pristine condition today. His polo collar is popped up, and he needs to pop it back down.
“You all right, Dad?” His hair is usually slicked back except before bedtime after his shower.
“He’s making himself sick with this bacon,” Dom yells from the kitchen, hovering over the stove and flipping strips of bacon.
“Before I head back to the bacon station,” Dad starts, “your mom told me you got in trouble at school for punching a boy in the face. You know that’s wrong.” He presses his lips together to hide a smile. I’m sure if I had punched a girl, it would be a whole different scenario.
“They don’t know I punched him, and I didn’t mean to. He just kept running his mouth, and now we have to do volunteer work at Piggy Palooza.”
“That’s it? Your mom was all freaking out. I told her you were going to be grounded this weekend. I’ll let you pick something to be grounded from, so it’s not technically a lie. But, if we ever get fined for something like this, your jail cell will be that room over there”—his index finger points to my room—“with no Nintendo.” You know those movies where you hear slow motion on certain words? I hear it in this moment—I even shiver thinking of the thought.
“If he just wouldn’t have said I was named after Ophelia in Hamlet, and if Mom would have let me in on the little secret, that would have helped.”
“Hamlet?” Dad’s eyebrows crinkle with perplexity.
“Yes!”
“I’ve only read Julius Caesar, which was terrible, by the way. Your mom must have kept that secret from me, too.” He shrugs.
“Bacon’s ready, Alex,” Dom calls from the kitchen. Dad flinches at the word bacon, but then he counts to five to pump himself up.
I really wish tomorrow was the weekend, so I don’t have to see Kiev at school, but now I’ll have to see him for four days at Piggy Palooza, too.
Chapter Eleven
Kiev + Piggie
After a brief conversation with Lia, she walks away and disappears down the corridor. I stay put, still not believing Mr. Nazari sentenced us to community service.
Piggie Palooza.
Damn it. This festival is the definition of boring and corny.
Sighing, I glance down the hallway, wondering about what to do next. I check the time on my phone. I have Spanish pretty soon.
As I head toward my next class, Lia pops in my mind, wearing that tight t-shirt.
Cole’s words come to mind. “A hot girl hides under her baggy clothes.” I think he’s right—she is … she’s hotter than I thought.
When I enter the classroom, guys and girls follow me with their eyes all the way to my desk. Feeling like a strange animal or something, I drop onto my chair and concentrate on the floor.
“Buenos días,” Ms. Park says.
“Buenos días,” the rest of the class replies.
I look up to find her standing in the front carrying some books. Ms. Park isn’t your average-looking Spanish teacher. She was born in Korea, studied high school and college in Paris, and got a language masters in Madrid, Spain.
The Spanish teacher sets her books on her desk and peers at me. “¿Que le pasó, Señor Jimenez?”
When I’m about to tell her about my ‘accident,’ the guy behind me blurts, “A girl beat the crap out of him.”
“Boo, boo. My nose,” someone else adds.
I want to stand and kick their asses.
“¡Niños!” the teacher shouts. “Español.”
“Chica beat-o a crap-o of el,” someone behind me says.
I stand and spin to him. “Shut up.”
The guy throws his arms in the air. “I didn’t say anything.” His expression tells me he’s telling the truth.
“Siéntese, Señor Jimenez.” Ms. Park asks me to sit.
I stare around, sending death glares.
“¿Señor Jimenez?” the teacher asks.
Turning to Ms. Park, I nod and take my seat.
In between classes, I head to the secluded restroom and take a good look at my beaten face. To my surprise, it doesn’t look that bad. I inch closer to the mirror and inspect my nose. I expected it to be swollen. It isn’t. It almost looks normal, except for a slight purple area around my nostrils.
I gingerly pull one of the nose p
lugs out and wait for blood to drip from my nose. Nothing, which is good. I study the nose plug—its far end is the color of dried blood. Gross. I toss that shit in the trash. I remove the other plug and breathe through my nose. It feels good but not perfect—a bit itchy.
On my way to English, I run across Lia’s goth friend, Barnabas. He’s by himself, which I find weird since he and Lia are always together, like conjoined twins. Maybe they’re dating. He asks me about my nose, and I tell him it’s okay—no big deal. The guy seems cool about it. Actually, he’s one of those always-relaxed dudes. After our brief encounter, we go separate ways.
I avoid looking at or talking to people the rest of the school day. I wait a bit before exiting, but when I enter the parking area, I spot Cole sitting on my Jetta’s hood. The sight of him makes me curl my hands into fists—he told Mr. Walker about the altercation. And now, because of Cole, I have to volunteer for the stupid festival. I take a breath and stride to my car.
“You’re still alive,” he says when I reach him. He thrusts himself up, stands, and stretches his arms toward me. “Give me a brother-to-brother embrace, Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”
Blood rushes to my face. Unable to contain myself, I punch him in the belly.
He doubles over and grabs his stomach. “What the fuck!”
“That’s for telling Mr. Walker that Lia punched me in the nose.”
Cole takes desperate breaths.
I waggle a finger at him. “Because of you, I have to do community service at the freaking Piggie Palooza Festival. I hate it.”
“Look,” he says, all out of breath. He raises a finger and after a minute, he continues, “You know me.” He stares at me. “I always say what’s on my mind.” He pokes a finger against my chest. “Is that a crime, Mr. Kiev Jimenez?”
“I…” I pause because he’s right.
“What’s going on here?” a girl asks.
“Miss Monica Serrano, what a pleasant surprise.” Cole poofs back into his suave self.
She approaches me, points at my face, and wrinkles her nose. “I heard what happened.”
I glower at Cole before saying, “Did you happen to hear what happened through this dude’s big mouth?”
Monica shakes her head. “People talk.” She touches my cheek. “Does it hurt?”
I tilt my head away from her hand. “What did you hear?”
She bites her lower lip. “Something about a girl punching you? Is that what happened?”
I sigh. “Something like that. But it was more of an accident.”
Cole takes a step forward. “An accident where his nose crashed into her fist.”
“Can you close your mouth for a second?” I ask.
“Should I close my mouth, Miss Monica Serrano?” He scans her with hungry-wolf eyes.
She brushes a tuft of hair from her face. “Not for me to say.” She inclines her head. “Were you guys fighting?”
“No,” Cole answers.
“Yes,” I say.
She motions at the school entrance. “That girl is not worth fighting for.”
“That girl has a name,” I blurt. Why am I defending her?
Monica scrunches her face.
Cole places a hand on her shoulder. “Mr. Kiev Jimenez here is denying his feelings for Miss Ophelia Abbie.”
“What are you talking about?” I swat a hand at him.
“You know what I’m talking about,” he says to me, then faces Monica. “As far as me goes, I cannot deny my love.” He grabs her hands. “Do you believe in butterflies fluttering in your stomach at first sight, Miss Monica Serrano?”
She looks at her hands, then at him, and pulls them away with disgust. “You’re crazy.”
He nods. “For you, my Tex-Mex Queen.”
She frowns, relaxes, and then raises a brow—a torrent of emotions flowing across her face. She giggles. “You’re kidding.”
He bows. “I am not. My love—”
“I’ll leave you two alone.” I walk around my car to the driver’s side.
“Kiev?” Monica says.
I open the door. “Yes?”
She bites her lower lip again. “We have to, you know, talk to Mr. Butrow about the thing we discussed yesterday.”
With all this mess, I forgot we’re going to tell the theater teacher about switching characters. “Right now?” I ask.
She nods. “He usually stays a little late after school.”
“O-kay.” I close the door and lock the car.
Cole offers his elbow to Monica. “I’m ready to join you in your adventure, my love, my life, my south-of-the-border queen.”
She shakes her head. “Kiev and I have to do this alone.” She steps closer to me and grabs my upper arm. “Let’s go.” She pulls me toward the school’s entrance.
I look over my shoulder. “See you later, dude.”
Cole doesn’t reply, finding the pavement quite interesting, which makes me feel weird. Shame replaces all the hate I felt moments before. I need to apologize for punching him and also make sure he knows I’m not hitting on Monica.
Monica and I enter the auditorium, where Mr. Butrow hangs out. He’s sitting in the front row, flipping through a script.
We march up to him, side by side.
When we’re in front of him, Monica gives him a little wave. “Hi.”
He glances up from his script. “Miss Serrano.” He turns his attention to me and wrinkles his forehead. “Mr. Jimenez.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Butrow,” I say in a polite voice.
He sets the script on the chair next to him. “I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Jimenez.”
I lift a brow. “You are?”
He stands. “I need to talk to you.” He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks at Monica. “Could you excuse us?”
“Of course,” she says.
Mr. Butrow waits for her to be out of earshot. “So, Mr. Nazari informed me you were involved in a fight.”
“Accident,” I lie.
He slides a hand over his gray hair and stares at me. “Fight, accident—whatever you want to call it—is a serious matter.” He frowns. “You know this is a zero-tolerance school, Mr. Jimenez.” A statement.
I want to shout that Lia hit me out of the blue, but I refuse to play victim. I sigh. “I know, Mr. Butrow. But—”
He holds out a hand. “I’m not asking you to explain what happened.”
This is so unfair, it sucks. Damn it. I glance at Monica, who stands in a far corner with her arms crossed. I don’t know what else to say, so I stay silent.
The director cocks his head and motions at my face. “Does it hurt?”
On instinct, I touch my nose. “It’s okay now.”
Tense silence follows.
I clear my throat and point at Monica. “We wanted to talk to you about something, Mr. Butrow.”
He shakes his head. “Whatever you have to say, Mr. Jimenez, it can wait.”
I sense bad vibes emanating from him. “Can wait for what?”
“Your reproachable behavior has forced me to make a decision.” He locks his eyes on mine. “I’m sorry to say, but you’re fired from the play.”
“What? No.” I take a step back as my internal organs drop. “It was an accident.”
“We’ve already discussed that, Mr. Jimenez.”
“But that isn’t fair!” I shout. “You can’t do this to me.”
“It’s done.” He glowers at me for a long moment. “You can go now.”
“I…” I inhale deeply, then exhale. “Is there anything I can do to fix this?”
“Not now. In the future, avoid confrontations.” He waves me off. “If you excuse me, I have work to do.”
I open my mouth and close it.
Mr. Butrow drops onto his chair, grabs the script, and flips through its pages.
“Pinchi maestro,” I curse in Spanish through gritted teeth.
He tilts his head up. “What’d you say?”
“I said, ‘Goodbye, teacher.’”
<
br /> He nods and goes back to the script, and I turn to leave.
“Mr. Jimenez?” Mr. Butrow calls, stopping me. I spin in my Vans to face him, and he adds, “This isn’t permanent. You can try auditioning again for our next play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
That sounds like a consolation prize for being fired from the current play. Before I do something stupid, I say, “Okay,” and storm out of the auditorium without looking back.
Afterward, Monica joins me outside. “What happened?”
“Mr. Butt Row.” I gesture at the auditorium behind her. “He—I’m screwed.”
She grabs my arm. “Hey.”
“Don’t—” I huff in frustration, wiggling her off.
She throws her hands up in surrender. “Okay.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, it’s just that this totally sucks.”
Monica inclines her head. “Entiendo si no quieres decirme.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you.” I hold out a hand. “Just give me a minute.”
She switches her backpack from one shoulder to the other, then nods. “Do you want a soda or something?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. I want to go home, drop onto my bed, and sleep the rest of this nightmare of a day off.
She bobs her head. “Anything I can do to help?”
Man, this girl won’t stop until I tell her what happened. “Mr. Butrow fired me over this.” I point at my nose.
She gasps. “Why?”
“Zero tolerance,” I say, making finger quotes.
“Oh. That’s horrible. I guess…” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m gonna quit in protest.”
“Don’t do that.”
“I can, and I will.” She shrugs. “I don’t like the teacher that much, anyway.”
“Please, don’t quit.” I force a smile. “I’m looking forward to see you play Horatio.”
She blinks. “You are?”
“Yes.” Not really.
She smiles wide. “Okay. I’ll do it for you.”
For me? What’s that supposed to mean? I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “I have to head home.” I walk away before she gets any weirder.
“Kiev?” she calls as I reach the door, making me crane my neck. She walks toward me, swaying her hips. “Are you going to the festival’s kickoff party?”
“Party?” I echo, trying to buy time. The detail is—each year, most high school kids dance and get drunk the Friday before the Piggie Palooza festival starts. I’ve never been to this party because I dislike the festival and anything related to it. Besides, I won’t go just because Monica is asking me.
Bacon Pie Page 8
