by Robin Brande
For Amanda and Matthew
Nothing is easier than to admit in words the truth of the universal struggle for life.
—Charles Darwin, The Origin of Species
One
I knew today would be ugly.
When you're single-handedly responsible for getting your church, your pastor, and every one of your former friends and their parents sued for millions of dollars, you expect to make some enemies. Fine.
It's just that I hoped my first day of school—of high school, thank you, which I've only been looking forward to my entire life—might turn out to be at least slightly better than eating live bugs. But I guess I was wrong.
I knew I'd be seeing some of these people today, but in first period already? And it has to be none other than my former best friend and the pastor's daughter—two of the people who have cause to hate me the most.
Having Teresa and Bethany in English might not be so bad if they'd just ignore me, but at the start of class when Mr. Kuhlman called, “Mena Reece,” and I croaked out my “Here,” Teresa had to turn her blond, spiky head around and shoot me the Look of Death, and I got that combined feeling of needing to throw up and possibly pee my pants.
Think positive. Think positive.
Why didn't my parents let me transfer? There are plenty of charter schools around, or they could have sent me to live with my aunt in Wyoming or with strangers in Alaska for all I care. But I know they want to see me punished. They pretend they've forgiven me, but I know deep down inside they hate me for writing that letter, just like everybody else.
It's only been half an hour, and already I can tell this is going to be the worst day of my life. I don't know why I'm so surprised. I knew seeing everyone today would be hard. It's only been a month since they were all served with the lawsuit, and even though I've gotten plenty of hate e-mails and phone messages since then, it's not the same as having to deal with these people in person.
I just didn't realize I'd be so scared. It's pathetic. What do I have to be afraid of? My conscience is clear. I didn't do anything wrong.
No, correction: I did the right thing. And someday the truth shall set me free.
Just not, apparently, today.
Two
Okay, at least second period wasn't so bad.
Maybe the only good thing about going to New Advantage High School (motto: “Let brilliance find you”— whatever that's supposed to mean) is they count yoga as PE. Also archery, tai chi, and kickboxing. But I'm glad I picked yoga. If ever a girl needs an hour between English and biology to chill out and breathe deeply and try to prevent her oncoming heart attack, that's me. Plus, I don't know a single person in my yoga class, for which I am truly grateful.
I wasn't sure my parents would let me take yoga. Pastor Wells was on this funk last year about how chanting during yoga or meditation is idol worship, because you're focused on a word or an image that isn't God and you're basically praying to it. He said the only acceptable way to meditate is to picture the Lord in front of you, his arms wide, a gentle smile on his face. Some women from the church even started their own class to teach us how to do it.
So this morning while our teacher, Missy, led us through the pranas and the asanas, I thought about Jesus the whole time. I pictured us on a hillside together, lying back on the grass while his flock grazed all around us.
I talked Jesus's ear off, but he smiled and let me go on. And when I had unloaded everything that was on my mind, he gave me a hug and called me Little Sister and told me everything will be all right.
It will, won't it? It felt so good to believe it.
Toward the end of class, Missy taught us some posture that I swear can only come in handy if you ever want to shave your own back. But our reward for pretzeling was that for the last twenty minutes of class she let us lie on our mats with our eyes closed, thinking our most peaceful thoughts.
I am in the woods, beside a calm, serene lake. The birds are singing. I can smell the pine. I am completely invisible. No one can find me. I've never heard of Denny Pierce.
And then the bell rang. Happy time was over.
I dressed as boring as I could today—plain jeans, a faded black T-shirt—hoping it would help hide me somehow. Right. As if I could walk even two steps down the hall without someone I know recognizing me and giving me the total Hairy Eyeball.
I kept my head down and plowed through, and had almost made it to my third-period biology class without bodily harm when someone hip-checked me into the wall.
I turned to see my former—don't know what to call him, really. Crush? Pre-boyfriend? The guy I was stupid enough to like last year and thought I might actually go out with once I'm allowed to date?—snickering and snuffling to himself. Yeah, Adam, that's so impressive. People must think you're really cool for tackling some girl you outweigh by a hundred pounds.
But I didn't say anything, of course. Just mumbled, “Don't,” and hurried into class. Way to stick up for yourself, Mena. You showed him.
And then as if having Adam in that class isn't enough, guess who else? Teresa, of course, because apparently having her in English just isn't enough torture. For all I know, she's probably in all my classes except yoga, and tomorrow she'll transfer into that, too, just to make sure I'm living my own personal hell.
I grabbed a seat as far away from her as possible, but Teresa still managed to throw me a look like would I do everyone a favor and just die.
If the day keeps going like this, I might.
Three
Right before biology started, this enormous senior-looking guy came into the room and handed our teacher, Ms. Shepherd, a venti Starbucks. She clasped her hands together like God had answered her prayer, then scrounged in her purse for the cash. She thanked the giant and dismissed him, then held the cup to her nose, closed her eyes, sniffed through the lid, and finally took her first sip. It was like her own personal yoga moment.
I had nothing else to do but watch her, since the last thing I wanted to do was make eye contact with any of the other people filing into the room. What a nightmare. Not only Adam and Teresa, but fully half of that class are people from my church.
My ex-church. My parents still go there, but Pastor Wells let it be known that I'm no longer welcome. Fine. As if I could stand being around those people anymore anyway.
So I stared at Ms. Shepherd instead. She's kind of pretty, in a nerdy smart-looking way, if that makes any sense. She's short and a little fleshy, but not really fat— more like comfortable. She has tan skin and dark eyes and messy black hair. She wears these kind of funky/nerdy black horn-rim glasses that you'd choose for an actress if she were going to play a science teacher in a movie.
But you wouldn't pick those clothes. First of all, her shoes were beyond ugly—all scuffed and blocky and hideous. And her clothes were so wrinkled it's like she'd slept in them. When I was little I used to sleep in my clothes before the first day of school, I was so excited, but I doubt teachers feel that way. I think Ms. Shepherd might just be a slob.
I kept on hearing my name. I swear I'm not paranoid— people really were talking about me. I heard a few choice words I wish I hadn't.
I reached into my backpack and started taking stuff out, and meanwhile secretly counted how many of them were in the room. Fourteen. Fourteen people from my church youth group. Nine of them being sued by Denny Pierce's parents, thanks to me. I was going to be sick.
The bell rang. Ms. Shepherd stayed where she was, rear end perched against her desk, eyes closed, Starbucks gripped lovingly in her hand while she enjoyed just a few extra moments of caffeine bliss. Then her eyes jolted open as if the beans had just kicked in.
“Okay,
then, people, here's the story,” she began. “I don't grade on a curve. I don't reward mediocrity. Your grades will depend on test scores, lab work, class participation, and a special project due at the end of the semester. What's the special project, you ask? See me after class if you want a jump on it. Otherwise wait to find out with the masses.”
She picked up her roster and forged ahead. “I will be assigning your lab partners. No, you may not switch. Jeremy Agee?”
Startled, Jeremy answered. “H-ere.”
“A raised hand will do,” Ms. Shepherd said before speeding on.
My stomach tensed. Here was my first real test of bravery. I'd know with the next name she called whether Ms. Shepherd was going down the roster by twos. If so, chances were she'd see Mena Reece and Teresa Roberts and think we'd make a great pair, and wouldn't realize she had just mixed holy water with acid.
Not that I'm holy water. But Teresa is what she is.
But Ms. Shepherd went the creative route and paired Jeremy Agee with Juan Zamora, and to my bottomless gratitude, she paired me with a person named Casey Connor.
I was so relieved it wasn't Teresa, I forgot to see who raised a hand at the same time I did.
I scanned the room, not sure if I was searching for a boy or a girl. Could be either these days. In fifth grade there were two Hunters—a boy and a girl—and at church there are four Aidens of various genders. Mena could be a boy, I suppose, except that I'm named for some gnarled-up old Czechoslovakian grandmother my mom grew up next door to and loved, apparently, more than her own grandmothers, who had decent names like Elizabeth and Rose.
Ms. Shepherd zipped through the list, then told us to find our partners.
I stayed put—no way was I leaving the safety of my chair. I kept my eyes to myself and hoped whoever my lab partner was, he or she wouldn't mind searching for me.
A boy about my size, with pale skin and dark eyebrows and curly black hair, came toward me. “Hallo, Miss Reece?” he asked in a British accent, tipping an imaginary hat. I nodded, a little stunned. “Pleasure. Casey Connor.” He shook my hand, then stuffed his backpack underneath the chair beside me and sat down.
I was just processing how cool it was to have a lab partner from England when suddenly Casey dropped the accent and said in his normal voice, “Don't worry, I've got the special project all worked out. Unless you have an idea, which is fine—let's put them all on the table. But one way or another you and I are going to win this year. No question.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. It's like I'd barged in on someone else's conversation. Before I could sound as stupid as I felt, Ms. Shepherd saved me by clapping for attention.
She took another deep sip of coffee, then scanned each of our faces like we had all been brought in for questioning. “Listen up. You need to understand something before we begin. I love science—love it. I mean LOVE IT.”
There was silence for a second, then a few kids snickered. Adam Ridgeway said, “Okaaayy …”
Casey whispered, “This is going to be great!”
In that moment I knew: my lab partner is a total geek.
“I tell you that,” Ms. Shepherd continued, “because I know that sitting in front of me right now are some of the future scientists of America. I say to you, welcome. WELCOME. You are the people whose curiosity will uncover the riches of our universe. You are the ones who will show us what greatness the human mind is capable of. YOU are the people who will save us from ourselves. Let's give you all a round of applause.”
She and Casey were the only ones clapping at first. Then some of the rest of us joined in, a little tentatively. I looked over at my former comrades, off in their herd whispering and laughing at Ms. Shepherd. Which only made me clap all the harder.
Ms. Shepherd lifted her Starbucks in salute. “All right, then. No time to lose. Let's go make some science.”
She grabbed a burlap sack from behind her desk and cruised around the room. Next thing I know, there's a potato sitting on my desk.
“You have to share,” Ms. Shepherd told us. “And no snacking.”
“What's this for?” some boy asked.
“To make you brilliant,” Ms. Shepherd answered. “Just like it says in the brochure.”
Casey Connor picked up our potato. “I did this in camp once. The potato actually flies.” Not sure if he was serious or not.
Ms. Shepherd returned to the front of the room. Then she spun around, her back to us, and asked, “What color is my shirt?” She was wearing a jacket over it, so the answer wasn't obvious.
“Red,” a girl called out.
“No,” Ms. Shepherd snapped.
“Green,” someone else tried.
“No.”
A few more attempts before Ms. Shepherd gave up and turned around. “Puce. My shirt is puce.”
“Puke?” said Adam (always the funny man) (not). It dawned on me suddenly that if Ms. Shepherd had been going alphabetically by twos, I would have ended up with him instead of Teresa, which would have been equally horrifying. I said a silent thank-you for Casey.
“Puce,” Ms. Shepherd repeated. “Dark red.”
“I said ‘red’!” complained the girl who had.
“Not ‘red,’ “ Ms. Shepherd said. “ ‘Red’ is general— ‘red’ is boring. ‘Puce’ is specific. These are the distinctions we scientists must make. Something isn't simply ‘green’ or ‘orange’ or ‘smelly’—”
That cracked people up, although they weren't laughing with her, I don't think.
“When you're a scientist, you deal in specifics. If I say I love you”—she pointed to a chubby boy hunched over his desk in back—”then I should be able to say I love you to this certain degree and temperature and height and width. Follow?”
No one followed. And the chubby guy looked ready to bolt.
“So with your potato, I want you to treat that like it's the most beloved thing you've ever had in front of you in your life—”
“I love you!” Adam told his potato. I can't believe I used to like that guy.
Ms. Shepherd ignored him. “—like it's gold or sapphires or your favorite cat. Follow? Or like it's the man or woman of your dreams—”
“What are you talking about?” Teresa interrupted in her snottiest, most defiant way. I used to delight in being around her when she did things like that. I could be the good girl hiding in the background while my best friend took charge of being dangerous.
“I'm talking about observation,” answered Ms. Shepherd, readjusting the glasses that had slipped down her nose. “I'm talking about precision. I'm talking about leaving behind all those broad generalities you teenagers speak in and finally getting down to some specifics.
“You.” She pointed to Lara Donaldson. (Church. Hates me.) “Give me your potato.”
Lara so willingly did.
Ms. Shepherd removed her glasses and stared bare-eyed at the potato. “Not young, not old—”
“Just right,” Adam joked.
“Not for the scientist to judge,” Ms. Shepherd said. “Color?”
She pointed to Lara.
“Uh, brown?” Lara answered, in a tone that clearly meant, “Uh, duh?”
“Wrong. Is my shirt red? It's puce. What color is this potato?”
I ventured a try. “Tan?”
“Not tan, so much,” Ms. Shepherd said. “Too dark for tan. Anyone?”
Casey Connor held up his textbook and pointed to the color of the title. “Biology brown.”
Ms. Shepherd put her glasses back on and looked from the book back to the potato. “All right, we'll accept that answer for now. Heads up.” She tossed the potato back to a startled Lara, who fumbled it and had to dive under her desk to keep it from escaping like the meatball in “On Top of Spaghetti.”
“Got it?” Ms. Shepherd asked. “You have two class periods. I want to know everything—ev-ery-thing—you can tell me about your potato. No making up funny names for it or family history—let me stop you right there.” She loo
ked pointedly at Adam. “We want facts—always facts.”
She reached behind her onto her desk and lifted a mysterious, misshapen package. “Team with the best and most descriptions wins this.”
Before we could even process whether or not we'd even want whatever that thing was—and I'm still not sure, since it was the weirdest-shaped package I've ever seen—Ms. Shepherd shooed us with her free hand. “Go. Go. Make science.”
Well, no one can get right to work after a weird performance like that. It requires a little chatter. The room was all abuzz.
I blew out a breath and looked at Casey.
He must have seen I was a little skeptical about Ms. Shepherd, because the first thing he said was, “She's a genius. You should Google her. She has about twenty published papers in the top scientific journals. She's world-renowned.”
“For what?”
“Anthropological mathematics and dynamism.”
I nodded as if I understood what he'd just said.
“Just kidding. Cellular biology with some physics on the side. Anything from string theory to genomic mutations to quantum mechanics.”
“Oh. Wow.” As if I understood any of that, either.
“So what'd you think?” Casey asked.
“About …”
“Ms. Shepherd. Pretty great, huh?”
“Yeah. Pretty great.” Whatever. I think my lab partner might be as psycho as my teacher.
Ms. Shepherd was walking around the room, making sure we were getting to know our potatoes, so we had to keep it down.
“We're winning that prize,” Casey said, gesturing toward the mysterious package on Ms. Shepherd's desk. “Make no mistake.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Who cares? It's a prize. That's all we need to know. Bottom line.”
“Oh, you're one of those,” I joked, but really it didn't bother me. I'm not a competitive person by nature, but maybe I could use a little push these days. Besides, working hard in school might be the only thing I have right now to take my mind off my life.
