Evolution, Me & Other Freaks of Nature

by Robin Brande

Against my will I glanced over at Teresa. Something about her bleached-out head always draws the eye—that, and the fact that she thinks it's funny to mix religion and sleaze. Today she's wearing these shockingly low-cut jeans I can't believe her parents ever let her buy, along with a red (devil red—how's that for specific, Ms. Shepherd?) Jesus Freak T-shirt about two sizes too small to make sure everyone notices her boobs. Guess that'll bring the guys to church.

  She was laughing with her lab partner, Kelsey Dunbar (also church, also hates me), and I could just tell from the way Teresa's mouth looked—cruel and snide—that she was saying something mean right at that moment, either about me or about Ms. Shepherd.

  “Yeah,” I told Casey, “winning sounds good.”

  Four

  Which brings us to now—lunch.

  I never, ever, EVER thought I'd be sitting alone in the cafeteria on my first day of high school. Ever.

  It's so noisy. There are so many kids here. And even though I know a lot of them, it's not as many as I thought. I guess it's possible that there are hundreds of people here who haven't heard of me, don't care what I did—might even be horrified at the whole story and the way I'm being treated and instantly take my side. Those people are my friends. Now I just have to find them.

  In the meantime, I'll look as busy as possible writing in this notebook, eating my turkey and Swiss, unpeeling my banana—all these important activities that simply keep me too occupied to look up and notice that I'm alone.

  I bought this notebook on a whim. I think it was meant for younger kids, but I don't care. I might just love it. Like loving my potato.

  It has a red cover—no, more of a pinkish burgundy— and it's made of some kind of fabric (sorry, Ms. Shepherd, don't know what kind) that's fuzzy like short-cropped fur, and I know it's sick, but I have this incredible urge to rub it against my cheek right now for a little bit of comfort, like the old days of rubbing my favorite blanket against my face while I sucked my thumb.

  I don't see that Casey guy anywhere. Maybe he has a different lunch. I do see Teresa and Bethany and the whole host of holy Christians, half of whom have done far worse things than people act like I have, and yet they still get to wear their I ♥ Jesus T-shirts to school, and no one would dare challenge them.

  If I showed up in my Jesus Freak T-shirt or my WWJD bracelet, they'd stone me before I got through the door.

  Must keep busy.

  Let's make a to-do list.

  Find some friends. No, let's keep it simple: Find one friend. Cling to her like static.

  Stop caring what anyone thinks. If they're talking about you, so what? You know you did the right thing, so hold your head high. I mean it.

  Find a club to join. There are lots of kids at this school and lots of interesting things to do besides go to church group every other night. Expand your horizons.

  Do great in school this year. I mean not just your usual great, but exceptionally great. Shove their noses in it.

  Try to make the parents like you again. There has to be a way.

  Either learn to eat alone and not care or find someplace else to go at lunch. Library? Parking lot? (No, too many stoners and smokers, I'm sure.) Always have a book to read. Always carry this notebook. Appear busy at all times.

  Stop obsessing about all of this. If you move on, others will, too. Honest.

  Do something better with your hair besides this ponytail.

  Grow out your nails.

  Stop worrying.

  Busy, busy, busy. That's me, writing away, so busy I can't notice that Teresa is walking straight toward me.

  Five

  It's unnatural to sweat as much as I just did, just from a thirty-second conversation.

  It's the first time Teresa and I have talked face to face since the lawsuit got filed. I've gotten plenty of e-mails from her in the last few weeks telling me what a b-i-t-c-h I am, but it's not like hearing it in person.

  “So,” Teresa said.

  I pretended not to hear.

  “How's it feel, traitor?”

  I just kept my head down and pretended to keep eating, as if I could swallow anything.

  She picked up my banana peel and tossed it on top of my sandwich. “I said, how's it feel, bitch?”

  She leaned over the table and grabbed my wrist. And twisted it.

  I held my breath. I didn't make a sound.

  Her face was so close to mine I could smell her gum.

  “So what's it like to be the most hated person in this school? Bet you're glad you opened your big fat mouth.”

  She stopped twisting, but still held on to my wrist.

  “I thought we were friends. How could you do that to me? What were you thinking?”

  I couldn't look at her. I couldn't breathe.

  “Answer me!”

  My hand was numb. All of me was.

  Teresa straightened up and tossed my wrist away. “You're pathetic, you know that? You're nothing. You might as well be dead.” She slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, whoops, did I say something bad? Mommy gonna sue me?”

  She leaned toward me again. She smelled like cinnamon and hair gel. “Stay away from me. I mean it. You understand?”

  I didn't move, didn't make a peep. I wouldn't have put it past her to slap me if I did.

  “I'm talking to you, Judas! Do you hear me?”

  I knew people were staring at us, but there was nothing I could do about it. I just had to sit there and take it.

  “You're pathetic.” She picked up my banana peel and threw it at my chest.

  It's still there, the peel. It's sitting on my lap. I haven't touched it. I haven't done anything since Teresa stalked off except go back to writing in this notebook. I am such a coward. I feel sick. I'm such a baby. I have to be stronger than this, or I'll never make it past today. Keep writing. Don't let them see you shaking. Write, write, write.

  It's just that HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DEAL WITH ALL THIS??? After everything they did to Denny, now they get to act like I'M the bad guy? Just because I tried to fix it? I didn't write that letter because I wanted anyone to get in trouble. I did it because I was trying to be a good person, even if it was too late.

  There's the bell. Thank GOD, and I mean that literally. Please let this day hurry up and be over.

  At least please don't let it get any worse.

  Six

  Home—thank goodness. I wish I could figure out some way of never having to leave my room again. I'm beginning to understand the appeal of home schooling. Not that it would work so well in my case, since my parents can't exactly stand me right now, either. I wonder if you can take high school over the internet.

  At least my afternoon wasn't so bad. French, world civ, and algebra—and Teresa wasn't in a single one of those. Yay! Lara's in French, Bethany Wells is in world civ, and there are three people who hate me in algebra, but I think I can take all that. As long as I know I'm always going to be done with Teresa by lunch.

  I'm up here pretending to do homework (which I actually do need to do) (later). Mom is in the kitchen making something for the church bake sale tonight and trying to forget she ever gave birth to me. Just when I think she can't get any madder, she'll have a bad day like today, when she gets another call from one of the parents who got sued, and it reminds her all over again how much she hates me.

  Not that she would ever say that to my face, but come on—it's so obvious. She barely says four words to me anymore. I'm sure she'd prefer that from now on I stay in my room after school and just work, work, work. Anything, as long as I'm not having fun.

  She doesn't know that what I've really been doing since I got home is looking up Ms. Shepherd on the internet, deleting a bunch of nasty e-mails from my former friends, obsessing over every single detail of my day, and finally thinking a little about Casey Connor, although I'm not really sure why.

  It's just that he is kind of funny. We had about twenty minutes left of class to spend with our potato today, and Casey started by switching back
to his British accent and badgering it with questions.

  “Tell me, Mr. Potato—” He lifted the spud to his ear. “What's that? Sorry, Mzzzz Potato. Enjoying the States, are you? Out to see the grandspuds in Idaho? Been shot from any cannons lately?”

  Ms. Shepherd was doing the rounds, and as she came near us Casey switched to a very serious (American) voice and started rattling off terms like “circumference” and “nucleotides” and “swatchnoid.” I nodded studiously and copied them on our work sheet.

  After a few moments Casey looked around to make sure no one else was listening, then whispered like a British detective, “Potato shows signs of trauma, possibly made by shovel or trowel.”

  “I was thinking a spade,” Ms. Shepherd said behind us. “Facts, people, facts.”

  Casey blushed puce.

  When the coast was clear, he went back to talking to our potato. “That's right, you're the prettiest spud in here. Don't even look at the others. They're all so jealous of you.” He covered the potato's ears—I guess—and whispered to me, “She thinks she's fat. Tell her.” He thrust the potato in my face.

  “All the other potatoes are much fatter,” I said, patting her on the head. “And you have a much better personality.”

  I felt kind of stupid, but kind of not. The truth is, it was fun to play around. It's been too long since anyone wanted to just hang out with me and goof off.

  “Good,” Casey said, slamming the potato to his desk. “Now let's chop this thing to bits.”

  I should get to my homework soon. I actually have a fair amount to do. But I'm guessing I'll have plenty of time tonight. I don't imagine Mom will call me down to help with dinner—she hasn't for the past month, so why start now? It's a weird sort of punishment, not having to set the table or peel the carrots or whatever anymore, but I know what she means by it. She doesn't want me around her right now. She's still too upset.

  And then there's my father's inability lately to ever look me in the eye. I say something, and if I'm lucky he mumbles something back, but he won't grace me with a look.

  Good times.

  Look, let's start over. There has to be a better way of handling all of this.

  First of all, I can't let these people get to me anymore. Everything happens for a reason, right? Things are awful and ugly right now, but maybe they had to be that way for me to ever break free. Because I knew last year what these people were doing was wrong, but I just didn't have the guts to do anything about it. So now God has taken care of that for me by getting me kicked out of the church. I should be grateful. Really.

  Second, I need to focus all of my energies on something positive. So starting right now, I am going to throw myself into my schoolwork. I am going to get straight A's this year and win every award there is to win—including Ms. Shepherd's weird potato prize. Maybe that will prove to my parents that I'm not a total reject as a child. If I can't fix what I've already done, at least I can do better in the future.

  Plus, concentrating on school will keep me completely occupied, and my former friends will have to notice they haven't turned me into a quivering hunk of weeniness just because they've ostracized me.

  So:

  Start doing my homework the second I get home from school every day.

  Take on any extra-credit projects any teacher offers.

  Work extra hard in the subjects that aren't my best, like math and science.

  Win every single prize and award there is to win.

  Get straight A's this year and every year.

  Get better grades than Teresa or anyone else.

  Make a bunch of new friends who are smarter and more fun than the ones I used to have.

  That ought to rub their noses in it. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, but sometimes it's hard not to get a jump on it yourself.

  Seven

  Day two of Her Miserable Life.

  Started with a lovely scene at the start of Mr. Kuhl-man's class, when I overheard Bethany tell Teresa, “My dad said to meet at our house tomorrow night.”

  Great. A meeting at Pastor Wells's house means something new is in the works. What fire and brimstone does he plan on unleashing this time? Is he really going to start some new campaign even though the Pierces are probably going to win millions of dollars against him and the church because of the last one? What is he thinking?

  But it's not my problem this time. I am so glad. I never realized how wonderful it would feel to be free of the whole thing. I'm sorry my parents might lose their business over this, but I'm not sorry for speaking up. Somebody had to say something.

  So while Teresa and Bethany huddled together, and Teresa made sure to speak clearly and loudly so I could overhear them, I just kept my head down and waited for the bell. And the whole time I felt like shouting, WHO CARES? Because I really don't. I've participated in my last act of Christian aggression, thank you. I am cured for life.

  Bethany glanced over at me a few times, like she felt guilty I could overhear.

  Well, Bethany should feel guilty, but not for that. I have to believe that in her heart of hearts she knows she's as responsible as her father is for this whole mess. It may have been Pastor Wells's idea to start that whole campaign at our school, but Bethany's the one who took charge of carrying it out. I'm sure her intentions were noble, knowing her, but she should have thought of the consequences.

  Thank God the bell for class finally rang and Teresa had to shut up.

  Today we started A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens. Mr. Kuhlman has this great books-on-tape kind of voice, and he read aloud from the first few pages while we followed along. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. …”

  You said it, Dickens. Except for the “best of times” part.

  Eight

  Casey said, “Let's start with the least obvious facts. Then work backwards.”

  All around us, people were weighing their potatoes, fondling their potatoes, measuring them, sniffing them— it was a potato orgy.

  But Casey and I were Scientific.

  Casey brought a whole bag of stuff from home today: baseball, softball, cantaloupe, paint-chip color chart, Crayola box (the megabox, to make sure we matched the colors exactly), printouts from the internet, some measuring tool called calipers (“I wasn't sure if she'd have any in here,” he explained. I nodded, since I wasn't sure, either— what a caliper is, I mean), an awl (“I'm probably not supposed to bring that on campus—probably counts as a sharp”), a paperback science fiction novel titled Gaunt Messenger (“There's a great sequence in there where they live on nothing but potatoes for eight months—we should throw in a few lines from that”)—who knows what else. I was simply amazed. I only brought my fuzzy notebook.

  “We're going to compare and contrast the potato to all these other things,” Casey explained about the baseball and softball and cantaloupe. “Distill and eliminate all the common properties.”

  I kept nodding. What else could I do? Some people have Science Brain, some don't. Compare and contrast that.

  We found an unoccupied corner of the room and got to work. We were in the middle of adding dried figs to one side of the scale (think Teresa's partner brought dried figs? Sucka) when Ms. Shepherd came over to us, watched for a second, took a sip of her Starbucks (delivered by the same giant—she must have a contract with him), nodded, and moved on without a word. Maybe she thinks we're geniuses. Maybe she thinks we're freaks. In either case, takes one to know one.

  Because I looked her up on the internet, all right. Wow. Undergrad at Brown University, PhD at Harvard. She has her own website, with a blog she updates every week or so. The last entry talked about some trip she took to Bermuda over the summer, and how they drive on the left side of the road there, and she kept turning her head the wrong way to look for oncoming traffic and almost got mowed down by a moped. She also wrote something about a guy named “Herc,” and she wasn't sure if that was short for “Hercules,” but she doubted it. She didn't really say how she knew him.<
br />
  She was there for a science conference. She won an award for some discovery or research paper or something— it wasn't too clear. She was pretty modest about it. She just said she had a hard time dressing up for the awards dinner because the last time she wore high heels she was about twelve, but her colleagues assured her this was a heels event. But by the time the emcee announced her name, her feet hurt so badly she just walked up to the podium barefoot. She didn't think anyone noticed.

  I asked Casey if he read that.

  “Sure. You should have seen one of the ones from June. She picked up some rash while camping in the Adirondacks, and then she took in her own skin and blood samples to a lab and it turned out to be some new parasite no one's ever heard of before.” Casey snapped his fingers. “Another discovery, just like that. She's brilliant.”

  “How long have you been reading her blog?”

  “Three years.”

  “Why? Two-point-five,” I added, giving him the caliper measurement of one of the potato's eyes.

  “My sister had her freshman year. We're both big fans.”

  I can't imagine being a “big fan” of a teacher I'd never even had. Casey must not get out much.

  “So why do you think she's teaching high school, then?” I asked. “I mean, if she's so brilliant.”

  “Check her FAQs. Her high school biology teacher is the one who turned her on to science. She feels it's her mission to pass it on. You forgot that one.” Casey pointed to a blemish on the surface of the potato. “Looks like the Big Dipper.”

  I traced it onto our paper next to my other sketches of strange features on the potato's surface. One of them looked like half of Mickey Mouse's head.

  “We need to do a summary,” Casey said. “Eyes, bumps, discolorations—”