by Barbara Dee
“The same. Although I have tons of homework.”
She eyed me as she wiped Max’s mouth with a wet paper towel. “Any tests coming up?”
“Just Boring Spanish.”
“Ah,” Mom said. “And may I remind you, señorita, on your last report card you had a D-plus in Boring Spanish.”
I took a Granny Smith apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. “Because the teacher is evil.”
“Because you don’t study. You should let me help you, Fin, honey; I’m the queen of mnemonics.”
I chomped on the apple. “Yes, but mnemonics aren’t good for everything, Mom. They won’t work for irregular-verb tests.”
“Why not?” Mom argued. She wiped Max’s face with the towel, then Addie’s hands. “We’d have to be creative, but that’s the fun part. Don’t you remember how we used to drill your multiplication facts?”
I had to smile. Back in third grade, when I couldn’t remember eight times three, Mom came up with “I ate three donuts and barfed on the floor. Eight times three is twenty-four.” When I couldn’t remember six times six, she chanted, “Sticks times sticks is dirty sticks.” I’d never be a genius at algebra, but for the rest of my life I’d probably always remember dirty sticks and donut barf.
Still, I couldn’t imagine what good Mom’s tricks would be for memorizing mindless conjugations like tuve, tuviste, tuvo. You might as well have to memorize bar codes or license plates.
And anyhow, it was my problem.
“I’ll think about it, Mom,” I promised. “But thanks.”
She sighed. “All right. But Dad and I need to see a better grade this quarter, Finley. Or I’m afraid there’ll be a consequence.”
“Consequence?” I tossed the apple core. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she answered, “something you won’t be too happy about. Like maybe losing your camera for a month.”
I almost choked on a piece of apple. My camera? But they’d just given it to me for Christmas. As a present. It seemed cruel and unfair to take back a present, especially one they knew I’d wanted since forever. And then to call it “losing” the present, as if the issue was I’d misplaced my new camera out of carelessness.
But I didn’t argue with her, because what would have been the point? Losing my camera was obviously just a threat; it wasn’t going to actually happen.
“Don’t worry, I’ll do great on this test,” I told her.
“Well, I certainly hope so.” Mom wiped her face with the dirty, sticky paper towel. “All right, Finny, since I can’t help you with Spanish, you think you could possibly help me? I need a half hour, tops. If you could do your homework down here with the twins . . .”
“No problem.”
“You sure?”
“I’ll put on Sesame Street. Go work, Mom.”
“Finny, you’re awesome. Have I told you that lately?” She kissed my forehead and flew upstairs to be Mommy Oprah. Ever since the twins were born, Mom locked herself in her office every afternoon to do a blog called Max ’n’ Addie: 2 Cute 4 Words. Plus a podcast called Mommy & Us (“all about raising gender-healthy multiples”). Plus toddler-junk reviews for Chemical-Free Parenting magazine, which is how the Test Twins got their lifetime supply of Smiley-O’s.
It was weird—when I was little, Mom worked full-time at the local TV station, so basically I was watched by a bunch of babysitters. She switched to part-time when I was in elementary school, and even was troop leader for Green Girls, this exploring-nature group my friends and I did until seventh grade. But now she was home full-time as this uber-Mom expert-person, kind of a Frog version of a mom, if that was even possible.
The twins followed me into the TV room, where I switched on Elmo. He was learning to count pennies out loud, very slowly, lining them up on a picnic table in perfect rows.
“Nobody counts like that,” I informed my siblings.
“Shh, Finnee,” Addie scolded.
“Fine,” I said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I plopped on the sofa with my science binder. I took out my chewed-up pencil and opened to the back, where we kept the Life Cycle. After what Maya had said to me about boys, I needed to read a few entries, to remind myself of my expertise on the subject.
First I turned to the latest update:
Wyeth Brockman: Tadpole with Croaker tendencies.
Okay, this status change still seemed right to me—not a full upgrade to Croaker, but fair. But now I needed to provide details, because you couldn’t just upgrade someone without evidence.
I wrote:
Croaked on the word WEEKEND, blushed, and kinda/sorta asked Maya to stupid action movie. But still making bubbles through straw, still plays with LEGOs (need to confirm), chews thumbnail.
To be generous, I left extra space in case Wyeth had another growth spurt, even though something told me it wouldn’t happen in the next twenty-four hours.
Then, to prove to myself I wasn’t boy-illiterate, I skimmed some of the older entries on the chart:
Ryan Seederholm: Croaker. Smells like a gerbil. Why hasn’t someone informed him about the invention of deodorant? Does he own any T-shirts WITHOUT references to superheroes? Talks like he has serious bronchitis.
Jonathan Pressman: Croaker. His voice sounds like a chain saw shutting off in slow motion. AAAaaagh. Also his hair is too long and his sleeves and pants are too short. Doesn’t laugh—snickers and guffaws.
Drew Looper: Croaker. Upper-lip fuzz, visible in math (sits by the window). Not un-nice, but constantly cracking his knuckles. Video-game addict. Says “bro” and “dude,” not ironically.
Trey Gunderson: Tadpole. Eats string cheese, brings a juice box from home. Giggles in science when we’re studying “cell reproduction.”
Dylan McGraw: RIBBIT!!! (This was in Maya’s handwriting.) Compliments Maya’s knitting (scarf)! Saves M a seat in the lunchroom! Laughs at M’s joke! Gorgeous smile!!!
Kyle Parker: Croaker. Punches people in the arm for communication. Pizza stain on his football jersey. Can’t breathe without Jarret Lynch’s permission. Frog potential, if he dumps Jarret. Maybe.
Ben Santino: Croaker. Hair grease, Xbox obsession, teases Finley about Bangs Fiasco. Incapable of non-sports-related conversation. Not un-nice, just un-Froggy.
Jarret Lynch: Croaker, although thinks he’s a Frog. Follows Chloe around, laughs like hyena. Crams food into mouth, talks while chewing. Shoves, snickers, burps, grunts. Wears bad plaid.
Sam Knapp: Tadpole. Picks nose on school bus. End of discussion.
Cody Bannister: Tadpole. Carries Iron Man lunch box. Eats chocolate pudding. Super-squeaky voice.
Suddenly I remembered Zachary. Probably we’d never see him again after today, but he deserved mention in the Life Cycle, didn’t he? Not just for the way he’d changed—because he was part of our class. Or used to be.
For a second I thought, Oh, but wait, maybe first I should discuss this with Maya. But I was still mad at her, I guess. And anyway, it wasn’t like I needed her permission to write in my own notebook. Or to update the Life Cycle, which half belonged to me anyway. So I added:
Zachary Mattison: Total Frog. Apparently skipped (hopped?) over Croaker. Didn’t know you could do that, but
My cell rang; it was Olivia. The twins were mesmerized by a song about the joys of tooth brushing, so I went into the kitchen to answer in private.
“Guess what,” she announced. Even though she hardly ever called me anymore, she didn’t bother to say something like Hey, Finley, it’s Olivia; she just started talking. “Well. After you guys left school today, I was with Chloe, and she was like, ‘Omigosh, I feel so bad, because I didn’t finish inviting all these people to my party.’ So I said, ‘You want me to make some calls for you?’ And she was like, ‘Would you? That would be awesome!’ ”
“Ah,” I said. “And you’re inviting us? For Chloe?”
“Obvi! I mean, I know you guys were planning to go to Maya’s brother’s thing Saturday
night—”
“Yeah, we were.”
“But just in case you’d rather be with your classmates . . .” She paused. “And I told you, Dylan says he’ll be there. Not that you care.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” After what Maya had just said to me about boys, it was a little hard not to overreact.
“Because Maya likes Dylan,” Olivia explained. “And you like Kyle.”
“Actually, I don’t.” See what I mean? People at Fulton filed away humiliating information and then tortured you for infinity. “Seriously, O, I haven’t liked Kyle in like a year.”
Longer than a year, but of course I wasn’t about to launch into some big you’d-know-exactly-when-I-fell-out-of-crush-if-you-hadn’t-dumped-us-for-Chloe speech.
“And speaking of Maya,” I added, “I have no comment about Dylan, but she’s specifically invited, right?”
“To Chloe’s?” Olivia paused. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Mmmf.”
“Okay, I know there’s a little weirdness between those two,” Olivia admitted. “But we’re all friends, aren’t we? And Hanna also.”
We were? I thought how extremely nice but also how strange it was that Olivia had this fantasy that nothing had changed since the Green Girl days, that we were still four best friends—but that off to the side, in a parallel universe, was Chloe. Or rather, Olivia and Chloe, plus Chloe’s other assorted lapdogs.
“Then you guys will come to the party?” Olivia was asking.
“Not sure yet,” I admitted. “Maybe.”
“You have to! And by the way, I’m inviting Freakazoid.”
“What?”
“Joking! Omigosh, Finley, could you imagine Chloe’s face?”
Then she hung up.
Great, great, great. And now what was I supposed to do with this information? Go to Maya and be all like, Hey, good news! Chloe says you’re invited after all!
Because, knowing Maya, she’d want the invitation straight from Chloe, not passed along from Chloe to Olivia to me, like we were first graders playing telephone. Plus she’d want an actual invitation—I don’t mean all printed out like the Terrible Twos’ birth announcements; I mean with Chloe looking her in the eye and saying, Hey, Maya, I forgive you for the laundry-room incident with Dylan, and also for making Hansen give us a test tomorrow. Please come to my party.
Really, the more I thought about it, the more I wasn’t sure I should even tell Maya about this call.
But then I thought: If I don’t tell her, she’ll want to crash the party. And maybe pick a fight with Chloe for not inviting her.
Which Chloe did.
And also didn’t.
“POW!” Max shouted so loud it sounded like a firecracker in my head. I spun around to see my little brother pointing a red rubber dolphin at me. “BOOM!”
“You should be watching Elmo,” I snapped. “And stop pointing dolphins at people!”
“He’s always pointing things and making sound effects,” Mom announced, as she came into the kitchen with her empty mug. She put on the teakettle. “I think it’s a gender thing, really, because Addie’s more into people and language; you can talk to her; she’s this little person. But boys.” She smiled. “They’re just so strange sometimes, don’t you think?”
“Whatever,” I said. “I have utterly no opinion about boys.”
“You don’t? Did something happen?” She lifted Max, kissing his messy curls.
Mom was clearly hoping for a heart-to-heart girl chat, but the last thing I felt like doing was telling her all about my supposed boy illiteracy. For one thing, it was kind of an excruciating topic; for another, if I told her, she’d probably ask a million follow-up questions. She might even end up calling Maya’s mom. Besides, right at that second I was still processing the conversation with Olivia.
“Um, thanks,” I said quickly, “but I actually do have a ton of homework.”
“Yes, you said. But if you want to talk—”
“I NEED DOWN,” Max protested, squirming out of Mom’s arms and bolting down the hall.
The teakettle screamed. And somewhere in the house the phone started ringing.
Mom shot me a pleading look as she turned off the stove. “Finny, could you possibly answer that? I feel like my head is about to explode.”
“No problem. Should I say you’re here?”
“Oh, absolutely not! Tell whoever it is I’ve flown to Maui.”
“Seriously?”
“All right, just say I’m working. No, wait—I’m in the shower.”
What was weird at that moment was how young Mom looked, like a kid who hadn’t done her homework. But at the same time she looked sort of old, her face all wrinkly, her hazel eyes crazy with tiredness.
“Okay,” I said, searching the kitchen counter. “Where’s the phone?”
“TV room, I think. Please hurry!”
I raced back into the TV room, almost tripping over a container of No Worries Organic Play-Clay. Sesame Street was still on, but Addie was sitting in the corner, calmly scribbling on the wall with a fat orange Crayola.
“Addie, what are you doing!” I scolded. “Naughty.”
She burst into tears, so I scooped her up with one arm. Before I could stop her, she wiped goopy snot all over my shoulder. Lovely.
With my free hand I grabbed the phone from the sofa seat. It felt sticky, and I didn’t want to know why.
“Hello?” I shouted over Addie’s wailing.
“Finley?” a male voice asked.
“Yes?”
“Hi.” There was a pause. “It’s Zachary.”
CHAPTER 6
I swallowed a huge gulp of air. Which might have been helium, because when I spoke, my voice kind of squeaked. “Zachary?”
“You sound shocked.”
“Not at all! It’s just that I couldn’t hear very well.” I lowered Addie, who bolted toward the kitchen, still bawling. “Um. Hi.”
“Um hi back,” he said.
It was funny how his voice sounded Froggier than it had at school. Although come to think of it, I didn’t have scads of Frog experience on the phone. So possibly this was what they all sounded like.
Proof of my boy illiteracy? Gah, maybe.
Plus, now there was this awkward silence.
“Sooo,” I said. “Was there any particular reason? Why you called?”
“Do people need particular reasons to call you?”
“No. Actually I get pointless phone calls all the time.” Immediately I realized how wrong that sounded. But too late. “I just meant we haven’t had a conversation in forever.”
“We talked today at lunch. After I’m pretty sure you took my picture.”
“I didn’t take your picture!”
“Yeah? You were pointing your camera at me.”
“Okay, maybe I was,” I admitted. “But not to take your picture!”
“Then what for?” He was laughing. “Were you, like, spying on me, or something?”
I could feel my cheeks burn and my brain freeze up. Because what was I supposed to say here: Fine, I confess: I was spying on your cuteness. But that was before I realized you were you.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I muttered. “It’s just a new camera, and everyone keeps forcing me to take their photos. And I needed focus practice, and you were walking in the snow—”
“So you focused on me.”
“Right. It could have been anyone, okay?”
“Oh, of course. No, no, I totally get it.” He paused. When he spoke again, his voice sounded different. More serious. “And actually, Finley, I should apologize for teasing. Sometimes I overdo it.”
“Well, exactly,” I sputtered.
“Also, I think photography is a very cool hobby. I’m interested in learning more about it.”
He was?
Oh.
“So am I,” I said.
Awkward silence number two. And . . . still going.
“Anyway,” he finally said in the nonteasing voice, “
I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow. Fisher-Greenglass said I could come back.”
“Why would anyone stop you? You said you weren’t expelled.” As soon as this was out of my mouth, I wished I’d left out “you said.” Because “you said” sounded as if I didn’t believe him.
But if he thought I was accusing him of lying, he let it go. “Well, actually, I didn’t leave school on the best terms with some people.”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
“So, yeah. And now I’m not . . . really sure what to expect.” His voice caught a bit on the word “expect.” Almost a croak, but not quite. Then he added loudly and cheerily: “Anyhow, I believe in second chances, and I hope everyone else does too.”
“Oh, they do, definitely,” I lied.
“Awesome. Hey, Finley, I’m really glad I saw you today. Or rather that you were spying on me.”
“Me too. Although I wasn’t spying.”
“Whatever,” he said, and I could hear a smile inside the word. “Oh, and Finley? Don’t forget your camera tomorrow. I’ll let you focus-practice, if you want.”
He hung up.
Well, that was strange, I thought. Not just the fact that Zachary had called me out of the blue, based on nothing but the camera incident, but also because of the odd, jumpy way he’d sounded. I couldn’t put my finger on it, exactly, but it reminded me of Dad with the remote control, switching from channel to channel so fast it made me dizzy every time I watched TV with him.
Although to be fair to Zachary, he was probably feeling ubernervous about tomorrow. And how could he not be, I told myself, even if he hadn’t been expelled?
But the call decided me. I now had two major things to tell Maya: Zachary Mattison had called, and so had Olivia. The calls weren’t related in any logical way, except that they both fell under the heading Reasons Finley Was Too Distracted to Do Her Math Homework.
And Reasons Why She Spent the Evening on the Internet.
And Ended Up Reading This Post on Her Mom’s Blog:
