I stare as Olivia swivels. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Making you feel better. I think you’re right. About me. Having, you know, some sort of woo-woo powers.” She peers at me, squinting her eyes witchily. “Do you feel a little bit better?” I can hear Petra’s distinct laughter in the background.
“Um, a tiny bit,” I say quietly, trying to butter her up and still not get noticed.
I Love Mathematics!
Olivia pulls out her bagged lunch, which looks to be straight from Trader Joe’s—spring rolls, carrot sticks with a built-in ranch dip, and a PowerBar. “That must explain Friday. You were so lost in English. I loved it when you said that Dada was Mama’s husband.”
“So funny,” says Ninai, giggling. What does the girl have to be happy about? She’s at least thirty pounds overweight with giant paws for hands.
“Yeah, well,” I say, doing what I do best: making excuses. “It’s the cold medication. Like you said, I’m not myself.” I pick at my egg salad sandwich. “I’m feeling weird and I was totally hoping you could help me out with some of the algebra homework,” I say as casually as possible.
Ninai raises her eyebrows, and so does Olivia. “Why would you need help?”
“It’s because I really love math, and I feel I’ve been taking my methods for getting answers for granted when using that FOIL thingie, and want to find out how you girls do it. Some quality sharing time on the subject I love best.” And then I start to giggle because the idea of me actually loving math, actually wanting to do more of it is SO RIDICULOUS. But I can’t be giggling about this right now. I need to be serious, so I turn my snorts into something that I hope sounds like a pathetic sob. “Maybe the problem is that I used to do my homework to the TV since Mom stays up very late working on her photography stuff. I hardly see her. And it creeps me out, so that’s why I turn it on and sometimes I start actually watching instead of using it for background noise. The truth is I live in panic.”
“You do?” Ninai looks at me with a baffled expression on her face. I think I’m giving away too much information but for some reason I can’t stop further blurtation.
“Yes, we had a DVR but Mom stopped payment on that and cable so I basically now only have an iPod to keep me company. It’s so annoying. Because she’s not the one all by herself. She wants us to get DVDs, but on the weekend only.”
“Couldn’t you get downloads or something?” asks Ninai.
I shrug. “Maybe. It’s not the same. My computer screen is so little. It’d be annoying.”
Olivia peers at me all squinty-eyed, like she’s trying to be a therapist. “Okay, so it sounds like you’re actually upset about being by yourself.”
“Um, yeah. I guess. Can we move on to another subject? Like will you guys help me?”
Ninai grabs my arm. “Sure, I don’t see why not.”
“I can cast some math spells,” says Olivia, nudging the thermos of tea over to me. “I think this brew will give you a whole new way of looking at equations.”
“You know I’m serious, right?” I ask, biting my bottom lip.
“Yes,” says Ninai, grabbing her binder. “For number one I got seventeen. What did you get, Ern?”
Glancing at my math book opened to page 123 on my lap, I see paragraphs upon paragraphs talking about inners and outer terms, and all of it is making sense.
So when Olivia asks if I want to work on algebra with them and compare answers, I say yes!
This time I take the tea. Olivia and Ninai scoot their chairs closer to me and we get to work. Olivia keeps on talking about first terms and outer terms and then inners and outers like we’re talking about belly buttons. I’m talking inners and outers back and actually liking it.
After it’s over, my head is filled with numbers, xs and ys. I say, “Thank you. That was fun,” and I’m feeling like maybe I’m beginning to understand Ernestine’s brain.
Olivia sips her tea. “I was just about to ask you what you thought of The Unicorn’s Revenge because I didn’t get why L’Nere would transform from the other realm.”
“The Unicorn’s Revenge? Um, am I reading that?” I ask.
“Reading that? You can be so funny sometimes. You said you wanted to start a unicorn club!”
Did I say I was beginning to understand Ernestine’s brain? Maybe not.
Like, for Real!
One problem solved. Orchestra. I write a note in illegible doctor-y handwriting from Gerald Schlesinger, MD, saying I need to be excused from orchestra rehearsal because of tendonitis in my elbow. Brill! Because Mr. T buys it. Double brill because I say I need to use fifth period to go to physical therapy. He swallows that whopper too.
Now I’m thinking about actually entering the medical profession. Think how useful it could be for your life. You could write your own excuse notes. Like, for real!
Bad Monkey
“Here,” I say, holding the math homework above Winslow’s ponytailed head, as he reads some fantasy novel involving a sword-wielding goat man.
Lazily, he raises his chin, squinting as if trying to figure out exactly who I am. His T-shirt, which has a picture of Curious George that says BAD MONKEY, has little orange and green flecks on the bottom like he’s been wiping his hand on it after eating too many Cool Ranch tortilla chips. Suddenly, he seizes the paper that I’m so proudly clutching in my hand and slaps it down in front of him, glances at it, nods, then stuffs it into his canvas backpack without so much as a merci. I’m so happy to have gotten through this first hurdle that I practically bounce back through the cafeteria to Olivia and Ninai. I have handed in my second round of math homework to Dungeon Master Winslow Fromes.
No Free Lunch
I gaze down at Olivia, who’s furiously scribbling in her journal, her long, hennaed hair curtaining her face so it seems impossible that she can actually see a thing. But I notice she writes in perfectly neat capital letters that amaze me with their exactness. Her flowy peasant dress with bells on the sleeves chimes as she moves her hand. I’m feeling so grateful that I’m getting math that I can’t contain myself. “That dress is a-mazing. I mean it. It looks so good! Incredible. It’s, like, the best dress. Did you hear me? The best dress I’ve ever seen at this school?” I say. So it’s gauzy and tentlike—but I never noticed before how the swirls are quirky and fun. And the bells are even a little cool if you’re into a belly dancing–type atmosphere.
Olivia carefully puts down what looks like a black fountain pen, caps it, and then bites into her giant turkey sandwich.
“Smells delish-ious,” I say pleasantly, even though it smells gross and meatlike.
Huffily, Olivia scoots back her chair and turns away from me. “What’s with her?” I ask Ninai.
“I think you know,” she says.
“I do?”
“Winslow Fromes. Ringing any bells for you now?” I want to laugh at the bell reference because the chimes on Olivia’s sleeves are chiming. She picks back up her cloth-covered journal to start writing.
Suddenly, it hits me. That’s why Olivia was acting so weird in the library that day. SHE’S CRUSHING ON WINSLOW! When I just dropped off the algebra homework in the cafeteria, she thought I was scoping her man!
“Olivia, don’t be crazy. I…I don’t like Winslow.” I try to think of a very good reason that I would’ve been whispering in his ear conspiratorially in the middle of the La Cambia cafeteria. “The reason I was with Winslow just now was I thought I could help you out. You know, talk you up. Since the Winterfest is coming up in eleven days.” Not that I’m counting. Yeah, right.
Olivia scribbles furiously into the purple journal, and turns to hold it up for me to read:
Ostrich down. Feathers up.
Head. Sand. It’s what I see.
But do you see me?
“Huh?” I say. Is it that I don’t get poetry or that I don’t get Olivia?
“Zdrashdrapke kak dela,” she mutters under her breath.
Olivia bites her lip and madly swing
s her long, stringy hair out of her watery eyes. “It should be obvious how I feel. And Winslow should see that, and come to me. I don’t need your help unless I ask for it, but”—she hesitates—“I appreciate your effort, you silly billy.” My heart balloons with gratitude. I think the poet wench has forgiven me.
“But how would Winslow know how you feel, since you hardly talk to him?” I ask.
“I would if he’d approach me.” She actually puts her hand over her heart. “Maybe I’ll cast a love spell on him and change his name to Boris. That’s what I call him.”
“All you have to do is get close to him but, like, in a flirty way. A little accidental epidermis contact, you know?”
Olivia scrunches her forehead so her eyes almost clamp together.
“Just grab his palm and start reading his fortune,” I suggest. “And then make little light swirling motions with your fingertips. I know W-i-n-s-l-o-w would so love it.”
I hear Olivia groan and she turns away from me, with a look of utter disgust. As if she’s Shakespeare and I’m the National Enquirer. “Stuff like that works. I’m serious. I know someone who flirted like that all of the time and Winslow once asked her to Winterfest.”
Hands on her hips, Olivia flares her nostrils. “Like who?”
Like Taffeta, I think. I come so close to shouting it, but instead bite down on my lip.
“Who did Winslow ask to Winterfest?” insists Olivia.
“I can’t remember exactly,” I say. “It’s one of those cutesy, freaky, made-up names.”
“That’s because she doesn’t exist,” states Olivia, pushing her hair out of her eyes.
I go to open my mouth to protest, but I don’t. I can’t. Because Olivia is right. She doesn’t exist.
More 411
I see Winslow clomping down the hallway, his canvas bag stuttering on his shoulder, his chain on his belt loop clanking. Checking left and right, I make sure there’s no Olivia creeping behind me in the corridor. Running over, I plant myself in front of Winslow so that he’ll ACTUALLY see me. “Look, I can’t be giving you the algebra homework in the cafeteria like that again,” I say. Not adding because if Olivia sees me all tête-à-tête with you she’ll definitely throw a medieval Russian fit.
Winslow bows his head so that his ponytail flops over his shoulder. He says, “I totally agree, it’s not the best locale,” which completely surprises me. I thought he didn’t care what ANYONE thought about him. “Next time, why don’t you give it to me before sixth period during the fifteen-minute break?”
“Works for me,” I say, as he gives me a lopsided grin. Then, like a magnet, Olivia draws toward us, and, just in time, I duck and run for the cover of the girls’ room.
The Ride
“Ernestine, I’m not driving you!” Mom calls out from her bedroom. I can hear her munching on sesame sticks. For breakfast, I’m surprised she doesn’t put them in her cereal bowl with some milk.
“Mom, pleeeeeease. I’ve been up all night doing algebra with Olivia. And when I stay up all night, I mean it. No sleep. Lots of Reese’s Pieces to keep me awake.” Of course, Dad wanted to talk last night too. Of all times. I spoke with him for, like, three minutes because I was going through all the bookshelves in the apartment trying to figure out what book I want to pick for my oral report. Can this really be moi? The things’s not due for a week. I really am such a geek now.
Mom glances at the clock. “Honey, the Realtor’s meeting me here at the apartment in ten minutes to sign some house-sale papers. It never ends. You have your pajamas on,” she says, almost laughing as I pass by her room.
Was I actually going to go to school in my pink floral flannel pajama bottoms? That’s so sick. Running upstairs, I pull out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and put them on. Mom peeks her head out of her bedroom. “Your shirt’s on backward,” she says, smiling.
Okay—when did I become a clone of my mom?
So I bike to school on Mom’s bicycle built for two because the chain on my bike fell off as soon as I tried it. Me pedal to school on Mom’s dinosaur? Who woulda thunk? But, you know, I am tired of not doing anything physical. And even though, solo, I look ridiculous, I don’t care because it’s not like anyone knows me, exactly.
Dribble Dribbles
Before I have a moment to recover, Dribble hobbles toward me with this bogus concerned look on his face. “How’s it going?” he asks.
“Are you serious? How’s it going? Like, la la, just another day? It sucks, that’s how it’s going.”
He shrugs and his orange mustache seesaws. “Okay, anyhoo, just checking in.”
“Checking in? How can you be so casual? Because you’re making me look, feel, and act INSANE!”
As a student approaches his desk, Dribble shifts his gaze and glares at me. “If you continue to use that tone of voice, young lady, I’ll have to write you up.”
Write you up? He’s the one who should be written up. Giant warnings blasted all across the state. The country. THE UNIVERSE!
He leans into me and I can smell pickles. “Sorry. Need to act like a teacher around”—he lowers his voice—“the others.”
“So you’re implying you’re not a teacher?” I blurt.
“And you’re not Ernestine,” he says in a low voice.
“You’re so…”
“Frustrated. I can see you most certainly are.” He bangs down on his desk. “Don’t give up. Keep your eyes on the prize. Remember what you really want, because things are going to get ugly.”
“Thanks for the pep talk. You’re so helpful.” Not.
“Anytime, Ms. Smith.” As I walk away, he’s chomping on a pickle, of course. Maybe he’s pregnant or something.
Stepping Up
In algebra, a roll of toilet paper smacks the back of Olivia’s head.
Mrs. Grund whips around and peers at the class. “Okay, who did it?”
Of course, nobody raises their hand. I mean there are some dumb kids at La Cambia but not THAT dumb.
“I did it,” I overhear Petra whisper to Invisible Girl who sits in front of her. She’s that friend of Maggie the Mushroom. “I wanted to draw attention to Olivia because she looked SO beautiful today.”
“I heard what you said, Petra. And it makes me mad.” I know my voice is rising but I can’t help it. I lean into her. “Do you know what that’s called, Petra? Projection. You must think you’re not so beautiful today. Maybe your five-foot-two mother called you an Amazon again because she didn’t sell a house so she’s afraid she can’t make the Lexus payments since your dad is an embezzler. Or maybe Caylin is ignoring you. We all know the only reason she keeps you around is to be her bodyguard.”
Petra gives me her best withering death stare. Meanwhile, Olivia leans over my desk and murmurs, “Thank you.” And when she says you—and means me—I feel like she means me for the first time.
Blahh!
As the bell rings for fifth period, Ninai catches up to me in the hallway in the music building. “Mr. Takashama wants us to really go over the second movement of the concerto. Does that sound good, Ms. Soloist?”
No, that does not. I’m planning on spending fifth period in the bathroom again. And I’ve got that doctor’s excuse note, thank you!
Then Mr. Takashama pops his head out into the hallway. “Great, you’re back.”
I shake my head and pat my elbow. “Still hurting.”
“But you’re not in therapy today.” He smiles at me. “That must mean something.”
Yes, that means I’m busted. “There was a cancellation,” I explain so he doesn’t think I’ll be in class tomorrow.
He shrugs. “I think we need to talk to your mother about scheduling these appointments after school.” He grabs his cell phone and flips it open. “Want me to call?”
Chill, Taffeta. Don’t let him see you sweat. “No worries,” I say, smiling. “It was just a weeklong therapy sort of thing. With this specialist guy. But I’m done with that, so no need to bother my mom at work.”
“Maybe soon.”
“But you can sit down with us.” He opens up the doors to the orchestra room and ushers me inside.
Blahh. Looks like I’m going to have to actually sit through orchestra today.
Special Delivery
I amble into the library after fifth period to give Winslow his homework when I see Olivia stamping Seventeen magazines. What is she doing here? Oh, right. Olivia has library skills for her elective. Olivia spots me, so I shuffle over to the desk as she grabs a stack of books taller than the Eiffel Tower and shoves them onto a shelf. “What’s up?” I ask.
“I am ready now to use my powers on Winslow.” She gives her big crooked-tooth smile.
“Okaaaay.” Suddenly, I’m feeling guilty. I’m picturing Olivia watching me dancing with Winslow at Winterfest.
“I’m going to focus on Winslow for real. I think if I just concentrate and, you know”—she squints and flicks her fingers—“la mangia wahza doolia!” The stack of Seventeen magazines on her desk drop with a loud thud onto the tile floor, nearly crushing a potted plant. “Whoops, I felt that. Did you? All of this energy moving.”
“Well, some magazines did move,” I admit.
“In the hallway yesterday, I was thinking about Winslow, and then, poof, he appeared at the water fountain. I think I called him to me telepathically. So maybe”—her eyes sparkle—“I’ll telepathically invite him to Winterfest, too.” Olivia starts swaying her hips and singing high and off-key, “We’ll make magic on the dance floor.” She’s apparently out of touch with reality and with her vocal range.
I’m grabbing the magazines and stacking them back neatly, spine out, and saying very quietly, “That’s a brilliant idea, Liv. I’m sure it’ll work. But maybe you ought to try, you know, regular flirting with him too.”
She tilts her head to gaze at me. “I’m not so sure. But stranger things have happened.”
Yes, I think, as I start backing up. Stranger things have happened. “Well, I’ve got to go into the computer lab and figure out what I’m doing for my oral report thingie, but keep on working on your powers.” I walk backward into the computer room, glad to be rid of her so I can finally give Winslow some more homework. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could telepathically give it to him?
Things Are Gonna Get Ugly Page 8
