by Sarah Cross
“What is wrong with you brats?” she sputters.
“I said, ‘Can I get this over with?’” Catherine points at the principal’s closed door. “You called me down here.”
The secretary shuffles some papers on her desk, stops muttering under her breath long enough to send Catherine in. She narrows her eyes at us. “What do you two need?”
“We’re here to see the principal about yesterday’s unfortunate incident,” Darla says. “He’s expecting us. We checked in about ten minutes ago?”
“Hmm, that’s right. Try to behave yourselves.”
We smile like angels and she warily puts her music back on.
“Okay, now let’s practice!” Darla says. “Last chance! We’re down to the wire! Here—I made you a cue card.” She hands me a three-by-five card with my lines written on it in tiny letters.
I clear my throat. “I . . . sometimes like to role-play.”
Darla nods excitedly like, go on.
“I pretend I’m Wolverine from the X-Men. Yesterday after school I was practicing martial arts moves on the baseball field . . . and I . . . I imagined I was surrounded by Sentinels.” Every word is painful. “Those are the robots that, um, try to destroy the X-Men. I was fighting them when Big Dawg and his friends showed up, and I show remorse accidentally—”
“No! You’re not supposed to read the part in parentheses!” Darla swats my arm. “You’re supposed to ‘show remorse’!”
“Oh.” I fake a few sniffles, but it sounds like I have something caught in my nose. Not convincing. “. . . Big Dawg and his friends showed up, and I accidentally hit Big Dawg with my claws when I . . . did a, uh, spin-kick-double-claw-strike combo.” What?? Where does Darla get this stuff, Street Fighter? “I thought I was all alone. I didn’t realize he was there until I had hurt him and it was too late. I am so, so sorry. I’m so sorry. Cries.”
No—wait. That part’s in parentheses. I’m supposed to cry??
Darla makes an annoyed sound. “Could your eyes be any drier? I thought you said you were a good liar.”
“I said I could lie; I never claimed to be friggin’ Shakespeare—agh!!”
A stream of fiery liquid shoots out of Darla’s wrist-watch and sprays me in the face. An unbearable burning sensation rages in both my eyes. Thick, mucus-y tears are flowing down my cheeks, snot’s bubbling out of my nose like a volcano.
I hear a door click open, the polyester swish of our principal’s thighs rubbing together.
“Start saying ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry’!” Darla hisses. “Here he comes!”
“Mr. Pirzwick? Ms. Carmine? You have something to tell me?”
“I’m sorry,” I blubber, wiping my nose and eyes with an open palm and spreading snotty tears all over my face. I snort when I should sniff and a blob of mucus explodes in my hand. If I wasn’t myself I would throw up right now. “I’m so sorry.”
“He didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Darla adds.
“I was the one who scratched Big Dawg on the baseball field,” I say. “I’m so sorry. It was an accident. I was . . .”
Um. I would like to refer to my cue card right now, but I can’t see.
“Role-playing,” Darla hisses.
“Pull yourself together, Mr. Pirzwick.” Someone stuffs a tissue into my hand and I do a quick wipe job.
“I like to role-play and pretend that I am, um, Wolverine. From the X-Men. These are my claws.” I do a few karate-style swiping moves and end in a decent approximation of a fighting stance. Wipe my eyes again since they’re still churning out tears. Catherine’s mouth opens and stays that way.
“Mr. Pirzwick, come into my office before you hurt someone else.”
I fumble for my cue card and follow him in. Darla’s bouncing on her seat, grinning like a carnival clown. She holds up a piece of paper that has NOW: 82% CHANCE OF SUCCESS! written on it in thick black marker.
I’d like to hold up a piece of paper that says, WTF, I THOUGHT YOU WERE COMING WITH ME! But I don’t have one of those.
Wish me luck.
11
AT LUNCHTIME I GIVE DARLA THE VERDICT. “You’re not even suspended?” she squeals. “That’s awesome! It was the tears, wasn’t it? See, I hesitated to spray you at first, but it turned out to be a genius move—”
I stop her with a glare that would wilt lettuce. My eyes stopped watering hours ago, but the pain and humiliation of being a human snot-cannon will last forever.
“Yeah, it was weird . . . the principal seemed almost sorry for me. We had a long talk about how I can’t let my delusions take over my life. Then he rearranged my schedule so that I have Reality Management last period.” Darla needs that class more than I do, but whatever. Catherine was deemed innocent, which is what really matters.
I scan the cafeteria for some sign of her, but I guess she’s lying low. I wish I knew what she was thinking. Are we cool now? Or not?
All’s well in the rest of cafeteria land: the Burnouts are gagging on NyQuil and ecstatically inhaling Sharpie fumes; the Thugs are freestyling; the Mary Janes are lavishing love on their Nintendogs.
Big Dawg and Butch and the other Bonecrushers are camped at their regular table, next to the out-of-order Coke machine. They must be feeling pretty Zen after having their asses handed to them—they’re busy playing paper football, ignoring the multitudes of potential victims. They haven’t even stolen anyone’s lunch money yet.
Maybe we did make a difference.
“I think it’s time I was totally honest with you,” Darla says. She squirms uncomfortably, like telling the truth causes her physical pain. “I’m not actually a juvenile delinquent.”
“You’re scaring me. What’s next? The earth is round?”
Darla sticks her tongue out. “Okay, so maybe that’s not a huge shock. But you asked me what I’m doing here, right? What’s in it for me?”
Darla slips some fake psychological evaluations and doctored school records from her backpack. “At the risk of sounding like a complete maniac: I infiltrated the school so I could get closer to you and Catherine. I created a fake criminal background for myself—mostly shoplifting and stealing my nana’s painkillers—because I thought if I had street cred it would help you trust me. I thought you were a badass.”
I smile. “I am a badass.”
“No, but, like, a real one. Anyway. You’re probably wondering why I’m interested in you and Catherine, since we don’t appear to have much in common.”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
Darla sucks in a breath. Holds it a few seconds before releasing it in an anxiety-filled rush. “I think you should meet my friends. I can’t explain everything here, but you guys have a lot to talk about. Stuff most people wouldn’t understand. We’re getting together Friday night at Sophie’s house. Sophie’s the girl who lent you her cell phone at Roast.”
“I remember her.” Of course I do.
My heart’s hammering. It’s not hard to read between the lines—I know what Catherine and I have in common. Is Darla saying that Sophie has powers, too?
How does she even know about us?
I want to ask her—my brain’s swarming with questions. But school doesn’t seem like the right place to get into it. Terror squeezes my stomach, mixes with the hopeful-nervous flutter of butterflies. This could change my whole life.
“Oh,” I say as Darla jots down Sophie’s address on a piece of paper. “Um. What time?”
“Five or so. Her parents have some dinner thing, so we’ll have the place to ourselves. You should invite Catherine, if you get a chance. I’d do it myself but I’m trying to respect her space. She kind of hates me.”
“Yeah . . . Me, too, I think. We’ll work on that.”
“Oh! I almost forgot!” Darla slips a gift card out of her wallet and slides it across the table. It’s black with a picture of a purple robot on the front, and the exciting words TWO DOLLARS! coming out of the robot’s mouth, cartoon speech-bubble style. “This is for you.”
A two-dollar gift card? What store even sells those? I turn the card over to get an answer, but the opposite side is blank. There’s no trusty magnetic strip or string of numbers or fine print telling me where and when the card can be used. Darla must sense my disappointment.
“Um, it’s not really a gift card,” she says. “You did know that, right?”
“Yeah, of course.” I roll my eyes. “It’s a, um . . .” I turn the gift card upside down, trying to figure out what it’s supposed to be. No clue.
“Think of it as an e-book reader, only more compact,” Darla says. “You can keep it in your wallet or wherever, and hopefully no one will try to steal it, because who wants a two-dollar gift card, right?” She grins. “It’s a way for me to send you top-secret files without fear that they’ll be intercepted—it’s a zillion times more secure than e-mail or IM. The screen is on the back of the card, and it will only function while your left thumbprint is pressed to the robot’s head. If someone tries to look over your shoulder while you’re reading, take your thumb off the robot and the screen will black out. Right now I’ve only uploaded my personal file, but my friends have created files, too. I’ll send you those as soon as I think you’re ready.”
“Your personal file? Like . . . your permanent record?” I give her this confused look.
“No, silly. It’s everything I think you should know about me—since I already know a lot about you. It evens the score.” She smiles. “Just drag your finger down the screen to scroll. And make sure you read it today; the file’s set to auto-corrupt in sixteen hours.”
Why am I not surprised?
“Thanks,” I say, slipping the card into my backpack.
The rest of the day seems to fly by. Even Reality Management isn’t as bad as it could be. While the rest of the class is role-playing the proper way to behave in a restaurant, I’m spaced out in my own world, wondering what Sophie’s power could be. And since Darla said her friends need to talk to me, who else did she mean? That guy in the trench coat—Nicholas? I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like me, but I’ve never met another guy with powers. It would be sweet to have a friend to watch sports with and talk powers with.
When the final bell rings, I rush to my locker—like if I hurry, everything will happen faster. Friday seems like a million years away, now that I know these other kids are out there. How are they coping? Do their parents know? I’m so busy going over the possibilities, I almost don’t notice the word thanks scratched into my locker door—until Catherine bumps me to get my attention.
“Hey,” she says. One corner of her mouth is turned up in an almost smile. “That stunt you pulled was pretty dumb. But it was cool of you.”
I shrug, like I do cool, stupid things all the time. “No problem. I hope to live it down one day.”
Then, since she’s not saying anything, and awkward silences are poison to new friendships: “So, um, do you want to maybe hang out Friday? There’s this party thing I’m going to, and . . .”
“Another party? Are the Pokémons invited?” She’s teasing me, though—I can tell. “I can’t. I have to work Friday.”
“Okay. Well, what about Saturday?”
Catherine shakes her head. “I work all weekend.”
Right. I wonder if I should ask her straight out if she’s blowing me off. But then I have this other, crazier thought: what if she’s doing what I used to do, claiming she has to work when she’s really going around town in amateur-vigilante mode, trying to make a difference in people’s lives?
Um. But Catherine actually has a job. Whereas I never had an extra-credit science project to do. Or any of the other projects I claimed to be working on.
“Well, maybe when you’re free sometime.” This is awkward as hell. It’s like asking a girl on a date, only it’s not a date. And it’s worse than that, because there aren’t a ton of fish in the superpowered sea. So if I screw this up . . .
“I’m not really free ever.”
“Ever?” I stare at her, maybe a little too intensely, looking for an explanation or something. Because—ever?
Catherine breaks eye contact, turns her attention to some gum on the floor. “Anyway, I have to go. I’ll probably see you if you stop by Roast. I’m usually there.”
She leaves me wondering what that was all about. And what else I don’t know about her.
· D. CARMINE · FILE #00161 Darla Carmine: MY STORY
* SECURITY LEVEL: Confidential
* CATEGORY: Autobiographical Account
If you’re reading this, you’ve reached the inner circle of Darla Carmine. (Just so you know, that’s kind of a big deal.)
Ready?
FACT: Being a genius isn’t easy. (Okay, well, technically it is easy—it doesn’t take any effort. What I mean is that it’s hard to find people you can relate to. And I would’ve put this in a footnote but Sophie told me that most people don’t like reading footnotes, so I’m trying to cut down on that.)
I was born to do great things, and I quickly discovered that I was pretty much alone in the attempt. When other kids were busy building mud pies and eating paste, and picking their noses and trying to wipe their “discoveries” on me, I was dabbling in robotics and adapting Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire into a coloring book version I hoped my peers could appreciate.
It was the first of many disappointments.
As I entered school and became more ambitious, my lack of real friends became even more frustrating. I had so much I wanted to share with people! What’s the point of making exciting discoveries if you have to keep them to yourself? It would be like Newton discovering gravity and then not telling anyone about it, which leads me to my own personal Zen koan: If a genius doesn’t leave behind a legacy, does her brilliance really exist?
I refused to believe I was destined to lead the life of a lonely, eccentric hermit. All I had to do was put my mind to the problem and work out a solution. If I couldn’t attract kids with my genius, I would infiltrate their playdates and bring my genius to them. Surreptitiously, of course.
So, in the pursuit of true friends (who I hoped would one day become kindred spirits), I willingly engaged in inane activities like dressing up Bratz dolls, and pretended that a jolly fat man squeezing down a chimney (with a sack of toys, no less) made logical sense. And all I asked for in exchange was a chance to play them music from Wagner’s Ring Cycle so I could teach them about leitmotifs, which I thought were pretty awesome. Baby steps, right? But that sort of compromise was beyond the seven-year-olds in my neighborhood.
Meanwhile, I was zipping through school at light speed. I thought things would change once my classmates were high schoolers—intellectual equals at last! They were almost adults, so I automatically assumed we’d have stuff to talk about. But my teenage classmates were too engrossed in dating drama and unrequited-love angst to listen to me rhapsodize about the latest robotics news. And at that age, the only boys I didn’t think were gross were dead scientists—and it’s not like I wanted to kiss those guys. (No offense, Niels Bohr.) What could I really contribute to the lunchroom gossip?
Regardless, I persevered. I kept telling myself that one day, I would find a place where I fit in. I would find my people. And I had plenty of time to refine my technique.
Thanks to my dad’s job, my dad, my nana, and I moved around a lot. Every new city offered me the opportunity to reinvent myself and learn from past mistakes. Instead of lecturing on topics no one else cared about, I started to study potential friends and try to find common ground—like, if they were into a certain type of music, I’d listen to it at home and see if maybe I could like it, too. And, okay, obviously that didn’t always work, but it didn’t turn people off as fast either.
Once I graduated from college (that was last year—so yes, you can stop worrying about how this crappy school is going to affect my transcript), I stopped being so defined by my genius. It was still a huge part of who I was, but since I wasn’t in a classroom, I wasn’t the weird prodigy girl
anymore—I was whoever I wanted to be. I could hide my genius until I was ready to reveal the truth—without the risk that people would judge me before they got the chance to know me.
I met Sophie at an ice-skating class. I noticed she liked Japanese toys and manga and stuff, so the following week I brought in some Hello Kitty key chains I’d bought in Japan, and showed her that a lot of Japanese cities have their own special Hello Kitties—something I’d always found interesting. It started off simply, but now she’s my best friend.
I met Nicholas because he lived down the street and our dads knew each other, and we bonded over a mutual love of strategy games. (Granted, I used to prefer chess, but now I’m all about rolling dice and crushing his orc army.)
They’re amazing people. They’re part of that bigger, better world I feel like I was born to be a part of. They have their own “specialties” that make them different, like me . . . and, like YOU. (Don’t pass out. Please. I’m almost finished.)
I want to have adventures. I want to make an impact and be remembered. I don’t want to be the tree that falls in the forest and doesn’t make a sound. And I feel like I’m finally in the right place.
Looking back, it seems like all those years of trial and error and rejection were preparing me for this. Like it’s kismet. And since I haven’t had a lot of friends, the ones I do have mean a lot to me.
I guess what I’m trying to tell you, Avery, is that I consider you a friend, too. I know this is a lot to take in, and you’re probably freaking out a little and wondering if you can trust me with certain things that will not be mentioned, even in a top-secret document (!!), but I promise I’ll never let you down. Cross my heart, hope to wake up one day as brain-dead as Big Dawg (infinitely worse than death), stick a needle in my . . . er, you get the idea.
See you Friday!!!!!
12
I’VE BEEN STRESSING about this meeting all week, my mood swinging back and forth. One minute I’m excited, pumped to meet other kids like me (finally!); the next minute I’m sweating bullets. I want friends, I don’t want to be alone—but what if Darla’s friends don’t want me?
