Dear Isaac Newton, You're Ruining My Life

by Rachel Hruza

  Brendan played the trumpet too. I could barely contain my smile as I saw an open seat next to him. Megan watched me from the clarinet section, her reed hanging out of her mouth as she softened it with saliva (one reason why I didn’t want a reed instrument—gross). She jerked her head, coaxing me to sit down. Then she got a crazed look on her face and jerked her head faster and faster, as if she were having spasms. The girl next to her started to look concerned. I frowned, tilted my head, and mouthed the word what?

  A blonde blur jetted past me, her swaying hips pushing me back a few steps. Jennifer Henderson took the seat next to Brendan. Megan rolled her eyes at me and shook her head. I knew what she was thinking: ya snooze, ya lose.

  My shoulders drooped and I sighed, causing the bell of my trumpet to poke Jennifer.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, clearly not offering help.

  “No. Sorry, Jenny,” I squeaked.

  I sat a few chairs down. Jennifer Henderson was that girl—yep, you guessed it: every guy liked her and every girl wanted to be her. Except me. Not only was Jenny rude, she sucked at playing the trumpet. She’d joined band because everyone else did, and she’d never really learned how to play.

  I glared at Jennifer’s head, which was turned toward Brendan, for several minutes—hoping that, if I willed it, I could control her mind and make her give up her seat. It didn’t work. Then Mr. Weaver, the band director, called us to attention, gave us a run-down of his plan for the year, and warmed us up.

  We played a few new songs, and after I’d built up my self-esteem by proving my sight-reading skills still held up after not practicing as much as I should have over the summer, Mr. Weaver asked me to play the solo part. I immediately turned red, but I played it for the rest of the band. A couple of people clapped and some rolled their eyes, but I didn’t care. I liked playing my trumpet.

  “Nice tongue work, Trendon,” a voice said.

  My heart skipped a beat as I turned to look at the marvelous lips that had spoken. It was him.

  “Thanks, Matthews,” I said. I was hoping to sound cool by also using his last name, but I knew I probably just sounded too excited. Still, Brendan grinned.

  “Sounded too spitty to me,” Jenny said, staring at me. “Sloppy.”

  I looked at her, but I didn’t say anything. I was floating on air at the thought of Brendan grinning at me. If there hadn’t been a herd of musicians in the classroom, I would have danced out of the room when the bell rang. Instead, I waited dreamily for people to stack their chairs and followed the line out of the door. As I wondered what I looked like from behind—if people noticed my shoulder blade jutting out of my back like a shark fin—Megan sidled up next to me.

  “Hey, Hot Stuff!” she said.

  I let my hips sway a little bit in my form-fitting jeans. I wouldn’t be able to do that after today.

  Well, I could, but my whole upper half would rock back and forth like a fishing bobber.

  “Did you hear him compliment me?” I asked Megan, lowering my voice.

  “Yeah. Jennifer didn’t seem too impressed, though.” She winked.

  I smiled.

  The junior high lockers were nearest the band room, and two people were assigned to one locker, but we were allowed to pick our locker partner. Naturally, Megan and I were together. When we reached our locker, Megan opened it and made kissing noises. She’d brought photos cut out from magazines of several singers and movie stars she had crushes on and stuck them to the inside of the locker with magnets. They gazed out at us with sultry eyes and seriously pouted lips.

  I sighed. I missed the pictures of cute dogs and neon cartoon animals.

  “When did we get so boy crazy?” I asked.

  “When boys started to look so crazy good,” Megan said.

  I looked once more at the paper faces staring back at us. She had a point. We shut our locker and walked to Algebra together. When we entered the classroom, I saw the desks were made for two people each. Brendan sat in the back, next to one of his friends. His slightly curly blond hair hung just above his green eyes, which seemed to absorb all of the light in the room as he listened to his friend tell a joke. A pale blue shirt covered his broad shoulders. His jaw was square but strong, and when he laughed, it was all I could do to keep myself from dropping my notebook and running to the back row to join in.

  Watching him, I wondered just how much I would pale in comparison if I were sitting next to him, or better yet, if my hand were clasped in his, walking next to him in the hallway. When I remembered that after today I would be boxed tightly within my brace, I wanted to cry. Instead, I felt Megan tap my arm.

  All the desks surrounding Brendan were taken. Noting this with a sad smile to Megan, I sat next to her in the front row. When the bell rang, our Algebra teacher, Miss Peters, one of the youngest teachers at the school, announced there would be seating assignments. The eighteen of us groaned collectively and slowly crawled out of our chairs.

  Miss Peters was wearing a royal blue dress that showed off her small waist and flared out to just above her knees. Her makeup was always just right—not too much. I’d heard from Charity that her favorite days were when students complained—apparently Miss Peters liked the challenge of getting through to crappy students.

  She smiled brightly, the ends of her straight brown hair dancing around her chin as she turned her head. “I’m glad I could make you all so happy on our first day back.”

  Several people laughed, including me.

  Miss Peters stood in front of the first desk and pointed to each seat as she called out our names. “Callie Anderson. Megan Borowitz.”

  I waved forlornly to Megan as Miss Peters called out, “Truth Trendon. Brendan Matthews.”

  And then I tripped on the chair leg in front of me.

  “It’s cool. I’m cool,” I said, collapsing in my seat, so embarrassed I wanted to self-combust.

  “Have a nice trip?” Brendan asked me as he sat down.

  I felt a buzzing in my veins; the fine hairs on my arms were standing on end. He was so close.

  “Nothing broken, so yes. Yes, I did.”

  Megan was at the desk in front of us, leaning back in her chair to listen. Miss Peters wasn’t playing favorites; she didn’t even know us. But this seating arrangement was perfect. I liked having Megan so close to me when I was close to an Adonis like Brendan Matthews. She gave me confidence, or at least made me feel like I couldn’t just sit there like a bump on a log.

  “Good.” Brendan grinned. I smiled and took a deep breath to calm my racing heart.

  We didn’t talk much for the rest of the class, since Miss Peters explained most of her goals for the year and what we could expect from the assignments and tests for grading.

  I found myself sitting very still. My wish had come true. If I moved less than a foot to the right, I would brush against his arm. It was tan from a summer of baseball and basketball camps.

  I was tan from going to the swimming pool and my general outdoorsy-ness, but I didn’t seem to glisten like Brendan did. I wondered how much of my vision of him was “influenced by my hormones,” as my mother would say.

  I’d known Brendan since first grade. Back then, he was just another boy in my school. But then, in fifth grade, I ran into him at the grocery store when we both reached for the same box of cereal. I’d just wanted to get my chocolatey, sugar-coated corn puffs, but once my hand brushed his and my blue eyes met his green ones, I was captivated.

  “Sorry,” he said, and handed me the box. Then he took the next box in the row and walked away.

  I clutched his gift in my arms for the rest of the grocery trip.

  The very next day, my dad had a bumper-to-bumper accident with Brendan’s mother outside a fast-food place where we were picking up burgers, and it felt like fate. Mrs. Matthews wasn’t cordial at all (she kicked my dad’s tire even though the accident had been her fault), but Brendan was a dream. While our parents exchanged insurance information and we waited for the police to ar
rive to determine fault (again, hers), Brendan and I talked about our favorite school subjects (his: math, mine: also math), our favorite TV shows (his: some sports show, mine: a blatant lie about the same sports show), and even what we wanted to be when we grew up (him: professional football player, me: zoo veterinarian). I also found out he lived within walking distance of my house, just ten or so blocks away.

  Matters were wrapped up between our parents all too soon, but I can still remember the last thing he said to me that day: “See you around, Trendon.”

  Since then, I was hooked. And now, sitting at the same desk, I had the chance look at, or even speak to him whenever I got the courage, every day in math.

  When the bell rang, I pushed away from our desk and stood up, my arms wrapped around my books.

  “Glad I’m sitting by someone smart,” Brendan said.

  “Me too,” I said. I wanted him to grin again. He did.

  “Is algebra your thing?” he asked.

  We started to walk out of the classroom.

  “It’s up there,” I said, disappointed he didn’t remember our convo from two years before. “I like English too.”

  “English isn’t for me. But math fits my brain like a glove.”

  “A numbers man. The world can never have enough.”

  “Glad to know you feel that way, Trendon. See you around.” Brendan smiled and walked down to his locker.

  “Okay,” I breathed. He’d uttered nearly the same words at our last major discussion.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Megan said from behind me.

  “I wouldn’t sell them for a million dollars,” I replied. I began to skip down the hallway, and Megan ran after me. “That’s enough celebration, Tru.”

  A sophomore walked by us. “Dork,” he said to me.

  I immediately stopped skipping.

  “Ignore him. He’s the one going to Algebra for the third year in a row,” Megan said.

  I didn’t even care. My heart was carrying me to my locker on a cloud. And that cloud was fluffed, plumped, and comfortable enough for me to ride it all day. Even though the rest of my classes were incredibly boring and uneventful, I frolicked home from the bus stop that afternoon with light, happy feet.

  “Best day of school ever!” I declared as I walked through the door.

  “Nuh-uh!” Harold was already at the kitchen table, eating a brownie with my mother.

  “It was for me.” I dropped my backpack and stuffed a brownie in my mouth. “Kir gra na wha oo espeda?”

  “Truth. Some manners, please,” Mom said.

  I swallowed. “Sorry. These are excellent brownies, Mom. I should have said that right away.”

  She laughed. “No. Your brother. He had a rough day.”

  “Let me try again, Sir Harold. Kindergarten not what you expected?”

  “No,” Harold grumbled. “We’re stuck in this huge room, and everyone has their own cubicle they have to keep organized, and there’s a guinea pig that everyone in the class gets to take home for a weekend during the year.”

  “That sounds fantastic!” I said. I wanted him to bring the guinea pig home soon, but I bet I’d never see the furry thing because Harold and Charity both had allergies to pet dander.

  “Go on, Harold,” Mom said, her voice sympathetic.

  Harold paused and then launched into an angry rant. “The stupid pig’s name is Hairy, with an i, and when the teacher called on me to answer a question, she called me Harry instead of Harold.”

  “So?”

  “Everyone started laughing, and all day they called me Human Hairy, and the guinea pig is just Hairy. I told them to call me Harold, but no one would.”

  I was trying not to laugh, but I let a giggle slip out when I saw Mom blinking back the tears in her eyes from holding back her laughter this entire time. “Tell the teacher,” I said.

  “I did. I told her it was all her fault and kindergarten was the most horrible thing in the world. She made me sit in the corner.”

  “Apparently, Harold got a bit angrier than he’s letting on,” Mom said. “He’d stuffed Hairy the guinea pig in a pencil box and was going to set him free during recess.”

  This time I laughed. “You were going to harm a defenseless creature because you have the same name? Come on, Hare. That’s not you.”

  “I wanted to set him free, not hurt him. He didn’t like it there either. And he’s been there for years. He wanted out more than I did. I could tell.”

  I patted the top of my brother’s head. “It’ll get better, bud.”

  Harold sighed. Ever the grown-up, he shifted his mood and asked politely, “How was your day, Tru?”

  Mom chuckled and helped herself to a brownie. Sometimes I wondered if we were her entertainment for the day. Right now, I didn’t care.

  “I get to sit by Brendan Matthews!” I shouted, with my arms in the air.

  Mom smiled. Harold rolled his eyes.

  “Look out, Tru. He could have cooties,” Mom said, and winked at me.

  “Girls are the ones with cooties,” Harold said.

  “I’m slowly putting all of mine in your bed, so you’ll be running rampant with them!” I tickled him and he leaped out of his chair, screaming. At six years old, you’d think Harold would know cooties weren’t real, but I liked that he played along.

  Thank God cooties weren’t real. If Brendan had them, it probably wouldn’t stop me from liking him.

  “How’s your back?” my mom asked, getting serious.

  My heart sank to my stomach. “To be honest, I’d forgotten all about it.”

  Mom curved her mouth sadly. “You’d better—”

  “I know, I know. I’ll put it on.”

  I’d discovered the one thing that could bring me down from my cloud, and it definitely wasn’t comfortable.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Visitor

  I wore my brace to school the next day, rockin’ an oversized t-shirt and jean shorts with much-too-wide leg holes. I was terrified someone might notice it. Wearing a back brace sucked; no ifs, ands, or buts—well, there was a butt. Mine. And it hurt.

  Sitting at a desk was one of the most uncomfortable things in the world. My plastic brace couldn’t press back against my plastic chair without pinching me or making some kind of noise, so I had to find a precarious balance where I could sit without mashing my butt cheeks to oblivion or exposing my hidden brace. Rather than taking notes in class, I kept glancing around the room to see if anyone looked at me oddly or questioned my absurdly straight posture. The time in between classes was a relief, because I could stand up and walk around. But then I just began to dread my next class.

  My life sucked indeed.

  At least the first week of school was only a two-day week. And at home, at least I could lounge around in loose mesh shorts under my brace with a t-shirt over it. I couldn’t wear athletic shorts over my brace, because the slick material and elastic band would slide up my smooth plastic hips to my smooth plastic waist and rest there, giving me a wedgie that was both awful to look at and feel.

  I noticed that my mood at home had changed. Before I’d gotten my brace, I’d been the first Trendon child to jump up when either of my parents asked for help. I’d been chipper and happy and friendly. Before-Brace Truth had been someone I liked. But Wearing-Brace Truth was moody and pitiful and rarely, if ever, offered to help out. Though I would begrudgingly do a chore or two, Wearing-Brace me spent more time thinking about things like how my brace had made making my bed more difficult. I wasn’t proud of these changes, but I was aware of them. And I wondered what After-Brace Truth might be like.

  That weekend, I was sitting in the living room near the door, watching television. In the past, I’d sprawl out on the floor in front of the TV and prop my chin on my hands as I let my mind fizzle out the stress of school and homework into a soft, gleaming haze of soothing voices and pretty faces. I rarely watched one episode of a show all the way through, since I’d get bored with the commercials and click
the remote to find another channel. Eventually, I’d be wrapped up in four different plot lines and fifteen different actors before giving up and starting all over again. Now, with my brace keeping me from bending my spine in any way I liked or that felt comfortable, I sat in the recliner and shifted my weight every time a new body part fell asleep. (And I grumbled loudly when anyone else was around—pity-collecting was becoming a new hobby of mine.)

  Currently, I was all caught up in two shows: one with a talking cat who was going to try his paw at Broadway, and the other about two teens in love who were trapped by their obvious differences. He was a cool, popular boy, and she was a lovable but nerdy girl, who liked to read and play the guitar—a corny, overdone storyline, but sometimes I watch shows like that. I’m human, and I can’t help it.

  As I watched, I thought about Brendan. Even I knew I was being pathetic, but I could picture him leaning close to me as I stood by my locker, the magnetic letters Megan and I bought from the Dollar Spot at the grocery store arranged into a telling but understated love poem on my locker door: THE DAISIES ALWAYS WILT / BUT NEVER ON THE PLAIN / OF MY HEART / WHILE I’M WITH YOU. Brendan would see it and tell me how beautiful the words were … how beautiful I was.

  The doorbell rang, jerking me from my daydream stupor and alerting me to the string of drool leaking from my mouth.

  I sat up quickly, and the hard plastic of my brace jutted into my breastbone.

  “Ow!” I shouted.

  “Is that necessary?” my mom asked as she passed.

  “Yes,” I said.

  My mom had invited her good friend, Harriet Nelson (Mrs. Nelson, to me), over to work on some Parent-Teacher Association thing. Mrs. Nelson was nice enough. Her son Oliver was in my grade, but I didn’t know him very well.

  Mom opened the door. “Harriet!” she said, her voice much friendlier than it had been to me. “Come in! Oh, and Oliver, come on in.”

  I froze. Oliver was here, and my brace was hanging out of my pants. If I stood up, I’d expose the low-hanging plastic digging into my butt. I was annoyed that my mother would play this trick on me. I was also surprised that Oliver would be interested in coming over, because that meant he had to try to maneuver around an unfamiliar home in his wheelchair. Oliver had muscular dystrophy, or MD. This meant the muscles in his body would gradually lose strength and muscle mass. There wasn’t any cure. In fifth grade, Oliver’s parents had made him present to our class about it, something he’d done without much effort or care, but it had made everyone stop talking about why he was in a wheelchair. At the time, I’d considered him really brave. Now I considered him one of the more intimidating beings to talk to: a boy. Oliver was especially intimidating because he didn’t care what people thought of him. He spoke his mind.