Dear Isaac Newton, You're Ruining My Life

by Rachel Hruza

  For the rest of class period, we read and discussed a short story. I put in my two cents about the plot, but I was distracted, trying to think up something entertaining I could do in front of the entire junior high. The biggest things that had happened to me this year—getting a back brace and locking lips with Brendan—would be the most entertaining, but there was no way I was going to share those secrets with anyone else (although I would love to have seen Jenny’s face when she heard about the kiss), especially not the whole school.

  Luckily, I still had time to think about it.

  My parents were proud of me. They’d gotten a call from the school to let them know I’d be giving a presentation. Of course the school wanted my parents to be involved, but I wondered how much they expected them to manipulate my presentation—to make sure I didn’t say anything against the school. Not that I would. I actually liked school; I’d enjoyed it ever since first grade when I had the alphabet down pat and got put into the top reading group. I was definitely not too cool for school—in fact, I thought school was probably too cool for me.

  On my way to the living room, I grabbed a notebook. Maybe I could use that line—school was always too cool for me … Even as I wrote it, I knew I’d never say those words in that order in front of my peers, but it was a starting point.

  That night, my family and I watched the Miss America pageant. We weren’t huge pageant fans; we just liked to analyze state popularity among the somewhat-celebrity judges. Every year we worked out the statistical probabilities of who would win, based on the top states from the years before. The big, most populous states were always contenders—California, Texas, New York, Florida. The Midwestern states always seemed to be cut before the top ten. Once, South Dakota made it up to the top five, and we were beside ourselves with statistical confusion. The judges had gone rogue that year, and it threw off our numbers for a good three pageants.

  “How come they all have the same smile?” Harold asked.

  “They all use teeth whitener,” my dad replied.

  “I like her,” Harold said, marching up to the screen and pointing at Miss California, a blonde in a gorgeous flowing blue gown. “She waves at everyone.”

  “They all wave at everyone,” Charity pointed out.

  “But she really means it,” Harold said, waving back.

  I stayed quiet as I kept track of the states that were weeded out.

  “Oklahoma’s gonna be out of there,” my mom said. “That dress clashes with her hair.”

  “I like it. She stands out,” my dad said.

  “So if I dyed my hair bright red and wore a hot pink dress on national television, you wouldn’t mind? Hmm?”

  “You’d look lovely in anything,” my dad said, kissing Mom on the cheek.

  “Dad has cooties!” Harold cried.

  “Cut it out, you two,” Charity laughed. “Hot pink is a horrible choice for pageants.” She wrinkled her face at me and frowned. “What’s your problem?”

  “Nuffin,” I muttered, pencil eraser pressed against my lips, my gaze glued to the gorgeous women walking across the stage in their evening gowns. Not one of them had scoliosis; not even a hint of one rib sticking even a millimeter out of place in any direction. I had already resigned myself years ago to not being a beauty queen, but what if that had been my dream, the one thing I had wanted to do with my life?

  Nope, Brace-Wearing Truth can’t do the dance number because she can’t kick her legs up any higher than her ankle. Look out, Brace-Wearing Truth can’t bend to see her feet with her peripheral vision when she walks, so she trips on wires, takes out the entire lighting system, and gets electrocuted. I’d be a Miss America tragedy—lying on a stretcher, strapped into my back brace, my frizzy hair fried to a crisp.

  The saddest part was I wouldn’t even get that far. I wouldn’t qualify for the pageant because the rib-hump on my back made it clear I wasn’t perfect like all of the other women. I was deformed, crooked, and ugly, and I would never be beautiful like they were. A quiet tear leaked out onto the word “Oklahoma” that I’d just crossed out in my notebook.

  “What did I tell you?” my mom said. “Hot pink never makes the top ten.”

  Scoliosis, the physical chaos that was my life, never did either.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Discovery (Part 3)

  Over the second week of November, I sank into a dark depression—dark in that I wore black t-shirts three days in a row and tried out eyeliner. The black makeup always ran down my face by the end of the day, leaving me with thin streaks of black on my cheeks.

  “I think you should wash your face,” Megan said before last period on the third day.

  “Why?”

  “It looks like you’ve been crying or you’re trying to have wrinkles on your cheeks.”

  “Maybe I am. I’m trying to look older, wiser. Distinguished.”

  “It’s distinguished all right,” Megan said. We hadn’t been talking much lately, but after a pause she grabbed my arm and asked sincerely, “Are you okay?”

  My lips itched to tell her about Brendan not knowing how to read, and how he’d asked me to write a paper for him, but after I’d agreed to do it (betraying myself), I didn’t (betraying him). The least I could have done was be honest with him; now he had no idea, and when Mr. Landers told him he never got his paper, Brendan would either kill me or never talk to me again. I hadn’t yet decided which was worse.

  On top of that, I still hadn’t been back to see Oliver. I could picture him sitting there, waiting for me to show up, but I never did. After seeing him watching me from the truck that night on the double date, I felt like I didn’t know what to talk about anymore. His eyes had said too much. I felt as though some invisible string that had linked us together had somehow been broken, and I hadn’t the slightest idea how to repair it.

  To Megan, I said, “Meh.”

  “I feel that way too. Do you want to come over after school? We can finish algebra and then make cookies.”

  I smiled, knowing “make cookies” meant her mother would make them for us while we did homework. “I would love that.”

  “Good.” She shut our locker and we walked to History together. Brendan was just leaving the classroom with Mr. Landers.

  “I put it in your mailbox. I don’t know what happened,” he said.

  “Okay, well, get a copy of it to me by tomorrow, and I won’t count it late,” Mr. Landers said.

  “Okay. Thanks, Mr. L.”

  As Megan entered the classroom, Brendan pulled me back into the hallway. “Landers didn’t get my paper,” he said. “Are you sure you put it in his mailbox? Can you get me another copy for tomorrow?”

  I sighed. It was now or never. “I didn’t write it.”

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t do it,” I said, trying to make myself cry. Quietly, I added, “It’s cheating.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? You lied to me.” Brendan’s voice was hardly above a whisper, but it was full and quiet and came from a harsh place in his throat.

  I paused. I knew my answer was going to upset him. I could see the steam building behind his big, long-lashed eyes, feel the anger rising in his face as he involuntarily held his breath, trying not to explode. I wished he would. It would make me feel more like a victim, rather than the root of the problem.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you,” I said, looking at my history book in my hands. That’s what we were: The Short Relationship of Brendan Matthews and Truth Trendon, Barely a History.

  “Are you kidding me?” Brendan said, exasperated. He lowered his voice even more. “I can’t believe you. I would have figured something else out, Truth. I’m not an idiot.”

  “I know that!” I said.

  “No, I don’t think you do.”

  This time I actually started to cry. “Brendan, I’m so sorry!”

  “Forget it,” he said. He walked away toward the lockers, his head hung lower than I’d ever seen. Brendan Matthews—confident
, strong, and cheerful student loved by all—walked through school like he’d just been told he was a loser. I felt like it was true, and I was the one who’d said it.

  The bell rang.

  Mr. Landers walked to the doorway and looked at me with his hand on the doorknob. “You’re late.”

  I slowly turned my head as I wiped the tears from my eyes with my other hand. “No, I’m not,” I said. I walked past him into the classroom and he just let me go.

  I wanted to leap out of a window dramatically—maybe through the glass, depending on how much of a running start I had—but we were only on the first floor, and that didn’t seem like it would leave the lasting impression I was aiming for. I sighed and faced forward, where Mr. Landers was in the middle of one of his rambling sprees.

  “So I just wanted you kids to keep that in mind—some days are rocks, others are diamonds. Today may have been a rock, where no matter what you did, it was hard and difficult to grasp things. For some of you, it may have been a diamond—you shone on that math test or spelling test. Do you guys still have spelling tests? No? What do you study in English then? Okay, fine, no spelling tests. But keep that in mind.” He looked at me, and I felt myself shift uncomfortably under his unusually sincere gaze. “Tomorrow can always be better. You can make it that way. It may seem like your parents or guardians have control over you right now, but your life is in your own hands more than you realize. School is your place to be a star, no matter what kind of star you want to be.”

  “Maybe he should write my speech,” I muttered. Sheesh.

  “Question, Truth?”

  “Nope. Good advice, sir.”

  Several people snickered. Sir? I was really out of it.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Landers said slowly. “Okay. Enough serious stuff. Let’s talk about the warrior and slave culture of the Sumerians.”

  Everyone moaned. We’d been hoping Landers would rant the entire class, but his encouraging pep talk seemed to have made him focus.

  “Cause that sounds like it’s full of comedy and excitement,” said Tim Ackles, from across the room.

  “It is exciting. It’s history.”

  The class moaned again as Mr. Landers pulled down the projector screen with an evil laugh, but the rest of the class period actually zoomed by. Mr. Landers was entertaining with his lesson that day, and he didn’t stray off topic even once. When the bell rang, for the first time he had to cut himself off before he was finished with his lecture—an actual history lecture, and not one of his tirades.

  As I passed his desk, Mr. Landers asked to speak to me. I stopped and Megan nudged me, whispering, “I’ll meet you at our locker.”

  I nodded. Mr. Landers kept his voice down as the rest of my classmates filtered out of the room. “First of all, Truth, I wanted to congratulate you on your selection to represent academic excellence and whatever else the description is. I recommended you myself.”

  I was in a hurry to go and find Brendan so I could try to smooth things over. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m excited, I guess.”

  “So then, is everything okay?” Landers asked.

  I watched his face turn to concern. “Everything’s fine,” I said.

  “You haven’t seemed yourself this past week. I just wanted to let you know you do have people you can talk to here. I mean, as long as it’s not too personal. Go to the counselor for that. But if you need an extension on homework or advice about anything school related, you can ask me.”

  I smiled slightly, picturing Landers’ reaction if I told him the truth.

  “Thanks,” was all I said.

  “Teachers tend to know more than just the subject they’re teaching. We’ve been through junior high ourselves.”

  “But you’re so cool, Mr. Landers. I bet it was a breeze for you,” I said, sucking up in my most sincere voice, when I really imagined he was a bit of a nerd in junior high, getting made fun of but taking it well.

  “Oh, sure. I was a stud muffin,” Landers said, smiling. “But everyone has their issues; no matter how ‘cool’ they seem to be.”

  “That’s for sure.” I thought of Brendan and how perfect I thought he had been.

  Mr. Landers peered at my face. “I think you have something under your eye.”

  “I’m sure I do. Thanks.”

  “Okay, well. Have a good evening, and hopefully tomorrow will be a diamond in the rough for you.”

  “Yeah, hopefully.”

  He was really hanging on to that analogy. I figured we’d be hearing about diamonds and rocks for the rest of the year.

  As I walked to my locker, I was lost in thought, trying to think of what I could say to ease Brendan’s anger about my lying to him. I couldn’t write his paper for him, but I could definitely help him. It could be our lesson for the afternoon. There’d be a lot of words he could learn.

  I stopped in my tracks (both literally and in my brain) when I saw Brendan and Megan talking in front of our locker. She leaned with her back against the locker (something I couldn’t do, because my brace would have made a noise, and it would have been totally uncomfortable), and he was leaning with one arm against the lockers, while his other hand rested on the back of his neck.

  At first glance, if I hadn’t known better, I would have guessed they were a couple.

  I approached slowly, stalking and analyzing my prey so they wouldn’t scatter and hide in an attempt to avoid my apologies (or in Megan’s case, my wrath).

  Brendan stood up straight as I walked up to them. I slowly turned the lock, giving myself time to think. I was thankful he waited patiently. I placed my books in the locker, taking several moments to adjust their glued paper spines so they wouldn’t bend out of shape. Finally, I took a deep breath and turned around.

  “Megan? May I talk to Brendan alone?”

  “No,” she said quickly. He laughed.

  I looked at them with disdain. “Look, Brendan, I’m so sorry.” I tried to turn my back to Megan, so she wouldn’t hear the next part of my apology. “You have to realize I can’t cheat. The genetic makeup or the fiber or whatever does not exist in my being. You have to understand. But I can help you work on your paper. I’d be happy to help you this afternoon. It won’t take long at all.”

  “Megan already offered to help me, Truth. We’re going to her house.” Brendan sounded clinical and distant. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to punch both of them. Megan was falling into his trap; his handsome, good-looking-face trap.

  “My mom’s making cookies,” Megan said, smiling viciously at me.

  “I thought I was coming to your house this afternoon,” I said.

  “Change of plans,” she said. “Something better came along. You know what that’s like, don’t you?” She slammed the locker, even though I wasn’t finished with it yet, and stormed off. “Let’s go, Brendan.”

  I turned to my definitely former boyfriend, my face aghast.

  He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “I just can’t trust you anymore.”

  “So Megan knows your secret? You told never-lets-the-cat-have-her-tongue Borowitz? By tomorrow, the whole school’s going to know.”

  “I figured you’d told her already, but no, I didn’t tell her. I said you wouldn’t help me, so she offered to help.”

  “I just said I’d help you!”

  “Like I said, I can’t trust you, Truth.”

  I didn’t like how he said my name, like it was gross or left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Whatever.” I said the meanest thing that came to mind: “I hope you get an F.” Not the most mature thing to say.

  “Thanks. Maybe you can add that to your presentation. I’m sure it’ll be great.” He started to follow Megan down the hallway.

  “Well, I hope whoever you ask to write yours for you does a good job!” I yelled after him.

  Brendan’s shoulders jerked and he stopped walking, looking around. Seeing that no one had overheard us, he kept walking. I wanted to die when he grabbed Megan’s hand and they walke
d down the hallway together. Part of me wished the trophy cabinet would suddenly detach from the wall and crush them both, but that would have been messy, and I didn’t hate the janitor that much.

  Brendan said he couldn’t trust me, but a nagging voice in my head feared his rejection of me was because of my back, my crooked spine, and the brace that held me together. He’d found someone with a straight back, strong shoulder blades, and ribs in proper proportion. I didn’t even blame Isaac Newton; I didn’t blame anyone. I just stood in the hallway and watched the two of them disappear up the steps, their feet in matching rhythm.

  I knew for sure then that I was having a rock of a day. I let my head drop against my locker as I turned the lock to get the books I needed.

  “You all right, Truth?”

  I looked up to see Miss Peters walking by.

  “Just peachy,” I said sadly.

  “Okay,” she said, clearly not convinced. But she kept walking.

  That marked the moment I began my life as a social outcast. I’d lost my best friend, my kind-of-boyfriend, and teachers who thought I needed cheering up, all in the same day.

  Throwing my books in my backpack in the girls’ locker room, I kept myself angry so I wouldn’t cry. “Good-for-nothing boys and their pretty faces! Dumb jerks! Stupid Megan and her mom’s cookies; delicious chocolate chip cookies I don’t get to eat!”

  I tried to pull on the handle of my backpack, but it was stuck. I pulled and kicked it, dropped it to the ground and slammed it against the lockers until I couldn’t take it anymore. Then I dropped onto the bench in front of the lockers and cried into my open palms, knowing the eyeliner on my face would just get worse. I’d missed the bus, I didn’t have a ride from a formerly nice boy’s not-so-nice mother, and I didn’t have a best friend who would cheer me up when I complained about my back. I was alone, entirely alone.

  “Stupid Newton. Stupid scoliosis. Stupid back brace!”