Will the glamour never end?
I wonder if I’ll ever stop being a disappointment to my parents, if they’ll ever look at me the way they look at Mike.
From now on, this will be known as The Night That Ruined My Life, or TNTRML.
It’s been a week since TNTRML. The morning after it happened, Mom and Dad wanted to take me to Dr. Botwin, my ADHD doc, to discuss “my recent chain of poor decisions.” I reminded them that the last time I saw her, she interrupted me to ask where I got my shoes. Dr. Botwin is possibly more ADHD than me. So now I have an upcoming appointment with some new doc. I’m due for my three-month checkup anyway.
Caitlin and I are Palm Middle’s end-of-the-year headlining gossip story. The rumor is that we were arrested and have to go to juvie. I’m almost glad Finsecker went through with the suspension, so I don’t have to face people.
But I have to go back for finals. Classmates who used to say hi pretend they don’t see me. I’ve never run with the popular pack, but I’ve always been cool enough to say hi to. Not anymore. Mom says they’re ignoring me because kids sometimes just act that way in middle school, and I shouldn’t let it bother me. I know better. They’ve decided I’m one of the bad kids who skip classes and hang around with high schoolers at the gas station.
Mom and Dad hired Aaron Kopecki to tutor me in English for my final. It didn’t work. Even though I got As in math, drama, PE, science, and history, plus a B+ in Spanish (I could have gotten an A but didn’t know Señora Blum took points off every time I shouted, “Ay, Chihuahua!” whenever she announced a stupido pop quiz), Finsecker gave me an F on my final. Shocker.
I’ve been begging Mom and Dad to let me make up English online, but Dad says his tax dollars pay for the summer-school program in our area, and I need to interact with a real teacher, for Pete’s sake. They seem to forget Finsecker was a real teacher. A real bad teacher.
Did I mention I’m grounded? A prisoner in my own home, like those freaky pale girls in the movie Mama. Two days after TNTRML, THIS is what I found hanging on my bedroom door:
THESE RESTRICTIONS ARE SUBJECT TO CHANGE DEPENDING ON PROGRESS:
* * *
1) Laptop must be kept out of your room. Computer to be used only for homework. No social media.
2) No Netflix.
3) Homework must be done before you may go outside.
4) You cannot make plans unless you check with us first.
5) 9 p.m. bedtime, lights out, even on weekends.
6) Any violations will result in extra chores around the house, like polishing silver, washing the car, or emptying junk drawers.
I know I need to be punished, but this is highly overboard. No Netflix? Nine o’clock bedtime on weekends?
Drew laughs his head off. “Relax, there’s no way Mom and Dad will enforce all of this.” He takes a picture of the list with his phone. “My new screen saver,” he explains. I crumple up the list and throw it at him.
“It’s not a punishment,” Mom tells me later. “We feel this will help you to form new habits.” And then the kicker: “We’re doing this because we love you.”
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
But out of everything that’s gone wrong, THIS is the lemon juice on the paper cut that is my life: Caitlin gets to go to camp now. Since I’m not going, my spot at Star Lake opened up. Caitlin was an alternate. She got my spot. MINE. Every time I think about it, a silent scream goes off in my head.
Caitlin’s parents are letting her go, even after everything that’s happened. So Caitlin, who only tried out for Star Lake because I did, who vandalized that car the same as me, is now having the dream summer I was supposed to have.
It is beyond unfair.
I’ve never felt so small in my life. Beachwood Middle is gigantic compared to Palm Middle. Nobody is here yet. I made Mom bring me early so I’d have extra time to find my classroom.
What if I get lost? What if the teacher is strict and mean, like Finsecker? He or she probably will be, because who would want to teach summer school except someone miserable with nothing else to do? What if I fail again?
What if the kids are serious outlaws? I may have flunked a class and snuck out of my house to vandalize, but that was a one-time thing. These kids probably do stuff like that all the time.
Worst of all, what if I don’t make a friend all summer? I’ll be an outcast. I miss Caitlin. She might not win the BF award, but I don’t face anything alone when she’s around.
My meds don’t work the way they’re supposed to when I’m anxious. I calm myself down by reminding myself that summer school only lasts half a day, so I’ll get to leave at lunch time. You can do this, Abby. One…two…three…breathe.
I find my room. It’s empty. A sign reads ENGLISH/LANGUAGE ARTS 7, MR. ANTHONY NORTON. There are no desks, just rectangular tables. I sit at one. The door opens, and an African American man holding a Starbucks coffee cup walks in. I recognize him. He taught at my school last year. He’s young, early twenties.
“Hi there!” he says. “I thought I’d be the first one here.” He drops his backpack on the floor and his coffee cup on a table and rubs his hands together like he’s warming them over a fire. “Bright and early, I love it. You are?”
“Abby Green.”
He smiles like I just gave him the best news in the world. “So you’re Abby Green. Great to meet you! I’m Tony Norton.” He holds his hand out, so I shake it. Since when do teachers shake hands with their students?
“You know who I am, Mr. Norton?”
“I’ve seen all my students’ files, yes. And call me Tony.”
What kind of teacher lets you call him by his first name? Is he the kind that’s going to try to be our friend, or what? Tony starts dragging all the tables and chairs out of their rows, arranging them in a big circle.
“Can I help?” I always volunteer to put up bulletin boards or move things around. I need to get out of my seat often, and I love helping.
“Sure!” he says. If Tony is making us sit in a circle, maybe he’s one of those touchy-feely teachers who always wants to talk about what a character is feeling, and what we’re feeling reading about that character’s feelings.
“Can I help you with anything else?” I ask when we’re done.
“May you, not can you, and no, but thank you.” He sips his coffee. “Any questions before the others get here?”
“Um…don’t you teach at Palm Middle?”
“I subbed, but I’ll be full-time this year.” His grin fades. “Listen, Abby, I want you to know I’ve seen your IEP. I spoke to Mr. Finsecker about you.” The mention of Finsecker has the same nauseating effect on me as a sudden drop on an airplane. “Seems he’s left Palm Middle, by the way.”
I throw my hands up as if my team just scored. “YES! I’ll never have to see his face again!” Tony’s expression tells me my outburst is inappropriate. “Sorry. Why is he leaving?”
“He got a job at Flaglin Community College. He always wanted to teach adults.”
Maybe that’s why Finsecker was always so harsh. He didn’t want to teach kids.
“If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only student he failed,” Tony says.
“Who else?” It’s probably Davis. He has the IQ of a gnat.
“You’ll see.” Tony tosses his empty coffee cup into the wastebasket.
I clap. “Nice shot! What did Mr. Finsecker tell you about me?”
Tony pulls a notebook out, flips it open, and scans the page. “He says your reading comprehension is excellent, but your writing assignments are often incomplete.” He bends his head down, reading. I lean forward and peek.
Irresponsible. Chronically disorganized. Disruptive. Unfocused.
Every word is a punch in the stomach. To Finsecker, I’m a list of wrongs, nothing but trouble. A zero.
“He also said you have a knack for decorating cars,” Tony says with a slight smile.
I clamp my teeth together, forming a clos
e-lipped wall of a grin. So this new teacher knows about TNTRML. Great. “Well, at least my reading comprehension is excellent. I’ve got that going for me.”
“Listen, what Mr. Finsecker didn’t mention is that you’re gifted in math and science. A lot of people with ADHD are gifted. ‘Twice exceptional,’ it’s called.”
“Yeah, my mom says Einstein had ADHD and was gifted. I tell her not to get her hopes up.”
His laugh is warm and big. “Listen, I want you to forget about last year. My class is a fresh start for you, okay?”
Why is he being so nice? I didn’t expect that. It makes tears well up in my eyes. I blink them back, take a breath, and say, “Fresh start. That sounds good.”
Three Latina girls walk in, chatting in Spanish. They look normal—shorts, sandals, ponytails, not exactly the bad girls’ club I was expecting. More kids arrive. They look okay too. An African American guy in a Miami Heat T-shirt; a tan surfer-type guy; a pale, freckled boy in cargo shorts with gelled hair. Where are the delinquents?
Tony is trying to be Mr. Friendly, asking them questions, but they give short answers. I feel sorry for him. Eventually, he stops greeting every kid and starts writing notes on the board, a list of class rules and some honor-code pledge. No one sits next to me.
Until I see a familiar pair of monkey pajama pants walking through the door.
Of course Trina Vargas would be the other student Finsecker flunked! Trina’s grades are hardly refrigerator worthy. I’m so happy to see someone I know. Judging from the grin on her face, she feels the same way. She sits in the seat to my right, kicks off her flip-flops, rests her bare feet on the edge of the chair, and looks at me. Her leaf-shaped eyes stand out against her smooth, brown skin.
The sound of a police siren wails outside, then fades as it drives past the school. “Hear that?” Trina whispers to me, still grinning. “Your ride is here.”
I don’t know whether to tell her to step off or to laugh. I decide to laugh. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Neither did I.” She twirls a strand of her long, black hair. “The universe is, like, always surprising us with a new path.”
Before I have a chance to ask her what the universe has to do with summer school, we both see him, standing in the doorway like a lost giraffe, wearing a striped T-shirt and shorts with a laptop tucked under his arm.
Magic Max failed? How the heck did that happen? Whenever Finsecker called on him, he knew the answer. After his initial look of surprise at seeing Trina and me, Max sits in the seat to my left, stretches out his long legs, and flips open his laptop. “Hi. I knew you weren’t in juvie.” His eyebrows knit together. “Is juvie even a real thing?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “I saw a movie about it where Whoopi Goldberg took all these teenage criminals out for ice cream. Actually, it might have been a mental hospital, not juvie. One girl hid chicken bones under her bed. Whatever.”
“At least they had field trips for ice cream,” Max says. “Maybe we should have gone there instead of here.”
Trina smiles. “You’d never last in juvie, Abby. You’re too cute.”
“Do you think I’m cute, Max?” I ask him, suddenly in the mood to joke around. “Do you?”
“Um…I don’t know.” His eyes stay glued to his laptop. “This site says there are one thousand, five hundred and eighty students attending summer school in Poco right now.”
“Thank you, Captain Trivia,” I say. “Let’s get back to my cuteness.”
“Yeah, answer the question,” Trina says. “Do you think Abby’s cute?”
Max keeps his eyes on his laptop. His cheeks and ears turn slightly pink.
“Are you blushing?” I ask him.
Trina laughs. “He is.”
“Anything you three want to share?” Tony asks us. The whole class turns their heads in our direction.
Trina’s eyes dare me to mess around. The words come out before I can stop them. “Max thinks I’m cute,” I announce.
Trina goes, “Oh, no, you didn’t!” and giggles. A few others, like the ponytail girls, look over and smile. I’m center stage, so I make the most of it. “Max, I’ve told you I don’t like you that way! We’re just friends!” Then I start copying the board, pretending I don’t hear the soft laughter around me.
Max shakes his head like a dog with wet ears. “It’s not true.”
“So you don’t think I’m cute?!” I shout.
He opens and closes his mouth, flustered. “I do. I mean, I don’t. I don’t know.”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “Why is your face so red, then? You look like Clifford the Big Red Dog.” People crack up big-time. Even Tony smiles. I keep going. “Seriously, dude, you look like a thermometer.”
“Good metaphor, Abby,” Trina says. “Respect.”
“It’s a simile,” Tony corrects her. “That’s enough, now.”
“I think you’re cute!” says the Miami Heat T-shirt guy. “And monkey pants too!” Trina and I look at each other and laugh.
“Kelvin, settle down,” Tony says to him. “You’ll have time to talk about who’s cute after class.” He goes back to writing on the board.
Max slinks down behind his laptop screen.
“You know I was just kidding, right?” I whisper to him. He doesn’t answer, just types, looks up at the board, types some more.
I hate being ignored.
“So, like, what is the deal with your hair?” I ask. No answer. “Seriously, how do you avoid frizz and get your waves so shiny and manageable? Is it one of your magic tricks?” Still nothing but a dirty look. I lean toward Trina and whisper, “Magic Max is ignoring me.”
She’s ignoring me too, doodling a goblin with a twisted mouth. I may live in my head sometimes, but I answer people when they talk to me. Everyone else is copying the board.
I start writing. I bet I’m way behind everyone else except Trina, who hasn’t written a single word. Don’t teachers know whenever we have to take notes only a few kids actually take them? The rest of us just copy later from the kids who took them.
Need. To. Focus.
This is so boring. When is Tony going to start talking? Max is typing away, probably posting something on a magician site. “So, Max,” I say, “why are you in summer school?”
“Can you stop fidgeting with your foot?” he says. “You’re shaking the whole table.”
I stop. “Sorry.”
Max looks past me at Trina. “Doesn’t that shaking bug you?”
She holds up a drawing of a griffin. “It’s giving my lines a freaky look, so I kind of like it.”
I crack up.
“Well, I don’t,” Max says.
“Well, I don’t like how you don’t answer questions,” I say.
Max folds his laptop shut with a loud click. “I don’t like how you embarrass me in front of the whole class.”
“I told you I was kidding!”
Max maneuvers his long, lanky self out from behind the table, takes his backpack and laptop, and goes across the room to sit next to Kelvin. “Don’t go,” I tell him. “Come on, don’t be so sensitive.”
Now I’ve bugged him so much I’ve made him leave. Performers like me are always misunderstood. But it bothers me when someone doesn’t like me.
The door opens. My eyes almost pop out. I cannot believe who is walking in a half hour late and sitting next to me.
What in the name of Trina’s monkey pants is Silent Amy doing here?
After school I race upstairs, flop on my bed, and call Caitlin at Star Lake. Campers aren’t supposed to have phones, but they sneak them in. I tell her about Finsecker leaving, about Trina and Magic Max and, of course, Silent Amy. “Little Miss Perfect has to go to summer school!” I sing. “Who knew? I thought she was an A student. You know, her face isn’t that great if you really look.”
“Yeah, it’s her body that’s amazing. Unlike you, she has boobs.” Sadly true. My bras are so small, they get lost in the dryer like socks. “She’s, like, perfect
. I bet you anything her parents named their boutique Teen Princess after her.” Makes sense. Silent Amy is kind of a princess. She doesn’t talk to us common folk. “So, what’s it like being with that freak-fest Trina all day?”
I wince at freak-fest. “She’s just spacey.”
“Spacier than you?”
“Way spacier than me. But nice. The mute and the magician are another story. At least Trina’s funny. They’re all wackos, though.”
“Trina’s funny-strange. You know she’s a genius, right?”
I snort. “Genius at what? Doodling goblins?”
“She invented an app that catches hackers. Brett said Microsoft wants to buy it.”
I sit up. Brett never talked to Caitlin before.
“What about Magic Max?” Caitlin asks. “Why is he in dummy school?” I wince again. Does she have to call it that? “He’s outer limits, even if he did save your butt in Finsecker’s class after you almost took his eye out with your pencil.”
I have a flashback of Max storming off to sit across the room. “He’s a wet sandwich.”
“You mean wet blanket, Einstein.”
Max pops into my mind again, blushing because I embarrassed him. “He complained because I was shaking the table with my foot.”
“You’re shaking your foot now.”
“How do you know? You’re not even here.” I hope she catches the resentment in my voice.
“I hear your headboard hitting the wall. You shake the whole bed when I sleep over.” I stop wiggling my foot. “So guess what? I’m auditioning for this drama showcase with a monologue. Barbra Streisand did it in the movie Funny Girl.”
“Who’s Barbra Streisand?” I know who Barbra Streisand is. She was the grandmother in all those Meet the Fockers movies. But I won’t give Caitlin the satisfaction.
This Is Not the Abby Show Page 4
