Things Are Gonna Get Ugly (10 page)

“Remember,” says Ms. Stuckley, “I'm only giving you eight days for this assignment, so I suggest you use your time wisely. Let's look at the steps on the board and get going.” She peruses the room and listens to our groans. “Oh, stop wallowing in self-pity. Public speaking is one of the most useful skills you will walk out of here with. If you simply learn to stand up for yourself and speak your true voice, you'll have it made in the shade.” Then she laughs as if she's a funny person.

It's hard to concentrate on Stuckley and her silly nose ring when all I'm thinking about is how I'm going to have to do more algebra homework for Winslow.

As Ms. Stuckley goes on and on about the virtues of oral literature and oral presentations gleaned from her days at Oxford, Ninai passes me a note.

I was worried about you on Friday in orchestra.

Are you feeling better?

I look up from the note and give Ninai a thumbs-up.

If she only knew the real reason I was feeling sick. Suddenly, I'm realizing I can't hide out in the girls' room forever. I will have to figure out a more permanent way to get out of string class.

Then I get a note from Olivia.

Want to eat inside today?

Eat with Olivia and Ninai? How much longer must I continue this charade?

Hello. Wait a minute. Problem solved.
Olivia, in addition to being a medieval Russian poet wench, is a math whiz, and Ninai probably isn't too bad herself. Not that I really need help, but it would be nice to check answers.

I mouth
yes
while Ms. Stuckley turns her back to write on the white board. It would be so MUCH easier to text. But apparently, Ernestine does not own a PDA.

Ninai smiles back at me and Olivia beams so hard that when she opens up her lips, I notice just how crooked her teeth are. (I bet as a medieval wench she's against anything as technologically advanced as braces.) Whether she's weird or not, I'm getting algebra answers checked from two certified brainiacs. I will be able to complete this stupid bargain with Winslow no problem now.

I feel like I've won something huge—like maybe a Hummer limo.

Welcome to Geekland

Petra and Caylin are tying Tyler and Justin's shoelaces together. Maggie the Mushroom and Invisible Girl look on enviously.

But I don't.

I'm not part of this anymore, not at the moment. I make my way through the crowded cafeteria over to Olivia, who's wearing her long peasant skirt today. Ninai is once again wearing her Girl Scout uniform. The whole khaki pants, white shirt with sash thing. You can tell she's proud that she has more patches or whatever than any other girl in troop 213. Olivia has a
Webster's Unabridged
in the middle of the table—I think they use it to play dictionary games.

Olivia pats me on the shoulder. “Are you feeling better? Would you like some tea?” She points to a green thermos that looks like it's been around since the seventies. There is no way I would drink anything from that contaminated thing, but I don't want to be impolite. Olivia is seeming human. “Um, no thanks. My stomach's a little funny.”

“Mangia, mangia!”
Olivia flicks her hands at me like she's apprenticing to be Hermione Granger from
Harry Potter
. And she says it in a really loud voice. In fact, she's picked up her medieval writing device and is pointing it around the room. I can hear Justin, who's sitting next to Tyler, yell, “Are you fondling your pen again, Olivia?”

But Olivia doesn't seem to notice. In fact, she doesn't seem to care that the guys, I mean The Guys, are laughing at her, including Tyler I'm-beautiful-kidnapped-boy Hutchins. Petra is smirking.

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,
x
s and
y
s. 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 swings 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.