Ten Things I Hate About Me (8 page)
MY DAD’S CELL
phone keeps on ringing and I yell out for somebody to answer it since I’m on the Internet, e-mailing John. Nobody does and so I rush to the kitchen, where it’s vibrating on the counter, and answer it myself.
Miss Sajda is on the other end. We go through the chitchat niceties for a couple of moments and then she asks to speak to my dad.
“So he’s still home?” she asks when I tell her that he’s taking a shower.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t he be?” I ask in a puzzled tone.
“There’s a staff meeting going on at madrasa.”
“But it’s Saturday.”
“We’re discussing curriculum issues.”
“Will it take long?” I ask hopefully.
The prospect of having the entire house to myself is always thrilling. I can turn the music up as loud as I want or watch PG-13-rated movies to my heart’s content without having to
glue my finger to the fast-forward button in case my dad happens to walk in.
The meeting is scheduled to finish late. My face erupts into a wide grin. I’ll be the first to admit that it doesn’t take a lot to get me excited.
“Don’t you sometimes wish something exciting would happen in your life?” I ask Amy on the telephone.
It’s eight o’clock and my dad is still out with the rest of the madrasa staff, who decided to go out to dinner.
I’m sprawled on the couch in the family room, surrounded by half-eaten bags of chips, a couple of cans of Coke, a dozen magazines, and a collection of DVDs. I’ve been on the telephone to Amy for the past two hours, discussing our favorite movies and what we want to do when we finish school. It’s the longest telephone conversation we’ve ever had.
“I’m sick of talking to you now,” she says lightheartedly. “You’ve harassed me all afternoon.”
“Hey, it’s been a symbiotic relationship,” I joke. “Your parents are out too and you’re stuck home alone and bored. You need me as much as I need you.”
“Anyway, being home alone isn’t such a weird thing for me lately. I like having the house to myself. I hate it when my parents are home.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re just one big happy family.” Her voice is bitter and I ask her if everything is OK.
“Yeah, of course it is,” she says in a dismissive tone. I’m about to say something but she cuts me off. “Liz has changed.”
“In what way?”
“She smokes now. She skips school with Sam. The other day Sam was making fun of Simon because Simon’s father came to the office. You know how he’s Sikh? Well, his dad was wearing a turban and Sam was making fun of him. I couldn’t believe it, but Liz was laughing along with him.”
“That’s horrible.”
“I can’t stand people who change themselves just to fit in.”
“Yeah, I know,” I mutter uncomfortably.
“It’s such an act of weakness. Is Liz so desperate for a boyfriend that she has to erase her personality?”
I gulp hard. I so desperately want to confide in her. I want a friendship based on honesty and openness. But it’s obvious that there is no way Amy will ever understand my situation. Or forgive me.
I was desperate for some excitement but now I take it back.
I want a refund on my words.
I want an IOU.
I don’t want excitement.
I don’t want adrenaline rushes and panic attacks.
I spoke too soon!
My world crashes down on me like the surf at Bondi Beach.
In homeroom on Monday Mr. Anderson announces that the tenth-grade committee has finalized the details for the tenth-grade formal scheduled for the end of the second semester, in June.
I freeze in my seat.
“The formal will be held at the Bellavista Function Center. We plan to hire a band so there will be live music. It should be a wonderful night.”
I can feel every capillary in my body frantically trying to pump blood into my heart which has, momentarily, stopped. I have an image of myself standing in the center of the school, the student body circling me and chanting, “Caveman Daddy won’t let her go! Caveman Daddy won’t let her go!”
The girls start squealing in delight and Amy grabs my arm excitedly.
“What will we wear? Who will we go with? What kind of car? Where will the after-party be?”
I generate as much energy as I can, flash her my most dazzling smile, and start to work hard at laying the foundations of enthusiasm early.
“How exciting!” I cry. “I can’t wait to find our outfits and do our hair and get some funky jewelery!”
There is no way my dad will let me go.
The flu, an appendix operation, lost house keys—none of
those excuses are going to work this time. I’m going to need to consult encyclopedias for this one.
From: [email protected]
John, I need a lawyer. Can you ask your dad if he’ll represent me in my case against my school? I want to sue the board for violating my human rights. And I want to name Mr. Anderson in the action and get compensation from him for the psychological trauma I am suffering because of his dumb decision to hold a tenth-grade formal at the end of next term.
AS IF I’LL BE ALLOWED!
Shereen went to an all-girls school and that’s the only reason she was allowed to go to her formal.
What am I supposed to say when people ask me why I’m not going? I can’t use the “my dad won’t let me” line. I might as well move to another country.
My reputation will be ruined.
Forever.
Beyond repair.
Gone.
Smashed.
Pulverized.
From: [email protected]
Where and when is your formal?
From: [email protected]
In June at a reception place in Bellavista. Why do you ask?
From: [email protected]
I’ve got a formal coming up too.
From: [email protected]
So then you can understand how desperate my situation is.
From: [email protected]
Try and reason with your dad. He let you get a job at McDonald’s. I’m sure he’ll back down when he realizes how important this is to you.
But if he does say no, don’t stress. It’s just a formal. It’s no big deal. People get dressed up and gossip to each other about who’s wearing what and who looks hot and who doesn’t.
I’m sure you can think of a more stimulating way to spend an evening.
From: [email protected]
I will die of a broken heart if he says no.
CHALLENGE PETER TO
a dare and he’s up for it faster than a dog to a bone. I’ve figured it out. He’s a bigot and a bully but he’s popular because he provides entertainment value. In a nine-to-three world of algebra, chlorophyll, and text comprehension, watching Peter put a fart bomb on a teacher’s chair or releasing a mouse in homeroom is like getting free tickets to a movie.
This morning I overhear him talking to Sam and Chris. Chris says: “I dare you,” and Peter answers: “Simple, man.”
Later I’m walking in the hall when I notice Peter through the window of a classroom door. I stick my nose up close to the window and peer inside for a closer look. In one hand is a tube of superglue. In the other is a white-board eraser. He catches my gaze and winks. I’m caught off guard and give him a goofy grin.
I turn around and bump into Mr. Anderson, who’s on hall
patrol. If I walk away, Peter will be caught. If I divert Mr. Anderson’s attention, Peter just might get away with it.
I’m no snitch. Trying not to look like I have something to hide, I plant myself in front of Mr. Anderson and flash him a huge grin.
“Hi, sir! How’s it going?”
I shouldn’t be lurking in the halls during lunch.
My conversational skills go into fourth gear. He falls for the “I’m a student interested in my teacher’s life” routine and we walk down the hall in deep conversation about his Rottweiler’s eating habits.
After lunch we all file into class. Peter takes a seat in the back row, swings on his chair, and laughs conspiratorially with Sam and Chris. Fifteen minutes into class Peter raises his hand and asks Mr. Anderson to write out the explanation of an algebraic equation on the board. Mr. Anderson gets busy on the whiteboard.
It happens halfway between an explanation of why ax
2
+ bx + c = 0. Mr. Anderson grabs the duster and wipes the letter
a
from the board. That small act lands him in trouble.
He quickly realizes that his hand is now partially stuck to a whiteboard eraser. He turns around and I estimate that it takes him a mere 2.5 seconds to put two and two together. He is, after all, proficient in algebra.
“Jamie!” It’s less than a roar, more than a yell.
“Yes, sir?”
“Am I to believe that it is sheer coincidence that my hand is stuck to this eraser and you were lurking around this classroom door at lunchtime today looking, now that I think about it, suspiciously guilty?”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble. Everybody’s eyes are on me.
“Unfortunately for you, I’m not that gullible.”
“But I didn’t do anything, sir.” I don’t dare to steal a glance at Peter—that’d be a dead giveaway. Instead I naively wait for him to speak up.
Mr. Anderson scans the classroom. “Is there anybody who knows anything about this?” he demands, his face red with rage.
Blank, silent faces and not a peep from Peter.
“Jamie, I’m disappointed in you. This is a very low act.”
“I didn’t do it, sir!”
“If you didn’t do it, then you most certainly know something about it. If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”
I hate it when teachers push you into a corner like this. To snitch on Peter would make the rest of my high school life a tormented one. I may as well skin myself alive and jump in a bath full of salt. The consequences would be less painful.
I stay silent, defiant. Mr. Anderson stares at me. I know he knows I didn’t do it. I’m the quiet girl. I’ve never rocked the boat in class. I’m not the type who would pull off something like this. But in Mr. Anderson’s world, refusing to expose the perpetrator is equal to committing the act.
I’m screwed.
“Very well, Jamie. It’s your call. I’m going to go to the nurse’s office to remove this thing from my hand. I’ll see you in after-school detention all week.”
A voice sounds from across the room. “You don’t have any proof, sir.”
“
Excuse me,
Timothy?”
“You’re being unfair. You don’t have any proof that Jamie did it.”
I stare at Timothy in shock.
“This is none of your business!” Mr. Anderson cries. “Jamie was outside this classroom door at lunchtime and I doubt it was because she was admiring the woodwork on the frames.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t prove a thing.”
“That’s right, sir,” I say. “I was just passing through the hall.”
“Absurd,” he says. “You were glued to the door.” There is an eruption of giggles.
“This is NOT a laughing matter!”
“It’s just that you used the word
glued,
sir,” Timothy says.
“RIGHT! I’ll see you in detention after school today too, Timothy.”
Timothy shrugs. “Fine.”
“I will not have cocky students in my classroom! Open chapter five and complete the entire exercise. Anybody who
hasn’t finished by the time I return will join Jamie and Timothy this afternoon!”
He turns on his heels and leaves, slamming the door behind him.
“Did you do it?”
“Was it you?”
“It was so cool!”
“It wasn’t me,” I tell the class.
“So do you know who did it?”
“Nah, I don’t.”
There are murmurs about my punishment being a travesty of justice and Mr. Anderson being an ogre. I look at Peter and he has the audacity to smile and wink at me.
“Thanks for defending me,” I say to Timothy.
“No prob. You shouldn’t have to take the rap for something you didn’t do.”
I could swear that he glances at Peter when he says this. Peter doesn’t notice. He’s too busy laughing victoriously with Chris and Sam.
Peter approaches me after class. “Hey, thanks for not turning me in! You’re a champ. You know what? You’re a cool chick. A
really
cool chick.”
Am I supposed to feel all warm and fuzzy now? The whole situation stinks like garden fertilizer.
Detention is being held in the science lab. That’s just an overexcited description for a detached portable classroom planted
in the middle of a slab of asphalt next to the staff parking lot. It’s hard to see how the classroom could be classified as a laboratory. It basically consists of desks, chairs, a whiteboard, a sink, and three gas mains. I hate it when detention is held here because the classroom has no views of the fields and is fairly secluded. You can’t while your time away staring at the guys playing soccer or basketball. The only thing worthy of entertainment (and this is getting desperate) is counting the colors of the teachers’ cars and trying to work out a statistical equation to explain the dominance of red Ford Falcons.
There are a couple of kids from other classes who are also in trouble for various things: clogging the toilets with tissues, graffiti, getting into a fight at the school store.
The librarian, Mrs. Baxter, is supervising today since Mr. Anderson is busy. Now that’s power. Punish us with detention but get another teacher to endure the two hours on your behalf. If Mr. Anderson was on duty, we wouldn’t be allowed to blow our noses without first raising our hands and asking for permission. But Mrs. Baxter is on the edge of retiring and isn’t really interested in discipline. Every body’s huddled into groups and talking. She’s told us she has no problem with us talking as long as we keep our voices down and she can comfortably read her book,
The Passion of Love.
I steal a glance at Timothy. He looks bored. His head is low and his chin is touching the table. I’m biting my nails and playing with my bangs.
Timothy notices me looking at him and I roll my eyes at Mrs. Baxter. He grins at me. Then I lean my chair close to his desk and say: “Thanks again. It was really nice of you to stick up for me.”
“I was principle-of-the-matter motivated. I’m not in love with you.” His grin is flirty and I can’t help but giggle.
“So what makes you so sure I didn’t do it?” I ask.
“A bit of telepathic ability here, a bit of logical deduction there…”
“And that led you to figure out that it was Peter?”
“How do you know that I know it was Peter?”
“Oh, just a bit of telepathic ability here, a bit of logical deduction there…”
You know the saying that the eyes are the window to the soul? Well, I think that’s crap. I don’t think it’s your eyes; it’s your smile.
Timothy has a smile on him. Oh yes. He’s got one dazzling smile. His smile creases the skin around his eyes and sucks up a bit of right cheek into a big, happy dimple.
“He was bragging about it by the lockers,” Timothy says. “He’s singing your praises too. Of course, he hasn’t shown any guilt about the fact that you’re in detention. He probably thinks you feel privileged.”
I’m ashamed of myself and stare down at the desk.
“So why did you take the blame?”
“Because I’m deeply disturbed. Because I’m craving the
approval of a guy who has the brains of ricotta cheese and probably keeps
Mein Kampf
as bedtime reading material.”
He bursts out laughing. “Now that’s a side of you we don’t hear enough.”
“Yeah, well, it’s reserved for special occasions.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“What was I supposed to do? Stand up and announce to the world that it was Peter? Do I look like I want a short lifespan?”
“I admit that Mr. Anderson was a real jerk to put you under that kind of pressure. But you could have taken the rap and then gone up to Peter afterward and demanded he confess or you’d spill the beans.”
I look at him as though he’s growing mangoes out of his ears. “You’re living in a parallel universe.”
He shrugs. “Your universe, or mine—either way he’s scum and not worth it.”
“It’s worth it if I can avoid being known as the resident whistle-blower.”
He looks at me thoughtfully. “I stuck up for you because I thought that deep down there was a bit of spunk in you, despite the fact that you so obviously try to hide it.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say sarcastically.
“Hey, you don’t have to prove yourself to me.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“It might get in the way of proving yourself to Peter, right?”
“Hey! That’s not fair. You’re not under the same sort of pressure as the rest of us
normal
people. You don’t care if people find you dorky or weird or stuck-up.”
“I’m not worried about other people’s adjectives for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I’m in detention, I want to know it was because I did something out of my own free will.”
I pretend to find my desk interesting.
“So are you excited about the formal?” I ask.
“It’s not really my scene.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Everybody standing around with way too much hairspray and gel and aftershave, taking cheesy photos, dancing to a stack of loser songs and generally making idiots of themselves.”
“How about a news flash: You don’t have to be a non-conformist all the time.”
“You don’t have to be a conformist all the time either.”
“You’re just conforming to a nonconformist ideology. So you know what? You’re a conformist too.”
He holds my gaze for a moment and then we burst out laughing.
“I think that’s probably enough behavioral analysis for one afternoon, eh?” he says.
“I agree. Let’s stick to Gandhi, reality TV, and The Worst of Mr. Anderson stories.”