Things Are Gonna Get Ugly (14 page)

Petra taps his shoulder and says, all palsy-walsy, “Hey, Wins, help me with Dribble's dumb test. Will you, hon? With leadership, chairing the dance, volleyball, et cetera, I haven't had one second. Seriously. And I so appreciate all of the algebra homework, so if you'd help me out. Just this once. It'd be, like, such a HUGE favor.”

I'm gasping with recognition. I know those words. That was me. All of the homework was for Petra!
The homework
I
had been doing for Winslow was because the boy was crushing hard on Petra Santora. That's why I've seen them chatting and whispering.
Hello.
It's all making sense now. Except for why he asked me to do the homework. I mean, he could have done it himself. I'm such an idiot.

Winslow shifts around on one foot. He's drooling at Petra, and I can tell that he thinks she's just more beautiful than an elf queen. She's taller than me but more filled out and has lashes that look fake because of all the mascara she globs there and is all shiny-lipped because of constant lip-gloss application. And her highlighted hair is never out of place because Petra is skilled with product. And she's strong-looking. Like a female kickboxer who could rip your head off and then kiss you hard.

Winslow springs out of his chair, hands Petra his study notes for the test, and puffs. “Have it. It's yours. I've got a copy on my computer.” He clears his throat and raises his eyebrows. “Good talking online last night,
oui, ma cherie?
By the way, I found more top elf pickup lines. Ready?”

No! Could anyone
ever
be ready for top elf pickup lines?

Petra nods eagerly.
Huh?

Winslow rubs his hands together and gets on his knees, I suppose in his best imitation of an elf. He looks up at Petra all googly-eyed. “Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful knees?”

Petra giggles.

“I can get you off the naughty list.”

Another giggle. NO!

“I've got the keys to the sleigh tonight.”

A burst of laughter.

“I'm a magical being. Put on your bikini for me.”

Petra tugs on her shirt like she's going to lift it up. As if she actually has a bikini underneath her sweater. Puhlease. Talking online. Flirting in algebra. He. She. Could it be? The boy wears a chain, a ponytail, weird T-shirts, duct-taped shoes. He obviously doesn't care what anyone thinks about him.

Winslow takes a step toward Petra. “You meant what you said about
le dance
?” he says, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “I thought it was just, you know,
le joke
.”

Petra leans forward, tapping his chin with her finger. “Wins, if you'll help me out with the test, nothing's a joke.”

“You'll do aneee-thing, won't you?” says Winslow.

Petra smiles at him big.

NOOOOOOOOO! How could a normal, sane,
adolescent boy be rendered powerless by his hormones when a certain kind of girl goes to work on him? It's sick. Sick and way too familiar.

I yank the sheet away. “Don't, Winslow!”

“You're such a freak,” says Petra, squinting at me like I'm a blinding strobe light. She winks at Caylin and then cups her hand around her mouth and leans into Winslow. “Too late for study notes. I'm going to need some
personal
assistance.”

The Arrangement

“It would really mean a lot to me, Wins.” She glances at his T-shirt. “I love that on you. You're getting SO cute these days. Seriously. Right, Cay?”

Caylin's eyes graze over his face, resting on his Saturn eyes, which are definitely his best feature. “Totally.”

I can feel my breath catching in my throat and want to scream. I'm also standing in the back of the classroom, far away from Dribble, whose back is still turned as he counts out his tests. But I'm paranoid that somehow he'll hear me, even though it's totally noisy and everyone is speaking at once. But still, I have to say something. My voice rises an octave as I glare at Petra and Caylin and whisper hoarsely, “You shouldn't lie to Winslow like that.”

Caylin bites her bottom lip. “Not me. Honestly. I think Wins is getting cute. Don't get upset, Ernestine.” She sucks in her breath. “Petra's in trouble. Big-time. She's already gotten one detention. One more thing and she's out of here. I'm serious. Her mom will pull her from La Cambia and lock her up in the Hillwood School.” She emphasizes the last part because everyone knows the Hillwood School is a place where you have to grow your own granola and eat it for lunch.

“For real?” I ask. But I know that she's serious. Caylin's eyes give it away—they're already a little puffy and reddish. I remember when Petra told her that her thighs were jiggly on the same day that Ms. Stuckley had given her a C-plus on a paper and her father had married the witch. It was a very bleary, red-eyed day.

“I'd like to help you,” says Winslow, studying Petra. “I mean
really
like to help you,
ma chérie
.” He is one of the only eighth-grade guys who is actually Petra's height. “But my seat's a mile away from yours.” He points to Petra's seat by the bank of windows, then his, which is near the front by the whiteboard. Dribble had moved him a couple of days ago so he could make sure that Winslow was paying attention and not reading one of his half-
human books. “See, not possible,” he says in a bad French accent. “Unless we warp time and space, that is.” Squinting his eyes, he taps his chin. “Falling into a black hole. With you. Could be interesting.” He squints at her. “Nah, it'd ruin your hair.”

Dribble suddenly stands up and clears his throat. “Please sit down in your seats, gals and guys. It's showtime. I mean, test time!”

Sliding his overloaded book bag down his broad hulking shoulders (Has he lost weight? Gotten taller?), Winslow gazes at me intently like he used to when I was Taffeta. “How about you, Ernestine? Are you in a helpful mood?”

Me?
“What?” I feel like jumping on Winslow's head and making it one-dimensional. “That homework was for Petra.”

He grins.

“I thought it was for you.”

“Me?” He guffaws. “I take Algebra Two at Menlo Atherton. Why would it be for me?” That's right. Duh! Winslow leaves during gym to go the high school. How could I have forgotten?

“Why don't you do it yourself?” I hiss.

“Why would I when you were so willing?”

How could he do this to me? Do I have a choice?
I grit my teeth so that I don't throw my social studies book at him. Calm thoughts. Think about something soothing like clouds or Cherry Garcia ice cream. Don't blow it. Keep the course. Okay, I can now manage a pretend smile at the complete jerk. My lips are chapped, though, and I can feel them sticking to my teeth.

Petra gazes at me like I really exist. “So, it's a yes?”

Test Me!

“Just a few answers,” I say.

Petra holds up her hand, crossing her fingers. “I swear, I won't bother you or any of your brainiac friends today.” She smiles at me like I'm a member of the Special Olympics. I can remember playing Marco Polo in her pool, and sneaking in to my first PG-13 movie to watch with her when we were eleven. She made me laugh so hard once I actually peed in my pants in the movie theater. Okay. Okay. What's the big deal? Right? Karmically, after all of those times with Winslow, it's only right that I let someone cheat off of me for once. Dribble is whistling and all happy, and I think he'd appreciate my generosity.

“Okay, but don't copy my essay,” I whisper jokingly to Petra, “because I'm writing about Dadaism
and the duality of existence in the Constitutional Convention.”

“Whatever, Ernie,” she says, slapping me on the back. “You're a very nice brain.”

Dribble carefully passes out the tests and lays them on our desks delicately like they're snowflakes about to melt. He clucks his tongue. “Alrighty, you've got fifty minutes, folks. We've spent a lot of weeks studying the Constitution of the good U.S. of A. If you know what's good for you, I'd suggest you show me that you've been paying attention.” He glances up at the clock. “You may start now.”

The fill-in-the-blank sections are easy. No surprises there, but Petra keeps on kicking me under the desk so I can spread my paper over to the right corner and she can lean over and copy. She has really good eyesight, and seems to be able to read my answers without even straining forward. A definite talent.

I can feel it in my gut. I've gotten everything—all of the answers—right. There isn't one that I don't know. Bubbles inside of bubbles. Patterns in patterns. I'm finding the function in dysfunction. Who would have thought it? Does that mean I am comfortable being dysfunctional or does it mean I am functioning back to my true self?

When I start the essay section, Petra kicks me hard in the shin. But I won't budge. No way will I do that for her.

I'm almost the last one to turn in my paper, and Petra's the first. When I hand Dribble my paper, he nods at me but doesn't say anything. My heart pounds in my ears and in my throat. To my left, I can't see Olivia's face because of her hair hanging down, but I can hear the scratching of her calligraphy pen on paper. Ninai writes more slowly and carefully. Her eyes catch mine and she smiles. Wow, Ninai actually does look good in that Girl Scout getup.

When the bell rings and I'm finished, I tell myself that everything's going to be okay.

I stroll down the hall, imagining the A-plus written in red ink at the top of my paper. What would my mom say? Of course, Ernestine was used to doing well all of the time academically. But Taffeta wasn't. I grip my leg, pinching extra flesh that never used to be there. I squeeze hard. Is Tafettta even there at all?

Suddenly, Winslow

I mean, he's really close and, as he sort of slam-dances
into me, we make contact at the hip. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say idiotically. He smells like pencil shavings and Cool Ranch tortilla chips.

Walking backward, Winslow starts singing some old Rolling Stones song that my mom likes. “Hey, hey, you, you, get off of my cloud.” Is this code for
go away
? Because part of me wants to go away. Far away from Winslow. I backpedal a bit but he continues to sing, and steps right up to me so we're practically nose to nose. “See you at the dance,” he singsongs. His chain clanks to the beat.

I'm so surprised, I drop my pencil. He's ACTUALLY going to be there. I remember that this is good news.

“You're going?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Surprised? I made a deal, right?”

“Me. Petra. Who else do you have going?”

“Ew, you sound
jalouse
.” He tugs on the end of his ponytail.

“No. It's just that you've selected another untouchable girl.”

“Another? What are you talking about?”

Can I say,
First Taffeta and then Petra
? No. That I'm detecting a pattern? No? “Stop nitpicking. I just mean Petra's not seriously gonna give you a
second look.”

“I've got plans,” says Winslow.

“Plans?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Like?”

“Like you'll just have to see,” says Winslow, smiling mysteriously. What could he possibly mean? What could Winslow Fromes possibly do to make himself more attractive to Petra?

“Great. I'm so happy for you, Winslow.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You are?”

“Yeeeeees, of course.”

He shifts his weight on his duct-taped shoes. “See you there?”

“Yeah,” I say calmly so I don't seem desperate. I expected to be all tingly, screaming WAHOO at full amplification but, instead, I feel almost blank. What's up with that?

I want to say
Petra has no intention of dancing with you
. I want to tell him SOOO badly because I can't stand how happy he is. But then he wouldn't show up to the dance and Olivia would be bummed, and I'd be uber bummed. Because I'd be stuck as the un-me for the rest of my life.

I miss Taffeta!

Doing a Happy Dance

Before English, Olivia strolls up to me, tucking her hair around her ears so that for the first time I see she has eyes. “How did you do on the test, my dear little Ernestineski?”

“I did all right.” My throat constricts. It's small now, so small that I'm sure a grain of rice can't fit down it. I'm sure I'll need Ensure, the pink vitamin stuff my grandfather had to drink. That's how I feel when I think about cheating for Petra. I need life support.

“All right?” She laughs and bends down to double-knot my shoelaces together. “I won't unknot them until you tell me the truth.”

“Okay, whatever,” I say, flagging my hand. “I did
really
well.”

She hugs me. “Piffies, bonkies, and sassafras tea! I'm so happy for you.” Then Olivia smiles mysteriously, like she's Mona Lisa with crooked teeth. “And I did something very well too. I have the most wonderful information,” says Olivia, who starts to hum for a moment. “I heard Winslow is definitely going to Winterfest this year. It's because I've unleashed my woo-woo powers.” She waves her hands witchily. “We're going to dance all night, which means you and Ninai must—and I'm not
accepting any nos—must ignore reason and sanity and accompany me to Winterfest. Okay? Don't say you won't. Don't
even
think it.”

I sit there for a moment, moving my lips but no words are coming out. Then I manage to say, “Wow.” For a moment, I really want to tell Olivia EVERYTHING! That Winslow will be there because of Petra, that I'm already planning to go to Winterfest and dance with Winslow. But I can't snatch her moment. I've been a thief all my life.

I begin to cry. “Yes, I'll go to Winterfest. Omigod. It's what you always…wanted, Olivia. It's like the universe is calling out to you and saying,
Go for it!
That's wonderful,” I say, choking out the words.