Today I take my brown bag over to the Freakshow Corner. That’s the table where my biffles and I sit every day. It has a good view of the parking lot.
When I get there, I see a Hater—Marty Bloom—trying to shove something into Zitsy’s face. Zitsy’s trying to get away, but his head is pulled way back, and I’m worried that his neck might snap like a rubber band.
“Come on! You freaks usually can’t keep your pieholes shut!” Marty says.
“Get away from him, Marty,” I say. Zitsy has been pushed around so much that he doesn’t even fight back anymore. He says he’s used to it, but I’m not. I really hate it. “Leave him alone!”
Marty backs off, surprise curving his straight black eyebrows. “I was just fooling around.” He punches Zitsy in the arm. Maybe he means it to be playful, but Zitsy winces. “What’s the big deal, Maggie?”
“I’m Cuckoo, remember?” I tell him. “And Zitsy’s my friend. Don’t touch.”
“Compassion and respect, people!” Eggy pipes up as she walks up behind me.
“What she said,” I agree.
“That’s what Jesus would do,” Tebow puts in, which is a little over the top, but not completely wrong, either. He sits down next to Zitsy so Marty won’t try anything again.
Marty narrows his eyes. “That right there is what makes people want to mash pie in your face,” he snaps, and walks off. “You owe me three bucks for the food,” he calls back over his shoulder to Zitsy, then cracks up.
Zitsy looks down at the plate that’s sitting on the table in front of him. “I hate pie,” he says quietly. Eggy hands him a pile of napkins, and he starts wiping gooey peach from his face.
Flatso has joined us now, and she wraps her thick arms around Zitsy. Then Eggy does, then Tebow, then me.
“Is everything okay?” Brainzilla asks as she walks over to join us. “Why are we all hugging?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just puts down her tray and joins in.
And that is why I love my friends. Because they aren’t afraid to create a Human Hug-Blob in the middle of the cafeteria, even if it means getting stared at.
Chapter 3
DEPRIVED
After what seems like ten years but is still too short to me, we stop hugging and get back to our seats. Fifteen minutes left in lunch. Plenty of time, as long as we skip chewing and go for the direct-food-inhale.
“Okay, so that hug gave me a new idea,” Eggy announces.
“For Operation Happiness?” Brainzilla guesses, and Eggy nods.
“Okay, so the idea is called Hands Across the Football Field,” Eggy says.
“I already love it,” Flatso gushes.
“The whole school would join hands for five minutes,” Eggy says, and I look at her like she’s the one who’s cuckoo.
Zitsy seems into it, though, and leans forward. “And then what?”
“Maybe pass a squeeze back and forth,” Eggy adds. Wow. It’s so… over the top.
“Um—” I start, but Zitsy interrupts.
“I think the key here is snacks.”
“I wasn’t thinking snacks,” Eggy admits.
“Either way, it definitely has potential,” Brainzilla says, but Tebow shakes his head.
“Coach Struthers hates having civilians out on ‘his’ turf,” he says. “He’ll get the whole team to chase us off.”
It’s true. Coach Struthers is a nut about the turf. Once I went to watch Tebow practice, and when I stepped on one of the chalk lines, I got whistle-blasted loud enough to cause brain damage.
Yep. That’s just one example of the tragicomedy that is North Plains High.
It’s kind of like Hamlet meets Bridesmaids.
I watch Zitsy push his bag of vinegar chips around, not eating them. That’s not like him. Usually he eats so fast and so much that it’s like watching a wood chipper. Zitsy not eating is bumming me out.
“You know what? Marty kind of got me down,” I say. Then I stand up, give my whole body a shake, and say, “Get off! Get off! GET OFF!” This usually helps me brush away icky, ugly, heebie-jeebie feelings, but it doesn’t do much to counteract my reputation as a nut job.
“Why does Marty have to be such a Hater, anyway?” Flatso asks, not really expecting an answer.
But I surprise Flatso with my response. “Because”—I give her a grin—“he’s deprived.”
“Hellz yeah,” says Eggy, and Tebow crows, “It’s on!”
“Oh, boy.” Brainzilla puffs out a breath that lifts her bangs from her forehead. “Here we go.”
Yeah, that’s right—it’s time for another round of our favorite game: DEPRIVED!
Goal: To be the object of greatest pity.
How to Play: State a way in which your life has been hideously deprived.
In the end, we declare Zitsy the winner.
He spends the last ten seconds of lunch vacuuming chips and high-octane Coke into his digestive system.
That’s when I know that my friend is all right.
Chapter 4
LOVE AND BIO
We interrupt this diary for an announcement: There’s a new kid in bio!
He’s just standing at the front of the room scanning the class with his big blue eyes, like maybe he can’t decide where to sit. He chews on a fingernail, adorably nervous. I’m still all about Operation Happiness, so I walk right up to him and introduce myself.
“Welcome to North Plains High School!” I say. “We’re all about helping each other here. Our motto is ‘We’re in this together!’ ” (Actually, our motto is “Educating students to succeed in a changing world,” but that sounds kind of ominous to me. Mine’s better.)
“Um, thanks.” An awkward laugh stumbles from his lips. “Uh—do you want to take a seat?”
“Oh, sure, but I already have a lab partner.” I wave my finger at Flatso, who is sitting at our black marble lab table with her notebook open and pen poised.
“Helleeeeew!” Flatso calls in an inexplicably English accent.
“Okay, well, why don’t you go sit down,” New Kid says, which strikes me as a little weird. But I assume he thinks maybe we’ll have more time to hang out after class, so I head over to my seat.
“He’s absolutely darling!” Flatso whispers.
“Why are you suddenly British?” I whisper back.
“Don’t you think it makes me sound more refined?” she asks as the New Kid walks up to the front of the room and starts the class.
Yes, that’s right—he’s not the New Kid. He’s the New Teacher!
I can feel my science grade drop out from under me.
“Um, hello. I’m Winston Quinn.” He starts to write it on the board, and the chalk gives off a deafening screech. “Heh,” he says, and starts again, but then the chalk breaks. He scrambles underneath his desk to get it, and when he pops back up, his face is pink. He takes a deep breath and says, “Well, anyway, you can all call me Winnie.”
“What happened to Ms. Donaldson?” Langston Connors shouts from the back of the room.
“Uh—I’m not—” Winnie blushes deeper, and sweeps his blond bangs out of his eyes. I swear, he looks like he’s sixteen. “I’m not actually at liberty to discuss it.”
That sets the whole room off.
“Um, could everybody… could you all… settle down, please,” Winnie says, sort of waving his hands a little bit.