_*_ 15 _*_
My math teacher had a vendetta against me and as proof I offer the fact that I had not been told about Wednesday’s test. Or if I had been told, it was not made entirely clear exactly when the test was going to be, and the fact that we were talking Serious Test, not just a wussy quiz.
1. Find a polynomial with integer coefficients that has the following zeros: ?1/3, 2, 3 + i.
2. Matthew throws a Pop-Tart at Joaquim while seated at the table for lunch. The height (in inches) of the Pop-Tart above the ground t seconds later is given by h(t) = ?16t2 + 32t + 36. What is the maximum height attained by the PopTart?
3. It just got worse from here to the end of the test.
All of my answers were drawings of armored unicorns. Five minutes before the period ended, the principal’s voice lectured the entire school about how badly we’d screwed up last week’s lockdown drill. I drew a bomb attached to a ticking clock under one of the unicorns. Some guy I’d never seen before crashed into me in the crowded frenzy that was the math wing after class, sending my books to the ground and me into the lockers. His buddies, average IQ that of newly hatched turkey vultures, burst into laughter. The geometry teacher standing in her doorway looked me in the eye and then turned away.
“Need some help?” Finn knelt beside me and handed me my copy of The Odyssey.
“No.” I put the book on top of the stack and stood up.
“I can take him out if you want.”
“I doubt that.”
“Few people know this, but I am a trained assassin, skilled in jujitsu and krav maga. I can also, with a few folds, turn an ordinary piece of notebook paper into a lethal weapon. Or I can turn it into a butterfly, which is a great trick when I’m babysitting.”
I fought a smile. “A trained assassin who babysits.”
“Only the Greene twins and only because their family gets every premium channel on the planet.” He paused to let a gaggle of freshman girls walk between us. “The skepticism on your face proves that my cover story is tight. That’s good, reduces the chance that civilians might be harmed.”
“Cover story? You mean the fact that you’re a skinny nerd in charge of a nonexistent newspaper?”
“In development, not nonexistent. I am almost single-handedly reviving it. Where are we walking, by the way?”
“English.” We swerved around a guy who was roughly the size and shape of a Porta-Potty.
“Ramos,” the guy growled.
“Nash,” Finn responded.
“Friend of yours?” I asked, once the guy was out of range.
“We train together. Cage fighting. You should hear him squeal when I get him in a Maynard’s Kimura hold.”
“You just made that up.”
“What?”
“Maynard’s Kimura. That’s not real.”
“It totally is.”
The bell rang just as we got to Ms. Rogak’s room.
“Wait!” He slipped between me and the door. “You promised.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You promised me an article.”
“Did not.”
“Did too, just before you ran away from my car and roughly ten minutes after you coerced me into cutting physics. ‘World of Resources at the Library,’ that’s what you promised.”
A small bell went off in my head. Duh. This was why he was bugging Gracie for my phone number last night. I’m an idiot. He wanted to harass me about the stupid article.
“I didn’t coerce you into cutting class. You offered the ride.”
“You pleaded.”
“I asked.”
“You made puppy-dog eyes. That counts as pleading.”
“I’ve never made puppy-dog eyes at anyone in my life. You’re a lunatic.”
“Gracie said you liked to tease. Hey there, Ms. Rogak. How’s Homer doing?”
“Finnegan,” said Ms. Rogak with a brief nod. “Do I have your permission to begin my class?”
“Exquisitely executed sarcasm, ma’am.” Finn said as he started to walk backward. “Well played.”
“And you, Hayley Kincain,” she said. “Were you just going to menace us from the doorway or join us?”
_*_ 16 _*_
The seat I wanted in the back row was taken, but not by Brandon Something, so I grabbed the empty desk by the drafty window. Ms. Rogak pushed a button on her laptop to show a picture of a buff, tanned guy with long, graystreaked black hair shoving a bloody sword toward the sky, his face tilted back, his mouth open in a victory scream.
odysseus, read the caption.
Before the giggling and obnoxious comments got too loud, she pushed the button again. A tiny, old woman, dressed in a white robe, her hair covered by a long, white cloth, was kneeling on the ground, her arms wrapped around a skinny, half-naked kid who looked on the brink of death. She was holding a cup to the child’s lips.
mother teresa.
The third slide showed the two images side by side. “Which one is the hero?” Rogak asked. “And why?”
I dozed with my eyes open the rest of the period.
_*_ 17 _*_
Finn was waiting for me in the hall after class. “Did you finish the article?”
“I never said I would.” I yawned. “Besides, did you think
I’d write it in class?”
“Of course.” He stayed by my side all the way down the
hall. “What do you have now?”
“Gym.”
“Perfect! You’ll have it done in fifteen minutes.” I shifted my books to my right arm so I could accidentally
poke him with their sharp corners. “I’m not writing it.” “But yesterday . . .” He paused as we merged into the
traffic that flowed down the stairs. “How’s your dad, by the
way?”
“Fine.” I dodged a group of onlookers who had encircled a brewing fight, then doubled my pace in the hopes of losing Finn. I would have, except for a roadblock by the cafeteria caused by the food line, which had snaked into the
hall.
I sniffed. Taco Day.
Finn caught up with me in a flash. “I’m glad he’s feeling
better. I only need two hundred words.”
“I. Said. No!” I said.
Well, actually, I sort of screamed it.
The lunch crowd quieted and a few wide-eyed freshman boys with feather-soft baby mustaches scooted toward
the walls, opening a path for me. I put my head down and
jogged through.
Finn stayed at my heels. “It’s just that I really need the
help,” he said. “Cleveland says the newspaper is back on
the chopping block. Getting an article from an actual student-reporter might help him convince the board to leave
the paper alone.”
I stopped at the girl’s locker room door. “Why don’t you
write it?”
He drew back, wounded. “I’m the editor. I don’t write, I
edit, with the exception of the sports section which I write
out of love, not duty. Besides—”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “Did you say Cleveland?” “Yep.”
“Mr. Cleveland? Calc teacher?”
“Precalc, actually. Also algebra and trig.”
“Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, Mr. Cleveland won’t
let me write for the paper. He hates me. Loathes me. If I
were you, I wouldn’t mention my name to him, ever. Raises
his blood pressure.”
Two girls walked between us and into the locker room. “I have to go,” I said, hand on the door. “Thanks again
for the ride.”
“You’re wrong about Cleveland.” He uncapped a Sharpie, grabbed my arm, and started writing on it before I could
react. “That’s my email. Two hundred words. Library resources.”