But no more.
Today I push my chair away from my desk and slide all the way to the edge of the molded plastic seat until my jeans pockets are hanging off the rim and my legs are stretched out before me. Once that’s accomplished, I flick a hand through the hair I pretend to barely ever think about and covertly turn to my left like I’m only trying to brush my bangs from my eyes, when really I’m sneaking a glance at the far side of the room, where perfectly perfect Tinsley Barnes is too busy focusing on equally perfect Mac Turtledove to notice me looking so cool.
Still, I hold the pose way past the point when my butt starts to go numb, knowing that at any moment Tinsley could accidentally shift her attention away from Mac long enough to see the way I’m owning my chair and fall madly and deeply in love with me.
Only she doesn’t.
But really, it’s not a big thing.
So what if Tinsley’s still under the illusion that Mac Turtledove is the only guy worth noticing?
It won’t be long before she discovers she was entirely wrong about me.
Until then I just play it cool. Crossing my legs at the ankle, keeping it casual and loose, I shift my focus to the front of the room, where Mr. Sparks struggles with a tangled glob of tinsel that looks fat and promising until he climbs on top of his chair and tosses it over the chalkboard and it turns out to be as skinny and bald as he is.
But it’s not like that stops him from folding his arms over his chest and admiring his work. His eyebrows rise in a question that’s not really a question when he catches me watching, but all I can do is shrug in return.
He may be my third-favorite teacher (not my fault he doesn’t teach math or science), but I can’t fake enthusiasm I don’t really feel. I mean, it’s the last day of school before winter break—clearly he’s a little late with the holiday cheer. Besides, with our test papers turned in and class nearly over, any authority Sparks may have held is long gone.
Pretty much everyone around me is deep into texting, gaming, goofing off, or, in the case of Tinsley Barnes and Ivy Wilburn, laughing hysterically at everything Mac Turtledove says as he slouches low in his seat like his butt is not at all numb and it’s no big thing when the two hottest girls in the entire seventh grade pretend that you’re funny.
In less than an hour, they’ll be laughing with me—only they won’t be pretending!
As I watch Tinsley swing her long blond hair—the color of hot, buttery, movie-theater popcorn—over her shoulder, I’m fully imagining how it’ll be when she’s standing before me, hair shimmering and bouncing, blue eyes sparkling, laying a soft hand on my shoulder and saying, “Oh my gosh, Nick, I had no idea you were so funny!”
“Look at that.” Dougall Clement leans toward me, yanking the cord at my neck until my earbuds pop from my ears.
“Trust me, I’m looking,” I say, unable to keep the grin from my face, sure he’s talking about Tinsley and Ivy. I mean, other than Sparks’s little chair stunt, there’s nothing worth watching.
“Even Sparks can’t escape it.” Dougall frowns, shaking his head as he glares at the pathetic strand of tinsel dangling from the chalkboard.
I look at Dougall’s squinched-up brown eyes, clueless as to where this is going. “You seriously protesting Christmas?” I ask, remembering the time, not long ago, when Dougall had to print his wish list in an eight-point font just to keep it within his dad’s one-page limit.
Dougall looks at me like I’m the one not making sense. “I’m talking about the bell.” He puts extra emphasis on bell, as though that alone clears up the confusion. “Look.” He wipes a hand over his chin, growing increasingly frustrated. “The bell’s gonna ring in, what—fifteen minutes?”
My eyes track the clock. “Nine,” I say. I can’t believe he didn’t know that.
“Yeah, and because of it, Sparks goes on a sparkle fit, totally oblivious to the fact that no one even notices, because they’re all in a trance waiting for a stupid bell to ring.”
“And your point is…?” I drag out the words, still not getting why he’s so worked up.
“My point is, ever since the first day of kindergarten, our lives have been spent either waiting for a bell to ring or reacting to a bell that’s already rung.” His eyes sharpen. Lips flatten. Conspiracy Face—it’s a look I know well. “So far, that makes for a steady eight-and-a-half-year stream of morning alarm clocks, start bells, end bells, break bells, lunch bells, final bells…” He slides toward the edge of his seat, forcing the folds of his bulky red sweater to bulge over his desk. “And we’ve still got five and a half more years to go, not counting college.”