Secret Order, Chapter Nine - Feedback Appreciated

Chapter Nine

In Which Our Hero Is Embattled

“Miss Tate?” Mr. Little stops by my desk just as I collapse into the chair.  I am immediately speechless at the sight of my math teacher dressed in full greasepaint as a clown.  But not just any clown, the EXACT same clown hair and costume, down to the flipper for shoes and squirty flower tie-clip that I drew just yesterday.  The Adorable One is studying Mr. Little’s costume as well with his Adorable mouth slightly agape.  I’m starting to feel like this is TOO coincidental.

“Do you have anything for me?”  the Clown-culator prompts me.

Wait.  What was I supposed to bring?  The envelope.  The note home. I was supposed to have it signed and back today.  Quick!  I need a good excuse!  Nothing comes immediately to mind except an idea that makes me feel a little uncomfortable to use.  But I panicked in the face of Bozo the Math Teacher, and went with it.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Little,” I stammer with just the right amount of tremble in my lip, “I gave it to my Mom last night, but she got really upset because of something my Dad told her, and I guess she forgot.” 

There.  That should get him off my back for at least a day so that I can sign the letter myself and get it returned.  I know, I know.  I shouldn’t be using my parents’ separation to cover up my messes.  The Justice League would be appalled. Especially Aqua-Man. Have you noticed what a goody two-flippers he is?

It’s partially true anyway – she really was upset.  After dinner, we watched Shrek, but after her second glass of wine, she was holding her tears in so we wouldn’t see her crying, so she excused herself to go to bed early. 

“Is everything alright at home, Miss Tate?” Mr. Little is immediately sympathetic, and I feel badly that I’m giving him the runaround.  At least I got most of last night’s homework done, so that’s something.  A peace offering, if you will. 

I wonder how much I can tell him without drawing any more attention to myself.  Right now, everyone is turned around talking to each other, getting out their homework, and a few of the really smart kids are already doing the bellwork problems on the board.  It doesn’t look like anyone is noticing.  I decide to feed him a little more of the truth – banking a little sympathy for the future can’t hurt.

“It’ll be alright.  My Dad’s not living with us right now and stuff.  But, anyway, I got most of last night’s homework done.  I didn’t understand number twenty-seven, but the rest is done.  Should I put it in the homework basket, Mr. Little?” 

I change the subject quickly because The Adorable One is sitting just a little too still in front of me to not be paying attention to my conversation.  He already thinks I’m lame and stinky, no reason to give him another reason to pity me.  Besides, it makes me a little sick to my stomach to hear myself say those words out loud.  It’s too close to admitting that they really are getting a divorce.  We don’t say the “D” word in my house – it’s just a “trial separation” right now.

“Well, Joey, if you need to go speak to Ms. Creighton, I’d be happy to send you down to see her.  In the meantime, I’ll take your homework right now.” 

Ms. Creighton is our school counselor.  She’s young, but she dresses like she’s 60, in these strangely colored pastel suits with skirts, clunky shoes, and polyester blouses. She also wears this perfume that you can smell from fifty feet away.  It’s super-sweet and makes me gag when I get too close to her.  And she really likes to get close.  She’s from the “a hug makes everyone feel better” school of counseling.  Her voice is one of those high-pitched, sweet-sounding Barbie doll voices.  You just know that in school, everyone hated her because she always knew the right answer and always made sure everyone knew it.  She reminds me of a clingy, rose-scented, Easter egg.

The very idea of spilling all my issues to Ms. Creighton while sitting on her big rose-covered sofa in her rose-scented office with the pink lampshades and tinkly flute music and embroidered throw pillows makes me shiver.  Whatever happens, it would be best to stay out of range of her hugs. 

“Thanks, Mr. Little, I’ll let you know if it gets that bad,” I reply before he can get the wrong idea and start writing me a pass right now to her office.  Yeah – it’s never going to get that bad, if I can help it.

He gives me a long, considering look, sucking his top lip into his mouth as he studies my innocent as a newborn kitten face.  Finally, he nods and moves along to get class started.   

 I sit back and get out my notebook to do the bellwork.  I do the problems quickly and then begin to doodle in the margins.  It’s Toefingers this time.  He’s smiling, holding a broom, and wearing a Santa Claus cap he’s making the weird “O” gesture and it’s giving off a sparkly glow. 

I should have expected it.

Someone to my right makes a fart sound.  Everyone giggles and Mr. Little swings around from what he’s writing on the board long enough to roll his eyes at us.  Madison’s had goes in the air, waving to get his attention. 

“Yes, Miss Gridley?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Something stinks in here, Mr. Little. Can we open a window?”  She smiles snidely and slides a sidelong look in my direction. 

Really?  Is that what it’s going to be like?  Really?

The Adorable Josh hunches over his math notebook like nothing is going on. Kristin closes her eyes and looks a little sick herself.  She shoots an exasperated but sympathetic look at me, and then shifts uncomfortably in her seat. 

“Madison, I don’t know what you’re talking about.  What smell?”  Mr. Little isn’t buying her act either.  Score one for Mr. Little.  Take her down, Clown-culator!

“I know I heard someone pass gas over there, and it really stinks now.  Can I just open the window?  It’s making me feel gross.” 

She points to my side of the room, and the Ashley raises her hand and adds, “I think it was somewhere close to where Joey’s sitting, Mr. Little.  I heard it too.”

Why?  Why does she have it in for me?  What did I ever do to her?

“Joey, are you feeling alright?  Do you need to excuse yourself?”  Mr. Little addresses me with as much dignity as the situation allows.  Jacob Keckner, behind me, scoots his desk back as far as he can without sitting in the next person’s lap, even though, up to this point, he was known as “Carpet Bomber” for the number of times he could fart in one class period. 

Isn’t that always the way?  If you’re a boy, everybody just laughs and thinks you’re being hilarious.  If you’re a girl, you’re instantly as popular as random underwear someone finds on the floor of a public place.

“It wasn’t me, Mr. Little.  I don’t know what Madison’s talking about.”  My voice is as steady as I can make it.  He sighs and shoots Madison a look before turning back to the equation he’s writing on the whiteboard.  While he’s still turned around, I shoot Madison a murderous glare.  She smiles innocently and goes back to writing down her math notes.  I’d flip her the bird, but with my luck, I’d get caught.

I try to concentrate on the board, narrow my focus again, so I don’t take in the whispers of my classmates.  This is grueling, this class period.  Only twenty more minutes until the bell rings and I can finally, finally call an end to this torture. 

But my living nightmare isn’t over, it’s just beginning.  Mr. Little calls for us to get in groups of four to solve the logic puzzle he’s handing out.  I sit in my desk, looking around for absolutely anyone who’ll ask me to be in their group.  No go.  Kristin, Madison, and Ashley are trying to get Josh to join their group, but he joins a group with Dalton, Jacob, and one of his soccer teammates, Mathew. 

By the time he’s confirmed that he’s joining their group, all the other groups have filled up.  The only group left for me to join is Madison’s. 

No way.  I’ll work by myself. 

Mr. Little looks over at me, seeing my dilemma, and I think that he’ll make me join their group.  Surprisingly, he says nothing, just nods his head at me silently in understanding.  A sigh of relief escapes me, and I resolve to do all my missing math homework tonight.   After a few minutes, it’s clear that I’m going to struggle without a little help.  I raise my hand and Mr. Little nods for me to come up to his desk. 

“I’m still not sure how to factor number seven.” I confide quietly.  He coaxes me through the process, and as I grab my paper to go back to my desk, I catch sight of a new photograph on his desk, adding to the trio of mini-Little’s pictures already there.  It was Mr. Little – dressed as a clown.

“Is this a new picture, Mr. Little?”  I inquire, gesturing to the clown pic.

“Good eye, Miss Tate.  That was just given to me as a gift by Mr. Bartkowiak. I’m in this very same costume.  It’s me at last year’s faculty Halloween party.” 

“Uh, yeah.  Great costume.”  I take my paper back to my seat and ponder the coincidence.  Huh.  I wonder if I’d seen the picture before I made that doodle.  I flip to the page in my notebook with the Clown Little doodle on it.  It really is identical to the photo.  It’s giving me the goosebumps.  I must have seen the picture somewhere before.

Close to the end of the class period, Madison crosses by my desk to put her group’s worksheets in the homework basket.  As she passes, she wrinkles her little rabbit nose at me and sniffs delicately.  Then, with a giggle, she gags a little and moves on before Mr. Little can notice what she’s doing.

Classy.

She continues down the aisle before I can think of a single response.  I’m sure, twenty-four hours from now, I’ll have thought of the perfect comeback for that.  In the moment?  Nada. 

In my head, my pen is now protruding from her expensively sweatered back.  Instead, I spend the rest of class doodling a picture of Madison as a two-headed monster, scaly and slime-covered. It’s petty, I know, but it’s the only revenge I’m empowered to give out right now.  My day will come.  It just has to. 

I look at what I’ve drawn, and remember how The Clown-culator and The Fairy Godmother pictures might not be a coincidence.  With a tiny sigh of resignation, I scribble it out, not wanting to take the risk…or for anyone to spot my silent evil-ness and report back to the monster herself.

The bell rings and I’m dashing out the door with the rest of the class, struggling through the river of the hallways to get to my locker quickly and get out of this place.  As I approach my locker, the people on either side of my locker, quickly slam their lockers and move away.  There is still some whispering and pointing going on, but I’m ready to just chalk it up to experience and get the heck out of Dodge.

Of course, my locker is jammed again.  Of course.  I don’t have the patience or sanity left to wait for Toefingers to come and un-jam it for me now.  He shouldn’t have to – I just cleaned it today.  There shouldn’t be any reason for it to stick.  I try the combination one more time and give an almighty heave on the latch.  Something plastic snaps loudly and the locker door jumps open with a whoosh and slams against the next person’s locker. 

A choking, writhing, hissing cloud of white powder rushes at me from my open locker.  It smells vaguely like baby powder as it coats my hair, face, and clothing, and breathing is impossible in the dry mist of this substance.  The hissing grows a little fainter and bubbles out, and I can hear the raucous, shocked laughter of my fellow students ringing in my ears. 

A deodorant bomb. 

Deodorant Bomb: An ingenious invention using pressurized spray deodorant that the boys basketball and baseball players sometimes use against each other in the locker rooms.  

The now-empty aerosol deodorant can clangs gently on the inside of my locker, dangling from the string that held it hooked in there until my forcing of the latch broke the plastic nozzle off and the binder clip they duct-taped on it depressed the open tube to make it spray. 

How could it have even gotten in there? 

I begin to cough and try to wipe my stinging eyes before I open them.  Then, as the tears begin to spill over my eyelashes, I understand how it got there.  There’s only one person, besides me, who has my locker combination.  That’s when I really break down.  It’s too much; I don’t even care that everyone can see my tears and snot and red face.  I give a choking sob and heave and crumple like a used napkin to my knees in front of my locker. 

My humiliation is complete.  

Tuesday Quickwrite - Slanted Credo and Quick Interview with Marlon Grunt

I really tried to cut down on my blog-length today, since I'm making a concerted effort to spend more time on finishing revisions for Secret Order of Extraordinary Outcastz.  Although, I will say that all of the writing practice I've done lately for TeachersWrite! has naturally fallen into my current WIP, The Rude Awakening of Marlon Grunt.  I think it's because I'm longing to sit down and spend my writing time working on it.  Good, that's the kind of anticipation I want to build for myself.  It's going to have to build a while longer, because I'm bound and determined to get the SOEO manuscript revisions done first.  I've set a personal deadline for that project of the weekend after July 4th, so I really need to get on the ball.  (Look at that, I've already spent too much time blogging today. Gah!)

Okay, the assignment today came from two authors, and we could choose one of the many assignments they laid out for us as a quick write.  I chose two.  I chose to write the slanted credo suggested by author and poet Sara Lewis Holmes for myself.  It's called a "slanted" credo because instead of writing "I believe..." we were asked to start with, "I Don't Believe...")  It's short because:

1) I found this difficult at first.  I kept wanting to start with "I Believe".  This will probably be a great exercise for some of my writing for characters.  What do they believe or not?  BTW, for twenty minutes, I could not get this scene from Bull Durham out of my head:  (WARNING: Rated PG-13)

2) I was trying to keep it under 100 words (Which I did! Yay!) ...although the point of that is sort of lost since I"M WRITING THIS STUPIDLY LONG BLOG POST. Hi, I'm Jessica, and I have a writing problem.  I CAN'T SHUT MY PIEHOLE! (in writing terms, would that be instead, I CAN'T STILL MY PIE-FORKERS? I digress.)

Here 'tis:

I don’t believe…

• That skinnier is happier.
• That dogs are man’s best friend.
• That any politician exists anywhere but inside a bubble of collective ego.
• That outside is better than inside…I LIKE air conditioning.
• That there is any issue in the world that doesn’t have gray area.
• That you should ever make a judgment about someone without trying to imagine their side as well.
• That the Chicago Cubs deserve a World Series win because it’s been so long, but it sure would be nice.
• That I am comfortable defining what I believe by what I don’t believe.

The second quick write I did was a quick, two-question character interview suggestion from guest author Joy Preble which turned out to be difficult for a couple of reasons:

1) I don't know a whole lot of sixteen year old boys who are terribly forthcoming about their feelings.  So, from that aspect - since it was something he was "saying" instead of "thinking" Marlon was having difficulty finding the words.

2) I was trying to keep it short, and it felt like I could've gone on FOREVER if allowed to skate around inside Marlon's head rather than ask him what he'd SAY if asked.

Anywho...here 'tis:

Marlon Grunt, how do you see yourself?

I’m…I don’t know.  It’s hard to separate what other people think about me from what I think about me. I’m a son to my mom, but I don’t know if I’m a good son. We piss each other off a lot. I’m a great older brother to Phoebe. I’m a half-orphan, since my dad is dead. I’m a kick-ass friend to Chick and Blue. I’m a so-so student. I’m half-black, half-white.  I suck at sports, but I’m a good musician.  I guess I could start with what I am.  I’m a drummer. I’m a superfan of Green Day, and I’d give my left nut to meet Tre Cool. I have all these dreams that I want for myself and the people around me, but I can’t seem to catch a break.  I’m the kid that the world seems to kick around, but I just keep getting back up for another punch. I’m tired of getting back up.

How do you think others see you?

If they see me at all, I think they see me as maybe a nice nobody kind of guy.  Kind of geeky.  Weird.   Poor.  Trailer Trash.  Some of them think I’m a door mat.  A couple of them think I’m completely emo. They don’t know very well at all, really.  

Pshaw! Summer?

And so it begins...

I'm hoping the process of creating a new and improved Writer's Notebook for myself will help me build processes for my students to have new and improved Writer's Notebooks this upcoming year.  So, today I got to go to the office supply store (WHEEEEEEE!!! That place is like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory for me.) and pick up a new comp book.

I've already started adding new sections for my Setting/Character Banks in the Writing Territories section.

Monday Mini-Lesson: Generating Ideas

This morning for TeachersWrite! we got some terrific ideas from authors Jody Feldman and Rosanne Parry for helping those students of ours who struggle with generating ideas.  I've always tentatively used Nancie Atwell's Writing Territories with my students, but I find that many of them still struggle with that right at the beginning, especially for writing narrative fiction.  Some kids are able to pull twelve ideas out of thin air, and some struggle mightily for even one.  I was always a twelve idea kid, so as a teacher I struggle with providing my students as much scaffolding as they need to get to where I usually start as a writer.

Jody Feldman's ideas for Mining Ideas From Thin Air feels a little closer to Atwell's writing territories, so I might be using that to complement my work with that.  It's based on methods and questions you ask yourself, writing from a single word, etc.  It's a great diving board to jump off of when you're reading to dive in.

But I find that there are a lot of students who won't even walk up to the diving board because they're too scared, they don't feel prepared.  They've faced the struggle before and felt the sting of failure, the panic of having nothing to use, a brain so bare of ideas it must have been squeegeed clean...Blank Pagephobia.  The fear of beginning.  I think Rosanne Parry's idea of Story Hunting using a pre-written character, setting, and life experience bank is a great idea for those readers.  It would be a great quick-write each day for the first few weeks to have students make these lists in their writers notebooks, then when their writing territories section of their notebook is starting to have less white on the pages, then it will be time to introduce them to Feldman's and Atwell's methods.  This looks like a great three-step process for generating strong ideas for my students.

In fact, I'll be practicing it myself later today.  I need to create a mock-up of what a student's writer's notebook should look like.  Maybe I'll start there.  Hrrrmm. Time to buy a new composition notebook.  Yay! An excuse to go shopping at an office supply store! (I have dreams about this - some people dream of shopping at Prada or Saks - I get tingly over Office Depot.)

Our assignment was to go to a random noun generator and do a quick-write based on a noun that it spat out to you.  We could either A) write a list of ideas based on that word  B) write a quick journal based on that noun or C) using characters from a current WIP (work in progress) we could write a scene based around it.

My word was "Neighbor".  I'm choosing to quickwrite/draft the scene where my WIP's main character, Marlon Grunt, meets his neighbors in the trailer park (and future best friends) Blue Bennett and her older brother, Chick.


Before moving into Gramma Barb's trailer the Happy Trails Mobile Home park, Marlon's Sunday afternoons had been spent playing hoops in the driveway, helping his mom with the garden, or grilling out with friends.  The only garden around was the large potted aloe plant looking like a browning, dried-up alien next to Gramma's front steps.  There was a grill, but it was nothing like the bid, round kettle grill that his dad had used that made the whole neighborhood smell like charcoal and fired meat.  Instead, it was a little square hibachi grill that sat only a foot off the ground, so you had to squat over it like a tribesman of old tending the home fires, and it could only cook a few hot dogs or hamburgers at a time on it's tiny wire rack.

The one thing that was even close to the same was the basketball hoop.   Sure, it didn't have a net, but the hoop was there.  The pole it was attached to was placed only 20 feet down the little road from Gramma's and was situated so that you had to play in the street, since all available driveway space was occupied at Happy Trails.  Marlon was currently practicing freethrows, ricocheting only one out of every five shots off he scarred and weather-beaten backboard and through the bent metal ring.  It was not going well.  There was no concrete or asphalt at Happy Trails, only gravel, and it was hard to dribble the ball so that it came directly back to your hand.  Little rocks and pebbles would shoot out from underneath the bouncing ball and sting his legs.

It was on one of these unpredictable, gravel-driven bounces that the ball got away from him and bounded, caddy-cornered, across the road and into his Gramma's neighbor's little patch of yard.  He sighed and trudged after it, wincing as it bowled into a patch of irises that were planted close to the ramshackle white and powder-blue trailer.  He jogged to go pick it up, leaning carefully to avoid breaking any more iris stems.

"Can you swim?"

Marlon stood up so fast, his head cracked against the underside of the window ledge above.  The pain was sharp and he clapped his hand over it, ball forgotten.  Where had that voice come from?

"Are you okay?" the sweet voice asked in alarm.

He looked up to find a pale, wide-eyed girl studying him seriously through the window.  Her nose was pressed against the screen.  She looked to be about his age, maybe a little younger.  Rubbing the sore spot, he carefully leaned down to get his basketball from the irises and backed away from the flower bed a little before answering.

"Fine. I'm fine."

"I'm blue."

He could believe it.  She seemed sad and a little disheveled, like maybe she'd been crying.  She took her nose from the screen and he could see her white-blond hair was in messy pigtails, one of which was loosened almost completely.  Her lips were chapped red, and as he studied her, she began to chew her lower lip nervously.

"Oh."  Marlon struggled to find something to talk about.  The silence drew out as they studied each other.  "I'm sorry."

"Why?" she seemed confused.

"That you're feeling...blue or whatever," Marlon explained.  She thought about this for a moment, her brows knitted, then her face transformed into an understanding smile.

"No, my NAME is Blue.  Blue Bennett.  Can you swim?"

He felt stupid, and so his answer came out a little pissier than he meant.

"Yeah, of course I can swim."

"I didn't know. My daddy told me once that black people don't learn how to swim like white kids do."

Marlon just stared at her in silence.  What could he say to that?  Tell her was mixed?  Tell her that he used to swim in his old neighbor's backyard pool every summer, that he learned to swim at the University's aquatic center?  Tell her she was a cracker and that her racist daddy didn't know his ass from his elbow?

"Um, yeah, I can swim just fine."

"Wanna go to the creek today?  It's hot and Chick won't go because he's playing Halo and Momma and Daddy haven't come back yet and I can't go by myself."  Her smile was radiant, trusting and hopeful.  How could he say no?

*************

Okay, that's all I've got time for right now, but it's a good start for a flashback chapter, and I think I'll keep working on it!

Renoir's Madame and her Children - A Quick Poem

There was a second quickwrite challenge today that I couldn't resist.  Kate Messner posted the link to view the Metropolitan Museum of Art's collection and invited us to write a poem based on one of the works.  I chose this painting by Auguste Renoir and tried to imagine what each being in the painting was thinking.

Endless Teatime

Oh dear. So much to do.
Dinner to put together.
The account with le marchand de vins to settle.
The upstairs maid to instruct.
Notes and invitations to answer.
He scribbles and sketches
We fight off cramped posteriors and wait
Any moment now the children
Will revolt
I know it will be lovely
But must he take so long?


Pbbbtttt.
I get to sit next to Maman.
She loves me best.
The painter man has sad eyes.
Like Beaumont looks today.
His moustache is like Beaumont, too.
Look how Bertie has to sit on Beaumont.
Pbbbtttt.

Maman, I'm tired
Maman, I'm itchy
Maman, I'm hungry
Maman, I have to use the chamber pot
Maman, Can I have un gateau sec?
Maman, I'm thirsty, when do we get to drink the tea?
Maman, Pauley is making faces at me.
Maman, Why does she get to sit on the couch
and I have to sit on stinky old Beaumont?

Stop squirming or I will eat you.
Drop a cookie
Drop a cookie
Drop a cookie
Drop a cookie
There had better be meat at the end of this.

Friday Feedback: Secret Order, Chapter Two

Hey Folks! This is the second chapter to my Upper Middle Grade manuscript, The Secret Order of Extraordinary Outcastz. (It used to be called Mojo Fingers).  Always looking for feedback!

Chapter Two

In Which There is At Least One Daring Feat of Courage

            Still glowing from my “moment” with The Adorable One, I grab my stuff and begin to walk out of the classroom with the rest of the crowd. But before I can get too far, I hear Mr. Little’s voice rise above the din. 

“Miss Tate?  I believe you and I have a conference scheduled for right now.  Please come back and sit down.” 

Almost made it.  Freedom denied.

The class empties out as I trudge back to my desk and sit down again.  Mr. Little gathers up his grade book and trundles to my desk, settling his bulk in the chair Madison recently vacated.  I know what’s coming next.  It’s pretty much the same speech both my science and language arts teachers gave me last week. 

“Joey, I’m more than a little concerned about your academic performance lately.  You started out the year so well!  What happened?”  he asks, almost plaintively. 

I don’t have an answer for that, so I duck my head and decide to see if I can wait him out.

Sure enough, “Joey, I know sometimes seventh grade can be an awkward time, and the transitions we go through as human beings into adolescence can be painful, but I don’t think this material is too hard for you to accomplish.  What do you think?” 

I’m trying not to cringe. Extra “Ack!” for mentioning both the word “awkward” and referencing puberty in the same sentence!  Gah!

He’s waiting for an answer this time.  What was the question again?  I slide a sad look in his direction, and nod uncertainly, hoping this will work as an answer to the question I didn’t pay attention to in the first place.

“I thought so.  So, it’s not a matter of understanding the concepts – it seems like you’re not getting the homework done.  It’s a question of what you’re doing with your time instead.  Why aren’t you doing your homework, Joey?” 

Grrr.  I don’t want to talk about this!

The real answer is that I’m doing…nothing.  Sometimes, I spend hours just being bored, wondering how everyone else seems to come up with the ambition to do all this…stuff.   Nothing feels worth doing this year.  It’s nothing personal, and it’s not like I want to get in trouble, but I just can’t bring myself to care about school right now. Better to escape into a graphic novel or a TV show or one of the comic books I’m drawing.

But I can’t tell my math teacher that.

Instead of an answer, I shrug.  This worked really well with my science teacher last week.  She didn’t expect me to answer any of her questions; she just wanted to get her frustration with me off her chest.  I guess she’s entitled.

“I’m afraid I can’t let this go, Miss Tate.” 

We’re back to “Miss Tate” are we?  I wonder if he thinks this makes him sound more important or if it’s supposed to make me feel more like a grown-up?

“Your grade in my class has slipped to failing, and I need to know that your parents are aware.  I’ve made a call to your home, and I need you to take this note home to your parents and have them sign it so that I know they’ve seen it.  I’ll expect it back, signed, tomorrow Joey. All right?”

“Okay.” I mumble, taking the sealed, official-looking envelope from him and shoving it in my back pocket. 

“Can I go now?”  I ask, as politely as I can, while still injecting some urgency into my voice to let him know that I really need to go.

He doesn’t look like he’s sure he should let me go.  He looks like he might be sizing me up for some more lecturing. I hold my breath, and finally, with a sigh of frustration he replies, “Yes, Miss Tate.  I’ll see you tomorrow.  Let’s see some corrections on that test and get your homework done tonight, please.”

“Okay, bye. Thanks! Sorry, Mr. Little.”  I try to cover all my bases, because the more satisfied I leave him with the impression of my goodness as a person, polite, nice, downtrodden – the less likely he’ll be to lecture me again soon or actually follow up on whether or not I do my homework or test corrections. 

I race out the door to my locker, just in time to run face-first into The Wall of Dougie that has suddenly appeared in front of me, spraying my folders, notebooks, papers and pencils in a thousand different directions.

Dougie Crowley is this giant kid who rarely, if ever, talks.  He has some other issues too.  Because he’s so huge, someone had the bright idea that he should play football on the recreation league team.  He totally looks like the kind of kid who could steamroll everybody else on the field, but he sort of…refuses to tackle anyone else. 

He’s super shy and, despite his huge size, he’s afraid of bugs – not something you want to be known for as a middle-school guy.  Once, I saw him pull his feet up onto his chair and whimper when someone spotted a spider crawling up the wall in language arts.  Another kid killed it with her copy of “Freak the Mighty” and Dougie looked embarrassed, but I totally get it.  Spiders are terrifying stuff.  

No one’s quite sure what to make of Dougie, so while he might have some big targets on his back, no one is brave enough to actually pick on this mountain of a kid…at least not to his face. 

 “Sorry,” he rumbles at me as he stoops to start gathering my papers together.

I’m so shocked that he spoke to me that I blurt out, “Wow! Your voice is crazy deep!”

He stops shuffling the mess in his hands to give me a long, vaguely disappointed look. I suddenly notice that I have possibly offended a six-foot four-inch seventh grader, and also that he’s the only one cleaning up my mess. 

I’m not only a klutz, I’m a rude klutz.  Way to go, Tate.

I close my eyes in embarrassment for a moment before dropping to my knees beside him to chase my math book before it gets kicked down the hall.  Everyone else is splitting to walk around us like an island in a stream.

“I’m sorry, Dougie.  I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I didn’t mean anything by what I said about your voice.  I think it’s cool, actually.  Kind of deep like a superhero or something like that, you know? Like Samuel L. Jackson.”

Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup! I tell myself.

Dougie hands me the stack of papers from my math folder, which he has neatly piled together and reaches for my math notebook which is splayed on the ground like a seagull with a broken wing.  He pauses before handing it over to notice a drawing on the page it has opened to. 

It’s a cartoon of Mrs. Bonney, my art teacher, as a fairy godmother.  She’s sprinkling fairy dust over my pouty face with a sparkle in her eye. Her funky overalls and outrageous hair go so well with fairy wings and a wand, that I couldn’t help myself.  What can I say? She’s my favorite teacher.

“S’good,” Dougie grunts quietly, handing me the notebook.  He gets up and dusts himself off, then holds his hand out to help me up from the floor as well. 

Who does that?  I’m a little flattered, because it looks kind of cool and old-school.  I accept the help up gratefully, but before I can say anything else, he nods, cups his right hand into an ‘O’ shape and holds it out in a gesture that, from the serious expression on his face is either a gang sign or an attempt at some sort of sign language.  Then, nodding his head in satisfaction, Dougie Crowley trundles down the hallway without another word. 

Was he calling me a “zero”?  Maybe that was his sign for “okay”.  Weird.  I don’t even have a chance to ask him before he disappears around the corner.

“Joey and Dougie, sittin’ in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” mocks a nasally voice from behind me.  Who even says that anymore?

I whirl on the group of Glamour Minions and their Back-Up Boy Band Minions that are standing around Madison Gridley’s locker just a few feet away across the hall.  I know I should just shut up and walk away.  Ignore them.  My mom always tells me to walk away from bullies, that you don’t want to give them a reason to target you.  But I’m suddenly a volcano ready to blow, and it’s either burst into tears or completely snap on somebody. 

I choose option B - to blow up all over Jacob Keckner, who may or may not even be the right target, but he’s laughing, so that’s all the reason I need.

“Really, Keckner? What are you, like, FIVE? Shut up!”  My voice cracks, I’m so furious. I can feel that heat that has invaded my face like a conquering army.  That’s fine, because it goes well with my boiling temper.

Jacob just laughs, and everyone else in his group does, too.  I can hear Evil Glamour Queen Madison snort right next to Jacob.  Doesn’t she know that it makes her sound like a pig?  Admittedly, even her hog snorts are kind of adorable. All right, a cute pig, but still a pig.

 “I just think it’s the start of a beautiful thing, Joey.  You and your new boyfriend can hang around  together. And I do mean AROUND.” Keckner the Lame gestures widely around his waist like he has an imaginary inner tube of jello around him.  Some laughter comes from the Back-Up Minions, but Madison just rolls her eyes and goes back to fixing her lip gloss.

Fat jokes.  Crap-tacular.

I can feel my face getting redder, but from embarrassment this time.  At the mention of my weight, my burst of courage dies a pathetic death.  I have nothing to say back.  Another “shut up” would be pointless since he didn’t shut it the first time.  At this point, I really am going to have to swallow my pride and walk away. I get ready to swallow my anger and walk away…again.

THWACK!!

Keckner the Lame yelps and the rest of us jump as a finely manicured hand smacks the back of his buzzcut head.  Hard.

Jacob turns to see who has done him wrong and comes face to face with Deandra Timmons, the most fearsome girl at Tillman Middle School.  Stylish, smart, and strong, Deandra is in all honors classes, and never backs down from a fight.  She’s even rumored to have refused to back down from an argument with a teacher once, and as a result she hasn’t been seen eating lunch in the cafeteria since second semester of sixth grade year.  Kind of like the life sentence of detentions.

Right now, though, she has her arms folded, eyes narrowed and burning with anger at the lanky boy in front of her. 

“What have I told you about Dougie, Jacob?” she bites out in a steely calm voice.

“What the heck, Deandra! That hurt!” Keckner the Lame replies, trying to turn it around on the Battle-Priestess of Cool, Deandra.

“For real, Jacob? You’re going to make me ask you again?” She sighs like she is burdened with the weight of Keckner’s incredible ignorance.  He thrusts his chin out at her in a show of unwise defiance.

“Well…it’s your funeral.”  Deandra pins Jacob Keckner to the wall with her stare and begins to stalk toward him like a dangerous cat looking to swat its prey.

“What. Have. I. Told. You. About. Dougie?” Her words jab the air like pointy, awful weapons, and she concludes by taking a step just close enough to Jacob that he flinches back into the door of his blue metal locker. 

I want to cheer.  I want to run.  I want to stand behind Deandra and yell, “Yeah! What SHE said!” I want to ask her why she’s sticking up for Dougie Crowley.  I want her to stick up for me, too.

Instead, I take the “rabbit-in-the-grass” approach and stay as quiet and still as I can until I can bolt for cover.

“Dee, he just forgot.  He was just joking around with them. Lighten up!” Madison is looking to make peace now.

This, from The Evil Glamour Queen herself.  Joking? Hah!  I want to jump in and tell Deandra that no one was laughing but the Glamazons and Back-Up Minions. 

But Deandra doesn’t need any help from me.  She’s such a force to be reckoned with that I start expecting some sort of magical wind to whip up from nowhere and blow back Deandra’s hair as lightning shoots from her eyes.  Instead, smooth and deadly as a shark, she points an arched eyebrow at Madison, who suddenly looks very nervous.

“Step off, Madison. This is between me and Jacob.  You do not want to mess in my backyard.”

That clinches it! Deandra Timmons is officially who I want to be when I grow up!  She turns back to Jacob who is looking around for support and finding that all of a sudden no one will meet his gaze.  Apparently the ceiling and the floor are completely fascinating to his Back-Up Minions.

“Don’t make me wait any longer, Jacob. What did I tell you about Dougie Crowley?”

“Leave him alone,” mumbles Keckner the Lame with his tail between his legs.

“What was that?” Deandra cups her right ear and eyeballs the Back-Up Minions.  “I didn’t quite hear you. Say it loud enough for everyone to hear, because I want this widely understood, people!” She eyes the gathered crowd with frigid warning.

“Leave Dougie alone. Don’t mess with him.” Jacob finally grinds out loudly enough to be heard down the hall.

“That’s right.  Now, don’t make me have to pass some smacks on to remind you again. You already know I can back up what I say.”  She studies her teal blue fingernails like she’s contemplating changing the color instead of using them to discipline unruly boys twice her size.

Treated, Keckner the Pouty slams his locker closed, grabs his backpack and pushes his way through the crowd to stomp off.  The remaining crowd of Glamazons and Minions breaks up quickly and quietly, so as not to incur the Wrath of Deandra.  I want to make a break for my locker, but I feel like I should say thank you to The Battle Priestess of Cool. 

Before I can think of anything to say to her, Deandra eyes me for a second, sizing me up, she cups her right hand into an ‘O’ shape just like Dougie did, holds it out to me, then dismisses me with a single tilt of her chin. 

Again with the “zero”!  I suppose, in this instance, I’d rather be called a zero by The Battle Priestess of Cool than listen to fat jokes from Keckner the Lame.

Double weird, that she and Dougie have the same weird hand gesture, though.  I didn’t even know that they knew each other before today. 

Huh. 

Well, I’ll take it. 

As she disappears around the corner, I finally find my voice again. It peeps out a breathy, “Thanks?”

But the Battle Priestess of Cool has left the building. 

I heave a sigh of relief and head to my own locker, walking on some unexpected sunshine.