And So It Goes, Judy Colella [top business books of all time txt] 📗

or something? I mean, she hadn’t used the toilet, so why was she using the sink?

I stared at my own hair – short and spiky, dark brown (my mom calls it chestnut), my plain but not grotesque features and copper-brown eyes. Quite the contrast to Lacy, she of the golden hair, huge blue eyes, perky nose, ruby lips…in fact, every cliché that belonged to those who worked hard at being attractive. Without her makeup and bleach, though, she’d probably be as unremarkable as I am.

On the bright side, I’m slimmer than she is. On the dark side, that slim thing includes a noticeable lack of boobery, which she seemed to have in unfair measure. Talk about social injustice! Or is it societal?

“Why are you staring at me, freak?”

“Why are you calling me a freak, air-head?” Uh, right. I probably shouldn’t have said that.

“You’re dead. I always knew you were…you’re dead!”

I looked down at myself, put a finger next to my carotid artery, shook my head. “Not exactly. I have a pulse. Do you?” Grrr! I’d done it again! See, this is another reason I stayed away from the bullies and popular people – I have no filters (according to Wade, curse him) and refused to let them intimidate me. That means I instinctively gave as good as I got, maybe more since I’m almost positive I’m smarter than they are.

Annndddd….this was not going to end well.

Lacy snarled at me and left, no doubt to announce to the class that the “freak” was in the bathroom talking to her reflection. Which was true. But hey. I contemplated not going back to class, but I’m also not a coward. Most of the time, anyway. After a final glance to make sure the zipper on my loose-fitting, comfy jeans wasn’t down, I took a deep breath, nodded once at myself for encouragement (a useless gesture), and went out.

Barry Janovich was giving his speech when I re-entered the classroom. Barry is a jerk. He’s pudgy in all the wrong places but acts like he’s a male model, has a pathetic, everybody’s-best-friend fake attitude, freckles that I’m pretty sure started life as zits (or the other way around), and an inability to stop telling everyone else his philosophies about how they should all handle their lives. His name should have been Richard (ask someone what the nickname for Richard is, if you don’t know what I mean).

I sat at my desk, avoiding the looks everyone – including the teacher – was probably giving me, and hit my mental “off switch,” tuning out Barry’s irritating drone. As a result I didn’t know what his speech had been on, and hoped there wouldn’t be a test.

When class ended some time later, I got up to leave, but took my time, figuring if I waited long enough, Lacy and her friends would be long gone.

“Do you need something?” asked the teacher. She was tapping her foot again.

“Er, no. Just…no. I’m leaving.”

“Before you do, I need to tell you something.”

Uh-oh. “Sure.”

“Your speech was logical and well-spoken, but I would appreciate it if you would keep your ugly, conservative rhetoric to yourself from now on.” The glare was back.

I was shocked. “Conservative? What are you talking about? My mother would disown me if that was true.”

“So all that crap about individual responsibility and accountability, about lawyers and politicians – what was that? Sounded like Rush Limbaugh!”

“Who?”

She shook her head, making that annoying clicking sound with her tongue. “You really have no clue, do you. All right. But next time, think before you speak, okay?”

“Okay.” So much for “free speech,” I guess. I hadn’t been trying to be anything other than observant, and couldn’t fathom why my words had actually made her angry. It was clear she didn’t agree with my off-the-cuff babble, but it was also clear that she didn’t accept anyone’s opinion but her own. Great.

If the rest of the class felt that way, I’d probably get stoned to death on my way to the bus stop later. But for the time being, I had to get to Chemistry, and my little chat with the teacher was going to put me at the door several minutes after the bell.

What a day. At least I wouldn’t have to give any speeches there.

Three

Chemistry. Angst. So what, exactly, is the chemistry of angst? Whatever it is, I doubt it has anything to do with baking soda and vinegar. On the other hand, if one is making soda crackers for an enemy, it might have everything to do with it.

Volcanoes – ah, volcanoes. We did the whole volcano-erupting experiment in elementary school using bs&v, but at the time I knew little about angst. Today’s experiment also involved the ubiquitous (I love that word, I do) baking soda and vinegar cocktail. Only this time it had to do with the density difference between air and carbon dioxide. Right. Because I need to know that in order to have a fulfilling life. Jeez.

No one said a word to me about my speech, thank God, but no one was talking to me either, except Gina.

“Why are we doing this?” Her words had come out of the side of her mouth because the teacher was looking in our direction. Guess Gina believes the guy never saw either a campy movie or a bad ventriloquist.

I shrugged. Why, indeed.

“Okay, class.” Teacher-guy cleared his throat. His name is Armand Klees, but because I refuse to say words that embarrass or offend my self-esteem, I call him Teacher-guy. Anyway, yeah. He continued. “You will notice this box by the side of my desk. In it are bottles of something all of you must have played with at some point or other in your younger days.”

Dead cats in formaldehyde? Nah. How would anyone get a dead cat into a bottle? Maybe like those model ships – flatten them, roll them up, attach little strings, and when it’s in the bottle, pull it back upright…

“…mature about this.”

Uh-oh. I tuned back in.

“I’ll pass them out, but keep in mind that I know how many are in here, and I expect to have the same number back in the box at the end of class.”

Gina and I exchanged a glance; she looked as puzzled as I was. What was in those bottles? Gold doubloons?

“Here you go.” Teacher-guy stopped at our lab table first, pulled two bottles from the box, and thumped them down.

Really? Was he serious? Bubbles? What? A dark blue plastic bottle with a goofy-looking giraffe on the label. Gina’s was pink with a hedgehog, or…I think it was a hedgehog. Whatever. Teacher-guy was talking again.

“…a beaker and add the vinegar, then carefully measure in the baking soda. The amounts are on the board, as you can see. When you’re done, blow some bubbles onto the surface of the foam that results.”

Sure. And then skip off to see the wizard while flying a kite with our toes. What was wrong with this guy today? Holy cow!

As we did our little experiment, he told us that the point was to prove that air is lighter than carbon dioxide, and that the whole thing is about density. So…what – he couldn’t just tell us that? And then my bad-joke gene took over.

“I get it,” I whispered to Gina. “Being bubble-headed makes you dense, while being an air-head makes you a surface-skimmer and you have no depth.” I slid a knowing glance at Lacy, who was still trying to get her bubbles to land on top of the foam. What an idiot.

“You need help,” Gina replied (and I know she wasn’t referring to class work), but her words were followed by a giggle so I didn’t worry about it.

And then, about a thousand years later, class was over. That meant my next class, gym, might be my last. Lacy and her pole-dancing buddies (okay, they’re really cheerleaders, but at times I fail to see the difference) would be there. Normally, they did their thing in gym without noticing me lurking in the shadows as I did my best to avoid all physical activity. I had a feeling this day was going to be different.

When I’m right, I’m right. Not that it would make any sense to say, “when I’m right, I’m wrong,” unless I was referring to every dumb argument I’d ever had with my Aunt Riza. She’s never wrong about anything. Given the chance, I believe she’d try to put God in His place if He disagreed with her. Anyhow, yeah. Gym. Lacy. Bleh.

The first incident occurred when we were told to line up in preparation to do push-ups. On my way to the far end of the line, Lacy shoved me. For real. I didn’t fall because she hadn’t shoved me very hard, but I did turn around and frown at her.

“You have a problem, Sonic?” She raised her eyebrows.

I had to assume she was referring to Sonic the Hedgehog (maybe that was the animal on Gina’s bottle of bubbles – huh). Made sense, since my hair was, in fact, rather pokey, which was how I liked it. I grinned at her, ruffled said hair with one hand, and said, “Sonic is so cool – thanks!” Again, most likely the wrong move. But I was, as I’d heard several people say, even if I couldn’t tell you where or why, batting a thousand. Might as well maintain my average, if that’s what I was doing.

The next snit-fit manifestation was during basketball. I suck at basketball. I suck at every sport, but basketball more than the rest. At one point, someone threw me the stupid ball, and before I could find someone else to toss it to, three of Lacy’s buddies triple-teamed me and I ended up on the floor with basketball-court burn on my left knee, a bruise on my right elbow, and visions of Lacy and her friends being dropped into a leaf-shredder. Cheerleader mulch. Ha.

“Oh, my God! Are you okay?” Gina had run over, and was going to try and help me up, but another of Queen Lacy’s lackeys elbowed her out of the way.

“Oops! Sorry, Gina – didn’t see you there.”

You know, it’s one thing for these fluff-heads to attack me, but it’s another for them to go after my friend. I got up and started walking toward the bimbo who had shoved Gina – Tessa McFarland – with no intention of stopping. She crossed her arms, smirking, no doubt wondering what I thought I was going to do. When I didn’t slow down and my hands clenched into fists, the smirk faded.

Stomp, stomp, stomp. A few more inches. Running her undersized ass over was going to be a pleasure. Stomp –

“You’re insane!” Her voice had taken on the volume and pitch of a train whistle as she dodged out of the way.

I turned toward her and started stomping again.

“Coach!”

To my utter amazement, the coach did nothing. He was standing several feet behind Tessa, hands in his pockets, grinning. Weird.

Stomp, stomp…

“Get away from me, crazy bitch!”

Stomp…

Tess turned and ran.

I stopped stomping, noticing for the first time that Gina was off to the side, doubled over in what I immediately recognized as silent laughter – her face was that lovely shade of purple again. I also noticed the