Mia the Meek (7 page)

“Mike
kissed
you?”

“I hope you don’t mind. I know Mike has always been more your friend than mine, but I like him so much, and he’s an incredible kisser!”

I tried to picture Lisa and Mike kissing, but it hurt my brain too much.

“I’ve been hoping for so long that Mike and I would get together, but I never told you because I didn’t know how you really felt about him. Then, yesterday, when you told me you’d never like him for more than a friend, I decided to go for it. Oh, Mia, you’re the best!”

Lisa pulled me into a hug and I didn’t move. I felt like I did when I was ten and walked out of swimming lessons, only to discover my bike had been stolen. It had been there when I left, but when I came out, it was gone. And now it was happening all over again—one minute Mike liked me, and the next, he belonged to someone else. And even though I would never have gone out with Mike in a million years, it had been nice to know he liked me. I just couldn’t believe Lisa stole the only guy who’d ever even thought about dating me. I looked at her suspiciously. Maybe she’d also had a hand in stealing my bike.

Oblivious to my lack of enthusiasm, Lisa rambled on as we made our trek to St. Hilary’s.

“It doesn’t change anything if Mike and I are together. The three of us can still hang out together and have fun. It’s not like I’d ever choose hanging out with Mike over you. Nothing’s going to change.”

Mr. Benson called the class to order.

“As you can tell from the posters in the hallway, we have two excellent candidates running for freshman class president this year— Cassie Foster and Mia Fullerton.”

Everyone turned to stare at Cassie and me. I slumped down in my desk while Cassie, looking more gorgeous than usual, smiled so brightly, I almost expected to see sparkles bounce off her pearly white teeth.

“Now, let’s talk about other presidents,” Mr. Benson continued. “Your assignment this week is to write about who you think was the best president of the United States. Then, you will compose a persuasive essay explaining your choice. Make sure you back up your opinion with facts. Presentations are next Monday, so get busy.”

I got out a piece of paper and Mike leaned over and asked, “Do you want to look at some books together?”

I shook my head.

“No, thanks. It’s easier for me to do research alone.”

“Um,” he said, “I was talking to Lisa.”

Lisa broke into a wide grin.

“Sure,” Lisa said. “That would be great. Just let me gather my stuff.”

It took Lisa only fifteen minutes to abandon me. I was definitely going to check her garage for my old bike. I grumbled as I got out of my seat to gather some research books in the back of the classroom.

Tim leaned over my shoulder.

“How’s your ego this morning? Feeling a little bruised?”

“Save it. I’m not in the mood.”

“Man, are you a sore loser, or are you always this cranky in the morning?”

Blatantly ignoring him, I grabbed a book on presidents. Tim selected the book next to mine.

“So, who are you going to write about?” he asked.

Figuring if I answered him, he might leave me alone, I said, “I don’t know, maybe Franklin D. Roosevelt, Jimmy Carter, or Bill Clinton.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“Why, who are you choosing? Richard Nixon?”

“Exactly.”

“Now, you’ve got to be joking. He was one of the worst presidents of all time.” My mom, the flaming liberal, had ranted about Nixon for so long I knew her spiel by heart. “He raised illegal money from companies, forged letters on stolen Democratic Party stationery attacking McGovern, and broke into the Democratic National headquarters at Watergate, where he stole files and planted microphones.”

“Richard Nixon was a great international diplomat who ended the Vietnam War. On the other hand, FDR started a welfare system that has our country paying people who choose not to work, Jimmy Carter was a peanut farmer who led the U.S. into a recession, and Bill Clinton never said an honest word in his life. Those guys are great role models.”

“For your information, all these ‘guys’ listened to working class people and made a difference in their lives. They didn’t use people solely to advance their own interests, like Nixon did. If I ever become president, I’ll be like them and help everyone—not just the rich people!”

Tim clapped his hands in mock appreciation. “If you’re through making speeches, I think I’ll go back to my seat and read about a truly great leader—Richard M. Nixon.”

Grabbing a book on presidents, I stormed over to my seat and furiously searched to find the most liberal president I could. Then, I spent the rest of the period studying John F. Kennedy, because he was Catholic and good looking, and because he beat Richard Nixon in the 1960 election.

I walked into my English classroom and immediately wanted to escape when I saw my mom wearing an aviator’s hat and a huge scarf wrapped around her neck. She greeted us by saying, “Good morning. I was wondering if anyone has seen me or my plane. I ask because there are a lot of stories as to what happened to me. My name is Amelia Earhart, and I disappeared over the Pacific Ocean in 1937. Some people think the Japanese captured me. Some think I crashed in the ocean. And some people think I became a housewife in New Jersey. After I tell you about my life, I’ll let you decide.”

At the end of her dramatization, my mom concluded, “This is the beginning of our Images of Greatness unit. Your culminating project will be to write a speech from the point of view of a famous person. You will work on this assignment throughout the entire unit and it will be worth fifty percent of your grade. You will need to dress as your hero during your presentation to get the highest possible number of points. You have the rest of the period to write, so get to it.”

I pulled out a piece of paper and gnawed on the end of my pencil, trying to figure out who to write about. Maybe I’d research Harry Houdini because it would be really handy to know how to make myself disappear until after the election.

Sitting down at my lab table, I took Tim’s book,
The Presidency of Richard Nixon
, and placed
JFK: The Man, The Myth, The President
on top of it.

Jake plopped down on his stool. “Hey, dude, your posters are off the heezy for sheezy.”

“Thanks—I think.”

Cassie climbed onto her stool. “I can’t believe you’re actually running against me for class president. Just because you got a new look doesn’t stop you from being Mia the Meek. I mean, what are you going to do when you have to give a speech in front of the whole class?”

Tim coughed loudly. “‘Mia the Meek?’ You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You don’t know Mia well enough yet,” Cassie replied. “She’d rather die than have anyone look at her. Isn’t that right, Mia?”

“Well. . .”

“I might have only known Mia for a few days,” Tim interrupted, “but ‘Mia the Meek’ is not the nickname that first comes to mind.”

“Quiet chicks rock,” Jake said, punching me in the arm.

I instinctively rubbed the spot where his hand had touched me.

“Thanks, Jake.”

“Dude, me and my dawgs are hanging at the movies Friday night. You wanna chill with us?”

I was momentarily speechless. “Me?” I said finally, as if I was being strangled.

“Jake, we already have it planned,” Cassie interrupted, clenching her jaw.

“Mia’s fly. She’s got game.”

“Well, in that case,” Cassie replied, “Tim, would you like to come, too?”

Tim shrugged. “Sure. Who all’s going?”

“Jessie, Anthony, Collin, and Stephanie. We’re meeting at Hillside Theatre in the mall to see whatever’s playing around seven.”

“Sounds fun. Mia and I live next door to each other, so we can ride together and meet you there.”

Sister Donovan interrupted our discussion. “Clean off your tables. We have our first lab today.”

Jake leaned over to me.

“So, you’re down with it?”

“I guess so,” I said, hoping he meant going out with him Friday night.

Cassie put her hand on Tim’s.

“We can talk about Friday when you call me tonight,” she said.

Sister Donovan stared at us and cleared her throat, so we quickly cleaned off our table.

“Today we are going to do a simple experiment—changing a solid into a liquid and then back again. First, you will melt mothballs in a test tube. You will want to slowly and gently stir the test tube mothballs over the flame because they are highly flammable. We don’t want any test tubes breaking. Once the mothballs have melted, you will remove the test tube from the flame, measure its temperature, and put it in cold water to measure at what temperature the mothballs turn solid again. I will be watching to see how you follow directions. Please get started.”

“Go get the supplies and I’ll set up the lab,” Tim ordered.

I put my hands on my hips.

“Who died and made you boss? How about
you
get the supplies and
I’ll
set up the lab?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I don’t like it when you tell me what to do. First, you tell Cassie we’ll ride together on Friday night without asking me, and now you’re telling me to go get the equipment?”

“You’re throwing this fit because I told Cassie we could ride together? It only makes sense to go together—we live next door to each other.”

“But what if I don’t want to go with you? And what if I was counting on setting up the lab? Did you ever think to ask me before you started acting like the master of the universe?”

Tim heaved a sigh.

“Fine. Why don’t we compromise and both get the supplies, and then set up the lab together?”

“All right, but you’d better hurry up because everyone’s already started.”

“Who’s the one wasting time here?”

“I’d say you are,” I grumbled, following Tim to the table filled with supplies.

We set up the lab and turned on our Bunsen burner. As I stirred, Tim rolled the mothballs into the test tube filled with warm water. Then, he whispered in my ear, “Could you have salivated any more when Jake asked you out? I think I got a little drool on my sleeve.”

“You’re depriving a village somewhere of its idiot,” I shot back. “Besides, I could’ve filled a bucket with your slobber when the wicked witch of St. Hilary’s asked
you
out.”

“I think Cassie is sweet.”

“Sweet as strychnine,” I muttered, stirring the mothballs in the test tube a bit more vigorously.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be stirring the mothballs that hard. Sister Donovan said to gently stir them.”

“I told you to stop telling me what to do. I can stir the mothballs as hard as I want!” Using the plastic stirrer, I moved the mothballs around the test tube even more forcefully. “See—it just makes them melt faster.”

“It does not. You’re going to break the test tube.”

“I don’t mind you talking, as long as you don’t care if I don’t listen,” I answered.

He tried to grab the stirrer from my hand. “Are you always this stubborn, or are you making a special effort today?”

“Fine, if you think you’re so smart, you do it!” As I yanked the stirrer from the test tube, I accidentally shattered the glass. The melted mothballs fell into the flame of the Bunsen burner and a huge ball of fire instantaneously exploded in front of us. The flammable concoction quickly spread across the table and flames followed in its wake.