Still a Work in Progress (13 page)

“Later, Curly,” Ryan says. “Thanks for stealing my innocence.”

She ducks back under the couch.

Our next class is science, which is my worst subject. We don’t have desks, but sit at a series of tables in the shape of a horseshoe. Our science teacher, Mrs. Phelps, likes to pace inside the horseshoe and then pounce on people unexpectedly by putting her hands on the table in front of them and leaning over to get in their faces.

“Noah,” she’ll say, her stale coffee breath blasting in my face, “why is the oxygen atom attracted to the hydrogen atom?”

And I’ll be so flustered by both her head two inches from my face and trying not to flinch from the vile smell coming out of her mouth that even if I know the answer, I can’t speak.

I’m really not as dumb and useless as she seems to think I am. But I don’t perform well when I’m stressed-out — and Mrs. Phelps really stresses me out. Sam says I have a sensitivity to smells and that she doesn’t really have bad breath at all. But Sam can’t smell his own feet, which I can smell before he even enters a room sometimes, so either he has killed all of his smell sensors with his own stench, or he is right and I have an odd and unfortunately sensitive stench sensor.

I’m pretty sure I’m not
that
sensitive, because Ryan says he sort of smells the breath, too, and definitely Sam’s feet. But Ryan wears this horrible cologne that he thinks cool guys who live in “the real world” wear, so I’m pretty sure he has killed all of his own smell sensors, too.

Maybe I need to buy some cologne to mask everyone else’s stench. I don’t know. But whenever I get a cold and can’t smell and have to breathe through my mouth, it’s actually kind of a nice vacation. It’s like a smell-cation.

When we get to the room, there’s a girl huddle at the end of one table. Miranda, Molly, and Lily are having a summit meeting and talking way too loudly to keep it secret.

Ryan and Sam nudge me, and we go to the table at the opposite side of the room.

“No one saw,” Miranda says reassuringly. “I’m telling you, Lil. Don’t worry!”

“Zach saw!” Lily cries. “Did you hear what he said?”

“Don’t listen to him. His mouth ruins everything,” Miranda says.

Mrs. Phelps walks into class, and the girls break up.

Sam elbows me. “Should we tell her we didn’t see anything?”

“If we say that, she’ll know we did.”

He thinks about this.

“But if we don’t say anything, then she’ll definitely know we know,” Ryan says.

Sam looks like he’s in pain, trying to figure out what to do.

“Maybe we should pretend nothing happened. Or focus on some other part of the incident. Like ask if Curly scratched her.”

“You can’t bring up Curly. What if a teacher finds out? They’ll expel her. You know she’s on probation.”

“Curly’s on probation?” I ask. “Since when?”

“Lily’s parents figured out she’s allergic and told the Tank if her symptoms get worse, they’ll have to get rid of the cat.”

“She should really stop picking her up. She’s putting everything in jeopardy,” Sam says.

This makes me feel a little less sorry for Lily, putting Curly at risk like that.

Mrs. Phelps walks into the horseshoe and clears her throat before we can figure out what to do.

“Good afternoon, friends,” she says. “Who did their homework?”

We all move out of our clusters and push our chairs back to the horseshoe table.

“Noah,” Mrs. Phelps says, walking over to me, “why don’t you tell me what you wrote for question one?”

I quickly pull out my homework before she gets too close.

“The nucleus contains the cell’s genetic information,” I say.

“Good job.” She spins on her heel and walks over to the other end of the table, where Lily is sitting. “Lily, are you all right?”

Lily looks up. When she does, there is a puffy red line running down her neck. She touches the scratch to try to cover it up.

“What happened?” Mrs. Phelps asks, moving closer to inspect.

Lily looks around desperately for help in making up an excuse.

“Nuh-nothing,” she says. “I scratched myself somehow. I guess I need to file my nails.”

“It looks like it hurts.”

“I’m OK.” But she seems like she’s about to cry again.

“Go see Ms. Cliff and get some first-aid cream and a bandage, please.”

She says this in a way that sounds like she doesn’t want Lily to argue.

Poor Lily gets up, her arms crossed at her chest, and rushes out of the room.

I wonder where the pads went, and then immediately feel guilty.

Mrs. Phelps eyes all of us suspiciously before going on with class. Curly is definitely walking on thin ice.

The week before our winter break, everyone is in a festive mood. Ms. Cliff passes around Secret Santa forms during Community Meeting and tells us to fill them out. They’re to give whoever draws our name some ideas about what to get us. “And don’t be silly about it,” she says, all serious. “Thoughtful gifts do not need to cost money. They come from the heart.”

Sam raises his hand and asks for suggestions.

“Chocolate, homemade cookies, stickers, colorful pens, erasers, mittens, hats, or artwork make good gifts,” Ms. Cliff says. “World peace, money, weapons, alcohol or other drugs, any requests for physical interaction (a quick hug is OK) do not.”

After her lecture about how we should leave a little gift every day leading up to our holiday celebration, Ms. Cliff gives us a few minutes to fill out our sheets.

My sheet looks like this:

“Helpful,” Ryan says when he looks at my paper.

I ignore him.

Ms. Cliff collects all our forms, mixes them up in a bowl, and has us each draw one out.

Mine looks like this:

Sadie and I have a total of zero things in common.

“Who’d you get?” Ryan asks me and Sam after school. We’re sitting on the bottom step outside, waiting for our rides. It’s freezing out, and we’re all kind of shivering as we wait.

“We’re not supposed to tell,” Sam says.

“You can tell
me,
” Ryan says.

“I can, but I’m not going to.”

“Why? Did you get me?”

“I can’t believe it.” Sam stands up, disgusted.

“You got me? Really?”

Sam shakes his head and walks up the steps. “I’m waiting inside.”

“Nice work,” I tell Ryan.

“How was I supposed to know?”

I don’t have an answer.

“So, who’d you get?” he asks me.

“Have you learned nothing?”

“What?” He really doesn’t see the point.

“Sadie,” I say.

“You’re so lucky. Figures you’d get a girl who already likes you.”

“Right.”

“You know I am,” he says bitterly.

“Who’d
you
get?” I ask, ignoring him.

“Max. Can you believe it?” He hands me Max’s description.

“Everyone’s a comedian,” I say.

I hand him Sadie’s form.

He reads her list carefully, as if he wants to memorize it. “You have it so easy! You’re so lucky. I think I hate you.”

“Easy? I don’t know how to buy lip gloss!”

“And firecrackers are an easy purchase?”

“Just draw him pictures of everything on his list and throw in some gum,” I suggest.

“Noah, you’re a genius.”

I nod proudly.

Mr. Lewis pulls up to get me and Harper. Emma is already in the front seat, Stu in the back. For some reason, whenever Mr. Lewis drives, he always goes to the high school first, unlike my mom, who takes turns. This means I will be squished in the back between Harper and Stu.

“Window!” I yell, even though I know it’s hopeless. Harper has already jumped down the steps and is running toward the car.

Ryan smiles as he stares at Emma through the passenger window. “Can I come over? Please?”

“What are you gonna do, ride on the roof?” I ask. “There’s no room.”

“I could share the front seat with Emma.”

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to have her go out with someone nice like me instead of some high-school jerk who doesn’t appreciate the real Emma?”

“Do you even know the real Emma?”

He doesn’t answer, and I realize I just made him feel really uncomfortable. Good.

“See you tomorrow,” I say, disgusted.

“See you.”

“Who’d you get for Secret Santa?” Harper asks me as soon as we pull out of the parking lot.

“I’m not telling,” I say.

Emma turns to face us and reaches back to give me a punch. “I can’t believe they still do that. What about the kids who don’t celebrate Christmas?”

“It’s Santa. It’s not religious,” Stu says.

“He’s
Saint
Nicholas,” Emma points out.

“But that doesn’t have to do with Christ or anything. Does it?”

“Who cares?” Harper says. “It’s just for fun.”

Emma turns back to face front. “Some people are so insensitive,” she says to the windshield.

When we get home, she heads straight upstairs and closes her bedroom door. Her music thrums through the walls that separate our bedrooms. I turn up my own music to drown hers out. The next thing I know, she’s pounding on my door, then swinging it open without even waiting for me to tell her it’s OK to come in.

The Captain gets up and rushes over to her excitedly, but she ignores him and stomps over to my bureau and turns off my music.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s too loud,” she says.

“Maybe yours is too loud.”

“At least mine is
good.
”

“What’s your problem?” I ask. “Ever since Thanksgiving, you’ve been all moody.”

She holds up her fist at me like she’s threatening to hit me. She has such dry skin that her knuckles are scabby and gross-looking.

“I thought you were a pacifist,” I say. “And also, ever heard of lotion? Your hands are gross.”

She quickly pulls the sleeves of her sweater over her hands. “Shut up.”

“Emma,” I say, feeling a horrible panic in my stomach, “why are your hands like that?”

“It’s not what you think. They’re just dry. God.”

“Emma . . .” I say again. My insides feel like they are tightening into a fist, like they do whenever I’m really scared.

“It’s dry skin!” she screams at me, and storms back out of the room.

“She’s insane,” I tell the Captain.

He licks my sock and rolls over so I’ll rub his belly.

“You’d never know you’re
her
dog,” I say to him. But he just thumps his tail without a care. This is the real Emma. The problem is, I don’t even know what that means.

Later, when it’s time for bed, Emma stands in my doorway to say good night, just like always. “I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier,” she says.

“It’s all right,” I say. I can tell she really means it. She looks sad, and it makes me feel scared again.

“Are you really OK?” I ask.

She nods, but just barely.

“Emma —” I start, but she interrupts.

“Sleep tight,” she says. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“Nighty-night, bite-bite-bite,” I mumble, because our childhood saying seems kind of embarrassing now.

“Chomp!” she whispers, then disappears down the hall.

The next day, I arrive at school with an upset stomach because I somehow completely forgot about Secret Santas and I don’t have anything to give Sadie. I should have asked Emma if she had any unused lip gloss I could buy off her, but given her mood, I didn’t bother.

Ryan and Sam come running over to me as soon as I get inside.

“Wait until you see your locker!” Sam yells, beaming.

Ryan has a you-know-what-eating grin on his face.

“How embarrassing is it?” I ask.

“It’s not!” Sam says. But nothing embarrasses Sam.

“Well?” I ask Ryan.

“It’s hard to say,” he tells me. “You’ll have to be the judge.”

“Terrific.”

We walk to my locker, which has a crowd of people standing around it. They step out of the way when they see me, revealing that my entire locker door is covered in Snoopy wrapping paper and a giant red bow. I glance up and down the hall at all the other lockers to see if anyone else got a wrapped door. No one did.

“Someone must really like
you,
” Lily says, all baby talk.

I roll my eyes and hope that even though my cheeks feel like they are on fire, I’m not actually blushing.

“Do you think there’s a present inside?” Sam asks.

“Open it!” Harper says.

“Yeah, open it!” someone else yells. Everyone starts chanting, “Open it! Open it!”

I know they won’t stop until I do, so I slowly lift the handle and swing open the door.

There’s nothing inside.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Ryan says.

“Still cool,” Sam says. “No one else got a wrapped-up door.”