Take Me There (24 page)

But I don’t want it to be like I’m angry and I just have to get over it. I want to do something about it. Because how can Gloria do this to me again? And get away with it like it’s nothing?

I want karmic retribution.

Heather’s looking at me funny. I try to pay attention.

But it’s like, when will Gloria learn that you can’t go around hurting people this way? That if you do, karma will never allow you to achieve true happiness? And yeah, I’m seriously mad at Steve, but she obviously has him under some spell. It’s her fault he’s treating me like this.

The anger bubbles up so harshly I feel sick. I shift in my chair. Heather’s completely given up on trying to figure out any of this stuff. She’s doodling a water fountain in the margin of her paper.

Tony starts making his sound effects. He especially likes to imitate the way Marion laughs. Or this one kid with asthma who coughs like a truck horn.

Eliezer laughs his har-
huh!
laugh.

Tony imitates Eliezer, all like har-
huh!

We all think Tony’s imitations are hilarious because he sounds just like whoever he’s imitating. Sometimes I’ll be on the subway or sitting in a different class and I’ll think of him going har-
huh
! and I’ll crack up. But then I feel bad that I’m laughing at him, because how he makes fun of everyone is just too wrong.

Ms. Parker is getting angry. Tony is always interrupting her with the sound effects, and it drives her crazy. Or he’ll ask some really hard question she doesn’t know the answer to, but he only does it to bother her because she’s not even a real Earth Science teacher. We just have her because there’s a serious shortage of science teachers who actually know what they’re doing.

As she’s ranting, I’m thinking that there has to be some way to expose Gloria. But in a fair way, or else I’d be just as bad as her. Some way where Gloria would be forced to realize how wrong she is.

I want revenge, but I don’t want to screw up my karma. I have no idea how to do this. I just know it’s something I have to do.

The election is tomorrow, so Danny’s in the hall doing an impromptu crowd razz. He’s running for next year’s senior-class president and has already done two crowd razzes this week. They’re kind of these random speeches in the hall that are always hysterical. He also does spontaneous TGIM rallies on Mondays and Random Hallway Polls, where the results get printed in the school paper. Which comes out like never because Ms. Portman resigned as faculty advisor when she got mad about kids on her staff not doing anything. The Random Hallway Poll he did Tuesday was hilarious. But apparently it was all controversial, and he got called to the principal’s office. Nothing happened, though. Nothing ever happens when you push the rules. You have to totally break them to get in any kind of serious trouble.

Out of everyone running for student council, Danny has the best posters. He took images from the Jon Stewart
America
book and superimposed them over photos of himself trying to look like he’s on
The Daily Show
. Not that anyone watches that show besides Danny. But that’s what makes the posters weird enough to work. And the tag lines are completely irreverent. They’re all like, DANNY TRAGER. PRESIDENTIAL. A FAN OF NACHOS
.
Or, VOTE FOR DANNY. FRIEND OF TREES
.
Everyone thinks he’s totally going to win. I definitely think he should. Politics is his life. As long as I’ve known him, he’s talked about revolutionizing the world one day. His ultimate goal is to make everyone realize that world peace is possible.

Danny’s standing on a plastic milk crate in the middle of the main hallway, waving around a head of lettuce.

“I summon the energy of the lettuce to stimulate world peace!” Danny yells. “No more war! No more massacre!” He waves the lettuce over his head. “Praise to the lettuce!” Kids stand around him in a circle and cheer. Brad sticks out his arms in front of him and makes worshiping motions at the lettuce. Another kid yells, “It’s the apocalypse!”

Mr. Pearlman comes running down the hall. Kids are crowded three deep around Danny, so he can’t get through. He gets shoved into someone so it looks like he just pushed a kid.

“You best step
back
, son!” this boy goes. Because he knows he can get away with it now.

“Hey!” the kid yells. “Yo, lettuce god! Mr. Pearlman just pushed me! That’s physical abuse!”

A surge of booing engulfs the hall. Some hard-core stoner guys yell at Mr. Pearlman to lay off. In the rare event that a teacher breaks the rules, you can shout them out as loud as you want and nothing can happen to you. They could totally lose their job for even touching you. And if an administrator does it, it’s ten times worse.

Mr. Pearlman looks nervous. He looks like he’s scared we’re all about to stomp over him in an angry stampede. He backs away and motors down the hall. He’s probably going to get the AP to break it up.

But in the meantime, Danny still has the floor. And everyone’s attention.

“A vote for Danny! Is a vote to end the senseless physical violence perpetrated at Eames Academy! We’re taking back the academy, people! Let me hear you say,
Oh, yeah!
”

And the crowd goes wild.

It’s only five minutes into the math test and Brad is already trying to cheat.

I mean, it’s subtle. Brad’s an expert at subversive activities. But I can see it. I can tell.

Brad sits next to Jackson, and I can see him sneaking looks at Jackson’s paper while Mr. Farrell reads a book at his desk, oblivious. Brad’s technique is so good that Jackson doesn’t even know what’s going on. It’s so unfair. I hate when burnouts get away with doing nothing, plus use people like me who actually do their work. It’s like,
Yeah buddy. I’d like to sit in front of the TV for six hours every day, too. There’s a reason I don’t.

Maybe there’s a way to let Jackson know what’s happening without Brad finding out. Ratting him out to Mr. Farrell isn’t an option. Unless I want to coincidentally find everything in my locker totally destroyed or someone lurking outside my house. There has to be another way.

Someone has a bad cough. I hate how that’s all embarrassing, when you’re taking a test and you’re sick and you have that dry-throat thing and you’re coughing but trying not to so you start making those retching noises and everyone gives you evil looks. Or when your stomach is growling all loud and you cough to cover up the noise.

Coughing. Hmm.

I try coughing all ragged to see if that will make Jackson look up. Four people whip their heads around, but not Jackson. He’s completely into those inverse functions. A nuclear bomb detonating in the hall wouldn’t stop him. The boy is a machine.

Direct contact is the only way to do this.

I put down my mechanical pencil and reach into my bag for an old-school one. I do the legal looking reach where you unzip your bag all slowly to be quiet and watch the teacher while you’re feeling around inside for what you want so he doesn’t think you’re scamming on some cheat sheet. But Mr. Farrell doesn’t even look up from his book.

So then I get up to sharpen my pencil, but I time it so it’s in between Brad’s peeks. I already figured out he has this rhythmic pattern to his peeks going on. I sharpen my pencil and do a sideways glance at Brad. Then I start walking back to my desk. I decide to walk by Brad’s desk, on the other side of Jackson.

The timing is perfect. Right when Brad is looking at Jackson’s paper, I cough in this loud, spastic way. It works. Jackson snaps out of his test haze and glares at me. And he totally catches Brad looking right at his paper.

But Jackson’s not stupid, either. He knows what will happen if he tells Mr. Farrell. So he slides his paper to the other side of his desk and tilts his desk away so Brad has no chance of seeing.

I sit down and sneak a look over at Brad to see if he knew I had anything to do with it. He’s clueless.

A few minutes later, I look over again. Jackson snaps his head around to see if Brad is still trying to cheat off him. Then Brad mouths something to Jackson that makes my arms break out in goose bumps.

He goes,
You’re dead.

We just had ten minutes to discuss who we picked for our poetry projects. Which basically means Tatyana and I spent nine and a half minutes gossiping about what happened with Mr. Pearlman and the lettuce thing and thirty seconds on what we were supposed to be talking about.

When it was Tatyana’s turn to explain about her project, she pushed over a poem by Allen Ginsberg, copied onto gorgeous stationery in her arty script. The poem was about a llama with a bamboo backscratcher.

Enough said.

Then she asked me about the sidewalk thing and I admitted it. Which I’m not worried about. She knows how to keep a secret. Anyway, she was in the middle of telling me something about it, but we had to break up.

Now we’re supposed to be writing a description of our project ideas. We have to justify why we picked who we picked. So far I have three sentences.

I tap my pen on my notebook. I lean over to Tatyana.

“How long does this have to be?” I whisper.

“One page,” she whispers back.

Hmm. Maybe I should put in part of my favorite poem. That’ll take up like four more lines. And I don’t write huge or use ridiculous margins like some wingnuts around here.

I flip back in my English section for my favorite E. E. Cummings poem. I pick out the best parts and write them down.