Trading Faces (16 page)

“Ooooh, Ox.” The boys next to me started making kissing sounds. “You're so sweet.”

Sydney rolled her eyes and stood up.

“Puh-lease, he's a big strong guy,” Sydney said.

“Yea! Oxes are big and strong,” Cashmere added.

“Oxen,” Ox and I said at the same time.

“What?”

“The plural of ‘ox' is oxen,” I explained. “Not ‘oxes.' ”

“Whatever,” Cashmere said, looking annoyed.

“No, she's right,” Ox said. “Oxen.”

Holy moley. He was looking right at me. Our eyes
held for a few seconds. He had big brown eyes with long lashes. I looked away.

I blushed.

“Payton, I have the best idea! In gym we can trade sneakers,” Sydney said. “Don't you guys think those CocoBella sneakers are so me?”

“
So
you,” I agreed. And so not me. They were starting to pinch my feet. Another difference between me and Payton: two shoe sizes.

The boys left, apparently not fascinated by the sneaker-swapping discussion. Soon after, lunch ended and we took off. We emptied our garbage and passed by the Gecko jacket area.

“Hi, guys!” Sydney said to their table. A couple of the cheerleaders looked up.

“Oh, hi, Cindy,” said one of them.

Sydney kept her grin on, and we walked out of the cafeteria.

“You spent so much time practicing with them this summer, you'd think they'd remember your name, Sydney,” Cashmere said.

“Whatevs,” Sydney said. “No biggie. No big deal. Nope, not a big deal at all.”

I glanced at her. She was gritting her teeth in a frozen
smile. Obviously, it was bothering her. Interesting.

“Seriously,” Cashmere said, “just because you didn't make the squad doesn't mean they have to act like that . . .”

“I said shut it, Cashmere,” Sydney said, her smile fading. But she flashed it back on, full wattage, when a nice-looking boy walked by.

“Hi, Tyson,” she said.

“Hey, Sydney,” the boy said, nodding back.

“He's in eighth grade,” Sydney informed me. And we all split up to go to sixth period. I had plenty of time to go to the lockers before English class.

Payton's locker opened. I peered into the monstrosity. The lights blinked; the fluffy decorations made my eyes blurry. I pushed back the books and notebooks that were falling out and took a look in the mirror, as I'd promised Payton I would.

Teeth? Check. Hair? Good. It was so weird to look in the mirror at myself and see my sister. I saw the
P
from her bracelet reflecting in the mirror.

I was about to shut the locker, when I saw a boy's face in the mirror.

Ox!

I turned around, and there he was.

Ox!

Oh! Um! Oh!

My mind went blank. What do I do? What do I say? It's Ox! All I could think about was a bizarre flashback to the
Animal Encyclopedia for Kids
I'd read when I was little. I pictured an ox in the
O
section.

“So! Did you know that oxen are really just huge, trained cattle?” I said.

Okay, I can't believe I just said that
. Even I knew that was dorky. And definitely something Payton would never ever have said.

He just looked at me.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

Maybe he was smarter than his name suggested. Maybe he wasn't. But I didn't care! With that wavy brown hair and great smile, who needed brains?!

Did I just think that?!

“Actually, they're also intelligent and hardworking,” Ox said. “But in poor countries they're treated pretty badly.”

“They are?” I asked. “How do you know that?”

“I wrote a report on them in third grade,” he said. “It got me pretty mad to read about how they were treated. I ended up making everyone donate their allowances to this ox foundation. I know, it sounds pretty goofy.”

“Actually, it sounds nice,” I said.

“Well, anyway, that's how I got my nickname,” Ox said.

Wow. I'd assumed it was because he played the sport where guys smashed into each other like big, dumb animals.

“Yo, Ox!” some guy yelled. “Coach wants to see us. Something about practice.”

“Dude,” Ox said to him. And then he turned to me. “Later.”

That was . . . interesting. I shut Payton's locker, but not before getting swopped in the face by her hanging beads.

I felt a little woozy, but whether it was from the beads or from the exchange with Ox, I wasn't sure.

Um.
Get a grip, Emma. Get a grip
.

I took a deep breath and headed to Payton's English class.

MONDAY, NINTH PERIOD

Calculator! Did I forget my calculator?

I opened Emma's backpack. If I was going to sit through Emma's math class, I'd better have a calculator on standby. Ouch! I just got stabbed by a sharp something. What the heck . . . ?

I pulled out a pencil. It was the sharpest pencil ever. That shouldn't have surprised me. Sometimes I'd be sleeping and I'd hear this
wzzzzt, wzzzzt
noise. It was Emma, up at like midnight, sharpening her pencils.

But I wasn't used to getting stabbed by them. I carefully reached in and found the calculator. Okay, I was ready for last period.

My day had gone pretty well. I had handed out the notes explaining I had otolaryngitisomething. In each class I sat in my seat, turned on the tape recorder, and shut up. I had no clue what was going on in her classes. I wished we had written that I also had a sleeping sickness. I had a seriously hard time trying to stay awake, and then I could have put my head down on my desk.

Emma had instructed me to stay away from the lunchroom, which would be my greatest chance of being discovered. She'd told me how to get an honors pass for the library instead. It meant choking down a granola bar behind the librarian's back, but it was worth it not to have to try to be Emma at lunch.

Choir was easy too, with my “illness.” Emma told me she always mouthed the words anyway. Have I mentioned that Emma can't sing? It's painful.

So, eight periods down and one to go. Math.

Math would definitely be my hardest class of the day. I mean, could you stay awake with a bunch of math brainiacs going “One gajillion squared divided by thirty-seven equals blah blah blah?”

I wasn't sure I'd be able to either.

I walked into math class. I checked my notes for the
teacher's name: Mr. Cuyler. How did you pronounce that? Oh, well, it didn't matter; I wouldn't be speaking.

“Hi!” I said to a girl I recognized from Choir. I said it kind of hoarsely, the way I imagined someone with otolaryngitis would talk. I'd been talking like this all day. At first it was kind of fun, like I was an actress playing the role of someone with a terrible illness that had stolen her voice. But now, by the end of the day, it was just making my throat sore.

The girl gave me a weird look. Huh. I thought she was that girl who'd stood next to me in Emma's choir class, but maybe I'd mixed her up with someone else. Maybe she had an identical twin too.

I found Emma's seat and sat down. I recognized the guy behind me from Emma's homeroom that morning.

“Hey,” I turned around and said to the guy.

He didn't hear me.

“HEY,” I said louder.

“Yes?” he looked up, expectantly.

“Just saying hi,” I said.

“You are?” he asked. “Why?”

“Um, to be friendly?” I said.

“Okay,” he shrugged. “That's a first.”

“I've never said hi to you before?” I asked him. Uh-oh. Maybe Emma didn't like him. Maybe he was a mean person.

“No offense, but you haven't talked to me since the first homeroom,” he said. “In fact I've never seen you say hi to anyone.”

Really? Emma never said hi to anyone? Maybe that's why people were giving me weird looks when I said hi to them! That explained a lot! Except that that didn't seem very friendly of Emma.

Aha! This was my chance! I could improve Emma's reputation! I could spend the rest of the day—okay, all one hour of it—saying hi to people! Then people would know Emma really was a nice person!

“I've had this case of otolaryngitis,” I explained to him. “So it's hard for me to say hi sometimes.”

I coughed dramatically to prove the point.

“You talk a lot when teachers call on you,” he said, looking confused.

Oh. That.

“Uh. It comes and goes,” I said. “And um, I have to save my voice for class and—”

Oh, just forget it. I give up.

“Whatever! Boring topic!” I smiled brightly, trying
to change the subject. “What do you think of the math teacher?”

“I think you'd better turn around,” he whispered. “Because he's here.”

Oops. I turned around as Mr. Cuyler came in. Everyone quieted down and started to focus their math-genius minds on what the teacher was saying.

Except me. I opened up my books and turned on Emma's mini-recorder.
La la la
. Forty-five minutes to kill. I leaned back in my seat. I had to admit, if I didn't look down at what I was wearing and see the hideousness, Emma's sweats were an extremely comfortable way to lounge through the school day.

La la la. Doo dee doo
.

Ouch! The guy behind me kicked me. Okay, maybe that's why Emma never said hi to him, because he kicked her. I turned around to shoot him a dirty look.

“You're being called on,” he whispered at me.

Oh! I tuned back in to the teacher.

“MILLS! Emma Mills, are you with us today?” the teacher was saying.

People were giggling.

“Yes!” I said. “Yes, I am!”

Okay, no teachers were supposed to call on me! I had the excuse note and—

Oh, dang it. The teacher had come in late, and I'd totally forgotten to give him the otolaryngitis note.

“Then kindly share the answer to question twelve,” he said.

I coughed dramatically.

“Sorry!” I rasped. “I can't speak today. I have a throat illness.”

“Then why don't you come up to the chalkboard and demonstrate in writing,” the teacher said. “Question 12.”

Uh. Oh.

I was supposed to lay low! Lay low! This was not good. I couldn't ruin Emma's reputation. She would not be happy.

“Ms. Mills!” the teacher said. “To the front.”

I picked up the textbook, pushed my chair back, and made my way to the front of the class. The teacher handed me a piece of chalk. This couldn't be good.

I stood there doing nothing except looking around wildly for rescue. But all I saw was Jazmine James, sitting in the front row with a big smirk on her face. The guy and girl sitting next to her were cracking up at me. I stalled for time by copying the problem very slowly on the board.

And then I heard Jazmine James say something under her breath: “Isn't this supposed to be the
smart
class?”

Okay, that was just plain mean. I was used to not knowing the answer, but not to people being so mean about it.

I looked at Jazmine, sitting there all smug. Errgh.

“You may not have heard what Jazmine said, so I'll repeat it,” I said to the class, my voice wavering a little. “She said, ‘Isn't this supposed to be the smart class?' ”

I ignored Jazmine's glare and kept going.

“Yes, Jazmine James,” I said, looking right at her. “We
are
in the smart class, and it's way awkward that I'm standing up here without an answer. But come on, guys, haven't you ever had that moment when you're stuck feeling stupid because you don't know an answer?”

Everyone looked at me blankly. Okay, maybe since they were geniuses they always knew the answer. The teacher even looked confused.

“Okay, then.” I kept trying. “Haven't you ever felt stupid when you . . . um . . . walked into a party or . . . or . . . went to a new after-school competition club and didn't know what to do? And felt like everyone was staring at you and you were hoping nobody was laughing at you?”

I noticed the girl sitting next to Jazmine James
nodding. And then a couple more heads were nodding. I glanced at the teacher, who didn't seem to be planning to stop me, so I kept going.

“And haven't you ever wished someone would just help you out of that awkward situation?” I said louder.

More nodding heads. Oh, yeah! I was on a roll, baby!

“But instead of help, what Jazmine James offered was a put-down! A put-down, so everyone would stare and laugh! It's all of our worst nightmares come true, isn't it? Now, Jazmine, was there any need to be hurtful to a fellow classmate in her time of need?”

“No!” someone called out.

“So let me be the first to say, HELP! I don't know this answer—but it's okay!
I
am going to ask for help! Jazmine James, will you please help me with this math problem? Please do not insult me! Please help me, your classmate, in my time of need!”