The bluesy sounds of a guitar blare from the speakers, making the air ducts vibrate. We exchange a look when we recognizethe song, “There’s a Place for You and Me,” a slow ballad that’s not exactly cardio.
Ms. Bobrov waves her wristbanded hands at Vicky. “Wait, wait.”
Vicky cuts the music and asks, “Something wrong?”
“This song ees not right.” The teacher snaps her fingers.
“Oh, come on, Ms. B.” Vicky slides her eyes to Kali, who’s gone as still as an oak tree. “Some of us just move to a different beat.”
Vicky jerks her head from side to side, cracking her neck, then pins me with her gaze. “It’s just the warm-up song.”
Melanie says, “Please, Ms. B!” in support of her BFF and then more voices join in. Ms. Bobrov throws up her hands. “Oh, very well. After zis, then we need something more zippy.”
Vicky switches on the music again and the class starts following her lame moves. Kali follows, too, but at half her usual speed. I’m close enough to see that she’s shaking.
The singer belts the chorus:
Just because we both wear heels, don’t mean our love’s not real.
One day, the world will see, there’s a place for you and me.
Kali throws me a dark look then picks her way toward the exit, leaving a queasy trail of frogbit in her wake. She says something toMs. Bobrov, who nods curtly, then disappears out the door.
As Vicky executes the lamest jumping jack in the history of jack jumping, I’m resolved. I can’t stand by while Vicky ruins Kali’s life, one cruel prank at a time. Operation Fix Vicky officially begins.
On the way to algebra, I stop by the brick planters, though this time I’m not looking for aloe. Instead, I reach for a plant with straw-like flowers, otherwise known as sneezeweed, which likes to grow wherever it can find a layer of dirt to stand in. Nasal secretions can substitute for saliva in a pinch.
I pull off my beret and begin crumbling the flowers into my hair. Unlike the rest of the population, I’m immune to sneezeweed allergies.
Vicky is discussing the hotness of the pop star Tyson Badland with Melanie when I enter the classroom with my beret at a jaunty angle. Her gaze stretches toward an exposed pipe in the ceiling as if looking at that surely beats noticing what’s coming through the door. Mr. Frederics is writing an equation in his neat block letters. He pauses midequation, stares up at the clock, and smiles. What’s he thinking about? Or, more important, who?
I shake myself out of my thoughts and focus on the task at hand. Drew’s doodling in his notebook again, this time with a calligraphy pen. He wrote, “‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’—Nietzsche.”
He notices my interest.
“Nice calligraphy,” I say, slipping into my chair. “Carolingian, right?”
His smile pulls his chin into a point. “Yeah, Carolingian. I’m branching out from Gothic. You know calligraphy?”
“Yes. You ever try parchment? It’ll give you cleaner lines.”
His head bobs up and down, and his red-rimmed glasses slip down his nose. “Cool.”
I turn back around, and guilt nags me. Drew’s a good egg. Would I be ruining his life forever by doing this?
No. He likes Vicky. This would be a dream come true for him. This would send his popularity soaring.
But what if he doesn’t want that?
Before I change my mind, I pull off my beret, and shake out my hair. I count two seconds before Drew sneezes right into the back of my dress.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“It’s okay. It’s allergy season.”
After algebra, I use my hand clippers to snip a piece of contaminated fabric off my dress. I tuck the piece into one of the many canvas sacks I brought for the trip to Meyer. Next, I file an excuse with the school secretary. Upperclassmen don’t need notes to come and go for appointments and the like. If I hurry, I can make the 12:20 train. As I push through the heavy door of the office, I pick up a scent that makes my heart jump.
Court is perched against a cement planter surrounding aloquat tree, a few paces away. I consider retreating into the office, but Court already sees me.
