We could, while munching on nachos, even get some actual work done.
Possibly.
1. How’s them apples, hmm? By which I mean: Are you impressed by my impressive2 vocabulary?
2. Yikes. “Impressed” and “impressive” in the same sentence—now that is not impressive.3
3. I see that I also used “mean” three times in the same sentence, when I was bragging about my nachos. I then used it a 4th time in my first footnote,4 and a 5th time in this here footnote. Altogether unimpressive!
4. But do I get bonus points5 for using footnotes in the first place?
5. Better: bonus kisses?6 Especially for using footnotes within footnotes …
6. Here’s hoping.
Enjoy your morning, sweet M. I’ll catch you at lunch.
—John
Yaz sighs. She’s made it all the way to the end of the back-and-forth without fainting or hyperventilating once. Which is good!
She, on the other hand, is bad. A bad girl. A snoop and a Nosy Nelly and a sneaky little fifth grader whose teachers trusted her, and whose trust she betrayed.
She refolds the note, careful to stay on the pre-creased lines. She pushes herself to her feet, smooths her hijab, and brushes off her jeans.
And now go back to class, she tells herself. Go back to class and give Ms. Perez the note and pretend like nothing has changed.
She’ll have to use her best acting skills, of course, because everything has changed, and not just the way she sees her teachers. The way she sees herself has changed, too, and she senses there’s no going back.
She had no idea that being bad could feel so ridiculously delicious.
dinner?” Max says, catching Milla alone by the pencil sharpener. It wasn’t hard, being caught. Milla knows that the pencil sharpener is one of Max’s favorite places, so Milla went there hoping Max would catch her. Because she has good news! She did ask her Mom Abigail about going to the Olive Garden, and Mom Abigail said yes!!!
Only now, with Max less than a foot away from her, she finds herself unable to make her throat work.
“Milla?” Max says.
She smiles anxiously. She ducks her head, then peers up at him from under her eyelashes.
“Oh, crud,” Max says, thonking his head. “Did you ask your moms, I mean. Plural. Both of them. I, uh, wasn’t suggesting you only have one, because I know you don’t. I totally know that you have two moms, which is totally cool.”
Milla waves away his words. She’s not offended when people say “mom” instead of “moms,” unless the person who says it is trying to offend her. And Max isn’t, because Max never would. He’s not that sort of boy. He’s the sort of boy who is adorkable and sweet in his usual uniform of jeans paired with a shirt from his favorite website, Think Geek. Today’s shirt says, I AM NOT IGNORING YOU. YOUR COMMENT IS AWAITING MODERATION.
Except Max looks as if he’s the one whose comment is awaiting moderation. Which it is, technically. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and Milla realizes that by making him wait, she’s making him feel anxious.
“Yes,” she forces herself to say, and once the word is out, phew. All the scared feelings whoosh out of her.
“Yes, you asked your moms?” Max says. “Or yes, they said yes?”
“Both,” Milla says happily. “I asked my Mom Abigail, and she said sure, and that she’s looking forward to getting to know your mom better. She says it’ll be fun.”
“It will be,” Max says. “So, would tomorrow night work? The Olive Garden has unlimited breadsticks, you know.”
Milla giggles.
“What’s so funny?” someone says grouchily, and Milla does a double take. It’s Katie-Rose. The real Katie-Rose, suddenly standing right here beside them even though she’s not even in Mr. Emerson’s class.
“Why are you here?” Milla asks. And how much did you hear? When Max and I were talking … how much did you overhear???
“Geez-o-criminy,” Katie-Rose says. “Bite my head off, why don’t you?”
“I just … I didn’t …” Milla exhales and tries again. “Are you running errands for Ms. Perez now?”
“No.”
“Then …?”
“I had to escape,” Katie-Rose says. “Somebody in my class was being a jerk. Somebody named Preston.” She gives Max a dark look, as if it’s Max’s fault, whatever Preston did.
Milla steps closer to him. To Katie-Rose, she says, “Well, does Ms. Perez know you’re here?”
Katie-Rose shrugs.
“So you’re just randomly roaming the building.”
“I could be in the bathroom,” Katie-Rose says.
“But you’re not, and now it’s time to go bye-bye,” Milla tells her friend, taking Katie-Rose’s shoulders and steering her toward the door.
Katie-Rose twists easily out of Milla’s grasp.
Milla sighs. She tries a new tactic, pointing toward Violet’s desk. “Look, there’s Violet. Why don’t you go say hi to Violet?”
Katie-Rose scowls. “Violet is busy, that’s why.”
Milla draws her thumbnail to her mouth. The new girl, Hayley, has scooted her chair over next to Violet’s, and they’re sharing Violet’s desk. Milla’s not sure how she feels about their new coziness, actually, but right now she’s got other, more pressing concerns on her mind. Anyway, Violet and Hayley aren’t doing anything wrong. They’re working on their “Where I’m From” poems. Milla should be doing the same, as should Max. It is school, after all.
And Katie-Rose should go away.
“Mr. Emerson?” Milla says. “How much longer do we have to work on our poems?”
Katie-Rose makes an indignant sound and stomps on Milla’s toe. Milla doesn’t even care, almost.
Mr. Emerson lifts his head. “Oh, about ten minutes. How’s that sound?”
“Okay, thanks,” Milla says. Look who is next to me, she adds telepathically. Look, look, look.
“Excuse me … Katie-Rose?” Mr. Emerson says. “Can I help you?”
Katie-Rose plays dumb. “No, I’m good.” She plasters on a fake smile. “Um … hi!”
Mr. Emerson gets up from his desk and heads toward them.
“Geez-o-criminy,” Katie-Rose mutters. “Thanks a lot, Milla.”
“What?” Milla says. “And why do you keep saying that? ‘Geez-o-criminy’?”
“Because Sam said it this morning, and it’s funny. Because I want to, okay? And for the record, it’s copyrighted, and you can’t use it, not even with Max.” She lifts her eyebrows. “Especially with Max.”
This makes Milla blush, which is unfair because she is not the one who randomly showed up and butted her way into a perfectly nice pencil-sharpener conversation.
“All right, Katie-Rose, the door’s that way,” Mr. Emerson says, gesturing at the door. “Off you go.”
Katie-Rose storms off without a good-bye. Max blows out a big breath.
“Girls are so confusing,” he says, and the way he says it—totally bewildered, totally lost—makes Mr. Emerson laugh.
“You got that right, buddy,” he says. He winks at Milla, who’s glad that Katie-Rose is gone, but who also feels guilty for her role in making it happen. “But sometimes they’re pretty cool, too.”
point of being not just friendly, but extra friendly, and Violet thinks that’s really cool, especially since Hayley is the new girl. She could just sit quietly and say nothing, and no one would think less of her.
Instead, Hayley chats and smiles and pushes her bag of jalapeño-cheddar potato chips to the center of the table, labeling them “up for grabs” for anyone who wants any. Not only that, but she makes an effort to connect with Milla and Yasaman and even Katie-Rose, who’s acting even more prickly than normal today.
And since Violet and Hayley have already connected (sort of, anyway), Violet is content to sit back and enjoy.
Hayley compliments Milla on her snazzy reusable lunch bag. “Kinda puts mine to shame, doesn’t it?” she says, lifting the co
rner of the bag her food was in. It’s not even a brown-paper lunch sack. It’s just a plastic bag from the grocery store, the kind Violet’s elderly neighbors use as “pooper scooper” bags for their Schnauzer.
“I wish my uncle would buy me a cute lunch bag,” Hayley goes on. “But yeah, right. Like that’s ever going to happen.” She indicates Milla’s tote. “Yours is fancy, isn’t it? Not just cute, but fancy fancy. Expensive fancy. Like the Prada of lunch bags or something.”
Milla can’t decide whether to be pleased or embarrassed, Violet can tell.
“It’s Dooney and Bourke,” Violet supplies, surprising herself. She’s not big on labels, mostly because her mom hates labels and brand names and the snottiness that so often accompanies them. Milla is the opposite of snotty, though. She has super-nice stuff, but she never brags about it.
“Sweet,” Hayley says. She takes a bite of her sandwich, which from the looks of it is bologna on white bread and nothing more. The circle-shaped slice of bologna sticks out beyond the straight line of the bread’s pale crust. It reminds Violet of her days in Atlanta, where people actually ate bologna and thought it was just as normal as turkey or ham. Here, in Thousand Oaks, California, Violet doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone eat bologna.
“Um, you could tell your uncle it would be good for the environment,” Milla says. “If you got an insulated lunch tote, I mean. Because you’d use it every day, and so you wouldn’t, you know, be adding plastic to the landfill.”
Hayley laughs. “Is that what it’s called? An ‘insulated lunch tote’?” Milla’s cheeks pinken, and Hayley adds, “No, no, that’s awesome. It’s just, no one at Stanton Heights brought their lunches to school in insulated lunch totes.”
“Oh,” Milla says. She blinks, and Violet suspects she knows why. When everyone first sat down, Hayley shared bits and pieces of how she landed here at Rivendell, and Milla is probably still wrapping her head around the fact that Hayley came to Rivendell, which is a private school, from one of Southern California’s roughest public schools.
“Anyway, my uncle could give a rat’s heiney about the environment,” Hayley says. Violet isn’t sure how to interpret the way Hayley says “environment,” drawing it out in a mocking fashion. It could be that Hayley is making fun of her uncle, or it could be that she, Hayley, doesn’t give a rat’s heiney about the environment, either.
“A rat’s heiney,” Katie-Rose repeats. She says it in a moody way. “Ha. I’m going to use that expression. I’m going to use that expression on a very specific person who happens to be a very annoying boy. Awesome.”
“Does that mean you’ll stop saying ‘geez-o-criminy’?” Milla asks.
“No. Geez-o-criminy. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to.”
Hayley grins. “‘Geez-o-criminy.’ I like it. It’ll drive my uncle nuts.”
Milla lifts a spoonful of yogurt to her mouth as if she’s at a tea party. Her tone, when she speaks, is bland. “Hayley, you have to ask Katie-Rose’s permission to use ‘geez-o-criminy,’ because apparently, geez-o-criminy is under copyright protection.”
Katie-Rose shoots Milla a hurt look. Violet, too, is confused. First Milla got Katie-Rose kicked out of Mr. Emerson’s class, and now she’s rubbing salt into the wound by bringing up the very thing that led to Katie-Rose getting kicked out?
“It’s copyrighted?” Hayley says.
Irritation flashes across Milla’s face, only to be immediatly erased. “According to Katie-Rose, yes. According to Katie-Rose, she is the only person allowed to say it, which means that you, Hayley, would be penalized for copyright infringement.”
“Omigod, you’re so full of it,” Hayley says to Milla.
Milla ducks her head. Violet can’t be sure, but she seems ashamed.
Hayley turns to Katie-Rose. “That’s funny, copyright protection. But she’s kidding, right? You don’t honestly think you can copyright an expression?”
“I …,” Katie-Rose says. “I …”
“Omigod, you do!” Hayley crows, and she leans across the table and holds up her hand to give Katie-Rose a high five. Katie-Rose wrinkles her forehead, but tentatively touches her palm to Hayley’s.
“Dude, you’re hysterical,” Hayley says to her. “Copyright infringement, omigod. You know what you should copyright is that, the right to copyright your expressions! You could make a killing!”
Katie-Rose’s smile, which was wobbly for a second, firms up. “Well, first of all, I am hysterical. I agree.” She makes a face at Milla, who pretends she can’t be bothered by it. “And second of all, if I’m the one who comes up with a particular expression, then I should get to say who can use it or not. So thank you, Hayley, and I applaud your good taste. And as a reward, yes, you can use ‘geez-o-criminy.’”
Hayley dips her head. “Why, thank you.”
Milla clears her throat.
“Yes?” Katie-Rose says.
“Just to clarify … and Katie-Rose, thank you so much for sharing all this excellent knowledge … but ‘geez-o-criminy’ is an expression you came up with, right?” Milla asks.
Katie-Rose narrows her eyes. “That’s private information. Classified. And speaking of classified information, Milla, is this really the time to spill people’s secrets? Do we—and by we, I mean you—really want to go there?”
“I do,” Hayley says. She scans the faces of the flower friends. “I love secrets. Katie-Rose, do you have a secret?”
Katie-Rose playacts a scarily innocent smile. “No, no secrets for me.”
“Milla?” Hayley says, focusing on the next most likely candidate.
Milla is bright red. “No.”
“Everyone has secrets,” Yasaman says, and Violet realizes that this is the first remark Yaz has made during all of lunch.
“Well, let’s hear them!” Hayley exclaims.
Violet doesn’t know what Yaz is referring to. What does she mean, “everyone has secrets”? Does Yaz have a secret?
For a moment, possibilities seem to flicker over Yaz’s expression. For a moment, it seems as if Yaz has something to share. Then the moment passes, and she says, “If we told our secrets, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore.”
Hayley’s shoulders slump. “Oh, poo. But fine. What should we talk about instead, then?”
The flower friends are silent. Violet wonders if the lunch is going as well as she thought it was after all. To fix things, she picks the most harmless topic she can think of, harmless and yet fun.
“Candy,” she says. “Everyone go around and say your favorite candy bar.”
“Candy!” Katie-Rose says, brightening up. “I love candy. What if my favorite kind of candy isn’t a candy bar, though?”
“That’s fine,” Violet says, and off Katie-Rose goes, launching into a monologue comparing Junior Mints to Mike and Ike Hot Tamales.
“What about green apple sour loops?” Yaz says. “I thought they were your favorite.”
“Only on Saturdays,” Katie-Rose proclaims, making everyone laugh.
“What?” Katie-Rose says. “On Saturdays, my taste buds are different. Is that a hard concept to understand?”
“Um, yes,” Milla says.
Violet’s chest loosens.
She pops another one of Hayley’s chips into her mouth. It’s spicy and makes her eyes water.
Later, like almost seven hours later, she IMs Katie-Rose. She wants to make sure that what she was feeling was what Katie-Rose was feeling, too. Because Katie-Rose, when it comes to new friends … well, Violet knows that Katie-Rose will be the hardest nut to crack in terms of getting her to let someone new into their circle.
But certain conversations are easier to have in written words instead of spoken words, so she fires up her computer and starts typing:
schoolwork all morning long. All she can think about when she looks at her teacher is the … what-it-is that’s going on between her and Mr. Emerson. It is adorable, but also unnerving! She wants her teachers to be happy (
especially Ms. Perez), and she thinks it would be great if they got married and had kids and—ooo!—named their baby girl Yasaman. They should, after all, given the role Yaz has played in their romance.
But then, on the other hand, the romance aspect of it all freaks her out. It is so real, and grown-up-ish, and involves actual love letters that Yasaman has actually read. She is not sure she is ready to know about a grownup romance. She might even be sure she’s not. Except that it’s exciting, and anyway, it’s too late, because she already does know and there’s no going back.
It makes it difficult to concentrate on her vocabulary quiz. And her multiplication facts and everything.
Hottie-with-a-body, she thinks. Magical evenings. Bonus kisses. Aaagh! Yaz doesn’t know how to put away all of this thrilling-slash-disturbing knowledge she accidentally learned. Except she didn’t “accidentally” learn it at all, did she?
She doesn’t know what to do with that piece of the puzzle, either.
She wasn’t lying yesterday when she said that everyone in the whole wide world has secrets. Just, some secrets are too big to hold in, and Yaz is fairly sure she’ll explode if she has to keep the contents of Ms. Perez and Mr. Emerson’s note to herself for much longer. She wanted to tell her flower friends about the notes, but she felt like she shouldn’t. Like it would be a betrayal of her teachers’ privacy. But maybe Ms. Perez and Mr. Emerson shouldn’t have been passing notes during school, anyway. Did they think of that? And maybe they shouldn’t have asked Yasaman to be their delivery girl, either. Did they think of that???
The bottom line is that yes, Yaz is happy that Mr. Emerson and Ms. Perez—or John and Maria—are, ah, getting along so well. But knowing about their study dates and their nachos, and especially about their kissing (!!!), is waaaaaay more stressful than Yaz could have imagined, so when Ms. Perez releases the class for morning break, Yaz is up and out of her desk like a bullet.