in the same way that large quantities of water appealed to the Wicked Witch of the West—but he doesn’t want to walk away, because that would mean losing sight of Cara and the Stringbinis.
He follows her to the yellow bench outside the Enchilada Encantada, the Mexican restaurant, and answers her questions distractedly—about his study habits, and who was his most influential teacher, and what extracurricular activities he’s involved in. Hearing that he, um, doesn’t do any extracurricular activities, she rests her leather-bound pad on her lap and lectures him. “That’s really not smart, you know. Even with grades like yours, colleges want to see that you’re, quote, well-rounded, unquote. Every body does something. You’re not abnormal, are you? Just kidding. I mean, I don’t love tutoring dumb, lazy freshmen, but I do it—and working on the newspaper, you wouldn’t believe how much crap I have to do, pardon the expression.”
Though depressed and a hundred feet away in spirit, Karl can’t resist: “You do a lot of crap on the newspaper?”
“I know, you think I’m just a trained dog, doing what I’m supposed to do, when and where I’m supposed to do it. But not everyone has your grades. The rest of us have to find any way we can to shine.”
Despite her announced ambition to become a New York Times reporter, Samantha talks much more than she listens. When Karl (not wanting to sound like a walking computer in her article) tells about the projects he works on in the garage, like the thermosensitive shingles, she says, “So you’re the next Thomas Edison, tinkering in your basement laboratory, pouring chemicals into beakers?”
“No. In the garage. Without beakers.”
“But you’re planning to go into chemistry, right?”
“Not exactly. I don’t really know what I want to do.”
“Too bad. I do. I want to interview foreign heads of state, and get them to reveal their secret plans. My strategy is, the pretty face will put them off guard. While they try to impress innocent little me, I’ll be digging for classified information.”
She does have a pretty face, sort of—angular, sharp-featured, with elegantly elongated eyes—but it’s weird to hear someone call herself pretty, and she uses way too much makeup and hair spray, and also she’s so oblivious to him, even as she asks him questions, that the main impression she gives is of someone born with a defective social-interaction gene.
“I guess I’ll go home now,” he says.
“That’s rude. I’m not as interesting as your beakers?”
“I’m just tired.”
“What if I told you I’m working on a top secret exposé? Can you keep this . . .” She lifts a nonexistent hat and pantomimes putting something under it.
“Excuse me?”
“ Under your hat. Are you slow?”
“What are you talking about?”
She peers around, left and right—a hokey gesture that he’s never seen an actual person perform. “Mr. Klimchock told me not to tell anyone, but I can trust you. I’m trying to catch the cheaters, at school, so I can expose them.”
Normally fair-complexioned, Karl feels himself growing paler. “Hm,” he says, and then adds, “hm.”
“The big question is, Who’s Doing It? So far I haven’t caught anyone, but I’m on the case.”
“That’s really interesting. But, I’m sorry, I was up late last night, I have to go.”
“Not so fast. Just answer a simple question: have you heard anything?”
“No. I really don’t know a thing.”
Across the street, his old friends are executing the Quick Pick-Me-Up of Death. Lizette crouches, and Jonah and Matt each put a foot on one of her hands, and then she stands fast and flips them up and away, so that they fly, flailing, up and onto the grass. (No, she doesn’t have the strength of Hercules. The trick is to perform the move quickly, before the audience, if there is one, notices the boys springing up with their knees.)
“Hey!” his three friends
He follows her to the yellow bench outside the Enchilada Encantada, the Mexican restaurant, and answers her questions distractedly—about his study habits, and who was his most influential teacher, and what extracurricular activities he’s involved in. Hearing that he, um, doesn’t do any extracurricular activities, she rests her leather-bound pad on her lap and lectures him. “That’s really not smart, you know. Even with grades like yours, colleges want to see that you’re, quote, well-rounded, unquote. Every body does something. You’re not abnormal, are you? Just kidding. I mean, I don’t love tutoring dumb, lazy freshmen, but I do it—and working on the newspaper, you wouldn’t believe how much crap I have to do, pardon the expression.”
Though depressed and a hundred feet away in spirit, Karl can’t resist: “You do a lot of crap on the newspaper?”
“I know, you think I’m just a trained dog, doing what I’m supposed to do, when and where I’m supposed to do it. But not everyone has your grades. The rest of us have to find any way we can to shine.”
Despite her announced ambition to become a New York Times reporter, Samantha talks much more than she listens. When Karl (not wanting to sound like a walking computer in her article) tells about the projects he works on in the garage, like the thermosensitive shingles, she says, “So you’re the next Thomas Edison, tinkering in your basement laboratory, pouring chemicals into beakers?”
“No. In the garage. Without beakers.”
“But you’re planning to go into chemistry, right?”
“Not exactly. I don’t really know what I want to do.”
“Too bad. I do. I want to interview foreign heads of state, and get them to reveal their secret plans. My strategy is, the pretty face will put them off guard. While they try to impress innocent little me, I’ll be digging for classified information.”
She does have a pretty face, sort of—angular, sharp-featured, with elegantly elongated eyes—but it’s weird to hear someone call herself pretty, and she uses way too much makeup and hair spray, and also she’s so oblivious to him, even as she asks him questions, that the main impression she gives is of someone born with a defective social-interaction gene.
“I guess I’ll go home now,” he says.
“That’s rude. I’m not as interesting as your beakers?”
“I’m just tired.”
“What if I told you I’m working on a top secret exposé? Can you keep this . . .” She lifts a nonexistent hat and pantomimes putting something under it.
“Excuse me?”
“ Under your hat. Are you slow?”
“What are you talking about?”
She peers around, left and right—a hokey gesture that he’s never seen an actual person perform. “Mr. Klimchock told me not to tell anyone, but I can trust you. I’m trying to catch the cheaters, at school, so I can expose them.”
Normally fair-complexioned, Karl feels himself growing paler. “Hm,” he says, and then adds, “hm.”
“The big question is, Who’s Doing It? So far I haven’t caught anyone, but I’m on the case.”
“That’s really interesting. But, I’m sorry, I was up late last night, I have to go.”
“Not so fast. Just answer a simple question: have you heard anything?”
“No. I really don’t know a thing.”
Across the street, his old friends are executing the Quick Pick-Me-Up of Death. Lizette crouches, and Jonah and Matt each put a foot on one of her hands, and then she stands fast and flips them up and away, so that they fly, flailing, up and onto the grass. (No, she doesn’t have the strength of Hercules. The trick is to perform the move quickly, before the audience, if there is one, notices the boys springing up with their knees.)
“Hey!” his three friends
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