the new girl. I think it's our responsibility to make her feel extra welcome. Does anyone have any ideas?" Ms. Everley asks.
Giggles pepper the room and whispers start to fly like a thousand wings flapping in the breeze. Soon the classroom is abuzz with so much chatter Ms. Everley can't control it.
Kathryn Harris leans toward me. "I heard the new girl got kicked out of her old school," she whispers.
Kenton Studier leans into Kathryn. "I heard her mom is a stripper in Lima."
I picture Lil's mom. A stripper? She wasn't even wearing a booby shirt on Saturday night, and something tells me thongs are strictly forbidden in Lil's household unless they're black and say Up Your Crack. If I was going on appearance alone, Ms. Everley would be the highlight act of the Crazy Horse out on Highway 81—and she's an English teacher.
"I heard she got pregnant and was forced to leave town," Pippa Rogers says, leaning back in her chair and almost falling over.
"Who got pregnant, Lil or her mom?" I ask.
"I don't know," Pippa scoffs, and sit up.
I slouch back in my seat. Everyone hates my mom, but they're wrong .
No one comes up with a way to make Lil feel welcome. Instead, every single person in the classroom gets up and walks out before the meeting is formally adjourned. I stay in my seat, staring at one of the posters I made when I ran for president. For some reason, it's still hanging on the wall.
Vote for Hart. A girl with a heart for Minster High .
"Is everything okay, Marty?" Ms. Everley asks, collecting papers from the desk and shoving them into her black bag.
"I'm fine," I say.
The world's worst word.
CHAPTER 8
As the week passes, words start to fall out of me at weird times, like my internal cup is overflowing and I'm trying to catch everything before it spills on the ground for people to see.
One day after gym class, I feel so overwhelmed to get them down that I scribble everything on the bottom of my tennis shoe. By the time I get home, all that's left are the words sifted , cacophony , and bad ass . I write them down and stuff them in my box anyway. It's getting packed, the crinkled papers stacking up, and I think I might need another one for all my words.
How is it possible that for seventeen years I thought I knew me ? Now an alien has crept to the surface and I can't decide if it's going to eat me alive or help me breathe better. Part of me knows what I'm writing is wrong, that if my parents saw everything I thought they'd be so disappointed. But the other part of me, the part deep down that bubbles and wants to erupt and coat myself over until I'm born into new skin, knows I might explode if I don't.
Some days I even have a hard time looking at my parents, seeing them in all their X and Y glory and knowing that maybe I want something different. I'm scared that if my mom knew all of me, she might not like me. She said once that a person can love someone they don't like.
I didn't particularly like your grandmother, Marty, but I will always love her .
It was weird when she said it because it was at Grandma's funeral and all these people kept telling me I was just like her. I cried that night, thinking my mom might not particularly like me . Is it better to be liked or loved? And what's the difference? Do you tear up the house of a person you like or does every corner remind you of the good times and the thought of ruining those memories makes your heart hurt?
But on other days, I'll see my mom cooking a healthy dinner and I'll know that saying this tastes fantastic, even though it really tastes like feet, will make her feel good. And then my inner voice that wants to scream disappears. On those days, I remind myself that being an X joined with a Y is a good life.
Most afternoons, I find myself hiding in a patch of forest behind our house. My dad calls it "No-Nana Land" because my grandma refused to sell the trees before she died. Someday that wood is going to be worth more than the soil it's rooted in, mark my
Giggles pepper the room and whispers start to fly like a thousand wings flapping in the breeze. Soon the classroom is abuzz with so much chatter Ms. Everley can't control it.
Kathryn Harris leans toward me. "I heard the new girl got kicked out of her old school," she whispers.
Kenton Studier leans into Kathryn. "I heard her mom is a stripper in Lima."
I picture Lil's mom. A stripper? She wasn't even wearing a booby shirt on Saturday night, and something tells me thongs are strictly forbidden in Lil's household unless they're black and say Up Your Crack. If I was going on appearance alone, Ms. Everley would be the highlight act of the Crazy Horse out on Highway 81—and she's an English teacher.
"I heard she got pregnant and was forced to leave town," Pippa Rogers says, leaning back in her chair and almost falling over.
"Who got pregnant, Lil or her mom?" I ask.
"I don't know," Pippa scoffs, and sit up.
I slouch back in my seat. Everyone hates my mom, but they're wrong .
No one comes up with a way to make Lil feel welcome. Instead, every single person in the classroom gets up and walks out before the meeting is formally adjourned. I stay in my seat, staring at one of the posters I made when I ran for president. For some reason, it's still hanging on the wall.
Vote for Hart. A girl with a heart for Minster High .
"Is everything okay, Marty?" Ms. Everley asks, collecting papers from the desk and shoving them into her black bag.
"I'm fine," I say.
The world's worst word.
CHAPTER 8
As the week passes, words start to fall out of me at weird times, like my internal cup is overflowing and I'm trying to catch everything before it spills on the ground for people to see.
One day after gym class, I feel so overwhelmed to get them down that I scribble everything on the bottom of my tennis shoe. By the time I get home, all that's left are the words sifted , cacophony , and bad ass . I write them down and stuff them in my box anyway. It's getting packed, the crinkled papers stacking up, and I think I might need another one for all my words.
How is it possible that for seventeen years I thought I knew me ? Now an alien has crept to the surface and I can't decide if it's going to eat me alive or help me breathe better. Part of me knows what I'm writing is wrong, that if my parents saw everything I thought they'd be so disappointed. But the other part of me, the part deep down that bubbles and wants to erupt and coat myself over until I'm born into new skin, knows I might explode if I don't.
Some days I even have a hard time looking at my parents, seeing them in all their X and Y glory and knowing that maybe I want something different. I'm scared that if my mom knew all of me, she might not like me. She said once that a person can love someone they don't like.
I didn't particularly like your grandmother, Marty, but I will always love her .
It was weird when she said it because it was at Grandma's funeral and all these people kept telling me I was just like her. I cried that night, thinking my mom might not particularly like me . Is it better to be liked or loved? And what's the difference? Do you tear up the house of a person you like or does every corner remind you of the good times and the thought of ruining those memories makes your heart hurt?
But on other days, I'll see my mom cooking a healthy dinner and I'll know that saying this tastes fantastic, even though it really tastes like feet, will make her feel good. And then my inner voice that wants to scream disappears. On those days, I remind myself that being an X joined with a Y is a good life.
Most afternoons, I find myself hiding in a patch of forest behind our house. My dad calls it "No-Nana Land" because my grandma refused to sell the trees before she died. Someday that wood is going to be worth more than the soil it's rooted in, mark my
Similar Books
