Ten Things I Hate About Me by Randa Abdel-Fattah

[email protected]
    In June at a reception place in Bellavista. Why do you ask?
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    I’ve got a formal coming up too.
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    So then you can understand how desperate my situation is.
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Try and reason with your dad. He let you get a job at McDonald’s. I’m sure he’ll back down when he realizes how important this is to you.
    But if he does say no, don’t stress. It’s just a formal. It’s no big deal. People get dressed up and gossip to each other about who’s wearing what and who looks hot and who doesn’t.
    I’m sure you can think of a more stimulating way to spend an evening.
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    I will die of a broken heart if he says no.

19
    CHALLENGE PETER TO a dare and he’s up for it faster than a dog to a bone. I’ve figured it out. He’s a bigot and a bully but he’s popular because he provides entertainment value. In a nine-to-three world of algebra, chlorophyll, and text comprehension, watching Peter put a fart bomb on a teacher’s chair or releasing a mouse in homeroom is like getting free tickets to a movie.
    This morning I overhear him talking to Sam and Chris. Chris says: “I dare you,” and Peter answers: “Simple, man.”
    Later I’m walking in the hall when I notice Peter through the window of a classroom door. I stick my nose up close to the window and peer inside for a closer look. In one hand is a tube of superglue. In the other is a white-board eraser. He catches my gaze and winks. I’m caught off guard and give him a goofy grin.
    I turn around and bump into Mr. Anderson, who’s on hallpatrol. If I walk away, Peter will be caught. If I divert Mr. Anderson’s attention, Peter just might get away with it.
    I’m no snitch. Trying not to look like I have something to hide, I plant myself in front of Mr. Anderson and flash him a huge grin.
    “Hi, sir! How’s it going?”
    I shouldn’t be lurking in the halls during lunch.
    My conversational skills go into fourth gear. He falls for the “I’m a student interested in my teacher’s life” routine and we walk down the hall in deep conversation about his Rottweiler’s eating habits.
    After lunch we all file into class. Peter takes a seat in the back row, swings on his chair, and laughs conspiratorially with Sam and Chris. Fifteen minutes into class Peter raises his hand and asks Mr. Anderson to write out the explanation of an algebraic equation on the board. Mr. Anderson gets busy on the whiteboard.
    It happens halfway between an explanation of why ax 2 + bx + c = 0. Mr. Anderson grabs the duster and wipes the letter a from the board. That small act lands him in trouble.
    He quickly realizes that his hand is now partially stuck to a whiteboard eraser. He turns around and I estimate that it takes him a mere 2.5 seconds to put two and two together. He is, after all, proficient in algebra.
    “Jamie!” It’s less than a roar, more than a yell.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Am I to believe that it is sheer coincidence that my hand is stuck to this eraser and you were lurking around this classroom door at lunchtime today looking, now that I think about it, suspiciously guilty?”
    “Yes, sir,” I mumble. Everybody’s eyes are on me.
    “Unfortunately for you, I’m not that gullible.”
    “But I didn’t do anything, sir.” I don’t dare to steal a glance at Peter—that’d be a dead giveaway. Instead I naively wait for him to speak up.
    Mr. Anderson scans the classroom. “Is there anybody who knows anything about this?” he demands, his face red with rage.
    Blank, silent faces and not a peep from Peter.
    “Jamie, I’m disappointed in you. This is a very low act.”
    “I didn’t