Ten Things I Hate About Me by Randa Abdel-Fattah Page A

do it, sir!”
    “If you didn’t do it, then you most certainly know something about it. If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”
    I hate it when teachers push you into a corner like this. To snitch on Peter would make the rest of my high school life a tormented one. I may as well skin myself alive and jump in a bath full of salt. The consequences would be less painful.
    I stay silent, defiant. Mr. Anderson stares at me. I know he knows I didn’t do it. I’m the quiet girl. I’ve never rocked the boat in class. I’m not the type who would pull off something like this. But in Mr. Anderson’s world, refusing to expose the perpetrator is equal to committing the act.
    I’m screwed.
    “Very well, Jamie. It’s your call. I’m going to go to the nurse’s office to remove this thing from my hand. I’ll see you in after-school detention all week.”
    A voice sounds from across the room. “You don’t have any proof, sir.”
    “ Excuse me, Timothy?”
    “You’re being unfair. You don’t have any proof that Jamie did it.”
    I stare at Timothy in shock.
    “This is none of your business!” Mr. Anderson cries. “Jamie was outside this classroom door at lunchtime and I doubt it was because she was admiring the woodwork on the frames.”
    “Yeah, but that doesn’t prove a thing.”
    “That’s right, sir,” I say. “I was just passing through the hall.”
    “Absurd,” he says. “You were glued to the door.” There is an eruption of giggles.
    “This is NOT a laughing matter!”
    “It’s just that you used the word glued, sir,” Timothy says.
    “RIGHT! I’ll see you in detention after school today too, Timothy.”
    Timothy shrugs. “Fine.”
    “I will not have cocky students in my classroom! Open chapter five and complete the entire exercise. Anybody whohasn’t finished by the time I return will join Jamie and Timothy this afternoon!”
    He turns on his heels and leaves, slamming the door behind him.
    “Did you do it?”
    “Was it you?”
    “It was so cool!”
    “It wasn’t me,” I tell the class.
    “So do you know who did it?”
    “Nah, I don’t.”
    There are murmurs about my punishment being a travesty of justice and Mr. Anderson being an ogre. I look at Peter and he has the audacity to smile and wink at me.
    “Thanks for defending me,” I say to Timothy.
    “No prob. You shouldn’t have to take the rap for something you didn’t do.”
    I could swear that he glances at Peter when he says this. Peter doesn’t notice. He’s too busy laughing victoriously with Chris and Sam.
    Peter approaches me after class. “Hey, thanks for not turning me in! You’re a champ. You know what? You’re a cool chick. A really cool chick.”
    Am I supposed to feel all warm and fuzzy now? The whole situation stinks like garden fertilizer.
    Detention is being held in the science lab. That’s just an overexcited description for a detached portable classroom plantedin the middle of a slab of asphalt next to the staff parking lot. It’s hard to see how the classroom could be classified as a laboratory. It basically consists of desks, chairs, a whiteboard, a sink, and three gas mains. I hate it when detention is held here because the classroom has no views of the fields and is fairly secluded. You can’t while your time away staring at the guys playing soccer or basketball. The only thing worthy of entertainment (and this is getting desperate) is counting the colors of the teachers’ cars and trying to work out a statistical equation to explain the dominance of red Ford Falcons.
    There are a couple of kids from other classes who are also in trouble for various things: clogging the toilets with tissues, graffiti, getting into a fight at the school store.
    The librarian, Mrs. Baxter, is supervising today since Mr. Anderson is busy. Now that’s power. Punish us with detention but get another teacher to endure the two hours on your behalf. If Mr. Anderson was on duty, we wouldn’t be allowed to blow our noses