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

without first raising our hands and asking for permission. But Mrs. Baxter is on the edge of retiring and isn’t really interested in discipline. Every body’s huddled into groups and talking. She’s told us she has no problem with us talking as long as we keep our voices down and she can comfortably read her book, The Passion of Love.
    I steal a glance at Timothy. He looks bored. His head is low and his chin is touching the table. I’m biting my nails and playing with my bangs.
    Timothy notices me looking at him and I roll my eyes at Mrs. Baxter. He grins at me. Then I lean my chair close to his desk and say: “Thanks again. It was really nice of you to stick up for me.”
    “I was principle-of-the-matter motivated. I’m not in love with you.” His grin is flirty and I can’t help but giggle.
    “So what makes you so sure I didn’t do it?” I ask.
    “A bit of telepathic ability here, a bit of logical deduction there…”
    “And that led you to figure out that it was Peter?”
    “How do you know that I know it was Peter?”
    “Oh, just a bit of telepathic ability here, a bit of logical deduction there…”
    You know the saying that the eyes are the window to the soul? Well, I think that’s crap. I don’t think it’s your eyes; it’s your smile.
    Timothy has a smile on him. Oh yes. He’s got one dazzling smile. His smile creases the skin around his eyes and sucks up a bit of right cheek into a big, happy dimple.
    “He was bragging about it by the lockers,” Timothy says. “He’s singing your praises too. Of course, he hasn’t shown any guilt about the fact that you’re in detention. He probably thinks you feel privileged.”
    I’m ashamed of myself and stare down at the desk.
    “So why did you take the blame?”
    “Because I’m deeply disturbed. Because I’m craving theapproval of a guy who has the brains of ricotta cheese and probably keeps Mein Kampf as bedtime reading material.”
    He bursts out laughing. “Now that’s a side of you we don’t hear enough.”
    “Yeah, well, it’s reserved for special occasions.”
    “You shouldn’t be here.”
    “What was I supposed to do? Stand up and announce to the world that it was Peter? Do I look like I want a short lifespan?”
    “I admit that Mr. Anderson was a real jerk to put you under that kind of pressure. But you could have taken the rap and then gone up to Peter afterward and demanded he confess or you’d spill the beans.”
    I look at him as though he’s growing mangoes out of his ears. “You’re living in a parallel universe.”
    He shrugs. “Your universe, or mine—either way he’s scum and not worth it.”
    “It’s worth it if I can avoid being known as the resident whistle-blower.”
    He looks at me thoughtfully. “I stuck up for you because I thought that deep down there was a bit of spunk in you, despite the fact that you so obviously try to hide it.”
    “Sorry to disappoint,” I say sarcastically.
    “Hey, you don’t have to prove yourself to me.”
    “I wasn’t trying to.”
    “It might get in the way of proving yourself to Peter, right?”
    “Hey! That’s not fair. You’re not under the same sort of pressure as the rest of us normal people. You don’t care if people find you dorky or weird or stuck-up.”
    “I’m not worried about other people’s adjectives for me.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because if I’m in detention, I want to know it was because I did something out of my own free will.”
    I pretend to find my desk interesting.
    “So are you excited about the formal?” I ask.
    “It’s not really my scene.”
    “Are you kidding?”
    “Everybody standing around with way too much hairspray and gel and aftershave, taking cheesy photos, dancing to a stack of loser songs and generally making idiots of themselves.”
    “How about a news flash: You don’t have to be a non-conformist all the time.”
    “You don’t have to be a conformist all the time either.”
    “You’re just conforming to a