The Hot List by Hillary Homzie

exaggerated the
f
sound, spittle flew onto his bottom lip. He was also wiggling his body and patting his tummy. I think some sauce was coming off on his hand. The hand with the orange Magic Marker on it.
    Then for a moment, he turned, and I saw
exactly
what Nia and Maddie must have been whispering about—Squid’s T-shirt. It was bad enough that it was a Power Ranger one with some holes, but there was red sauce smeared all over the side shoulder and some on his back. Sometime between fourth and fifth period, he must have smacked into a pepperoni pizza. Reminder to self: introduce Squid to napkins.
    Today I had on my brown hoodie. Underneath I hadon a baby doll T-shirt with straps that were definitely
not
two inches thick.
    I had to give Squid my hoodie, so he could cover up his scary T-shirt.
    No, I couldn’t do that. Then I’d be wearing only spaghetti straps in the middle of class.
    I turned away and kept on staring up at
The Little Prince
poster that Madame Kearns had behind her desk, which showed a weird little kid who lived by himself on a planet the size of a hot air balloon. Squid looked like an even weirder version of the little prince.
    I had to do something about that.
    Kids were staring at Squid, as the holes in his T-shirt appeared to have grown larger. And the sauce, saucier.
    I had to save Squid from himself. From that shirt. From his crazy mullet hair, and teeth with food stuck in them. He needed to get off of his weird planet. I would introduce him to the concept of a haircut, of dental floss. It might be wise to ban stringy-type foods from his diet.
    But I could at least start with the shirt.
    â€œYou so need my hoodie,” I stated to Squid as he contorted one of his legs in a strange position around the chair leg.
    Madame Kearns, stood in front of the class, surveying all with her small French ears, which had earrings thatlook like the Arc de Triumphe on them. “En
français
,” she corrected, glancing over at me. “Speak en
français
!” Jiggling her little gold charms, she placed her hands back into the fig leaf position.
    I struggled in French to tell Squid that he needed my hoodie, but I managed something French-sounding and then said, “Le hoodie.”
    Squid sat up, his eyes grew round and moist. “I
need
your hoodie?” He leaned forward, peering at my sweatshirt.
    â€œEn français!”
reminded Madame Kearns, who was rocking on her heels even faster. English words definitely upset her.
    Squid also mumbled something French-sounding and then said something like,
“Le cool.”
    I folded my arms across my hoodie, as if it were my life shield. Suddenly, I didn’t want him to take it away. But it was the right thing to do.
    Madame Kearns continued to survey the room, so I spoke in English under my breath, but with a French accent. “You. Must. Borrow. My. Le hoo-die.”
    â€œPourquoi?”
asked Squid, which was French for “why.”
    Everyone else was shedding their sweatshirts, sweaters, and hoodies, since it was practically ninety-nine degrees. The Administration at Travis—the administration being chieflymy father—believed in blasting the heat all winter long.
    Nia had turned around again to get something out of her backpack, but I could tell she was just using it as an excuse to see what I was up to. She whispered something to Maddie. I wished I could put duct tape on Squid’s mouth. But he’d probably just eat it.
    â€œTrust me, Squid,” I said, lowering my voice even more, but keeping up the French accent. “You just need my hoodie.”
    He stuck out his lip in a pathetic pout. I could see those bottom red braces, which clashed with his neon-green, glow-in-the-dark shoes. Nia and Maddie turned around at least twice and watched me. I didn’t care what they thought, but I still didn’t want them seeing me actually giving Squid an article of clothing.
    I waited until Nia and Maddie