tries to get my attention.
It doesn't work. My tampered locker is like a magnet. I can't bear to turn around.
"April?" She taps my shoulder.
There's a delay, but eventually I respond quietly without breaking my gaze. "Yeah?"
***
I'm horrified when I see that the chair in the principal's office is just a shade darker than the lipstick on my locker. Those biatches have ruined the color red for me.
"April, do you know who did this?"
Of course I know! I know exactly who did this! I even know the exact lipstick she used! However, I shake my head no, knowing that tattling is a cardinal sin in high school—almost worse than being a complete loser.
"Please, honey, look at me," Mrs. Wagner says compassionately. Tears fall from my eyes as I look up at her. "I know this is hard, but if you know who did this, you have to tell me. I will not tolerate this behavior in my school. The person responsible for this needs to be punished!"
My chin trembles; I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She hands me a tissue and continues, "Whoever it is doesn't need to know that you told me."
I know she knows that I know. Looking down, I shake my head again, mumbling, "I don't know, Mrs. Wagner."
I go through the rest of the day like a complete zombie. I don't answer teachers in class, I don't go to lunch, I don't try to talk to Jessica in Spanish class, and I don't even do my normal Tuesday walk-by to spy on Matt in his gym class. It's like I'm not even here at all—exactly how I want it to be.
As depressingly aloof as I've been all day, I'm able to focus on the video about World War II in ninth-period history. The soldier carrying a grenade on the screen suddenly morphs into Britney Taylor hauling a massive tampon. I rub my eyes repeatedly and take another look. It's back to the black-and-white war clip. Great, now I'm seeing things.
Mr. Stuart strolls by my desk, casually dropping me a note: SEE ME AFTER CLASS FOR DETENTION. I'm not surprised; I skipped his class yesterday. What I
am
surprised about is that he hasn't humiliated me in front of the class. Even Mr. Gladiator Man has more tact than Britney.
"So?" Mr. Stuart says after all the other students have left for the day. "I think you have some explaining to do."
I remain tightlipped at my desk, sliding my shoe in circles on the floor below.
"April, I know you were in school yesterday. You're in my homeroom, remember?" He gets up from behind his desk and walks over to me. His massive frame surrounds me in a shadow of doom. "Where were you ninth period yesterday?"
Feeling word-vomit creeping up my throat, I blurt, "I was with people who I thought were friends, getting my life ruined!"
My hand slaps over my mouth immediately.
Oops! Did I just say that?
Mr. Stuart steps back, clearly not expecting what he heard. "Well, regardless of why ... you need to put your time in here at detention."
He walks back to his desk.
Shocking. I really expected him to have a major freak-out fest over this. I mean, everyone knows he's crazier than a shaved mule in a toboggan race. This is definitely not the response I predicted. Feeling relieved but somewhat skeptical, I cover my head on my desk in mourning. Mourning for my life lost to the Lipstick Laws.
Halfway through my forty-five-minute prison sentence, I haven't lifted my head once, until I'm startled by Mr. Stuart's deep voice.
"You know, I wasn't always this big, tough football coach," he says nonchalantly while grading a paper at his desk.
I look around, wondering if someone else slipped in the room while I was grieving.
He looks up from his paper at me. "You hear me?"
"Yes?" I say, not knowing where he's going with this.
"I hated high school," he says. "Nope, ya couldn't pay me to go back..." He grins. "As a student, that is."
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't play football in high school. I was the ball. Kicked around like you wouldn't believe." He grimaces at the thought.
"Really?" I say in disbelief.
"Really! I know
It doesn't work. My tampered locker is like a magnet. I can't bear to turn around.
"April?" She taps my shoulder.
There's a delay, but eventually I respond quietly without breaking my gaze. "Yeah?"
***
I'm horrified when I see that the chair in the principal's office is just a shade darker than the lipstick on my locker. Those biatches have ruined the color red for me.
"April, do you know who did this?"
Of course I know! I know exactly who did this! I even know the exact lipstick she used! However, I shake my head no, knowing that tattling is a cardinal sin in high school—almost worse than being a complete loser.
"Please, honey, look at me," Mrs. Wagner says compassionately. Tears fall from my eyes as I look up at her. "I know this is hard, but if you know who did this, you have to tell me. I will not tolerate this behavior in my school. The person responsible for this needs to be punished!"
My chin trembles; I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She hands me a tissue and continues, "Whoever it is doesn't need to know that you told me."
I know she knows that I know. Looking down, I shake my head again, mumbling, "I don't know, Mrs. Wagner."
I go through the rest of the day like a complete zombie. I don't answer teachers in class, I don't go to lunch, I don't try to talk to Jessica in Spanish class, and I don't even do my normal Tuesday walk-by to spy on Matt in his gym class. It's like I'm not even here at all—exactly how I want it to be.
As depressingly aloof as I've been all day, I'm able to focus on the video about World War II in ninth-period history. The soldier carrying a grenade on the screen suddenly morphs into Britney Taylor hauling a massive tampon. I rub my eyes repeatedly and take another look. It's back to the black-and-white war clip. Great, now I'm seeing things.
Mr. Stuart strolls by my desk, casually dropping me a note: SEE ME AFTER CLASS FOR DETENTION. I'm not surprised; I skipped his class yesterday. What I
am
surprised about is that he hasn't humiliated me in front of the class. Even Mr. Gladiator Man has more tact than Britney.
"So?" Mr. Stuart says after all the other students have left for the day. "I think you have some explaining to do."
I remain tightlipped at my desk, sliding my shoe in circles on the floor below.
"April, I know you were in school yesterday. You're in my homeroom, remember?" He gets up from behind his desk and walks over to me. His massive frame surrounds me in a shadow of doom. "Where were you ninth period yesterday?"
Feeling word-vomit creeping up my throat, I blurt, "I was with people who I thought were friends, getting my life ruined!"
My hand slaps over my mouth immediately.
Oops! Did I just say that?
Mr. Stuart steps back, clearly not expecting what he heard. "Well, regardless of why ... you need to put your time in here at detention."
He walks back to his desk.
Shocking. I really expected him to have a major freak-out fest over this. I mean, everyone knows he's crazier than a shaved mule in a toboggan race. This is definitely not the response I predicted. Feeling relieved but somewhat skeptical, I cover my head on my desk in mourning. Mourning for my life lost to the Lipstick Laws.
Halfway through my forty-five-minute prison sentence, I haven't lifted my head once, until I'm startled by Mr. Stuart's deep voice.
"You know, I wasn't always this big, tough football coach," he says nonchalantly while grading a paper at his desk.
I look around, wondering if someone else slipped in the room while I was grieving.
He looks up from his paper at me. "You hear me?"
"Yes?" I say, not knowing where he's going with this.
"I hated high school," he says. "Nope, ya couldn't pay me to go back..." He grins. "As a student, that is."
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't play football in high school. I was the ball. Kicked around like you wouldn't believe." He grimaces at the thought.
"Really?" I say in disbelief.
"Really! I know
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