can help you achieve them.” He shuffles toward the stairs.
I sit there for a long time. Thinking.
In my room, I pick up my acoustic guitar. I start to play this Bach concerto that always clears my head when I feel conflicted. It’s one of the first things I learned to play. It kind of transports me back to this time in my life when everything seemed simple. When there weren’t all these problems. And when I did have a problem, the solution was always simple: Follow your heart.
I go over to my desk and take out some paper and a pen. I make coffee. I sit back down. Then I do something I never thought I would do in a million years. I write Life Plan at the top of the page.
And then I begin.
CHAPTER 19
already over it
october 14, 9:25 a.m.
“That did not just happen,” I whisper.
Joe Zedepski dropped his calculator. For the third time today. In the last ten minutes. It’s a miracle the thing still works after all these years.
I write on the side of my page:
I point to what I wrote with my pencil. I glance at Laila. She’s read it already.
She writes on the side of her page:
Maybe it’s sleep deprivation from being up until two in the morning every night this week doing what should be an illegal amount of homework. Or maybe it’s that I’m starting to feel like I’m with the wrong boy. But for some reason, I’m having a laughing fit.
At first I don’t make any noise. I cover my face and try to think sad thoughts. But it doesn’t help. I’m cracking up uncontrollably. And Laila’s going to start, and it’s going to be bad. I can already see her trying to resist. We’re always laughing at the worst times when it’s mad wrong to be laughing. I’m sure it’s stress related.
“Would you girls like to share the joke with us?” Mr. Perry booms.
This guy has no sense of humor. Like, if there was an actual medical condition for lack of sense of humor, Mr. Perry would have the most severe case.
We don’t say anything. I pretend to take notes.
“Simmer down, please!” he says.
Which is of course even funnier than the pocket protector thing. So now it’s even harder to calm down. I push my hair behind my ears. I nod a little to appear competent. I bounce my foot up and down. I try to get it together.
After class we meet Maggie in the hall. They both stand there, looking at me. Then Laila’s like, “Are you sitting with us at lunch or what?” Maggie looks at me expectantly.
I’ve been dividing my time between their table and Dave’s, over where life is all shiny and sparkly. The thing is, Dave said there isn’t room for Maggie and Laila at his table. I guess it is pretty crowded at Dave’s table, but it still feels like he’s dissing my friends. And they feel it, too.
“Um . . .” I know deserting them is wrong. But I’ve wanted to taste the high life for so long. I’m not ready to give it up yet.
“You think about that,” Laila says. She motors down the hall.
“Laila—”
Laila turns around. “And FYI? You’ll never find something real at that table.” And then she’s gone.
“Mags—”
“Look,” Maggie says. “I know how much you like him. I’ve been there. Just don’t turn into one of those girls who ditches their bf’s for some boy.”
“Of course not! I just . . .” How can I explain what sitting at Dave’s table means to me without hurting her feelings? “Maybe I . . . like, I could sit with you guys more and . . .” Even I can hear how lame I sound.
“Yeah,” Maggie says, “maybe . . .”
And then she’s gone, too.
After the first two hours of calc homework, I can’t decide between ripping out every single page of the book to burn them individually or just burning the pages all together in one huge bonfire.
“I hate this!” I yell. I fling the book across the room. Since my room is about the size of a postage stamp, it hits the wall right away and thumps onto the carpet. My room is so small it makes me feel constricted and edgy, like
I sit there for a long time. Thinking.
In my room, I pick up my acoustic guitar. I start to play this Bach concerto that always clears my head when I feel conflicted. It’s one of the first things I learned to play. It kind of transports me back to this time in my life when everything seemed simple. When there weren’t all these problems. And when I did have a problem, the solution was always simple: Follow your heart.
I go over to my desk and take out some paper and a pen. I make coffee. I sit back down. Then I do something I never thought I would do in a million years. I write Life Plan at the top of the page.
And then I begin.
CHAPTER 19
already over it
october 14, 9:25 a.m.
“That did not just happen,” I whisper.
Joe Zedepski dropped his calculator. For the third time today. In the last ten minutes. It’s a miracle the thing still works after all these years.
I write on the side of my page:
I point to what I wrote with my pencil. I glance at Laila. She’s read it already.
She writes on the side of her page:
Maybe it’s sleep deprivation from being up until two in the morning every night this week doing what should be an illegal amount of homework. Or maybe it’s that I’m starting to feel like I’m with the wrong boy. But for some reason, I’m having a laughing fit.
At first I don’t make any noise. I cover my face and try to think sad thoughts. But it doesn’t help. I’m cracking up uncontrollably. And Laila’s going to start, and it’s going to be bad. I can already see her trying to resist. We’re always laughing at the worst times when it’s mad wrong to be laughing. I’m sure it’s stress related.
“Would you girls like to share the joke with us?” Mr. Perry booms.
This guy has no sense of humor. Like, if there was an actual medical condition for lack of sense of humor, Mr. Perry would have the most severe case.
We don’t say anything. I pretend to take notes.
“Simmer down, please!” he says.
Which is of course even funnier than the pocket protector thing. So now it’s even harder to calm down. I push my hair behind my ears. I nod a little to appear competent. I bounce my foot up and down. I try to get it together.
After class we meet Maggie in the hall. They both stand there, looking at me. Then Laila’s like, “Are you sitting with us at lunch or what?” Maggie looks at me expectantly.
I’ve been dividing my time between their table and Dave’s, over where life is all shiny and sparkly. The thing is, Dave said there isn’t room for Maggie and Laila at his table. I guess it is pretty crowded at Dave’s table, but it still feels like he’s dissing my friends. And they feel it, too.
“Um . . .” I know deserting them is wrong. But I’ve wanted to taste the high life for so long. I’m not ready to give it up yet.
“You think about that,” Laila says. She motors down the hall.
“Laila—”
Laila turns around. “And FYI? You’ll never find something real at that table.” And then she’s gone.
“Mags—”
“Look,” Maggie says. “I know how much you like him. I’ve been there. Just don’t turn into one of those girls who ditches their bf’s for some boy.”
“Of course not! I just . . .” How can I explain what sitting at Dave’s table means to me without hurting her feelings? “Maybe I . . . like, I could sit with you guys more and . . .” Even I can hear how lame I sound.
“Yeah,” Maggie says, “maybe . . .”
And then she’s gone, too.
After the first two hours of calc homework, I can’t decide between ripping out every single page of the book to burn them individually or just burning the pages all together in one huge bonfire.
“I hate this!” I yell. I fling the book across the room. Since my room is about the size of a postage stamp, it hits the wall right away and thumps onto the carpet. My room is so small it makes me feel constricted and edgy, like
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