Number 8 by Anna Fienberg

late.”
    Wow, what a great way to begin a performance. I glance at Lilly. She’s taking a deep breath, going into fake-smile mode as if nothing has happened. Mrs. Reilly bends over the CD player. The instrumentals come on; it sounds like artificial sweetener, the kind that leaves a nasty, chemical taste on your tongue.
    Lilly nudges me, beginning her first note. For a moment I’m so angry I’m scared I might blow up. My throat feels like concrete, too. How can you sing like this? I feel like a traitor—to music, to myself most of all. Badman was right: this stupid song deserves a fart in its title. But then I look at Lilly’s face, and she’s starting to wobble—she can’t hold a tune on her own—and there are tears in her eyes and I burst out with the nerdy words.
    Lilly gives me a shaky smile and as we sing I’m thinking about Badman waiting in the office. He’s probably picking his nose, pretending he’s not. I’m thinking what a damn shame it is that Badman is such a fool. He’s the best guitarist this school’s ever seen, but now he won’t even be allowed to try out for the concert. There’s no hope in heaven that I could sing with his band now. Even if
he
wanted me to. Which he probably wouldn’t, seeing as, he says, like Bart Simpson, that girls have “cooties,” and holds his noseclothes-peg style when any female walks by. Well, any female except for Lilly.
    Truth is, I hate him and his crappy behavior, but I hate Mrs. Reilly and this song even more. It’s weird that no matter how awful Badman is, it doesn’t seem to make any difference to how I feel when I hear him play.
    As we sing the last line, I realize that most of me has been absent for the entire song, sailing away into fantasy land. The rest of me is slogging away, getting the notes out right, dying quietly like I do in math.
    And that’s no way to make music. Is it?

3. Jackson
    â€œNorton’s given me loads of extra math homework,” I hear Esmerelda groan behind me.
    We’re on the bus going home. It feels like a hundred and twenty degrees in here. My legs are sticking to the seat.
    â€œWhy?” asks Catrina, who’s sitting next to Ez. “There’s loads of kids worse than you at math. Me, for instance.”
    â€œMy mother wouldn’t think so,” replies Ez.
    â€œOh,” says Catrina. There’s a little silence while she thinks this over. “Geez, Ez, I hope
my
mother never gets that interested in my school work.” And she gives a kind of shiver that makes her knees dig into my back.
    I clear my throat and turn around to Esmerelda.
    â€œYou can come over to my place if you want, and I’ll help you,” I say. I raise my eyebrows at Asim, who is sitting next to me, to see if this is okay with him.
    He smiles, and nods. He likes Esmerelda, too. He likes the way she can mimic anybody’s accent perfectly, even his, and make him laugh, and how she looks in her stretchy black gym pants.
    Esmerelda groans again. “Thanks, but I have to report home first. I’m under surveillance, it feels like. Some nerdy cousin I’ve never met is coming over to coach me. He’ssome kind of math genius. Still, maybe later, if I say I’m going to study with you guys…”
    â€œWhy don’t you come and study my firecrackers?” Badman calls to Esmerelda from across the aisle. “I got some new fireworks, too. There’s one called Great Flaming Balls and it shoots fire thirteen feet high. It’s the best!” He nudges Joe sitting next to him. “Come and see my
balls
, get it?” and the two of them laugh their heads off.
    Ez just stares at him as if he’s speaking Transylvanian.
    â€œBut fireworks are illegal, aren’t they?” Asim says suddenly.
    â€œOoh,
cry
about it why don’t you,” sneers Badman.
    Asim looks out the window.
    Badman’s a bastard. He