Alone at 90 Foot by Katherine Holubitsky Page B

when she barely made sense on a social studies essay and brought it to the attention of Mr. Overhand.
    â€œBut Mr. O, I don’t understand.” A flutter of her lashes. “On my last English essay, I got ninety-five percent. Mr. Bartell wrote comments like ‘fresh’ and ‘distinctive.’ I was only trying to refine my style.”
    So, guess what? Smitten with self-doubt, Mr. O bumped her up fifteen percent.
    Then there was the time she was just plain mean to Mrs. Lazarenko, our amazingly obese music teacher who conducts the choir from a chair. Danielle was determined that for one class, she was going to make her stand up. So she spread tacks, points up, on her chair. Mrs. Lazarenko came waddling in as usual, opened a music book on the piano, strucka note, repeated it in voice and, as we waited for a reaction, settled into her chair.
    There was no reaction.
    â€œAlright class, ‘California Dreamin’,’ once through, beginning now,” and she bellowed the first few words.
    Our mouths hung open, but no sound came out.
    She stopped short. “Are you with me, class? Or is it up to me to give a solo performance?” She wriggled to sit up. The white flesh hanging from her arms rippled with the effort. She began the song again.
    Still our mouths hung open.
    â€œCome on, come on.”
    One by one, we sort of joined in. So that we were all more or less singing when the song came to an end.
    â€œThat was terrible. Just terrible. Let’s try to put a little more pizzazz in it. Come on, Joanne. Darla, heads up! Pamela, Mandeep, Danielle, look sharp!”
    Mrs. Lazarenko sat on those tacks for the entire music class. When the bell went, she stood up. She shuffled back to the piano to collect her music books. And there were the tacks, embedded in her great wide butt. She bent to pick up her music. She knocked it to the floor. With great effort, she bent all the way down. One by one, like bits of ammunition,those tacks sprang out. Mrs. Lazarenko must have been wearing one major girdle. Like large enough to cover the state of Montana. Ping, ping, ping. We took off out of the classroom to avoid being struck.
    One of Danielle’s worst stunts was what she did to Joanne. Joanne didn’t tell me the whole story until yesterday. But it was the reason Joanne returned to uncool. This all happened last December.
    Joanne’s parents had been friends with their neighbors, the Adlers, forever it seemed. Joanne’s mom and Mrs. Adler were leaders of our Girl Guide troop and played tennis in the park. Mr. Robertson and Mr. Adler helped each other in their yards in the summer. On Saturdays they’d carry lumber or fix fences or sometimes just sit out front in lawn chairs and share a beer together. And at the beginning of May, since I can remember, the Adlers and the Robertsons organized a barbecue for the entire block. I always got to stay overnight at Joanne’s when it happened. We’d eat Maui ribs and blintzes stuffed with cheese until we looked like them. We’d dance in the street until long after dark, then we’d all roast marshmallows in the Adlers’ backyard.
    The thing I haven’t mentioned yet is that the Adlers’ have a son. His name is Steve and he’s sixteen. He was and is really, really, good looking. Picture Leonardo DiCaprio with black hair. Anyway, Joanne and I had been drooling over him for quitea long time. Hey, he was so far out of our reach, it was allowed. We’ve always been just noisy little kids to him.
    Oh, for this to make sense, you have to know that the Adlers are Jewish.
    So, what happened is, last November when Joanne was cool, she went to this party with Danielle. It was with a bunch of people from senior high. And who should she meet there but her neighbor, Steve Adler. He didn’t even recognize Joanne at first. Not now that she had turned fourteen. Not in her cool all-grown-up state. But as Joanne said, he must have