Bounce by Natasha Friend

to the opposite of Mackey. Instead of no response I’m getting harassed. I don’t know which is worse.
    â€œNever mind,” I say. “Forget I asked.”
    Ajax laughs. “No, I’ll answer the question… Maybe. ”
    â€œ Maybe you like someone?”
    â€œMaybe I like someone.”
    â€œAre you planning to tell me who it is?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œAre you planning to ask her to that social thing?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œWell, are you at least going ?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œGreat,” I say. “Thanks a lot. You’ve been incredibly helpful. Really.”
    Cleanser Boy grins. “Hey, if I’m going to be your brother, I have to start acting like it, right?”
    â€œWhatever,” I say, and start walking away. And I don’t know why, but I’m smiling.
    Even though he is incredibly irritating.

CHAPTER TEN
    It’s Friday morning, and I have Latin. Here are the rules when you’re the only kid in class: You can’t forget your homework; you can’t space out; you can’t draw doodles of Mr. Murray’s bald head and copious arm hair and pass them around with captions that say Mr. Furry: Lusus Naturae, which is Latin for “freak of nature.” All you can do is pay attention.
    Mr. Murray is sitting on the radiator when I walk in. “ Salve, ” he says, raising one hand.
    This is Latin for “whatsup.” There is excitement in his voice. It’s like he can’t wait to start teaching me more dead words.
    â€œ Salve, ” I say, politely getting out my notebook.
    I don’t know why I’m taking this class. I guess because in seventh grade, Latin was cool. At my old school, everyone signed up for it, not just the geeks. The teacher, Mr. Camp, wasn’t like most teachers. We played Latin charades, acting out sayings like In vino veritas —“ In wine is truth ”—and he didn’t even care that we were pretending to be drunk. Plus, he didn’t believe in quizzes; he just had us conjugate out loud, as a group.
    Now I’m on my own.
    When Mr. Murray asks, “ Quo vadis this weekend?” I have no choice but to respond.
    â€œUm. How do you say wedding in Latin?”
    â€œAh.”
    Mr. Murray smiles and uncaps a dry-erase marker. Since there’s no chalkboard in the Latin closet, he uses a miniature whiteboard, which he holds in his lap at all times. He calls it his tabula rasa.
    â€œ Nuptiae, nuptiarum. Feminine. A wedding.”
    Then he adds some other useless vocabulary: mustaceum, a wedding cake; fax, a wedding torch; hasta, a ceremonial wedding spear.
    Yes. I am so sure that Birdie will be carrying a ceremonial wedding spear tomorrow.
    â€œSo,” Mr. Murray says, looking up, “who’s getting married? Consobrina? Consobrinus? Amita? Matertera? Avuncul —”
    â€œ Pater, ” I say, before he can name every possible relative. “My pater ’s getting married.”
    â€œOh,” he says, nodding. “Uh-huh.” He puts the cap back on the marker.
    Silence.
    I guess there’s no word for stepmother.
    Awkward, awkward silence.
    I look down at my notebook and pretend to be studying. Mr. Murray clears his throat a few thousand times.
    â€œWell,” he says finally. “ Omnia vincit amor. Love conquers all. Yes?”
    I don’t say anything. I’m trying so hard not to throw up.
    I need to transfer to Spanish.
    When I get to the cafeteria, the It Girls look happy to see me.
    â€œHow’s Ajax?” they say.
    I put my backpack on the floor. I have to keep my lunch in its bag today, because it’s something gourmet and embarrassing and it stinks.
    â€œHe’s good,” I say.
    Andrea leans over and opens my milk. She sticks in a straw. Every time, she does this. I don’t know why.
    â€œWhat’s the latest?” she asks as she scoots her chair closer, while everyone at the table