Girl in Shades by Allison Baggio

the classroom and everyone sits cross-legged, forming a human circle in the empty space created when we pushed the desks out of the way. It’s time for music period. Once a week we are forced to endure a campfire singsong without the burning logs or wilderness. Mr. Wigman’s guitar rests its strings up against the cream cinderblock wall where he left it when he ran out. Jackie has enlisted two of her “Superstar Gang” — the rest are in Mrs. Lewis’s class — in a competition to see who can create the snobbiest face and deliver it to me across the circle, where I sit with Brian Bellamy on one side of me and slimy Willy Hisscock on the other. Since the other girls aren’t really trying, so far Jackie is the winner. Her straw-coloured hair and pinched lips hold control over most of the other students.
    â€œShinesse shampoo makes me look like an ugly dogface,” Jackie cracks. Every student looks at me and spits out chuckles, guffaws, giggles that end in hiccups, and smiles that want to explode.
    â€œVery smart, Jackie, you’re hired,” I stab back and hear hesitant laughter from the group.
    â€œShinesse shampoo makes my eyes look like piss-balls.” Brain Bellamy adds this without warning. He’s not smiling or laughing. I am stunned. From his thoughts I hear, Jackie was right, she is kind of a nerd. I don’t know what I was thinking. No one will like me if I’m nice to her. Is it mean, though? Considering her mom died.
    It was only yesterday I thought I caught Brain looking at me as I combed my hair in front of my locker, five to the left from his own. I decided then I would go out with him on a date if he asked. I don’t respond to his comment about the shampoo. Jackie doubles herself over in response to Brian’s comment. She has a crush on him, I know it. She coughs out her laughs through her nose, making her sound like a pig (fitting).
    â€œBrian, that is the funniest thing I have heard all month,” she says finally, flopping her hand at him. He grins with one side of his mouth and plays with a loose thread along the bottom of his sweatshirt.
    Willy Hisscock has taken off his socks, tied them in a ball, and is hitting Doreen Parchewski on the shoulder.
    â€œGrody!” she screams. “Get this barf bag away from me!” Jackie’s laughing continues.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” Mr. Wigman says returning to the room, grabbing his guitar and squatting, knees spread to either side, in the one spot in the circle that used to be vacant.
    â€œNothing,” Jackie responds, leftover chuckles still rocking her stomach.
    â€œWilly touched me with his socks!” Doreen says.
    â€œWilly, put your socks back on your feet,” Mr. Wigman says settling his guitar in his lap.
    â€œI was just saying how lucky we are to have a celebrity in our class,” Jackie says. She looks at me. I tilt my head and wave my eyelashes in sarcastic thanks.
    â€œYes, we are very proud of you, Maya,” Mr. Wigman says pointing the neck of his guitar in my direction. His tiny fingers are already positioned for the first cord of the camp song he is going to make us sing. “Why, the first time I saw it, I couldn’t believe my eyes.” He winks at me, wraps his leather guitar strap around his slight shoulders, and brings a hand through his spiky hair that looks soft enough to fall asleep in. I close my eyes and pretend that Corey Hart is the one playing the guitar.
    The commercial has aired for one week, and by now, everyone in my class has seen it. Me on camera, pretending to be beautiful while puke gurgles in my stomach — what was my father thinking? I am plotting my revenge when Mr. Wigman begins to sing.
    â€œHang down your head, Tom Dooooley, hang down your head and cry, hang down your head, Tom Dooooley, poor boy you’re bound to die.” At first no one sings except for Mr. Wigman, who remains oblivious to any