dreams are all that exciting. Just the usual ones, about showing up to school naked, or sucking face with Brendan Eraser.
"
Hello?
"
I blinked. Ruth was standing in front of me, waving a hand in my face.
"God," she said, putting her hand down. "What is the matter with you? Are you sure you're all right?"
"Fine," I said automatically.
And the funny thing was, I really thought I was fine.
Then.
C H A P T E R
6
D etention at Ernie Pyle High is traditionally run by the staff member with the least seniority. This year, it was Miss Clemmings, the new art teacher. Now, I don't mean to be sexist, but they had to be kidding. Miss Clemmings is barely as tall
as
me, and can't weigh more than I do, like a hundred pounds or so.
And yet, unlike me, Miss Clemmings is hardly an expert kickboxer—or even a mediocre one. But there she was, supposed to keep these giant football players from fighting with one another. I mean, it was ridiculous. Coach Albright I could see. Coach Albright would be able to establish some control. But all Miss Clemmings could do was threaten to report these guys when they acted up. And all that happened when they got reported was that they got longer detentions. Miss Clemmings had to keep them from fighting that much longer. It was kind of retarded.
So I wasn't super-surprised when Miss Clemmings, at the start of detention at the end of the day, called me up to the front of the auditorium and said, in her wispy little-girl voice, "Jessica, I need to talk to you."
I couldn't imagine what Miss Clemmings wanted. Oh, all right, I'll admit it: a part of me thought she was going to let me off for the rest of the semester, on account of my good behavior. Because I really am a little angel … during detention, anyway. That was more than could be said for any of my fellow detainees.
Which was, in a way, what she wanted to talk to me about.
"It's the Ws," she whispered.
I looked at her uncomprehendingly. "The Ws, Miss Clemmings?"
She went, "Yes, in the back row?" And then she pointed at the auditorium seats.
It was only then that I caught on. Of course. The
W
s. We're seated alphabetically for detention, and the guys in the last row—the
W
s—have a tendency to get a little rambunctious. They'd been restless during rehearsals for
West Side Story
, rowdy during
Romeo and Juliet
, and downright rude during
Our Town
. Now the drama club was putting on
Endgame
, and Miss Clemmings was afraid a riot might break out.
"I hate to ask this of you, Jessica," she said, looking at me with her big blue eyes, "but you are the only girl here, and I've often found that placing a strong female influence in amongst a predominantly testosterone-driven group has a tendency to diffuse some of the—"
"Okay," I said, real fast.
Miss Clemmings looked surprised. Then she looked relieved. "Really? Really, Jessica? You wouldn't mind?"
Was she kidding? "No," I said. "I wouldn't mind. Not at all."
"Oh," she said, placing a hand to her heart. "Oh, I'm so glad. If you could, then, just sit between Robert Wilkins and the Wendell boy—"
I couldn't believe it. Some days, you know, you wake up, and okay, maybe you had some wacked-out dreams, but then, suddenly, things just start going your way. Just like that.
I went back to my seat in the
M
s, picked up my backpack and my flute, and shoved my way down the
W
row until I'd gotten to the seat between Rob and Hank. There were a lot of catcalls while I did this—enough so that the drama coach turned around and shushed us—and a few of the guys wouldn't pick up their stupid feet and let me by. I got them back, however, by kicking them really hard in the shins. That got them moving, all right.
We have to sit one seat apart from one another, so that necessitated everyone from Rob Wilkins down moving one seat over. Only Rob didn't seem to mind. He picked up his leather jacket—he had nothing else, no books, no bag, nothing, except a paperback spy novel he kept in the back pocket of his
"
Hello?
"
I blinked. Ruth was standing in front of me, waving a hand in my face.
"God," she said, putting her hand down. "What is the matter with you? Are you sure you're all right?"
"Fine," I said automatically.
And the funny thing was, I really thought I was fine.
Then.
C H A P T E R
6
D etention at Ernie Pyle High is traditionally run by the staff member with the least seniority. This year, it was Miss Clemmings, the new art teacher. Now, I don't mean to be sexist, but they had to be kidding. Miss Clemmings is barely as tall
as
me, and can't weigh more than I do, like a hundred pounds or so.
And yet, unlike me, Miss Clemmings is hardly an expert kickboxer—or even a mediocre one. But there she was, supposed to keep these giant football players from fighting with one another. I mean, it was ridiculous. Coach Albright I could see. Coach Albright would be able to establish some control. But all Miss Clemmings could do was threaten to report these guys when they acted up. And all that happened when they got reported was that they got longer detentions. Miss Clemmings had to keep them from fighting that much longer. It was kind of retarded.
So I wasn't super-surprised when Miss Clemmings, at the start of detention at the end of the day, called me up to the front of the auditorium and said, in her wispy little-girl voice, "Jessica, I need to talk to you."
I couldn't imagine what Miss Clemmings wanted. Oh, all right, I'll admit it: a part of me thought she was going to let me off for the rest of the semester, on account of my good behavior. Because I really am a little angel … during detention, anyway. That was more than could be said for any of my fellow detainees.
Which was, in a way, what she wanted to talk to me about.
"It's the Ws," she whispered.
I looked at her uncomprehendingly. "The Ws, Miss Clemmings?"
She went, "Yes, in the back row?" And then she pointed at the auditorium seats.
It was only then that I caught on. Of course. The
W
s. We're seated alphabetically for detention, and the guys in the last row—the
W
s—have a tendency to get a little rambunctious. They'd been restless during rehearsals for
West Side Story
, rowdy during
Romeo and Juliet
, and downright rude during
Our Town
. Now the drama club was putting on
Endgame
, and Miss Clemmings was afraid a riot might break out.
"I hate to ask this of you, Jessica," she said, looking at me with her big blue eyes, "but you are the only girl here, and I've often found that placing a strong female influence in amongst a predominantly testosterone-driven group has a tendency to diffuse some of the—"
"Okay," I said, real fast.
Miss Clemmings looked surprised. Then she looked relieved. "Really? Really, Jessica? You wouldn't mind?"
Was she kidding? "No," I said. "I wouldn't mind. Not at all."
"Oh," she said, placing a hand to her heart. "Oh, I'm so glad. If you could, then, just sit between Robert Wilkins and the Wendell boy—"
I couldn't believe it. Some days, you know, you wake up, and okay, maybe you had some wacked-out dreams, but then, suddenly, things just start going your way. Just like that.
I went back to my seat in the
M
s, picked up my backpack and my flute, and shoved my way down the
W
row until I'd gotten to the seat between Rob and Hank. There were a lot of catcalls while I did this—enough so that the drama coach turned around and shushed us—and a few of the guys wouldn't pick up their stupid feet and let me by. I got them back, however, by kicking them really hard in the shins. That got them moving, all right.
We have to sit one seat apart from one another, so that necessitated everyone from Rob Wilkins down moving one seat over. Only Rob didn't seem to mind. He picked up his leather jacket—he had nothing else, no books, no bag, nothing, except a paperback spy novel he kept in the back pocket of his
Similar Books
