Bras & Broomsticks (12 page)

Raf manages to hold on to his gloves. And then the redheaded, ever-annoying Melissa blocks his path and whispers something to him. If only I had superhuman hearing. Is that too much to ask? One measly power?

He says something, and Melissa points down the hall at three other A-list fashion show girls, who are buzzing around, manicured hands waving. In my steal-clothes excitement, I’ve missed whatever crisis is taking place in fashion show land. Last week the Eiffel Tower that the student set designers were building cracked in half and the cast members were all in a tizzy. The theme is Citygroove, which means that each number will feature a different city. According to Jewel, the Eiffel Tower is for the freshman and sophomore formal wear number. The song is “Come What May” from
Moulin Rouge
.

I’m distracted again when Mick saunters through the hallway. He’s wearing jeans and an untucked sweater. I follow him so I can see better. He approaches his locker, places his fingers on the lock, slowly turns the dial . . . seven . . . twenty-two . . . eighteen . . . bingo!

Seven, twenty-two, eighteen! Seven, twenty-two, eighteen. Seven, twenty-two, eighteen. Seven, twenty-two, eighteen. Why don’t I have a notepad to scribble this on? Seven, twenty-two, eighteen. I open my locker, rip out my geometry textbook, and write the combination on the cover.

Yes!

“Rachel?” Tammy asks, linking her arm through mine. “When you’re finished stalking, do you want to come for lunch?”

Busted. “I was just—”

She laughs. “Daydreaming. I know. He’s hot. But I’m starving.”

Since I can’t confide in her, I nod and secretly plot my next move. I’ll have to take five minutes during class, when the hallway is empty, sneak back here, borrow Mick’s hat or his puke green gym shirt, hide it in my locker, and then run back to class. The obvious choice is to miss English, since I’m in advanced and therefore supposedly know what I’m doing.

But French is boring.

I can barely keep my eyes open.

One of the reasons French is so boring is that I have no friends in the class. Tammy and Janice are in accelerated; Jewel and Sherry are in Spanish. Annie is in regular too, but she’s in another class.

“Je parle, tu parles, il ou elle parle, nous parlons . . . ,”
Doree Matson recites. As usual, she’s sitting in the front row and answering all the questions.

When she finally gets to the end of her conjugation, I decide it’s now or never.
“Excusez-moi, je dois aller à la
toilette.”
I hear a few titters from the peanut gallery in the front. They’re so childish. I hope I didn’t ask if I could pee on the floor.

Did I?

Madame Diamon nods and asks if anyone would like to conjugate
parler
in the conditional tense.

Doree raises her hand.

As I exit the class, I wonder what it’s like to teach a language all day that no one understands. To have to listen to people sounding like morons. Staring at you as if you’re not making sense. Asking if they can pee on the floor. I couldn’t ever become a second-language teacher. Partly because I barely speak a second language. But mostly because I don’t think I could teach.

Not that I have a clue what I
do
want to be. A businesswoman? A rocket scientist? I don’t know what a rocket scientist does, but how fun would that be? To say you’re a rocket scientist. “It’s not rocket science,” a sexy stranger at a cocktail party would say. I’d lean in closer, allowing him an eyeful of my extraordinary cleavage (this is way down the line, so glistening cleavage is very plausible, if not likely). “Actually,” I’d say, “I
am
a rocket scientist,” and gasps would ensue.
Mon dieu!

Must concentrate on covert mission. James Bond music plays in the background. I really should have worn all black today instead of jeans, an orange sweater, and sparkling green shoes. How un-covert can I get?

I skip down the stairs from the third floor. First stop, my locker. I need my geometry book. (When this spell is done, I should ask Miri to find one to improve my memory. I’d better write that down in case I forget.) Hmm. I probably should have noted which locker is Mick’s. They all look the same. Metal and narrow.

I close my eyes and try to remember where he stood. Four to the left. No, five to the left. Six. Definitely six. This would be so much easier if I were a witch. I could purse my lips and make his locker glow.

I purse my lips.
Make the right locker glow!

Nothing glows.

Must remember. I think I was right the first time. Four to the left. I peer down the hall to make sure no one is coming. All clear. Peer down the other side. Also clear.

I look at my textbook and see the seven, twenty-two, eighteen, then position myself in front of the fourth locker to the left. Here we go. I take a big breath and turn the dial to the right. Seven. Left, twenty-two. And then a quick eighteen. And . . .

No go.

I turn to the right. Seven. Left, and around once for good luck. Twenty-two. And then a slower eighteen. And . . . nope.

Maybe it was the fifth locker over and not the fourth. If only my brain were like a TiVo and I could skip back to the last episode. I try the fifth locker. And then the next one. And the next one. And the entire row. It isn’t working. I need to concentrate.

I slide to the floor, rest my head against the locker behind me, and breathe just like we learned in gym. In. Out. In. Out. Am I turning too fast? Do I have the wrong code? Why isn’t my plan working? Why is it so hard to steal a piece of clothing? Maybe I’ll tell Mick that I’m doing a project on shoes, and that I need to borrow his. Or maybe I’ll stand really close behind him and cut out a piece from the back of his sweater. It wasn’t tucked in. He’ll think he caught it in a door. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll try to catch him when the bell rings. But right now I’m tired. So very tired. It’s Miri’s fault for waking me up so early. Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a second. They’re so heavy. Yes, that feels good.

The next thing I know, I’m being tapped on the shoulder.

I open my eyes to see Mr. Earls, JFK’s vice principal, looming over me.

“Taking a nap?” he asks. His eyebrows are too close together, like Bert from
Sesame Street
. I’ve seen him at assemblies and lurking in the hallway corners before, but I’ve never had the pleasure of being this close to him until now.

“Just thinking,” I say. “I’m on my way back to class. Sorry, sir.”

“There will be no thinking in the hallway on my watch. And I don’t think you were thinking. I think you were napping. And skipping class.” He scribbles something on his notepad and throws it at me. “Detention today after school. You can think then. But no napping.”

What? Detention? Me? I’ve never had detention before. Ever. “Oh, please, sir. I was only here for two seconds.”

“Do you want detention again tomorrow? That’s what you get for arguing with me.”

Gulp. Someone’s on a power trip.

Blinking back tears, I walk to French. Mr. Earls doesn’t realize who he’s messing with. One day I’ll have magical powers and then he’s so going to be morphed into a cat. A neutered cat. Yes, Mr. Earls, do you understand? One day people will call you Fluffy.

As I return to my lonely seat in the back of the class, I feel a heaviness inside my lungs, like when I wake up some mornings and realize that Tigger is sitting on my chest. Life is so unfair. My mom has magical powers. Miri has magical powers and boobs. My dad has STB. Jewel is popular and has a new best friend. Tammy has . . . well, Tammy has Sherry, Janice, and Annie.

And I have nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing . . . but detention.

8

DETAINED

I am such a detention novice that I don’t even know where to go.

I head to the school office on the first floor. “Excuse me.” I address the secretary. She’s staring at her computer screen and doesn’t appear to notice me. “Where do I go for detention?” Is it like prison work? Do they chain us evildoers together and force us to mop the gym? Repaint the halls?

“Room one-oh-four,” she says without looking at me. “Next to the events board.”

I was hoping she’d cry out, “Rachel Weinstein? A sweet freshman like you couldn’t possibly have done anything to deserve this awful punishment! Don’t be silly! Whoever gave you detention will be dismissed from his post! Go home and don’t worry your sweet self for one more minute!”

I guess I’m dreaming. She wouldn’t know who I was unless she checked out the trophy case outside the office. When I ranked second at the math competition, I had mixed feelings about my placement being showcased. On the one hand, anyone who passes it will see my engraved name. On the other hand, winning math competitions is more likely to be the ticket to a Star Trek convention than to the kingdom of coolness. But I quickly realized that it didn’t matter. My name is barely even visible. The trophy was shoved into the back, behind the bowling club’s trophy. Yes, the bowling club. I would have assumed a math competition would be considered worthier than a bowling match at a high school, but what do I know?

Anyway, the secretary doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t care that I’m not the type of girl to get detention. Not that I can blame her. I don’t know her name either. “And, um . . . what am I supposed to do in detention?” I ask.

“Homework.”

I slither toward Room 104. Boring. The only thing keeping up my spirits is the possibility of a supremely hot rebel guy sitting near me in detention, à la the eighties movie
The Breakfast Club
. I’ll be Molly Ringwald, all princessy and serene, and he’ll be Judd Nelson, with that who-cares attitude. He’ll be wearing ripped jeans and a stashed cigarette behind his ear. At first we won’t speak. We’ll just eye each other. And then he’ll say something rebel-ish, like “Do you think we can smoke in here?”

I’ll say, “I don’t smoke.” And then before the hour of detention is over, we’ll be hooking up. I’m not quite sure how we’ll get from my retort to the hooking up, but I’ll let him figure it out since I’ve already done more than my share of the planning.

I hold my breath and open the door. Except for a scrawny teacher I recognize from the science department, the desks and chairs are empty. He looks up from his grading. “You’re Rachel?”

At least someone knows my name. I sit down in the back row. “Yup.” I watch the front door for the rebel. I keep watching. Five minutes later, I raise my hand. The skinny teacher is scribbling all over the paper of some poor student and doesn’t notice. I wave again. I’d like to call out, but I don’t want to get another detention. I cough. Loudly.

He looks up, annoyed. “Yes?”

“I was wondering where everyone else was.”

“You’re it.” He looks back down at his papers.

I’m it? I was JFK’s worst student today? The biggest school rule that was broken in the last twenty-four hours was no napping in the hall? Where are the drugs? The weapons? The kids who skip class? The rebel caught smoking in the bathroom, who still has the audacity to stash a cigarette behind his ear?

Bet this Mr. Science Teacher hates me. If it weren’t for my detention, he’d already be at home in his pajamas.

La, la, la.

I would have closed the door if I had thought I was the only one coming. I wonder if I’ll get a bad-girl rep if anyone sees me in here. I’ll have to dye my hair pink and get a tongue ring.