Me and Miranda Mullaly (2 page)

Once I realize Duke Samagura isn't going to punch Sam Dolan in the nose, I get back to looking through my notebook for all those fancy vocabulary words Mr. Minkin is always making us learn. The reason I'm looking for all the fancy words is because my brother, Billy, is returning tonight and I need to tell him all about Miranda Mullaly.

Is this making sense? If it's not making sense, then this might help. I'm sitting in class and watching Miranda Mullaly, but I don't exactly know what to say to her. So I'm thinking I can get Billy's help, because Billy knows all there is to know about girls.

I really
noticed
Miranda for the first time at Christmas Day service. I was sitting quietly in the cold, dark church, trying to get comfortable on the wooden pew and trying not to look at the clock, when I heard a beautiful voice singing. It was really amazing. It was the kind of voice that reminds you of something happy and sad and hits you in the gut all at the same time. All I can remember about the song is that there was a drum and a boy. But the way Miranda sang it was pure magic. It suddenly seemed brighter, and I felt warm inside. Does this count as a Christmas miracle?

So anyway, I hear this voice in class and look up, and
there's Miranda Mullaly. She sticks out her arm and keeps Duke from sitting on a tack that Sam put on his chair. She probably saves Sam's life, because Duke can sometimes be a little crazy. And she saves the basketball season, because even though he messes around a lot in practice and Coach hates his guts, Sam's a pretty good point guard. And suddenly I can't think of anything but Miranda Mullaly. I'm not thinking about my new sneakers. I'm not thinking about what's for lunch. I'm not thinking about basketball practice. I'm not thinking about how long this class is. No, all I'm thinking about is Miranda Mullaly.

So, needless to say, I am
very
excited to be in science class with Miranda Mullaly, even though I'm sitting behind her and can't see her pretty face.

2

I am very
lucky Billy has been kicked out of college. I feel bad for him because my parents are pretty upset about the whole thing, but for me it really works out because Billy knows just about
everything
you need to know about women.

After dinner I knock on his bedroom door. Billy opens it and I take a quick look around. The room was just the way my mom likes it, and now Billy's made it into a huge mess. And it already smells. I ignore the dirty underwear and socks and find a place to sit, and we get right down to business. That's the way Billy operates.

“I got a situation,” I tell Billy. To Billy, everything involving girls is a “situation.”

“Okay,” Billy says, finishing his push-ups and lying on his bed. “What's her name?”

“Miranda.”

“I like it. I like it a lot. So what's the deal?”

“I really just noticed her at Christmas,” I say.

“What made you notice her?” he asks.

“I guess hearing her sing. I really don't talk to her much. She's into books and getting good grades and that kind of stuff.”

Billy sits up. “That's all right. Librarian types are okay in my book. Never underestimate nerds. Does she wear glasses?”

I have to think about it. “No, she doesn't wear glasses.”

“That's okay. So now what's the situation?”

I tell Billy about the singing at Christmas and the thumbtack today and how she saved Duke Samagura from sitting on it and how I think that's a really cool thing to do.

Billy takes it all in. His eyes close and he concentrates.

“What else do you know about her?”

“Well, let's see, she's in the student council. She's always singing and dancing in the plays. She recycles all the time and complains about kids dying in other countries.
She likes to talk about the weather and says it's getting colder—or warmer—or something like that. I'm definitely going to start paying more attention to what she says.”

“It sounds like you're hunting big game here, Chollie.”

I nod and smile. Then he looks at me with a real serious look, the way a doctor on television talks to a patient.

“What you need is a battle plan. So here's what you want to do. Never throw out something that can be recycled. Learn a little bit about the Earth, whether it is getting colder or warmer or whatever. Lots of people are talking about that kind of stuff these days. You might even want to read a newspaper. Then you have something to chat her up about. Get it?”

“Yes. It makes total sense.”

“Maybe find out which countries kids are dying in. Maybe do a school project about it. Are you following me? So let's say she's worrying about kids dying in Sri Lanka, you can do a project with her.” Billy rubs his hands together. “Whatever you do, don't be one-dimensional.”

It all makes sense to me. And it's all right in front of my eyes. I just need Billy to get me focused, kind of like needing a coach to get a team to gel. There's nothing better than having a big brother.

I get up to go, nodding. “Thanks, Billy.”

“Oh, and here's another thing. There's probably going to be some stiff competition. Play it cool, Chollie. Play it cool. And watch out for these other snakes that are going to be smoothing on her. Strike while the iron is hot, and remember: the early bird gets the worm.”

So there I am, walking down the hall with a big smile on my face and thinking about Miranda Mullaly. Out of the blue, Ralph Waldo comes up to me and starts blabbering on about something.

“What are you talking about?” I ask him.

“What did Sharon say?” he asks, practically drooling on himself.

“Oh, Ralph, you are a pain in the neck,” I say, because that's what I really think. See, Ralph's in love with my sister Sharon, who's in the seventh grade. And since last semester Ralph has been giving me these messages to pass along, which are actually questionnaires. It's pathetic. And I don't give them to Sharon, because Sharon's my sister and Sharon's crazy. Just to give you an example, on Sharon's birthday she wanted to go to an art museum. I mean, an art museum? Really? And she reads these books by Jane Austen that are in English and sound like soap operas. You can tell Ralph Waldo doesn't have sisters simply because he thinks I talk to my sisters. I'm actually doing him a favor by throwing his embarrassing love notes in the trash.

“So, come on, Sam, did you talk to her?” Ralph really wants to know.

“Listen, Ralph, let me explain something to you about girls. . . .”

And then it hits me, right there in the hall by the main office.

It hits me that now, for the first time in my life, having two sisters might be an advantage. I can learn from them. I can observe them, the way scientists watch animals, to better understand them. Here I am, sandwiched between a sister in seventh grade and a sister in ninth grade. Of course, if my sisters had hearts and were normal, I could ask them a thing or two about the fairer sex, but, unfortunately, I have a special breed of sister.

So I take Ralph's stupid questionnaire and pretend to find a place for it in my back pocket but then toss it in the trash when I go to English class.

All I can think about all day is Miranda, and before I know it, school is over and basketball practice is over and here I am at home sitting at the dinner table. I didn't bring a notebook to record what they say, but I run up to my room as soon as it's over. Here's what I got:

Maureen (ninth grade): Is that my sweater?

Sharon (seventh grade): You said I could borrow it.

Maureen: I said you could
maybe
borrow it.

Sharon: I thought you said I could borrow it.

Maureen: I was going to wear it tomorrow.

Sharon: You can still wear it. It's clean.

Maureen: All I ask is people respect my things, is that so hard?

Dad: Please pass the peas.

Sharon: You can wear something of mine tomorrow.

Maureen: Your things are too small.

Sharon: What are you saying?

Maureen: I'm saying I can't fit in your clothes.

Dad: Please pass the peas, please.

I pass the peas to Dad and then everyone is quiet.

Maureen: Is your purple sweater clean?

Sharon: Yes.

Maureen: Maybe I can wear that tomorrow?

Sharon: Sure. You look great in that sweater.

Maureen: Do you think?

Sharon: Oh my gosh, yes!

Maureen: You look good in mine.

Dad: Is there any more chicken?

This is about all I can stand and all I can remember, but it's a pretty good start. Girls, obviously, like clothes and really think about what they're going to wear.

So here's my three-point plan:

1. Make a special point of noticing Miranda's clothes. Definitely compliment her on her amazing style, color scheme, etc.

2. No more pranks, no more thumbtacks. Miranda Mullaly is a serious girl and I'm really going to have to turn over that new leaf if we're going to be a couple. I even wrap up my favorite thumbtack in one of Mom's old scarves and put it in the top drawer of my bureau.

So my three-point plan isn't exactly three points, but it is a plan, and now that I have a plan, I feel pretty good about things. First thing I need to do tomorrow is make Miranda my lab partner. I'll ask her before class even begins, right after I say something nice about the clothes she's wearing. It's foolproof.

After school I further contemplated the Miranda affair. What I couldn't understand was why, exactly, she kept me from sitting on the tack? If I were a meathead like Chollie Muller, I'd probably go up to her and say something like, “Excuse me, duh, I was, um, wondering, duh, if you'd like to, duh, um, duh . . .” But I have a brain, and with a brain comes the ability to analyze situations. Unfortunately, however, I couldn't get the image of her smiling face out of my head. I simply couldn't think clearly. I didn't know what to do next.

I played with my dinner while both my parents, Neal and Cassandra Samagura, ignored me. They're sociologists and are pretty much paid to observe others, which is ironic, since they always ignore me. They're finishing up a book together,
Ethel's Story: The Untold
Tale of Unplanned Pregnancy in Urban America
.
4
If I were a mean person, I'd introduce them to MTV so they could see their “untold” story has actually been told
ad nauseam
.
5

Apparently Ethel's school, where Neal and Cassandra often observe her, is pretty crappy. God forbid they take an interest in me and see how substandard Penn Valley is.

Anyway, if they ever did get around to asking me how my day was, and that's a big
if
, this is what I would tell them.

It's not easy for someone like me to be a student at Penn Valley Middle School. The school is no good. The students are vapid creatures who think William Shakespeare is a rapper and believe Tupac is still alive. The teachers aren't any better, punching the clock, drinking from the public trough, and looking forward to their next undeserved day off. Mr. Minkin, my English teacher, thinks
A
Separate
Peace
is great literature.

Then I remembered Mrs. Stempen said we'd be choosing new lab partners tomorrow. I wished I could drop a note in Miranda's locker, but I don't know precisely where her locker is. So my best bet would be to strike up a conversation before class.

One thing was very clear: I would have to get Miranda's attention in an overt way. No more quietly getting straight As and leaving it at that. This was a woman with class, and, as Sherlock Holmes would say, this was a woman with a mind.

“How was your day at school, dear?” Cassandra asked me as we sipped our after-dinner tea.

I was about to comment on their poor parenting, but then a smile came across my face as I remembered Miranda's kind eyes.

“It was the best day ever,” I told her. And part of me knew it was true.