The (Almost) Perfect Guide To Imperfect Boys (17 page)

“—but it's based on boy immaturity?”

Maya and I exchanged glances.

“Yeah, basically,” I said. “But not just physical. It was more about their behavior.”

“Also their manners, right?” Hanna said eagerly. “Which I totally think is a huge big deal.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I guess it depends.” I sighed. “You know, I don't understand how Zachary even got my cell number.”

Maya started zipping and unzipping her sleeping bag.

“And anyhow,” I said slowly. “I really meant it when I told people that I'm done with the
Life Cycle
. And so is Maya.”

“I was done with it first,” Maya said. “Technically.”

“Oh, but why, you guys? It's genius,” Hanna exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, thanks, but that's slightly—”

“No, no, it's true; everyone loves it,” Olivia interrupted. “Well, okay, not
everyone.
Not the boys, obviously.
And not Chloe and Sabrina. But yesterday, after science, all the other girls in our class were calling it brilliant.”

“They were?” I said, shocked. “Like who?”

Olivia started counting on her fingers. “Sophie, Dahlia, Micayla—”

Maya's cell rang. Our eyes met.

“Answer it,” I told Maya. “But just hang up if it's them, okay? Don't talk!”

She jumped up to get the cell from her jeans, which she'd draped over my desk chair. “Hel
lo
?” she said in a warning voice.

Hanna, Olivia and I crowded around Maya. We could hear croaking. A chorus of pseudofrog music.

“Ha ha, hilarious,” Maya snapped. “Do you think we don't know who this is?”

“Hang up,” I hissed.

She ignored me. “All you're doing is proving our point, that you're all hopelessly immature. Go ahead, keep making jerk noises. I can't
believe
you'll be graduating from middle school in a few months.
It's such a joke
.”

Maya flung her cell on my bed.

“Gah,” she said. “How humiliating.”

“They only humiliated themselves,” Hanna said soothingly, patting Maya's back. “It's like what bratty
little kids do in third grade. Although funny that that was Zachary. I mean, he doesn't seem like the prank-caller type.”

“Um, I'm not supersure about that,” I said slowly.

“What do you mean?” Hanna asked.

“Finley knows Zachary better than anyone,” Maya announced. She jutted her chin at me, as if she thought I'd argue that point. “It's true, Fin. You do.”

And I had to admit that maybe I did, but that was only because everyone else had decided he was Freakazoid. And then Cute Boy. And then didn't bother to get to know the real person.

“Listen,” I said. “I'm not saying Zachary is un-nice, or anything. Just that I think he's sort of complicated, so I wouldn't assume there's stuff he
wouldn't
do. And right now he's definitely mad at me, so there's that.” I took a breath. “Plus the calls were from
his phone
—the caller ID said Mattison.”

“That doesn't prove it came from
him
,” Hanna argued. “Zachary was at Chloe's house tonight, wasn't he? Someone at the party could have been using his phone. And that would explain how he got Finley's cell number.”

“True,” Maya said. “For all we know, it could have been Chloe and Sabrina.”

“No way,” Olivia said. “Chloe would never do something like that.”

Maya raised her eyebrows. “In other words, Olivia, you're sticking up for Chloe. Because you guys are such tight friends, right?”

“Hey, I'm not sticking up for anybody,” Olivia answered. “And frankly, I'm not even sure I
want
to be Chloe's friend anymore. Or Sabrina's, either.”

“Seriously?” Maya said.

“Not after what they did with Finley's notebook. Not to mention the whole party business.”

“What whole party business?” I asked.

Olivia fluttered her hands through her hair.

“Tell us,” Maya said. “Olivia,
what
whole party business?”

“Fine,” Olivia blurted. “I was the one who invited you guys to Chloe's. Not Chloe.”

Maya punched the air. “Ha, I
knew
it! Didn't I, Finley? Didn't I say
exactly
that thing, that I didn't believe Chloe's so-called invitation?”

“Yeah, you did,” I said impatiently. “But let's forget about the Stupid Party, okay, you guys? About the
calls
—”

“Which Chloe would never do,” Olivia said flatly.
“She'd totally think prank calls were babyish.”

Hanna nodded. “I agree. Chloe's big thing is acting all cool and sophisticated. I can't imagine her making frog noises.”

“Mayyybe,” Maya said. “I personally think that girl is capable of anything.”

“Can we please stay on topic?” I begged. “All we know for sure is that the calls were made on Zachary's phone during Chloe's party, and that it was at least two people.”

Maya poked my ribs. “Woo, Nancy Drew.”

I poked hers back.

“All right, but that still doesn't prove it was Zachary,” Hanna insisted.

Maya crossed her arms. “Hanna, it sounds like you're trying to prove he's innocent. Don't tell me you
like
him.”

“Of course not,” Hanna replied. But she was blushing hard. “I just think we need more facts before we accuse anyone. A lot of things could have happened. Maybe a bunch of idiot boys borrowed Zachary's phone while he was dancing, or something.”

I didn't know which was worse—Zachary prank-
calling my cell with a bunch of Croakers, or Zachary going to Chloe's party without me and dancing, presumably
with
someone. Both of those images were unthinkable, so un-Zachary.

But who was Zachary, anyway? As I rezipped myself into my smelly sleeping bag, I mentally scrolled through all the Zacharys I knew:

Uber-Tadpole.

Freakazoid.

Frog.

Frog-plus.

Possibly Prince.

Liar (about the wrist tattoo).

Cyborg-mannered conversationalist.

Repeater.

Hook-shotter.

Frog with Croaker tendencies.

Croaker hero.

Nice boy in library.

Stepbrother in borrowed clothes.

Prank caller.

Crush. (All right, mine. For a little while. But in the past tense, the imperfect, because it happened for like a day and a half. Maya's too, obviously, also in
the imperfect. And Hanna's, but in the present tense. Probably Dahlia's. Other girls too, I bet.)

And this wasn't even a complete list. Maybe there were other Zacharys I hadn't even met yet. Maybe the more time I'd spend with this person, the less I'd know who he really was.

If I'd even spend more time with Zachary.

If I even wanted to.

To be honest, I was dreading breakfast the next morning, because I had a feeling the four of us would still be arguing about the calls. But what I forgot was the Davis Chaos factor, the way Sunday breakfasts at our house were plate-spinning extravaganzas, with the Terribles zooming around the kitchen flinging Smiley-O's and screaming, Dad talking back to NPR and flipping pancakes (today, chocolate chip), and Mom blaring her Zumba DVD in the TV room. So it wasn't exactly like we could have a sane, civilized panel discussion on What to Do If He Calls Back.

Anyway, immediately after breakfast, everyone left. And when Mom finished her shower, she knocked on my door.

“Well?” she said. “So you're probably mad at me for interfering, right? But can I just say something first? I'm not asking for all the gory details, but I knew
something
was going on friendwise. And I'd wanted to have a troop reunion for a long time, regardless. So on Friday, when you came home from school, and I could see you were extremely upset—”

I jumped up from the bed and hugged her. Her body was radiating warmth from the shower, and she smelled like the shampoo version of strawberry. “The troop reunion was great, Mom, really. Don't apologize; I loved it. And thank you.”

“Oh,” she said, beaming. “Then everything is good with you girls?”

“Everything is great with us girls.” I paused. “Not
so
great with the boys.”

“Ah,
the boys
,” she said. “I don't think s'mores work as well on boys.” She laughed. “Although truthfully, I wouldn't know what does. Eighth-grade boys were always a mystery to me.”

• • •

Monday morning my stomach felt fluttery, so I just kept reminding myself what Hanna and Olivia had said—that (most of) the girls in the class liked the
Life Cycle
, they thought it was funny and smart, lalala. And even though their approval made me uneasy, at least I could show my face at Fulton Middle School.

And, sure enough, when I walked into homeroom, a bunch of girls led by Dahlia and Sophie immediately swarmed my desk, asking about the science binder.

Where is it now?
(Um, home.)

Can we read it?
(Um, maybe later.)

Are Dylan and Zachary the only Frogs?
(Um, not sure. But it all keeps changing.)

What did you put for Jarret? (Ben, Drew, Kyle, etc.)
(Um, don't remember.)

Why did you guys stop writing it?
(Um, well. It's kind of a long story. . . .)

The whole time I was answering (or not answering) these questions, Maya sat silently at the desk next to mine, chewing her lower lip. I felt awful that she'd been dragged into this, but I was also wishing she'd chime in with some of the answers.

Meanwhile, from the other side of the room, I could feel Chloe and Sabrina giving me the evil eye.
What were they so mad about? I wondered. Possibly it was Wrath on Behalf of the Boys. Although that would be ironic, considering that (a) they'd always been mean to most of the Croakers and to all of the Tadpoles, and (b) if they truly cared about boy feelings, why did they read my notebook out loud?

As for the boys, they were completely ignoring me. Not looking at me, not talking to me. Literally none of them. Not even Dylan. And not Zachary. But they were huddled together, snickering in a way that creeped me out.

So homeroom that Monday was ubercomplicated. Too much attention, the death stare, the silent treatment—all of it going on at once, from different directions. Kind of the school version of the Davis Chaos, with me as the only Davis.

As soon as the bell rang, I walked straight over to Zachary's desk.

“We need to talk,” I announced.

He shrugged. “What about?”

“You called Saturday night? On my cell?”

“I did?” He scratched his nose. “I don't remember. I was kind of busy Saturday night. At a party you invited me to?”

“Yeah, well, sorry about the party, but it turns out I wasn't invited there myself.” I was about to explain about Chloe's noninvitation, but Zachary slung his backpack over his shoulder impatiently, like he was in a big hurry to get to science. So I blurted: “And I'm sorry I lied to you about the mnemonics. And I'm
really
sorry if my notebook hurt your feelings. But it was supposed to be private.”

“Anything else?”

“What? No. That's a lot to be sorry for.”

“Yeah, Finley, it is.”

I waited, but he didn't say another word.

“So that's it?” I sputtered. “You're not going to accept my apology?
Any
of them? You're just going to keep making stupid prank calls like a stupid frog?”

“No, I've evolved past phone calls.” And he walked off to join Drew Looper and Ben Santino, who slapped his backpack and did the Croaker laugh.

• • •

In science that morning we had a test, so at least I didn't need to work on a lab with Zachary. And the next two periods—English and math—also passed without major incidents. By that I mean no interaction with Zachary—which after homeroom was a relief.

But fourth period was art, when we were supposed to turn in our “sunflower-inspired” project. Last night, after sort-of-studying for the eighty millionth quiz on irregular Spanish verbs, I finally took out my sketch pad to draw something unique, something with “character.” And I tried to think of an object that was important to me—but the only thing that came to mind was my camera. So I drew my camera in a bunch of different poses—zoom out, zoom in. But every drawing still looked flat, stick-figurey, generic, the opposite of van Gogh's imperfect droopy sunflowers.

And then I thought about my photos, especially the ones I'd taken of Maya, Olivia, and Zachary. They weren't Diane Arbus–good; they weren't anybody-good, not even close. But they weren't cloney or year-booky or fake pretty. And wasn't that the point of the whole assignment? To really see something the way it actually looked?

I answered myself: Why yes, Finley, it was.

Anyhow, for the first time ever in the history of art classes, I actually felt proud of something I'd done. So when Ms. Cronin asked for a volunteer to share their sunflower project, I walked to the front of the studio with my photos of Maya, Olivia, and Zachary.

“I know we were supposed to do a drawing,” I said. “But I thought the important thing was to show individual character. So I took these photographs—”

Chloe waved her hand. She didn't wait for Ms. Cronin to call on her. “Finley?” she called out. “You care about
individual character
? I just think that's really so, so fascinating.”

Ms. Cronin smiled. “Why, Chloe?”

“Oh, because what Finley is saying—that her photography is like the opposite of stereotyping—is so different from what you'd expect. I mean, based on
other things
.”