The (Almost) Perfect Guide To Imperfect Boys (3 page)

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Wash your face,” I snapped. “And watch where you're going!”

Which probably sounded like his mom or something, because he turned bright red.

“Zachary's kissing Finley,” Jarret sang. “Zachary's kissing—”

“Your butt,” Kyle announced, and everybody started laughing.

In seventh grade, our third year at Fulton Middle, Zachary finally stopped the dangling-gummy routine, but not the obnoxious jokes. Or the general social cluelessness. Chloe started having these huge-ormous parties in her basement (which is like half the size of the Fulton Middle School gym) and Zachary would just show up. Uninvited. People ignored him the first few times, but by the fourth party Chloe was furious. She waited until he was standing by the pizza; then she came over and said loudly, in front of like a dozen people, “Um, Zachary? Did someone ask you here? Because you know,
I didn't
.”

“But I did,” Maya lied. Not because she felt sorry for him, she told me afterward, but because she hated how all of a sudden Chloe was acting like Miss Seventh Grade.

Except Zachary didn't even get that he was being saved. He didn't look at Maya, or thank her, he just took a huge gulp of Fanta, burped loudly, and commented, “Nice party for someone with
deginitis
.” Then he stood there guffawing like it was the most hilarious joke in the world.

So naturally everyone kept thinking:
Total Loser.

Because let's face it, he was. I mean, even by seventh-grade Tadpole standards.

But the exact way he went from Total Loser to Freakazoid was something I never really knew, mainly because I'd stopped paying attention. That was because for some warped reason I still can't figure out, I was suddenly madly, hopelessly in crush with Kyle Parker. (It didn't even bother me that he was a Croaker with skin issues, or that he talked about nothing except boring football.) The crush was absolutely over by spring break last year, but it kept me from noticing other boys there for a while.

Anyway, my point is, for most of last year pretty much all that registered about Zachary was the Official Gossip. Namely, that he'd “freaked out” during some kind of fight with Jarret (as in, throwing things, throwing punches, generally “acting freaky”). During that fight, Jarret started calling him Freakazoid, and everyone else immediately followed. And according to the Official Gossip, Jarret's parents showed up at school the next day, demanding that Fisher-Greenglass kick Zachary out.

So she did.

At least, that's what everybody said.

After that no one saw him. Somebody's mom (I think maybe Kyle's) talked to Zachary's mom in the A&P and found out there were “family difficulties,”
which sounded like a polite way of saying “divorce.” Somebody mean (I'm pretty sure Jarret) said that maybe when Zachary's parents split up, they flipped a coin to see who'd get stuck with Zachary. And Zachary's dad lost, so Zachary went off to live with him somewhere. Or maybe they'd shipped him off to Loser School, Chloe said. Like on another planet.

But whatever happened, here he was again now, back at Fulton Middle, as if he thought all would be forgiven. Or forgotten. Which, I'm sorry, was just insane.

I mean, if he wasn't crazy before, and he really thought he could just show up a few months before graduation, and everyone would be all,
Hey there, Zachary, long time no see,
he had to be crazy now. Because the thing about this school was, people remembered
everything
.

For example: Those dorky I
Our Planet valentines I e-mailed to the whole class in fifth grade? Just a week ago Micayla Hoffman asked to borrow some loose-leaf paper, “or you could e-mail me some to heart our planet, ha ha.”

Or the time in sixth grade when I trimmed my own bangs and ended up with a crooked fringe two inches above my eyebrows? Ben Santino
still
does this
snipping-scissors motion when he passes me in the hall. I'm totally not exaggerating.

And if you compare those stupid things to what Zachary did, or anyway to the Official Gossip version of what he did—

“Time,” Señor Hansen called. “Pencils down.”

Olivia looked up. She was teeny, with beautiful cocoa-colored skin and almond-shaped eyes. Everything about her was adorable—she wore lots of pink, had a thing for Hello Kitty, and her voice chirped. “Oh, pleeeeease, Mr. Hansen, can't we have a little longer? The period's not even over yet.”

“Tests are full period; quizzes aren't,” he replied, as if he were reciting a rule from the Official Teacher's Handbook. “You just need to pace yourself better next time.”

“I
did
pace myself. There were just too many conjugations!”

“Oh, come on, Señor Hansen,” Chloe called out in this fake-sweet voice. “Why can't you give us five more minutes? We won't tell.”

Jarret started laughing. Uncontrollably. In an embarrassing way that was almost Tadpole, actually.

Señor Hansen didn't answer. He snatched Chloe's
quiz, then Jarret's, and then hulked up and down the rows, snatching everybody else's. When he got to mine, he flipped it over to the mostly blank side.

“Was there a problem, Finley?” he asked, much too loudly for it to be private.

“Not really,” I said. “I guess it's kind of a pacing thing.”

“So if you
knew
time management was an issue, why were you late for class?”

“Um,” I answered. Instead of:
Well, you see, we were kind of stalking Zachary Mattison. Who's a Frog but possibly also an imposter, because how else could he have skipped over Croaker? It doesn't make sense.

Señor Hansen was staring at me. Waiting for my brain to click on.

Still waiting.

Still waiting.

“Mr. Hansen, it's all my fault,” Maya announced. “I asked Finley to take my yearbook photo, and we lost track of the time.”

“Finley's taking yearbook photos?” Olivia asked excitedly.

“Retakes,” Maya answered. “Why? You want her to do yours?”

“Yes! Have you seen my picture? I look hideous.”

“Olivia, dearest, you always look hideous,” Chloe said. She yanked out her lobster-claw hair clip, shook her shiny, medium-brown hair, then gave herself a new messy bun/ponytail exactly like the one she'd just undone. What was bizarre was that everyone watched, like it was the coolest, most fascinating thing ever.

“Shut up,” Olivia said, sticking out her tongue at Chloe. “I hate you, Chloe.”

“Well, that's too bad, because I love you.”

Maya flashed me a look like,
Excuse me while I barf.

“Girls,” Señor Hansen warned in a scary-quiet voice. “That. Is. Enough.”

Olivia turned to me with begging hands.
“Would
you take my picture, Finley? Pleeease?”

“Sure,” I said. “Although I just got the camera. And I'm not really—”

“She's amazing,” Maya insisted. “Don't worry, it'll be great.”

“Excuse me,”
Señor Hansen bellowed. “But does anyone here realize they happen to be sitting in
my classroom
?”

“Sorry,” Maya said quickly. She gave him her radiant smile, the one she usually saved for the end of her
gymnastic routines. “I guess we thought, you know, Mr. Hansen, since there were only a few minutes left anyway—”

“That you could waste our precious class time discussing yearbook photos?” Señor Hansen dropped the quizzes on his desk with a thud. “You know what I think? I think maybe we should have a full-period
test
tomorrow. Because it seems
that's
the only way to get you people to focus on Spanish.”

Everyone groaned.

Chloe did a fake-cheery smile. “Well, thanks a lot, Maya,” she said sarcastically.

“It's not her fault,” I murmured.

“Right, Finley, it never is.”

I glanced at Maya, but she was pretending to copy the homework assignment. And turning a shade of red that was not fabutastic.

And I thought:
Zachary wanted to come back to this?

I mean, seriously, you would have to be crazy.

At dismissal, Olivia was sucking in her cheeks runway-style, which made her look like she was trying to whistle. Then she pushed her hair so that it fell over one eye. The other eye looked hurt. Like someone was stepping on her foot.

“Um,” I said, as I looked up from the camera. “Actually, I think it's better if the photo is candid.”

“You mean casual?” Her forehead puckered. “That
could
work. You have to do it soon, though. Because Sabrina says the yearbook deadline is Friday.”

Sabrina Leftwich was yearbook editor. She was also starting center on the girls' basketball team. I
was on the team too, but mostly I played bench.

“We can do it tomorrow,” I promised Olivia. “But maybe you should just ask someone else.”

“No, no. You
have
to take my picture, Finley. Please, I'm begging you.”

We were standing on the steps in front of school, the way we sometimes did at dismissal. Don't ask why. It was one of those leftover rituals from when we were all best friends—Maya, me, Olivia, Hanna MacPherson. The four of us hadn't really hung out together since the days when we belonged to Green Girls, and played soccer every weekend, and spent Saturday nights in sleeping bags on each other's floors. It was weird—we'd never had a fight or anything dramatic like that, but we weren't a troop anymore, or a bunch of friends, either, really. It was mostly like every other day or so we four needed to check in with each other:
You still there? Cool. Okay, see you around sometime. Bye.

Now Maya was walking over to us with Hanna, who sometime last year fell madly in love with her viola. On weekends she was in maybe three different orchestras, and on weekdays she was either taking lessons or practicing after school. It was a bit scary
intense, if you asked me, but then, I'd personally never been all extracurricular.

“Omigosh,” Hanna was groaning. “How do you guys
stand
it?”

“Hansen,” Maya explained to Olivia and me. “I just told her about today.”

“I am
so glad
I'm in the other Spanish class,” Hanna exclaimed. “Señora Phillips made us guacamole. Then she taught us to rumba.”

Olivia slapped the side of her head. “Are you serious? She's giving you guys food, while Hairy Hands is giving us—”

“Torture,” I finished.

“ ‘Pop exercises,' ”
Maya said. “Irregular-verb lists. Ack, Finley, can you believe I opened my big mouth?”

“You were incredibly brave,” I said, patting her back.

“I was incredibly stupid. Now he's giving us a full-period test tomorrow, thanks to me,” she informed Hanna.

“Sick sick sick,” Hanna said. She flipped her long blond hair over one shoulder, and then stroked it, a kind of mermaid move. But she wasn't showing off her gorgeous hair; even though Hanna was pretty, she
wasn't stuck-up about it. I mean, as far as I knew; I barely saw her these days, so I didn't feel comfortable having an opinion.

Maya caught my eye. “Speaking of sick.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Didn't you tell O yet?”

“Tell me what?” Olivia's face lit up. She lived for gossip, I swear.

“It's not even something we know for sure,” I said quickly.

“It's
probably
true,” Maya corrected me. “I mean, obviously, right? Because of that meeting at lunch? With Fisher-Greenglass?”

“What meeting?” Olivia asked, fluttering her hands. “Pleeease tell us, you guys!”

Maya wound her purple wool scarf around her neck. Then she shifted her book bag from one shoulder to the other. She was waiting for me to say it, apparently.
Fine,
I thought.
I will.

“Zachary Mattison is coming back,” I announced.

“Who?” Hanna asked, glancing at her cell.

“Freakazoid,” Maya said.

Olivia gaped. “Are you serious?”

“Uh-
huh
. Finley and I talked to him at lunch. He
still had to hear from Fisher-Greenglass, but—”

“And did he still have all those gummies hanging out of his—”

“No,” I said. “He didn't.”

“But wasn't he, like, kicked out of school for life?” Hanna asked.

“Apparently not.” Maya shrugged. “Oh, and by the way, he's totally hot now. Ask Finley.”

Hanna and Olivia looked at me.

“Yeah, I
guess
he's cute,” I said, as if it had never occurred to me before right this second. “Cuter than he used to be. Taller. His hair covers up his ears and everything. But really, you guys, he's still Zachary.”