The BEDMAS Conspiracy (3 page)

“Yeah, I saw Andrea heading into the dog pound. Do you mind if I sit in for the rest of the auditions?” he asked. “My dad has a garage band, so I know a little bit about this stuff.”

Daniela and I happily said yes. Next up was Patrick Stoneman. He carefully took out his violin.

“Great squeak box!” enthused Sludge.

After Patrick came Amanda Tupper and her saxophone.

“Wild! She can really work that popsicle stick!” laughed Sludge appreciatively.

“Totally! One hundred percent!” Daniela and I agreed, pretending we knew what he was talking about.

It was almost dinner time. Auditions were winding down and we were still searching for two people who could play the guitar.

Sludge summed it up, “We gotta find some sidemen soon.”

Last up were Beena and Meena Zellerpin. Identical twins, Meena and Beena were never far from each other. They had the same classes, ate at the same table, and had the same friends. They talked alike, walked alike, and ate alike—peanut butter and Swiss cheese sandwiches garnished with a dill pickle. They liked the same boys, hated the same food (pizza!) and finished each other's sentences. The only way to tell them apart was by their clothes. They dressed alike, of course, but Beena was always in blue and Meena was always in mauve.

“Blue. Starts with a B, just like Beena,” explained Beena.

“Mauve. Starts with an M, just like Meena,” said Meena.

Truthfully, most of J.R. Wilcott thought of them as one person—the Z's.

“Think they'll share a guitar?” whispered Daniela when they walked into the room.

Today they were dressed in polka-dotted skirts and fur-trimmed sweaters—Beena's, blue, and Meena's, mauve, of course.

“I hope you don't mind—” started Beena.

“—if we hold our auditions together,” finished Meena.

Beena was holding a teal bass and Meena had a purple electric guitar.

“One, two—one, two, three, four,” they counted off together before starting to strum. They played cleanly, quickly, and in perfect unison. Together, they swayed from side to side. They stopped playing at exactly the same moment.

“Do you guys mind if I beat the skins while you two do your thing?” Sludge asked the twins.

“Not at all,” answered the Z's.

Beena's bass vibrated smoothly against Meena's slick guitar strokes as Sludge provided a steady beat. They sounded like they'd been practicing together for years, which in Beena's and Meena's case, was probably true.

Daniela and I looked at each other. It appeared we had our band: Daniela Olafson belting out the tunes; Sludge pounding the drums; Beena Z on her blue bass; Meena Z beside her on a mauve axe (I was picking up a lot from Sludge!); and, finally, Adam Margols playing one or two chords on the piano.

Sick on a Snow Day was set.

M
y mom had made fried chicken for dinner. Usually, I'd devour three pieces before the rest of my family had even sat down at the table. But tonight I had bigger and better things on my mind.

“Shmick on a Shmow Shay ish shmoing to shwin thish eashily!” I was too excited to swallow my baked potato.

“Stop talking with your mouth full,” lectured my mother. “We can't understand a word you're saying.”

My older brother could. “You haven't even had your first practice yet, and already you're accepting the trophy,” laughed Josh. “That's a lot of confidence for a guy who can only play two notes on the piano.”

“Even I can play better than you, and I'm only seven,” said my little sister Abigail.

“I might not be able to play well, but the resht of the shmand can,” I replied, dribbling ketchup down my chin.

My cousin had better manners. She swallowed her food before joining in. “We've really got some good players. The Z's are amazing! You've got to hear them.”

“The Z's,” said my father. “Aren't they the identical twins who dress alike and talk alike?”

“You know, Uncle Stephen, I thought all they could do was pick out their coordinating purple and blue outfits, but it turns out they're amazing on their axes!”

“Axes?” asked my mom worriedly.

“We got Sludge playing the drums,” explained Daniela.

“Yup, he pounds the skins for Sick on a Snow Day,” I said as I tried to clean ketchup off the front of my shirt.

“Ah, that eighth-grade boy who likes Shakespeare and pulling fire alarms,” said my mom, nodding her head.

“Well, I don't like the name, Sick on a Snow Day. It's stupid,” said Abigail. I could always count on her to speak her mind whether I liked it or not.

“Now that you mention it,” started Josh, “it does lack a bit of pizzazz. Who came up with it?”

My mom knew how hard I'd worked at coming up with the perfect name. “I like it,” she said. “Although I also like the name,
Studying for the
Big Geometry Test
. No matter what you call your band, if you want to stay in it, there had better be an improvement in your marks, Adam.”

My heart sank. I knew what my mom meant. I needed to prepare for tomorrow's big test. After dinner I tried, as my parents like to say,
to buckle
down and study
. I really did! But it was impossible to concentrate on numbers when we had just assembled such a cool band. When it came to math, it was easier to think of music and just hope for the best tomorrow.

I
realized how much trouble I was in when I woke up the next morning.

"I'm so glad I learned the formulas Sunday night,” said Daniela at the breakfast table. “I was too excited to concentrate on anything serious last night.”

“Formulas?” I asked, in between bites of cereal.

“You didn't bother learning the formulas for today's test?” she asked incredulously. “How will you know how to find the surface area of a triangle or the volume of a sphere? How are you going to pass the test, Adam?”

She paused for a second. “Your dad is going to kill you!” she added, in case she hadn't made her point.

Panicking, I raced up to my room. I grabbed my math book, found chapter eleven and jotted down a few formulas on a small Post-It note. Hopefully I could learn them on the ride to school.

Unfortunately, Mr. Papernick was also my homeroom teacher. That meant I started every day off with mathematics. He was waiting for us with what looked to be a thick stack of papers. Nervously, I took my seat. I took out the little square of paper and scanned it quickly. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the formulas. Nothing. Again I looked at the paper and closed my eyes.
Nada
. Not one number.

Concentrating on school had always been a problem for me. But I had never considered cheating. Until now. The stakes were high. It was important I pass this test—more than important. If I wanted to be in the talent show, I needed to get a passing grade and keep my parents off my back. I promised myself it would only be a one-time thing. Just a few formulas that I would definitely learn at home tonight.

I stuck the Post-It up my sleeve. It was perfectly hidden. Mr. Papernick started to hand out the test. Allan Alter scanned the test and let out a depressed sigh. Jonathan Azam looked at the first page and put his head down on his desk. I was desperate! Just this once, I told myself again. I would make it up by doing extra equations for the next three weeks. Mr. Papernick handed Andrea Hackenpack the test. Even straight-A student Andrea looked worried. I needed my cheat sheet!

I made a deal with myself. I would use the cheat sheet today, learn all of the formulas tonight, and then take the test again on the weekend. And do extra homework for the next three weeks. It seemed like a good deal. It would make up for the cheating, I told myself.

“Here you go, Mr. Laken,” said Mr. Papernick as he handed his test to Sam Laken.

He was getting closer and closer to handing a test to Mr. Adam Margols. Me—a cheater. A cheater who was starting to sweat buckets. Beads of perspiration dripped down my neck. I wiped away the droplets. My hands were starting to tremble. Between the sweaty palms and the shaking, it became increasingly hard to grip my pencil.

Mr. Papernick headed down my row. “Good luck, Ms. Mackie,” he said as he gave Darcy Mackie the test.

In a few seconds, I would have my test and I would cheat my way to a passing grade. My pencil slipped from my sweaty grip and rolled on the floor. I reached down to pick it up. But my sweaty, shaking fingers made it hard to grasp. After what felt like an eternity, I finally managed to pick it up. But, by the time I did, I realized I couldn't go through with my plan. I may have been a daydreamer who couldn't add, but I wasn't a cheater. I would just have to fail the test and deal with my parents.

I bolted from my seat and headed to the garbage can. The illicit sticky note was giving me a big, psychic paper cut. I just wanted to get rid of it. I was ready to take the test and get a good old-fashioned F. My parents would be angry but I'd promise to do extra math every night—perhaps even get a tutor. Maybe I could take a re-test next week.

My hands were still wet with perspiration. Just three steps away from the garbage pail...

“Hey,” said a squeaky voice. It was Eldrick Hooperberg. “You dropped something, Adam.”

Eldrick leaned over and picked up the little yellow piece of paper which had somehow unglued itself from inside my sleeve and slipped to the floor. He waved it above his head, formulas flashing for all to see. Panicking, I looked Eldrick directly in the eye, hoping he'd realize he should clam up. He completely ignored my signal.

Mr. Papernick wasted no time swooping in. “Well, well—what have we here? I'll take that, Mr. Hoopenbaum.”

“Hooperberg,” corrected Eldrick weakly.

“It appears we have ourselves a cheat sheet, Mr. Margols.” Mr. Papernick frowned as he studied it. “Though I'm not sure if this sorry attempt would have improved your chances of getting through this test.”

“But...I...
aargh
.” I tried to protest, but my voice seemed to have stopped working. I was in big trouble. At best, I would have to set up camp in detention. At worst, I would be grounded forever. And how could I be in a band if I could never leave my room? There was a good chance that my dream of winning Wilcott's Got Talent was over.

Why, oh why, couldn't Eldrick Hooperberg have kept his mouth shut? A brainiac like Eldrick would have known exactly what that piece of paper was. He'd brought me down—on purpose—and I was never going to forgive him! My eyes shot daggers at him as Mr. Papernick sent me away to the office.

M
y day quickly went from bad to worse. First, I had to sit through a lecture by Principal Losman. Then I had to write the test in the office and wait for Mr. Papernick. When he came at recess, he gave me his own lecture. Two lectures were not ideal, but I could have lived with it if it was my full punishment. It was not. Mr. Papernick concluded his speech with the seven words no kid ever wants to hear:
I'll be speaking to your parents tonight
. He didn't look very happy.