earth I made it home.
15.
M y Friday starts well, with an Eric sighting across the courtyard. He is bouncing a basketball, first with one hand then the other, through the gap between his walking legs. Just the sight of his broad shoulders and big hands makes me stop and watch until he’s out of sight.
It’s the second day of detention—make that my last day. I have thought of something to write. Desi and I get there early. There’s a lanky-looking guy already sitting down. His legs barely fit under the desk.
“Basketball player,” whispers Desi. “His name’s Coop.”
I already know this. He’s one of the guys in the newspaper group.
I sit quietly, ignoring Dylan, who has come in and chosen to sit right next to me even though the room is full of empty desks, and I steadily fill the white space on the blue-lined paper. I use lots of dialogue, because this comes easily. I write about my first day of school. How Mom gave me my special schoolbag, with the pink lunch box and matching pink thermos, and kissed me quickly on the cheek. “Remember your manners, listen to your teacher, and don’t chase boys,” she’d said.
I write about the smells and the sounds and the strangeness of it all. About the boy who pulled at my hair ribbons. About the girl who became my best friend in five minutes. About the teacher who smelled like some flower that grew in my garden and who reminded me of home so that I cried and had to use her lace handkerchief. About Bella meeting me at lunch break and showing me off to all her friends. “This is my sister,” she’d said. “Don’t mind her, she’s weird.”
There are still five minutes of detention left when I finish counting my words. There are 494. I come up with a heading that takes me over the 500 mark—The First Day of the Rest of My Life. I count again—503.
I glance over at Dylan’s page. He seems to be creating some artwork that has its origins at the gates of hell, with skulls and flames and spider-webs. Nice. Desi has been fidgeting the entire time. She doesn’t seem to have written much.
I stroll up to Ms. Clooney’s desk and patiently wait for her attention. The red second hand on the large wall clock spins smoothly around the dial.
Well, don’t mind me.
Whenever you’re ready.
Finally Ms. Clooney looks up.
“Yes?” she asks.
“I’ve finished.”
I wait while she reads. She is still reading when the end-of-lunch bell sounds.
“Right,” she says finally.
I feel my shoulders drop a little as I relax.
“There’s only one problem,” she says, gathering her work together.
I hear Dylan shift in his seat.
“What?”
“There aren’t five hundred words here,” she says, handing me back the paper.
That’s when I realize she hasn’t been reading at all. She’s been counting the words.
“There are five hundred three words,” I say lamely. “I counted twice.”
“Then you must have counted the title,” she says. “The title doesn’t count.”
I grab a pen to write some extra words, but she is sailing out the door.
“See you Monday,” she says.
I throw the pen at the door as she heads up the hall.
Desi picks it up and hands it back to me. “She really hates you.”
Dylan shakes his head a little.
“Nah,” he says. “As special as Ariel Ariel is, I think Clooney is just mean to everyone.”
He hands me his artwork and turns to go.
He’s out of uniform. I watch him walk out, his skinny-leg jeans clinging to his . . . clinging? Argh! I am losing it. I fix Eric in my mind.
“Pleasant thoughts,” I whisper. “Pleasant thoughts.”
But somehow Eric turns into Dylan, and Dylan’s jeans are on an endless replay loop in my brain.
It’s only later that night that I discover Dylan’s artwork. I’d shoved it into my bag. Instead of the dragons and flames and the weird-looking plant that I’d seen before, it was a new piece. It was just patterns, curling into each other with lines and circles, all done in blue pen. Among
15.
M y Friday starts well, with an Eric sighting across the courtyard. He is bouncing a basketball, first with one hand then the other, through the gap between his walking legs. Just the sight of his broad shoulders and big hands makes me stop and watch until he’s out of sight.
It’s the second day of detention—make that my last day. I have thought of something to write. Desi and I get there early. There’s a lanky-looking guy already sitting down. His legs barely fit under the desk.
“Basketball player,” whispers Desi. “His name’s Coop.”
I already know this. He’s one of the guys in the newspaper group.
I sit quietly, ignoring Dylan, who has come in and chosen to sit right next to me even though the room is full of empty desks, and I steadily fill the white space on the blue-lined paper. I use lots of dialogue, because this comes easily. I write about my first day of school. How Mom gave me my special schoolbag, with the pink lunch box and matching pink thermos, and kissed me quickly on the cheek. “Remember your manners, listen to your teacher, and don’t chase boys,” she’d said.
I write about the smells and the sounds and the strangeness of it all. About the boy who pulled at my hair ribbons. About the girl who became my best friend in five minutes. About the teacher who smelled like some flower that grew in my garden and who reminded me of home so that I cried and had to use her lace handkerchief. About Bella meeting me at lunch break and showing me off to all her friends. “This is my sister,” she’d said. “Don’t mind her, she’s weird.”
There are still five minutes of detention left when I finish counting my words. There are 494. I come up with a heading that takes me over the 500 mark—The First Day of the Rest of My Life. I count again—503.
I glance over at Dylan’s page. He seems to be creating some artwork that has its origins at the gates of hell, with skulls and flames and spider-webs. Nice. Desi has been fidgeting the entire time. She doesn’t seem to have written much.
I stroll up to Ms. Clooney’s desk and patiently wait for her attention. The red second hand on the large wall clock spins smoothly around the dial.
Well, don’t mind me.
Whenever you’re ready.
Finally Ms. Clooney looks up.
“Yes?” she asks.
“I’ve finished.”
I wait while she reads. She is still reading when the end-of-lunch bell sounds.
“Right,” she says finally.
I feel my shoulders drop a little as I relax.
“There’s only one problem,” she says, gathering her work together.
I hear Dylan shift in his seat.
“What?”
“There aren’t five hundred words here,” she says, handing me back the paper.
That’s when I realize she hasn’t been reading at all. She’s been counting the words.
“There are five hundred three words,” I say lamely. “I counted twice.”
“Then you must have counted the title,” she says. “The title doesn’t count.”
I grab a pen to write some extra words, but she is sailing out the door.
“See you Monday,” she says.
I throw the pen at the door as she heads up the hall.
Desi picks it up and hands it back to me. “She really hates you.”
Dylan shakes his head a little.
“Nah,” he says. “As special as Ariel Ariel is, I think Clooney is just mean to everyone.”
He hands me his artwork and turns to go.
He’s out of uniform. I watch him walk out, his skinny-leg jeans clinging to his . . . clinging? Argh! I am losing it. I fix Eric in my mind.
“Pleasant thoughts,” I whisper. “Pleasant thoughts.”
But somehow Eric turns into Dylan, and Dylan’s jeans are on an endless replay loop in my brain.
It’s only later that night that I discover Dylan’s artwork. I’d shoved it into my bag. Instead of the dragons and flames and the weird-looking plant that I’d seen before, it was a new piece. It was just patterns, curling into each other with lines and circles, all done in blue pen. Among
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