Revenge Of A Band Geek Gone Bad Read Online Free PDF Page A

binge on, like the cream cheese from that morning, which I noticed was now gone.  I was actually surprised to find the yogurt in there.  It was probably my dad's.
    "It's healthy," I said, fixing her a cup of it and a slightly larger one for myself.  "It has berries and vitamins and stuff.  Says so right on the carton."
    Lana laughed and dipped her spoon into her bowl.  "Hey, you don't have to justify it to me."
    ###
    We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes as we ate.  Finally, Lana asked, "So, how did he do in band today?"
    By "He" Lana means Ken Samuels.  Only she never calls him by his name —- he's always "he" or "him" or "that bastard" or "that douchebag" or "that pig."
    "If you mean Ken, he got first chair again," I said.
    "Did he say anything about me?"
    I looked at her.  "Did you not hear how my day went?  I didn't speak to him at all, so I don't know if he talked about you. But," I added, smiling because I knew this would make her happy, "He got totally yelled at by Mr. Francis in front of everyone.  He was completely humiliated."
    Lana cackled.  "Good.  That ass-face deserves it!"
    Guess we had yet another name for Ken.
    ###
    After Lana went home, I practiced my flute for a couple of hours then went upstairs to my room to paint.  I didn't even bother to take off The Jeans because I figured I might as well let them be the clothes I got messy. 
    For my last birthday, Lana gave me a professional painting kit, mainly because she thought I needed a hobby other than playing the flute.  "It's perfect for you," she said as I opened her gift.  " It's artsy and it's the type of thing you can do for hours without having to talk to anyone."
    At the time, I'd jokingly told her to shut up, that I'm not that much of a shut-in, but she is right about me loving the arts.  Before my dad started working such long hours and my mom began to take care of my grandfather, they'd take me to the city to see concerts and visit the museums.  My favorite was the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  The Met is huge ; it took us all day to go through about a quarter of it, but I loved how every time we entered a different wing, it felt as if we were going into a new world.
    As for my own paintings, I've been on a Salvador Dali kick lately.  After Lana gave me her present, I purchased a bunch of art books so I could see what various painters' styles are like.  I really like Dali's.  His stuff is really strange; for instance, he has this one painting called "The Persistence Of Memory" that has all of these melted clocks in it.  I love how his stuff looks like one thing at first and if you keep looking at it, you see something else.  So I've been trying to do some Dali-like paintings myself.  Right now, I'm working on one where I'm making everything in my room appear melt-y.
    I was in the middle of painting a melted version of my bed (which is harder than it looks because the cover is floral and I had to make all the flowers look distorted) when I heard someone come home.  I looked at my clock (which isn't melted, by the way); it was 9 p.m.
    "Melinda!"  my mother bellowed.  "Are you home?  Can you come down here, please?"
    I dropped my paint brush onto the canvas and raced downstairs.  I could tell that something wasn't right.  I prayed that something hadn't happened to my grandfather.
    "What is it?  How's Grandpa?"  I asked, when I reached our kitchen.  I paused to catch my breath.  "Is everything okay?"
    "Your grandfather's the same," my mom said, "though you really should visit him more often."
    "I will," I promised.
    "But the reason I was calling you is because of this."  She held up the yogurt container.  "I can't believe you ate half a carton in one afternoon!  You're unbelievable, Melinda."
    I sighed.  So this was what she was pulling me out of my room for?  Nice of her to say hello while we were at it!
    "I didn't have that much," I explained.  "Lana was here and we each had a little bit.  You can