The Downside of Being Up Read Online Free PDF Page B

universe. Math has order. Productive citizens have order. Good students have order. But chaos-causers . . .” He paused, letting the words dangle in the air. “They upset order. And thus, they upset me. Are we clear?”
    Call it a hunch, but for some reason I didn’t feel as if I was Mr. Summers’s favorite student at his new school. I mean, we’d only known each other for like eight seconds, but still, something told me that he already didn’t like me very much.
    Perhaps my reputation as a kid with a winkie that sends teachers to the hospital had something to do with it?
    â€œI said, are we clear, Bobby?” he repeated.
    â€œYes sir,” I said. “Very.”
    â€œGood.” Mr. Summers turned and then called out to the rest of the class, “Students, take out a pencil.”
    Kids slowly began reaching into their bags.
    â€œNow!” he barked.
    The whole room jumped, then sprang into action.
    â€œWe’re having a test on the materials I went over yesterday and you’d better do well. None of this ‘learn it yesterday, forget it today’ stuff, understand? You will have twenty minutes to complete the following twenty problems. Make sure you copy the question on your own sheet of paper. Do not write on my test.” He began handing out tests to every student in the room. “And yes, you must show your work.”
    â€œBut the bell hasn’t even rung yet,” Nathan said, finding it unfair to start class before class had even started.
    Mr. Summers crossed his arms, squinted at Nathan and waited. His mustache waited, too.
    Three, two, one . . .
    Bing-bong. Bing-bong.
    â€œI’ll be expecting excellence, Nathan,” Mr. Summers said. “Orderly excellence.”
    Nathan, without a peep, looked down and began his test. Obviously, there was a new sheriff in town.
    Sheriff Mustache.
    â€œUm, Mr. Summers,” I said, meekly raising my hand.
    â€œYes, Bobby?” he answered impatiently.
    â€œI wasn’t here yesterday.” I handed him back the test he’d just given me.
    Sheriff Mustache looked at the piece of paper I was holding, but didn’t take it. I spent eleven seconds holding out the set of math problems like a complete idiot.
    â€œSo . . . ?” he finally said.
    I put the paper back down on my desk, clearly getting the message: Sheriff Mustache didn’t care whether I had been absent or not. I still had to take the test.
    I looked at question number one.
    â€œBe sure to show your work, Bobby,” Sheriff Mustache said before weaving his way up the aisle to look over people’s shoulders whether they wanted him to or not. “No work, no credit.”
    I already hated this man.
    Just then the angel turned around from one row up and one row over to mouth something to me.
    â€œLlrrffpth rrnnpf ffee,” she said.
    I shook my head, not understanding.
    â€œHuh?” I mouthed back.
    â€œLlrrffpth rrnnpf ffee,” she repeated.
    I shrugged. “Huh?”
    She paused to make sure no one was watching her. “It’s eee-zee,” she whispered.
    â€œAllison!” snapped a voice from the front of the room.
    The angel smiled at me with big red apple cheeks and then spun back around, not daring to turn around again.
    Right then, I knew I was cooked.
    Devastated.
    Destroyed!
    People called me Bobby Banana. People called me the Puny Pecker Pirate. People called me Mini-Man Connor Man, the Undersized Wiener Dog. All day long people called me the craziest names they could think of, and there was no telling when, or even if, it was ever going to stop.
    But right at that moment, as I stared at a math question I had no idea how to solve, I suddenly realized I had a much bigger problem than spending the rest of my life as a sad, pathetic victim of stupid, immature erection jokes.
    I was cuckoo in love with the new math teacher’s daughter.
    And she had a father named Sheriff Mustache who was