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“See,” J.P. said. “Told you.” Then, looking at me, he went, “What’re you working on so diligently over there, Mia? Something due next period?”
“Don’t mind her,” Lilly said with a snort. “She’s just writing in her journal. As usual.”
“Is that what that is?” J.P. said. “I always kinda wondered.” Then, when I threw him a questioning look, he went, “Well, every time I see you, you’ve got your nose buried in that notebook.”
Which can mean only one thing: The whole time we’ve been watching the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili, he’s been watching us right back!
Even freakier, he opened his backpack and pulled out a Mead wide-ruled composition notebook with a black marbled cover with KEEP OUT! PRIVATE! written all over it.
JUST LIKE MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“I, too, am a fan of the Mead Composition notebook,” he explained. “Only I don’t keep a journal in mine.”
“What’s in it, then?” Lilly, always ready to ask prying questions, inquired.
J.P. looked slightly embarrassed.
“Oh, I just do some creative writing from time to time. Well, I mean, I don’t know how creative it is. But, you know. Whatever. I try.”
Lilly asked him immediately if he had anything he’d like to contribute to the first issue of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole. He flipped through a couple of pages, and then asked, “How about this?” and read aloud:
Silent Movie
by
J.P. Reynolds-Abernathy IV
All the time we’re being seen
By Gupta’s silent surveillance machine.
What type of fly needs so many eyes?
Every turn of a hallway another surprise.
Gupta’s security is not so secure
since we know it’s based on nothing but fear.
If I had my way, I would not be here
Except that my tuition’s paid to the end of the year.
Wow. I mean… WOW. That was, like… totally good. I don’t really get it, but I think it’s about, like, the security cameras, and how Principal Gupta thinks she knows everything about us, but she doesn’t. Or something.
Actually, I don’t know what it’s about. But it must be good, because even Lilly seemed really impressed. She tried to get J.P. to submit it to Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole. She thinks it might bring down the entire administration.
God. It’s not often you meet a boy who can write poetry. Or can even read anything. Beyond the instructions on an Xbox, I mean.
How weird to think that the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili is a writer like me. What if the whole time I’ve been writing short stories about J.P., he’s been writing short stories about ME? Like, what if HE’s written a story called “No More Beef!” about the time they put meat in the vegetarian lasagna and I accidentally ate some and threw that giant fit?
God. That would kind of… suck.
Friday, March 5, G & T
Grandmère called back right as the bell signaling the end of lunch started ringing.
“Amelia,” she said prissily. “You wanted me for something?”
