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Anyway, I’ve got some other problems.
Right now I’m still nervous about being totally unprepared for my speech. So the second I pass through the school entrance metal detector and the security guy says, “Go ahead,” I take off full speed down the hallway.
I’ve got to go to the bathroom.
But not for the usual reasons.
The signs all sayNO RUNNING IN HALLS. But I don’t listen. Not today. I figure that if I can get even a few minutes on my phone to memorize a couple of hard facts on some topic then I can stumble-fumble-mumble my way through the assignment. There are lots of subjects that will cut it with Ms. Townsend.
Should college athletes be financially compensated?
What can we do about lousy nutrition in school lunches?
Is homework really necessary?
The problem is that not only do those topics leave me totally bored, but I know they’ll leave Ms. Townsend pretty bored. She’s expecting something a little more from me, a little more interesting, or at least a little more unusual.
I’m about to shove open the boys’ room door when I hear someone calling me. If it were Cedric or Mateo or Gabe I would have gone on in (and they would have followed me, I’m sure). But this is a girl’s voice.
“Ali, hold up!”
I recognize the voice immediately. It’s Sienna Williams. She has a voice that I like listening to a lot, and, well—I can’t kid myself—Sienna is a girl that I like a lot.
I can’t say that Sienna has the same interest in me. In fact, I don’t think she hasanyinterest in me. I think in her mind, I’m in the “just-a-friend” category. But I also think that with a little bit of effort on my part I might be able to move myself up to a slightly different category. So I’m sure not going to pass up a chance to stop and talk when she’s actually calling to me.
“If you need to go on into the bathroom, don’t let me stop you,” Sienna says.
“Nah. I can wait,” I say. Then I realize that this sounds sort of gross.
“You’re usually at school earlier.” (Sienna knows that? She’s actually noticed when I arrive?)
“Yeah, well. Not today,” I say.
“Yeah, uh, obviously,” she says. But she says this with a little smile, so I know that she’s just teasing.
“Sorry, yeah. Obviously.”
“I saw you waiting to go through the machine, and you looked sort of pale and nervous. And I thought I’d ask—is everything okay with you?”
Hmm. Let me think about that question. Is everything okay with me? Well, I barely slept last night. I feel like crap. I’m totally unprepared for my speech. And my dad may have shot someone.
“Yeah, everything’s great,” I say.
“Good.”
Then I think that if I want to keep talking to her, I’d better give her more of an answer.
“I am a little nervous about my speech,” I say.
“Faker! You’re one of those kids who pretends they didn’t have time to study for the test and then aces it.”
“I think you might be confusing me with yourself,” I say.
And then we’re quiet. Really quiet. Clumsy quiet.
“I guess that’s it,” she says. “See you in class.”
I want to say,Oh, no, that is notitat all.I want to tell her about last night. About how being at the crime scene felt exciting, like I was exactly where I was meant to be. About how worried I am about my dad. About how glad I am that she stopped and talked to me, and so what difference does it make if I mess up my speech?
