Boy Proof (17 page)

“We need to verify it, Egg. You know the rules.”

“You can’t verify this,” I say. “You won’t find it anywhere, and I could get into big trouble. It’s not going to hurt anyone, but it could spoil some people’s fun, so let’s keep it between ourselves.”

Everyone in the room looks at each other. They know everything I say makes complete sense, but rules are rules.

“Well,” Mr. Padilla says. “What should we do?”

He’s really asking the club, not me, but I answer for everyone because I belong here, with my friends.

“You should trust me,” I say.

Rue smiles at me and begins to clap her hands. Hasan and Martin join in and then the rest of the club members do, too.

“Welcome back, Egg,” Martin says.

“You know, my real name is Victoria,” I say, and it feels good. My name is Victoria. It’s a comfortable fit.

My mother has never ever had to come to school to meet with anybody about my grades, but now that it is certain that I am failing trigonometry, Dr. Gellar needs my mother to come in.

“What an honor it is to meet you, Ms. Denton. My husband has been a longtime fan of yours. As a boy, he had your poster up in his room.”

I make a small, quiet gagging noise. My mother shoots me a look.

Dr. Gellar, now reduced in my eyes to yet another starstruck dork, hands my mom a Sharpie pen and her husband’s childhood poster of her in a swimsuit. My mom, with whom flattery goes everywhere, makes a big production of signing her name all big and flowery.

“Um, we’re here to discuss
me,
” I remind everyone.

Ms. Weber, my math teacher, with the too much blue smeared over her eyes, opens up her grading book.

“Victoria has been on a steady decline in mathematics this whole semester. I believe that she is heading toward a failing grade in my class for this term. I have seen no marked improvement.”

“Well, I’m sure something can be done,” Mom says.

“I don’t like to be in a position to fail such a fine student,” Ms. Weber says. “If Victoria can manage a fifty-five percent on her statewide test, I would be willing to pass her with a sixty-five percent in the class.”

“But that will ruin my average,” I say.

“Your average is already ruined,” Dr. Gellar reminds me most unpleasantly.

I have to just face up to the fact that I’m never going to be valedictorian. I just have to let it go.

I breathe in and out, concentrating on a relaxation technique that I learned watching kung fu movies.

What’s important? What’s important?
I say over and over to myself.
This is not a thing to get upset about. It’s only math.

I make a list of things to actually get upset about:

1. drilling for oil in the national reserves

2. war

3. the lack of water conservation

4. genetically modified foods

5. the environment

6. the melting of the polar ice caps

7. tyranny around the world

8. monoculture

“Victoria, do you have anything to say about this?”

They’ve been talking and talking and I haven’t been listening.

“I can still go to college if I pass trig, right?”

Dr. Gellar nods yes.

“I mean, I only have to graduate, right?”

Dr. Gellar and Ms. Weber nod in agreement.

I stand up and stick out my hand to strike the fifty-five-percent deal with Ms. Weber.

“Okay, I’ll take the fifty-five percent. But if I do better, then I want it weighted accordingly.”

“Fair enough,” Ms. Weber says. “And get a tutor.”

“I’m on it,” I say.

I leave the room. I push out the door and break into the sunlight and skip across the school courtyard. Today is a beautiful day. The sky is blue, because the rain has washed away all the haze. Los Angeles is most beautiful the day after it rains. I see some litter on the ground and I pick it up and throw it in the trash. I’m already making the world a better place. I head for the library and find Rue sitting there, her nose in a book.

“Rue, I know I’ve been just an awful person. I’ve been really mean and unlikable. But I need to pass math. I thought maybe we could strike a deal,” I say.

Rue looks me up and down. She knows I wouldn’t have come here crawling and begging unless I had something really good to offer her. I want her to see that I am a changed person.

“Okay, Victoria. I’m all ears,” she says.

And I begin to reveal to her a plan for payment that I think she’ll really like.

I am alone at the end of the table at the
Lion
meeting. There are two empty chairs on either side of me. I try to ignore the fact that no one will sit next to me. Although I am making big steps with everyone else, I still can’t get Max to talk to me. I just don’t know how to be his friend again.

I smile a lot. I heard someone say once that it takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown, so I’m trying it out. Also, I don’t want Max to know that I’m miserable. I don’t want Max to know how much I realize I have to say to him. I don’t want him to know that I am sorry.

“We have a winner,” Ms. Dicostanzo announces to the
Lion
staff. She’s in a new faux-1940s phase. Her bangs are short.

She holds up the letter from the statewide contest that Max, Nelly, and I have won.

Blah, blah, blah. Ms. Dicostanzo is talking. I can’t hear her. I am a winner. It is such good news to hear, since I’ve felt like a loser for so long.

“So, the four of us will go to the awards ceremony together,” Ms. Dicostanzo says. I am sure she already knows what dress she will wear to the ceremony.

I look over at Max and Nelly, who I can see share my pride.

“If I ever decide to go to college, this is going to look great on my application,” I hear Nelly say.

Everyone on the
Lion
staff is clapping, and they are congratulating Max and Nelly. Everyone clamors around them.

I am still smiling at my end of the table, alone. Nobody comes over to congratulate me. I am still smiling, though, because I don’t want anyone to know that my heart is breaking.

After what seems like an eternity, or at least a day on Jupiter, Max shoots me a look. His lips barely curl at the ends into the tiniest of smiles, and his head nods so slightly in approval I am afraid that I am imagining it. Before I can respond in kind, he looks away.

“I’m so glad that you’re back in town, Dad,” I say. “I really missed you.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be your date to that awards dinner,” Dad says. “I’m meeting with the director to go over my character sketches.”

“I just don’t want to go alone,” I say. “Mom can’t go with me either, because she’s got a film premiere to go to.”

“I know how important this award is to you,” he says.

I realize it feels like my parents are growing up. Moving on. Getting their careers on track. Now that I’m supposed to be a young woman, they’re leaving me in the dust.

“Sometimes, Victoria, the joy is in knowing how much you want to share something and learning how to enjoy it alone. Alone is different from lonely,” Dad says.

“I understand,” I say. But I want to tell him that I am lonely. That I am too good at being alone. I’m friendless and awful.

“What’s this?” he asks, looking over my shoulder at my open notebook.

“What?” I say.

“These sketches?” he asks.

“Just doodles,” I say.

In the margins of my class notes are my monster ideas, the doodles I do when I’m listening to the teacher but also restless with my hands. Lately I’ve been drawing vampires and bats, since Dad has been working on them himself. Dad starts flipping through the pages.

“Can I photocopy this page?” he asks.

He is pointing at a page where I have been drawing multiple bat wings. The wings have human arm elements in them.

“It’s just a doodle, Dad,” I say.

“Victoria, these are previsualization character sketches for the transformation of a vampire into a bat,” he says. “It’s a completely unique way of solving the transformation problem.”

Dad squeezes me in a bear hug.

“Good job,” he says.

I smile. I did something good.

It cost me $24.13 to copy the entire Greek Mythology trilogy script. I have it in a brown manuscript box, because it’s too thick to staple or bind. If my mother ever finds out that I stole her script and then replaced it next to her bed, she will disown me.

She had to sign a confidentiality agreement when she signed her contract. I don’t know why. Everybody can find out what happened to all the Greek gods. They just have to read the myths for themselves.

“Do you have it?” Rue asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Here it is.” I push the box over to her.

She opens the box and peers inside. She cracks a smile and pushes a latte toward me.

“I bought you a latte,” she says. “Half-caf with nonfat milk. Chocolate sprinkles.”

It’s my favorite.

“Thanks,” I say. I don’t know what Rue’s favorite coffee drink is, but I’m going to. That’s what friends do.

She opens up the math textbook, which of course I’ve forgotten, and we get to work. Rue really knows what she’s doing.

I bet she’ll be valedictorian. Actually, I think I’m kind of rooting for her.