The (Almost) Perfect Guide To Imperfect Boys (5 page)

“Yes, of course.” I grabbed my camera out of my jeans pocket and zoomed in on Maya's face. And . . .
click
.

She laughed. “What was that?”

“Your yearbook photo. You had a really interesting expression.”

I showed it to her. It was a cross between hopeful and embarrassed, which was not a look she had often. Also, her hair was shiny.

“Kind of cool,” she admitted. “Though maybe not for the yearbook. But thanks, Finley.”

“You're velcome.”

She threw her arms around me, squeezed tightly, and ran inside her house.

For a few seconds I just stood there, replaying the weirdness that had just happened.

Never mind,
I finally told myself. Maya wasn't accusing me of
boy illiteracy
. She knew I was just sick of all the Tadpoles and Croakers we'd been dealing with since preschool. She was sick of them too; that's
why she'd told me she was giving up on middle school boys.

And of course, Maya and I were doing the
Life Cycle
together, so it wasn't like she was noticing more boy stuff than I was. Frankly, lately I'd been writing most of the entries, doing the upgrades, keeping the chart in order. So she couldn't say I wasn't paying attention. Or that I didn't understand what I was seeing.

Also, she didn't mean she and Chloe were competing
about boys
. I was sure of that—Maya was smart and athletic; she had much better things to compete about. And competing about boys (even Froggy ones, like Dylan) was pathetic. And stereotypical. And a little bit twisted, too, if you asked me.

I slipped my camera in my pocket and began the slushy walk home.

•  •  •

When I opened the door, the front hall was crunchy. By that I mean that when I took off my Keds, I felt tiny, gritty chunks of something attaching themselves to my feet.

“NO!” I heard Addie shout from the kitchen.

“Just one bite,” Mom was pleading.

“Nonono,” Addie answered.

“But, Addie, you like this cereal!”

“No,” Addie said. “
Hate
dis cereal!”

Silence.

“Okay, Max, then what about you?” Mom asked. Now her voice was perky and pretend-cheerful; she sounded crazed.

“NO,” Max yelled. “BOOM!” Something clattered on the tiles, possibly a plastic sippy cup, which last week Addie had confirmed was tantrum safe.

I tiptoed past the kitchen, so that I wouldn't have to deal with the Terrible Two. But in addition to being “highly opinionated consumer experts” (Mom's phrase), my two-year-old twin siblings had superhearing.

“Finneee!” Addie yelled. A different yell, a happy one.
“Fiiinneeee!”

“Finley, is that you?” Mom called desperately. “We're in here!”

Dang.

I went into the kitchen. Max and Addie were sitting in recycled-plastic toddler seats shaped like cars (spearmint green for Addie, stop-sign red for Max), tossing fruit-sweetened Smiley-O's all over the tiles.

“Hey, guys.” I kissed Addie's wispy hair and Max's sticky cheek. “How's the research going?” I asked Mom.

“It's not,” she said, rubbing her temples.

I picked up three sample-size boxes of cereal, which had obviously been hurled from the plastic convertibles. “You shouldn't throw things, you two. Now look at the floor.”

“Foo-wer,” Addie agreed. She gave me a dimply smile.

Max hooted, steering his plastic wheel. “Gogogo!” he yelled so loudly I pulled my hat over my ears. “ZOOOM!”

“No yelling!” I yelled. As long as I was channeling Señor Hansen, I added the unibrow. But it just made the twins laugh hysterically and start pelting me with Smiley-O's.

“They're so fickle,” Mom said. “Yesterday they ate nothing
but
Smiley-O's, and today they're just flinging it around. I don't know
how
I'm supposed to write a coherent review.”

“You could say results were mixed,” I suggested, removing half a Smiley-O from my big toe.

“Yeah, I guess I could, but readers like yes-or-no
opinions. Should I buy this overpriced product or not.” She laughed tiredly. “Oh, and before supper I have to finish that podcast about double strollers; then I'm supposed to be taping an interview with the crazy anti-diaper guy. And how was
your
day?”

“The same. Although I have tons of homework.”

She eyed me as she wiped Max's mouth with a wet paper towel. “Any tests coming up?”

“Just Boring Spanish.”

“Ah,” Mom said. “And may I remind you,
señorita
, on your last report card you had a D-plus in Boring Spanish.”

I took a Granny Smith apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. “Because the teacher is evil.”

“Because you don't study. You should let me help you, Fin, honey; I'm the queen of mnemonics.”

I chomped on the apple. “Yes, but mnemonics aren't good for everything, Mom. They won't work for irregular-verb tests.”

“Why not?” Mom argued. She wiped Max's face with the towel, then Addie's hands. “We'd have to be creative, but that's the fun part. Don't you remember how we used to drill your multiplication facts?”

I had to smile. Back in third grade, when I couldn't
remember eight times three, Mom came up with “I ate three donuts and barfed on the floor. Eight times three is twenty-four.” When I couldn't remember six times six, she chanted, “Sticks times sticks is dirty sticks.” I'd never be a genius at algebra, but for the rest of my life I'd probably always remember dirty sticks and donut barf.

Still, I couldn't imagine what good Mom's tricks would be for memorizing mindless conjugations like
tuve
,
tuviste
,
tuvo
. You might as well have to memorize bar codes or license plates.

And anyhow, it was my problem.

“I'll think about it, Mom,” I promised. “But thanks.”

She sighed. “All right. But Dad and I need to see a better grade this quarter, Finley. Or I'm afraid there'll be a consequence.”

“Consequence?” I tossed the apple core. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she answered, “something you won't be too happy about. Like maybe losing your camera for a month.”

I almost choked on a piece of apple. My camera? But they'd just given it to me for Christmas. As a
present
. It seemed cruel and unfair to take back a
present
,
especially one they knew I'd wanted since forever. And then to call it “losing” the present, as if the issue was I'd misplaced my new camera out of carelessness.

But I didn't argue with her, because what would have been the point? Losing my camera was obviously just a threat; it wasn't going to
actually happen
.

“Don't worry, I'll do great on this test,” I told her.

“Well, I certainly hope so.” Mom wiped her face with the dirty, sticky paper towel. “All right, Finny, since I can't help you with Spanish, you think you could possibly help me? I need a half hour, tops. If you could do your homework down here with the twins . . .”

“No problem.”

“You sure?”

“I'll put on
Sesame Street
. Go work, Mom.”

“Finny, you're awesome. Have I told you that lately?” She kissed my forehead and flew upstairs to be Mommy Oprah. Ever since the twins were born, Mom locked herself in her office every afternoon to do a blog called
Max 'n' Addie: 2 Cute 4 Words
. Plus a podcast called
Mommy & Us
(“all about raising gender-healthy multiples”). Plus toddler-junk reviews for
Chemical-Free Parenting
magazine, which is how the Test Twins got their lifetime supply of Smiley-O's.

It was weird—when I was little, Mom worked full-time at the local TV station, so basically I was watched by a bunch of babysitters. She switched to part-time when I was in elementary school, and even was troop leader for Green Girls, this exploring-nature group my friends and I did until seventh grade. But now she was home full-time as this uber-Mom expert-person, kind of a Frog version of a mom, if that was even possible.

The twins followed me into the TV room, where I switched on Elmo. He was learning to count pennies out loud, very slowly, lining them up on a picnic table in perfect rows.

“Nobody counts like that,” I informed my siblings.

“Shh, Finnee,” Addie scolded.

“Fine,” I said. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

I plopped on the sofa with my science binder. I took out my chewed-up pencil and opened to the back, where we kept the
Life Cycle
. After what Maya had said to me about boys, I needed to read a few entries, to remind myself of my expertise on the subject.

First I turned to the latest update:

Wyeth Brockman
: Tadpole with Croaker tendencies.

Okay, this status change still seemed right to me—not a full upgrade to Croaker, but fair. But now I needed to provide details, because you couldn't just upgrade someone without evidence.

I wrote:

Croaked on the word WEEKEND, blushed, and kinda/sorta asked Maya to stupid action movie. But still making bubbles through straw, still plays with LEGOs (need to confirm), chews thumbnail.

To be generous, I left extra space in case Wyeth had another growth spurt, even though something told me it wouldn't happen in the next twenty-four hours.

Then, to prove to myself I wasn't boy-illiterate, I skimmed some of the older entries on the chart:

Ryan Seederholm
: Croaker. Smells like a gerbil. Why hasn't someone informed him about the invention of deodorant? Does he own any T-shirts WITHOUT references to superheroes? Talks like he has serious bronchitis.

Jonathan Pressman
: Croaker. His voice sounds like a chain saw shutting off in slow motion. AAAaaagh. Also his hair is too long and his sleeves and pants are too short. Doesn't laugh—snickers and guffaws.

Drew Looper
: Croaker. Upper-lip fuzz, visible in math (sits by the window). Not un-nice, but constantly cracking his knuckles. Video-game addict. Says “bro” and “dude,” not ironically.

Trey Gunderson
: Tadpole. Eats string cheese, brings a juice box from home. Giggles in science when we're studying “cell reproduction.”

Dylan McGraw:
RIBBIT!!!
(This was in Maya's handwriting.)
Compliments Maya's knitting (scarf)! Saves M a seat in the lunchroom! Laughs at M's joke! Gorgeous smile!!!

Kyle Parker
: Croaker. Punches people in the arm for communication. Pizza stain on his football jersey. Can't breathe without
Jarret Lynch's permission. Frog potential, if he dumps Jarret. Maybe.

Ben Santino
: Croaker. Hair grease, Xbox obsession, teases Finley about Bangs Fiasco. Incapable of non-sports-related conversation. Not un-nice, just un-Froggy.

Jarret Lynch
: Croaker, although thinks he's a Frog. Follows Chloe around, laughs like hyena. Crams food into mouth, talks while chewing. Shoves, snickers, burps, grunts. Wears bad plaid.

Sam Knapp
: Tadpole. Picks nose on school bus. End of discussion.

Cody Bannister
: Tadpole. Carries Iron Man lunch box. Eats chocolate pudding. Super-squeaky voice.

Suddenly I remembered Zachary. Probably we'd never see him again after today, but he deserved mention in the
Life Cycle
, didn't he? Not just for the way he'd
changed—because he was part of our class. Or used to be.

For a second I thought,
Oh, but wait, maybe first I should discuss this with Maya.
But I was still mad at her, I guess. And anyway, it wasn't like I needed her permission to write in my own notebook. Or to update the
Life Cycle
, which half belonged to me anyway. So I added:

Zachary Mattison
: Total Frog. Apparently skipped (hopped?) over Croaker. Didn't know you could do that, but

My cell rang; it was Olivia. The twins were mesmerized by a song about the joys of tooth brushing, so I went into the kitchen to answer in private.

“Guess what,” she announced. Even though she hardly ever called me anymore, she didn't bother to say something like
Hey, Finley, it's Olivia
;
she just started talking. “Well.
After you guys left school today, I was with Chloe, and she was like, ‘Omigosh, I feel so bad, because I didn't finish inviting all these people to my party.' So I said, ‘You want me to make some calls for you?' And she was like, ‘Would you? That would be awesome!' ”

“Ah,” I said. “And you're inviting us? For Chloe?”

“Obvi! I mean, I know you guys were planning to go to Maya's brother's thing Saturday night—”

“Yeah, we were.”

“But just in case you'd rather be with your
classmates
 . . .” She paused. “And I told you, Dylan says he'll be there. Not that
you
care.”

“Why wouldn't I?” After what Maya had just said to me about boys, it was a little hard not to overreact.

“Because Maya likes Dylan,” Olivia explained. “And you like Kyle.”

“Actually, I don't.” See what I mean? People at Fulton filed away humiliating information and then tortured you for infinity. “Seriously, O, I haven't liked Kyle in like a year.”

Longer than a year, but of course I wasn't about to launch into some big you'd-know-exactly-when-I-fell-out-of-crush-if-you-hadn't-dumped-us-for-Chloe speech.

“And speaking of Maya,” I added, “I have no comment about Dylan, but
she's
specifically invited, right?”

“To Chloe's?” Olivia paused. “Why wouldn't she be?”