didn’t want him thinking I was a carbon copy of that troublemaker either.
“Only by birth. But don’t worry, sir – all we have in common is excessive earwax. It’s genetic.”
Mr. Lynch closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath.
How could he not know who I am? Does he live under a rock? Didn’t he even see the play last year?
The desk I ended up with was right in the middle of thethird row and had graffiti on it – a bad sketch of a World War II fighter jet bombing a mutant octopus. Plus, hardened glue
was filling the pencil groove.
My pencils will be rolling off the desk all year!
Sixteen and a half minutes into seventh grade and I wanted to call it quits.
“Oh, shoot, shoot, shoot!” came from the desk in front of mine. Candice Garboni was frantically digging through her purse
and stuff was dropping out everywhere. I waited for Lynch to turn his back before retrieving a tiny jar of goop that had landed
on my sneaker.
“My Midnight Madness lip-plumping gloss,” she gasped when I handed it to her. “That’s what I was looking for!”
Speaking of maturing – Candice, aka Candy, was a girl I’d moved up through the ranks with since first grade, but I hadn’t
even recognized her until Lynch had assigned her desk. She’d always been quiet and nondescript except for her trademark straight,
black hair that hung halfway to the floor. She was still sporting that mane but,
yowza
, the rest of her sure had blossomed over the summer! It was as if she’d been an empty coloring-book outline of herself all
those years, and suddenly she was all filled in.
“Thanks, Dust,” Candy’s shiny mouth muttered as she hung her purse strap over her chair.
“You’re welcome. I like your new look. Not everyone can pull off purple lips.”
“We can all wait until Mr. Grubbs finishes his conversation,”Mr. Lynch barked. Candy whipped her head back around so fast, her hair spilled all over my desk. It smelled like fresh strawberries.
“That’s two strikes against you already. And I believe strike three means you’re out.”
“That depends if you’re talking baseball or bowling.”
The class giggled, but Mr. Lynch, obviously having been born without a sense of humor, did not. Still, I gave myself points
for coming up with a sports joke.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Lynch said, striding over to the chalkboard and grabbing a fat chunk of chalk, “onto our
next order of business. On September twenty-third, our class along with Mrs. Sedgwick’s eighth-graders will be going on an
all-day field trip to the Shedd Aquarium. Truly, truly a fascinating place.” There were murmurs of excitement as he wrote
the info on the board. Stewy Ziggler was creeping down the aisle, copying every word into his notebook. The kid was no bigger
than a popcorn shrimp. “Now we thought it best to send permission slips home with everyone today, because – well, getting
them signed and returned on time is usually like pulling teeth. So please get this cemented in your brains, people: no slip,
no trip.”
I swear, right on the word
trip
somebody tripped Stewy. He landed hard – flat on his face right next to me. The class was in hysterics, but Lynch looked
outraged.
“Don’t you dare laugh!” he scolded. “Are you okay, Stewart?”
“Fine, sir.” Stewy scrambled to his feet and rushed back tohis seat. “Except – uh, I’m having a real problem seeing the board from my desk. Maggie’s hair is too poofy.”
Rustling filled the air and the class turned around in a single motion to gawk at Maggie Wathom, who’d been assigned the desk
in front of Stewy. He was right. It looked as if she’d been struck by lightning in a wind tunnel – while flossing with electrical
cords.
“
Eeew
, check out the bad perm!” Candy whispered. “Hello, 1980! I heard her mom’s practicing to get her beautician’s license and
uses Maggie as a guinea pig.”
“I can appreciate your