a scientific paper. Unfortunately for her, everyone else
easily
can think of several things.
“Wearing a dress?”
“Not being a weirdo?”
“Kissing a boy? I mean an actual living boy?”
“Writing a three-page paper rather than five when the assignment is to write a three-to-five-page paper?”
“Going out into the sun without melting?”
“Ceasing to be a medium-sized, omnivorous mammal native to North America?”
This last zinger, delivered in loud volume, is mine. It’s probably rude and not even all that funny, but ever since Maureen came to school with two dark circles of makeup around her eyes (apparently in an attempt to look Goth, although probably not doing it quite right), I like to find every reason to accuse her of being a raccoon. That kind of thing cracks me up. I even memorized the definition of “raccoon.” See, I’m not lazy when inspired.
“Shut up!” Maureen yells. “The point here is that Guy is never going to publish a freaking scientific paper, and the process by which preteen girls stop writing hearts over the letter ‘i’ has to be the dumbest idea for a paper I ever heard, anyway.” She slams her fist down onto her desk with more force than seems necessary. Her oddly angled ponytail pops some stray hairs from its holder. Then she collects herself, fixes the hair, and adds, “No offense, Mr. Zant.”
“None taken,” he says. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re an omnivorous mammal native to North America.”
“Um, thanks?”
“You’re welcome, Miss Fields.”
And with that strange conclusion, Forensics Squad is over for the day. Anoop, and thus my ride, is nowhere to be found. Iwait impatiently for a few minutes. He went to the bathroom like twenty minutes ago. What did he do, fall in? Zing! I have things to ask him. While waiting, I try to make small talk with the nerds, who have still not left either. It seems they’re talking about blood. Um, yeah.
“What are you dudes talking about?” I ask Maureen and TK.
She says nothing, just folds her arms.
“Come on,” I say.
“Blood,” she says, as if that’s a normal answer.
“Should have guessed,” I say.
“It’s exciting!” she says.
“I guess,” TK says, stifling a yawn.
“Blood has magic. I really believe that,” she says. “Black magic.”
“Like I said, it’s just water and dissolved proteins,” he says. “Not that there’s anything wrong with water and dissolved proteins—we need them to live—but magic? Hardly.”
“I really think if you had someone’s blood, you could control them,” Maureen says. I haven’t ever seen her so animated. Her eyes are darting around like little wild animals.
“Control them?” he scoffs. “Like a voodoo doll? You are a better scientist than that.”
I laugh. Can you believe it? They actually discuss things like being “a better scientist” than something. Unbelievable. And seriously, why
would
Maureen want to control someone? While she talks with TK, I notice that she is scribbling in her black notebook. It seems that she is always scribbling in a black notebook. The pages are even black, and she uses some sort of secret ink that I guess you have to read under a black light or something.Of course I don’t really care what she is writing, but you know, a black notebook filled with notes in black ink is sort of intriguing. Black ink on black pages: my life, maybe.
Anoop sticks his head into the room and says, “Dude, there you are,” as if I were the one missing. “Let’s get out of here,” he adds. You can’t hide in the bathroom forever.
“Sure,” I say. He starts talking about how he got into a game he was playing on his phone, something to do with throwing knives.
We get into the AC Machine. Anoop’s car, known to one and all (or okay, just to me) as “the AC Machine,” is a pretty dorky mid-level sedan that would not look out of place in the teachers’ lot. Where is the law written that all teachers have
easily
can think of several things.
“Wearing a dress?”
“Not being a weirdo?”
“Kissing a boy? I mean an actual living boy?”
“Writing a three-page paper rather than five when the assignment is to write a three-to-five-page paper?”
“Going out into the sun without melting?”
“Ceasing to be a medium-sized, omnivorous mammal native to North America?”
This last zinger, delivered in loud volume, is mine. It’s probably rude and not even all that funny, but ever since Maureen came to school with two dark circles of makeup around her eyes (apparently in an attempt to look Goth, although probably not doing it quite right), I like to find every reason to accuse her of being a raccoon. That kind of thing cracks me up. I even memorized the definition of “raccoon.” See, I’m not lazy when inspired.
“Shut up!” Maureen yells. “The point here is that Guy is never going to publish a freaking scientific paper, and the process by which preteen girls stop writing hearts over the letter ‘i’ has to be the dumbest idea for a paper I ever heard, anyway.” She slams her fist down onto her desk with more force than seems necessary. Her oddly angled ponytail pops some stray hairs from its holder. Then she collects herself, fixes the hair, and adds, “No offense, Mr. Zant.”
“None taken,” he says. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re an omnivorous mammal native to North America.”
“Um, thanks?”
“You’re welcome, Miss Fields.”
And with that strange conclusion, Forensics Squad is over for the day. Anoop, and thus my ride, is nowhere to be found. Iwait impatiently for a few minutes. He went to the bathroom like twenty minutes ago. What did he do, fall in? Zing! I have things to ask him. While waiting, I try to make small talk with the nerds, who have still not left either. It seems they’re talking about blood. Um, yeah.
“What are you dudes talking about?” I ask Maureen and TK.
She says nothing, just folds her arms.
“Come on,” I say.
“Blood,” she says, as if that’s a normal answer.
“Should have guessed,” I say.
“It’s exciting!” she says.
“I guess,” TK says, stifling a yawn.
“Blood has magic. I really believe that,” she says. “Black magic.”
“Like I said, it’s just water and dissolved proteins,” he says. “Not that there’s anything wrong with water and dissolved proteins—we need them to live—but magic? Hardly.”
“I really think if you had someone’s blood, you could control them,” Maureen says. I haven’t ever seen her so animated. Her eyes are darting around like little wild animals.
“Control them?” he scoffs. “Like a voodoo doll? You are a better scientist than that.”
I laugh. Can you believe it? They actually discuss things like being “a better scientist” than something. Unbelievable. And seriously, why
would
Maureen want to control someone? While she talks with TK, I notice that she is scribbling in her black notebook. It seems that she is always scribbling in a black notebook. The pages are even black, and she uses some sort of secret ink that I guess you have to read under a black light or something.Of course I don’t really care what she is writing, but you know, a black notebook filled with notes in black ink is sort of intriguing. Black ink on black pages: my life, maybe.
Anoop sticks his head into the room and says, “Dude, there you are,” as if I were the one missing. “Let’s get out of here,” he adds. You can’t hide in the bathroom forever.
“Sure,” I say. He starts talking about how he got into a game he was playing on his phone, something to do with throwing knives.
We get into the AC Machine. Anoop’s car, known to one and all (or okay, just to me) as “the AC Machine,” is a pretty dorky mid-level sedan that would not look out of place in the teachers’ lot. Where is the law written that all teachers have
Similar Books
