I am. And Mr. Harding? A decent guy? My God, he threw a piece of chalk at Trisha Hayes’s head today! Granted, I’d do the same if I thought I could get away with it. But still.
And how does Michael even know what kind of writer I am? Except for a couple of articles in the school paper last year, and my letters, e-mails, and Instant Messages to him, he has never read anything I’ve written. I certainly haven’t given him any of my poems to read. Because what if he doesn’t like them? My writer’s spirit would be crushed.
Even more crushed than it is right now.
Me:
I guess. How’s YOUR day going?
Michael:
Great. Today in my Principles of Geomorphology class we talked about how the ice cap has shrunk by two hundred and fifty million acres—that’s the size of California and Texas put together—in the past twenty years, and how if it continues to erode at the rate it’s going—about nine percent per decade—it could vanish altogether by the end of this century, which will, of course, have devastating consequences for life on Earth as we know it. Whole species will vanish, and anyone who owns seafront property is essentially going to own underwater property. Unless, of course, we do something to control pollutant emissions that are destroying the ozone layer and allowing this melt-off.
Me:
So, essentially, it doesn’t even matter what kind of grade I end up getting in Geometry, since we’re all going to die anyway?
Michael:
Well, not us, necessarily. But our grandkids, for sure.
Except, I was pretty sure Michael didn’t mean OUR grandkids, as in, the children of kids he and I might have if, you know, we Did It. I believe he was referring to grandkids in the general sense. Such as grandkids he might have with a corn princess he marries later, after he and I have grown apart and gone our separate ways.
Me:
But I thought we were all going to die in ten years anyway when easily accessible petroleum runs out.
Michael:
Oh, don’t worry about that. Doo Pak and I have decided to come up with a prototype for a hydrogen-powered car. Hopefully that ought to do the trick. If, you know, the auto industry doesn’t try to have us killed for it.
Me:
Oh. Okay.
It’s nice to know that smart people like Michael are working on this whole petroleum-running-out thing. That leaves the more easily handled problems like, you know, killer algae and student council governance to people like me.
Michael:
So, are we all set for Saturday?
Me:
You mean my coming over to meet Doo Pak? I think so.
Michael:
Actually, what I meant was—
This is when Lilly tried to wrestle the phone from me.
Lilly:
Is that my brother? Let me talk to him.
Me:
Lilly! Let go!
Lilly:
Seriously. I need to talk to him. Mom changed her password again and I can’t get into her e-mail.
Me:
You shouldn’t be reading your mother’s e-mail anyway!
Lilly:
But how am I going to know what she’s telling people about me?
Here is where I finally managed to wrench the phone out of her hands.
Me:
Uh, Michael. I’m going to have to call you back. After school. Okay?
Michael:
Oh. Okay. Hang in there. Everything’s going to be fine.
Me:
Yeah. Right.
It’s easy for HIM to say everything’s going to be all right. Everything IS going to be all right. For HIM. HE no longer has to be incarcerated in this hellhole for eight hours a day. He gets to take fun classes about how the polar ice cap is going to melt and we’re all going to die, while I get to walk down the hall with twenty million posters of Lana Weinberger beaming down at me, going, Loser! Loser! Princess of what? Oh yeah! Loserville!
As we left the cafeteria to go put on lip gloss before our next class, I saw Ramon Riveras, the handsome new exchange student, demonstrating Brazilian ball-handling technique to Lana and some fellow members of the AEHS varsity boys’
And how does Michael even know what kind of writer I am? Except for a couple of articles in the school paper last year, and my letters, e-mails, and Instant Messages to him, he has never read anything I’ve written. I certainly haven’t given him any of my poems to read. Because what if he doesn’t like them? My writer’s spirit would be crushed.
Even more crushed than it is right now.
Me:
I guess. How’s YOUR day going?
Michael:
Great. Today in my Principles of Geomorphology class we talked about how the ice cap has shrunk by two hundred and fifty million acres—that’s the size of California and Texas put together—in the past twenty years, and how if it continues to erode at the rate it’s going—about nine percent per decade—it could vanish altogether by the end of this century, which will, of course, have devastating consequences for life on Earth as we know it. Whole species will vanish, and anyone who owns seafront property is essentially going to own underwater property. Unless, of course, we do something to control pollutant emissions that are destroying the ozone layer and allowing this melt-off.
Me:
So, essentially, it doesn’t even matter what kind of grade I end up getting in Geometry, since we’re all going to die anyway?
Michael:
Well, not us, necessarily. But our grandkids, for sure.
Except, I was pretty sure Michael didn’t mean OUR grandkids, as in, the children of kids he and I might have if, you know, we Did It. I believe he was referring to grandkids in the general sense. Such as grandkids he might have with a corn princess he marries later, after he and I have grown apart and gone our separate ways.
Me:
But I thought we were all going to die in ten years anyway when easily accessible petroleum runs out.
Michael:
Oh, don’t worry about that. Doo Pak and I have decided to come up with a prototype for a hydrogen-powered car. Hopefully that ought to do the trick. If, you know, the auto industry doesn’t try to have us killed for it.
Me:
Oh. Okay.
It’s nice to know that smart people like Michael are working on this whole petroleum-running-out thing. That leaves the more easily handled problems like, you know, killer algae and student council governance to people like me.
Michael:
So, are we all set for Saturday?
Me:
You mean my coming over to meet Doo Pak? I think so.
Michael:
Actually, what I meant was—
This is when Lilly tried to wrestle the phone from me.
Lilly:
Is that my brother? Let me talk to him.
Me:
Lilly! Let go!
Lilly:
Seriously. I need to talk to him. Mom changed her password again and I can’t get into her e-mail.
Me:
You shouldn’t be reading your mother’s e-mail anyway!
Lilly:
But how am I going to know what she’s telling people about me?
Here is where I finally managed to wrench the phone out of her hands.
Me:
Uh, Michael. I’m going to have to call you back. After school. Okay?
Michael:
Oh. Okay. Hang in there. Everything’s going to be fine.
Me:
Yeah. Right.
It’s easy for HIM to say everything’s going to be all right. Everything IS going to be all right. For HIM. HE no longer has to be incarcerated in this hellhole for eight hours a day. He gets to take fun classes about how the polar ice cap is going to melt and we’re all going to die, while I get to walk down the hall with twenty million posters of Lana Weinberger beaming down at me, going, Loser! Loser! Princess of what? Oh yeah! Loserville!
As we left the cafeteria to go put on lip gloss before our next class, I saw Ramon Riveras, the handsome new exchange student, demonstrating Brazilian ball-handling technique to Lana and some fellow members of the AEHS varsity boys’
Similar Books
