by Robin Brande
But Ms. Shepherd called time. Hard to believe how quickly it had passed. Guess the minutes just slip away when you're loving your potato like we were.
“I'll review these tonight,” Ms. Shepherd said of our reports. She held up the oddly shaped package once more. “Tomorrow, some lucky team …” She smiled mysteriously. “Hope you can all sleep tonight.”
“You know we're going to win,” Casey told me as we gathered our books. “Whatever it is, we'll split it.”
“It was all you,” I pointed out. “I couldn't have thought of any of that.”
He switched to British. “Don't be so modest. I depend on you, Watson.”
I was working on something witty to say back when suddenly someone rammed me from behind and gouged my pelvis against the desk.
I spun around in time to see Teresa keep on walking toward the door. She looked quite pleased with herself. Another slam and run just like Adam's in the hall. Must have been last week's Sunday-school lesson.
“Excuse you,” Casey called after her. Teresa didn't even bother turning around.
“Well,” Casey said. “Obviously a close personal friend.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You okay?”
I nodded. It was so humiliating, letting him see me get bullied like that—and me not doing anything about it. The least I could do was look brave. I resisted rubbing the spot where my desk had hit.
“So, what's Miss Q-Tip have against you?”
I don't know why that never occurred to me before. Probably because you don't make up a mean nickname for someone until she stops being your best friend. “Long story.”
“Once upon a time, Q-Tip and Mena …” He rolled his hand in the air to prompt me onward.
I shook my head. “Trust me, you don't want to know.”
“Then I'll just have to make something up. She stole your identity, poisoned your dog—”
“Casey—”
“—drugged you at a sleepover party and let someone tattoo a pirate ship on your bum.”
“Bingo. How'd you know?”
“Same thing happened to me once.”
If I hadn't been so tired from the whole Teresa thing this morning—two, count them, two class periods of fun— I might have joked around a little longer. But I felt like taking a rest.
“Well … I gotta go.” I shouldered my backpack and started for the door.
Ms. Shepherd was up front, browsing through our potato reports while she waited for her next class. “Gaunt Messenger,” she said to Casey. “Interesting.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He glanced at me, then suddenly seemed in a big hurry to gather his stuff.
“One of his best,” Ms. Shepherd said.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Casey had a weird look on his face. He headed for the door.
Now it was my turn to be curious. I followed him into the hall. “So?”
“What?”
“What was that about?”
“I don't know,” Casey said. “I guess she just likes that book.”
“Then why did you say ‘thanks’? Like you had something to do with it?”
“It's … one of my dad's books. He wrote it.”
“No way.”
“Yeah. Well, see you tomorrow.” Casey merged into hallway traffic and left me behind.
I turned to see Ms. Shepherd standing in her doorway.
“Didn't notice the name Connor on the cover?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
She clicked her tongue. “Better work on your powers of observation, Ms. Reece.”
Nine
We won. I knew we would. Casey is too smart not to win. He says some of my ideas were pretty great, too, but trust me—it was all him.
I have to admit I felt a little smug this morning as the two of us went to the front of the room to claim our prize. I even sneaked a peek at Teresa and saw exactly what I wanted to see: Displeasure. Jealousy. Good. Suck on that.
And then Ms. Shepherd presented us with our trophy. Casey and I struggled to unwrap it.
“Good tape job, huh?” Ms. Shepherd said proudly. “Might want to use your teeth.”
We didn't, so it took a while to unwrap, but finally what did our eyes behold?
A stuffed animal, and I don't mean stuffed as in cute and cuddly, pick it up at Toys “R” Us. I mean stuffed as in taxidermed.
Oh. My. Gosh.
Casey smiled like he'd just won fifty bucks.
It was a dead rabbit—no, not a rabbit—a freakish, mutated, hideous bunny-like creature with antlers growing out of its head. It was a real dead animal—I felt its fur.
People craned out of their desks. “What the—” someone started to say.
“What is it, you ask?” said Ms. Shepherd. “Any guesses?”
Of course Casey would know. “It's a jackalope.”
“Correct! Ding, ding, ding—a young man who knows his science. This, my friends, is indeed the mighty jackalope. Also known as deerbunny, killer rabbit, warrior rabbit, Wolpertinger in German. The result of crossbreeding between the Australian pygmy deer and the carnivorous European jackrabbit. May I borrow that?”
Casey handed her our prize and shot me a look of utter delight. I couldn't see what he was so pleased about—that thing was disgusting. There was no way I was ever touching it again.
“Note the sharp, vicious teeth,” Ms. Shepherd said. “The elongated jackrabbit ears, the double-pronged antlers, the powerful hindquarters—”
“That's fake!” Jesse Pruitt shouted. (Church. Hates me.)
“What do you mean, fake?” Ms. Shepherd said. “It's as real as I am. You can see it, touch it—” She sniffed it and made a face. “Certainly smell it. It's right here where you can all observe it, right? So how can it not be real?”
“There's no such thing,” Jesse said, but you could tell he wasn't so sure.
Ms. Shepherd turned to Casey. “What can you tell us about the jackalope, Mr. Connor?”
He quickly hid his smile and matched Ms. Shepherd's clinical tone. “They're found in New Mexico—specifically Santa Fe. I'm not sure where else.”
“Ah, yes,” Ms. Shepherd said. “Santa Fe does have a large population. Also Wyoming, Colorado, parts of Europe—more locations are discovered every year. Very good. We also know that their bite is extremely toxic, but curiously, their milk—”
“Their milk!” Adam protested.
Ms. Shepherd pointed to where the spigot must be. “Their milk is thought to have healing properties.” She handed the jackalope back to Casey, who cradled the creature as gently as if it really were a sweet little living bunny. That guy has serious problems.
Ms. Shepherd reached behind us onto her desk, shifted aside a few science journals, and retrieved a small vial filled with white liquid. “This small amount costs about a thousand dollars on the open market.”
“A thousand bucks?” Adam repeated skeptically. Now people were paying attention.
“Not surprising,” Ms. Shepherd said. “It's very difficult to milk a jackalope without being bitten. People have died. I met a man whose forefinger was completely shriveled up from it—like an empty, rotten banana peel.”
“Gross!” some girl said.
“I've been saving this for a while.” Ms. Shepherd removed the rubber stopper on the vial. “But I noticed my throat has been getting a little scratchy.” She made a kind of hacking noise to demonstrate. “This should fix it right up.”
Ignoring the chorus of “ewwws,” Ms. Shepherd tipped the contents of the vial into her Starbucks and gave it a swirl. While we watched in horror, she took a big swig of coffee, then licked her lips. “Hmm. Burns a little.”
“Gross!” that girl repeated.
“You're crazy!” said Jesse.
Casey was trying so hard not to smile, it looked like it made his own lips hurt.
Ms. Shepherd took one more sip and cleared her throat. “Good. It's working already. Now, on to today's lesson.”
She dismissed us and our priz
e—which I let Casey carry, since I wanted nothing to do with it, thank you— and we returned to our desks in back.
While Ms. Shepherd went over some of the findings in people's potato reports (who knew Lara had such a gift for potato sculpture? Ms. Shepherd called her up to exhibit her work), Casey leaned over and whispered, “I love her.”
I whispered back, “Tell me the truth. Is that real?”
“Nope. Totally fake.”
“What?” The kid in front of me turned around, so I waited and lowered my voice. “What, you mean the milk?”
“All of it—jackalopes. They're novelty items. I saw a bunch in a gift shop in Santa Fe once. They're hilarious.”
“So she lied?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“Wow.” I've never met a teacher before who would pull a practical joke like that. I have to say, I admire her for it. I never could have done it with a straight face. “So you think she'll tell everyone? I mean, eventually?”
“I certainly hope not.”
For the rest of class, while Ms. Shepherd talked about some article she'd read last night on the latest outbreak of the Ebola virus, I studied her with fresh interest. She's wacky, there's no doubt. But maybe wacky in a good way.
And to think Casey knew it was a joke the whole time and went along with it. All these straight-faced liars—I could learn a lesson from them. My life might really improve if I could just stop feeling so committed to the truth.
Toward the end of the period Ms. Shepherd gave us our homework assignment. “I need three scientifically proven facts about the jackalope. Papers are due tomorrow.”
People groaned, of course, but Casey and I smiled at each other. This was going to be fun. Fact number one: fake.
All in all, it was a pretty great class. But of course Teresa couldn't resist ruining it for me.
Casey and I happened to walk out together, and Teresa was waiting.
“Love your prize, Mena.” She tilted her head toward Casey. “Ahh, that's sweet—you made a new little gay friend already.”
Casey looked as shocked as I was. That girl is evil— pure evil. I don't know why it surprises me anymore.
“He's not—” But that was all I could get out before my tongue froze up. How should I know what he is or isn't? And what business is that of Teresa's? Why should she get to torment somebody new just because he's unfortunate enough to be my lab partner?
I did the only sensible thing I could think of: escape.
I turned my back on Teresa and Casey and fled into the tide of people hurrying to lunch or their next class. I didn't care where I was going—I just had to get away.
I hate her, I hate her, I hate her. She's the most wicked person in the world.
I didn't notice Casey following me until I felt his tug on my arm.
I spun around and snapped, “What?” I didn't mean to take it out on him, but thanks to Teresa, I was in no mood.
Casey gave me this look like I was the biggest witch in the world. “Never mind.”
He turned and stalked away, our jackalope tucked securely under his arm.
Great. Another victory for my former best friend. All she had to do was say a few simple words, and once again I reacted just the way she wanted.
It had to stop. At some point you've just got to take a stand.
Item one on my to-do list was make a friend—just one friend—right? I had assumed that would be a girl, but beggars can't be choosers.
Not that Casey Connor is such a bad choice. He seems like a nice guy, and funny, which I appreciate. And despite what Teresa said, I doubt that he's gay. Not that I care— it's not like I'm looking for boyfriend material. I just think it's pathetic how Teresa assumes any guy must be gay if he isn't falling all over himself trying to get a look down her shirt.
Anyway, who cares? I just need a friend—boy, girl, goldfish, whatever. Anything to see me through this school year.
And not that it matters, but just for the record, based on my own scientific observations over the past three days, I would say that Casey Connor does like girls. I just get that feeling. And some girl out there probably likes him. I mean, why not? He's funny, smart, and not bad-looking, for a science nerd.
Not that I should talk. I'm just a nerd nerd—no special talent to balance that out. And I'm no great beauty, although I have had a few offers. Yeah, and look how wonderfully that turned out. Adam Ridgeway is now bouncing me off walls.
Anyway, I did the only smart thing I could do. I got over myself, reversed course, and hurried down the hall in the direction Casey had gone. I knew I probably wouldn't be able to catch him before his next class, but I had to try.
Although what I was going to say when I found him was anybody's guess.
Ten
The bell rang, and other than a few stragglers, the hall was pretty empty. No Casey to be found. I'd have to wait until tomorrow and see if I could do any better at proving I wasn't such a rancid person.
I didn't have the heart or the stomach to go to the cafeteria and deal with that whole crowd again. Besides, I still haven't gotten up the nerve to ask my mom for lunch money yet, so I brought my lunch again today, and how much enthusiasm can you work up over peanut butter and jelly?
Still, I was a little hungry, and I needed to keep up my strength. I ducked into the closest girls’ bathroom, picked the least disgusting stall, and helped myself to a few bites of PBJ. I don't know, something about the atmosphere just didn't make it all that appetizing. I tossed the rest of my sandwich in the trash and went in search of something else to do until fourth period.
And that's why I know God is with me. Because when I walked into the library, there he was (Casey, not God) (obviously), working at one of the computers.
My heart beat a little faster, not because Casey is such a specimen (not that he's hideous, but let's not get carried away) but because I knew I was probably going to have to apologize before I got anywhere with him.
So I worked on it all the way over. “Sorry, it wasn't you. … Sorry, I was just mad at Teresa. … Sorry, didn't mean to be such a pill. … Sorry, I'm a mess.”
He saved me the trouble by asking in British, “Over our snit, are we?”
I was about to sass back, but decided to keep the goal in mind. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Don't apologize,” he answered. “Just switch medications.”
That kind of ticked me, but if I'm going to get mad at everything everyone says, I'll never make progress.
“So, what're you going to do with that?” I nodded toward the jackalope on the computer desk beside him.
“Hang him from my ceiling,” he said in his normal voice. “Here, look at this.”
I took that as an invitation to pull up a chair and read over his shoulder.
On the screen was Ms. Shepherd's blog entry from yesterday.
Stayed up until 3:30 reading latest findings on hobbits, a.k.a. Homo floresien-sis, a.k.a. Flores Woman and the boys. Another bone—jaw this time—12,000 years old. Tolkien had it right, of course, as we always knew, although so far no evidence of hairy feet. Of course, this does nothing to discourage my fantasies about Aragorn.
“Who's Flores Woman?” I asked.
“You know, those skeletons they discovered a few years ago—those three-foot-tall prehistoric people they're calling hobbits.”
This time I got it. I was on to Ms. Shepherd. “Oh, right—like jackalopes.”
“Uh … not quite.”
“So they're what—like half human, half rabbit? Although shouldn't that be ‘hubbit’?”
“What are you talking about?”
I was so happy to be in on the joke this time. “And who's Aragorn supposed to be—the guy who discovered them?”
Casey gave me the oddest look.
“What?” I asked.
“You are kidding, right?”
I felt a little blip in my confidence, but my mouth kept going. “Oh, what,” I said sarcastically, “is this some famous scientific thing ever
ybody knows about but me?”
Casey spoke to me very carefully, like I was a mental patient holding a gun. “Mena, please tell me you're kidding. You do realize that's Lord of the Rings.”
Oh. One of those. One of those pop culture references I know nothing about because my mind has been kept so blessedly clean all these years.
Usually I'm better at covering for myself. This time it took me by surprise.
I laughed unconvincingly. “Yeah. I know that.”
“So you've read it.”
“Um, no.”
“But you have seen the movies.”
I sort of winced and shook my head. I need to learn to lie.
Casey closed his eyes and pinched his fingers against them, like he had a terrible migraine. “Okay, you realize I'm going to have to do an intervention.”
“No, that's okay—”
“Okay!” he shouted. All across the library, heads turned. Casey lowered his voice and stared at me intensely. “It is not okay, Mena. It is definitely not okay.”
This was a new side of him I hadn't seen yet. I kind of enjoyed watching him get so worked up. “What's the big deal?”
“The big deal is that you—a living, breathing member of the human race—have for whatever reason chosen not to avail yourself of the single greatest literary and cinematic achievement of all time. That is the big deal. But I'm sure you have a good excuse—just came out of a coma, just regained your sight—something.”
I suppressed my smile. “Maybe I didn't feel like it.”
“Didn't fee—” Casey gripped the edges of the computer table. “You did not just say that.”
He inhaled deeply and blew it out slowly, like one of those cleansing breaths Missy taught us in yoga. “All right,” he murmured to himself, “it's all right. We can fix this.”
Have I mentioned that he is kind of cute in a non-classic, nerdy sort of way?
“Luckily for you,” he said, “I have the entire set of extended-version DVDs—with appendices—and if we start right away, you may be cured by next week. Thank God I caught it in time.”
Unfortunately, that's when the joking ended. Because for me, this was a time when I'd either have to tell him the truth—or at least some variation of it—or blow him off with some lie I couldn't even begin to think up.