The (Almost) Perfect Guide To Imperfect Boys

by Barbara Dee

  Repeater.

  Hook-shotter.

  Frog with Croaker tendencies.

  Croaker hero.

  Nice boy in library.

  Stepbrother in borrowed clothes.

  Prank caller.

  Crush. (All right, mine. For a little while. But in the past tense, the imperfect, because it happened for like a day and a half. Maya’s too, obviously, also in the imperfect. And Hanna’s, but in the present tense. Probably Dahlia’s. Other girls too, I bet.)

  And this wasn’t even a complete list. Maybe there were other Zacharys I hadn’t even met yet. Maybe the more time I’d spend with this person, the less I’d know who he really was.

  If I’d even spend more time with Zachary.

  If I even wanted to.

  CHAPTER 18

  To be honest, I was dreading breakfast the next morning, because I had a feeling the four of us would still be arguing about the calls. But what I forgot was the Davis Chaos factor, the way Sunday breakfasts at our house were plate-spinning extravaganzas, with the Terribles zooming around the kitchen flinging Smiley-O’s and screaming, Dad talking back to NPR and flipping pancakes (today, chocolate chip), and Mom blaring her Zumba DVD in the TV room. So it wasn’t exactly like we could have a sane, civilized panel discussion on What to Do If He Calls Back.

  Anyway, immediately after breakfast, everyone left. And when Mom finished her shower, she knocked on my door.

  “Well?” she said. “So you’re probably mad at me for interfering, right? But can I just say something first? I’m not asking for all the gory details, but I knew something was going on friendwise. And I’d wanted to have a troop reunion for a long time, regardless. So on Friday, when you came home from school, and I could see you were extremely upset—”

  I jumped up from the bed and hugged her. Her body was radiating warmth from the shower, and she smelled like the shampoo version of strawberry. “The troop reunion was great, Mom, really. Don’t apologize; I loved it. And thank you.”

  “Oh,” she said, beaming. “Then everything is good with you girls?”

  “Everything is great with us girls.” I paused. “Not so great with the boys.”

  “Ah, the boys,” she said. “I don’t think s’mores work as well on boys.” She laughed. “Although truthfully, I wouldn’t know what does. Eighth-grade boys were always a mystery to me.”

  • • •

  Monday morning my stomach felt fluttery, so I just kept reminding myself what Hanna and Olivia had said—that (most of) the girls in the class liked the Life Cycle, they thought it was funny and smart, lalala. And even though their approval made me uneasy, at least I could show my face at Fulton Middle School.

  And, sure enough, when I walked into homeroom, a bunch of girls led by Dahlia and Sophie immediately swarmed my desk, asking about the science binder.

  Where is it now? (Um, home.)

  Can we read it? (Um, maybe later.)

  Are Dylan and Zachary the only Frogs? (Um, not sure. But it all keeps changing.)

  What did you put for Jarret? (Ben, Drew, Kyle, etc.) (Um, don’t remember.)

  Why did you guys stop writing it? (Um, well. It’s kind of a long story. . . .)

  The whole time I was answering (or not answering) these questions, Maya sat silently at the desk next to mine, chewing her lower lip. I felt awful that she’d been dragged into this, but I was also wishing she’d chime in with some of the answers.

  Meanwhile, from the other side of the room, I could feel Chloe and Sabrina giving me the evil eye. What were they so mad about? I wondered. Possibly it was Wrath on Behalf of the Boys. Although that would be ironic, considering that (a) they’d always been mean to most of the Croakers and to all of the Tadpoles, and (b) if they truly cared about boy feelings, why did they read my notebook out loud?

  As for the boys, they were completely ignoring me. Not looking at me, not talking to me. Literally none of them. Not even Dylan. And not Zachary. But they were huddled together, snickering in a way that creeped me out.

  So homeroom that Monday was ubercomplicated. Too much attention, the death stare, the silent treatment—all of it going on at once, from different directions. Kind of the school version of the Davis Chaos, with me as the only Davis.

  As soon as the bell rang, I walked straight over to Zachary’s desk.

  “We need to talk,” I announced.

  He shrugged. “What about?”

  “You called Saturday night? On my cell?”

  “I did?” He scratched his nose. “I don’t remember. I was kind of busy Saturday night. At a party you invited me to?”

  “Yeah, well, sorry about the party, but it turns out I wasn’t invited there myself.” I was about to explain about Chloe’s noninvitation, but Zachary slung his backpack over his shoulder impatiently, like he was in a big hurry to get to science. So I blurted: “And I’m sorry I lied to you about the mnemonics. And I’m really sorry if my notebook hurt your feelings. But it was supposed to be private.”

  “Anything else?”

  “What? No. That’s a lot to be sorry for.”

  “Yeah, Finley, it is.”

  I waited, but he didn’t say another word.

  “So that’s it?” I sputtered. “You’re not going to accept my apology? Any of them? You’re just going to keep making stupid prank calls like a stupid frog?”

  “No, I’ve evolved past phone calls.” And he walked off to join Drew Looper and Ben Santino, who slapped his backpack and did the Croaker laugh.

  • • •

  In science that morning we had a test, so at least I didn’t need to work on a lab with Zachary. And the next two periods—English and math—also passed without major incidents. By that I mean no interaction with Zachary—which after homeroom was a relief.

  But fourth period was art, when we were supposed to turn in our “sunflower-inspired” project. Last night, after sort-of-studying for the eighty millionth quiz on irregular Spanish verbs, I finally took out my sketch pad to draw something unique, something with “character.” And I tried to think of an object that was important to me—but the only thing that came to mind was my camera. So I drew my camera in a bunch of different poses—zoom out, zoom in. But every drawing still looked flat, stick-figurey, generic, the opposite of van Gogh’s imperfect droopy sunflowers.

  And then I thought about my photos, especially the ones I’d taken of Maya, Olivia, and Zachary. They weren’t Diane Arbus–good; they weren’t anybody-good, not even close. But they weren’t cloney or year-booky or fake pretty. And wasn’t that the point of the whole assignment? To really see something the way it actually looked?

  I answered myself: Why yes, Finley, it was.

  Anyhow, for the first time ever in the history of art classes, I actually felt proud of something I’d done. So when Ms. Cronin asked for a volunteer to share their sunflower project, I walked to the front of the studio with my photos of Maya, Olivia, and Zachary.

  “I know we were supposed to do a drawing,” I said. “But I thought the important thing was to show individual character. So I took these photographs—”

  Chloe waved her hand. She didn’t wait for Ms. Cronin to call on her. “Finley?” she called out. “You care about individual character? I just think that’s really so, so fascinating.”

  Ms. Cronin smiled. “Why, Chloe?”

  “Oh, because what Finley is saying—that her photography is like the opposite of stereotyping—is so different from what you’d expect. I mean, based on other things.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Ms. Cronin said.

  Chloe undid her hair clip. “I just meant, you know, the whole idea of treating people as individuals—”

  “Exactly,” Sabrina said. “Human beings.”

  All of a sudden, I knew exactly where they were going with this—I felt it in my stomach like a cramp. The Life Cycle was the opposite of sunflowers. It was all about taking boys and turning them into generic amphibians.

  Chloe and Sabrina were
right. They were absolutely right, and I had no idea what to answer.

  I just stood there, clutching my photos with sweaty hands, my cheeks burning. And then: “Gggggrrrrkkk.”

  The sound was faint and muffled, but it was definitely someone croaking into a fist. And it came from the back of the studio. Where Zachary was sitting.

  I whipped my head around to stare at him. The corners of his mouth were twitching upward, like he was trying not to smile. And as he stared right back at me, he was barely blinking, just like when he’d lied about the LUNCH tattoo.

  Thereby proving he was the phantom cell phone croaker.

  Not that I’d ever doubted he was, but this nonblinking stare, plus the halfway-hidden smile, definitely proved it.

  Well, I refused to let him ruin my art project. I took a breath. “Anyhow,” I said loudly. “What I was saying about these photos—”

  “Grrrkkk.”

  Slightly louder now. Was I the only person who could hear this horrible sound? Could I possibly be imagining it? No—because why else would Zachary be not-blinking at me like that?

  I locked eyes with Maya, Olivia, Dahlia Ringgold, Ms. Cronin, anyone but Zachary. Keep talking, I commanded myself. “I didn’t shoot poses, because I think they look too perfect. And I think it’s so much more interesting when people don’t expect—”

  “GRRRRKKKK.”

  “Ribbit, ribbit.”

  Now fake-frog noises were popping up from all over the studio. Most of the boys in the class were doing it, and they were grinning, not even trying to hide their mouths behind their fists.

  Some girls were starting to giggle.

  But not Maya. She jumped out of her seat. “That is just so rude,” she exclaimed.

  Ms. Cronin rapped her desk with some rolled-up sketch paper. “Excuse me, what is going on here, people? In this class, when someone is speaking—”

  She went on to patiently explain how the rule was No Ribbiting or Croaking in the Art Studio. When she finally finished, I muttered something about lighting and composition, and dumped the photos on her desk.

  “Grrk,” someone added.

  It could have been Zachary. But I wasn’t looking at him then. I was staring at the other boys in the art room.

  • • •

  After art was lunch. That day Maya and I found a table in the corner, where we were immediately joined by Hanna and Olivia.

  Maya was chomping on her veggie taco. She was furious. “I cannot believe the boys in this class,” she was saying. “Such infants. Such total moron pea-brained rude jerkwads.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But organized.”

  “What are you talking about?” Olivia demanded.

  I poked the lettuce shreds on my plate. “Have you noticed them today? I mean what they look like.”

  “Who cares what they look like,” Maya said. “That’s kind of irrelevant, Finley, under the circumstances.”

  “Not really.” I pointed to the table across from ours, where seven boys from our class—including Zachary—were stuffing tacos into their mouths. In art I’d had this feeling about them, but they were scattered all over the studio, so my brain couldn’t process all the data. But seeing them together, crammed around the lunch table: That was another thing.

  “Look at how they’re dressed,” I said.

  Maya squinted. “What about it?”

  “Wait,” Hanna said slowly. “They’re all wearing the same colors, aren’t they? Greens and browns.”

  “Yup,” I said. “I think they color-coordinated today. To look like frogs.”

  Olivia burst out laughing. “Okay, Finley, I think you’ve gone nuts. For starters, boys don’t color-coordinate.”

  “Well, they wear sports uniforms, right?” I argued. “So it’s not like they’ve never heard of colors. And maybe they decided to dress like the Amphibian Team.” I waved my arm. “Or something.”

  “You may be slightly overanalyzing,” Hanna said gently. She glanced at the boys’ table. “Although I have to admit it is a little weird.”

  “It’s more than weird,” I insisted. “It’s totally on purpose.”

  Nobody talked. Maya took a big, thoughtful bite of taco, and Olivia sipped her bottled water.

  Finally, Hanna said: “Okay, Finley. Even if they all agreed to dress the same—and I think Olivia is right; boys don’t do stuff like that usually—why would they want to dress like the Life Cycle? I mean, not to rub it in, but they’re obviously mad at you guys.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “And it’s how they’re fighting back. Also why they’re croaking.”

  Maya snapped off teeny bits of taco shell. “Finny, please don’t get mad at me for saying this, but that doesn’t make any sense, okay? If they were rejecting the Life Cycle, they’d be dressed in pink. Or black. Or plaid, or polka dots.”

  “No,” I said. “I think the way they’re fighting back is to say, ‘Fine, you think we’re nothing but amphibians? That’s exactly how we’re going to act. You talk in class, we’ll croak at you. Deal with it. And you can’t complain, because this whole frog thing was your idea.’ ”

  “That’s kind of smart, actually,” Hanna said.

  “It’s warped,” Maya corrected her. “And just rude. Omigod, Fin. I feel like marching over to that table right now, and—”

  “Finley! Move!” Olivia squealed.

  Too late. A jabbing poke to my shoulder, then suddenly a wave of coldness and wetness splashing across my neck, the collar of my shirt, my back.

  I gasped and spun around.

  Zachary, Drew, and Ben were standing behind me, laughing. And Zachary was waving a two-thirds-full bottle of water.

  “Are you insane?” I screeched. “You just poured water on me?”

  “Water is our natural habitat,” Zachary explained in a Dr. Science voice, grinning in a way that was uber-Tadpole. “We’re still developing. Sorry if we’re a little clumsy.”

  Across the cafeteria Mr. Coffee was texting. Instead of noticing.

  Maya jumped up and snatched the bottle. “You know what?” she hissed at Zachary. “You’re just as obnoxious as you were last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. You haven’t changed one single iota. I’m sorry we were ever nice to you. And you never deserved Finley’s crush!”

  “What?” he said, as his goofy smile faded. “What are you—”

  “Nothing,” I growled. “Delete that last comment, all right?”

  Meanwhile, Hanna and Olivia had grabbed some greasy napkins from the table and were blotting my back. But it was all unbearable—not just the wetness and the taco grease on my neck, I mean the whole scene: the lunchroom buzzing, everyone staring, the three boys standing there stupidly. And especially Maya’s public-service announcement about my crush.

  So I got up from the table and ran. Just ran.

  CHAPTER 19

  I ended up in the second floor girls’ room, which was empty, luckily. So I banged on the automatic hand dryer and crouched below it, the hot air whooshing down my spine.

  A gazillion emotions pinballed in my brain:

  Fury at Maya for blurting about my (former) crush. To my (former) crush.

  Gratitude that she had my back—literally and figuratively.

  Shock at Zachary’s moronic, immature prank.

  Humiliation, because the whole grade was watching.

  Frustration, because I needed to respond now, obviously. And I had no idea how.

  But while the noisy heat attacked my cotton T-shirt, I decided three things:

  1) Whatever-I-did had to be right away. In the last two days, Zachary had croak-called me, organized a frog color day at school, ribbited at me in class, and splashed water down my back. I needed to come up with something fast, before he thought of a prank even more obnoxious.

  2) Whatever-I-did had to be public. I’d tried talking to Zachary in private twice, to explain and apologize, and he would barely make eye contact. Clearly he wanted to play Croaker hero, and if he
was conducting his war in public, I needed to respond in front of the entire class.

  3) Whatever-I-did couldn’t just be words. Zachary was doing Stuff—so I had to do Stuff right back. Besides, the Life Cycle was nothing but words, and look where words had gotten me.

  Irk, I thought. The Life Cycle. The cause of all of this disaster.

  The hand dryer turned off. I stared at myself in the mirror.

  Why had we compared boys to amphibians in the first place? If only we’d picked adorable little kittens, say, I wouldn’t be in this mess. The truth was, I didn’t remember a whole lot about frog development. So how could I come up with some sort of frog-themed payback that was better than Grrkk, ribbit, oops, I’m so clumsy with bottled water?

  I squirted soap foam on my hands, turned on the faucet, and slowly rubbed my palms together.

  And a funny thing happened then. You know how you get a song stuck in your head sometimes, and you don’t know where it comes from? As I stood in front of the mirror washing my hands, I suddenly had a flashback to the word “kerfuffle” and what Ms. Krieger had said to me that day in the library: What do we do, Finley, when we don’t know something?

  Look it up.

  • • •

  A minute later I burst through the library doors, and was immediately pounced on by Maya, Hanna, and Olivia.

  “Where were you?” Maya shouted. “I was sure you’d come here straight from the lunchroom. Are you okay?”

  “I needed to dry off first,” I said. “But I’m fine. Listen.”

  I told them what I’d decided: We needed froggy-themed retaliation, but it couldn’t be as lame as what the boys were doing. It had to prove we knew something about amphibians. It couldn’t be generic or obvious. And it had to be quick.

  “But if we do something,” Hanna said (and I smiled a little when she said “we”), “won’t that just encourage them to do more stuff back? Maybe if we just ignored them—”

  “Not possible,” I insisted.

  “Or if you explained about the Life Cycle—”

  “Also not possible. Believe me, Hanna, I tried. I also apologized, but Zachary won’t listen. He just wants to make this a stupid game.”