“No,” I say.
Mr. Davis blinks slowly at me. “Would you like to try?”
I take a deep breath and squint at the board, then sink back into my seat. Still gibberish. I’m exhausted from the effort it takes to wake up, to sit through eight periods of school and pretend I care about any of this.
“No.” The word pops out of my mouth again before I can stop myself. Snorts of laughter hit my back. I’m not trying to be a smart-ass, but I know that’s what it sounds like.
It’s horrible the way Mr. Davis stands there, staring at me like I’ve let him down. I am the girl who finds x. I take diligent notes and pretend to laugh at his math puns. Sometimes the laugh is genuine, like when he came back from a weekend in the Bahamas and said, “What happened to the pasty math teacher who sunbathed too long? He became a tangent.”
I’m that girl, not the slacker who makes his job harder.
Annie’s hand pops into the air, but he ignores her. I shoot her a grateful look for her failed distraction attempt.
Mr. Davis doesn’t say anything. He rips a slip of paper from a pad in his pocket, scrawls something onto it, and drops it onto my desk. I know what it is without looking at it. A detention slip. The only detention slip I’ve gotten in my entire life. My face burns in shame as I fold the paper into a tiny triangle. I make it smaller and smaller, wishing I could make it disappear like a magic trick.
* * *
Detention at Evanston means sitting in complete silence for an hour after school. No cell phones, no books, no access to the outside world.
“I still don’t understand,” Annie says as she walks me to Mr. Holmes’s classroom. He’s the detention monitor today. “Didn’t you see me mouthing the answer? Twenty-seven!”
“That’s not the point, Annie,” I answer, picking up my pace. It’s impossible to lose her. She’s like a tiny Chihuahua nipping at my heels.
“Why didn’t you tell him you didn’t know the answer?”
“Because I’m an idiot.”
“You’re lucky that detentions don’t go on your record,” Annie goes on. Her short little legs struggle to keep up with my long strides. “Otherwise, kiss Harvard good-bye.”
Yeah, that would be a shame, wouldn’t it.
I still feel awful about what happened. I didn’t mean to disrespect Mr. Davis like that. He’s a nice man, even though he’d benefit from a stronger antiperspirant. It’s not his fault I’ll never care about the value of x. I apologized to him after class, hoping it might make me feel better, but it didn’t. When he asked me what happened, I told him the truth—that I don’t know what came over me. I still don’t know.
Annie and I round the corner, stopping in front of Mr. Holmes’s classroom.
“Text me when you’re out,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze.
“I will,” I promise.
She runs off to live her responsible life, and I turn the doorknob, ready to fulfill my new destiny as a juvenile delinquent. I step into the classroom, which is uncomfortably warm and smells of discarded tuna salad. Mr. Holmes is half-asleep at his desk, his face hidden behind a giant hardcover. I jot my name down on the sign-in sheet in front of him. When I turn around, I spot Krina and Strand right away, slouched in the back row and giving off deep Breakfast Club vibes. They look too comfortable here.
Strand straightens when he notices me, his mouth falling open in surprise. Krina practically chokes with sudden laughter.
With my face tipped toward the ceiling, I march to the back of the room and take a seat at the empty desk between them. I zip open my backpack and take out my math homework, ready to find the crap out of x and make things up to Mr. Davis.
Immediately, Strand leans over and whispers, “Didn’t know you had it in you, Cutlet.”
I stare straight ahead. “Shut up.”
“What happened? Get caught with a sherm stick?”
I have no idea what a sherm stick is, but I’m not giving Strand the satisfaction of asking about it. Instead, I fix Strand with a menacing stare. Or, my best attempt at one. It clearly doesn’t work. He can’t stop grinning, and Krina has to put her head down on her desk to muffle her laughter.
“I don’t find any of this funny,” I whisper to them.
“Relax,” he whispers back. “Everyone gets detention at some point. It’s practically a rite of passage.”
“Not for me.”
Mr. Holmes peers at us from behind his book. Strand and I clamp our mouths shut, staring at different spots in the classroom. When Mr. Holmes goes back to reading, Strand scoots closer to me.
“It’s all right,” he says in a low voice. “He’ll go to the bathroom in two minutes and stay there for a while.”
“How do you know?” I murmur.
“Twice a day. Once right before first period, and once in the afternoon. He’s freakishly regular.”
“Gross.”
Sure enough, two minutes pass by and Mr. Holmes rises from his desk. He takes the book with him, so it seems he’s in it for the long haul.
“Okay,” Strand says in his normal volume when the door closes behind Mr. Holmes. “Let’s hear it.”
I bend over my homework. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh, come on,” Krina says, finally calm enough to speak. “It’s you. It couldn’t have been that bad.”
The words send a flare of annoyance through me. I’m good at underestimating myself, but I don’t like when other people do it. It makes me feel predictable.
“I get it,” I say. “You guys are the badasses, and I’m the good girl.”
“Good girls don’t sing Zeppelin like you do,” Strand says, leaning back in his chair. “But you’re right about me and Krin. We’re total badasses.”
I meet his eyes, and they’re twinkling in amusement. He’s mocking me again. Wonderful.
“Well, what are you guys in here for?” I ask. I know Krina’s reputation, but I’m curious to hear what the newest addition to the Evanston rumor mill will be.
Krina lifts an eyebrow at Strand.
“Go ahead,” he says with a wave. “Tell Cutlet what badasses we are.”
Krina motions for me to come closer. “Strand and I were caught . . .” She lowers her voice dramatically. I find myself leaning in to her, bracing myself for the impending shock. Caught what? Having sex? Doing drugs? Stealing a test? “We were caught . . . eating. In the library.”
I narrow my eyes, looking from her to Strand. “You’re messing with me.”
“Nope.” He pulls a Ziploc full of cereal from his blazer. “Cheerios. You want?”
“You two got detention for eating Cheerios in the library?” I confirm in disbelief.
Krina shrugs. “We were hungry.”
My face cracks into a small smile. Getting detention for such a dumb reason makes Strand and Krina a little less untouchable. I reach my hand into the bag and pull out a handful of cereal.
“Okay,” Krina says. “Your turn.”
I look down, pausing to break a Cheerio in half, straight down the middle. “I’m here because I refused to do a math problem in class. ‘Talked back to a teacher’ is what it says on my slip.”
Strand gives a low whistle. “Damn, Cruz.”
“Who do you have?” Krina asks. “Davis?”
I nod.
She flicks her hand. “Asshole with a micro penis.”
“He’s not so bad,” I say. “I deserved the detention.”
She twirls a multicolored string bracelet around her wrist and looks at me pensively. She’s uncomfortable. The sight of an uncomfortable Krina is foreign to me.
“What?” I ask.
Krina shifts around in her chair. “Nothing, just . . . look, I’m sorry for what happened yesterday.”
“What about yesterday?” I ask.
“I was an ass to you. About the quince. Annie says sometimes I can come across as ‘insensitive’ or some bullshit.”
“You weren’t an ass,” I reply automatically.
>
“I was. It’s fine. I know I can be.”
“Maybe a little. Like the cheek of an ass.”
“Okay, then I’m sorry for being an ass cheek.”
“I get it,” I say. “I mean, I chose not to have a quince for the reasons you mentioned. It’s totally sexist, and it’s a huge waste of money.”
Krina lifts her shoulders. “But I shouldn’t have been so harsh. I’ve never even been to one. And besides, just because quinces started for terrible reasons doesn’t mean they’re terrible now.”
“I have to wear a hoop skirt,” I say.
“Jesus. Now I’m really sorry.”
“I told you. But I appreciate your efforts to be positive.”
“I try. I can’t promise I won’t mock, though.”
“You and me both,” I say, and a hint of a smile peeks through her dark painted lips.
Krina being nice to me is something I didn’t expect. She’s not supposed to be a nice girl, according to the general consensus. Fierce? Yes. Tough? Without question. But when someone you’ve pegged as unapologetic goes and apologizes to you, it makes you rethink your assumptions.
Strand, who has been silently observing me throughout our conversation, suddenly says, “I’ve never met anyone who eats Cheerios like you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. I’m cradling a handful in my palm.
“You break each one in half before you eat it.”
“So?”
“So one Cheerio is too large?”
“I’m savoring it.”
“It’s ridiculous. I can’t even watch.”
“Then don’t,” I say, tossing one at him. He swiftly catches it in his mouth, because he’s Strand, and everything he does is effortlessly cool.
Krina throws one at him for good measure, and we both laugh when it gets caught in his hair.
“Dude,” he protests.
“What?” she asks. “You can’t even see it in there. Your hair is like a black hole.”
I come to his defense, fluffing up my own frizzy hair. “Don’t worry, Strand. I get your struggle.”
“We’re gonna have to get Mohawks so we can be super cool like Krina,” he replies.
Krina runs her hand over the top of her hair’s spiked edges. “You losers wish you could pull this off.”
Strand and I take turns trying to land a Cheerio perfectly on top of her Mohawk’s highest point until Mr. Holmes walks back into the room, readjusting his pants. I try not to laugh out loud and end up making a strange choking sound, which sends Strand and Krina over the edge.
“Is there a problem?” Mr. Holmes asks us.
I shake my head while they answer, “No, sir,” in strained, polite voices.
When Mr. Holmes sticks his nose back into his book, the three of us exchange secret smiles. I think if there’s one good thing that’s come out of detention, it’s feeling slightly less intimidated by them both. Like when you’re a kid and you’re old enough to realize the monster by your bed is really just a coatrack.
Chapter Twenty-One
“RAISING THE SKATE”
—SPEEDY ORTIZ
It’s never a good sign when both of my parents ambush me at the same time. I’m in the middle of my newest playlist, headphones lodged in my ears, when I notice them standing over me. Their faces are closed curtains drawn tight, and I know what’s coming.
“We got a call from Principal Tishman,” Mom says.
My chest tightens, like a bowling ball is crushing my sternum.
“Detention, Ria? Detention?!”
I can’t bring myself to look at either of them.
“Explain yourself,” she says. “Right the hell now.”
“I should have told you,” I say in the world’s smallest voice, “but—”
“Detention,” she says again. “For talking back to a teacher.”
“I didn’t,” I say. I want to explain what happened, that I was tired and the word “no” came out without thinking, but Dad stops me.
“You’re going to sit and listen,” he says firmly.
I obey. I can’t argue with my dad when he’s on a power trip. Mom throws her hands up into the air, her eyes brimming with tears. Dad’s are watering as well, and I have to look away.
I now know what the worst feeling in the world is. It’s making your parents cry. I am officially a monster.
“I don’t even know where to start, Ria. When your school called, I thought there was a mistake.” She paces around my desk. “Your teachers have always loved you. You’re a sweet girl, you’re polite . . .”
I nod dumbly. “I messed up. I’m sorry.”
“We didn’t raise you to talk back to an adult. Not to us, not to your teachers.”
I wish that I could explain to them how I’ve been feeling, but I know they won’t understand. They didn’t grow up in a world with Evanston in it.
Mom gives Dad a nudge, and he rubs his hands together. “Ria, your mom and I talked about . . . things.”
“The band,” I clarify.
He nods, his lips forming a straight flat line. I don’t want to hear him say it, so I say it for him.
“No band.” My voice sounds strange, expressionless. They look sorry, which should make me feel better. Instead, it makes me more depressed. They’re sorry for something they can fix.
“It’s inappropriate,” Mom fills in. “I don’t like what it’s making you become.”
I look down at my toes, scrunch them against the carpet. “The band has nothing to do with any of this.”
I know it’s not true. The band has everything to do with how I’m acting, just not in the way they think. When I have it in my life, I feel better. When I don’t, I turn into someone I don’t like.
“But we were thinking,” Mom continues, “that if you insist on singing, maybe you can find a healthier outlet. Did you know that the Evanston school choir competed at Disney World last year?”
She pauses, expecting me to lose my shit over Disney World. As though I’m five years old.
“Or think about getting back to running,” Dad says. “Now that you’ve taken your little break.”
The pain in my chest sharpens. That’s what he thinks I was doing? Taking a little break?
“You’re too good to give up on your running, Ria. Coach Bridget told us you could go to Nationals.”
Mom brightens. “You could even do both! Track and choir!”
Dad snaps his fingers. “Great idea.”
“G-A-A-S,” Mom recites. “Your grades are good. You’ll have athletic and artistic. We just need to find you some community service. Maybe over the summer.”
“She can tutor,” Dad says. “There’s that school on a hundred and sixty-eighth.”
“No, you’re thinking of the one on one sixty-second.”
“Glo, I pass it every morning on my way to work.”
“Jorge, it’s on a hundred and sixty-second. Daniela works there.”
Oh my God. I can’t listen to this anymore. I stand up and close my laptop with excessive force, and they jump, like they forgot I was still sitting there. They don’t need me to have this conversation anyway. What would I know about my own life? They could ask, but they don’t.
“I’m tired,” I announce. “Can I go to bed?”
“Are you . . .” Mom doesn’t finish the sentence. Okay, she wants to ask. I’d rather her not, because I’m not up to lying at the moment.
Dad cracks his knuckles, and each popping sound threatens to send me over the edge. “Get some sleep. We’ll finish this tomorrow.”
“I know this is hard right now, but you’ll see that we’re doing what’s best for you,” Mom says. “It’s a mistake to throw away your future for some . . . some rock band.”
She says “rock band” like it’s word garbage. The most important thing in my entire life is trash to them.
“Good night,” I reply. It’s the most polite way I can think of to shut down this conversation.
“Good nigh
t,” Dad says. They each give me a kiss on the forehead before they leave my room. Dad thinks the problem’s solved, but Mom knows better. She looks back at me before shutting the door behind her.
I put on my pajamas and wriggle into bed, but I don’t fall asleep. My parents are out in the living room, talking in soft murmurs that drift through the walls. They’re probably patting themselves on the back for their excellent parenting skills. Go team. Obstacle avoided. The path to Harvard is still clear.
I didn’t cry. That was good. From the way my parents winced, I think they expected me to cry, or beg, or even yell. Instead, I knew what I had to do. Act okay. Say nothing. Remain calm, even if it hurts.
I was able to do all of these things surprisingly well, because as soon as my parents walked into that room, I made an important choice.
I’m staying in the band. With or without their permission.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“COMPOUND FRACTURE”
—MY MORNING JACKET
I call Levi that night and lay out my plan. He’ll secure the band room during lunch, so we can have our practices then. It’ll require scarfing our food down on our way to Fridman, but it’s a sacrifice we’ll have to make. There’s no hope of having practice after school now that my parents expect me to come straight home.
At practice I focus instead on getting my voice back in shape. We attack each song with a new ferocity, like wolves devouring a carcass. Our time is limited, so we’re extra focused on getting things right. The instruments, my voice, everything fits together seamlessly even after our separation. The separation may have actually made us stronger.
It’s not until Friday that my happiness devolves into full-fledged panic. Somehow, my mind had tucked away the fact that bands do more than practice. That they actually perform, and I’m supposed to sing in front of actual people tomorrow.
The Victoria in My Head Page 11