by Amy Holder
"Scooter!" Mr. Stuart sneers. "What did I tell you about that crap in your mouth?"
He stomps to the varsity football jock in the back of homeroom. Holding out a Styrofoam cup, he orders, "Spit!"
I watch as Ryan "Scooter" Bryce spews out a chunky wad of dark brown nastiness. Mr. Stuart holds the cup in place for the remaining speckled saliva that's hanging from Scooter's lips to slowly ooze into the cup.
"And if anyone else decides that chewin' tobacco is cool," he barks, "I'm going to introduce you to my chinless uncle Steve!"
The class quivers in terror as he shakes the floor with his heavy walk back to the front desk. I hear my brother gulp from a few rows back. I can recognize his gulp from anywhere, as it's the same gulp he's gulped every time he's been caught in a lie—which, it turns out, is pretty often. While everyone else is cowering in fear, I smile. I'm pretty sure that I'm the only one who knows Mr. Stuart was once a football.
I'm shaking with nerves as I walk with Matt down the hallway. I know he can sense I'm nervous ... which makes me even more nervous.
"Somethin' up?" he asks, giving a curious expression that's completely adorable.
I gander up at the ceiling; trying to be witty, I say, "Just the ugly fluorescent lights."
I soon realize this wasn't a witty joke at all. In fact, it may be one of the cheesiest things I've ever said. If I were close enough to a locker, I'd slam my head against it to punish myself for stupidity.
Matt looks at me, smiling; I laugh awkwardly.
"Really, April, you're acting different."
"Different?" I say, as if I don't know what he's referring to, even though I feel myself sweating incessantly.
He shakes his head. "I dunno, maybe it's just me ... didn't get much sleep last night."
"Late night studying?" I question hopefully.
"Nope, wasn't studying."
Immediately, I grow suspicious over his reply. Who was he with, and where can I find her to chop her head off?
"So," I say, trying to hide my jealousy, "what were you doin' up so late?"
"Oh—I was on the phone ... lost track of time."
"Interesting," I say, grinding my teeth. I pray that he was talking to one of his soccer buddies.
Remembering my promise to Haley, I try to refocus. "So ... the spring formal's coming up in May."
"Yeah," he says. "Have any plans yet?"
Is Matt Brentwood asking me to the spring formal? Excitedly, I blurt, "Nope! Not yet!"
Did I make myself look too desperate?
"No?" he says with a puzzled expression that I'm not quite sure how to read.
I shake my head and ask, "How 'bout you? Do you have plans?"
"Yeah," he replies.
Yeah? What kind of an answer is "yeah"? My heart sinks to my knees. Does this mean he already has a date? Where do I go from here?
"What d'ya mean?"
He looks down guiltily. "Brit asked me yesterday."
Brit-brat? Suddenly, I realize that Britney Taylor was probably the one he was talking with on the phone last night. I can't conceal the hideous snarl on my face.
Seemingly concerned, he says, "I thought you already had a date. I'm sorry. You're not going to be mad at me, are you?"
"Yes!" I blurt, not meaning to. "I mean"—I force a laugh—"no ... no ... that's cool. I do already have a date."
He raises an eyebrow. "But ... you just said—"
I cut him off, unable to control my agitated tone. "I just said I don't have plans yet. I didn't say I don't have a date. There's a big difference, Matt!"
***
I stomp into the locker room with eyes like missiles. Marching to Britney's gym locker, ready to pummel her with my not-so-strong punch, I bite my hand in frustration when I see she's not there. I storm to my locker.
"Where is she?" I question Nancy, my gym partner.
She jumps, flinging her glasses halfway off her face.
"Who?" she asks, readjusting her specs.
"Britney Taylor!" I growl.
"Uh ... I don't know." She backs up. Her hands are strangling a pair of fungus-ridden gym socks to death.
I realize I've approached poor Nancy like the Incredible Hulk, and try to regain my composure. "Did you see her?"
She squints her beady eyes, probably checking to see if my skin is turning green. "Um, no. But ... she's probably already out there."
She points toward the door to the gymnasium.
I quickly change into my gym clothes, adding shin guards and elbow pads that we're required to wear for soccer. We're not practicing soccer in gym right now, but I plan on dribbling Britney's head like a soccerball, so I might as well dress the part.
Zipping into the gymnasium, I hurdle past a group of girls to get to the blond bimbo. I barely recognize her from behind because she's wearing a baggy sweatshirt ... which is so against Lipstick Law Two, I can hardly believe my eyes.
I tap her on the shoulder. She turns around with a gasp. Clearly, the look on my face means business and she knows it. Her surprise turns into a patronizing smile. "Hey, April! What a co-inky-dink ... We were just talking about you!"
The group of girls giggle beside her.
I point to her stomach. "What's with the sweatshirt, Brit? Looking pleasantly plump these days! Are you expecting, or have you been breaking Lipstick Law Three?" I spit out, "And aren't you violating Lipstick Law Two right now by wearing that?"
The girls around her whisper among themselves in disbelief. Their attention turns to Britney to see how she's going to react to my insults. Unfortunately, it doesn't bother her nearly as much as I expected.
Britney rolls her eyes at me. "Gym clothes don't count, scag. I was just waiting for you to get here to reveal my new shirt."
I clench my fists, sputtering, "Oh, really?"
"Yep!" She laughs obnoxiously while peeling off her sweatshirt.
My eyes widen with fury. Ferocity jolts through my veins as I read the writing on her shirt: I GOT UR MAN.
"I had it specially made," she boasts, batting her mascara-clad eyelashes. "Payback's a bitch, ain't it?"
I want to gnaw her tiny brain out with my teeth! I shout, "You little b—"
"Beautiful day today, isn't it?" Ms. Hoopensteiner interrupts us. "Let's get along, girls."
Still fuming, I try to swallow the hate phlegm that's clogging my throat as I turn my attention toward our elfish gym teacher.
"If you lovely girls can find the time around your busy feuding schedules"—Ms. Hoops smiles at us graciously—"I'd like to start class now."
I agree reluctantly. Then, I glance back at Britney with an I'll-get-you-later sneer. She points to the writing on her shirt and covers a devious smile with her other hand. My body feels like it's about to burst like a volcano. I feel like spewing molten red hot lava all over Britney and her man-stealing skintight T.
Ms. Hoops waddles to the net set up in the middle of the gymnasium and asks, "Can anyone tell me what sport we'll be playing today?"
Although the tennis ball rack and rackets on the side of the court make this answer perfectly obvious, no one offers a response.
"Well." The teacher laughs. "We've got a bunch of sleepy sulkers here today! We're playing tennis, girls. I'd let you play on the courts outside, but it's still too wet from this weekend's rain." She points to the rackets and says, "Let's all grab a racket."
I walk close on Britney's heels, trying to intimidate her. My tactics don't work. She groans in disgust. "You're such a lezza-saurus. Get off me!"
"Oops! I'm sorry!" I say, bumping into her as I pick up a racket. "You've gotten so fat there just isn't enough room not to bump into you."
She hisses, "Shut it, fugly Skunk Skank."
Ms. Hoops continues her tennis introduction. She explains the rules, her love of the sport, and finally ends her speech by requesting volunteers to demonstrate.
Britney jumps excitedly, raising her hand.
"Thank you, Miss Taylor!" the squatty gym teacher
says with surprise. "C'mon up here!"
My stomach gurgles in disgust as Britney saunters to Ms. Hoops in her tight pink I GOT UR MAN T-shirt.
The teacher clasps her tiny hands together, bowing forward slightly as she speaks. "Have you ever played tennis before, Miss Taylor?"
"Since I was four," Britney responds, towering over the teacher in an arrogant stance.
"Perfect!" Ms. Hoops claps. "Now we need one more volunteer for a demo singles game."
She looks around at the group of girls.
Britney interjects politely, "If you don't mind, I'd love to ask April Bowers to play with me."
"Uh ... I don't think that's such a good idea," the teacher disagrees.
Britney tilts her head innocently, opening her eyes wide like a harmless, sweet puppy. "But why? I really want to make amends. This can be a truce match. I'd like to put our problems behind us. You yourself have said that sports open the bridge to comradeship, right?"
I grimace at the gym teacher, noticing that she's buying into Britney's BS.
"Well, yes ... I did say that! So glad you're willing to play nice!" She puts her arm around Brit. "To forgive one another is to love one another. And love, my friends"—she pauses to look at her students—"is what makes the world go round."
"You're so right, Ms. Hoops," Britney brown-noses. "I shouldn't have ever judged April for having foot fungus and herpes."
I grunt loudly, growing more and more furious by the second.
"Good, Britney! Tolerance is an important step on the journey to friendship." Ms. Hoops extends her hand to me. "Are you willing to accept Miss Taylor's request, Miss Bowers?"
Tempted to say no, since I've never played tennis in my life, I picture Britney's head as the tennis ball and can't help but agree to the death match.
"You bet!" I exclaim, dusting my pads off.
Ms. Hoops looks at me, puzzled. "You don't have to wear elbow pads and shin guards to play tennis."
I smile kindly at her, and then extend a fake smile to Britney.
"Oh, yes, I do," I say sharply. Battles call for body armor.
"Well then," she says, "go ahead and start your tennis demo, girls."
***
Seventeen minutes later, I wake up in the nurse's office with a cool, damp cloth over my eye and a massive headache.
"W-wh-what happened?" I moan, trying to prop myself up on the stiff cot. I notice my shin guards and red gym shorts, and suddenly realize that my attempt to kill Britney Taylor with a tennis ball probably didn't go as planned.
The nurse rushes to my side. "Oh! No, no! Honey, don't strain yourself!"
I plop my head back down in misery on the paper-thin pillow.
"Don't be alarmed, but I think you might have a black eye," she says, adjusting her white apron. Her sharp features reflect the light of the adjacent window.
"Why?" I mumble softly like I'm in a death scene of a movie.
"Well, dear, Ms. Hoopensteiner said you took a pretty hard hit." She walks to her medical supply station. "Two of them, actually."
She bends down to open the small stainless steel refrigerator and grabs an ice pack. She walks back and hands it to me. "Here you go; try an ice pack."
"My chin hurts, too," I complain, trying to move my bottom jaw from side to side.
"I believe that was the hit that knocked you out, dear. The first ball hit you in the eye."
"And I kept playing? After being hit in the eye with a speeding tennis ball?" I mutter, utterly confused. "Could I even see?"
"Not sure." The nurse puzzles over this for a moment and continues, "But Ms. Hoopensteiner said you were a real trouper out there. You refused to take a time-out."
Sitting at her desk, looking into a small round mirror propped in the corner, she tucks a bobby pin into her tightly wound bun to straighten it. "Anyway, rest up for now. Your mom is on her way to pick you up."
Chapter Eighteen
Although my eye is as swelled as a large blowfish, I'm feeling a little better by dinnertime. My mom has been treating me like a baby all day, even after Dr. Oarman assured her that I wasn't going to go blind or die. I just have a bit of a concussion ... but this isn't as concerning as the fact that I can't look into a mirror without terrifying myself.
My brother is getting a charge out of my new look. He snickers at the dinner table. "Can someone please pass me the black eye?"
I try to glare at him with my usual dirty look, but my eye feels like it may pop out of its socket. It's so much harder to give successful dirty looks with only one working eye.
"Aaden!" my mom snaps. "Don't make light of April's injury! I didn't raise you that way!"
"Sorry, Ma." He laughs. "I meant to say ... would you please pass the eye patch—er, I mean potatoes?"
She stares at him with her dangerously famous don't-try-me-again look as she passes him the mashed potatoes.
My dad inspects me from across the table. "Yep, Bean, you've got a shiner there."
"Don't remind me."
After dinner, I sulk upstairs, hunkering down on my bed. Since my face feels as though a bomb goes off on it every time I move my head, I try to stabilize it among some pillows.
"Don't get too comfortable! You heard Dr. Oarman. You're not supposed to fall asleep with a concussion! Don't lie down on your bed," my mom yells from the kitchen amid running dishwater and clanking pans.
"I know!" I respond firmly, while secretly refusing to get up from my comfortable position.
Annoyed at my current Cyclops condition and the fact that I can't fall into a deep, deep sleep to forget it all, I decide to call Haley. I tell her all the heinous details of the day—the T-shirt, the tennis massacre ... and all about the blue and purple hideousness bubbling rapidly from my face. I also explain that I didn't technically break my promise to her or the Oath—I would have asked Matt if he wasn't already taken by the I-GOT-UR-MAN-T-shirt-wearing tramp.
"You know what you have to do now, don't you?" Haley says after a brief solemn silence.
"Lock myself in my closet for forty-seven and a half years?" I say, knowing this is precisely the amount of time I need to recover from the trauma of today's events.
"No, April, c'mon! You need to fulfill the Lawbreaker Oath more than ever now! Britney has it coming to her. You better be willing to dish it out."
"Maybe when my face deflates," I say. "But for now I have to worry about finding a date to the spring formal. No one's going to want to be seen with Sloth from The Goonies."
Haley laughs, then quickly tries to comfort me. "I doubt you look like Sloth, April."
The truth is that I look like a complete circus freak. This is exactly what Britney wanted. She took my hot guy, and shestole my looks ... leaving me with no formal date and a speed bump on my face.
***
Going to school looking like an inflamed mutant the day after being attacked by a small yellow ball is truly distressing. I ignore Matt in homeroom, which isn't hard, because my left eye is swollen to Jupiter, and he sits to my left. I can feel him staring at me, probably dying to know what happened, but I choose to snub him anyhow. I'm still enraged over the whole Britney Taylor I GOT UR MAN thing. Not to mention, I told him that I already have a date to the formal, and I don't want him questioning me any more about my plans.
Mr. Stuart jumps in horror when he sees me. "Holy smokes, April! What happened?"
"Tennis balls are hazardous weapons," I respond coolly.
The class laughs. I'm happy that others find humor in my suffering.
***
By lunchtime, I feel like I'm about to go postal from having to explain what happened to me 639 times. There are so many different rumors about the tennis massacre circulating around school; everyone is overly eager to hear the real story from the one-eyed horse's mouth. I'm relieved to finally get a chance to sit with my friends in the cafeteria ... the ones who understand and support my trials and tribulations.
"Jeez, it looks worse than it did this morning." Ashley
gawks.
I begin to rethink the whole supporting trials and tribulations thought I had a minute ago. "Thanks, Ash."
"Oh, no ... I didn't mean it like that. I mean, it doesn't look that bad ... just worse than before ... Er, you know what I mean. Does it still hurt?"
"No, actually, it's similar to getting a massage," I reply in a monotone.
Rachel laughs, slipping a straw into her soda. "Not the brightest question, Ashley."
"I still don't know how you managed to refrain from strangling her when she showed you that shirt." Mel shakes her head, spreading cream cheese on a sesame bagel.
"Oh, believe me, I wanted to."
"What stopped you?"
"I wanted to spare Ms. Hoops the violence. The Cookie Monster from Sesame Street is probably violent in her eyes," I explain, tapping my eye to see if it still hurts. Yes, it does.
"She should be suspended. Her eighty-miles-per-hour tennis serve should be considered a deadly weapon! She could've killed you!" Mel says dramatically.
I shudder at the thought of police filing into the gymnasium crime scene to draw a chalk line around my lifeless tennis-ball-beaten body. How was I supposed to know that Britney is some tennis champ with a wicked fast serve? Maybe I am lucky to have come out of this ordeal alive ... as a Cyclops.
Ashley pops a Dorito in her mouth and changes the subject. "I just hope the whole Britney-Matt thing isn't going to deter you from going to the spring formal."
"Oh, that little thing? Why would it?" I grind my teeth, still jealous.
"Really, April, you have to go," Mel says.
The girls look at me wide-eyed, nodding in agreement. Do they not see the hideous bruise mound that's formed on my face? How do they expect me to get a date looking like this? And it's not like I can go alone. Matt will think I got ditched—and that will no doubt make me look like a ginormous loser.
"How am I going to find anyone willing to go with me while I look like this?"
The girls glance at my eye, wincing sympathetically.
Rachel tries to cheer me up, pointing to a cute sophomore at the table next to us. "Look, Jerry Henderson is checking you out right now. I'm sure he'd love to go with you..."