The Boy Problem

by Kami Kinard

  And he said, “Yeah, I know.” (He knows! Eep!) Then — here’s the best part — he smiled! It was a nice smile. It was! This led me to one conclusion:

  I know he’s not my boyfriend yet, but …

  * * *

  My prediction: He will be!

  “How’s it going with your new boyfriend?” asked Maybelline. She happened to be emerging from her mom’s Mercedes SUV at the same time I was prying myself from the back of my neighbor’s ten-year-old Honda. So we ended up walking toward the school at the exact same time. Talk about bad luck!

  Maybelline is like the White Witch from The Chronicles of Narnia: extremely beautiful, but a total ice queen. Her question gave me cold chills of dread. Last year, she asked my boyfriend, Evan, to the spring dance while we WERE STILL DATING. When he broke up with me about thirty seconds after that, it was like the worst day of my life! So if I did have a boyfriend, which I don’t (yet), the last person I’d want to know about it would be Maybelline.

  My mind raced ahead as we walked forward, trying to think of all of the possible ways she could have heard about my crush on Malcolm. The only person who knew was Kara, and she would NEVER tell Maybelline something like that. Never! And Maybelline isn’t even in band, so there’s no way she could deduce I like him by watching me or something. Therefore, she couldn’t possibly know about my crush!

  I responded with confidence. “I don’t have a boyfriend, Colleen.”

  “Oh? That’s not what I heard.” She paused to whip a tube of lip gloss from her bag.

  I was tempted to keep walking, but of course I just had to know what she’d heard. I don’t know why I felt this way. It’s not like she’s ever said a single thing to me that made me feel good.

  “Really. I don’t,” I said, hoping it was enough for her to spill.

  “I heard you were in love with Pizza Face.”

  This confused me. Pizza Face is not a very nice name. It means someone with bad acne, but I couldn’t think of a single guy in my class who fit that description. “Who’d you hear that from?” I asked.

  “Actually” — she slid the tube of gloss across her already perfect lips — “from you. At Triple Slice last Friday. You were kinda drooling all over him.”

  The cold chills of dread were turning into icicles of dread and they were stabbing me in the gut. Because even though seeing a guy’s head in the triple-cheese topping is a completely normal thing to get excited about, it occurred to me for the first time that I might have seemed a teeny bit crazy to onlookers.

  Why does Maybelline always have to be at the wrong place at the right time?

  I stood up extra-straight, looked ahead, and lifted my chin. Maybe it was a mistake to drool over pizza cheese guy in a public place … but I couldn’t admit that to Maybelline. At this point I only had one choice: to own it.

  I glanced back at her and picked up my pace. “Oh, I’m over him!” I called, laughing like it was a big joke and hoping it looked like I didn’t care what she saw. Or said. Maybe that way she’ll never bring it up again.

  Mr. Gheary is a totally cool nerd! Today we played another game to teach us about probability. It is called Pig Out and it’s played with dice. Dianna Leroy was my partner this time, and I beat her two out of three games. At the end of class, Mr. G announced (after a dramatic pause, of course) that we’d be getting a big assignment on using probability to predict the future. He said he’ll give us details Monday.

  Since I’m already pretty good at predicting the future with things like the pizza cheese guy and the cootie catcher, I can make a prediction about this assignment.

  * * *

  My prediction: I’m gonna rock it! (Not to be confused with “I’m gonna rocket!”)

  Today, in band, the best thing ever happened. Malcolm, the boy who never talks, came up to me and asked me if I was going to the skate park on Sunday.

  No, I hadn’t planned to go to the skate park.

  Yes, plans change!

  So I told him I’d meet him there. I’m not sure if this counts as our first date, but I’m counting it anyway!

  I pretty much couldn’t concentrate on anything after that. My mind was too busy imagining myself whizzing down ramps, hand in hand with my future boyfriend.

  Kara says I can’t count going to the skate park as a date unless something happens.

  “What kind of SOMETHING?” I asked.

  “Gah!” she said, smiling. “Do I have to spell everything out for you?” She grabbed a piece of paper and made me a diagram.

  I suggested Kara and Chip come along for moral support, but she already had plans to go visit her grandmom. She did give me one piece of advice, though.

  “Whatever you do, Tabs,” she said, “promise me you won’t try to skate.”

  “Why?” I asked, a little hurt.

  “Face it, Tabs,” said Kara. “You’re a wimp.”

  “A wimp!” I gaped at her. “I am SO not a wimp!”

  “I mean, you’re not a wimp about most things …” said Kara, “… just some things. Things involving any type of pain, for example. Since you’ve never been on a skateboard before, you’ll fall if you try. And that will be painful. Then you’ll cry.”

  “Thanks for your faith in me,” I said.

  Kara put her hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “I have tons of faith in you. Once you put your mind to something, you never back down. I know this, too. So please don’t put your mind to trying to skateboard in front of a guy you have a crush on.”

  “If I get hurt trying to skateboard … Oh. Well. I can take it.” I backed up so that her hands slipped from my shoulders and dangled at her sides.

  “Right,” said Kara, crossing her arms. “Like you could take it last week when I stepped on your toe.”

  “You were wearing shoes and I wasn’t! It really hurt!” I said.

  “I was wearing bedroom slippers!” Kara reminded me. “And you almost cried last month when you got that tiny little cut on your chin.”

  “Who could have predicted I had a dangerous weapon in my hands? It was deceptively sharp.”

  “Sharp? It was a day-old roll from Panera Bread!”

  “It bled! Doesn’t everyone almost cry when they’re bleeding?”

  “No,” said Kara. She shook her head.

  In the end, I did promise not to try skateboarding. This time.

  “Good,” said Kara. “Because it’s better to look good from the sidelines than to get out there and kill your chances with your crush.”

  Humph! I hate it when Kara is right! I am still excited about going, though. Now I only have to convince Mom to let me. That could be harder than learning to pop an ollie.

  After negotiations worthy of Congress, Mom said she’d drop me off at the skate park for an hour on Sunday if I agreed to her conditions. (Like I had any choice!) To make sure we were clear about her conditions, she wrote them down on the magnetic notepad stuck to the fridge.

  Oh. Well. It’s better than nothing.

  * * *

  My prediction: The skate park is still gonna rock!

  Oh no. Oh no no no no no! I feel terrible. I mean really awful. My stomach is flipping faster than a gymnast on a trampoline. My skin feels like it did that time I spent a day at Lake Whitmore and forgot sunscreen. My throat feels like that, too. It’s on fire.

  My plan is to lie here quietly in bed without moving. At all. If I move, I might throw up. Fever, I can hide from Mom. Vomit, not so easily, since it usually comes with unpleasant sound effects and a nasty aroma.

  If she finds out I’m sick there’s NO WAY she’ll let me go to the skate park tomorrow! But if I just lie here, maybe she’ll think I’m just having a lazy Saturday. Then by tomorrow I might be better anyway. Hope. Hope. Hope.

  The problem with being an only child is that your mom has WAY too much time to pay attention to your every move. When she checked in with me this morning, I told her I was sleeping in. She seemed fine with that. But I guess after 10:30 a.m. it isn’
t okay to be lazy anymore. Because that’s when Mom came in, put her hand on my head, and declared me “sick as a dog.”

  “What, suddenly you’re a doctor? Or a vet?” I asked.

  “Honey, you’re burning up.”

  “But I can still go to the skate park tomorrow, right?”

  Mom looked doubtful. “Maybe. If you don’t have a fever in the morning …”

  “I won’t!” I promised. I sure hope I can keep that promise!

  After I threw up the ginger ale and toast Mom brought me, I decided I felt a lot better. I went downstairs to tell her the good news. She took one look at me and pointed back up the stairs. Completely unfair!

  I might as well have fallen off of a skateboard, because this really did make me cry! I’m going to stand Malcolm up before I even get a chance to date him! I guess I just have to hope that he’s a very understanding guy….

  Mom came in to bring me soup and saw that I’d been crying. When I told her why, she offered to drive over to the skate park, find Malcolm, and explain why I wasn’t there. I asked my internal Mortification Meter how I’d feel about that. It took about half a second to get the results.

  I’m definitely gonna have to take my chances on the understanding guy thing.

  I feel fine! Why doesn’t anyone believe me? There’s no point in missing school (and a chance to explain to Malcolm where I was yesterday). But Mom whipped out the thermometer and let it decide!

  No fair! A machine can’t tell how you really feel. My temp was only 101! That’s barely any fever at all. When I heard Mom call her firm to explain why she wouldn’t be there today, I knew arguing was useless. She never misses work.

  Kara called and said I didn’t miss much today. She made me feel better about Malcolm, too, by saying she was sure he’d understand.

  The great news is that I haven’t had a fever since before lunch!

  * * *

  My prediction: Tomorrow I’ll get a rain check on my “date.”

  Woke up feeling much better! Got dressed in a hurry and ran down to tell Mom, who said I must have had a twenty-four-hour bug. Twenty-four-hour? I missed out on three days of my life! Even I know that’s seventy-two hours.

  *Note to future self: Don’t get Mom’s accounting firm to do my future taxes.

  Mom felt my forehead and held my face in her hands for a moment. “Okay, Tabbi, you can go back. If you start feeling bad, call me.”

  I started feeling bad about thirty seconds later. I was in the middle of brushing my teeth when I saw it. I mean zit — a huge one — spreading across my cheek like alien slime trying to take over the surface of a new planet. I guess that’s what I get from those two days of not getting ready in front of a mirror. Plenty of time for a zit invasion to catch me off guard.

  It was ginormous. I turned my head to the side. Holy guacamole! I swear the thing changed my profile. I grabbed a washcloth, soaked it in hot water, and scrubbed. Pointless!

  “Tab-i-thaaaaaa! Hurry up! Your ride gets here in five minutes.” Mom sounded urgent, as always. I looked back into the mirror. I only had one choice.

  “Mom! I’m feeling awful! I’d better stay at home another day.”

  Mom came charging up the stairs. “What’s wrong?” She sounded panicked. Then her eyes took in my clown-nose-red cheek.

  “Is this about that little pimple?”

  “It’s not little! There are radishes smaller than this thing! I can’t go to school like this!”

  “Sure you can,” said Mom. “It’s normal to have pimples at your age.” She grabbed a tube of concealer and began attacking the invader.

  She definitely didn’t understand, so I tried desperately to explain. “If anyone sees me today, they’ll have an image of this” — I pointed to my cheek — “in their head for the REST OF THEIR LIFE.”

  I remembered the image that comes to my head every time I see Frankie Ziegler.

  When we were in kindergarten, Frankie was FAMOUS. He had this weird talent for putting rocks in his nose. His nostrils stretched out bigger and bigger and bigger with each rock he added.

  Frankie was the hit of the playground. While the teachers weren’t looking, we’d watch him try to beat his record of five rocks per nostril with the kind of fascination everyone has for a totally normal-looking person who does freaky things.

  But one day Frankie experienced expanding-nostril FAIL! The rocks that he’d stuffed into his nose would not come back out.

  Frankie thought the teacher wouldn’t notice him if he carried his lunch box in front of his face.

  But it was kind of hard for Mrs. Malloy not to notice Frankie’s giant nose! His unhappy dad came to get him about an hour later.

  The next day Frankie came to school wearing a hospital bracelet. He’d gone to the ER to get those stuck rocks removed!

  I know it’s hard to believe, but this experience didn’t affect Frankie’s nose permanently. He has a completely normal-sized nose today.

  Still, every time I look at Frankie, I see him with that humongous nose. It’s like my brain puts a Frankie on his stupidest day ever mask on top of what he looks like now.

  Frankie goes to the other county middle school now, and last time I saw him, I thought he looked pretty cute. Then that big-nosed mask floated from my brain to cover his face and I had an EWWWW moment.

  I couldn’t let something like that happen to me!

  I looked right at Mom. “If you make me go to school today, it could ruin my life!”

  I guess Mom isn’t too worried about ruining my life.

  I’m in the backseat of Mrs. Winston’s car, with a giant flesh-colored lump on my cheek. I can now see why Mom chose public accounting instead of a career that involves stage makeup.

  Usually I can’t wait to get out of this old Honda where I have to squeeze between toddler Jimmy and his sticky applesauce fingers and Addie the sixth grader. Today, however, I dread the moment this car rolls to a stop.

  For the first time since I got it all cut off, I wish I had my long blond hair back. Then I could just chew on the ends all day, looking absentminded, while discreetly covering the zit with my hair. Geez. Short hair leaves you so vulnerable sometimes!

  At least I had the last-minute idea to throw on my Rasta hat with the fake dreads attached. I can always chew on one of those to cover my cheek!

  What? I’ve worn it to school before. In third grade. On hat day. But still.

  Kara made me ditch the Rasta hat. She said it only drew attention to me because of its bright colors. She also made the point that:

  I am soooooooo thankful that it’s an “A” day today. No band! I’m desperate to explain to Malcolm where I was on Sunday, but not desperate enough to talk to him until this zit disappears, or at least shrinks, like, majorly.

  Me and my giant zit plan to spend the entire lunch period here at one of the back tables, where I’m least likely to see Malcolm. Or anyone else.

  Anyway, now’s a good time to write about the algebra DISASTER. See, when Kara said I hadn’t missed much yesterday, I didn’t worry. But I’d forgotten one thing. She’s not in my algebra class, so she didn’t realize I’d missed something HUGE.

  YESTERDAY they picked partners for Mr. G’s crazy probability project that he told us about on Friday! UGH! So of course everyone cool was already paired up with other cool people. Which left the uncoolest person of all for me. She came rushing toward me, blinding me with her hot pink Cute as a Cupcake, Sweet as Icing T-shirt and glittery Toms.

  “Tabbi, I am so excited to work with you as my partner! Doesn’t this project sound like so much fun? We can predict so many great things! I have tons of ideas, don’t you, Tabbi? I can’t wait to try them out, can you?”

  “Uh … I haven’t really had time to think about it much since I was sick and all, Priyanka,” I said, smiling even though my brain was frowning. In fact, my brain was kinda talking to me at that point, so I didn’t hear the next few sentences Priyanka said.

  “No worries,” said Priyank
a cheerfully. “I have tons of ideas! I’ll start with the best one: We can use cupcakes for our probability project!” She pumped her fist in the air. It slammed into James’s arm as he walked by. He stepped back and scowled at her. For the first time ever, Priyanka looked wilted.

  I know she’s annoying, but it was clearly an accident. I didn’t think it was fair of James to make her feel bad. What a jerk! He should know by now that:

  If James can’t learn that simple formula, I don’t know how he expects to pass algebra this year!

  “So how, exactly, can we use cupcakes for our probability project?” I asked, trying to help Pri focus on something besides James’s glower.

  Priyanka rubbed her hands together like she was super-excited. She bounced up and down on her heels. The cupcake-shaped earrings in her ears swung back and forth. “Get this,” she said. “We can predict what kind of cupcake people will like most.”

  “Chocolate,” I said. “Since we’ve figured that out, I guess we’re done with our project.”

  “Tabbi, you are so funny!” she said. She laughed so loudly that it sounded fake. But it definitely wasn’t. Jake Baxter turned around in his desk and stared at us. Since I didn’t want anyone staring at me on the day of the giant zit invasion, I needed to say something to get Pri to stop laughing.

  “Why don’t we get together after school sometime and try to come up with a project we’ll both like,” I suggested.

  “Great idea!” she said. “I’ll come over right after school today!”

  “Tomorrow,” I put in quickly. “I have this … thing … today.”

  “Okay, tomorrow! And we can bake cupcakes to help us brainstorm!”

  “Uhhh … sure,” I said, because I was kinda taken off guard and couldn’t think of what else to say.