My Senior Year of Awesome Page 5

  “You girls are epic.” Dom wraps his arms around us after we more or less regain control. “I haven’t had this much fun since we pantsed Eric Fulman walking out of Spanish last month.”

  “Ooh. Boxers or briefs?” Jana asks.

  “Guess again.”

  “Boxer briefs?” I venture, hopefully. I picture Eric’s massive cheesesteak filled belly, and his pasty white skin. Not exactly a guy I want to see pantsed.

  “Nope. None of the above. He was full on commando.”

  “Yick,” Jana says. “Why do guys think pantsing each other is so funny?”

  “Humiliation is an important part of high school,” Dom says. “Deal with it.”

  “Has it happened to you?” I ask.

  Dom cracks a leering smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” An obscene image of Dom fills my mind. I shift away from him and fumble with the zipper on my sweatshirt, tugging it all the way up to my neck.

  “So, girls, what’s next? Are we ditching first period, too?” he asks.

  “Not today,” I say.

  “We wanted to see what we could get away with,” Jana says. “You know, test the waters.”

  “Speaking of water, we should plan a cut day and go to the beach. Swim in the ocean,” Dom says.

  More images of Dom float through my head. At least this time he’s wearing a bathing suit.

  “Only if you drive, Dom,” Jana coos, batting her long, heavily mascaraed eyelashes at him. She’s going to take credit for getting us a ride in his car; I just know it.

  Oh, well, I arranged our initial triumph. She would never have skipped homeroom if I hadn’t pushed her into it.

  I mentally add achievement number one to our list.

  Jana and I spend the entire period relaxing on the cushy library sofa, flirting with Dom and planning our next adventure as a threesome.

  When the move-to-your-next-class riot alarm wails, Dom leads us between the bookshelves and bends his neck around the corner, checking for Mrs. Strong. Thankfully, she’s still fixated on her screen and gabbing away on the phone. As soon as he flashes a thumbs up, the three of us race out of the library.

  ***

  Of course, when I meet up with Andy again in Calculus, I have to deal with his withering look of disapproval. He awaits my arrival, arms folded across his chest, long legs sticking out into the aisle, balancing his workbook on his knee.

  “Did you miss me?” I ask, high-stepping over one of his protruding limbs and sliding into my seat. Mrs. McCaffrey scripts a lengthy proof on her SMART board, to the tune of groans from the math haters, who apparently make up a sizable portion of the class.

  “Not at all,” Andy says, his eyes darting between his workbook and the board. He picks up a pencil and begins to solve step-by-step, his wrist moving rhythmically down the page. His penmanship is so neat that the numbers look digitized. I glance at the trail of formulas and sigh. If he wasn’t acting so damn self-righteous, I would beg him for help.

  “Homeroom was quiet for once,” he continues, circling and underlining his final answer, leaving no doubt about its accuracy. “Mrs. Warren asked if anyone had seen you because you weren’t on the call-out list. I told her you felt sick, and Jana walked you to the nurse. You need to stop by the office and ask the secretary to mark you present, or they’ll call home looking for you.”

  “Really? You lied for me? Would that still count as skipping homeroom?” I wonder aloud.

  “Do you want it to count?” Andy’s light eyebrows pop up above his heavy frames. He probably thought he was doing Jana and me a favor. I scowl up at him, but when our eyes meet the sunlight streaming in the windows seems to bend behind his glasses and illuminate his eyelashes, turning them into wisps of gold. For a second I imagine them turning even lighter in the summer.

  “Yes, of course, I want it to count.” I snap out of my eyelash fantasy and settle into my work, deciding it’s about time to pay attention to Mrs. McCaffrey.

  “Why?” he asks, continuing our conversation during the next problem-solving interval.

  “Because, Jana and I have this thing going. And skipping homeroom is part of it.”

  “What’s the thing?” He leans forward and rests his elbow on his desk, anxious to hear my answer. Wow, Andy’s teetering on the edge of insubordination.

  “It’s a girl thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Like PMS?”

  I burst out laughing. Mr. Smarty-pants is genuinely confused. When Mrs. McCaffrey glances our way, I drop my eyes back to my notebook. “Sure, Andrew, like PMS. Whatever.”

  We return to class work.

  “Hey, what’s up with you calling me Andrew?” he asks a few minutes later, after finishing the second problem light years ahead of the rest of us. Over my shoulder, I notice a deep crease develop between his eyebrows, but whether it’s due to intense concentration or frustration with my evasiveness, I have no idea.

  “Oops. Sorry. My mom uses full names when she’s angry, and her habit must have rubbed off on me. I’m still mad about the snowball.”

  “Oh,” Andy says, and I can practically hear the light in his extra–large brain click on. “Actually, I kind of like it. No one calls me Andrew. Besides my mother.”

  At this revelation, my mouth drops open. I look up from my problem set to find him smiling at me. The corners of his blue eyes crinkle and I think to myself, for the second time, Jana is right. Andy has the potential to move up from a four on the datability meter. The eye crinkling thing gets him to at least a six.

  Fill It In – Your Awesome Achievements

  To Be Completed By Sadie Matthews and Jana Rodriguez Prior to June 1st

  1. Break a School Rule – Sadie & Jana Cut Homeroom!

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  Chapter Seven

  “How’s the daughter of anarchy thing working for you?” Dom asks when I plop down next to him in A.P. Bio.

  “So far, so good.” I rummage in my backpack for a pen, preparing to copy the lab assignment posted on the blackboard. Animal dissection. Gross.

  “Do you vant to drink the blood of pigs? Mwhah Hah Hah.”

  And today, I’m sitting next to Count Chocula. I shoot him a telling look.

  “I need a new partner, then,” he says, reverting to his normal tenor. “Someone’s gotta do the work while I catch up on my texts.”

  As he speaks, Dr. Brownstein enters the room, hefting a plastic mail bin. Based on my gut reaction to the odor crawling through the lab, he’s definitely not toting paperwork. “Class, we’ll need to work in groups of four today. I haven’t got enough specimens to go around.”

  “Want to work with me and Sidh?” Andy leans across the aisle, his blond curls brushing my shoulder. I glance over at Jana’s table and notice Arlene is absent.

  “Dr. Brownstein, can we work in a group of five?” I ask. “The four of us and Jana?”

  “Hoping to avoid being outnumbered by the opposite sex, Sadie?” Dr. Brownstein asks, breaking into a thin-lipped smile. “All right. One group of five. But I expect stellar results from the largest group.”

  Jana jets over to our lab table and slaps down her notebook. She practically kissed Andy’s feet at lunch when she found out how he lied for us in homeroom.

  “Thanks again, Andy,” she whispers and puckers her lips, sending air kisses in his direction. He smiles down at her. She pats his arm. Since when are Jana and Andy so friendly?

  Plunk.

  Dr. Brownstein drops a clear plastic bag on the lab table. Inside, our unwitting subject awaits total decimation. The five of us stare at the poor soul, who, once upon a time, was almost a baby pig.

  “Gosh, he looks like he’s just sleeping,” Jana says and sniffs.

  “Sidh, read the instructions,” Andy says, pushing onward before Jana
sinks into hysterics. Sidh clears his throat a few times and holds his notebook in front of his nose. I copy his action, hoping to block some of the eau de swine.

  “Fetal Pig Dissection Lab Part One. External Anatomy. Rinse all preservative off the subject.”

  “Eww. I’m not touching it,” Jana says, her voice no longer carrying any trace of sympathy for “the subject.”

  “Not it. I’ll take notes,” I say.

  Sidh and Dominic both step back from the table; hands raised.

  “I’ll do it,” Andy offers, rolling up his sleeves. He flips on the sink and holds the pig by the hind legs under a stream of running water. The two front legs dangle, and for a second I swear the thing is contemplating a dive down the drain.

  “Be careful, Andy,” Jana warns. “Don’t break him.”

  “He’s already dead,” Dom says. “What could be worse than that?”

  Sidh reads through a list of features we need to first observe and then describe in excruciating detail. We rely on Andy’s familiarity with anatomy as he maneuvers the animal’s limbs and points to various body parts. I concentrate on recording our findings. After determining the sex (definitely male), the next step is to slash the poor sucker open.

  “Do the honors, AK. You’re the only one with medical expertise,” Sidh says.

  “Are you an EMT?” asks Jana.

  “More like a candy striper,” Dom interjects.

  “His Dad’s a doctor,” Sidh says and pokes Andy in the arm with a pencil. “Doesn’t he take you to work and let you watch him slice and dice?”

  “He’s a pediatrician,” Andy says. “Most of the time he’s looking up babies’ snotty noses.”

  “Close enough.” Dom nods to Andy. “I vote AK for pig surgeon general.”

  “You’re the best. We owe you lunch or something.” Jana shines her mega-watt smile for Andy’s benefit.

  Andy sucks in a breath and removes a ball of string from the dissection kit. As he ties back the pig’s legs, Jana makes a few more sad comments about the poor dead mammal. With the end of the day rapidly approaching, Dom’s texts roll in like ocean waves at high tide. He yanks the phone from his pocket and settles back in his chair to tap out replies.

  “Scalpel?” Andy asks, doing his finest imitation of a medical professional. Sidh rifles around in the lab kit and comes up with a knife-like instrument, which he hands to Andy, who then opens the pig’s stomach in one long cut.

  We all lean forward, wrangling for a better view. Even Dom stops texting. The scene turns into something like one of those gross horror movies Jana forces me to watch on our frequently dateless Saturday nights. I’m completely reviled, but unable to look away. The smell of formaldehyde intensifies, and I cover my nose with my sleeve.

  “Hey, where’s all the blood? Shouldn’t it be gushing?” Dom asks. His normally tanned skin pales a bit.

  “No, there shouldn’t be any blood present. The pig’s been drained ahead of time,” Andy replies, rooting around in the abdomen with the knife. “Just a bunch of random organs and muscle. I think this is the liver.” He stabs a squishy brown body part, plucks it out of the pig’s belly and holds it up in front of Dom’s nose. Dom goes cross-eyed right before he doubles over and barfs up his lunch.

  “Holy Shit!” I scream, gagging and coughing as his stomach contents spurt onto the lab table and my new fuzzy pink sweater. “What the hell, Dominic?”

  And that’s how I earn my first-ever detention.

  Fill It In – February 18th

  Ten Ways to Survive Detention

  1. Introduce yourself to a group of fellow seniors who call themselves “The Regulars”. People you didn’t even know existed outside of detention.

  2. Count the different hair colors and find one head matching each shade on the rainbow spectrum.

  3. Sleep – only if you won’t mind that your purse is missing when you wake up.

  4. Make a mental list of words rhyming with detention: tension, suspension, comprehension, intervention.

  5. Do the wave every time Mr. Banks, this week’s featured detention monitor, leaves the room.

  6. Answer the question “So, what did you do to get in here?” at least fifty times.

  7. Reenact the incident that got you in here with Dominic Altomeri, an “Almost Regular” but not quite a card-carrying member of the detention denizens.

  8. Try to earn an early release by holding your breath until you grow faint.

  9. Read fifty text messages from Jana apologizing for not cursing as well so we could participate in detention together.

  10. Flirt with Dominic. Even though he puked on me. I still want a ride in his car.

  Chapter Eight

  So, detention is a uniquely terrifying experience. Afterward, I feel the need to go directly home, burn my clothes, and take a long, hot shower. But Jana waits for me, despondent.

  “I’m sorry! So sorry!” she gushes.

  “What’s she upset about? AK should be the one kissing my ass after shoving that organ in my face,” Dominic says.

  “Andy did apologize,” I insist. Profusely. I even thought he was going to cry for a minute or two. And, though he didn’t dare say this out loud, I was also under the impression that he was disappointed in the rest of us for ruining his chance at an A in the lab. But once he realized the extent of Dom’s puking episode, Andy saved the day by fetching a wad of paper towels from the boys’ bathroom and cleaning up the mess. He must not have any form of a gag reflex.

  And, in an act of pure cowardice, Dr. Brownstein asked Andy to deliver my punishment.

  “How did you not get sick?” I asked when he handed me the pink paper pronouncing my sentence.

  “I might not have seen my dad cut people up at work, but after years of spending Saturdays filing paperwork in his office during flu season, I’m pretty immune to vomit,” he said, with a touch of pride in his voice.

  “Really? I don’t think working in your dad’s office has had the same effect on my mother.” Mom’s been a long-time receptionist for Andy’s dad’s practice. She’s strictly front-of-the-house material.

  “Your mom can’t handle the gross stuff, huh?” He smiled. “Hey, do you need a ride home?”

  I stared up at him, amazed, before concluding he was probably trying to be polite. Or he was still attempting to make up for the one-sided snowball fight. Or his guilt over fixing the Senior Superlative vote was eating him up inside.

  “No, thanks. I would just stink up your car. The scent of vomit tends to linger.”

  “Some other time, then.”

  “Okay, sure,” I responded, not really thinking about it. But the lame answer echoed in my mind. Did I just subject myself to a future ride with Andy? Shoot. Maybe he missed my response. I hoped he wouldn’t bug me about it every day until I complied.

  Anyway, back to Jana’s endless string of post-detention apologies.

  “Really sorry, Sadie, I mean it,” she says, over and over.

  “What is it with you two?” Dom asks. “Is it so painful to be apart for an hour? It’s like you share a brain or something.”

  “No, we’re best friends,” I correct him. “And best friends do not let best friends serve detention alone.” I wrap my arm around Jana’s shoulders to comfort her. “It was fine though, Jana. I survived. How was track practice?”

  “Oh, I, um, kind of skipped. I wasn’t in the mood to run alone. Will your detention count for the, you know?” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Or do I still have to go too?”

  “I think once is enough for both of us. Fill it in.”

  Dom lets out a loud huff. “How does anyone talk to the two of you? It’s like you have some obnoxious, secret language.”

  Oops. Forgot about him. “We speak English just like you,” I insist.

  “Right. So, what are you saying right now?”

  “Nothing,” Jana says, and “It’s a girl thing,” I say, at the same time.
<
br />   “Then shut up. It’s been real.” He heads for the nearest exit. Before the door slams shut behind him, I spy three cheerleaders perched on the hood of his car. Apparently, Jana and I aren’t getting a ride in his Corvette today.

  ***

  Slumped against my locker, recovering from track practice, I hear the fast beat of footsteps approaching. Ben Wexler, senior running star, looks like he’s considering performing CPR on my limp, nearly lifeless body.

  It didn’t take long for me to realize how much I hate running. My legs despise running. My lungs abhor running. Even my brain detests the mind-numbing, repetitive, leg-hammering on the floor action propelling me through the bleak school hallways.

  Why am I torturing myself?

  Keeping his round, hazel eyes trained on me, Ben glides to a stop. His dark eyebrows stand out like extra-long dashes and they seem to bounce up and down along with the rest of his body as he jogs in place. Although his cheeks are pink from exertion, his breathing appears normal. Meaning he isn’t gulping in air like yours truly.

  “What do you run? Short or long?” he asks.

  A pathetic whimper rises in my burning throat. “Prior to this week, I only ran when I was late for class. Or if my neighbor asked me to walk his dog and I accidentally dropped the leash.”

  “For real?” Ben rolls his spine forward and touches his toes, all the while staring at me in a disconcerting fashion. He’s like an optical illusion, contorting his body in every direction, yet his head never moves. “You decided to try competitive running four months before graduation?”

  “I didn’t think it would be this hard,” I admit. “I guess you’ve been running for a while?”

  “Since third grade.” Ben cops a tight smile and glances further down the hall. “What about your friend?”

  “Jana? She hasn’t run before either.”