Chapter 4

“Weird.”

Spencer felt someone shaking him. His eyes were sticky and he had to squint against the light. Suddenly remembering where he was, he shot upright in his seat. The glue seal on his eyes snapped and he glanced around the classroom.

He was alone.

Well, not alone, because Miss Sharmelle had a hand on his shoulder, bringing him around. But all the other students were gone!

“I’m sorry, Miss Sharmelle,” Spencer said. “I don’t know . . . sometimes I . . . I’m sorry.”

Miss Sharmelle smiled attractively. “It happens, Spencer. Algebra affects everyone differently.”

“What time is it?”

“The bell just rang. I bet your classmates aren’t even in the lunch line yet.”

Spencer shook his head in shame and began scooping his belongings into his backpack. “I won’t fall asleep again, Miss Sharmelle. I really am sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell Mrs. Natcher or anything.” But then, as Spencer stood and faced her, Miss Sharmelle gasped. Her green eyes, under a pair of fashionable fake glasses, studied his cheek and forehead.

“What?” Spencer asked, his stomach sinking. “What’s wrong with my face?”

Without answering, she motioned him over to her desk. From her pink leather purse, Miss Sharmelle withdrew a round makeup compact, flipped open the lid, and held the mirror out for him. Although the mirror was marked with several smudges and dusted with powder, Spencer caught the reflection of his left cheek. X + Y = Z was sloppily tattooed in black marker across his face. On his forehead was another algebraic equation, and by his chin, a third one had been started but left without an answer, probably because the bell had rung.

“Dez,” mumbled Spencer angrily. He told Miss Sharmelle that he would wash it off in the bathroom and gave her the mirror back.

“Terrible thing, permanent marker,” she said, examining her own reflection before replacing the makeup mirror in her purse.

“It’ll come off,” Spencer said.

“Good luck.”

The nearest bathroom was just across the hallway. Spencer kept his face down and walked—fast. He pushed open the door with his elbow and stepped inside just as someone flushed the toilet and turned to face him.

Dez.

“Hey, Doofus,” the bully said. Spencer paused, trying to decide whether he should flee immediately or attempt to get past Dez and wash his face.

“Nice equators,” Dez smirked.

“What?” Spencer asked, his fist clenched like a grenade.

“Maybe you should look in the mirror, smarty-pants,” Dez answered. “You’ve got math equators written all over your face.”

“Equations,” Spencer said. “Math equations.”

“Yeah, whatever. You still look like a dork.” Dez snorted and Spencer was afraid for a moment that the bully would launch a gob at him. Nothing came out, so Dez shifted gears. “You thought about standing up for Gullible Gates yesterday, didn’t you?”

“That’s why you drew on my face?” Spencer asked.

“No,” said Dez. “Actually, I drew on your face because Nancy Pepperton thought it would be funny.” Dez dug in his jeans pocket (a difficult task when the jeans are a size too small) and withdrew a crumpled strip of paper. “She passed me this during algebra.”

Half expecting the paper to grow teeth and bite him, Spencer took it from Dez’s hand.

Spencer is so out. Draw something on his face. —Nancy

Spencer crumpled the paper and stuffed it into his own pocket. He barely even knew Nancy! What did she have against him?

“Anyway,” Dez said. “Stay out of my fun with Gullible Gates and life will be easier for you. I like to play with her mind. It’s soft like Play-Doh but doesn’t dry out as fast. Next time you think about being a hero, I’ll spell a different equator for you. It’s called Fist + Nose = Blood. Deal?” Dez extended his beefy hand to seal the bargain, but Spencer just stared, trapped.

“Deal?” Dez repeated, unaccustomed to having his victims think before they agreed.

“Deal,” answered Spencer finally. “It’s a deal.”

“Why won’t you shake on it?” Dez demanded, his hand still extended.

“Well,” Spencer hesitated, wondering if honesty would win him a face-plant in the toilet. “You just went to the bathroom and you haven’t washed your hands yet.”

Dez exhaled a breathy puff of disbelief that turned into a mocking laugh. Spencer stood rigid, ready for anything. After a good chuckle, Dez reached out and gently patted Spencer’s cheek. “Washing’s for sissies.” He pushed Spencer aside, flung open the bathroom door, and announced his arrival in the hallway with a loud belch.

As soon as the door clanged shut, Spencer took three quick steps to the sink and turned on the water. Dez’s bathroom hands were a second incentive to a thorough face washing. In the mirror, Spencer saw the ink equations more clearly. He must have been sound asleep not to feel Dez’s marker.

Grateful that no one else had seen the math-work, Spencer splashed his face with water. Reaching over, he gave two solid pumps to the soap dispenser on the wall.

Nothing.

Spencer began pumping violently on the dispenser, but it was hopeless. There was no soap. Spencer scanned the room desperately. The next bathroom was all the way down the hall and around the corner. He would never make it without someone spotting Dez’s artwork.

Spencer’s eyes suddenly fell on a small bottle resting on the edge of the next sink. His face still dripping, Spencer reached over and snatched it up, hopeful that it might contain something that could remove his facial graffiti. Turning it over in his hand, Spencer saw that it was actually a hotel shampoo bottle from a Best Western. Quickly deciding that shampoo might do the trick, he unscrewed the cap.

There was the tiniest bit of gelatin-like substance in the bottom of the bottle. Spencer squirted the glob onto his palm, surprised to see that it was bright pink and looked more like soap than shampoo after all. The soap smelled fresh, if a little chemical.

Spencer worked the pink gel to a foamy lather between his hands. He rubbed his cheek, watching X and Y melt away with surprising ease. Then he closed his eyes and lathered his whole face.

Burning hot!

Icy cold!

“Yaaaaaggghh!”

Spencer frantically began rinsing his face. The soap was in his eyes now, stinging like crazy. He plunged his entire face directly under the faucet, letting the lukewarm water flush out his eyes. Spencer reached out blindly and pumped a roll of paper towels. Blotting his face with the paper helped make the tingling sensation fade.

Spencer opened his eyes and stared back at his reflection. The front of his shirt was soaked from his rapid and reckless rinsing. His brown hair was damp and clinging to his forehead. And his face . . . it was as red as a tomato and still burning. But at least there was no sign of Dez’s algebra.

Spencer picked up the bottle, blinking rapidly in hopes that his eyes would stop stinging. He smelled the soap again. It was strong—definitely not Best Western shampoo. It might have been paint remover, for all he knew. Whatever it was, Spencer decided he was allergic. He was lucky to have found it first. What if some little baby first grader had washed his hands with the napalm soap?

Feeling like he was doing the world a favor, Spencer tossed the bottle into the garbage can, where it sank out of sight beneath crumpled paper towels.

Suddenly, a flash of movement caught his eye in the mirror. Spencer blinked, still trying to focus. The stall door was open, but he thought he’d seen something duck out of sight.

Spencer took a cautious step toward the bathroom stall and peered in. Seeing nothing, he gently pushed the door. It swung on its hinges to reveal an empty stall, nothing but scraps of toilet tissue littering the hard floor.

“Weird,” Spencer muttered, still blinking against the eye-tingling sensation. Dispensing another small piece of paper towel, he used it to open the bathroom door. Then he headed for the lunchroom.