CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SELF-INTEREST

self·in·ter·est

noun \self-in-tĕ-rist\

—regard for one’s own interest or advantage, especially with disregard for others

I grabbed the phone in the kitchen and went out to the front porch. I didn’t want my parents hearing my conversation; I knew they wouldn’t understand and they’d probably think I was being mean. But seriously, Lucille was horrible with vocabulary and spelling, and she was sloppy. It was my grade hanging in the balance, not just hers. I swatted at a mosquito buzzing near my face, and the stub of a pencil I’d stuck behind my ear earlier fell to the driveway. I picked it up and started fidgeting with it between my fingers nervously. After pacing for a few minutes, I dialed Lucille’s number.

Mrs. O’Reilly picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hi Mrs. O’Reilly. It’s Ella. Can I speak with Lucille?”

“Sure, hon. Hold on.”

A few seconds later, Lucille picked up. “Hey. What’s up?”

I eased into the conversation. “How was Girl Scouts?”

“Great! I got my first-aider level 1 badge.”

“That’s cool.” I took a deep breath. “So, I’ve been thinking about the layout for the math project.”

“Me, too! I’m so excited to work on it. Did you and Jonathan get everything printed out?”

I filled her in on Jonathan’s computer crash as I continued to pace back and forth in our driveway.

“I’m glad you were home, Ella. Can you imagine if he came to school tomorrow without the stuff to give me?”

“Yeah, about that.” A pit formed in my stomach. “I think I should probably do the layout.”

There was a pause. “But why? That’s my job.”

“I know,” I said, “but … umm … it has to be—it’s really important that it looks … well … perfect.”

“What do you mean? I’ll do a good job.”

“Let’s face it, Lucille—you’re not a great speller, and you’re really messy. You can’t even find your homework half the time because it’s crumpled up in the bottom of your backpack. I don’t want to fail because of you.” I closed my eyes and grimaced, ashamed of what I had just said. It hadn’t come out right at all.

There was dead silence on the other end.

“Lucille?”

She sniffled. “What?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” I sighed. “I meant that my math grade is so bad right now that if I don’t get a hundred percent on this project, I’m doomed. I just want to do everything I can to make sure I get an A plus.”

“What am I supposed to do, then? Everything else has been done.”

I looked at the pencil I held. “How about you bring in a bunch of pencils and paper for people to use when they visit the booth?”

“Pencils and paper?”

“Yeah, and calculators.” I tried to sound excited, like it was a great idea or something, but it sounded pretty lame to me. “Please, Lucille, I know I can be a control freak sometimes, but this is really important to me.”

I could hear a long sigh on the other end. I knew I had hurt her feelings. “Are you mad at me?”

“Sort of,” she said. “But I’ll get over it.”

That was the thing about Lucille—she didn’t hold grudges. I knew I was taking advantage of that, but I felt I had no choice.

“Thanks, Lucille. I’ll see you tomorrow at the back gate, okay?”

“Okay,” she mumbled.

I put the phone back in the kitchen and rubbed my temples. I had a headache and the skin underneath my cast itched like crazy. I jabbed the tiny pencil between my arm and the cast and scratched it the best I could.

It felt fantastic.

Until I lost my grip on the pencil.

I pushed my fingers down as far as I could, desperately trying to feel for the eraser tip, but I couldn’t reach it. I leaned my head against the wall and sighed.

I needed longer fingers.

And I needed to move to a planet where there were no math fairs, sloppy friends, itchy casts, and short pencils.

I headed toward my bedroom, ready for the day to be over … and ready to get those papers off my floor. It was close to dinnertime and Mom was about to finish in her office.

I froze in horror when I reached my doorway.