Soon it was time to return to school. Normally, I loved school—not the classes, but the chance to be with my friends and to see cute guys. Plus, I was going to be in eighth grade, the oldest group on campus, which meant extra privileges, like first choice in the computer lab, a junior high homecoming and prom, and end-of-year field trips. But instead of being excited, I felt bummed. After all, this year my sister was going to junior high too, not because she was old enough but because she was skipping a grade, and, to make matters worse, she was skipping three grades in math. That meant she was taking eighth grade math like me, only she got to take the advanced class.
Carmen bragged about it nonstop as we got dressed for our first day. “When I met my teachers at registration,” she said, “they didn’t remember you.”
“Gee,” I replied, all sarcastic. “I wonder why. Wait. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t in their class.”
“That’s what I figured, since you take the classes for normal people.”
“You’re the only one who thinks ‘normal’ is an insult.”
“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it,” she said, “but there’s nothing memorable about it, either.”
“You mean as memorable as your outfit?” I pointed at her clothes. While I, and everybody else, wore regular T-shirts and jeans to school, Carmen was wearing a pleated skirt, a starched blouse, knee-high socks, and a blazer. The blazer had brass buttons and a patch with a fake coat of arms. She wanted to look like a student at a fancy boarding school, the kind with redbrick and ivy, because she thought she was better than the rest of us.
“No,” she answered, “I mean memorable like someone with a high IQ, someone like me. But what am I saying? You probably don’t know what ‘IQ’ stands for.”
I knew it meant “intelligence quotient,” but I said, “It means ‘idiot quotient,’ and you’re right. It’s a perfect description of you.”
She stuck out her tongue and marched out. Good. Mission accomplished. Privacy at last. Still, I kept thinking about the teachers who did not remember me, how I failed to make an impression. Well, how about this for an impression? For the first day of school, I put on a T-shirt that said, “I’m right 97% of the time. Who cares about the other 4%?”
Thirty minutes later, Dad dropped us off, and I walked Carmen to her first-period class.
“You’re on your own from here,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll find your way around since you have such a high IQ.”
“No problem,” she replied, though she didn’t sound as confident as she usually did.
I left her at the classroom door and made my way through the noisy hall of North Canyon Junior High. My campus was one of the newest on the north side of San Antonio, and like all the new buildings on this side of town, it was built in a hurry to make room for the growing population here. This meant no time for an architect to design interesting archways, windows, or courtyards. Everybody said we went to North Canyon Savings & Loan because our school, a three-story rectangle of bricks between two strip malls, looked like a bank.
“Hi, Erica.”
I turned to find Derek beside me. I had seen him at the pool a few weeks ago, but he seemed taller and more muscular now. I glanced at my mood ring. It was purple, the color for love.
“Where are you headed?” he asked.
I glanced at my schedule. “Math. Room 215. With Mr. Leyva.”
“Hey, that’s where I’m going, too.” He seemed so happy to have a class with me. Was this the beginning of a serious romance? He’d never noticed me before, so I couldn’t believe he was walking beside me. “Are you going to try out for the talent show this year?”
“I really want to,” I answered, “but I sing worse than a cow with a sore throat.”
He laughed. He said, “You crack me up!” and laughed some more. That had to be a good sign, right? Didn’t guys think girls should have a sense of humor?
The warning bell rang just as we stepped into class. I scanned the room for Robins. No Patty, Shawntae, GumWad, or Iliana. Bummer.
“Let’s sit over here,” Derek said, choosing a desk in the middle row.
Did I hear right? Derek wanted me to sit next to him? So far, this was a terrific first day of school.
All the students settled into their desks as Mr. Leyva started the class. He had a reputation for being a no-nonsense teacher, but everyone said he was nice as long as you behaved and tried your best. He took roll, and when he got to my name, he said, “Montenegro. Are you related to Carmen Montenegro?”
“She’s my sister,” I grudgingly admitted.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m sure you’re going to breeze through this class.”
I shrugged as if I didn’t care, but I did care. Was I going to be compared to Carmen in every class? She just started coming to this school. How did he know her already? Was he her math teacher, too? I wanted to change my last name, so my teachers wouldn’t make the connection. After all, having a smart sister didn’t mean I was smart, too. Just ask my T-shirt.
My second class was social studies with Mrs. Gardner. I sighed with relief because everyone knew how nice she was. On my way to her room, I bumped into GumWad.
“Hi, Erica,” he said, his mouth all blue from his gum. He studied my T-shirt. “Ha-ha.” He laughed. “That’s funny. You’re really good at being sarcastic. You’re the most sarcastic girl I know.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. “I’ll put ‘sarcastic’ on my résumé when I apply for a scholarship.”
“Ha-ha.” He laughed again. “You’re such a natural.”
Leave it to GumWad to think sarcasm was an admirable quality. I had to change the subject before he started pointing out other “admirable” qualities, like the big zit on my forehead.
“Do you have Mrs. Gardner for social studies, too?” I asked.
He showed me his schedule. Yep, we had the same class. And so did Patty. “Hi, guys,” she said. She walked right between us and took a seat near the back of the room. GumWad and I followed, choosing the desks beside her.
Luckily, social studies is my favorite subject. I love learning about societies and cultures. Last year, for example, my teacher assigned each of us a country and asked us to create a menu featuring that country’s food. I got Kenya, where they drink cow blood mixed with milk. The class was grossed out when I told them, but my teacher said that every culture has weird food, even ours. Like menudo. San Antonio people think it’s delicious, but people from other parts of the country think it’s gross because the main ingredient of menudo is the stomach lining from a cow.
“Let’s spend today introducing ourselves,” Mrs. Gardner suggested. “Tell us something interesting about your summer.”
One by one, my classmates shared stories, mostly about places they went for vacation. One girl went to Canada, a city called Banff “where the clouds are below you.” Another girl went to a dude ranch in the Texas Hill Country. “I can ride a horse now,” she exclaimed, “and start a fire with flint.” One guy played on a summer baseball league and made the all-star team. GumWad, of course, went to Disney World. No surprise there, though everyone else seemed interested in his adventures.
What was I going to say when it was my turn? My family didn’t see the Carlsbad Caverns after all, and for the first time since I could remember, we skipped going to the coast, to Malaquite Beach, our favorite spot. We didn’t even have a Fourth of July picnic.
“And how about you?” Mrs. Gardner asked Patty. “Did anything interesting happen to you?”
“Oh, yeah,” Patty said. “Lots of stuff.” She looked at the ceiling as if to read her past there. “I startled a skunk. That was lots of fun. Then I got a bad sunburn and spent a whole week peeling off dead skin. And then”—she tapped her chin—“I threw up after getting eighth place in a hot dog eating contest.”
“How many people were competing?” a guy asked.
“Including me?”
He nodded.
The whole class laughed—Mrs. Gardner too, even though I could tell she was trying to hold it in. Then she said, “And how about you, Erica?”
Suddenly all eyes were upon me. “I didn’t go anywhere exciting,” I said.
Patty punched me. “Yes, you did. Tell them about that miracle place where you saw those human scalps.”
“They weren’t scalps. They were braids of hair.”
“And teeth and bones and little baby feet,” Patty added.
Everyone leaned forward to hear more. “You’re exaggerating,” I said. “There was a jar with teeth but there weren’t any bones. And the baby feet were made of this metal called pewter.” I went on, sharing the story about the suicide pilot and how the church had burned except for the statue. I described the little doll in the Aztec sundial above hundreds of candles. “And after praying,” I explained, “people leave gifts at El Cuarto de Milagros, the Miracle Room.”
“Why did you go?” a girl asked.
I shrugged.
“Don’t people go there when someone’s sick?”
I looked down, not wanting to answer.
“Sometimes people go because it’s an interesting place,” GumWad said. “No one has to be sick. Anyone can go.”
“I’m just asking,” the girl said, all offended.
When the teacher turned her attention to someone else, Patty whispered to GumWad, “Good save.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, giving him a grateful smile. Once in a while, between the silly things he did or said, GumWad acted like the coolest friend.