Monday morning, my hair flipped up in every direction. That’s what I got for going to bed right after taking a shower. I didn’t want to go to school looking so awful, so I tried leave-in conditioner, the straightening iron, and even wetting my hair and blow-drying it, section by section, just like a professional stylist. But my hair was as uncooperative as Jimmy when he needed to go in his car seat. So I grabbed a rubber band, made a ponytail, and slipped on a T-shirt that said “Bad hare day” over a picture of bunnies in striped prison uniforms.
Then I went to school, excited about seeing Derek in math. He was still at the top of my Boyfriend Wish List, but before I had a chance to talk to him, Mr. Leyva called me to his desk. School hadn’t officially started, so the room was mostly empty. He said, “I’m glad you came early, so we could talk about your test.”
My whole body slumped. “I failed, didn’t I?”
“Now, now,” he said, as if calming a baby. “If you knew you were struggling, why didn’t you ask your sister for help? Sometimes students learn better from their peers, and you’ve got the best math student right there in your house. I’m sure she’d be happy to tutor you.”
I looked up at him, wishing my stare could zap him like a stun gun.
He must have seen how angry I was because he said, “It’s just an idea.”
“A bad idea,” I grumbled.
Mr. Leyva studied me a moment, to figure me out, I guess. After a while, he said, “Well, you didn’t complete the test, so at this point, you haven’t technically failed.”
He showed me my paper. Some of the answers were wrong, but others were correct. Mr. Leyva explained how I was “on the bubble,” and how, if I got the remaining questions right, I could pass. “Go to the library,” he said, “and complete the test. Take the entire hour if necessary and remember to show all your work.”
I felt so grateful for the chance to complete the missing questions. Maybe a bad hair day didn’t have to mean a bad math day, too. I wanted to salute Mr. Leyva and say, “Sir, yes, sir.” After all, I felt like a soldier going to war against math. Maybe this time, I’d be victorious.
I gladly took the test and headed to the library, getting there just as the tardy bell rang. Since classes were scheduled for visits, the librarian let me use her office. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said.
So I did. I pushed aside her papers to clear a spot. Then I readjusted the height and the armrests of her chair, took a pencil from a cup on her desk, and turned up her radio. To loosen up, I popped my knuckles and did a few neck stretches. Time for battle, I told myself. Math is your foe, but it can be conquered.
The first problem went like this: Mary went to the store to buy a dress. The price of the dress is $40, but a sign announces that the store is offering a 20 percent discount. How much will Mary pay?
How was I supposed to know the answer? This was the most ridiculous problem on the planet. First, what store was this? Because stores like Macy’s had sales all the time with big red signs that said “20% off.” But it was never that simple since the small print always began with “discount does not apply to…” How could I know if the discount applied to Mary’s dress when the problem didn’t list the exceptions? Second, when was Mary buying the dress and what kind of dress was it? What if the sale was happening right now, in the fall? What if the dress was a sundress? Would Mary really buy something she couldn’t wear for the next six months? Next, what condition was the dress in? Sometimes the clothes on sale were stained or missing a button, which meant Mary could argue for a bigger discount. That’s what Mom did. She always got a few dollars taken off. Finally, how much money did Mary have? Did her parents expect her to pay for the whole thing or did they plan to pitch in? Did Mary even have parents, or was she an adult with a job?
I couldn’t stop fretting over the question. How could the word problem ignore such important details? This had to be a trick. I tapped the pencil on the desk, wondering what to do. “Need more information,” I wrote beside the word problem. Then I saw in bold print, “Show all your work.” Suddenly, I understood. Mr. Leyva wanted me to explain what kind of information I needed. I grabbed a sheet of notebook paper since there wasn’t enough room to explain on the test. I wrote down everything that might affect the price of the dress—the store, the small print on the ad, the style, the condition, the season, and even Mary’s personal situation.
The remaining questions were similar, so I wrote “Need more information” again and again, explaining why each time. My hand got so stiff from all that writing, but passing the test was worth the pain. After forty minutes, I was done.
I put the librarian’s supplies back in order and headed to the circulation desk to say thanks, but then I spotted Carmen. I didn’t want her to know about my math test, and I didn’t want to talk to her, especially in front of a cute guy like Joe Leal, who was checking out the display of graphic novels. Sure, everyone knew Carmen and I were sisters, that she was a genius while I was not a genius. But if they didn’t see us together, maybe they’d forget. So I hid behind the office door, and while I waited for a moment to escape, I spied.
As usual, Carmen had on her prep school uniform with its plaid skirt, knee-high socks, and blazer, and, as usual, she carried a stack of books that was as tall as Jimmy. The books were about to topple over, so as she walked, she swayed like a circus clown on a tightrope. Carmen approached a table, but the students there laughed and waved her away. She approached another table, but one of the girls threw a purse on the last empty chair and said, “We’re saving this.” When she approached a third table, a guy shook his head as if to say, “Don’t even try it.” So Carmen lugged her books to the counter. She wasn’t far from me, but luckily, she faced the other way. I should have said hello because part of me felt sorry for her, but another part felt like telling her, “That’s what you get for being Little Miss Factoid all the time and making me feel like a dummy.” Okay, so maybe I was a dummy because I needed extra time on my math test, but at least I had friends.
Carmen went directly to the last page of each book and wrote something on a piece of paper. She had just finished going through the stack when her teacher approached.
“What you got there?” she asked Carmen, who answered by reading out titles: When a Parent Has Cancer; Is Pollution Making Us Sick?; Breast Cancer: What Every Teen Girl Should Know; The Disease Sourcebook; Cancer Treatments and Their Side Effects; and The Complete Medical Guide for Teens.
“That’s a lot of reading,” the teacher said.
Carmen shrugged it off. Then she read out the numbers she’d written down. “It’s 54 plus 212 plus 340 plus 298 plus 424 plus 723 for a total of 2,051 pages. If I get to keep these books for two weeks, that’s 146.5 pages a day minus the pictures and glossaries and tables of contents and indexes.” She glanced at the book spines again. “These books are okay,” she said, “but they’re written for teens. This”—she held up the thinnest book—“has pictures. Not photographs of tumors or blood cells, but illustrations like the kind in a kid book. What do the doctors read? That’s what I want to know because I want to be a doctor when I grow up.”
“You’ll have to visit a university or hospital library for doctor books,” the teacher said. “They’re very technical.”
“I know, but I don’t mind reading technical stuff if it gives me the real answers.”
“I don’t think anyone has the real answer for cancer. But I’m sure the medical books are more detailed than these.”
“That’s what I want,” Carmen said, “details.”
The teacher patted her shoulder. “Why don’t you start simple, okay, sweetie?”
Carmen nodded, then took the books to the checkout line. While she was busy with the librarian, I slipped out without letting her know I’d been there.
Later at home, Mom showed us her compression dressings. She was wrapped from armpit to hand. Carmen, Jimmy, and I couldn’t help touching the bandages.
“You look like a mummy,” I said.
She laughed. “Mummy, Mommy, not much difference.”
“You should have taken me with you,” Carmen said. “I really wanted to learn.”
“You learn more in school, mija.”
“No, I don’t. I have to draw pictures.” She reached in her backpack and pulled out pages of lines looping over themselves, forming odd shapes that she had colored in. “I finish my work before everyone else, so this is what I do. I try reading, but…”
“But what?” Mom wanted to know.
Carmen glanced at me. She probably didn’t want to admit how nerdy she was. “Nothing,” she said.
“She doesn’t read because she’s too embarrassed,” I guessed aloud. “She doesn’t have any friends.”
“I have friends,” Carmen said, all offended.
“Name one.”
She crossed her arms. “No, because you don’t know them.”
“I don’t know them because they don’t exist.”
She stared at me. If her eyes were boxing gloves, I’d be knocked out by now. That’s how angry she looked.
“That’s enough,” Mom said. “Carmen, go outside and water the plants for me. I’m not supposed to get my wraps wet. And Chia, get the towels from the dryer and fold them.”
“You’re giving us chores?” Carmen whined.
“About time you helped out,” I said as I headed to the laundry room.
After I folded towels, I noticed that the furniture in the living room needed dusting, and the Chia Pets needed watering, and Jimmy’s toys needed to be put away. When Dad came home, I helped him with dinner, migas again, even though it was my night to clean the kitchen. Then I bathed Jimmy and read him a bedtime story so he could go to sleep. Finally, at about eight thirty, I had time for homework. By then, my feet throbbed and my back ached as if I’d been standing all day. I had trouble concentrating, not because I felt distracted but because I had a headache, probably from stress. I shouldn’t be doing homework this late. I should be watching TV or chatting with my friends on Skype. I should be sleeping!
My cell phone rang. Shawntae. When I answered, she was all panicky.
“Erica, you have to help me. I’m in so much trouble.”
My mind raced. Were her parents in an accident? Did her house burn down? Did she humiliate herself in front of one of the guys on our Boyfriend Wish List?
“What happened?” I asked, fearing the worst.
“I ran out of ink!” she cried.
I sighed, and even though she couldn’t see me, I rolled my eyes. That girl had more drama than a reality show.
“Can you help me, pleeeaase?”
“Sure,” I said. “What do you need?”
“I’m forwarding a file for my social studies class. Can you make fifty copies? It’s an invitation to a presentation about the election. I’ll buy you a new ink cartridge if you do this giant favor.”
“Of course, I’ll do it. No problem.”
“I knew I could count on you,” she said.
A few minutes later, she e-mailed the file. I made sure my printer had enough paper and asked it to print. Maybe now I could do my own homework and finally get some sleep. But when I pulled Shawntae’s invitations from the printer, I noticed that they weren’t flyers, but cards, which meant they had to be folded. More work! But what could I do? I already told Shawntae I’d take them to school tomorrow.
So I started folding, trying my best to get the lines straight because if Shawntae were doing this, she’d get them straight. She was a perfectionist. Never a hair out of place or a shoe that didn’t exactly match her outfit.
When I was about halfway through, Carmen walked in. “Still doing homework?” she said as if I were too dumb to get it done in time. I ignored her, kept on folding, and realized that I was getting tired. There was no way I’d be able to concentrate on my own assignments.
Carmen got into bed. After a minute, she sat up. “Do you think Mom’s going to be okay?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“But do you think—”
“I don’t know,” I said, impatient. I had so much on my mind and didn’t want to deal with Carmen right now.
“But can’t you guess?”
“No, because I can’t see the future. Do you want me to lie? Do you want me to pretend everything’s going to be fine?”
“Never mind,” she said, turning away and hiding under the covers. A moment later, I heard, “One… two… three…”
“What are you counting now?” I wanted to know.
“The fan’s on,” she said. I glanced at our little fan, the one that turned back and forth. Every time it pivoted, it made a little sound. It made that sound twenty-three times before I finished folding cards. My homework would have to wait. If I woke up extra early, maybe I’d have time to do it then.