With puberty as my excuse, I was feeling much better about the Dori/Aleck square-dance situation when I got to Woodshop. Unfortunately, my Woodshop teacher did not share my chipper mood. Mr. Pudel slumped against his desk and read dejectedly from a school memo in his hands.
“It seems that for the next two weeks we’re putting our regular curriculum aside to pursue… ah…” He looked down at the paper. “An exploration of the celebrational ornamentation most commonly associated with folkloric traditions combining movement and musicianship.”
None of us had any idea what he was talking about. He crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the nearby trash can.
“We’re in charge of making decorations for the Down-Home Harvest Dance.”
Oh.
“The administration uses fancy terminology like that so it gets credited as an academic activity,” he explained.
Ohhh.
“EVEN WHEN IT’S A BIG BUNCH OF HOOEY.”
Sara chose that moment of all moments to sweep into the room.
“Yoo-hoo!”
“Who are you, and why are you in my workshop?” Mr. Pudel asked.
“I’m Sara D’Abruzzi, and—”
Mr. Pudel cut her off.
“Listen, Bruiser, you have no business in my workshop.”
Sara came up only to the chest pocket of Mr. Pudel’s lumberjack shirt. But if she was intimidated by his menacing growl, or the boys’ goggle-eyed gawking because they couldn’t believe there was an actual girl in their classroom (I stopped registering as an actual girl ages ago), she didn’t show it.
“I do when I’m the chair of the dance committee,” she said confidently. “And here’s my dream decor that you need to make a reality!”
She went straight to the drafting table and fanned out several pieces of graph paper, the kind with the tiny boxes I use in Pre-Algebra to chart x- and y-axis problems.
“What are those?” Mr. Pudel asked.
“Construction and design plans, of course!”
Between the disruption of his teaching schedule and Sara’s intrusion, Mr. Pudel looked angry enough to flip over the table and everything on it. But when he got close enough to give Sara’s papers a quick glance, he… stopped. He calmed down.
“You did these?” he asked, picking one up for closer inspection.
“Omigod! Of course!”
I peeked over Sara’s shoulder to get a look. I couldn’t see much, but I could tell that Mr. Pudel was pretty impressed with Sara’s plans, despite his best efforts not to be.
“I approve of this project,” he said. “Bruiser, you may stay.”
“My name is Sara D’—”
“Not while you’re in here, it isn’t,” Mr. Pudel said. “Explain how things work, Clem.”
Then he rustled up Cheddar and Squiggy for a trip to the supply closet. They’d take stock of what we had and what we needed for the project.
“When did you do these?” I asked, after taking a better look at her drawings.
“During Social Studies,” she said casually. “And Science.”
Her sketches were way more detailed than I assumed they would be, with all the measurements and dimensions and suggested materials and everything. There were instructions for a plywood barn facade, silhouettes of farm animals, a post-and-rail fence, and all sorts of other good ol’ country stuff like that.
“How’d you learn how to do this?” I asked.
“We always have contractors working on our house.” She shrugged. “I’ve remodeled my bathroom, like, three times.”
I had no idea Sara had such a talent. And if Manda had gotten more signatures and won the comPETITION, I never would have found out. It pleased me to have played a role in Sara’s success—even if she reciprocated by treating me like her personal slave.
“Jess! Round up the hotties for heavy lifting!” she said. “I need big muscles!”
And that’s the moment that Aleck and Mouth chose to saunter into the room. Ten minutes late, I might add.
“You called for us?” Aleck said.
Aleck and Mouth are many things, but strong and brawny aren’t two of them.
“Omigod, you have, like, one muscle,” she said. “Combined!”
Sara immediately set her sights on the jocks and put them to work hauling plywood out of the supply closet. Without anything constructive to do, Aleck, Mouth, and I just kind of stood around awkwardly.
“So,” I said.
“So,” Aleck said.
“Burp,” Mouth said.
Fascinating.
“Did you hear how your girlfriend got herself out of detention?” I asked Mouth.
“I know!” Mouth said, getting all keyed up. “Girl stuff! It’s so unfair!”
“It’s discrimination,” Aleck agreed.
“Why can’t I blame my stupid behavior on guy stuff?” Mouth asked. “I’ve got hormones, too, you know.”
“So we smell,” Aleck said, plugging his nose with one hand and waving the air around Mouth’s armpit with the other. “Didn’t you pay attention to Nurse Fleet’s lecture? ‘Deodorant. Use it!’”
“That’s it,” Mouth said, straddling his stool. “I’m getting a note from my doctor. I’ll never get detention again.”
“Not so fast,” Mr. Pudel said as he slapped two detention slips down on the table. “That’s the third tardy for both of you. Automatic detention.”
“But, Mr. Pudel,” Mouth protested. “Hormones!”
Mouth hopped up and followed our teacher to the supply closet, taking three quick steps for every one of his.
“So why were you late for class, anyway?” I asked Aleck. “Were you getting extra square-dancing practice with Dori?”
ACK.
I don’t want to get in the habit of blaming hormones for every little stupid thing I do. Especially when there’s very little evidence that my hormones are doing much of anything. But without them as an excuse, I can’t really explain what made me say that. I mean, who cares who Aleck is paired with? Me getting weird about Aleck dancing with Dori makes even less sense than Dori getting weird about Scotty dancing with me, because she at least has a boyfriend/girlfriendship at stake. Aleck and I are mandatory Woodshop partners. That’s it. And yet I’ve felt sorta awkward around Aleck ever since TTSPJHCQ falsely accused me of having a crush on him. I can’t shake the feeling that he knows. NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING TO KNOW.
You know?
“We don’t need extra practice.” Aleck grinned. “We’re that good.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Well, my partner and I are really good, too,” I lied. “The best.”
I waited for Aleck to ask who my partner was, but he didn’t. He just smiled to himself and said nothing. I snapped like Dori on the lunch line, for no good reason.
“What?!”
“I find it hard to believe that anyone is better than me and Dori,” Aleck replied. “And our superior skills elevate the rest of our square to another level of excellence.”
“Is that so?” butted in Sara.
Literally. She smacked me in the behind with a large roll of graphite tracing paper. I hadn’t even noticed that she was close enough to listen in on our conversation. No wonder she always hears gossip before anyone else.
“It is so,” Aleck said.
“We’ll see,” Sara said. “At the Hoedown Showdown.”
“The what?” Aleck and I asked.
“The Down-Home Harvest Dance championship,” Sara said, setting the roll on the table. “You can’t have a square dance without declaring a winning square!”
Of course not. Because everything’s a competition to Sara.
“And we will win.” Sara picked up an X-Acto knife. “Won’t we, Jessica?”
“Do-si-do!”
It wasn’t a yes or a no, but it satisfied Sara nonetheless.
This definitely wasn’t the time to tell her that I have no plans to actually attend the dance. Not with so much on the line. Another W in Sara’s column would mean an L in Manda’s. I couldn’t predict how that revised ratio of victories and defeats would level the popularity playing field at Pineville Junior High. But as Sara’s cochair and one-eighth of her square, I have a front-row VIP pass to all the action.
Whether I want it or not.