Читать книгу Vivian Untangled - Sarah Hartt-Snowbell - Страница 5

My brain was halfway out the window on that Wednesday in December. I watched the snowflakes rise and tumble, lightly coating the trees in the schoolyard. White whirling dots settled in tiny drifts along the window ledge, only to be swept up again by odd puffs of wind. The snowy spirals hypnotized me into a sleepy daze. As the Old Shipwreck went on and on about the Plains of Abraham, her crackly voice seemed to slip into a faraway hush. It probably wasn’t even the snow that put me to sleep in the first place. It had to be her voice. It sounded like a motorboat humming away on the other side of a lake somewhere. Her everyday voice is actually like one of those summertime bugs that buzz right through your head like a chainsaw. But like I said, this time it seemed softer . . . more like a hum. Anyway, some teachers can do that, you know. They can put you right to sleep in the middle of a history lesson.

Chucky poked me awake with his pencil. The eraser end. He once poked me with the point and spent the rest of the afternoon answering to The Elephant. When I swung around to give him a “look”, he passed me a note. In a creepy monster-voice he drawled, “It’s from Deena-bo-beena.” Then his clunky boots did a drum roll on the bottom of my chair. He thinks he’s such a hotshot when he does stuff like that. What Chucky needs most is a good floggin’-on-the-noggin.

On our first day back in September, Chucky had got dibs on a desk way at the back of the class. By the end of October, the teachers had all agreed to haul him closer to the front, because he was busy flunking out in everything except gym. If you ask me, that was a bad idea. When a teacher decides to move all the stupid kids up a few seats, where do all the smart ones end up? At the back! So by the time June rolls around, all the smart kids’ll be flunking out because they’ll be stuck way at the back—practically in the storage closet. The truth is, they should have left Chucky where he was.

I unfolded Deena’s note and read:

Vivian,

I’m going to Waverly Gifts after school. Come with me. Shelly can’t make it. Adios.

–Dynamic D

Deena and Shelly were best friends, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was always just a tagalong. So even though Deena’s note made me feel a bit like yesterday’s leftovers, I was still glad she’d asked me to go with her.

I ripped a piece of paper out of my homework book and scribbled a note. I handed it over to Chucky and whispered, “Pass it to Deena.”

He snickered. “Pass-a-deena, Cali-forn-eye-yay!”

I tried to hold back, but my laugh ended up as a snort. Mrs. Shevarek froze at the blackboard. She whipped around and pierced me with her eyes as my note dropped to the floor. When I bent to pick it up, she snarled, “Vivian Glayzier! I invite you to come up here and share your little note with the class.”

In a second, there was a whole lot of gasping and whispering going on.

I wanted to tell Mrs. Shevarek that Deena had started the whole thing, but decided not to. I couldn’t take the chance of spoiling things, in case Deena was planning to dump Shelly—and make me her best friend.

The truth is, I don’t really have any best friends, because I’m just too plain. I’m plainer than Rhona, who’s plainer than Marian, who’s plainer than anyone in every Grade Six in the entire city of Montreal! I’m not saying that I’m the “ugly” kind of plain . . . so don’t go thinking that. My face doesn’t shatter mirrors or anything. It’s just that I’m not as smashingly gorgeous as I’d like to be. I’m not tall like Shelly or petite like Deena. I’m somewhere in the middle. Not too skinny. Not too fat. Just medium—and still flat as a board. What bugs me most is my hair! I wanted blonde or curly hair, but I ended up with a rusty-looking mop that tangles up when I sleep. So you have to believe me if I tell you—I won’t be in the try-outs for Miss Pre-Teen Universe of ’55. Ha! But never mind that. There’s still a bunch of stuff about me that I do like. I have exactly eight freckles (and I don’t need any more, thank you very much). My eyes are green like cat-eyes, and I can even see in the dark. I used to pray for X-ray vision, but actually, what I’d like most is to be able to see around corners—like a periscope. This might sound a bit weird, but sometimes I wish I had to wear glasses, so I’d be able to clean them with one of those little cloths you get from the eye doctor, the pink ones with zigzag edges. If I had to wear glasses, I’d store them away in a blue alligator-skin case with a gold snap.

Mrs. Shevarek didn’t give up. “Well? Don’t just sit there like a bump on a log.”

I felt my voice tremble like dry leaves in the wind. “The note’s really quite boring,” I said. “I’m sure the class will lose interest.”

Mrs. Shevarek’s voice was coated in frost. “Get up here, Vivian. Get . . . up . . . here! What do you think I am . . . a broken record? record?”

I felt my cheeks get hotter and hotter. “But . . . but . . . my grammar’s awful,” I said.

She stomped across the floor and cornered me at my desk. Then she pried my fingers open and took the note. “If you won’t read it—then I will,” she said, her mouth getting smaller and tighter with each word. As she studied my note, she inhaled a small whistling hurricane. Her eyebrows disappeared under her bangs and her big bulging eyes looked like they were ready to burst right out of her head. “Go to the office, Miss Glayzier. Show this note to Mr. Peale, and don’t you dare return to this class without his signature on it.”

The office reeked of glue and fluid for the old crank-up copy machine. I don’t usually mind those smells very much. As a matter of fact, I really like them. But in that office, especially on that day, they got me feeling pretty sick. The office lady turned from her typewriter. “May I help you?”

I squeezed the folded-up note tightly in my fist. “Yes, Miss Cooper. I’m here to see Mr. Peale.”

She gave me that oh-you-poor-kid look and said, “Just have a seat. Mr. Peale is due back in the office very soon.”

I hope he forgets to come back, I prayed.

The red second hand did laps around the wall clock. The minute hand jerked into place each time the second hand hit twelve, for a grand total of twenty-seven minutes. I sat there with my stomach jumping around like a fish on the bottom of the boat while Miss Cooper typed on little blue cards and answered phone calls. I watched her file her nails, drink coffee and fold two origami birds. Then she polished her nails. Smudged them. Polished them again—and again. At that point, the office smelled of glue, copy machine fluid, and enough Maybelline nail polish to put your head in a spin.

Suddenly, a large gray blur appeared through the frosted glass door. My heart and stomach felt like they were trading places. It’s The Elephant. Prepare . . . to . . . die.