My first nine times through eighth grade, math was my least favorite subject. All those numbers, equations, and theories get jumbled up in my head. However, since the start of the semester I have a new most hated subject: English.
The reason for my dread?
Her name is Mallory Pike.
Mallory was once in the Baby-Sitters Club, too. She was pretty cool for an eleven year old - practical, understanding, laid-back. Then, she started having problems at school. Kids were calling her Spaz Girl and immature stuff like that. It changed Mallory, made her hard and sour. Mallory and I weren't really friends after she went away to boarding school. I know from Claire and Vanessa that Mallory's real trouble began after her sixteenth birthday when her first manuscript was rejected. Then, another. And, another. By the time Mallory finished high school, eight of her manuscripts had been rejected by thirty-nine publishers. She even got rejected by a publishing company in New Brunswick! I'm not sure if she got rejected by Old Brunswick, too.
Mallory finally snapped when Duke University rejected her. And Northwestern. And Bryn Mawr. And Brandeis. At least Stoneybrook U. let her in. But, it didn't matter, all that rejection twisted Mal up inside, leaving her bitter, jaded, and homicidal.
Yes, that's right. Mallory Pike is a sickopath.
With a license to teach.
Or, she'll have a license at the end of the school year. Right now, Mallory's the student teacher in my fourth period english class. Mrs. Hall gave Mallory free reign in April and now spends the period in the janitor's closet with Mr. Fiske. Mallory is left completely unsupervised. It's just Mal, us, and Mal's staple gun.
The staple gun in how she punishes us for speaking out of turn, giving the wrong answer, not answering fast enough, and not paying attention. Mal has excellent aim. Last Wednesday, she got Marc Bressler right between the eyes after he coughed without permission. I admit, I've been hit by those staples plenty of times. Mostly, for giving the wrong answers. Actually, the class rarely gets an answer correct. See, we're not reading actual books. We're reading Mallory's rejected manuscripts.
Mallory used to write such cute stories about frogs and field mice. I liked those. They were easy to understand. All Mal writes now are these strange anti-government harlequin romances about Ben Hobart.
When I remind Mal of the good old days in the BSC, her eyes kind of glaze over. Then, she tries to staple my hand to the desk.
For now, I'm staying out of her way. I just want to pass English. If I have to write an analysis of "Ben's Manroot Takes Over Milwaukee" to do so, then that's what I'll do. I actually think I might already be passing. I have an M, whatever that means.
On Tuesday, before fourth period, Claire, Eleanor, and I are leaning against our lockers, waiting for some hunks to walk by. Actually, I'm waiting for one hunk in particular: Anthony Zmeggler. That wink yesterday must have meant something.
"Do you think he'll ask me to the graduation dance?" I ask my friends. "Or, should I ask him?"
"Maybe you should wait to see if you can even go to the graduation dance," replies Claire.
"Oh, Claire, of course Claudia will be going!" protests Eleanor. "I think you should invite him. You've had a lot more experience. He might be intimidated."
"You're right, El. I'll talk to him in gym class."
Claire chews on a fingernail while staring at the ground. She's being completely unhelpful. She must not find Anthony babe-a-licious. Or, maybe she thinks I don't have a chance!
"Oh no," Claire groans.
"What is it?" I ask, alarmed.
"Here comes Mallory," she replies with another groan.
I turn around to see Mallory stalking down the hall, hunched over so everyone can see the small hump forming on her back. In the original BSC, we always said Mal would grow into a great beauty. Boy, Mother Nature sure proved us wrong.
"Go to class," Mallory growls as she passes a group of seventh graders. The kids shriek and scatter in all directions.
"Do you want to eat staples for lunch?" Mallory asks Olaf, the foreign exchange student. Mallory raises the staple gun, finger poised on the trigger. Olaf drops his books and runs away screaming, while Mallory shoots staples at his feet. "Dance, little Swissie, dance!" she cackles.
"Hey Mal - er - Miss Pike," I greet her.
Mallory grunts and points the staple gun at my head. "Get to class, Kishi. We're reading 'Upside-Down Australian Delight' today." Mallory grunts again and stalks off, shooting a staple every few feet.
Poor Mallory. Just when I think I have it rough repeating eighth grade ten times. Then, I remember poor, rejected Mallory in her orthopedic shoes and pearl brooches, living in the triplets' old fort because her family's afraid to let her in the house. I am truly blessed. Not only do my parents allow me inside, I also have a fabutastic fashion sense. Mallory could learn so much from me.
For instance, today I am wearing a canary yellow bustier (which I fill out beautifully as of last spring. You've no idea how many sitting jobs it takes to pay for breast implants!) paired with red plaid cut-off shorts. On my feet are yellow slouch socks and - get this - red plaid shoes! I used puff paint to create the pattern on a pair of black Keds. My ensemble doesn't end there! My hair is pulled into pigtails and tied with red, black, yellow, and neon green ribbons. (The neon green is to mix it up a bit!) On my wrists are bracelets I made out of tinfoil, bottle caps, and twist ties. The best part, though, are my earrings. In my left ear, there's a small cocker spaniel. In my right ear, there's a big pile of poo! And this is one of my tamer outfits. I wanted to appear classy and sophisticated for Anthony. That's why I chose the bustier.
In English class, I sit in the back corner with Anthony, Marc Bressler, and the other cool kids. Today, I save a seat for Anthony. When he sits down, he winks at me. The entire period all I can think about are those deep, deep green eyes staring into mine. Instead of listening to Mallory drone on and on about the characterization in her own stories, I drift into a world where only Anthony and I exist. We dance on clouds of Mallomars and kiss beneath a Starburst sky. At the end of the period, Anthony leans over and compliments me on my bustier. He says I'm "tasty."
I float out of the room and down the hallway, so high on love I barely notice Mallory following behind, shooting staples at my rear.