“Chemistry is based on the metric system,” Mr. Borglund says to us. “For instance, instead of pounds, we have grams. There are 454 grams to a pound. Familiarize yourselves with the meter sticks, scales, and graduates in your lab kits. Then do the problems I’m handing out.”
Beth and I dig out the tangled mess of beakers, scales, and rulers from our lab cubby. Beth starts balancing her plastic bracelet against the tiny gram weights, which look like metal Monopoly pieces.
“How was your summer?” she asks.
“Pretty good,” I say. “Are you going out for gymnastics again?”
“For sure,” she says. “You are, aren’t you?”
“I’m planning on it,” I say, thinking how Mom and Father had cautioned me that if any of my grades fell lower than an A, there would be no more gymnastics.
Mr. Borglund has given us three problems on converting from the US to the metric system. It’s almost too easy: once you know the formula, it’s the same for all three. Beth works it out on her calculator, and I double-check the numbers to make sure they are absolutely right. Then I hand in the paper, after writing ellen sung and beth zeigler neatly at the top. We are the first group to finish. The two guys sharing our counter are fencing with their meter sticks.
We are putting the equipment away when Tomper pokes his head into our lab space.
“How’s it going over here?” he asks. I look at him warily, but thrill at his faint smell of smoke; it reminds me of log cabins and chopping wood.
“We’re just finishing up,” Beth chirps. I give Beth a look to let her know that we’d better not give him any answers, since that’s what he’s probably here for.
“How’s gymnastics going, Ellen?” He turns to me and grins, his chin folding into a perfect dimple—adorable.
“Our first meet is in a few weeks,” I say, then add, “Beth is going out for it again, too.”
“I’ll be there,” he says, giving the thumbs-up sign and smiling right into my face.
He walks away, hands casually thrust into the pockets of his faded Levi’s. From the back, his gold hair curls down his tanned neck. What luck to finally have him in a class.
“He’s gorgeous.” Beth sighs.
“Too flirtatious,” I say as coolly as I can.
English composition is the last class of the day. My interest perks up when I see Tomper Sandel walk in the door ahead of me.
I take a seat next to Beth, and we look up expectantly at our new teacher, Mrs. Klatsen. This class is one of those silly ones that they make all the seniors take to make sure everyone can read and write when they leave Arkin High. At least I’ve heard that Mrs. K. is supposed to be a good teacher.
Neatly stacked in front of her are The Red Pony, The Good Earth, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, and The Complete Shakespeare.
“Good books like these can open up worlds,” she says, standing up regally. She must be at least six feet tall.
“Why not wait until the movie comes out?” calls Mike Anderson from the back of the room.
I look up at Mrs. K. She is smiling.
“Movies and TV are definitely entertaining,” she says, not missing a beat. “But did you ever stop to think about how one-track they are? Movies and TV give you an entire picture and tell you exactly how to feel—they have the scary music and the canned laughter to make sure you get it right. But books, on the other hand, give you only the words; you have to use your imagination for the rest. It’s more than entertainment: your imagination will help you get things from books that you’ll carry with you for the rest of your life.”
I look at Mike; his mouth is closed.
“For today, I’d like to see how well your vocabularies have held up over the summer. Pick your partner by writing down your first and second choice on a piece of paper.”
How democratic, I think as I join the scribbling and scrabbling of pens. I write down beth zeigler, and then, as an afterthought, I put tom sandel under her name. I tear the page out of my spiral-bound notebook and make sure it is folded up before I send it forward.
Mrs. K. sorts through the ragged papers and comes up with a list. Then she calls me to her desk.
“Ellen.” Her eyes smile through her huge plastic glasses that make her look appealingly bookish. “Your teacher last year, Mrs. Jaynes, told me about what a wonderful English student you are.”
I try to smile modestly. It’s true that English has always been one of my favorite classes.
“And a lot of people put you down for first choice.”
Everyone knows I’m good with vocab words. I sigh to myself. It’s not like I’m popular or anything.
“Whom did Beth put down?” I ask.
“Well, I thought that instead of Beth, I’d like to pair you with someone who needs a little help, and I wanted to make sure it was okay with you.”
“Sure,” I say hopefully. Maybe it’ll be Tomper.
“I think,” she says, “that Mike Anderson could benefit greatly from working with you.”
I immediately think of Mike guffawing with Brad Whitlock at the bus stop this morning. Then Mrs. K. smiles such a straightforward, honest smile that I can’t say anything. I like her too much.
So, Mike Anderson, the star hockey player with less-than-stellar brains, slides his desk along the floor like a scooter—until it bumps into mine.
“Hey, Ellen, how’s life?” He grins suavely.
I pull out the vocab list, and his grin dissolves. “Ready?” I ask.
He rests his head on the desk and mumbles into his elbow, “Yeah.”
The first word is omniscient.
“How about if we say ‘God is considered to be omniscient’?”
“Yeah, sure,” comes the muffled reply.
“Omniscient means ‘all-knowing,’” I tell him for his benefit.
I do the next few words without seeing any signs of life from Mike.
“Here, you do the next one.” I poke the pen into his hand, and he clambers out of his stupor with gruff surprise. The word is sentimental.
He scratches his head for a moment, looks at the word, then looks at me. He seems so uncertain that I feel sorry for him. Don’t they ever use sentimental in Sports Illustrated?
“Uh, how about ‘They took a sentimental journey to the center of the earth’?” He beams. “Howzat?”
He might be popular, I think, but he’s sure not much to look at in the IQ department.
Of course, when it is time to read the results out loud, we are called on for sentimental.