“If it’s good enough,” Ms. Martinez said. “I don’t want you just dashing off something completely over the top again, Mia. I want you to put some thought into it. I want you to make me think.”
“But,” I protested weakly, “that’s what I tried to do in my piece about the snails—”
“By comparing your pouring ten thousand snails into the Bay of Genovia with Pink’s refusal to perform for Prince William because he hunts?” Ms. Martinez shuddered. “No, Mia. That didn’t make me think. It just made me sad for your generation.”
Thankfully, just then the warning bell went off, so I had to go.
Which is a good thing, because I was just about to throw up all over my desk, anyway.
Wednesday, September 9, G&T
Michael called during lunch. AEHS students are not supposed to make or receive cell phone calls during class, but at lunch it’s okay.
Anyway, he was all, “What happened to you last night? We were IMing, and then you just disappeared!”
Me: Oh, yeah. Sorry. Rocky woke up crying, and I had go sing him back to sleep.
Michael: Oh. So everything’s okay?
Me: Well, I mean, if you think the fact that two days into the school year I’m already flunking Geometry, I’m being forced to run for student council president against my will, and my new English teacher thinks I’m a talentless hack is okay, then yeah, I guess so.
Michael: I don’t think any of those things are okay. Have you talked to—who do you have? Harding? He’s a decent guy—about getting some extra help in his class? Or if you want, we can go over the chapter together on Saturday, when I see you. And how could your English teacher think you’re a talentless hack? You’re the best writer I know. And as for the student council thing, Mia, just tell Lilly you don’t care WHAT her plan is, you have enough to worry about, and you d
on’t want to run. What’s the worst that could happen?
Ha. That is all so easy for Michael to say. I mean, he is not afraid of his sister—not even a little bit, like I am. And Mr. Harding? A decent guy? My God, he threw a piece of chalk at Trisha Hayes’s head today! Granted, I’d do the same if I thought I could get away with it. But still.
And how does Michael even know what kind of writer I am? Except for a couple of articles in the school paper last year, and my letters, e-mails, and Instant Messages to him, he has never read anything I’ve written. I certainly haven’t given him any of my poems to read. Because what if he doesn’t like them? My writer’s spirit would be crushed.
Even more crushed than it is right now.
Me: I guess. How’s YOUR day going?
Michael: Great. Today in my Principles of Geomorphology class we talked about how the ice cap has shrunk by two hundreds and fifty million acres—that’s the size of California and Texas put together—in the past twenty years, and how if it continues to erode at the rate it’s going—about nine percent per decade—it could vanish altogether by the end of this century, which will, of course, have devastating consequences for life on Earth as we know it. Whole species will vanish, and anyone who owns seafront property is essentially going to own underwater property. Unless, of course, we do something to control pollutant emissions that are destroying the ozone layer and allowing this melt-off.
Me: So, essentially, it doesn’t even matter what kind of grade I end up getting in Geometry, since we’re all going to die anyway?
Michael: Well, not us, necessarily. But our grandkids, for sure.
Except, I was pretty sure Michael didn’t mean OUR grandkids, as in, the children of kids he and I might have if, you know, we Did It. I believe he was referring to grandkids in the general sense. Such as grandkids he might have with a corn princess he marries later, after he and I have grown apart and gone our separate ways.
Me: But I thought we were all going to die in ten years anyway when easily accessible petroleum runs out.
Michael: Oh, don’t worry about that. Doo Pak and I have decided to come up with a prototype for a hydrogen-powered car. Hopefully that ought to do the trick. If, you know, the auto industry doesn’t try to have us killed for it.
Me: Oh. Okay.
It’s nice to know that smart people like Michael are working on this whole petroleum-running-out thing. That leaves the more easily handled problems like, you know, killer algae and student council governance to people like me.
Michael: So, are we all set for Saturday?
Me: You mean my coming over to meet Doo Pak? I think so.
Michael: Actually, what I meant was—
This is when Lilly tried to wrestle the phone from me.
Lilly: Is that my brother? Let me talk to him.