It’s not clear if we’re supposed to applaud or say, “Hello, Blake Montgomery,” or what, so everybody just kind of sits there.
“Why don’t you tell the class a little about yourself, Blake?” asks Ms. Mayson.
I can’t help but sympathize with him. No student in the history of the school system has ever wanted to stand up in front of a class and tell everyone a little about themselves.
“I’m Rodney’s cousin,” he begins.
Ugh. Everybody already knew that my cousin was joining our class, but I still don’t like hearing him say it out loud.
“Usually, when my parents are off doing diplomatic work, they go separately, or if it’s during the summer, I go with them. This time it was too good of an opportunity to help the Ecuadorian people to pass up, so I’m staying with Rodney and my aunt. I guess my parents were worried that a party animal like me would trash the house while they were gone.”
The class chuckles. I wonder why he won’t admit that his parents are on a cruise. Or did I miss some important detail of my mom’s story?
“What are your hobbies?” asks Ms. Mayson.
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” says Blake. “I dabble in filmmaking, writing, painting, mentoring. Jack of all trades, master of none, right?”
“I hear that,” says Ms. Mayson, even though she’s been an English teacher for decades.
“I had to leave my motorcycle behind in California, which was a major disappointment. My daily ride gets rid of a lot of stress. I’m not trying to brag. I don’t do tricks or anything. Just me on the open road, seventy miles per hour, wind racing through my hair. I miss that.”
I raise my hand. “You don’t wear a helmet?”
Ms. Mayson shushes me.
“I should. I really should,” says Blake. “My craving for danger is going to get me in trouble someday.”
I glance around the classroom. Nobody is actually buying this, are they? I mean, c’mon. Everybody should be rolling their eyes. They should be pointing and laughing, not in a mean-spirited bullying way, just showing Blake they know he’s making up all this stuff about craving danger. The only danger he craves is eating a microwave burrito before it’s cooled down.
But my classmates seem to be buying his story.
“My newest endeavor is music,” Blake tells the class.
“Oh?” asks Ms. Mayson. “Which instrument do you play?”
“None. I only wish I were that talented. But I’m an advisor to my cousin Rodney’s band, Fanged Grapefruit.”
I’ll let the diplomatic mission and the fake hobbies and the motorcycle stuff slide, but no way is Blake going to stand up in front of the class and say that he’s an advisor to Fanged Grapefruit.
“No, you’re not,” I protest.
“Didn’t I provide feedback after your last rehearsal?”
“That doesn’t make you an advisor.”
“Wasn’t the feedback incorporated into the end product?”
“You’re not an advisor.”
“Don’t argue with your cousin on his first day,” Ms. Mayson tells me. “That’s very juvenile.”
“I’m setting the record straight.”
“Record,” says Blake. “That’s an appropriate pun for a band.”
The class chuckles.
“Anyway,” says Blake. “I hope you’ll all come to the Lane tonight to see the new and improved Fanged Grapefruit. It’ll be a great show.”
“Thank you, Blake,” says Ms. Mayson. She points to the empty seat in the back. “You can sit there for now.”
Blake smiles and takes his seat.
He’s not our advisor! I start counting to five again.
We’re reading this book called Falling Leaves of the Life Tree, which is not the real name of the book, but even though the author has been dead for about a hundred and fifty years, I don’t want to name the actual book in case the author’s descendants are sensitive and litigious.
Ms. Mayson has us read chapter twelve silently for about ten minutes.
“Ye who catch not the leaves see not the tree,” spoke Count Vargas. “If you gaze forth, why not gaze about instead?”
Guntheramous gave a nod of his weighty head. “Yours wisd’m haith giv’n this olde head a scritcher to puzzle, mightn’t it? Would ye confiss ta stailin’ such mind-thoughts from ye ailders?”
“Speaketh not that blasphemy lest thy cleft of chin meet the steel tip of my dagger,” Count Vargas gasped in rage.
“I’m an advisor for Fanged Grapefruit,” Blake Montgomery told the Count.
“Liar! Fraudulent liar!” shouted Count Vargas, waving his dagger to and fro. “Thou shalt suffer dearly for this falsehood! Guntheramous! Slay him thusly!”
“But Count Vargas of Wicktensteinberg, my faingers, when clutched, containen naught to call a weapoun!”
“Then slay him with thy bare hands! Tear his head from his shoulders, then his arms from their sockets, then his fingers from their finger sockets, then his legs from his torso, and then squeeze his torso until all contents doth spill forth, and then tread firmly upon them!”
“Uh-oh,” said Blake Montgomery. “I’m in a heap o’ trouble now!”
And Guntheramous, he did attack, and he did tear the rascal limb from limb. As Blake Montgomery spilled, he cursed the wretched day that he deceptively told a classroom of students that he was in any way associated with such a fine group of musicians as Fanged Grapefruit. His eyes closed, everything went dark, but it didn’t go dark because his eyes were closed (sorry to confuse ye) but rather because he was dead.
Should I be worried that I’m inserting Blake’s demise into scenes of classic literature that I’m reading for English class? Probably, but I’ll worry about it later. And just hope there isn’t a pop quiz before then.
unlucky 13.
(A.K.A. “THE GROSS CHAPTER”)
(WARNING: DO NOT READ.)
Fourth period is much better because Blake isn’t there. Then it’s lunchtime, where I sit with Audrey and Mel every day. (Clarissa has second lunch. Luckily, she has many other friends besides us, so she’s has people to eat with. She’s fine.)
To actually refuse to let
