More Than Good Enough(9)

“She deserves so much better,” Kenzie said. “Why did you leave her last night?”

Now I was pissed. “First of all, Michelle played me. Not the other way around.”

“Obviously, this proves what she said about you.” Kenzie stood there, waiting for me to ask the inevitable question.

“Okay. I give up. What did Michelle say?”

“You’re not good enough for her.”

This hurt on so many levels. Did Michelle really say that? I mean, did she really think I wasn’t good enough?

I shoved past Kenzie and crashed into the water fountain. For some reason, it was always clogged. Water dribbled over the edge and splattered all over me. I stared at a wad of gum plopped like a stalagmite near the drain. (Or was it stalactite? I always got them confused.)

“That was slick,” said Kenzie, walking away.

My jeans were covered with damp splotches. No way could I talk to Pippa now. I opened my locker and pretended to look for something. What if Pippa walked by? I waited a couple minutes, hoping she’d materialize. Then I saw Kenzie clomping down the hall again. In my mind, I heard the Imperial Death March from Star Wars.

I’d had enough of Kenzie’s bullshit, so I walked back toward the auditorium. I couldn’t stand having my life broadcast all over this school. Michelle didn’t even go here. It was beyond embarrassing. Not to mention totally unfair.

The double doors clanked as I slammed my weight into them. All the chairs in the auditorium were folded near the stage, making the walls look bigger than usual. I was kind of nervous about barging into the TV studio, but that’s exactly what I did.

Heads turned as I marched into the brightly lit room. Already I felt like I’d made a big mistake. The people in this class were probably film geniuses and I was an expert at nothing. In the back was a camera on a tripod, along with lots of bell-shaped lamps, a semicircle of desks, and Pippa.

She was looking at me. I mean, really looking. I could practically feel it—the stare of epic proportions, like Storm in the X-Men, igniting the classroom into an Apocalypse-worthy solar flare.

Damn.

When we were little, Pippa McCormick got mistaken for a boy on a daily basis. I seriously doubted that she had that problem anymore. For one thing, her purple-streaked hair spilled all the way down to her butt. I didn’t know girls could grow it that long. Guess I figured they came with an “off” switch when it reached a certain length, like, say, their shoulder blades or whatever.

The teacher was sitting on his desk. He was kind of youngish and thin, but not in an anorexic sort of way.

“Are you looking for Digital Filmmaking and Communications?” he asked. “This class is full. I shouldn’t let anybody else in.”

“Really? Because I’m pretty good at communicating.”

I waited for him to get pissed. Instead, he just smirked. “I’m Mr. Bonette. Call me Mr. Bones if you like.”

Okay. This teacher was definitely not normal.

Mr. Bones reached into a drawer and took out a folder. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Trent.” God, this was so awkward.

“Have you taken any film classes before?” he wanted to know.

“No, but I’ve watched a lot of movies.”

The girls in the front row laughed. Yeah, I sounded like a complete idiot.

He wrote something in his folder. “What kind of movies?”

At this point, my mind went blank. “Um. I don’t know. Documentaries. Real-life stuff.” I figured this would get him off my case.

“Excellent. You’re into cinéma vérité.”

So now we were in French class. “Cinema what?”

“It means truth-film.”

The front-row girls were laughing again. They almost fell out of their chairs. Actually, that would be pretty funny.

“Do you want to be here, Trent?” he asked.

What was I supposed to say? No, I don’t want to be here at school, talking to a teacher who thinks I’m stupid. I don’t want to be home, either. Wherever that is. Stuck in the Everglades. It didn’t matter where I went, because nobody cared.

Mr. Bones waited. “Okay, I’ll fit you in. If you want to stay here, grab a chair. We’re about to go over the rule of thirds.”

Rule of what? I thought we were going to watch movies.

This class was looking to be a lot harder than I’d thought.

While Mr. Bones rambled on about framing the subject, I was busy checking out Pippa’s checkered legs. She kept them bouncing at all times, as if listening to a never-ending soundtrack inside her head.

Pippa used to wear jeans, like, every single day. Now her slamming body was packed into checkered tights and a dress that looked safety-pinned together. Upon closer inspection, I realized the safety pins were staples.

This was the girl who’d played mad scientist with me. We’d raid the fridge, dump chocolate syrup and mayo in a cup, and dare each other to chug it. We used to talk about all kinds of stuff. Then I got into Southwinds in middle school and we kind of stopped talking. I’m not even sure why.

Did she remember me?

The bell rang and everybody jumped like a bunch of dogs. “Listen up, people,” Mr. Bones yelled. “Before you leave,

let’s talk about your final project for this semester. It’s a group project.”