It's Not Your Fault
Chapter 1
“And the coefficient of the variable is equal to…”
I zoned out. Ms. Chang’s words turned to gibberish, and my eyes threatened to close. Great, I thought, another test for me to fail. Thanks, Changiepoo, for being so unbelievably interesting. Maybe we might actually learn something now. I felt something hit my arm. My eyes snapped open. I turned my head to see where the object had come from and saw my best friend—Evan Rivers—grinning from the other end of the table. I looked down and saw a little ball of white paper lying by my elbow. I opened it up as quietly as possible and read it. Not like it really mattered—the math teacher, Ms. Chang, was basically deaf. Old age and years of teaching middle schoolers will do that to you. I turned my attention to the scrap of paper in my hands.
“Danielle Patel! What’s crack-a-lackin’, baby?” I smirked. Good ol’ Evan. If anybody could make Chang’s class interesting, it was him. I pulled a purple pen out of my pocket and scribbled a reply.
“I’m weighing the pros and cons of stabbing my eyes out with a dull pencil. On one hand, I could escape this hellhole and head over to the nurse’s office. On the other hand, I like my pencils, and blood stains are really hard to get out.”
I balled up the paper and flicked it across the hardwood table at Evan. I had been aiming for his eyes but, of course, with my coordination, it bounced off of Nick’s head. Luckily, he was asleep. Evan plucked the paper from Nick’s shaggy mop of hair and quickly unfolded the scrap.
I decided to give the rest of the room a fraction of my attention while I waited for Ev to reply. Up at the blackboard, Ms. Chang was still droning on. Why the school would hire someone so unbelievably boring was beyond me. And the fact that they chose this chick as the math teacher? Yeah, so not good for me. Math is my worst subject to begin with. Changiepoo really didn’t help the whole situation. She was middle-aged, and not getting any younger. Her black hair was tied up in a tight bun at the top of her head—as usual. Her beady, dark-brown eyes were hidden behind thin-rimmed, high-prescription glasses. Yep, Ms. Chang was a stereotypical math teacher. She was even Korean, accent and all. Of course, here in Manhattan, it’s really not that hard to find someone like her, especially at a private school like mine.
Yeah, you heard me right:
Private school.
Public school really didn’t like me. Luckily, my mom realized that and had me transferred here—Jackson Intermediate School—before her precious little girl lost any more blood.
But that’s another story for another time.
I zoned out. Ms. Chang’s words turned to gibberish, and my eyes threatened to close. Great, I thought, another test for me to fail. Thanks, Changiepoo, for being so unbelievably interesting. Maybe we might actually learn something now. I felt something hit my arm. My eyes snapped open. I turned my head to see where the object had come from and saw my best friend—Evan Rivers—grinning from the other end of the table. I looked down and saw a little ball of white paper lying by my elbow. I opened it up as quietly as possible and read it. Not like it really mattered—the math teacher, Ms. Chang, was basically deaf. Old age and years of teaching middle schoolers will do that to you. I turned my attention to the scrap of paper in my hands.
“Danielle Patel! What’s crack-a-lackin’, baby?” I smirked. Good ol’ Evan. If anybody could make Chang’s class interesting, it was him. I pulled a purple pen out of my pocket and scribbled a reply.
“I’m weighing the pros and cons of stabbing my eyes out with a dull pencil. On one hand, I could escape this hellhole and head over to the nurse’s office. On the other hand, I like my pencils, and blood stains are really hard to get out.”
I balled up the paper and flicked it across the hardwood table at Evan. I had been aiming for his eyes but, of course, with my coordination, it bounced off of Nick’s head. Luckily, he was asleep. Evan plucked the paper from Nick’s shaggy mop of hair and quickly unfolded the scrap.
I decided to give the rest of the room a fraction of my attention while I waited for Ev to reply. Up at the blackboard, Ms. Chang was still droning on. Why the school would hire someone so unbelievably boring was beyond me. And the fact that they chose this chick as the math teacher? Yeah, so not good for me. Math is my worst subject to begin with. Changiepoo really didn’t help the whole situation. She was middle-aged, and not getting any younger. Her black hair was tied up in a tight bun at the top of her head—as usual. Her beady, dark-brown eyes were hidden behind thin-rimmed, high-prescription glasses. Yep, Ms. Chang was a stereotypical math teacher. She was even Korean, accent and all. Of course, here in Manhattan, it’s really not that hard to find someone like her, especially at a private school like mine.
Yeah, you heard me right:
Private school.
Public school really didn’t like me. Luckily, my mom realized that and had me transferred here—Jackson Intermediate School—before her precious little girl lost any more blood.
But that’s another story for another time.