Speak (4 page)

plunge into a snowdrift. The back yard is gorgeous. The trees and bushes are all wrapped in ice, reflecting sunlight into something powerful. I just have to make a snow angel. I tromp to an unmarked piece of snow and let myself fall backward. The scarf falls over my mouth as I wave my wings. The wet wool smells like first grade, walking to school on a cold morning with my milk money jangling in the tips of my mittens. We lived in a different house then, a smaller house. Mom worked at the jewelry counter and was home after school. Dad had a nicer boss and talked all the time about buying a boat. I believed in Santa Claus. The wind stirs the branches overhead. My heart clangs like a fire bell. The scarf is too tight on my mouth. I pull it off to breathe. The moisture on my skin freezes. I want to make a wish, but I don't know what to wish for. And I have snow up my back. I break off branches from the holly bushes and a few sprigs of pine and carry them inside. I tie them together with red yarn and set them on the fireplace mantel and the dining-room table. It doesn't look as nice as when the lady on TV did it, but it makes the place smell better. I still wish we could bor- row a kid for a few days. 71 We sleep in till noon on Christmas. I give Mom a black sweater and Dad a CD with sixties hits. They give me a hand- ful of gift certificates, a TV for my room, ice skates, and a sketch pad with charcoal pencils. They say they have noticed me drawing. I almost tell them right then and there. Tears flood my eyes. They noticed I've been trying to draw. They noticed. I try to swallow the snowball in my throat. This isn't going to be easy. I'm sure they suspect I was at the party. Maybe they even heard about me calling the cops. But I want to tell them everything as we sit there by our plastic Christ- mas tree while the Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer video plays. I wipe my eyes. They wait with unsure smiles. The snow- ball grows larger. When I snuck home that night, they weren't in the house. Both cars were gone. I was supposed to have been at Rachel's all night long — they weren't expect- ing me, that's for sure. I showered until the hot water was gone, then I crawled in bed and did not sleep. Mom pulled in around 2 a.m., Dad just before sunup. They had not been together. What had they been doing? I thought I knew. How can I talk to them about that night? How can I start? Rudolph sets out on his ice floe. "I'm independent," he de- clares. Dad looks at his watch. Mom stuffs the wrapping pa- per into a garbage bag. They leave the room. I am still sitting on the floor, holding the paper and charcoals. I didn't even say "Thank you." 72 HARD LABOR I had two days of freedom before my parents decided I wasn't going to "lounge around the house all vacation." I have to go to work with them. I'm not legally old enough to work, but they don't care. I spend the weekend at Mom's store, dealing with all the merchandise brought back by grumpy people. Did anyone in Syracuse get what they wanted for Christmas? Sure doesn't seem like it. Since I'm underage, Mom sticks me in the basement stockroom. I'm supposed to refold the shirts, stick- ing them with eleven pins. The other employees watch me like I'm a rat, like my mother has sent me to the basement to spy on them. I fold a few shirts, then kick back and take out a book. They relax. I am one of them. I don't want to be there either. Mom obviously knows I did squat, but she doesn't say anything in the car. We don't leave until way after dark be- cause she has so much work to do. Sales have sucked — she didn't get anywhere near the goal she set. Layoffs are com- ing. We stop at a traffic light. Mom closes her eyes. Her skin is a flat gray color, like underwear washed so many times it's about to fall apart. I feel bad that I didn't fold more shirts for her. The next day they send me to Dad's. He sells some kind of in- surance, but I don't know how or why. He sets up a card table for me in his office. My job is to put calendars into envelopes, 73 seal them up, and stick on mailing labels. He sits at his desk and talks to buddies on the phone. He gets to work with his feet up. He gets to laugh with his friends on the phone. He gets to call out for lunch. I think he deserves to be in the basement folding shirts and helping my mother. I deserve to be watching cable, or taking a nap, or even going to Heather's house. By lunchtime, my stomach boils with anger. Dad's secretary says something nice to me when she drops off my lunch, but I don't answer her. I glare daggers at the back of my father's head. Angry angry angry. I have another million envelopes to close. I run my tongue over the gross gummy envelope flap. The sharp edge of the flap cuts my tongue. I taste my blood. IT's face suddenly pops up in my mind. All the anger whistles out of me like I'm a popped balloon. Dad is really pissed when he sees how many calendars I bled on. He mentions a need for professional help. I am actually grateful to go back to school. FOUL Now that there are two feet of snow on the ground, the fizz-ed teachers let us have class inside. They keep the gym at about forty degrees because "a little cool air never hurt any- one." Easy for them to say, they wear sweatpants. The first inside sport is basketball. Ms. Connors teaches us how to throw foul shots. I step up to the line, bounce the ball 74 twice, and put it through the net. Ms. Connors tells me to do it again. And again. She keeps bouncing balls my way, and I keep putting them up — swish, swish, swish. Forty-two shots later, my arms wobble and I miss one. By that time, the entire class has gathered around and is watching. Nicole is just about bursting. "You have to join the team!" she shouts. Ms. Connors: "Meet me back here during activity period. You are Going Places with That Arm." Me: It is a sad and downtrodden Ms. Connors who meets me three hours later. She holds my current grades by two fingers: D, C, B-, D, C-, C, A. No basketball team for me, because the A was in art, so my GPA is a whopping 1.7. Ms. Connors did not win a lacrosse scholarship by being demure or hesitant. She times me in wind sprints, then puts me back on the line to shoot. Ms. Connors: "Try an outside shot bank it off the board have you thought about a tutor nice shot it's those Ds that are killing you try a lay-up that needs work I could maybe do something about the social studies grade but your English teacher is impossible she hates sports do you have a hook shot?" I just do what I'm told. If I felt like talking, I would explain that she couldn't pay me enough to play on her basketball team. All that running? Sweating? Getting knocked around by genetic mutants? I don't think so. Now, if basketball had a 75 designated foul-shot shooter, maybe I'd consider. The other team fouls you, you get to pay them back. Boom. But that's not the way it works, in basketball or in life. Ms. Connors looks so eager. I like the sensation of succeeding brilliantly at something — even if it is just thunking in foul shots one after another. I'll let her dream a few more minutes. The boys' varsity team dribbles in. Their record is zero and five. Go Wombats! Basketball Pole, aka Brendan Keller, the one who contributed to my mashed-potato-and-gravy humiliation on the first day of school, stands under the basket. The other guys run drills and pass in to him. Brendan reaches up a skinny octopus tentacle and casually drops the ball through the hoop. Our boys are unbeatable as long as they are the only team on the floor. The boys' coach barks something I don't understand and the team lines up behind Basketball Pole for free-throw practice. He dribbles, bounce, two, three. He shoots. Brick. Bounce, two, three . . . Brick. Brick. Brick. Can't sink a shot from the line to save his skinny neck. Ms. Connors talks to the boys' coach while I watch the rest of the team hit a sorry thirty percent. Then she blows her whistle and waves me over. The boys clear out of the way and I take my place on the line. "Show 'em," commands Ms. Connors. Trained seal me, bounce, bounce, up, swish; again, and again, and again, until the guys stop bouncing and everyone is watching. Ms. Connors and Basketball Coach talk serious 76 frown talk arms on hips, biceps flexing. The boys stare at me — visitor from the Planet Foul Shot. Who is this girl? Ms. Connors punches Coach in the arm. Coach punches Ms. Connors in the arm. They offer me a deal. If I volunteer to teach the Basketball Pole how to swish a foul shot, I will get an automatic A in gym. I shrug my shoulders and they grin. I couldn't say no. I couldn't say anything. I just won't show up. COLORING OUTSIDE THE LINES Our art room is blooming like a museum full of O'Keeffes, van Goghs, and that French guy who painted flowers with tiny dots. Mr. Freeman is the Vogue Teacher of the Moment. There are rumors that he'll be the Teacher of the Year in the yearbook. His room is Cool Central. He keeps the radio on. We are al- lowed to eat as long as we work. He bounced a couple of slackers who confused freedom with no rules, so the rest of us don't make waves. It is too much fun to give up. The room is full of painters, sculptors, and sketchers during activity pe- riod, and some kids stay there until the late late buses are ready to roll. Mr. Freeman's painting is coming along great. Some newspa- per guy heard about it and wrote an article. The article claimed Mr. Freeman is a gifted genius who has devoted his 77 life to education. A color picture of the work-in-progress ac- companied the article. Someone said a few school board mem- bers recognized themselves. I bet they sue him. I wish Mr. Freeman would put a tree in his masterpiece. I can't figure out how to make mine look real. I have already ruined six linoleum blocks. I can see it in my head: a strong old oak tree with a wide scarred trunk and thousands of leaves reaching to the sun. There's a tree in front of my house just like it. I can feel the wind blow and hear the mock- ingbird whistling on the way back to her nest. But when I try to carve it, it looks like a dead tree, toothpicks, a child's drawing. I can't bring it to life. I'd love to give it up. Quit. But I can't think of anything else to do, so I keep chipping away at it. Principal Principal stormed in yesterday, smelling pleasure. His mustache moved up and down, a radar sweep for all things unruly. An unseen hand turned off the radio as he crossed the threshold, and bags of potato chips vanished, leav- ing the faint scent of salt to mix with vermilion oil paint and wet clay. He scanned the room for merriment. Found only bowed heads, graceful pencils, dipping brushes. Mr. Freeman touched up the dark roots on the head of a lady school board member and asked if Principal Principal needed help. Principal Princi- pal stalked out of the room in the direction of the Human Waste's smoking haven. Maybe I'll be an artist if I grow up. 78 POSTER CHILD Heather left a note in my locker, begging me to go to her house after school. She's in trouble. She is not meeting Martha standards. She sobs out the story in her room. I listen and pick lint balls off my sweater. The Marthas held a craft meeting to make Valentine's pillows for little kids who are in the hospital. Meg 'n' Emily sewed three sides of the pillows, while the others stuffed, stitched, and glued on hearts and teddy bears. Heather was in charge of hearts. She was all flustered because a few Marthas didn't like her outfit. They yelled at her for gluing hearts crooked. Then the top of her glue bottle came off and completely ruined a pillow. At this point in the story, she throws a doll across her room. I move the nail polish out of her reach. Meg demoted Heather to pillow stuffing. Once the pillow pro- duction line was again rolling smoothly, the meeting began. Topic: the Canned Food Drive. The Senior Marthas are in charge of delivering the food to the needy (with a newspaper photographer present) and meeting with the principal to coor- dinate whatever needs coordinating. I zone out. She talks about who's in charge of classroom cap- tains and who's in charge of publicity and I don't know what 79 all. 1 don't come back to earth until Heather says, "I knew you wouldn't mind, Mel." Me: "What?" Heather: "I knew you wouldn't mind helping. I think Emily did it on purpose. She doesn't like me. I was going to ask you to help, then say I did it by myself, but that would have been lying, and besides they would have stuck me with all the poster work for the rest of the year. So I said 1 have a friend who is really artistic and community-oriented and could she help with the posters?" Me: "Who?" Heather: [laughing now, but I still hold on to the nail polish] "You, silly. You draw better than me and you have plenty of time. Please say you'll do it! Maybe they'll ask you to join too, once they see how talented you are! Please, please, whipped cream, chopped nuts and cherry on top please! If I screw this up, I know they'll blacklist me and then I'll never be part of any of the good groups." How could I say no? DEAD FROGS Our biology class has graduated from fruit to frogs. We were scheduled to do the frog unit in April, but the frog company 80 delivered our victims on January 14. Pickled frogs have a way of disappearing from the storage closet, so today Ms. Keen armed us with knives and told us not to gag. David Petrakis My Lab Partner is thrilled — anatomy at last. There are lists to memorize. The hopping bone's connected to the jumping bone, the ribbet bone's connected to the fly- catching bone. He seriously talks about wearing one of those doctor masks over his face while we "operate." He thinks it would be good practice. The room does not smell like apple. It smells like frog juice, a cross between a nursing home and potato salad. The Back Row pays attention. Cutting dead frogs is cool. Our frog lies on her back. Waiting for a prince to come and princessify her with a smooch? I stand over her with my knife. Ms. Keen's voice fades to a mosquito whine. My throat closes off. It is hard to breathe. I put out my hand to steady myself against the table. David pins her froggy hands to the dissec- tion tray. He spreads her froggy legs and pins her froggy feet. I have to slice open her belly. She doesn't say a word. She is al- ready dead. A scream starts in my gut — I can feel the cut, smell the dirt, leaves in my hair. I don't remember passing out. David says I hit my head on the edge of the table on my way down. The nurse calls my mom because I need stitches. The doctor stares into the back of my eyes with a bright light. Can she read the thoughts hidden there? If she can, what will she do? Call the cops? Send me to the nuthouse? Do I want her to? I just want to sleep. The 81 whole point of not talking about it, of silencing the memory, is to make it go away. It won't. I'll need brain surgery to cut it out of my head. Maybe I should wait
until David Petrakis is a doctor, let him do it. MODEL CITIZEN Heather has landed a modeling job at a department store in the mall. She says she was buying socks with her mother the week after her braces came off and some lady asked if she modeled. I suspect the fact that her dad works for the mall management company had something to do with it. The modeling gig is paying off in major Martha points. They all want to be Heather's New Best Friend. But she asks me to go with her for the bathing suit shoot. I think she's afraid to screw up in front of them. Heather's mother drives us. She asks if I want to be a model. Heather says I am too shy. I look at her mother's eyes watching me in the rearview mirror and hide my mouth with my fingers. The scabs on my lips are es- pecially gross in that little rectangle mirror. Of course I want to be a model. I want to paint my eyelids gold. I saw that on a magazine cover and it looked amazing — turned the model into a sexy alien that everyone would look at but nobody dared touch. I like cheeseburgers too much to be a model. Heather has stopped eating and complains about fluid retention. She 82 should worry more about brain retention, the way she's diet- ing away her gray matter. At last check, she was wearing a size one and a half, and she just has to get down to a size one. The photo shoot is in a building cold enough to store ice. Heather looks like our Thanksgiving turkey wearing a blue bikini. Her goose bumps are bigger than her boobs. I'm shiver- ing, and I'm wearing my ski jacket and a wool sweater. The photographer turns up the radio and starts bossing the girls around. Heather totally gets into it. She throws her head back, stares at the camera, flashes her teeth. The photographer keeps saying, "Sexy, sexy, very cute. Look this way. Sexy, think beach, think boys." It creeps me out. Heather sneezes in the middle of a group pose and her mother runs in with tissues. It must be catching. My throat is killing me. I want a nap. I don't buy the gold eyeshadow, but I do pick up a bottle of Black Death nail polish. It's gloomy, with squiggly lines of red in it. My nails are bitten to the bleeding point, so it will look natural. I need to get a shirt that matches. Something in a tu- bercular gray. DEATH BY ALGEBRA Mr. Stetman won't give up. He is determined to prove once and for all that algebra is something we will use the rest of our lives. If he succeeds, I think they should give him the Teacher of the Century Award and a two-week vacation in Hawaii, all expenses paid. 83 He comes to class each day with a new Real-Life Application. It is sweet that he cares enough about algebra and his students to want to bring them together. He's like a grandfather who wants to fix up two young kids that he just knows would make a great couple. Only the kids have nothing in common and they hate each other. Today's Application has something to do with buying guppies at the pet store, and calculating how many guppies you could breed if you wanted to go into the guppie business. Once the guppies turn into x's and y's, my contacts fog. Class ends in a debate between the animal-rights activists, who say it is im- moral to own fish, and the red-blooded capitalists, who know lots of better ways to make money than investing in fish that eat their young. I watch the snow falling outside. WORD WORK Hairwoman is torturing us with essays. Do English teachers spend their vacations dreaming up these things? The first essay this semester was a dud: "Why America Is Great" in five hundred words. She gave us three weeks. Only Tiffany Wilson turned it in on time. But the assignment was not a complete failure — Hairwoman runs the drama club and she recruited several new members based on their perfor- mances as to why they needed an extension. She has a warped sense of humor as well as a demented beau- tician. The next essay was supposed to be fictional: "The Best 84 Lost Homework Excuse Ever" in five hundred words. We had one night. No one was late. But now Hairwoman is on a roll. "How I Would Change High School," "Lower the Driving Age to 14," "The Perfect Job." Her topics are fun, but she keeps cranking them out, one after the next. First she broke our spirits by overwhelming us with work we couldn't really complain about because the topics are the kind of things we talk about all the time. Re- cently she's started sneaking grammar (shudder) into the class- room. One day we worked on verb tenses: "I surf the Net, I surfed the Net, I was surfing the Net." Then, lively adjectives. Does it sound better to say "Nicole's old lacrosse stick hit me on the head" or "Nicole's barf-yellow, gnarled, bloodstained lacrosse stick hit me on the head"? She even tried to teach us the difference between active voice — "I snarfed the Oreos" — and passive voice — "The Oreos got snarfed." Words are hard work. I hope they send Hairwoman to a con- ference or something. I'm ready to help pay for a sub. NAMING THE MONSTER I work on Heather's posters for two weeks. I try to draw them in the art room, but too many people watch me. It is quiet in my closet, and the markers smell good. I could stay here for- ever, BRING A CAN, SAVE A LIFE. Heather told me to be direct. It is the only way to get what we want. I draw posters of bas- ketball players shooting cans through a hoop. They demon- strate very good form. 85 Heather has another modeling job. Tennis clothes, I think. She asks me to hang the posters for her. I actually don't mind. It's nice having kids see me do something good. Might help my reputation. I'm hanging a poster outside the metal-shop room when IT creeps up. Little flecks of metal slice through my veins. IT whispers to me. "Freshmeat." That's what IT whispers. IT found me again. I thought I could ignore IT. There are four hundred other freshmen in here, two hundred female. Plus all the other grades. But he whispers to me. I can smell him over the noise of the metal shop and I drop my poster and the masking tape and I want to throw up and I can smell him and I run and he remembers and he knows. He whispers in my ear. I lie to Heather about the masking tape and say I put it back in the supply box. RENT ROUND 3 My guidance counselor calls Mom at the store to pave the way for my report card. Must remember to send her a thank- you note. By the time we eat dinner, the Battle is roaring at full pitch. Grades, blah, blah, blah, Attitude, blah, blah, blah, Help around the house, blah, blah, blah, Not a kid anymore, blah, blah, blah. 86 I watch the Eruptions. Mount Dad, long dormant, now con- sidered armed and dangerous. Mount Saint Mom, oozing lava, spitting flame. Warn the villagers to run into the sea. Be- hind my eyes I conjugate irregular Spanish verbs. A minor blizzard blows outside. The weather lady says it's a lake-effect storm — the wind from Canada sucks up water from Lake Ontario, runs it through the freeze machine, and dumps it on Syracuse. I can feel the wind fighting to break through our storm windows. I want the snow to bury our house. They keep asking questions like "What is wrong with you?" and "Do you think this is cute?" How can I answer? I don't have to. They don't want to hear anything I have to say. They ground me until the Second Coming. I have to come straight home after school unless Mom arranges for me to meet with a teacher. I can't go to Heather's. They are going to disconnect the cable. (Don't think they'll follow through on that one.) I do my homework and show it to them like a good little girl. When they send me to bed, I write a runaway note and leave it on my desk. Mom finds me sleeping in my bedroom closet. She hands me a pillow and closes the door again. No more blah-blahs. I open up a paper clip and scratch it across the inside of my left wrist. Pitiful. If a suicide attempt is a cry for help, then what is this? A whimper, a peep? I draw little windowcracks of blood, etching line after line until it stops hurting. It looks like I arm-wrestled a rosebush. 87 Mom sees the wrist at breakfast. Mom: "I don't have time for this, Melinda." Me: She says suicide is for cowards. This is an uglynasty Momside. She bought a book about it. Tough love. Sour sugar. Barbed velvet. Silent talk. She leaves the book on the back of the toilet to educate me. She has figured out that I don't say too much. It bugs her. CAN IT Lunch with Heather starts cold. Since winter break, she has been sitting at the fringe of the Martha table and I eat on the other side of her. I can tell something is up as soon as I walk in. All the Marthas are wearing matching outfits: navy cor- duroy miniskirts, striped tops, and clear plastic purses. They must have gone shopping together. Heather doesn't match. They hadn't invited her. She is too cool to be nervous about this. I am nervous for her. I take an enormous bite of my PBJ and try not to choke. They wait until she has a mouthful of cottage cheese. Siobhan puts a can of beets on the table. Siobhan: "What's this?" Heather: [swallowing] "It's a can of beets." Siobhan: "No duh. But we found an entire bag of beets in the collection closet. They must have come from you." Heather: "A neighbor gave them to me. They're beets. People eat them. What's the problem?" The rest of the Marthas sigh on cue. Apparently, beets are Not Good Enough. Real Marthas only collect food that they like to eat, like cranberry sauce, dolphin-safe tuna, or baby peas. I can see Heather dig her nails into her palms under the table. The peanut butter molds to the roof of my mouth like a re- tainer. Siobhan: "That's not all. Your numbers are abysmal." Heather: "What numbers?" Siobhan: "Your can quota. You aren't carrying your weight. You aren't contributing." Heather: "We've only been doing this for a week. I know I'll get more." Emily: "It's not just the can quota. Your posters are ridicu- lous — my little brother could have done a better job. It's no wonder no one wants to help us. You've turned this project into a joke. " Emily slides her tray across to Heather. Heather gets up without a word and clears it away. Traitor. She isn't going to stick up for my posters. The peanut butter in my mouth hardens. H9 Siobhan pokes Emily and looks at the door. Siobhan: "It's him. Andy Evans just walked in. I think he's looking for you, Em." I turn around. They are talking about IT. Andy. Andy Evans. Short stabby name. Andy Evans, who strolls in carrying a take-out bag from Taco Bell. He offers the cafeteria monitor a burrito. Emily and Siobhan giggle. Heather returns, her smile back in place, and asks if Andy is as bad as everyone says. Emily blushes the color of canned beets. Siobhan: "It's just a rumor." Emily: "Fact — he's gorgeous. Fact — he's rich. Fact — he's just the itsiest bit dangerous and he called me last night." Siobhan: "Rumor — he sleeps with anything." The peanut butter locks my jaws closed. Emily: "I don't believe it. Rumors are spread by jealous peo- ple. Hi, Andy. Did you bring enough lunch for everyone?" It feels like the Prince of Darkness has swept his cloak over the table. The lights dim. I shiver. Andy stands behind me to flirt with Emily. I lean into the table to stay as far away from him as I can. The table saws me in half. Emily's mouth moves, the fluorescent lights glittering on her teeth. The other girls scootch toward Emily to soak up her Attractiveness Rays. Andy must be talking too, I can feel deep vibrations in my backbone, like a thudding speaker. I can't hear the words. 90 He twirls my ponytail in his fingers. Emily's eyes narrow. I mumble something idiotic and run for the bathroom. I heave lunch into the toilet, then wash my face with the ice water that comes out of the Hot faucet. Heather does not come looking for me. DARK ART The cement-slab sky hangs inches above our heads. Which direc- tion is east? It has been so long since I've seen the sun, I can't re- member. Turtlenecks creep out of bottom drawers. Turtle faces pull back into winter clothes. We won't see some kids until spring. Mr. Freeman is in trouble. Big-time. He gave up paperwork when the school board Xed out his supply budget. They have caught up with him. Teachers just handed in the second- marking-period grades and Mr. Freeman gave out 210 As. Someone smelled a rat. Probably the office secretary. I wonder if they called him down to Principal Principal's office and put this on his Permanent Record. He has stopped work- ing on his canvas, the painting we all thought was going to be this awesome, earth-shattering piece of art that would be auc- tioned for a million dollars. The art room is cold, Mr. Free- man's face a shade of gray-purple. If he wasn't so depressed, I'd ask him what the name of that color is. He just sits on his stool, a blue broken cricket husk. No one talks to him. We blow on our fingers to warm them up and sculpt or draw or paint or sketch, or, in my case, 97 carve. I start a new linoleum block. My last tree looked like it had died from some fungal infection — not the effect I wanted at all. The cold makes the linoleum stiffer than usual. I dig the chisel into the block and push, trying to follow the line of a tree trunk. I follow the line of my thumb instead and gash myself. I swear and stick my thumb in my mouth. Everybody looks at me, so I take it out again. Mr. Freeman hurries over with a box of Kleenex. It isn't a deep cut, and I shake my head when he asks if I want to go to the nurse's office. He washes my chisel off in the sink and puts bleach on it. Some sort of AIDS regulation. When it is germ-free and dry, he carries it back toward my table, but stops in front of his canvas. He hasn't finished painting. The bottom right corner is empty. The prisoners' faces are menacing — you can't take your eyes off them. I wouldn't want a painting like that hanging over my couch. It looks like it might come alive at night. Mr. Freeman steps back, as if he has just seen something new in his own picture. He slices the canvas with my chisel, ruin- ing it with a long, ripping sound that makes the entire class gasp. MY REPORT CARD Attitude D Social Studies D Spanish C- Art A Lunch C Biology B Algebra C- Clothes C- English C- Gym C- 92 THIRD MARKING PERIOD DEATH OF THE WOMBAT The Wombat is dead. No assembly, no vote. Principal Princi- pal made an announcement this morning. He said hornets bet- ter represent the Merryweather spirit than foreign marsupials, plus the Wombat mascot costume was going to suck money from the prom committee's budget. We are the Hornets and that is final. The seniors support this decision totally. They wouldn't be able to hold up their heads if the prom had to be moved from the Holiday Inn Ballroom to the gym. That would be so elementary-school. Our cheerleaders are working on annoying chants that end in lots of buzzing. I think this is a mistake. I have visions of op- posing teams making enormous flyswatters and giant cans of insecticide out of papier-mache to humiliate