Sister Mischief by Laura Goode Read Free Book Online

vom. She’s a super Hindu model minority at math and science. I’m good enough to be in the advanced class, but I’m still pretty destined for the humanities. I don’t really like subjects where there’s only one right answer. Ambivalence is practically my middle name.
     
    I slump at the phrase “lab work,” dragging my backpack behind me like a recalcitrant kindergartner.
     
    “Is it more lab today? If we’re not blowing anything up, I’m so out,” I whine. I skip Chem a lot. Mr. Halverson is either too bored or too resentful of his job to protest my excuses — the nurse’s office, an emergency newspaper meeting. One time a forged note claiming a phony meeting with the superintendent. Another time, as soon as Halves the Calves (more cankles, really — terrible, terrible man cankles — mankles?) started talking scientific method, I just got up, pointed to my crotch, declared, “Rag. Major rag,” and walked out. That shit makes male teachers so uncomfortable that they let you go every time, especially if you’ve got the cojones to try it in a non-gym class. Totally catches them off guard, and you just slip out amid the stuttering and confusion.
     
    “Unclear. Come on. Whenever you leave, I have to stay so you can copy my notes later,” Rowie says.
     
    I consider her point, which is fair. Casting an arm around her shoulders, I walk toward the domain of Mankles. “Fine. But you owe me five bucks if he’s wearing mint-green again today.” Halverson has a seemingly infinite collection of orthopedic sneakers. White and black, obviously, but also — we have a running record in my notebook — mint-green, ecru, gray, red, brown, and navy.
     
    “Deal,” she says. We fist-pound.
     
    As we walk to class, I see Jane Njaka packing up her bag. What I know about Jane is that she’s from Somalia, she commutes from Minneapolis, and she’s wicked smart — she always knows the answers in AP Chem, sometimes even before Rowie.
     
    “Hey, Jane,” I call, waving at her. She turns around and looks a little surprised. “Do you know if it’s more lab today in Chem?”
     
    “Oh, God, I hope not. Prakash Banerjee is my partner, and he makes me do everything while he plays with his funny little Magic cards.” Jane’s voice is lilted in a tone I find reassuring; its articulation sounds a little islandy, but with some desert too.
     
    Rowie and I bust out laughing.
     
    “Prakash is a Magic
fiend,
” Rowie says, giggling. “That kid is dork on a stick.”
     
    “I know!” Jane says. “I thought I was the only one who noticed what a freak he is! Do you know he always keeps four GI Joes in his pocket?”
     
    “No,” I say in disbelief.
     
    “Not five, not three.” She nods. “He takes them out and looks at them sometimes.”
     
    “Wow. Always good to know there’s people out there who are even shittier at fitting in than you are,” Rowie says.
     
    “No shit,” says Jane Njaka, nodding with conviction.
     
    The third bell rings, and Rowie and I hustle to our lab-table-for-two. I elbow her in the ribs.
     
    “Powder-blue today.”
     
    She nods at my notebook. “Note it in the report.” My phone buzzes. 15
     
    15. Stealth-text from Marcy:
Dude, sorry about the gay lunchbox comment. Didn’t mean it.

Me to Marcy:
Dude, stop hitting on me.

Marcy to me:
I wish I knew how to quit you.
     
    Mr. Halverson briskly claps his hands three times, which is his way of beginning class. He’s not a bad guy, I guess, but he’s one of those teachers who seem constantly disappointed. Maybe what Halves the Calves really wanted was to open his own cake shop or play pro cricket or, I don’t know, tickle the baby grand for shoppers in the Galleria. Maybe a lot of grown-ups are disappointed.
     
    In his dejected drone, Halverson begins. “Sit down. We’re going to — well, we’re going to try to — go over the principles of valence electrons and atomic bonding. Valence electrons tell us how well or poorly