The Symptoms of My Insanity by Mindy Raf Read Free Book Online

her eyebrows practically touching—“is a waste of space.”
    “That’s not what you used to say. You used to say that Nate was—”
    “PLEASE can you STOP talking for, like, one second! God!”
    I stare at her, then down at the ugly green carpeting.
    When I look up again, Jenna’s eyebrows are back to their naturally separated state and “Sorry” slides out of her half-opened mouth, which then turns up into a small smile when she tells me that she thinks some of her mom’s menopause meds might have gotten mixed in with the allergy pills she took this morning.
    “… that’s why I feel so hormonally imbalanced,” she concludes, her eyes looking thrilled with this new epiphany.
    “Oh … well … wait, when’s the last time you got your thyroid checked?” I ask. I just read an article on the thyroid and hormones.
    Jenna’s small smile turns into a full-out snort-laugh. So I fake a snort-laugh too.
    “Dr. Izzy,” Jenna manages to snort out at me, “she strikes again.”
    I turn to her, my face now still. “What?”
    Jenna laugh-sighs, shaking her head. “You realize I’m going to be visiting you in a mental hospital someday?”
    I just nod at Jenna, and then manage to force-smile out a “Yup.”
    “I just meant that … I think my thyroid’s fine, that’s all,” Jenna clarifies.
    “Of course it is,” I confirm, mustering a nonchalant shrug. “But stop taking your mom’s menopause meds,” I faux scold her, wagging my index finger before we part for opposite ends of the hall.
    On my way to Spanish, I try not to focus on the fact that my best friend thinks I’m going to end up in a straitjacket. Instead I wonder about Jenna’s semi-healthy thyroid glands, and my own possibly unhealthy ones, and then all of Blake’s glands, which are probably perfect, and how no, I definitely don’t want to boycott dates for the dance.
    •   •   •
    My ears are completely immune to the speed Spanish firing out of Señora Claudia’s mouth.
    I’m thinking about Blake, his perfect glands, and how maybe it’s a real DIA date this Saturday, and how maybe that real DIA date will lead to a real dance date. Then I can convince Jenna to go with Nate, and we can all go together. Because I know Jenna wants to go to the dance with a date and not just as a PTO mom helper. This whole date boycott thing is just another one of her random tirades.
    “
Señorita Isabella? Hola? Señorita Isabella?
”
    I wish I wasn’t hearing Señora Claudia calling me up to the front of the room to talk about what I did yesterday “
en español
,” but it’s kind of hard to ignore a woman in a giant sombrero shouting your name.
Less than two hours until I’m in the studio.
    “
Hola. Me llamo Isabella. Y ayer …”
I try. Great. There’s nothing I did yesterday that I know how to say in Spanish. “
Ayer … ayer … miré la television
.”
    “
Bueno, Isabella
,” Señora says, and I start to head back to my seat, happy that at least the buttons on my suggestive shirt didn’t pop open in front of the whole class. But Señora soon stops me, saying, “
Y qué más?
”
    What else? What do you mean what else? Um … okay, Señora.
Como se dice,
I was up all night worried about play practice, my pathetic art portfolio, and breast cancer,
en español
?
    “
Y qué más?
” Señora Claudia is repeating. “
Y qué más?
”
    “Um …
nada
,” I reply. Señora is not happy with thatresponse and says, “
Nada
?” and then starts blasting me with more speed Spanish:
    “
Trabajodelaescuela? Comerlacena? Ustedlimpiasusitio? Elhablarenetelé fonoconsusamigos?”
    What? What? What about my friends? And then Jacob Ullman whispers really loudly, “
Miré la television con mis knockers. Mi encanta mis knockers, son grandes.
” His freckled cheeks lift in approval as people start snickering, and I know Señora hears them, because she says, “Okay.
Bueno
,” and gestures for me to go back to my seat.
    I slide back against my