Very in Pieces by Megan Frazer Blakemore Read Free Book Online Page A

they do in French four? Crepes. Crepes, crepes, crepes. Every day is just a big crepe party in French four, but will I be having tasty Nutella and whipped cream? No, I will not.”
    â€œMaybe you’ll make dumplings or something.”
    â€œIt’s bad enough being half Chinese and friends with you and Britta. The expectations are like—” She waves her hand above her head.
    â€œWait, what’s bad about being friends with me and Britta?”
    â€œNot bad, exactly.” Her voice is calm, but I swear I see a slight eye roll. “It’s just, like, I walk into a new classroom and the teacher does a little math. Model minority plus friends with two geniuses. Must be übergenius. And then when I’m my mediocre self, it’s like I fall down into the negatives.”
    Her math doesn’t make sense, but I think I understand what she’s trying to say. “You’re not mediocre,” I tell her.
    â€œBut I’m not a genius. The only way I could make the setup worse is if I dated Brooks Weston.”
    â€œBritta would flip.”
    â€œShe would filet me. And flay me. And flambé me.”
    The bell rings, and we grab our stuff. In the hall, she chirps, “Make good choices, honey!” before disappearing into the throng of people.
    iv.
    Our petite, elfish English teacher, Ms. Staples, is already seated in a chair-desk at the front of the room with an array of books stacked up in front of her. Britta and I take seats in the circle with our backs facing the windows. Once I’m settled with my notebook open and my pen ready, I look across the circle and see Dominic Meyers. He’s the last person I would have expected to see in this class. Officially there’s no tracking at Essex High School, but everyone knows which English electives are puffballs and which are the tough ones. Ms. Staples’s American Literature class is definitely one of the toughest, harder even than AP English. Dominic is definitely not in the college-bound set: he’s the type of kid to whom the phrase “up to no good” is often applied. Surprising, also, is the way he is staring at me. His dark green eyes watch me intently from beneath a shag of brown hair. He gives a sly smile, and I remember his hot breath on my neck in the cold gallery and I realize that now I am the one who is staring. I avert my gaze.
    â€œYou don’t have to be so nervous,” Britta says.
    â€œWhat?” I blush harder.
    â€œI know it’s an advanced-level class, and we’ll be doingscansion and all that. But you know, scanning a line of poetry is just like doing a math problem. There are symbols. Balance.”
    â€œIf you say so.” Even if I work my hardest, I’ll be lucky to end up with another A minus from Ms. Staples—which was better than the B I got from Mr. Speck. But Mr. Linz, my guidance counselor, assured me that colleges would like that a math genius—his words, of course, not mine—would challenge herself with difficult humanities classes.
    My gaze flicks to Dominic, then over the rest of the class. Hunter, the photographer, and his hockey-loving model Serena are sitting next to each other. She is sketching in her notebook with her red hair falling onto the paper while he talks to the guy next to him.
    As soon as the bell rings, Ms. Staples jumps to her feet in a stunning display of agility for someone her age and says, “Welcome!” She quickly circles the room, passing out a syllabus printed on pale purple paper. “I’m so glad to have you here, and to see some of you again.”
    Britta and I had Ms. Staples for freshman English, and probably that comment is directed at Britta, who is a crazy-good English student.
    â€œAnd,” she goes on, “of course I’m happy to meet some of you for the first time. I don’t believe much in the getting-to-know-you activities that so many teachers do. Waste of time as far as