Evolution, Me & Other Freaks of Nature E-Book

Robin Brande

• Herausgeber: Ryer Publishing
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

I knew today would be ugly...

It's the first day of high school for Mena, and already her world looks bleak:  she's an outcast, all her former friends hate her, even her parents barely speak to her anymore.  And why?  Because she tried to do the right thing.  And then everything went wrong.

But can a cute, nerdy lab partner; his bossy, outspoken sister; and an unconventional, imaginative science teacher be just what Mena needs to turn her life around?

Or will the combination of all of them only make things worse?

As Mena is about to find out, it's the freaks of nature who survive…

Leseprobe

EVOLUTION, ME & OTHER FREAKS OF NATURE

ROBIN BRANDE

RYER PUBLISHING

Copyright 2007 by Robin Brande

First published by Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., 2007

International English Edition published by Ryer Publishing, 2014

US and Canadian Edition published by Ryer Publishing, 2016

Cover art by kusuriuri/Deposit Photos

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Created with Vellum

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

About the Author

Also by Robin Brande

Nothing is easier than to admit in words the truth of the universal struggle for life.

Charles Darwin, The Origin of Species

1

I knew today would be ugly.

When you’re single-handedly responsible for getting your church, your pastor, and every one of your former friends and their parents sued for millions of dollars, you expect to make some enemies. Fine.

It’s just that I hoped my first day of school—of highschool, thank you, which I’ve only been looking forward to my entire life—might turn out to be at least slightly better than eating live bugs. But I guess I was wrong.

I knew I’d be seeing some of these people today, but in first period already? And it has to be none other than my former best friend and the pastor’s daughter—two of the people who have cause to hate me the most.

Having Teresa and Bethany in English might not be so bad if they’d just ignore me, but at the start of class when Mr. Kuhlman called, “Mena Reece,” and I croaked out my “here,” Teresa had to turn her blond spiky head around and shoot me the Look of Death, and I got that combined feeling of needing to throw up and possibly pee my pants.

Think positive. Think positive.

Why didn’t my parents let me transfer? There are plenty of charter schools around, or they could have sent me to live with my aunt in Wyoming, or with strangers in Alaska for all I care. But I know they want to see me punished. They pretend they’ve forgiven me, but I know deep down inside they hate me for writing that letter, just like everybody else.

It’s only been half an hour, and already I can tell this is going to be the worst day of my life. I don’t know why I’m so surprised. I knew seeing everyone today would be hard. It’s only been a month since they were all served with the lawsuit, and even though I’ve gotten plenty of hate e-mails and phone messages since then, it’s not the same as having to deal with these people in person.

I just didn’t realize I’d be so scared. It’s pathetic. What do I have to be afraid of? My conscience is clear. I didn’t do anything wrong.

No, correction: I did the right thing. And some day the truth shall set me free.

Just not, apparently, today.

2

Okay, at least second period wasn’t so bad.

Maybe the only good thing about going to New Advantage High School (motto: “Let brilliance find you”—whatever that’s supposed to mean) is they count yoga as P.E. Also archery, tai chi and kick boxing. But I’m glad I picked yoga. If ever a girl needs an hour between English and biology to chill out and breathe deeply and try to prevent her oncoming heart attack, that’s me. Plus, I don’t know a single person in my yoga class, for which I am truly grateful.

I wasn’t sure my parents would let me take yoga. Pastor Wells was on this funk last year about how chanting during yoga or meditation is idol worship, because you’re focused on a word or an image that isn’t God, and you’re basically praying to it. He said the only acceptable way to meditate is to picture the Lord in front of you, his arms wide, a gentle smile on his face. Some women from the church even started their own class to teach us how to do it.

So this morning while our teacher, Missy, led us through the pranas and the asanas, I thought about Jesus the whole time. I pictured us on a hillside together, lying back on the grass while his flock grazed all around us. The sun was warm but not hot. I was tanner than I am, like an Israelite woman. I was wearing a long ivory dress, sleeveless, and plain leather sandals, and my hair was back in a braid.

I talked Jesus’ ear off, but he smiled and let me go on. And when I had unloaded everything that was on my mind, he gave me a hug and called me Little Sister and told me everything will be all right.

It will, won’t it? It felt so good to believe it.

Toward the end of class, Missy taught us some posture that I swear can only come in handy if you ever want to shave your own back. But our reward for pretzelling was that for the last twenty minutes of class she let us lie on our mats with our eyes closed, thinking our most peaceful thoughts.

I am in the woods, beside a calm, serene lake. The birds are singing. I can smell the pine. I am completely invisible. No one can find me. I’ve never heard of Denny Pierce.

And then the bell rang. Happy time was over.

I dressed as boring as I could today—plain jeans, a faded black T-shirt—hoping it would help hide me somehow. Right. As if I could walk even two steps down the hall without someone I know recognizing me and giving me the total Hairy Eyeball.

I kept my head down and plowed through, and had almost made it to my third period biology class without bodily harm when someone hip-checked me into the wall.

Which, may I point out, really hurt.

I turned to see my former—don’t know what to call him, really. Crush? Pre-boyfriend? The guy I was stupid enough to like last year and thought I might actually go out with once I’m allowed to date?—snickering and snuffling to himself. Yeah, Adam, that’s so impressive. People must think you’re really cool for tackling some girl you outweigh by a hundred pounds.

But I didn’t say anything, of course. Just mumbled, “Don’t,” and hurried into class. Way to stick up for yourself, Mena. You showed him.

And then as if having Adam in that class isn’t enough, guess who else? Teresa, of course, because apparently having her in English just isn’t enough torture. For all I know, she’s probably in all my classes except yoga, and tomorrow she’ll transfer into that, too, just to make sure I’m living my own personal hell.

I grabbed a seat as far away from her as possible, but Teresa still managed to throw me a look like would I do everyone a favor and just die.

If the day keeps going like this, I might.

3

Right before biology started, this enormous senior-looking guy came into the room and handed our teacher, Ms. Shepherd, a venti Starbucks. She clasped her hands together like God had answered her prayer, then scrounged in her purse for the cash. She thanked the giant and dismissed him, then held the cup to her nose, closed her eyes, sniffed through the lid, and finally took her first sip. It was like her own personal yoga moment.

I had nothing else to do but watch her, since the last thing I wanted to do was make eye contact with any of the other people filing into the room. What a nightmare. Not only Adam and Teresa, but fully half of that class are people from my church.

My ex-church. My parents still go there, but Pastor Wells let it be known that I’m no longer welcome. Fine. As if I could stand being around those people anymore anyway.

So I stared at Ms. Shepherd instead. She’s kind of pretty, in a nerdy smart-looking way, if that makes any sense. She’s short and a little fleshy, but not really fat—more like comfortable. She has tan skin and dark eyes and messy black hair. She wears these kind of funky/nerdy black horn rim glasses that you’d choose for an actress if she were going to play a science teacher in a movie.

But you wouldn’t pick those clothes. First of all, her shoes were beyond ugly—all scuffed and blocky and hideous. And her clothes were so wrinkled it’s like she’d slept in them. When I was little I used to sleep in my clothes before the first day of school, I was so excited, but I doubt teachers feel that way. I think Ms. Shepherd might just be a slob.

I kept on hearing my name. I swear I’m not paranoid—people really were talking about me. I heard a few choice words I wish I hadn’t.

I reached into my backpack and started taking stuff out, and meanwhile secretly counted how many of them were in the room. Fourteen. Fourteen people from my church youth group. Nine of them being sued by Denny Pierce’s parents, thanks to me. I was going to be sick.

The bell rang. Ms. Shepherd stayed where she was, rear end perched against her desk, eyes closed, Starbucks gripped lovingly in her hand while she enjoyed just a few extra moments of caffeine bliss. Then her eyes jolted open as if the beans had just kicked in.

“Okay, then, people, here’s the story,” she began. “I don’t grade on a curve. I don’t reward mediocrity. Your grades will depend on test scores, lab work, class participation, and a special project due at the end of the semester. What’s the special project, you ask? See me after class if you want a jump on it, otherwise wait to find out with the masses.”

She picked up her roster and forged ahead. “I will be assigning your lab partners. No, you may not switch. Jeremy Agee?”

Startled, his voice cracked. “H-ere.”

“A raised hand will do,” Ms. Shepherd said before speeding on.

My stomach tensed. Here was my first real test of bravery. I’d know with the next name she called whether Ms. Shepherd was going down the roster by twos. If so, chances were she’d see Mena Reece and Teresa Roberts and think we’d make a great pair, and wouldn’t realize she had just mixed holy water with acid.

Not that I’m holy water. But Teresa is what she is.

But Ms. Shepherd went the creative route and paired Jeremy Agee with Juan Zamora, and to my bottomless gratitude, she paired me with a person named Casey Connor.

I was so relieved it wasn’t Teresa, I forgot to see who raised a hand at the same time I did.

I scanned the room, not sure if I was searching for a boy or a girl. Could be either these days. In fifth grade there were two Hunters—a boy and a girl—and at church there are four Aidens of various genders. Mena could be a boy, I suppose, except that I’m named for some gnarled up old Czechoslovakian grandmother my mom grew up next door to and loved, apparently, more than her own grandmothers, who had decent names like Elizabeth and Rose.

Ms. Shepherd zipped through the list, then told us to find our partners.

I stayed put—no way was I leaving the safety of my chair. I kept my eyes to myself and hoped whoever my lab partner was, he or she wouldn’t mind searching for me.

A boy about my size, with pale skin and dark eyebrows and curly black hair, came toward me. “Hallo, Miss Reece?” he asked in a British accent, tipping an imaginary hat. I nodded, a little stunned. “Pleasure. Casey Connor.” He shook my hand, then stuffed his backpack underneath the chair beside me and sat down.

I was just processing how cool it was to have a lab partner from England when suddenly Casey dropped the accent and said in his normal voice, “Don’t worry, I’ve got the special project all worked out. Unless you have an idea, which is fine—let’s put them all on the table. But one way or another you and I are going to win this year. No question.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. It’s like I’d barged in on someone else’s conversation. Before I could sound as stupid as I felt, Ms. Shepherd saved me by clapping her hands for attention.

She took another deep sip of coffee, then scanned each of our faces like we had all been brought in for questioning. “Listen up. You need to understand something before we begin. I love science—love it. I mean LOVE IT.”

There was silence for a second, then a few kids snickered. Adam Ridgeway said, “Okaaayy...”

Casey whispered, “This is going to be great!”

In that moment I knew: my lab partner is a total geek.

“I tell you that,” Ms. Shepherd continued, “because I know that sitting in front of me right now are some of the future scientists of America. I say to you, welcome. WEL-COME. You are the people whose curiosity will uncover the riches of our universe. You are the ones who will show us what greatness the human mind is capable of. YOU are the people who will save us from ourselves. Let’s give you all a round of applause.”

She and Casey were the only ones clapping at first. Then some of the rest of us joined in, a little tentatively. I looked over at my former comrades, off in their herd whispering and laughing at Ms. Shepherd. Which only made me clap all the harder.

Ms. Shepherd lifted her Starbucks in salute. “All right, then. No time to lose. Let’s go make some science.”

She grabbed a burlap sack from behind her desk and cruised around the room. Next thing I know, there’s a potato sitting on my desk.

“You have to share,” Ms. Shepherd told us. “And no eating.”

“What’s this for?” some boy asked.

“To make you brilliant,” Ms. Shepherd answered. “Just like it says in the brochure.”

Casey Connor picked up our potato. “I did this in camp once. The potato actually flies.” Not sure if he was serious or not.

Ms. Shepherd returned to the front of the room. Then she spun around, her back to us, and asked, “What color is my shirt?” She was wearing a jacket over it, so the answer wasn’t obvious.

“Red,” a girl called out.

“No,” Ms. Shepherd snapped.

“Green,” someone else tried.

“No.”

A few more attempts before Ms. Shepherd gave up and turned around. “Puce. My shirt is puce.”

“Puke?” said Adam Ridgeway (always the funny man) (not). It dawned on me suddenly that if Ms. Shepherd had been going alphabetically by twos, I would have ended up with him, instead of Teresa, which would have been equally horrifying. I said a silent thank you for Casey.

“Puce,” Ms. Shepherd repeated. “Dark red.”

“I said red!” complained the girl who had.

“Not ‘red,’” Ms. Shepherd said. “‘Red’ is general—‘red’ is boring. ‘Puce’ is specific. These are the distinctions we scientists must make. Something isn’t simply ‘green’ or ‘orange’ or ‘smelly’—”

That cracked people up, although they weren’t laughing with her, I don’t think.

“When you’re a scientist, you deal in specifics. If I say I love you—” She pointed to a chubby boy hunched over his desk in back. “—then I should be able to say I love you to this certain degree and temperature and height and width. Follow?”

No one followed. And the chubby guy looked ready to bolt.

“So with your potato, I want you to treat that like it’s the most beloved thing you’ve ever had in front of you in your life—”

“I love you!” Adam told his potato. I can’t believe I used to like that guy.

Ms. Shepherd ignored him. “—like it’s gold or sapphires or your favorite cat. Follow? Or like it’s the man or woman of your dreams—”

“What are you talking about?” Teresa interrupted in her snottiest, most defiant way. I used to delight in being around her when she did things like that. I could be the good girl hiding in the background, while my best friend took charge of being dangerous.

“I’m talking about observation,” answered Ms. Shepherd, readjusting the glasses that had slipped down her nose. “I’m talking about precision. I’m talking about leaving behind all those broad generalities you teenagers talk in, and finally getting down to some specifics.

“You.” She pointed to Lara Donaldson. (Church. Hates me.) “Give me your potato.”

Lara so willingly did.

Ms. Shepherd removed her glasses and stared bare-eyed at the potato. “Not young, not old—”

“Just right,” Adam joked.

“Not for the scientist to judge,” Ms. Shepherd said. “Color?”

She pointed to Lara.

“Uh, brown?” Lara answered, in a tone that clearly meant, “Uh, duh?”

“Wrong. Is my shirt red? It’s puce. What color is this potato?”

I ventured a try. “Tan?”

“Not tan, so much,” Ms. Shepherd said. “Too dark for tan. Anyone?”

Casey Connor held up our textbook. He pointed to color of the title. “Biology brown.”

Ms. Shepherd put her glasses back on and looked from the book back to the potato. “All right, we’ll accept that answer for now. Heads up.” She tossed the potato back to a startled Lara, who fumbled it and had to dive under her desk to keep it from escaping like the meatball in On Top of Spaghetti.

“Got it?” Ms. Shepherd asked. “You have two class periods. I want to know everything—ev-ery-thing—you can tell me about your potato. No making up funny names for it or family history—let me stop you right there.” She looked pointedly at Adam Ridgeway. “We want facts—always facts.”

She reached behind her onto her desk and lifted a mysterious, misshapen package. “Team with the best and most descriptions wins this.”

Before we could even process whether or not we’d even want whatever that thing was—and I’m still not sure, since it was the weirdest-shaped package I’ve ever seen—Ms. Shepherd shooed us with her free hand. “Go. Go. Make science.”

Well, no one can get right to work after a weird performance like that. It requires a little chatter. The room was all abuzz.

I blew out a breath and looked at Casey.

He must have seen I was a little skeptical about Ms. Shepherd, because the first thing he said was, “She’s a genius. You should Google her. She has about twenty published papers in the top scientific journals. She’s world-renowned.”

“For what?”

“Anthropological Mathematics and Dynamism.”

I nodded as if I understood what he’d just said.

“Just kidding. Cellular biology with some physics on the side. Anything from string theory to genomic mutations to quantum mechanics.”

“Oh. Wow.” As if I understood any of that, either.

“So what’d you think?” Casey asked.

“About...”

“Ms. Shepherd. Pretty great, huh?”

“Yeah. Pretty great.” Whatever. I think my lab partner might be as psycho as my teacher.

Ms. Shepherd was walking around the room, making sure we were getting to know our potatoes, so we had to keep it down.

“We’re winning that prize,” Casey said, gesturing toward the mysterious package on Ms. Shepherd’s desk. “Make no mistake.”

“What do you think it is?”

“Who cares? It’s a prize. That’s all we need to know. Bottom line.”

“Oh, you’re one of those,” I joked, but really it didn’t bother me. I’m not a competitive person by nature, but maybe I could use a little push these days. Besides, working hard in school might be the only thing I have right now to take my mind off my life.

Against my will I glanced over at Teresa. Something about her blond, spiky hair always draws the eye—that, and the fact that she thinks it’s funny to mix religion and sleaze. Today she’s wearing these shockingly-low-cut jeans I can’t believe her parents ever let her buy, along with a red (devil red—how’s that for specific, Ms. Shepherd?) Jesus Freak T-shirt about two sizes too small to make sure everyone notices her boobs. Guess that’ll bring the guys to church.

She was laughing with her lab partner, Kelsey Dunbar (also church, also hates me), and I could just tell from the way Teresa’s mouth looked—cruel and snide—that she was saying something mean right at that moment, either about me or about Ms. Shepherd.

“Yeah,” I told Casey, “winning sounds good.”

4

Which brings us to now—lunch.

I never, ever, EVER thought I’d be sitting alone in the cafeteria on my first day of high school. Ever.

It’s so noisy. There are so many kids here. And even though I know a lot of them, it’s not as many as I thought. I guess it’s possible that there are hundreds of people here who haven’t heard of me, don’t care what I did—might even be horrified at the whole story and the way I’m being treated and instantly take my side. Those people are my friends. Now I just have to find them.

In the meantime, I’ll look as busy as possible writing in this notebook, eating my turkey and Swiss, unpeeling my banana—all these important activities that simply keep me too occupied to look up and notice that I’m alone.

I bought this notebook on a whim. I think it was meant for younger kids, but I don’t care. I might just love it. Like loving my potato.

It has a red cover—no, more of a pinkish burgundy—and it’s made of some kind of fabric (sorry, Ms. Shepherd, don’t know what kind) that’s fuzzy like short-cropped fur, and I know it’s sick, but I have this incredible urge to rub it against my cheek right now for a little bit of comfort, like the old days of rubbing my favorite blanket against my face while I sucked my thumb.

I don’t see that Casey guy anywhere. Maybe he has a different lunch. I do see Teresa and Bethany and the whole host of holy Christians, half of whom have done far worse things than people act like I have, and yet they still get to wear their I heart Jesus T-shirts to school, and no one would dare challenge them.

If I showed up in my Jesus Freak T-shirt or my WWJD bracelet, they’d stone me before I got through the door.

Must keep busy.

Let’s make a to-do list.

Find some friends. No, let’s keep it simple: Find one friend. Cling to her like static.Stop caring what anyone thinks. If they’re talking about you, so what? You know you did the right thing, so hold your head high. I mean it.Find a club to join. There are lots of kids at this school, and lots of interesting things to do besides go to church group every other night. Expand your horizons.Do great in school this year. I mean not just your usual great, but exceptionally great. Shove their noses in it.Try to make the parents like you again. There has to be a way.Either learn to eat alone and not care, or find someplace else to go at lunch. Library? Parking lot? (No, too many stoners and smokers, I’m sure.) Always have a book to read. Always carry this notebook. Appear busy at all times.Stop obsessing about all of this. If you move on, others will, too. Honest.Do something better with your hair besides this ponytail.Grow out your nails.Stop worrying.

Busy, busy, busy. That’s me, writing away, so busy I can’t notice that Teresa is walking straight toward me.

5

It’s unnatural to sweat as much as I just did, just from a thirty-second conversation.

It’s the first time Teresa and I have talked face to face since the lawsuit got filed. I’ve gotten plenty of e-mails from her in the last few weeks telling me what a b-i-t-c-h I am, but it’s not like hearing it person.

“So,” Teresa said.

I pretended not to hear.

“How’s it feel, traitor?”

I just kept my head down and pretended to keep eating, as if I could swallow anything.

She picked up my banana peel and tossed in on top of my sandwich. “I said, how’s it feel, bitch?”

She leaned over the table and grabbed my wrist. And twisted it.

I held my breath. I didn’t make a sound.

Her face was so close to mine I could smell her gum.

“So what’s it like to be the most hated person in this school? Bet you’re glad you opened your big fat mouth.”

She stopped twisting, but still held on to my wrist.

“I thought we were friends,” she said. “How could you do that to me? What were you thinking?”

I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t breathe.

“Answer me!”

My hand was numb. All of me was.

Teresa straightened up and tossed my wrist away. “You’re pathetic, you know that? You’re nothing. You might as well be dead.” She slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, whoops, did I say something bad? Mommy gonna sue me?”

She leaned toward me again. She smelled like cinnamon and hair gel. “Stay away from me. I mean it. You understand?”

I didn’t move, didn’t make a peep. I wouldn’t have put it past her to slap me if I did.

“I’m talking to you, Judas! Do you hear me?”

I knew people were staring at us, but there was nothing I could do about it. I just had to sit there and take it.

“You’re pathetic.” She picked up my banana peel and threw it at my chest.

It’s still there, the peel. It’s sitting on my lap. I haven’t touched it. I haven’t done anything since Teresa stalked off except go back to writing in this notebook. I am such a coward. I feel sick. I’m such a baby. I have to be stronger than this, or I’ll never make it past today. Keep writing. Don’t let them see you shaking. Write, write, write.

It’s just that HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DEAL WITH ALL THIS??? After everything they did to Denny, now they get to act like I’M the bad guy? Just because I tried to fix it? I didn’t write that letter because I wanted anyone to get in trouble. I did it because I was trying to be a good person, even if it was too late.

There’s the bell. Thank GOD, and I mean that literally. Please let this day hurry up and be over.

At least don’t let it get worse.