Hello? Do I have no rights here? Can’t I skip a review session and not get finked on by my mother’s boyfriend?
I mean, it’s not like my life isn’t bad enough: I’m already deformed, and I have to be a princess. Do I have to have my every activity reported upon by my Algebra teacher????
Thanks a lot, Mr. Gianini. Thanks to you, I got to spend my entire Sunday having the quadratic formula drilled into me by my demented father, who kept rubbing his bald head and screaming in frustration when he found out I don’t know how to multiply fractions.
Hello? May I remind everyone that I’m supposed to have Saturday and Sunday OFF from school?
AND Mr. Gianini had to go and tell my mother there’s going to be a pop quiz tomorrow. I mean, I guess that was kind of nice of him and all, to give me a heads-up, but you’re not supposed to study for a pop quiz. The whole point is to test what you’ve retained.
Then again, since I’ve apparently retained nothing mathematical since about the second grade, I guess I can’t really blame my dad for being so mad. He said if I don’t pass Algebra he’s going to make me go to summer school. So then I pointed out that summer school was fine by me, since I’d already agreed to spend summers in Genovia. So then he said I’d have to go to summer school in GENOVIA!
I am so sure. I met some kids who went to school in Genovia and they didn’t even know what a number line was. And they measure everything by kilos and centimeters. As if metric wasn’t so totally over!
But just in case, I’m not taking any chances. I wrote out the quadratic formula on the white rubber sole of my Converse high-top, right where it curves in between my heel and my toes. I’ll wear them tomorrow and cross my legs and take a peek if I get stuck.
Monday, October 6, 3 a.m.
I’ve been up all night, worrying about getting caught cheating. What will happen if someone sees I have the quadratic formula written on my shoe? Will I be expelled? I don’t want to be expelled! I mean, even though everybody at Albert Einstein High School thinks I’m a freak, I’m sort of getting used to it. I don’t want to have to start over at a whole new school. I’ll have to wear the scarlet mark of being a cheater for the rest of my high school career!
And what about college? I might not get into college if it goes down on my permanent record that I’m a cheater.
Not that I want to go to college. But what about Greenpeace? I’m sure Greenpeace doesn’t want cheaters. Oh my God, what am I going to do???
Monday, October 6, 4 a.m.
I tried washing the quadratic formula off my shoe, but it won’t come off! I must have used indelible ink or something! What if my dad finds out? Do they still behead people in Genovia?
Monday, October 6, 7 a.m.
Decided to wear my Docs and throw my high-tops away on the way to school—but then I broke one of the bootlaces! I can’t wear any of my other shoes because they’re all size nine and a half, and my foot grew a whole half inch last month! I can barely walk in my loafers, and my heels hang out over the backs of my clogs. I have no choice but to wear my high-tops!
I’m going to get caught for sure, I just know it.
Monday, October 6, 9 a.m.
Realized in the car on the way to school that I could have taken the laces out of my high-tops and strung them through my Doc Martens. I am so stupid.
Lilly wants to know how much longer my dad is going to be in town. She doesn’t like being driven to school. She likes to ride the subway, because then she can brush up on her Spanish, by reading all the health awareness posters. I told her I didn’t know how long my dad was going to be in town, but that I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be allowed to ride the subway anymore, anywhere.
Lilly observed that my father was taking this infertility thing too far, that just because he can no longer render anyone embarrazada is no reason to get all overprotective of me. I noticed that, in the driver’s seat, Lars was sort of laughing to himself. I hope he doesn’t speak Spanish. How embarrassing.
Anyway, Lilly went on to say I should take a stand right away, now, before things get worse, and that she could tell it was already starting to take a toll on me, since I seemed listless and there were circles under my eyes.
Of course I’m listless! I’ve been up since 3 a.m., trying to wash my shoes!
Went into the girls’ room to try to wash them again. Lana Weinberger came in while I was there. She saw me washing my shoes, and she just rolled her eyes and started brushing her long, Marcia Brady hair and staring at herself in the mirror. I half expected her to walk right up to her reflection and kiss it, she is so obviously in love with herself.
The quadratic formula is smeared, but still legible, on my sneaker. But I won’t look at it during the test, I swear.
Monday, October 6, G & T
Okay. I admit it. I looked.
Fat lot of good it did me, too. After he’d collected the test, Mr. Gianini went over the problems on the board, and I got every single one of them wrong anyway.
I CAN’T EVEN CHEAT RIGHT!!!
I have got to be the most pathetic human being on the planet.
polynomials
term: variables multiplied by a coefficient
degree of polynomial = the degree of the term with the highest degree
Hello? Does ANYONE care??? I mean, really, truly care about polynomials? I mean, besides people like Michael Moscovitz and Mr. Gianini. Anyone? Anyone at all?
When the bell finally rang, Mr. Gianini goes, “Mia, will I have the pleasure of your company this afternoon at the review session?”