except for a few revisions, and I've been feeding Elliot new pages practically every day. Cameron showed me the cast list last Tuesday -- Melissa Parsons is playing Suzy, my best friend. She's not the sharpest tack in the drawer, but she's a good actress and she's a great singer -- much better than me, to be honest. So far they've been working on the scenes I'm not in and having music rehearsals, but as soon as I can come, we can start blocking my scenes and putting the show together. So I have to get this note from Mr. Donahue. And honestly, I have caught up in all the homework assignments, but I get the impression he's getting a little tired of being on the phone with me for an hour every night.
I'm walking down the hall after seventh period and I see Cynthia and Roger heading towards the theatre like the rest of the chosen ones, so I fall in behind them as nonchalantly as I can so I can eavesdrop on them. Cynthia certainly looks flirty, and I'm all ready to be outraged when I realize they're just running lines from the show. Roger is having trouble and I want to tap him on the shoulder and say that I can help him, that I know the entire show by heart, that I would sacrifice my precious free time to be his private tutor and work with him -- alone. But of course I don't say anything; I just slow down because they're about to turn a corner and if they see me I don't want to look like creepy stalker fat girl.
Mr. Donahue is waiting for me in his office, a grim look on his face and this morning's quiz in his hand. I got a 79, which is not bad for me, but I kind of had this deal with Mr. Donahue that he'd write my note of freedom when I could show him "B" work, which means 80 in his class.
"But it's only one point," I say.
"I know it's only one point," says Mr. Donahue. "I'm a math teacher. I can subtract."
Great, just what I need right now -- a comedian.
"Listen," he says, "I'll write you the note tomorrow if you'll agree to work with a tutor -- every day during study hall."
"Fine," I say, "but I thought you had a class during my study hall."
"I do have a class. I'm not talking about me. I've asked one of your classmates, and she's agreed to help you out."
"Who," I say, as I feel a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. And I see his mouth form the words even before I hear them.
"Cynthia Pirelli."
"Isn't there anybody else?" I plead.
"Cynthia is the teacher's assistant for this class," he says.
Of course , I think. Cynthia would find a way to get an extra half credit. "But I thought assistants were just supposed to help grade tests and clean off the board and stuff," I say.
"They also assist with tutoring, and Cynthia's agreed to give up her study hall to help you. You should be honored."
"Oh yeah," I say, "I feel like I just won the freakin' Oscar."
"Agatha, this is serious. You are in trouble. One of your friends has offered to help you out. You should be grateful."
"She's not my friend," I say, more violently than I mean to.
"Then I guess we have nothing more to discuss," says Mr. Donahue, turning back to his desk like there's something real important he needs to do.
I stand there burning with anger for at least a full minute. How can I choose between giving up the play and enduring the company of Cynthia Pirelli for an hour every day? Then I think about Cameron and Elliot and Suzanne and Melissa Parsons, and all the other people who are rehearsing my play every night while I'm stuck at home doing math. I want to be there with them so much it's making me physically ache. And so I make a sacrifice for my art that's way bigger than eating those awful pimento cheese sandwiches with iced tea.
"OK," I say to Mr. Donahue's back. "I'll do it."
As soon as I'm out of the building I call Cameron to commiserate (we have this stupid rule about no cell phone use in the school). It goes straight to voicemail, which means something is up, because he never turns off his phone. Elliot and Suzanne are both at Hello,
I'm walking down the hall after seventh period and I see Cynthia and Roger heading towards the theatre like the rest of the chosen ones, so I fall in behind them as nonchalantly as I can so I can eavesdrop on them. Cynthia certainly looks flirty, and I'm all ready to be outraged when I realize they're just running lines from the show. Roger is having trouble and I want to tap him on the shoulder and say that I can help him, that I know the entire show by heart, that I would sacrifice my precious free time to be his private tutor and work with him -- alone. But of course I don't say anything; I just slow down because they're about to turn a corner and if they see me I don't want to look like creepy stalker fat girl.
Mr. Donahue is waiting for me in his office, a grim look on his face and this morning's quiz in his hand. I got a 79, which is not bad for me, but I kind of had this deal with Mr. Donahue that he'd write my note of freedom when I could show him "B" work, which means 80 in his class.
"But it's only one point," I say.
"I know it's only one point," says Mr. Donahue. "I'm a math teacher. I can subtract."
Great, just what I need right now -- a comedian.
"Listen," he says, "I'll write you the note tomorrow if you'll agree to work with a tutor -- every day during study hall."
"Fine," I say, "but I thought you had a class during my study hall."
"I do have a class. I'm not talking about me. I've asked one of your classmates, and she's agreed to help you out."
"Who," I say, as I feel a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. And I see his mouth form the words even before I hear them.
"Cynthia Pirelli."
"Isn't there anybody else?" I plead.
"Cynthia is the teacher's assistant for this class," he says.
Of course , I think. Cynthia would find a way to get an extra half credit. "But I thought assistants were just supposed to help grade tests and clean off the board and stuff," I say.
"They also assist with tutoring, and Cynthia's agreed to give up her study hall to help you. You should be honored."
"Oh yeah," I say, "I feel like I just won the freakin' Oscar."
"Agatha, this is serious. You are in trouble. One of your friends has offered to help you out. You should be grateful."
"She's not my friend," I say, more violently than I mean to.
"Then I guess we have nothing more to discuss," says Mr. Donahue, turning back to his desk like there's something real important he needs to do.
I stand there burning with anger for at least a full minute. How can I choose between giving up the play and enduring the company of Cynthia Pirelli for an hour every day? Then I think about Cameron and Elliot and Suzanne and Melissa Parsons, and all the other people who are rehearsing my play every night while I'm stuck at home doing math. I want to be there with them so much it's making me physically ache. And so I make a sacrifice for my art that's way bigger than eating those awful pimento cheese sandwiches with iced tea.
"OK," I say to Mr. Donahue's back. "I'll do it."
As soon as I'm out of the building I call Cameron to commiserate (we have this stupid rule about no cell phone use in the school). It goes straight to voicemail, which means something is up, because he never turns off his phone. Elliot and Suzanne are both at Hello,
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