Free Shug by Jenny Han Page B

it. He throws, and I catch.
    And then Celia comes home and ruins everything.
    “What are you doing home?” I blurt out. Guiltily I glance at Mark, but he’s too entranced to even notice.
    Celia’s cheeks are pink, and her hair is falling out of her ponytail in tiny damp ringlets. She puts her book bag on the kitchen table and gives me a funny look. “Hello to you too, Shug. Practice finished early today.” Then she smiles at Mark, and she’s like the sun, shining down on a grateful little daisy. He blushes with pleasure. “Hey there. Where’ve you been, Mark? I haven’t seen you around here in forever.”
    I’m boiling as he hems and haws and stutters that uh, he’s been, uh, around. I can’t help but glare at them both.
    Then Celia sits down with us and goes on about her stupid cheerleading practice. Mark’s eyes are wide and he’s nodding at everything she says, like he even knows what a herkie is. He can’t take his eyes off her in that baby blue angora sweater. Yeah, I know what he can’t take his eyes off of.
    It’s like I’ve stopped existing. I’m not even in the room anymore. I’m mad at him, and I’m mad at her, too, and it’s not even her fault. She can’t help the way she looks in baby blue or the way her hair curls around her ears, any more than I can help the way I look. But that doesn’t stop me from being mad at her.
    When Celia takes her Coke upstairs, I turn on Mark. “You just made such a fool of yourself.” I’m so angry I’m practically biting each word out.
    “What are you talking about?” he says uncomfortably. He stuffs a handful of peanuts into his mouth and does not look in my direction.
    “You were slobbering all over her. You need to get a grip on reality. Celia’s in high school . You think she would ever go for a little kid like you?”
    “You’re crazy, you know that?” Mark gets up and starts shoving his notebooks into his book bag. “I’m going home.”
    “Fine, go home. But don’t blame me when you flunk the quiz!” I yell.
    I hope he flunks the quiz.

chapter 19
    Ms. Gillybush hands back our essays, and when I see my grade, I nearly choke. I got a B? I have never gotten a B in English in my entire life. English is what I’m supposed to be good at.
    She stands in front of her desk and says, “With the exception of a few students, I’m disappointed in the caliber of these essays. Frankly I expected a higher level of quality from honors students.” Ms. Gillybush stares at us stonily, and Kara Jane preens and twists around in her seat. I bet she got an A.
    “But as mediocre as your essays were, they weren’t nearly as appalling as my non-honors-student essays. Therefore I am offering an incentive program. You will have the optionof earning extra credit by tutoring struggling students outside of school hours. Should I see an improvement in your tutee’s work, I will award you extra credit. After class you can sign up and after school today there will be a meeting in my classroom. If you’re interested, I expect to see you there.”
    After class a group of us huddle around Ms. Gillybush’s desk. She passes around a clipboard listing the names of kids who need help, and we sign our initials next to the person we want to tutor. When the clipboard finally gets to me, every name is taken but one. Jack Connelly. Uh-uh. No way. I scan the rest of the list, and I see that Martin Lum has picked Mark. Martin and I were in Ms. Dunbar’s sixth-grade class together last year.
    Martin is short with thin brown hair, and he wears thick glasses that slip down his nose. Probably ’cause his nose is greasy. He’s hoisting his book bag on his shoulders when I say, “Martin, you wanna trade with me?”
    He eyes me suspiciously. “Why, who do you have?”
    “Jack Connelly.”
    Shaking his head, he says, “Uh-uh. No way. That guy used to give me wedgies. No way am I helping him. Sorry, Annemarie.”
    “Aw, come on—”
    Ms. Gillybush breaks in crisply.