Busted Read Free

tired of her job. My dad did the same thing eight months ago—hated his job so much that he went out and got himself something new to make life seem interesting again. I’m glad for Ms. K that she settled on a blouse.
    â€œKevin, can I have a word?”
    Ms. K beckons me away from the door as if she’s afraid my classmates might be lurking outside, eavesdropping. She needn’t worry—eavesdropping implies a level of celebrity I’ll never achieve.
    Abby waggles her finger at me as she heads off to class. “I told you they’d find out you did it.”
    â€œFind out you did what ?” asks Ms. K, concerned.
    â€œNothing. Abby’s just teasing me.”
    â€œOh. That’s quite funny.”
    â€œYes. And I’m her favorite target.”
    â€œIndeed.” For a moment, Ms. K’s eyebrows rise inquiringly, but then she clears her throat. “Kevin, I, um, just wondered if your mom is still teaching at Brookbank University?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGood, good.”
    â€œWhy are you asking?”
    â€œHmmm? Oh, I just wondered.” She waves my question away with a flick of her hand and an open smile. “I trust that you won’t be going to Brandon’s meeting?”
    Her question catches me off guard. Ever since parent-teacher night my freshman year she’s taken a personal interest in my studies, but never in my extracurricular activities. I’m about to say no, they’d probably kill me if I showed up, but then I realize what she’s really saying is that even the teachers know I’m not cool enough to belong to Brandon’s group.
    Over the past four years I’ve become reconciled to belonging to what Abby calls a “select minority,” but hearing a teacher acknowledge my unpopularity marks a new low. I want to tell her she’s wrong, only I’m pretty sure she’s not, so instead I hover moodily while she tucks her hair behind her ears. But then I remember that the bell rang three minutes ago, so I take off—because I hate being late.
    Which I guess is incontrovertible proof that Ms. K has me pegged.

3
    I t wasn’t always like this. There was a time when my progress toward Acceptable Boyfriend Material seemed steady, if unspectacular.
    The first breakthrough occurred in spring of fifth grade. During the annual hobbies class I performed a flute piece called “Dance of the Blessed Spirits,” by the unfortunately named Christoph Willibald von Gluck. It’s one of those great pieces that make you sound like a virtuoso, even though it’s the pianist who’s really doing all the work.
    My accompanist was sweating profusely by the end, but I remained a model of calm professionalism. And I would have stayed that way if Natasha Williams and her butt-length black hair hadn’t padded over and praised me on every aspect of my performance. She even asked if she could touch my flute, which seemed like an innocent enough request. After I made her apply antibacterial gel to both hands, I handed it over.
    I’ll never forget the look on her face: reverential, inspired. Her eyes flitted from me to my flute, like she was seeing me for the first time. I was only ten, but the electricity between us was pal pa ble. I knew that things would never be the same.
    Natasha took about ten deep breaths, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.
    â€œWould you be willing to, like, you know, give me flute lessons?” she asked finally. “That was such a nice piece you played. I’d like to be able to do that. Will you give me lessons? Please?”
    She spoke so falteringly that I could tell she was nervous. Normally I’d have been nervous too, but we were talking about the flute, of all things. This was my turf. I felt emboldened.
    â€œNatasha, have you got a crush on me?” I teased.
    Natasha froze. Her face flashed pink, then red, then a deep burgundy that didn’t seem entirely