Californium Read Free Page A

It’s gonna be,” which just confirms how nice she is and what an idiot I am.
    This is how I know Keith knows what he’s talking about with clothes and everything. There’s something like three junior highs funneling into Esperanza, so it doesn’t matter who you used to be. If you make a good impression right away, two-thirds of the freshmen and pretty much everybody else will think you’ve always been cool.
    â€œIf you get it wrong, though,” Keith said, “you’re screwed for the next four years—no cool friends, no cool parties, no girls.” No Astrid Thompson.
    .
    Almost no one is sitting in Mr. Tomita’s Algebra class second period. There are letters and numbers along two of the walls. Onthe chalkboard, everyone’s last name is listed with a letter and number next to it. A few people start walking down the rows and sitting down. I’m B-4, so I go two rows in and four seats back, which I think is right.
    To be safe, I ask the girl behind me what she is and she says, “I’m an American of Japanese descent, just like Mr. Tomita.”
    The embarrassment rushes up my neck and spreads out across my face until she grins, like,
Gotcha.
“If your last name is Houghton,” she says, “you’re in the right place.”
    It takes me a minute to find B-5 on the chalkboard, then I say, “Are you Okuda?”
    â€œYeah.” She smiles. “Me and my whole family.”
    Mr. Tomita starts taking roll and it goes quick since he knows exactly who to look at when he calls a name. I’m guessing which people aren’t freshmen and writing names as fast as I can. When Mr. Tomita calls out, “Edith Okuda,” she says, “Here,” then leans forward and whispers, “Make sure you put me on your list as Edie, okay?”
    At the end of roll, Mr. Tomita stands up from his desk and he isn’t that much taller than he was sitting down. He has a wooden yardstick in his hand and says, “If you want to be successful, remember, when it is time to play”—and he swings the yardstick like he’s hitting a golf ball—“play. Have fun.” He’s smiling and kind of goofy with his shiny bald head and glasses; then he snaps the yardstick to his shoulder like a rifle. Even though he’s only about five feet tall, he’s about that wide too, and solid. The smile slips away and his forehead wrinkles up serious. “And when it is time to work, work. Be serious.” His face eases up and the yardstickdrops down like he’s putting a golf ball. “So when it is time to play, don’t work. And when it is time to work, don’t play.” We’re all nodding and this big old grin takes over his whole face. He shuffles over to the far left of the chalkboard, places the yardstick flat against it, and in three quick strokes has a perfect triangle. “So now, it is time to work!”
    .
    Third-period English is all freshmen, which is good since the guy behind me sneezes all through roll and gets me to answer to “Denise” because it sort of sounded like “Reece.” Everybody laughs until the teacher tells us it won’t hurt to be nice to each other.
    After class, California starts feeling like California, so I’m at my locker dropping off my jacket. It’s a bottom locker, which means I’m squatting, twisting around legs, and getting nudged and bumped, the lockers around me slamming shut and rattling like a chain-link fence. With my books, folders, lunch, and backpack in there, my jacket is a tight squeeze and it’s hard to see which folder is which. They only give you five minutes between classes, and after getting here and then getting my combination wrong twice, then having to dig out the little card with the right combination, it feels like at least three minutes have burned by. Every folder is here and of course Spanish is the last one I get my hands on. My