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trials and tribulations of dealing with a cheerleader
November 5, 2002 – trials and tribulations of dealing with a cheerleader

Desperation thy name is Megan Thatcher.

The girl is a cheerleader with the brain of an amoeba, which is intolerable enough, but add to it that she’s a Gap Ad ho-bag to boot and I’m left with nothing but derision for the girl. I don’t understand how she ended up in AP Biology let alone as my lab partner, but no one ever doubted that God had a sense of humor (as Kevin Smith once said, look at the platypus).

Today she decided that rather than aiding me in cultivating fruit flies (it’s the gift that keeps on giving and giving and giving…) she was going to commence her plan of attack for ensnaring the unsuspecting Kenneth Hargrove for her date to the Homecoming Dance. She encircled her name and his with hearts (the tie that binds) and told me how she kept “finding” herself standing in front of his locker with her cleavage in his face. It was an “accident”, of course, because she’s like “so not like that” (though the walls of the guy’s bathroom state otherwise according to Nate) and “only wants true love like Romeo and Juliet.”

Yeah, we know how well that ended.

Thanks to Megan’s lack of interest in our project, we both skimmed by with a C on the morning’s lab. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if I hadn’t made a nasty habit of skimming by for most of the semester and in dire straights as far as academic achievement went. The odds of me making National Honor Society were as slim Eminem recording a Christian Rock Album.

So I did what any freaked-out-junior-who-needs-good-grades-to-keep-smothering-parents-off-her-back would do. I begged. Literally begged Ms. Moody for some sort of extra credit. Prayed to God, Buddha, and whoever else was listening with pull in the school department. Threw myself into fate’s hands and my teacher’s knobby knees.

“Why do you think, Ms. Abbot, that you are any more special than the other student’s in my class?”

Call me crazy, but I had a feeling that this was one of those rhetorical questions where any answer would be viewed as inappropriate. But I couldn’t help myself. It’s a sickness, I tell you. A sickness! “Because you were the one who chose to pair me with Megan Thatcher, Ms. Moody.”

“And how are your troubles with studying related to Ms. Thatcher?”

Again, my brain was shouting out, “Don’t reply. Don’t reply. Shut your mouth. Shut your mouth!” But did I listen?

“Have you heard her definition of osmosis? I’m hardly a science savant, but I’m fairly certain it’s not the process of moseying down the street.”

That would be a no on the shutting up front.

Ms. Moody screwed up her face tightly, as if she were afraid it would fall off if she didn’t vacuum-suck it on, and let out a slow hiss of a breath. Her evil gray orbs narrowed in on me until she was squinting at my every freckle. I wanted to turn away, to shut my eyes against the horror in front of me, but it was like a horrific car accident on the highway. I was unable to stop myself, pulled by the gravitational force of masochism, and met her gaze. We stood there for about ten seconds like this, but it felt like forever, like one of my grandfather’s lectures about saving the world from the Nazis.

Finally, she said, “Very well. I want a report on my desk first thing tomorrow on the life cycle of fruit flies.”

I smiled triumphantly though I knew I shouldn’t. I gathered my books and hurried out of the classroom.

I almost escaped, my hand pressed firmly onto the cool metal of freedom, when her voice echoed throughout the classroom, “And to keep this from becoming a recurring excuse, we’ll switch your lab partners.”

I froze. This was a good thing. A great thing. Great things were not known to be so easily obtained from Ms. Moody and that could only mean one thing.

Death!

And boy was I right.

“I’m going to partner you up with George Rossovitch.”

George Rossovitch. Georgie-Porgie. The kid who used to eat ants off the picnic tables on class trips. The guy that went to see Lord of the Rings dressed as Gandalf. More than once. He was so weird that not even the freakos had anything to do with him.

I honestly try not to get too caught up in the high school popularity game, especially considering I hate most people upon first meeting, but even I have my limits. George Rossovitch was testing those limits…and I never thought I would say this, but I was going to miss Megan’s inane jabber.

Dammit.

This was all her fault.

My life is, as always, hell. I wonder what Doctor Jack will think of this.

Biologically yours!

Tah!