"Yes," I said, glad that he understood.
"School should be a place of learning, of friendship, but words . . ." he shook his head sadly, "those take a toll on a person's self-esteem, wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes," I said.
The corners of his mouth lifted, as though winning an argument. "It's so important to feel accepted by one's peers."
I'd already said as much, so I wasn't sure why he kept bringing it up. "You don't think I pick on people, do you?" I put my hand against my chest. "Because those things Rick said about me aren't true."
He didn't look convinced. "You try to include your peers whenever you can?"
"Yes." I should have seen it coming, really. I mean, I'd used the same put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is technique on Adrian.
"Then you won't mind helping me with a project. You're the perfect one to do it, in fact, since you know how it feels to be on the wrong end of teasing." He leaned back in his chair and stroked the ends of his mustache. "You see, I'm worried about a couple of my students, Molly and Polly Patterson. You know them, yes?"
Yes, I knew them. They were identical twin girls who'd moved into town this year and had the misfortune of being plain, frumpy, and on the overweight side. They'd immediately been dubbed Roly and Poly by some guys on the football team. "They're in my history class," I said.
"That's right," Mr. Metzerol said. "They have choir first period. Superb voices. Excellent harmony. I can't get either one to sing a solo though. They're too self-conscious. Too worried about what others might say."
"You want me to help them with singing?" I asked.
Mr. Metzerol leaned forward. "I want you to help them with life at PHS. I want you to be their friend."
"Oh." Adults love to say these kinds of things as though you could order friendship the same way you ordered a pizza. You didn't just decide to be friends with two people whom you'd hardly ever spoken to and probably had nothing in common with. Still, I couldn't explain this to Mr. Metzerol. Once people become adults they instantly forget what it's like to be a teenager.
Mr. Metzerol nodded appraisingly. "If they hang out with you, people will stop making fun of them."
Yeah, because they'd be too busy making fun of me. My popularity was already in a free fall. Thank you very much, Rick.
Still I couldn't turn Mr. Metzerol down. I needed his help, and besides, he was right. I knew how it felt to be called names. "I'll try to get to know them. I'll say hi in class and everything if you want me to."
"Yes, but we need . . ." He sat silently at his desk while I waited for him to finish his sentence. "Something . . . more." And then, as though it were already decided he added, "I'll take the liberty of asking Mrs. Addington to put the three of you together on your history project. That should give you an opportunity to become friends."
We were just starting a unit on technology in world history class and had to come up with a report and presentation. "But Samantha and I already decided to do our project together . . . " I said.
"Good, good," he said. "Samantha can help you befriend them. That will work out even better. I'll let Mrs. Addington know." He stood up as though the matter was closed. "Now then, you brought your music with you? Let's hear it."
I didn't argue with him anymore. As far as I was concerned, if he made me befriend Molly and Polly he had better give me a lot of good coaching advice in return.
I put my CD into the player that sat on his desk, took a deep breath, and belted out the song.
Mr. Metzerol watched me, frowning the entire time. When I finished he shook his head like a doctor examining a dying patient. "Chelsea, you're not utilizing your diaphragm. You're letting notes fall off left and right." He held his fingers together as though grasping something. "You've got to hold onto those notes." Then he sung out the words to a couple of lines in a booming, almost operatic voice. He nodded at me. "Now try it again without the CD. I want to hear you, not the CD."
I sang the song again, struggling to remember the words while concentrating on my diaphragm. Apparently I wasn't successful with that last goal because Mr. Metzerol kept yelling, "Hold onto it!" and "You're letting those notes fall!" and "God gave you a diaphragm, Chelsea! When are you going to use it?" He even took his conducting stick and held it to my stomach. "Here. Here is where you need to feel it. Stretch those notes out."
Which made me remember why I didn't take choir this year. The man was not above walking by and smacking us in the back if we slouched during practice, and he had this Nazi-like obsession with making us use our diaphragm.
After the fourth time through the song—both his fourth time and mine, because he had to keep showing me how it should be done—he finally said, "That's enough practice for today. You do your scales and your breathing exercises tonight, then come back in at lunchtime tomorrow and we'll see if it goes any better, all right?"
"All right," I said.
"And remember you're going to help Molly and Polly with . . ." Mr. Metzerol rolled his hand in the air, pumping his mental thesaurus. "Updating their look. Building their confidence."
As though you could just walk up to near strangers and say, Hi, I noticed you're ugly. Would you like some help with that? Honestly, Mr. Metzerol must have skipped out on his teenage years. "I'll try," I said. "I can't promise anything."
He sent me a calm smile. "Then neither can I."
You wouldn't think a teacher would blackmail you like that.
Chapter 8
I met up with my friends on the main stairway, affectionately called Jock's Landing because all the jocks hang out there.
"Where were you at lunch?" Aubrie asked.
"I went to Mr. Metzerol's to get some voice coaching."
She blinked in concern. "Do you think the rest of us should go in and see him too?"
"Only if you want to subject yourself to an angry little man repeatedly poking you in the stomach."
I leaned over to Samantha, who wasn't paying attention to me because she was talking to Logan. "Hey, I hope you don't mind, but since Mr. Metzerol is helping me with my singing, he's arranging to have us do our history project with Molly and Polly Patterson." And then I added a little more tentatively, "Mr. Metzerol wants us to be friendly to them, you know, help them fit in at PHS."
Samantha shrugged. "Okay." Then she went back to talking with Logan.
At that moment I really respected Samantha. She wasn't at all concerned about having to hang out with Molly and Polly or how their lack of popularity would affect us. Which made me feel worse that my own first reaction had been different.
She'll wink at you but only if you're cool . . .
It wasn't true, was it?
I took a deep breath. First reactions didn't define a person. It's what you did—how you acted around others—that was important, and I'd said I'd be friendly to Molly and Polly. So Rick wasn't right about me.
In world history class Mrs. Addington called us up to her desk in groups. Earlier we'd submitted our report topics for her approval.
She called Molly, Polly, Samantha, and me up to her desk last. "Now then," she said with a smile, "I know you didn't request to work together, but since Molly and Polly are still fairly new here, I thought it would be a good idea to put you all in a group together." She looked directly at me. "That's all right with you, isn't it?"