Things Are Gonna Get Ugly by Hillary Homzie

she spreads on her entire face sparkles with sweat by midmorning. And she wears shirts that are too tight so she looks lumpy. But at least she doesn’t wear pajamas. That’s a leg up on my mom.
    â€œYou know, the social studies teacher, Mr. Dribble,” I say. “No, I mean Mr. Drab.”
    â€œMr. Drabner?”
    â€œYes, him.” I shrug. “The kids all call him Dribble.Because of the pickle juice and the spit that flies out of his mouth when he starts a rant.”
    â€œLook. If you’re having issues, I’d be happy to have Mrs. Acorn”—she nods over at the secretary sitting behind the booth—“schedule an appointment with Mr. Ramirez.” That would be the school counselor. The one for kids with problems.
    â€œThis isn’t about me. It’s about him . Mr. Dribble has…he’s, well…magic. I think he has special powers.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Mrs. Barnes puts one end of her glasses into her mouth. I worry she’s about to chew into the plastic and get poisoned. She mumbles, “Magic. Okay, keep going. As in tricks. Card tricks?”
    â€œReal stuff. He…only uses it on special people he claims he wants to help.”
    â€œOkay. And you’re one of the”—she makes little quotes—“‘special people.’”
    â€œI think. No, I know that….”
    She pops the glasses out of her mouth. “Have you been getting enough attention at home? Would you like more attention?” She eyes me, nodding and smiling at her cleverness.
    This takes me by surprise. I notice there’re a lot of books on her shelf about problem children:the high-needs child, the explosive adolescent, the anxious one. Am I now one of these problem kids? Yup. As I stomp out of Mrs. Barnes’s office I can hear her murmur to her secretary, “Definitely call the counselor; we have another kid with identity issues.” You can say that again!
    She’s a Cheater?
    I really have to go to the bathroom, so when nobody is looking I pop into the more-or-less off-limits faculty restroom.
    While I’m in the stall, I hear the click of high heels on the tile floor. “So it’s just an experiment, but I’m sure that if we test earlier it will make a difference,” says a voice. A voice I recognize, a principal-ish voice.
    Through the crack in the door, I spot Mrs. Barnes and she’s on the cell phone to someone.
    â€œOur scores have always been the highest in Menlo Park. Heck, better than Palo Alto. And that’s saying a lot because all of the Stanford faculty brats. Yeah, I know. But what am I supposed to do with these guys? I mean, let’s get real here.” She’s cradling the phone against her ear as she washes her hands in the sink. “Uh-huh, they’re all English-language learners fresh from Oaxaca. And it’s not fair to me that they’retransferring them all into La Cambia. They’re not even officially in the district. Yeah. Exactly. Totally. They’re going to bring the scores down for the whole school. So if we test in January, when most of them are going to be Mexico then…perfect, right?” She yanks paper towels out of the dispenser so hard the thing rattles.
    I pull my legs up on the stall. Somehow, I don’t think that Mrs. Barnes would be too pleased to know that I am in here. I’m clearly not supposed to hear this convo. But I do know this much: It’s really disgusting what’s she’s planning to do, treating ESL—English as a Second Language—students like they’re some kind of super virus about to invade her school. Had Mrs. Barnes ever heard of Olivia Marquez? Hello. She might dress medievally, even Russian sometimes, but she’s probably one of the smartest kids at the school. And her parents speak Spanish at home and probably go down to Mexico in January.
    My heart hammers in my ears and throat.
    What could I do with