Things Are Gonna Get Ugly by Hillary Homzie Page A

info like this? That my principal is planning on having the whole school cheat so she can look good. It is all about appearances and not about reality. It makes me sick.
    For a moment, I think about flushing the toiletand screaming, “I know you’re going to cheat!” But I don’t. I can’t. After all, I was a cheater too.
    I Want My Dada
    Instead of copying whatever homework assignment is on the board, I pencil my name on the corner of the blank, ruled piece of paper in my binder. My real name. TAFFETA in big letters, and then, in a fit of paranoia that somebody has seen this, I begin erasing so vigorously that I rub a hole in the paper.
    My English teacher, Ms. Stuckley, peers at me, her forehead wrinkling like a bulldog’s. When she turns toward me, I want to laugh because she has a thing about her profile. In the yearbook, she only takes sideways photos, never full face on. I always imagined that it was because she wanted to be on money someday. Petra says it’s because she knows only half of her is bearable to look at.
    â€œAre you all right, Ernestine?” Ms. Stuckley asks in her pseudo English accent. “I am concerned about you.”
    Ms. Stuckley is worried about me? Language Arts diva, who snips, “Sit down,” the moment I stroll into class? Ms. I-graduated-from-Wellesley-and-did-graduate-work-at-Oxford-so-I’ve-got-a-tattoo-of-C.S. Lewis-on-the-back-of-my-neck? Two days ago, the woman thought I was a complete bumblebrain. Her words.
    Ms. Stuckley smiles, revealing her giant, rabbit-teeth overbite. “As I’m sure you all remember, last week everyone recited poems, four to six stanzas, using voice modulation, tone, and gestures expressively to enhance the meaning, and Olivia recited Unda Canto , which is a prime example of Dadaism. And since most of you all had no idea what Dadaism is, I wanted Ernestine to elaborate.”
    My lips move like I’m a fish trapped in a bowl.
    â€œGather your thoughts,” says Ms. Stuckely, patting her close-cropped dark hair. “As I recall, you really provoked quite the debate.”
    Dadaism. What was that? I’m still working on the FOIL method.
    I clear my throat to buy time and say, “I’ve really been hogging the convo, so I’d like someone else to have a chance to speak.”
    Score. Good save.
    Ms. Stuckley’s bottom lip droops down. “You’re so generous, but please proceed.” Winslow actually flickers a half a second of some real eye contact withme. I remember—could it only be a couple of days ago?—when he gave me such intense looks. It’s weird but, in a funny kind of way, I almost miss it. He’s only two seats away in the front row. It’s like he’s waiting for my answer. He won’t talk to me outside of class unless I’m bribing him, but I can tell right now he’s waiting for my words.
    â€œI think da-daism is straight-up the best thing,” I say, thrilled with my vagueness.
    Ms. Stuckley taps the small gold earring by her left nostril.
    â€œBecause…?”
    For some reason, this thought flies into my brain: Dadaism is the precursor to abstract painting and performance art. It started in Switzerland during World War I and focused on its antiwar stance by rejecting standards in art through anti-art cultural works. Huh? What part of my brain is that?
    I grip the eraser and dig into the sponginess with my nails. Dadaism. I know that. “Because Dadas are as important as Mamas, so it’s wrong to be biased toward one parent. I love the Mamas and the Dadas’ music, too!”
    Everybody in the classroom laughs, especially Winslow.
    â€œThat, I assume, was a joke,” says Ms. Stuckley, in a tight, pinched sort of voice.
    â€œYeah,” I say, but inside I’m not feeling too jokey.
    â€œSounds like she needs a hint,” says Winslow to the class. Great, Winslow thinks I’m ugly and dumb, a winning