"The Sky Is Just The Sky " by 3Jane The second revolution of the day occurred at exactly 1:03 p.m., in the third room on the second floor of the south wing of John Quincy Adams Middle School. Like the first one, it would take her years before she understood enough to remember, and think: ah. That. — “— so, who can tell me why the Stamp Act was passed in 1765? Anyone? — “ Sangeeta propped her chin on her hand, listening half-heartedly as she doodled a colonist swimming in a teacup; any other day, she would have been listening and taking notes, but today . . . today, Mr. Webb was fighting an uphill battle against the combined forces of a first mod lunch of ravioli in cheese sauce, and an unseasonably warm October afternoon. Most of the class was nodding off, if not already asleep. Asleep . . . she covered a yawn behind her hand and stretched her legs discreetly, relying on Katy deKooning’s chair in front of her to keep from drawing Mr. Webb’s notice. First mod lunch was the worst: always too early (because, who was hungry at eleven? Besides the boys, of course — if it were up to them, Sangeeta was certain they would have stayed in the lunchroom from the time of the first bell in the morning to the last bell in the afternoon, on some sort of perpetual cycle of turkey tetrazzini and hamburger casserole), then the afternoon stretched on forever, social studies and math and science and music. And then three minutes between each class to get from one room to the other? Impossible. She had no doubt that whoever had come up with that had hated seventh graders with a passion. Still, her class schedule had one or two things going for it, she thought, sneaking a glance out the window. He should have come out of the lunchroom by now — ah. There he was, stuck in the middle of a group of other ninth graders, mostly the rest of the boys who were on JV too, a couple cheerleaders dotting the crowd like peacocks at the zoo. Sangeeta Welker, she wrote alongside the colonist, keeping the pencil light enough to erase later. The ‘S’ looked all right, but it wasn’t quite sophisticated enough: maybe the vowels were too fat? She tried again. Mrs. Sangeeta Welker. Kevin and Sangeeta Welker. She sat back and admired her handiwork. That looked — well, really good. She could sign the thank-you notes for their wedding presents that way; and when he’d see them, he’d tell her, You have the most beautiful penmanship — I can’t believe I ever thought Molly Knoblauch was prettier than you. I was so wrong and we should kiss now. With tongues. And then they would, and after a honeymoon in Paris where they held hands under the spring leaves (her imagination had a brief hiccup as to how it was April in Paris when they would, obviously, get married in June, but she could figure that out later), they would go home to their apartment in . . . um. Maybe New York? Or Taos, that sounded cool. She stole another look, as Mr. Webb hunted fruitlessly through the roll-down maps fastened to the top of the blackboard. S. Welker. Mr. And Mrs. Welker. He laughed at something one of the other boys was saying, his head thrown back; even this far away, Sangeeta could see the comma of lighter hair falling forward over his tanned forehead, a second before he brushed it away. Her stomach did a lazy barrel roll as he reached out and punched the other boy in the arm. . . . his hair was so pretty. Her brother was sitting on the bleachers, talking to another one of the (dorks, her mind supplied helpfully) kids who didn’t hang out with Kevin and the cool kids. Amal was looking away from the other guy, back toward Kevin — — but that was the most peculiar expression on his face. Kind of like Aunt Madhur’s beagle, when he sat on the dining room floor during holiday meals and watched the serving platters, heaped high with food, being brought in from the kitchen; a sort of hopeless yearning. Which didn’t make any sense. At all. Why would — She shifted in her chair, forgetting the colonists and their tea as she tucked one of her legs underneath her, high enough now that she didn’t have to strain to look out of the window. She couldn’t have seen what she thought she saw, even if it had looked like Amal liked Kevin, because he was a boy and that would mean — There was a pointed cough too close to her ear; she turned her head to see Mr. Webb standing in front of her desk. “Sangeeta, since you’re paying such close attention,” he said. “Please tell the class what the Stamp Act had in common with the Sugar Act.” “Um.” Her stomach shot from somewhere around her ankles into her throat. We’re busted! Run, or throw up? it asked. “They taxed things . . . that started with ‘S’?” That wasn’t one of the options, her stomach told her, in the split second between Mr. Webb’s mouth drawing into a sour line and the rest of the class bursting into loud laughter. Next time, we’re in charge of making the decisions. — Somehow, it was impossible to tell which was worse — her father’s disappointment, or the way her mother had looked down at the folded piece of thick paper Sangeeta had handed her and nodded, before telling her to wash her hands and set the table for dinner. — “She’s twelve.” Her mother’s calm voice floated in from the kitchen. “I think we have a little time before she goes to live at a commune.” “This is exactly the sort of thing that will keep her out of the pre-algebra track — “ Sangeeta buried her head in her science book and groaned quietly, folding her arms over her head. Maybe, if she wished hard enough, the book would snap closed and swallow her whole? There was a light tap on the door. “Go away,” she said, voice muffled by the book. There was a pause, then the sound of the door brushing over the carpet as it opened. “Hey,” the last person in the world she wanted to see right now said behind her. “You hungry? You didn’t eat much at dinner.“ There was the clink of glass against ceramic as he set something down on the desk beside her elbow. She raised her head just enough to see a plate of Oreos and two glasses of dark red juice, her brother pulling Radhi’s chair up. “I don’t want any.” “You sure?” Amal sat down. “Can I eat them here, then? If I take them back out, I’ll have to go past Radhi, which means I’ll get two cookies. Maybe.” Delicately, he pried a chocolate wafer from the top of one of the cookies and ate it, setting the filling-laden wafer to the side. Sangeeta sniffed to clear the stuffiness from her nose and sat up straight. “I don’t care.” “Cool.” He repeated the process with another cookie. “Mr. Webb sent a note home with you, huh?” She nodded. “Don’t worry about it.” Amal mashed the two filling-halves together, creating a super-Oreo that he popped into his mouth whole. “Dad’ll get over it.” “He sounds mad.” Slowly, she reached for one of the glasses of juice. Amal shrugged, swallowing. “You never do anything bad, so he’s freaked out because it’s weird to get something from your teachers. He won’t even remember it by the end of the week.” He hooked his ankles through the desk legs, rocking the chair backwards. “Mom thinks Mr. Webb’s a crappy teacher anyway. She’ll fix it.” She snorted. “He’s the crappiest.” “See? Mom’s smart.” He unscrewed another cookie. “So, how come you got a note anyway?” “Wasn’t paying attention.” Amal snorted, one corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile. “Did you read the note?” “Um, yeah.” “Did he write ‘Sangeeta needs to take care not to rest on her laurels’?” “ . . . yeah?” “‘While her test scores remain high, she must continue to make an effort’?” “You read it?” “He wrote the exact same thing on mine,” he said. “Twice.” “Shut up,” she said. “Are you kidding me?” “Okay, so he didn’t call me Sangeeta,” he conceded. “But still. Wanna bet Mom is showing Dad my old notes?” Sangeeta paused, listening; there was a faint murmur from the direction of the kitchen, but nothing like it had been. She let out a breath, as a feeling of lightness stole through her. “That is so weird.” “Yeah, well.” He pushed the plate a little closer to her. “So, were you drawing something again? Mr. Webb goes nuts if he thinks you’re doing something for another class.” “N — kind of,” she admitted, face burning. “Just doodling, but I didn’t get busted for that.” Amal took another Oreo, waiting expectantly. “I, um, was looking out thewindowataboy.” She hid her face behind the glass under the pretense of taking a drink. Maybe he’d leave it alone, maybe — “Which one?” he asked, grinning. Of course not. “Kevin Welker,” she muttered and buried her face in the textbook again, the funky cheese smell of the printer’s ink filling her nose. He was going to figure out what she knew, and then he’d say something, and then he’d be in so much trouble with Mom and Dad, and it would be horrible. Her stomach sank again, the juice cold and now somehow nauseating. Her brother made a rude noise, and she sat up. “No way,” he said. “You like Kevin Welker?” She squinted at him, confused. He looked like he was about to — start laughing? That couldn’t be right. “Maybe?” He snickered. “What?” Amal started laughing in earnest. “Rudy said he saw him turn his underwear inside out and put it back on after gym class.” On some level, she was conscious of the fact her mouth had fallen open and that her face had screwed up into eewwww! position. “You are so making that up!” “Totally not.” He twisted the top off the cookie, setting the filling half down. “That is so gross,” she said, the laughter bubbling up even as the prettiness of Kevin’s hair disappeared into a puff of ridiculousness inside her. She felt like one enormous smile: it was okay about Mr. Webb, and she hadn’t embarrassed herself too much, and Amal couldn’t have been looking like that at Kevin Welker — she leaned forward and filched the uneaten half-cookie, popping it into her mouth. “Hey! I was gonna eat that!” “You said I could have some.” “Not while I’m eating them!” “Do you want it back?” “Dork! Gaah — “ Everything, she decided, was all right with the world. *** end