By Laura Ruby
"If i actually desired to open up, i might confess that i actually am the liar every body believes I am." High-school junior Tola Riley has eco-friendly hair, a nostril ring, an angle challenge, and a passion for fairy stories, that are an exceptional break out from actual existence. every body thinks she's loopy; everybody says so. each person other than Mr. Mymer, her paintings instructor. He will get her work and we could her hand around in the artwork room in the course of lonely lunch sessions. yet then rumors commence flying and Tola is unexpectedly the heart of a scandal. the entire city is judging her—even her relatives. whilst Mr. Mymer is suspended for what every person thinks is an affair, she has no selection yet to wreck her silence. Fairy stories will not aid her this time . . . so how can she inform the reality? And, extra importantly, will somebody think her?
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Extra info for Bad Apple
Not even my own mother. But if I were to explain again, I would blame Georges and Gustav. In other words, it’s the artists’ fault. It’s always the artists’ fault. First, Georges. As in Georges-Pierre Seurat. French painter, born December 2, 1859, died just thirty-one years later from “meningitis, pneumonia, angina, and/or diphtheria,” according to the little pamphlet I picked up at the Museum of Modern Art in the city. Two weeks ago, when life was only the normal kind of horrible, and not the horrible kind of horrible, I went to the Georges Seurat exhibit.
Scared. The green hair is a big clue. But then, students do tell stories to get attention. Girls tell stories. And Mr. Mymer was a convenient target for impressionable girls. I told him not to wear those ridiculous T-shirts. I told him to get a haircut. He laughed and said I worried too much. ” —Tamara Duckmann, teacher “She has this huge cat. Enormous. I’ve never seen a cat that big, except in a zoo. It’s almost as big as she is. It follows her down the street like a dog. Anyway, I’ve had to talk to her about that cat, because sometimes he leaves dead things on our front porch, mice or chipmunks or fuzzy bits that used to be alive, and that really upsets my wife.
Mr. Doctor is an orthodontist. Half my middle school went to him. I went to him. That’s where he and my mom met. Both of them lingering in the examination room, discussing the Lost Art of Flossing. “Most people would have taken me out of school,” I say. ” Mr. Doctor keeps his eyes on the road. ” At first, my mom wanted me to scream and cry and make a grand confession. She wanted me to go to therapy. She wanted me to name names so that she had someone to punish. But I wouldn’t. I won’t. ” “That’s what I figured,” he says.