Eleven

by Lauren Myracle

  “You certainly don’t have to, Winnie,” Mrs. Jacobs said. “It’s up to you.”

  My heart got hammery, because this was clearly one of those times when even though she said it was up to me, we both knew what I was supposed to do, so the only question was whether I really did have a big heart or if my heart was a selfish, shriveled lump. It was a test, like when Mom asked me to share my Magic Markers with my cousin Shalese, who bore down on them too hard and made the ends all stubbly. Or when Dad told me how much he appreciated my open-mindedness right before serving his carrot-ginger soup, which no one else would try.

  But Alex Plotkin?

  Mrs. Jacobs smiled gently and placed her hand on my knee. “Think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

  I stood up. “Can I go now?”

  “Yes, you can go, but whatever you decide, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep our conversation to yourself.” She opened the door for me. “It’s going to be a great party. Have fun.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, I stole glances at Alex when he wasn’t looking: Alex making farting noises by jamming his hand under his armpit; Alex calling, “No dogs allowed!” when Dinah walked into the room after recess; Alex ducking his head and sticking his finger up his nose, then quickly pulling it out. I did not want that hand touching mine.

  Why did Mrs. Jacobs have to ask me to do her favor? Why not Amanda, or even Chantelle? Why not Katie Jacobson, who knew Alex from the divorce group and surely had better reasons to pick him than I did. Why couldn’t she dare to care?

  Mom would be proud. She would explain that Mrs. Jacobs had faith in me to do the right thing. But I didn’t want to do the right thing. I wanted to ask sweet, shy Toby Rinehart to skate with me, not sneaky-nose-picking Alex. And I wanted to ask Toby even more now that there was a chance I wouldn’t be able to.

  The worst part was that I couldn’t even moan and groan to anyone about it, since Mrs. Jacobs had specifically asked me not to. Back in the cafeteria, I’d told Amanda and Chantelle that she had a question about my attendance record, and they’d nodded and returned to discussing the party.

  So, during science, when Maxine scooted her chair toward Mark’s and let him share her book, I could only sigh. Amanda and Chantelle nudged each other, giggling at the blooming couple, but not me.

  From across the room, Alex flipped his eyelids inside out and leered at Keiko, who dropped her test tube and screamed for Ms. Meyers. I buried my head in my arms.

  “Aren’t you having fun?” Amanda asked as she whizzed by me, her long hair snapping behind her.

  “Isn’t this awesome?” Chantelle echoed, close on Amanda’s tail.

  I watched them grab hands and whip around the far end of the skating rink, using each other for momentum, while I continued to plod in a pathetic circle a foot and a half from the wooden rail. I could have skated with them if I wanted to, but I was too busy thinking about Alex. Plus, I wasn’t as good as they were. The only person worse than me was Dinah Devine, who clutched the rail with both hands while her feet skittered crazily away from her.

  I hoped Mrs. Jacobs was having a miserable time at the square dance.

  I hoped Alex would throw up from all the grape Pixie Sticks he’d eaten and have to be rushed to the hospital, where they’d pump his stomach and it would come out purple.

  I hoped that just this once there wouldn’t be a girls’ pick, that the lights would never go low and that the music would stay loud and boppy until the party was over. The only problem was that then Chantelle wouldn’t get to ask Tyrone to skate, and I knew she really wanted to.

  Half an hour before the party ended, she got her chance. The lights dimmed, and the disco ball sent soft pastel spots swooping over the floor. The beginning notes of “I Will Always Love You” sent a hush over the room.

  “All right, boys,” the DJ said, “slick back your hair and polish your blades, because this one’s a girls’ pick.” He sat back and turned the volume higher. “They’re all yours, girls. Go get ’em.”

  I felt sick, sicker even than the time I found half a fly in my pimiento cheese sandwich. Beside me, Amanda squealed and said, “Look! Chantelle’s about to ask Tyrone!” She squeezed my arm. “He said yes, he said yes! Oh, look how cute they are!”

  Chantelle and Tyrone stepped onto the rink. Pink dots flitted over their bodies like fireflies.

  “Oh,” Amanda breathed.

  Then Karen and Robert stepped onto the rink, and then Maxine and Mark. My stomach clenched tighter. Several more couples glided onto the floor.

  I closed my eyes and dug my fingernails into my palms. I didn’t have to ask Alex to dance. If Mrs. Jacobs ever brought it up, I could tell her I had a stomachache, which was true. Anyway, she wasn’t here, so she’d never know what really happened. No one would know but me.

  “Why are your eyes closed?” Amanda asked. “Is it the lights? Are they making you dizzy?”

  It was no use. If I didn’t ask Alex, I would know, and I would have to live with it forever. What if Alex grew up to be a deranged maniac, all because he’d been rejected at our fifth-grade party? It wasn’t impossible. He already eats live worms. And there’s that creepy thing he does with his eyelids.

  “I feel like I’m going to throw up,” I said. I took in Amanda’s concerned expression. Poor, sweet Amanda. “I’ll be back, okay?”

  I clomped across the carpet to where Alex stood alone by a gray plastic trash can. The remains of some kid’s birthday cake sat on a piece of cardboard near the top, the blue-and-white icing melting and beginning to smear. I put my hands on my hips. “Do you want to skate?”

  First he looked surprised, and then he changed his mind and smirked. “With you?”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “I guess,” he said, as if he were doing me a favor.

  We wobbled to the rink and stepped onto the floor. His lips were purple from the Pixie Sticks, and the hair near his ear was spiky with dried applesauce. He took my hand, and I pressed my lips together. His palm felt damp and clammy, like a cold hamburger patty.

  He lunged forward on his skates, yanking me with him, then jerked backward as he tried to maintain his balance. He was an even worse skater than I was. Worse, even, than Dinah Devine. Better and faster couples passed us on the left, gawking as they sailed by. I hated being the couple that made everyone else feel better.

  Chantelle and Tyrone came up on our right and stayed even with us just long enough for Chantelle to say, “Winnie?” as if her eyes had deceived her and surely it wasn’t really me.

  “It’s not!” I wanted to say. “Not really!” But they were gone, skating in sync with their arms around each other’s waist.

  On our second lap, I saw Amanda staring from behind the wooden railing. She was standing with the other girls who hadn’t asked anyone to skate, and she was talking very fast and shaking her head. I sent her a desperate look, knitting my eyebrows and kind of twitching my head, but I’m not sure she saw because right then Alex tugged on my hand and almost brought us to the floor.

  “Come on,” he said. “Speed it up!”

  “What?” I said.

  “You’re too slow. Come on!”

  That was it. I ground my teeth together and pumped as fast as I could, pulling Alex behind me the way I pulled Ty when he was dragging his heels.

  “Hey!” Alex cried.

  I heard kids laughing from the sidelines, but I didn’t care. I concentrated all my energy on pushing and gliding with my thigh muscles. I almost tripped, but I caught myself and kept going.

  The song was almost over. As Whitney Houston’s voice rose higher, Alex and I pressed harder and faster around our final lap. Alex was matching my pace now, and we were flying. Our strides were clumsy and our arms flailed in wild, uneven slashes, but we were flying.

  Whitney’s voice throbbed on the last, impossibly high note of the song. She held it for what seemed like forever, and then the song ended and the normal lights came back on. A new song bounced from the louds
peakers, and kids came pouring onto the rink. I dropped Alex’s hand and skated to the exit. I didn’t look back.

  Later, Amanda found me sitting on the bench by the lockers. “Wow,” she said. “I didn’t know ... I mean, I had no idea—” She tilted her head. “Do you like Alex Plotkin?”

  “No,” I said. “Are you crazy?”

  “But you picked him. You asked him to skate with you. He’s over at the refreshment stand right now, telling everyone what a huge crush you have on him.”

  “I do not like Alex Plotkin,” I said through gritted teeth. “I was framed.”

  “What?!” Amanda said.

  I told her the whole story, how Mrs. Jacobs pulled me into her office and practically ordered me to choose him during girls’ pick. I couldn’t help it—I had to tell someone. I made her swear to keep it a secret.

  She sat down beside me and rested her chin in her hands. “I think that was very nice of you,” she said.

  “You do?”

  We heard a loud burp, followed by Alex’s horsey laugh. We looked toward the drink stand and saw him weaving around with Coke coming out of his nose.

  “Extremely nice,” Amanda said.

  We sat there for several minutes.

  “You want to skate some more?” I asked.

  “Nah,” she said. “Unless you want to. Do you want to?”

  I didn’t, so we took off our skates. The party wasn’t over, but we didn’t care. Anyway, half the fun of ice-skating is going back to normal, when stepping flat-footed onto the carpet makes everything feel brand-new.

  July

  JULY WAS SO HUMID that my bangs clumped together in thick, heavy strands. Sandra said I had nothing to complain about, and she lifted her own bangs to reveal a crop of angry bumps.

  “See?” she said. “At least you don’t have zits.” She leaned back on the steps and scowled at the driveway. “It’s because of that stupid hat. I hate that hat. I can feel the oil building up every second it’s on my head.”

  Sandra had a summer job at Baskin-Robbins, and she had to wear a pink-and-brown hat with a pom-pom on top. She was supposed to be there now, hat in place, but Mom hadn’t returned from the dry cleaners to give her a ride.

  “Where is she?” Sandra demanded. “Doesn’t she know this is my life, pathetic as it is?”

  “Well ... at least you get to work with Bo,” I said. “That’s a good thing.”

  “Yeah, right. I get to work with Bo, who gets to see me looking like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. That’s a good thing?” She stood up and scanned the road. “Where the hell is she?”

  “Sandra!” She didn’t normally use words like that, and I found myself half nervous and half thrilled when they popped out of her mouth.

  “Oh, grow up,” Sandra said.

  Mom pulled into the driveway, and Sandra and I hurried to the car.

  “You’re late,” Sandra griped, climbing into the front seat. She jerked her seat belt over her chest while I scooted into the back by Ty.

  “Tell me about it,” Mom said. “The girl at the dry cleaners couldn’t find your father’s shirts, and then at the bank, there was only one teller on duty....” She listed her day’s trials as she drove back into town, adding that she still had several errands to do and that she’d never get them finished with me and Ty in tow.

  “So, here, Winnie,” she finished, reaching over the seat and handing me seven dollars. “I know I told you we’d go shoe shopping, but we’re going to have to put it off until tomorrow. How about if you and Ty get some ice cream instead?”

  “What?” Sandra cried. “You’re leaving them with me?”

  I grinned and stuffed the money in my pocket. Hanging out at Baskin-Robbins was far better than going shoe shopping. New sandals could wait until another day.

  “Mom,” Sandra said. “You can’t expect me to baby-sit them while I’m at my job!”

  “Hey, I don’t need baby-sitting,” I said. “Anyway, I’ll be the one baby-sitting Ty. Right, Mom?”

  Sandra tried using her patient voice. “Take them back home. Please, Mom.”

  Mom turned left into the strip mall, where Baskin-Robbins sat nestled between Joe May Cleaners and Jalisco’s Mexican Restaurant. “I’m sorry, Sandra, but there’s no time. We’re already running late, remember?”

  Sandra got out of the car. She glared at me through the window.

  “Chocolate chip mint,” Ty said, struggling to get out of his booster seat. “Okay, Winnie? With three cherries.”

  Bo has lean, brown arms and blond hair that sticks up in tufts around the brim of his hat. He’s the pitcher for his high-school baseball team, and he was working at Baskin-Robbins to build up the muscle on his left forearm. He loved it when people ordered French Vanilla or Rocky Road, the two hardest ice creams to scoop, and if someone ordered a hand-packed pint of any flavor, he was in heaven. “Like a rock,” I once heard him mutter as he packed a pint of Swiss Dark Chocolate. “Roy McCallum, prepare to meet your doom.”

  From the pink vinyl booth where I sat with my scoop of Rocky Road, I could study Bo to my heart’s content. I watched him turn away from the soda machine, and it occurred to me that Bo is probably the cutest boy I’ve ever seen. Not probably: definitely. And not for the first time I wished I were sixteen instead of eleven so that Bo would grin at me like he grinned at Sandra after slipping an ice cube down her shirt to make her shriek.

  I lifted a spoon of ice cream to my mouth. If Bo is the cutest boy in the world, which he is, then that makes Sandra the luckiest girl. Sandra, my sister, with her oily bangs and crop of zits. Also with her light blue eyes that look like water, and her smile that opens like a present when she’s in a good mood.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked me now, pausing with the scooper in one hand and an empty cone in the other.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Quit staring. This isn’t the WB, you know.”

  I went back to my ice cream, picking out the marshmallows and slivers of nut and putting them on a napkin. “Want these?” I asked Ty.

  He dumped them on top of his chocolate-chip mint, then lifted his head and smiled. Like me, Ty has brown eyes and straight, brown hair. Boring, boring brown, like mud.

  When we’d finished our scoops and all that was left were sticky droplets on the edges of our cups, I threw away our trash and marched Ty to the counter for round two. “Do you know what you want?” I prodded. I assumed my most adult expression and said to Bo, “He’s so wishy-washy. When it comes to ice cream, I’m afraid he lacks a certain resolve.”

  Lacks a certain resolve was a phrase I’d picked up from Mom, who used it a couple of days ago to describe my aunt Lucy. Aunt Lucy had been studying to be a teacher, but she dropped out of her program and was now thinking about becoming a veterinarian.

  Sandra stared at me as if I were crazy. “What?” she said. “He does not.”

  “Chocolate-Chip Mint,” Ty announced.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “What about French Vanilla? Or Peanut Butter ’n Chocolate. You love Peanut Butter ’n Chocolate.”

  Ty stood on his toes to make himself taller. “Chocolate-Chip Mint. And three cherries.”

  “What about you?” Sandra said while Bo fixed Ty’s cup. She put one hand on her hip.

  “I’ll wait for Bo,” I said.

  “Bo’s busy.”

  “Well, I’m not sure yet.”

  “Well, decide.”

  The bell on the door jingled, and two guys strolled in, friends of Bo’s. Sandra’s cheeks turned red. “Come on, Winnie. Now or never.”

  Bo dropped the final cherry onto Ty’s ice cream and slid the cup across the counter. “Here you go, buddy. Enjoy.” He crossed the store to his friends. “Hey, guys! What’s up?”

  Sandra was still waiting, eyebrows lifted in sharp peaks.

  “French Vanilla,” I said.

  She scowled. Unlike Bo, she hated scooping French Vanilla. “Pick something else.”

  “French Vanill
a,” I said stubbornly. “And don’t skimp.”

  I hung out by the counter while I ate my ice cream, pretending to admire the cakes in the display case so Sandra would leave me alone. As soon as Bo’s friends left, I edged over to where he was working. “Those are cute,” I said, peering at the ice-cream-scoop clowns he was making. He topped each scoop with an upside-down cone, then used icing to add two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.

  He grinned at me. “You like them?”

  “Uh-huh.” I squinted at the scoop he was working on. “You should give him eyebrows.”

  “Yeah?” He added two upside-down Vs and stepped back to admire the effect. “Hey, Sandra, I think I might have found my calling.”

  Sandra punched in the drawer to the cash register and joined Bo at the worktable. “Is that one supposed to look psychotic?” she asked, pointing at a scoop of vanilla with uneven eyes. She turned to me. “Bo’s busy, Winnie. Quit bothering him.”

  “I’m not bothering him. Anyway, it’s a free country.”

  “For some of us,” Sandra said under her breath.

  I leaned forward on the counter. “So, how’s the arm?” I asked Bo. I liked saying “the arm.” It made me feel tough.

  “The arm is spectacular,” Bo said. He leaned over the counter and flexed. “Want to feel?”

  I touched the curve of his muscle, which was hard and warm. I blushed and drew back my hand.

  “Sandra?” Bo said, sticking his arm in front of her.

  Sandra busied herself with wiping the counter. “I have no desire to touch ‘the arm,’ thank you very much.”

  “Oh, come on,” Bo said.

  “Touch the arm,” I urged. “Do it, Sandra.”

  Ty slid out of the booth and came over to us. “What’s going on?”

  “Your sister doesn’t want to touch the arm,” Bo said. He made his face look very sad.

  Ty turned to Sandra. His expression was worried. “Sandra!”

  “Oh, all right,” Sandra said. She poked Bo’s arm.

  “She touched the arm!” Bo cried.