The Humiliations of Pipi McGee

by Beth Vrabel

  Then I walked over to Mom’s gym as usual.

  What was unusual was Mom’s smile as I pushed through the door. “Your friends are waiting for you!”

  Usually, Mom had on lots of waterproof makeup and her hair was slicked back into a smooth, high ponytail. Usually, she wore matching, high-end gym clothes, some sort of spandex in black and silver with bright turquoise or magenta accents. Selling the dream is how she phrased her attire. But today, her face was bare, her hair was in a topknot, and her clothes consisted of sweatpants with an elastic waist and one of Dad’s old sweatshirts.

  “Tasha and Ricky?” I asked.

  “No, your basketball friends!”

  Just then Vile Kara Samson walked out of the weight training room to fill her water bottle at the fountain beside the desk. She smirked at me.

  Mom reached across the desk and squeezed my shoulder. “The team’s using the gym for training. Thank you, Pipi. Seems they were pretty impressed after the spin class!” Her voice was soft with surprise. “I owe you. I’m still feeling under the weather from that…” She mouthed cashew cheese. “I had to cancel a couple classes this morning. But the whole team became members this afternoon! That’s huge for the gym.”

  Mom’s hand slid from my shoulder to cup my cheek. “They asked you to be one of the trainers, Pipi! Spin classes once a week.”

  “What?”

  Mom patted my cheek and turned back to the computer.

  Sure, I had a dozen or so playlists I had made just for spin. And, yes, I downloaded a lot of backgrounds for classes, too. But those were for fun, for when I had to kill time at the counter. And they were never made with the intention of spending any time with Vile Kara Samson. Suddenly being told I had to be the spin class leader made all excitement about being a spin class leader dissolve.

  “Do I even get a say in this?” I asked Mom.

  “I pay in art supplies,” she answered.

  So unfair! She knew I needed more paper and brushes.

  Mom’s fingers stopped typing on the keyboard. She looked up at me. “I’m counting on you, love. And Coach says the basketball team is, too.”

  I had another flash from The Count of Monte Cristo. Dantès was only able to enact his revenge once he was accepted into the powerful people’s company.

  “Fine,” I grumped, even though I already was thinking of an awesome new playlist.

  Chapter Nine

  I took Annie to a park outside our neighborhood after dinner and was surprised to see Tasha sitting under a tree, listening to an audiobook. Tasha has dyslexia, so while she loves books, listening to them instead of reading them in print better suits how her brain works.

  “Hey!” I said, plopping down next to her. “How are you?”

  She shrugged and hit pause on the audiobook. She wasn’t smiling. “I stopped by the gym after school today. Your mom told me you were with the rest of the basketball team.” Tasha made the last two words way too high-pitched.

  “Yeah, I guess it’s kind of official. I’m the manager.” I plucked at a few pieces of grass, keeping my eyes on Annie, who was sitting alone on the swings. “I’m helping with the training through spin classes and cardio drills. I’ve got to go to the games, too, to help keep score and stuff like that.”

  Kids were playing all around Annie, dragging trucks through the sand and darting between the slides and monkey bars in a game of tag. A little boy ran up and tagged Annie, but she ignored him and kept pushing herself on the swing. She was so different from me—I had always been alone and wanted to figure out how to join in. Annie only wanted to be left alone.

  “So, will you, like, have practice all the time now?” Tasha had a large shopping bag with her and pulled it closer while she talked, bunching it up against her side. “Because usually we hang out after school.”

  Remember stone soup? That awful Girl Scouts soup that leaders made you try, even though it was made under false pretenses—the leaders asking each girl to bring a can of her favorite soup to a meeting, then mixing it all and heating it up? Remember how the different soups never quite meshed together, even though that was the whole point (“Everyone brings something new to the pot!”); it still tasted like a half dozen different soups in each bite? That’s kind of how I felt—a mix of things that don’t belong—as Tasha’s question fell brick-heavy between us. Annoyed that she was annoyed about me being on the team. Defensive because she seemed to think it was such a bad idea—did she really think I couldn’t do it? Angry that she wasn’t happy for me. And something else, too. Something altogether new.

  I was feeling a little, I don’t know… it’s just this was the first time ever that Tasha was the one left out. That I was a member of a team—I mean, technically I wasn’t on the team, but I was part of the team—and she was the one who wasn’t. Usually, I followed Tasha around, cheering her on. I was the one in the audience while she sang on stage during chorus. I was the one in the stands while she killed it during cross-country season. I was the one looking basic in T-shirts and jeans while people snapped pictures of her decked out in Renaissance clothes during the Faires she dragged me to every single autumn (I always complained, but I secretly loved the Scotch eggs and the fake English accents). And I didn’t mind any of those times on the sidelines—really, I didn’t. Tasha stood out wherever we went because she was incredible, and I got to be her best friend. But this time? Maybe I was a little smug that I was the one able to say, “Sorry, I’m busy.”

  “I don’t care that you’re busy,” Tasha snapped. “But it’d be nice to know before I headed over to the gym.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to stop by, and Mom didn’t tell me you were there.”

  “I was going to say hi but you were jumping rope with Sarah.”

  “Oh,” I said, ignoring the way her voice pitched again when she said Sarah’s name. “Yeah, Sarah Trickle’s the team co-captain, so she was really showing me around a lot today.”

  “It looked more like you were showing her around.”

  “Well, it’s Mom’s gym, so maybe I was. We have actual practice in the gym on Thursday. I’m pretty nervous. I don’t even know a lot of basketball rules. I’ll spend most of the games on managing the buzzer and—”

  “Why do you do that?” Tasha interrupted.

  “Do what?” I blinked at her, but Tasha was squinting back at me like I was the one not making sense.

  “Say her whole name. Every time you mention Sarah, it’s with first and last names. You do it with Jackson, too. Why?” Tasha leaned back on her elbows as if I were about to deliver a huge explanation.

  But my mind went blank.

  Why did I do that? I shrugged.

  “I mean, you talk to her now, right? And you volunteer with her in kindergarten. And you talk about her all the time.”

  “I do not!” I crossed my arms.

  Tasha rolled her eyes and continued, “I think you’re on a first-name basis. I mean, she doesn’t go around calling you Pipi McGee.”

  “Penelope,” I corrected. “She calls me Penelope.”

  Tasha’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever. You’re just so weird about her.”

  “I am not!” If my arms weren’t already crossed, I would’ve done it now.

  All that smugness I had been feeling? It completely evaporated. No longer were my feelings a soupy mix. They were straight-up, boiling hot embarrassment. In a small voice, I said the truth: “I can’t just call her Sarah. She’s Sarah Trickle. She’s like, this entity. This huge embodiment of perfection, of everything I’m not. I can’t just say Sarah because it’d be like saying I’m anywhere close to the same hemisphere as her.”

  “She’s just a person,” Tasha said, her voice gentle again. “Same as you. Same as me. If you’re really going to do this List thing, if it’s really about revenge or whatever, why are you trying to be like them?”

  “I’m not!” I snapped. “I’m just… looking for an opportunity to make things better, okay? And part of it is figuring out how S
arah Trickle does everything right and all I do is muck everything up!”

  “Pipi,” Tasha whispered.

  “Penelope!” I yelped back.

  Tasha shook her head again. I was getting a little sick of that. “You’re my best friend, Pipi. And I want you to be happy, but I’m not sure if this whole thing is going to do that.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I threw my arms in the air. “I’m working on a plan. I scratched kindergarten off my list today. Of course I’m happy!” I snapped. Mentioning kindergarten made me remember why I was here—to keep an eye on Annie. I scanned the playground for her; she was still sitting alone on the swings.

  “The Piper kid? You got her to change her drawing?”

  I nodded, forcing a smile on my face to prove my happiness. “That and I figured out a way to make her play with Future Sarah Trickle.”

  Tasha nodded. “Cool,” she said. “You seem super happy about that.”

  “I am,” I snapped.

  “Obviously.” Tasha pushed herself up from the ground. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She slid the bag strap up her arm and placed an earbud into her ear. “Ricky and I are going to meet at the library after school, if you want to come.”

  “Sure,” I said, then added, “unless I have practice.”

  “Right. Unless you have practice.” Tasha waved over her shoulder. “Bye, Penelope.”

  As she walked away, I realized why she had put such a strange emphasis on library. Tomorrow was the Crow Reaper finale release day—something Tasha had talked about for months. The library was having a party to celebrate it, with CR trivia and free cookies. She was going to go over characters with me, help me figure out what to wear. That’s probably why she had that big shopping bag with her, so we could work on my costume.

  But since I wasn’t around, it seemed she had made plans with Ricky instead.

  Oh, hey there, left-out feeling! Not nice to have you back again.

  At lunch the next day, Tasha was hyped up about the book release. I had stayed up all night to craft a palm-sized crow for her. Tasha squealed when I gave it to her. She used a bobby pin to tie it to the pile of braids curling around the top of her head like a crown.

  When Ricky walked by our table wearing a T-shirt with a giant black crow screen-printed across it, Tasha cheered.

  “Oh,” Ricky said, a half smile tugging at his face. “Seemed like a good day for this.”

  “It’s perfect!” She pulled on his arm. “Sit down with us!” Ricky glanced around, nodding at me, then sat next to Tasha.

  Tasha even wore makeup today—something she rarely did—her lipstick and eyeliner a bright turquoise blue. When I asked her about it, she said Eliza showed her how to do it.

  “My sister? That Eliza?” I asked.

  Tasha nodded, and just for a second that awkwardness snapped back in place between us. “Yep,” she said. “I went into her shop after school yesterday.”

  “It’s not really her shop,” I muttered. “She just works there.”

  Eliza and I were never close—like when I was a newborn, Eliza would tell my parents to “leave the baby here” whenever we went to someone’s house. But our relationship really twisted when she was pregnant with Annie. Eliza was so angry all the time then. She never wanted to leave the house. Anytime she saw me peeking at her belly, she’d snap at me. I get that it was a super tough time for her—I really do—but I was just a kid excited about a baby. Like this one time, I kept asking Mom questions about what the baby would look like, what she’d call us, where she’d sleep, where she’d be while we were at school or work. Eliza had stormed into the room and screamed, “Enough! Enough about the baby. All the time, all anyone wants to talk about is the baby!” And then she burst into tears and stomped to her room.

  Mom said emotional swings were part of pregnancy, but Eliza’s anger went a whole lot deeper than that. I felt singed every time I was around her. I guess I got used to avoiding her, even though I couldn’t get enough of Annie.

  Tasha raised an eyebrow. “Have you been in the shop lately?”

  I shook my head. “I hate makeup.”

  Tasha shrugged. “Maybe you should stop by sometime.”

  “Are you saying I need makeup?” I leaned forward in my seat. “Don’t you remember sixth grade?”

  I shot a look at where Vile Kara Samson sat in the middle of the cafeteria.

  At the beginning of sixth grade, Sarah and Kara had hosted a joint birthday party. Not only are they cousins, with their moms being twins (Belle and Estelle. Seriously.), but they also have birthdays two weeks apart. Every year, they had these huge birthday parties, with every girl in the class invited. Every year, the party was themed. In fifth grade, it was a circus theme, complete with cotton candy vendors, pony rides, and a giant trampoline.

  The best part of every Kara-Sarah party were the gift bags. For the circus party, everyone left with little paper versions of the big top. When you tugged on the little red flag, the big top pulled back and glitter burst all around. That was the level of these parties.

  It didn’t even matter if Kara made your life miserable or Sarah was so perfect it made your teeth ache. Everyone was there. I never missed a party, either (except for first grade, when my invitation somehow never made it home—that was the year of the nose picking, remember?).

  Well, sixth grade would be the last giant Kara-Sarah party. The theme was makeover. They brought in cosmetologists from the local beauty school and hair stylists from a salon. A dress company brought in gowns for the day so we could dress up. At the end, guests were handed our gift bags—zippered makeup pouches with our initials painted on them. It took Kara and Sarah forever to make sure everyone got the right bags. Kara smiled as she handed me mine. “Hope it helps,” she said. Tasha and I compared bags on the way home.

  We both had lipstick. Tiny tubes of mascara. Eye liner—hers in gray, mine in brown. Tasha’s had a small pot of blush. I had something else. Wax, with “eyebrow shaping instructions inside” printed on the box. Tasha had snagged the box from me and pressed the button to lower the car window. “Your eyebrows are fine,” she said, prepping to throw it back onto the Samsons’ lawn.

  I had plucked it back out of her hands. “It’s no biggie,” I said, shoving it back into the pouch.

  It wasn’t like I hadn’t been aware that my eyebrows were growing in thick, straight lines. Wax, the little instructions read, was the best way to shape eyebrows. My eyebrows had never been shaped. They were shapeless streaks. Eyebrows are essential to framing your face, the instructions said. Without properly shaped eyebrows, your face is never going to stand out.

  After my family went to bed that night, I had grabbed the box. Following the instructions, I carefully applied wax above and below my right eyebrow and pulled with just a little crying. Okay, a lot of crying. But the eyebrow did look much better. Just as carefully, I began applying to my left eyebrow, only to suddenly have to sneeze. I fought it, like I always fight touching my nose. But then, achoo! And, bam. Wax covered not just the top and bottom of my eyebrow, but my entire eyebrow. I jerked my hand away in horror, but some of the wax was on my finger, too, and soon I was holding my eyebrow in my hand. My whole eyebrow, there in my hand. I’ve sworn off makeup ever since (though I’m somewhat addicted to lip gloss).

  I forced my mind back to the present, discussing makeup—or lack of makeup—at lunch.

  Tasha took a bite of her sandwich, carefully so as not to smear the lipstick. She slowly chewed and then said, “I don’t think that’s what I said.” She turned to Ricky. “Ricky, is that what I said? Did I tell Pipi to wear makeup?”

  Ricky’s eyes turned to circles. His mouth opened and closed a couple times. Finally, as if she hadn’t asked him a question at all, he said, “Love the blue! It’s just how I pictured Freya.”

  Tasha grinned. “Really? I have that spray stuff to dye my hair white in my bag—but my mom flipped when I asked her to help put it on this morning.”
/>   “Nah, I think it’s perfect,” Ricky said. “If you could breathe frost, it’d be more than perfect.”

  “Is Elsa in this book?” I asked.

  Tasha’s hand slammed the table. “Freya would eat Elsa for breakfast.”

  “Slowly,” Ricky said with a laugh. “She’d slowly eat Elsa for breakfast.”

  “Fine, I give. Who’s Freya?” I asked, bracing myself for a half-hour explanation of some fairy character. That’s what usually happened, anyway, if I expressed any interest in anything remotely CR. It was kind of boring, but it made Tasha happy and gave me time to think about the rest of my list. What was I going to tackle next?

  Only, Ricky and Tasha exchanged a long look, small smiles on their faces. Finally, Ricky said, “Freya cannot be explained. You’d have to read the books to understand.”

  “That’s right,” said Tasha, taking another careful bite of her sandwich.

  My nose tickled, probably stuck on that evil eyebrow-destroying sneeze memory. I ignored it. Finally, I couldn’t resist. I cupped my hand over my nose and quick as I could, brushed it with my thumb.

  Ricky watched me. Or rather, looked at my nose.

  Oh, no! Had I knocked loose a booger or something? Again, super quickly, I brushed at my itchy nose.

  Ricky’s eyes narrowed. Just as quick, he brushed his own nose. Was this a secret signal? It’s going to happen again! I’m going to be known as Picker Penelope all over again! I whapped at my nose.

  Ricky mimicked the motion. “Did I get it?”

  “Get what?” I could see my red cheeks blaring, my nose a huge white runway of shame in the middle. I ducked my head and rubbed at my giant nose with both hands.

  “Weren’t you motioning to me?” Ricky pointed to his nose.

  “No! You were motioning to me!” I sat on my hands, traitor nose still itchy.

  Tasha leaned back in her seat. “Pipi’s weird about her nose.”

  “Oh,” Ricky said. “Why would you be weird about a nose?”