The Humiliations of Pipi McGee

by Beth Vrabel

  He laughed. “Just trying to get the Pipi Touch.”

  I rolled my eyes and threw more grass at him.

  Ricky grinned. “I’m serious. The last time I had the Pipi Touch was in fifth grade. Our lockers were next to each other, remember?” I nodded, and he continued, “Someone passed me The Touch and then we had our standardized tests. I couldn’t pass it on to anyone for two and a half hours.”

  “The horror,” I mumbled, and started packing up my bag.

  He poked me again. “Guess what happened?”

  “All your hair fell out?”

  “I got a one hundred percent. Only kid in the grade to ace standardized testing.” He handed me an empty baggie that the wind had blown too far to reach. “I think it was The Touch. And I’m about to take an algebra test, so I need all the luck I can get.”

  I tried to smile, but it came out wonky, half my mouth going up and half down. “Thanks,” I mumbled, not sure why my eyes were wet. It didn’t mean anything. He was just being nice.

  Ricky plucked a leaf off the hedge and twirled it between his fingers. “How do you decide when you’ve redeemed yourself?”

  “Well,” I said, folding my hands on my lap, “when I wake up in the middle of the night, I have this moment. This what did I do? moment where I think about all of the things I should’ve done differently throughout my entire life. Sometimes it happens in the shower, too.”

  I’ve spent way, way, way too much time under the shower spray, imagining a million different ways I could’ve prevented my humiliations while my skin pruned and the water chilled. “Like, I’ll think about how if I had just kept my hands at my side like the photographer told us to for the first-grade picture, I never would’ve gotten the nose-picker reputation. And if I had taken my allergy medicine instead of hiding it in my breakfast banana, I never would’ve set off the puke parade. And if I had just kept that notebook secret, I could’ve played off like I hadn’t been in love with Jackson—”

  “What about seventh grade?” Ricky broke in. “Do you have a plan for that?”

  Even though I already was in the shade, it felt like a cloud drifted over the sun. I felt cold. “I don’t talk about seventh grade.”

  “Okay,” Ricky said slowly, “but do you have a plan? It’s about Frau, right?”

  “I don’t talk about seventh grade,” I said again.

  “But she’s, like, the worst on The List, right?”

  I nodded, not looking at him. “And Vile Kara Samson.”

  “Kara’s up there with Frau?”

  I nodded again. “That notebook,” I reminded him. “And other stuff, too.”

  “But mostly the notebook?” Ricky asked. He shifted a little, staring hard at the leaf in his hand. “When do you know you’ve reached redemption?”

  “When thinking about all my humiliations doesn’t hurt.”

  The basketball scrimmages started at four thirty, right after school.

  Coach had given me a case full of water bottles to fill up to have ready to give players as they left the court. And, I swear—it honestly took me a whole twenty minutes to fill them. I was not, of course, avoiding “The Orange Ball Is a Sphere of Sadness in Other Players’ Grips” Jackson. How dare anyone suggest that.

  The game didn’t really count since it was just a scrimmage, which Sarah explained was more of a way to figure out how the team was doing before the season began. We played against Warrensburg Middle, which had been neck and neck with us the past three seasons, beating out Northbrook in the boys’ division and coming in second in the girls’. Sarah said the only reason the Northbrook girls’ team won the previous years was because of this incredible athlete, Ally, who owned the court. But she was in high school this year, so no one was really all that confident Northbrook could keep the record going.

  The boys’ team played first. Coach had all of the players in a huddle as I made my way toward them with the giant tray of water bottles. I put it down next to them and then headed over to the side table where I was supposed to track the score. Even though the manual of rules and scoring in basketball was as riveting as Jackson’s poetry, I had memorized every bit of it. Redemption, baby. It was nearly mine.

  The girls’ team, already in uniform, filed in to watch the game from the bleachers just behind me. Vile Kara’s upper lip curled in a sneer as she passed by. Sarah, just behind her, gave me a small wave.

  Coach broke the huddle with less than a minute before the scrimmage began. Jackson glanced toward the kids filing into the gymnasium and then over at me. I tried to look busy with my official clipboard. I hadn’t had the chance (ahem, endurance) to finish one poem, let alone try to derive a deeper meaning out of “the scoreboard glows with the red of winners’ hearts.”

  No luck. Jackson trotted over to me. “Pip,” he whispered. Pip? “So, what do you think?”

  “Really good, Jackson Thorpe.” Brain! He gives me a nickname, and my brain makes me say his first and last name. “Like, really, really good.” I cinched my mouth, trying not to ask about the orange and maroon terry cloth headband he wore across his forehead. Northbrook colors were gold and navy. I also tried not to notice the five plastic bracelets on his wrist.

  He clapped his hands together like he was giving himself a high five. “Did you learn a lot from it? I bet you learned a lot.”

  “Yeah, absolutely,” I said, focusing on the clipboard, even though all I was doing was writing my name slowly across the top. I scanned the court as if tracking something, held up the clipboard, and sketched a tree in the corner of the paper.

  “Cool!” He tugged on his socks, pushing the right sock up to its full height just under his knee and shoving the left sock down to mid-calf. I raised an eyebrow. “Oh!” he said, following my gaze to his socks. He shrugged. “My dads say I’m a weirdo for believing in good luck charms, but Dad gave me the bracelets and Pop gave me the headband. Every time I wear them, I win. And my socks were just like this when I nailed the three-pointer last season.”

  “I didn’t know you were superstitious.”

  “What?” His bottom lip jutted out. “I just don’t take chances. Like, no shower on game day—you wash away the luck. Stuff like that.”

  Vile Kara called from the bleacher seat just behind us. “Good luck, Jackson!”

  Jackson saluted her as Coach called his name and motioned for him to get to center court. Lowering his voice again, Jackson said, “I’ll give you more poems later. I’m writing them all the time in my head.” He smiled and I went blind for a second. So blind, in fact, that I didn’t see that Jackson held his hand out for a fist bump.

  I finally bumped it back and Jackson backward trotted a couple steps, still smiling, before joining the team on the court. Jackson just fist bumped me. My brain screamed the words. Jackson just fist bumped me AND I’m in his secret club AND he sends me poetry AND he and Sarah are just friends. I shook my head to dislodge the thoughts. I had to concentrate on my role of manager if I was ever going to get Third Grade Basketball Disaster off The List.

  The referee stood in the middle of the court, with Jackson on one side and a player from Warrensburg on the other. The game was about to start, but people still streamed into the gym. The referee held the ball in both hands, about to throw it and start the game. (This was called a jump ball, according to my manual.)

  Jackson got into position and a hush fell over the gym.

  Just as the ref was about to blow his whistle and throw the ball, Vile Kara half screamed, half whispered, “Oh, no! Jackson still has the Pipi Touch!” A little louder, she added, “I hope it’s not bad luck.”

  And since it was so quiet, everyone heard her. A collective groan swept across the gymnasium. “Oooohhhh, the Pipi Touch!”

  Jackson’s mouth dropped open and he slowly turned toward me. The ref threw the ball. The Warrensburg player batted it toward his teammates. Before I could think, I was on my feet. I whipped around to Kara. Sarah, standing next to her, tugged on her jersey to get her to sit do
wn again. Kara just met my eyes, a mean little smile on her face. She waved at me the same way Tasha had to her a few days earlier.

  “Pipi!” Coach called and pointed to the court.

  I turned back around, my face flaming, and sat down at the table. On the court, Jackson moved numbly. He rushed toward another player who didn’t even have the ball, his right hand extended. Passing the Pipi Touch, I realized.

  The other player dodged, practically doing a Matrix-style bend to avoid taking on The Touch and its bad luck. I stared down at the clipboard, my eyes stinging. And then I heard a whoosh.

  The ball sailed through the net. The Warrensburg players cheered.

  Jackson looked to the ball, over at me, and then down to his right hand. He dashed toward the ball and nabbed it. Not, I realized when he just stood there, to throw the ball, but so someone would be close enough to pass The Touch. No one moved. No one wanted the bad-luck Pipi Touch. Even the Warrensburg players paused and looked at each other, trying to figure out what was going on.

  Jackson groaned and threw the ball from across the court, not even glancing at the net.

  The ball soared through the air and sank through the net.

  The crowd gasped.

  Jackson gasped. Again, he looked at the ball, at me, and then at his right hand.

  “It’s good luck!” I shouted, and then crammed my hands over my mouth. I hadn’t meant to think out loud like that.

  And then everyone erupted into cheers. Jackson blinded me with another grin and took off for the ball. Warrensburg had possession, but Jackson stole it on a dribble. No one was trying to avoid him now; the curse was broken.

  Sort of. Because Jackson wouldn’t let anyone near him or the ball. He was keeping the good-luck Touch. Again and again and again, he threw the ball and every single time, he scored.

  “It’s Pipi!” he shouted to his teammates. “The Touch is good luck!”

  Suddenly, anytime a player was within three feet of me, they stretched out their sweaty, stinky arms and swatted at me. Then they went back to the court, tearing it up.

  Even the other team tried to get the Pipi Touch. It was the most intense scrimmage in the history of Northbrook Middle. (I mean, I’m guessing. It was the only one I had seen.)

  At the end, we won, forty to twenty-two. Jackson sprinted over to me the second the alarm bell blared, fist out for another bump. Soon the rest of the team gathered around me, too, each of them asking for good-luck fist bumps. Then they lifted me up and carried me on their shoulders, cheering Pipi! Pipi! Pipi!

  So, that last part didn’t happen exactly, but the team did gather around me. Everyone wanted me to high five or fist bump them. Me!

  The girls’ team, prepping for their game, filed past us, each one touching my shoulder or my head. Everyone except Kara.

  Guess who didn’t score a single point?

  Take that, Vile Kara Samson. As the girls’ scrimmage ended, I shot her my sweetest smile, which was a little challenging since one of Jackson’s teammates had reached out for a good-luck Touch and accidentally grabbed a piece of my hair.

  The Touch wasn’t a curse anymore. Now, it was a charm.

  Sarah linked her arm through mine. Jackson put his arm around my shoulder. Sarah said, “Penelope, you have to go out for ice cream with us. It’s our postgame tradition!”

  “Yes!” Jackson said. “Maybe we’ll have time to talk, too.” He winked at me, and I knew it was because he was referring to his poetry, but I let myself pretend it was just because he was completely in love with me.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Let’s go!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The ice cream shop was only a couple blocks from school. I texted Mom on the way.

  Guess I’ll eat this pizza and watch this movie by myself, she texted. I felt a twinge of guilt but only until she sent a smiley face a few seconds later.

  Sarah wasn’t kidding about everyone going for ice cream. It was like being in a tsunami of sweaty basketball players. “Pipi Touch saved us!” one of them said. I felt a half dozen or so pats or hair pulls as everyone wanted some of the Pipi Touch.

  “Sarah!” Vile Kara Samson said when we got to the diner. She somehow had made it there first and was sitting in a booth. She patted the seat next to her.

  “C’mon,” Sarah said, pulling me toward her. Kara’s face twisted in a grimace (but I’m pretty sure mine did, too). Jackson slid into the booth across from Kara. Quickly, I sat next to him and Sarah sat next to Kara.

  I know it’s not particularly nice or anything, but part of what made the evening even greater was seeing Kara’s face contort like her ice cream was sour every time she was the one who felt left out. Like when Jackson texted me his poetry and I read it under the table. Maybe I even played it up a bit, going, “Oooohhh!” and pointing to stanzas even though my eyes skimmed right over them. Kara knew he was texting me stuff right in front of her, and she didn’t know it was just poetry.

  Plus, everyone else kept coming to the table to talk to Sarah and Jackson, and there I was, so they talked to me, too. Do you know how awesome it was to feel like people saw you? To not have their eyes slide right by where your body took up space? The thing was, I hadn’t even really noticed that most people did that until they didn’t. But having their eyes snag on mine, seeing their face warm with a smile, hearing people say my name—it was better than ice cream.

  A couple of times my phone buzzed with texts from Tasha, too. Where are you? and then a few minutes later, Hello? But every time I looked at my phone, Jackson nudged me, thinking I was reading his poetry. I figured I’d answer her as soon as I got home. When I told her that I was having ice cream with Jackson and Sarah, and the entire basketball teams, she’d totally freak out.

  I was just about to call Mom to ask her to pick me up when Jackson’s dads came in and ordered huge platters of fries for everyone. A few people left as their parents arrived to take them home. Nearly everyone stopped by our table to say goodbye to Jackson, Sarah, and Kara. And me, too. They all tapped my shoulder or wanted a fist bump so they could leave with The Touch.

  My lips twitched even though I was trying really hard to look nonchalant.

  “This season is going to be epic!” Jackson said.

  “Thanks to Pipi,” Sarah added.

  This was honestly the best day of my life. Another slash through The List. Take that, third grade!

  It was nearly nine o’clock by the time I called Mom to come get me.

  Jackson’s dads sat in a booth nearby, but it felt really mature, especially considering by then most of the middle school basketball team had left and now all around us were high school kids. “Can you believe we’re going to be like them next year?” I said.

  Kara rolled her eyes. “It’s not like they’re so much different.” But I noticed that she was smoothing her hair with her palms. “We should’ve changed first, like I said,” she hissed to Sarah as a group of high schoolers sauntered by, giggling.

  But Sarah was watching another table where five kids were sharing a plate of chicken wings and mozzarella sticks. Two of the girls got up and headed to the bathroom; both were laughing and leaning into each other as they went. One of them stopped suddenly beside our table. “Oh, hey!” she said and pointed to Sarah, Kara, and Jackson’s clothes. “Are you guys on the basketball team?”

  Kara straightened. “Yeah. You’re Ally, right?” Ally, the superstar athlete from last year.

  Ally nodded. “Going to keep my record going?”

  “We’re going to try,” Sarah said. “Are you playing this year?”

  Ally smiled. “Nah, I’m thinking about trying out for the musical.” The other girl laughed, and it was, I’m not even kidding you, the most beautiful laugh I’d ever heard. “Whatever, Bhat,” Ally said. “I could do it!”

  Then I recognized the girl. Lilith Bhat; she was in theater club last year. She was so beautiful it made you smile to see her—thick, dark brown hair that shimmered even in the diner l
ight, and a wide, bright smile. She was made to be on stage. Something had happened, though, and the play last year was canceled suddenly.

  Turning back to us, Ally said, “I’m taking this year off sports.”

  Lilith pointed at me with one finger, the rest of her hand curled around a lip gloss tube. “Hey,” she said, “you look super familiar. Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so…” I trailed off. Could this day get any better? High schoolers talking to me? Me!

  Sarah snapped her fingers. “I bet you’re thinking of Penelope’s sister, Eliza.” She pointed to the lipstick tube in Lilith’s outstretched hand. “She works at Glitter.”

  Lilith’s smile stretched. “Yes! That’s her. She’s amazing!” Lilith nudged Ally. “Remember, I told you to go in there? Do something with your…” She pointed vaguely to Ally’s entire face, prompting Ally to roll her eyes. “She made a special blend foundation for my skin tone.”

  “Let’s start with the musical and work up to cosmetics.” Ally laughed and pulled Lilith toward the bathroom.

  “Let’s not with the musical,” Lilith said.

  No one spoke for a moment after they left, but I felt Kara’s eyes on me.

  “Taking the year off?” Sarah said, her voice shocked. “But Ally was amazing.”

  “Guess she wasn’t feeling it anymore,” Jackson said. He stared hard at Sarah. “She was ready for a change. People don’t have to do what they’ve always done just because it’s what they’ve always done.” He paused, repeating the sentence to himself, then furiously typing it into his phone.

  “What?” Kara said, her eyes flicking between them and me. Her gaze landed longest on me. “Something is different about you,” she finally said, and leaned back in the booth.

  I touched my nose, thinking about Eliza’s mini-makeover this morning. “I don’t know what.”

  Sarah looked up then. “It’s your eyebrows,” she said and smiled. “They look a little different somehow?”

  “Yeah,” Kara said with a sneer. “Like there are two of them.”