by Kim Tomsic
“You haven’t?”
“No. Why?” Gigi clangs her locker door shut and places her brush on the bench.
“Because you just asked me to come over on Friday.” I pause.
“Yeah?” Gigi looks at me, confused.
“Isn’t my daddy the reason you stopped hanging out with me?”
“Oh.” Gigi looks down and fiddles with her thumb cuticle. “That’s what you think?”
“Okay?” I shove my wet towel and dirty clothing into a plastic bag and tie it shut at the top. “Why did you stop hanging out with me and Bailee?”
“The truth?” Gigi sits on the bench.
“Duh. I’m not asking for a lie!”
“Hmm.” Gigi crosses her arms. “Really? Because you haven’t minded lies lately. At least when you’re asking me to cover for you about who left the locker room when.” Gigi looks ready to say more but stops herself, takes a breath, and sighs it out. Her face softens. “I’m sorry. That sounded snotty, and I really want to say this right. I’ve held on to this for a long time, and I want you to hear the truth, because I think it would be great if we could hang out again.”
“Oh . . . kayyyyy.” I sink onto the bench beside her and set my stuff down. “Tell me.”
Gigi takes another breath. “Your obsession with the curse grates on my nerves.” She pauses. “It’s all you ever talk about. You, your curse, your problems. And if it’s not about the curse, then it’s all about your art. You never wanted to talk about me or my interests.”
I blink. What are her interests? And wondering makes me know she’s right.
Gigi lays her hands in her lap. “I was excited when fifth grade ended, and thinking about us becoming middle schoolers, but you still wanted to do your color curses and talk about the llama loungers—”
“Lounge llamas,” I correct.
“Yeah, whatever. Thing is, I’m over that stuff. I moved on. You never noticed. You haven’t noticed a lot of things, like Hudson catching feelings for you—”
“What? No, we just both—”
“Or Curtis’s crush on Bailee. I liked them both and you were clueless. I tried talking to you about it and other things, but you never wanted to talk about boys or crushes or basketball.” It all comes rushing out of Gigi’s mouth.
I press my lips together and listen.
“And I hated being squished in the middle on the bus. Plus, we only ever did what you wanted, like art club, when I don’t even like to draw. Remember when I asked you to join the Lab Rats and you totally blew me off?”
“Wow.” Recognition sinks down on me. It doesn’t feel good, but I know it’s all true, like how I’ve never gone to any of her clubs, and I didn’t make Bailee’s friends-forever wish. “You’re right. I’m really sorry.”
“I know you are.” Gigi’s voice comes out gentle. “I can see you’re changing. You and Priscilla calling the truce, and you owning up to the cricket stuff to Priscilla was dope. No more lies, okay?”
“Deal.” I stand in front of the mirror. The hair on the side of my head has frizzed from my shower. “Can I use this?” I pick up her brush.
“Of course.”
I remove my ponytail holder and brush through my hair until it smooths.
“And please, no more lounging llama stuff.” Gigi packs her PE clothing into a pocket of her backpack. “It was fun when we were younger, but . . .”
I blush, thinking about the new pajamas I love so much. “Thanks for the invitation on Friday. And for giving me another chance after I was such a lousy friend.”
“Yep.” She says this with a smile, the old smile she used to give me when we’d hang out.
My heart glows with brilliant beams of sunshine gold, but I keep the color to myself.
“I appreciate you telling me the truth.” I weave the ponytail holder back into my hair.
“So here’s the deal. On Friday, a bunch of us girls will get ready together, and then the guys will come over—Hudson, Ryan, Steven, and Justin.” She pauses and her smile grows bigger.
“You already invited Justin!”
“Yep. I told him you’d be there. I hoped you’d say yes. Anyhow, I invited a few other sixth- and seventh-grade girls and guys to come over, hang out, and have my mom’s spaghetti. And since it’ll be too many people to fit in my mom’s car, we’ll take the city bus to school when it’s time for the dance.”
“That sounds awesome!” I hand back her brush. I’ve missed Gigi so much. The smell of garlic cooking in her house. Her mom’s big hugs. Her dad’s deep laughter. But I think of Bailee. It wouldn’t be fair if I ruin the fun for her. “What did Bailee say?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s super-mad at me about the crickets, so I don’t know if she’ll want to come to your house if I’m there.” I take a breath and sigh it out. “It’s her choice. If she doesn’t want me there, I won’t come.”
“Ummm.” Gigi loops her backpack straps on her shoulders. “Sage, I’m not inviting Bailee.”
“What? Why not?”
“We’re being honest still, right?”
My stomach tightens. “Um . . .”
Gigi goes on. “All that hand washing and the Clorox wipes and the germinator gig, and how we can never do things like photobooths because of how she freaks out about small spaces, and her screaming about bugs and—”
“Stop,” I say. “Bailee is a lot more than that. She’s generous and kind and honest and loyal.”
Gigi shrugs. “Sage, we can like different people. You don’t have to choose me or Bailee. I’m just saying I’m not inviting her. It’s your call if you want to come or not, but you should.” She smiles at me. “You can let me know later. I’ve got to run.”
“No thanks.” I don’t need time to think about it. “If Bailee finds out she’s the only one not invited, it’ll make her feel awful. Count me out.”
Gigi looks sad about my choice. “Okay.”
I miss Bailee, and I decide right then that Miss Tammy’s advice about using my own magic means I can fix my mess-up. I’m going to prove to Bailee that being best friends is stronger than any curse.
Chapter 33
I walk into the science classroom and face the graveyard of black-and-white solstice signs that litter the walls: “Solstice-sunset, tomorrow!” and “Winter Solstice Dance” and “24 hours until the solstice”—ominous reminders that time is running out. But I have to believe that with Priscilla and me teaming up, we’re on the right track for lifting the curse for good. Our kindness plan will solidify it.
I sit at an open desk next to Steven. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a cloud and a lightning bolt.
“Any of that in our future?” I say, nodding to his shirt.
He touches the sides of his head. “Can’t say for sure. My mind is cloudy.”
“Haha.” I smile.
Class begins, and the teacher lectures on the life cycle of a plant. I doodle in my spiral notebook—unicorns, guinea pigs, and basketballs.
Basketballs?
Why would I draw basketballs?
I thumb through pages in my notebook, seeing the downhill regression of my sketches from last week to this week. Ugh. The curse-reverse is alive and strong. Maybe so strong that nothing can stop it now. Even wishing on a shooting star didn’t help.
But I’m not giving up on my best friend. On the way to my next class, math, I spot Bailee and follow her down the hall. “Hey.”
She doesn’t look at me.
“I’ve decided no curse is going to ruin our friendship.” I’m talking to her back, because she’s rushing ahead of me. “I’m going to make this up to you.”
“You’re blaming the curse?” Bailee sounds annoyed.
“No! I’m saying our friendship is more than gold.”
“Just go,” she says.
I continue following her, rapid-firing everything Mrs. Rimmels said in the teachers’ lounge and telling her how kindness may be the cure.
“Kindness?” Bai
lee says, fired up. “Are you trying to guilt me into forgiving you?”
“No! I . . . I’m just trying to tell you what’s up. I don’t want to be a liar or have any more secrets. And I want you to know that I’m going to pay attention to things you’re interested in, too. Like if there’s a junior lawyers’ club or something you want to join, I’ll go with you, and—” We walk into math class.
Bailee stops at the doorway. “You know what would be kind? When I sit over here, you don’t follow me.”
My face flushes hot.
Bailee takes a seat at the far side of the room, and Curtis joins her.
Priscilla walks in, and I pull my shoulders back and focus my attention on what needs to be done in this moment. We nod like a handshake and then Priscilla and I exhaust ourselves trying to be kind to each other: “Pardon me.” “No, pardon me.” “Would you like this seat?” “No, please, you take the seat.” “After you.” “Please, you go first.” It doesn’t feel sincere, exactly, but we’re really trying our best.
During the last fifteen minutes of class, Mrs. Floss writes three equations on the board. “Work the problems on your own, and when you’re finished, you may use the last few minutes to talk through the solutions with a partner.”
Bailee picks Curtis.
I say to Priscilla, “We’ve spent the last class, not to mention the whole morning, on nice things. Let’s partner up and test the curse.”
“Okay, how?”
“Solve the math problems and sketch three doodles.”
“Smart,” Priscilla says. “If the curse is over, my math will be perfect and your doodles will be perfect.”
“Exactly.”
Seven minutes later, we exchange papers and doodles. We check with Mrs. Floss to see whose math is right.
“Nice job, Sage,” Mrs. Floss smiles at me. “All three are correct.” She clears her throat. “And Priscilla, you got one right.”
We return to our seats and compare doodles. Priscilla sketched a whole litter of puppies with cute noses, wagging tails, and floppy ears. I drew another lopsided basketball.
“Looks like my dad will never get out of jail.” Priscilla’s words come out choked.
The bell rings.
“Don’t worry,” I say, hearing the effort in my voice. “We’ll figure out how to break the curse.” Truth is, I’m scared we won’t, and that even if my daddy does come home, I’ll be moving to a new town with a sharp-edged momma.
Bailee straps her backpack to her shoulders, and just when I think she’s going to walk out the door, she comes over to us. “I’m still mad at you,” she says to me. “But since the clock is ticking, I’ll help brainstorm ideas at lunch.”
“Really?” A basketball-sized lump lodges in my throat. I want to hug her or thank her for giving me another chance, if that’s what this is, but then Bailee turns to Priscilla. “I’m doing this for you. You helped me the other day when I needed to leave school after . . . the crickets.”
“Thanks,” Priscilla says. “I brought lunch from home, so I’ll save seats.” She gives us both a look of concern and starts to say something before she presses her lips together and heads off, leaving Bailee and me to walk to lunch in silence.
We pass more solstice signs, like countdown clocks stalking me.
In the cafeteria line, the smell of chicken stir-fry wafts toward us. I stay awkwardly silent, dying to talk to Bailee just like the good old days, but nervous that if I do, she’ll walk away like she did in math. When it’s our turn, we take chicken-and-rice bowls and small plates of carrot sticks. Across the room, Priscilla is already seated and talking with Jada, Gigi, and the guys.
Mrs. Downy lingers just a few steps away from the register, and I almost don’t recognize her because she’s wearing peach-colored lipstick, business-gray slacks, and a pressed white shirt.
When it’s my turn to pay, I hand my lunch card to the cashier and then stand next to Mrs. Downy while I wait for Bailee. “You look nice, Mrs. Downy.”
She either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t notice. Her eyes are laser focused on the people across the room, two men and a woman.
Bailee finishes paying and walks by like I don’t exist, heading to the lunch table without me. It’s like a kick in the gut. A painful lump grows in my throat and I stay next to Mrs. Downy, needing a moment to swallow down the hurt.
After a few moments, I say, “Who are those people?”
The strangers across the room are dressed in severe dark suits and carry clipboards and black pens. They walk to different spots in the cafeteria and mark notes on their papers. Mrs. Downy doesn’t answer, her face in a worry knot.
One suited man has a mustache that twists up at the tips. The other man is tall and skinny and has curly brown hair. They follow behind a woman who is wearing dark-rimmed glasses. The three stop, look up, and glance from one light fixture to the next. They seem satisfied and check something off on their clipboards.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Downy says under her breath, “all bulbs working.”
The woman hands the mustached man a white glove. He slips it on and runs his fingers over the windowsill and then across an empty tabletop. He inspects his glove and then sends a smile across the room to Mrs. Downy. She exhales and nods at him.
Mr. Lehman and Mrs. Rimmels, who usually eat in the teachers’ lounge, walk up and join Mrs. Downy and me.
“Hello, Sage,” Mrs. Rimmels says.
“What’s going on?” I pick a carrot off my tray and crunch into it.
The suits walk to the silverware bin.
“Mrs. Downy is having her JOTY inspection and those are the judges,” Mr. Lehman says.
The woman pulls on a pair of plastic gloves and picks up a fork by the gray metal stem. She twists it one way and then the other, adjusting her glasses as she peers at it closely.
“As you can see,” says Mrs. Rimmels, “Mrs. Downy is a bit of a nervous wreck, even though we all know she is the best janitor statewide.”
Mrs. Downy tries to smile, but her mouth barely quivers.
Mr. Lehman continues. “We are here to stand with Mrs. Downy in solidarity until the inspection is over.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Downy wrings her hands. “What if they ask about Cricket-gate? I’m sure it happened because of that hole in the wall, but I don’t want to blame the building committee.”
“Don’t fret.” Mrs. Rimmels pats Mrs. Downy’s arm. “You have done an immaculate job handling the mysterious outbreak. Answer honestly and let the chips fall where they may.”
I cringe.
The inspector returns the fork to the bin and drops her plastic gloves in the garbage. The three judges check their clipboards.
I stand with my teachers and continue crunching carrots and watching the suits inspect our cafeteria. They squat and look under lunch tables. They check the outlet covers. They look at vents. They walk from corner to corner and then move toward Mrs. Downy.
She sucks in her breath.
I’m out of carrots. It’s time for me to leave, but my legs are cement.
“Mrs. Downy,” the woman says, “you already know James and Charles, but I have not formally introduced myself. I am Sarah Quigly, head of the JOTY committee. I’d like to personally tell you that your cafeteria is beautiful.”
That’s right. I smile and take a breath. The Ms. Quigly woman vibes a friendly fuchsia color even though she’s wearing all black. I have a good feeling about her.
“Spick-and-span. A model of cleanliness.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Downy’s voice shakes.
“Your entire school is spotless,” says the inspector with the mustache. The other two judges nod.
“The hallways, too,” Ms. Quigly adds.
The cafeteria buzzes with conversation, movement, and laughter, and I stand there grinning.
“We are very lucky to have Mrs. Downy at Goldview K–8,” says Mrs. Rimmels. “She keeps our school sparkling.”
Ms. Quigly smiles kindly and adjusts
her glasses. “Now, Mrs. Downy, there are rumors about an alleged bug incident at your school. We’d like to give you an opportunity to go on the record and give your side of the story.”
A clammy feeling spreads over my face and neck.
The other two judges click their black pens and hold them, ready to write.
“Well.” Mrs. Downy clears her throat. “You won’t find a single bug in this school. Everything has been taken care of.”
“That’s true!” I say.
“Shhhh,” Mr. Lehman says softly.
The inspectors focus on Mrs. Downy. “You’re saying there were bugs?” says the mustached man. “In your gym. In your school. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Downy says solemnly. She looks down and stares at the man’s shiny black shoes.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Bugs are attracted to food crumbs and standing water, all of which fall under your charge.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Mrs. Downy says respectfully. “I have no explanation.”
I squeeze my hands together. Words compete in my mind—infamous to famous, infamous to famous. If I confess, I’ll be disqualified from the Noodler contest and everyone will keep thinking of me as Shady Sassafras. But if I don’t tell, I’ll be a fraud and there’ll be no point in a kindness campaign, not if I’m going to let Mrs. Downy fail.
The mustached judge’s mouth twists. Mrs. Quigly’s face floods with regret. The skinny, curly-haired man reaches into his suit pocket and takes out three red pens. He quietly hands one to each inspector.
Infamous to famous.
Mrs. Rimmels pats Mrs. Downy’s arm again.
My ears drum.
The judges uncap their red pens.
My shoulders feel like I’m carrying a Winnebago. “Um.”
The pens move in slow motion toward the papers on the clipboards.
My throat tightens. I squeak out, “Excuse me?”
“Now is not a good time,” Mr. Lehman says kindly.
“But I have a confession,” I say. “The crickets were imported!”
Infamous.
The red pens stop moving.
“I . . . I am the one who brought crickets to school. They did not get in because of uncleanliness.”