Courage for Beginners

by Karen Harrington

  “The text has to show some kind of flattery or compliment,” Anibal says.

  Anibal hangs up. I roll over on my side and look at Faux-na Lisa. Right now, her smile annoys me. Her constant happiness. Her always being on my wall, watching my every move.

  How are you today, Lisa?

  Oh, I’m fine, like always.

  I get out of bed, take an old Eiffel Tower poster from my bulletin board, and tack it over the painting. Faux-na Lisa can look through the tower all night. I don’t want to look at anyone, not even her faux French face. I close my eyes and let all the stories float up from the corner of my broken bed frame and into my dreams. I invite all of them in. Impressionist painters from a giant art book. Two of the Brontë sisters. Wizards from Hogwarts. Hemingway, who I haven’t read yet, but is still invited to the party because he’s Dad’s favorite. I beg the authors, characters, and words to dance around my mind and make some kind of noise that will drown out the first awful day of school. But they say, We’re trying to come in, Girl Who Sleeps on Books, but there is no room here. All of your brain is currently being occupied by thoughts of someone named Sandy Showalter. We’ll come back later when there’s somewhere to sit.

  chapter 11

  Here is a girl who doesn’t even know Sandy Showalter, yet finds the girl staggeringly irritating for being the object of Mr. Gomez’s affection.

  Sandy Showalter.

  She has the kind of first name you can actually find on pencils and key chains. There are no pencils with Mysti on them. I have looked. But there is Sandy on everything.

  Sandy is part of the cheer squad at Beatty Middle School. Her perfect smooth hair is true and natural French Roast Brown. She could be the model on the box of Mama’s hair color, in fact. And she smiles. Always smiles. The cheer squad walk around school all flatironed and together like a pack of unopened gum, all in perfect blue-and-white wrappers. They’ve all been to Dr. Smile, and so they smile, even with the sparkly braces showing. They are obsessed with the colors Cobalt Blue and Snowflake White, the colors of Beatty Middle School. On game days, the cheer squad wears cute blue shirts. They wear their hair in neat ponytails with a mess of blue-and-white streamers hanging down. They carry small dry-erase boards through the school with commands to Go, Team and Get Fired Up in blue marker. And I don’t know for sure, but I think they have a rule that each cheerleader must bounce down the hallways, because that’s what they do. You get hypnotized by the swaying ribbons. Ribbons of shiny blue and white against shampoo-model hair.

  The cheer squad does not worry about falling trees and how they can change your life by making you count cans of dog food. They do not worry if they are in the hipster club. They do not worry about where they are going to sit at lunch. Wherever they choose to sit is automatically cool.

  It would be obvious even to my dog, Larry, that I, Mysti Murphy, am not like the cheer squad girls.

  It’s not so much that I couldn’t be one of them. You only need your parents’ permission and a check for four hundred dollars. (And probably a good flatiron, which I do not have.) Even Girl Who Likes Horses is one of them. No, Mysti Murphy would not be on the cheer squad because it involves a lot of transportation. Transportation is also something cheer squad girls don’t worry about. They have mothers who take them to get frozen yogurt after school. They are the frozen-yogurt-after-school kind of girls. Pretty, frozen-yogurt-eating, blue-and-white-ribbon-wearing, flatiron-owning, Anibal Gomez–attracting girls.

  “What’re you looking at, Wayne?” I asked at lunch.

  He put his head down. His cheeks went pink. “Nothing.”

  Those ribbons.

  They must have special powers because that’s the shortest sentence I’d ever heard Wayne Kovok utter in my life.

  Sandy Showalter is not known to be mean. I even heard a fellow cheer buddy say, “Oh, your password is probably ‘Be Nice,’” and they all giggled. But Sandy would sooner notice a dead cricket in a hallway corner than me.

  Why do I get myself into these stinky pickles? Signing up for talent shows. Agreeing to social experiments. Throwing down the “I can be Sandy Showalter’s friend” gauntlet, which will happen on the twelfth of never. Still, I take small comfort in the fact that Russian turtles orbited the moon before real astronauts, thank you, Wayne Kovok. If a reptile can get in a moon’s orbit, maybe a gap-toothed girl can get in the orbit of a popular, pretty, ribbon-wearing girl named Sandy. And if Anibal wins, then I will get him back as my friend. I guess it’s now possible that I win either way, which makes me an undercover genius.

  chapter 12

  Here is a girl trying on the three hats owned by the poor, tragic Murphy family and, failing to achieve any kind of style, deciding against hat wear and opting for a barrette.

  “Did you know that falling coconuts kill more people than sharks each year?” Wayne asks.

  “What?” I say to Wayne.

  “It’s true,” Wayne says. “Way more.”

  Lunch.

  A few days into the school year and we have already formed a routine on Loser Island. We eat quickly. The gamers hardly look up, just reaching out blindly toward potato chip bags. Wayne Kovok shares a factoid. Girl with Scarf scowls. And I hide a cafeteria-made chicken-on-a-bun in my book bag for Larry to eat later, then munch on carrots.

  Crunch, crunch.

  Trivia.

  Grimace.

  Conceal.

  Also, there is always the Anibal Gomez Trying to Be Cool channel for my viewing pleasure.

  Today, Anibal watches Sandy Showalter and her magic ribbons as she and other cheer squad members bounce across the cafeteria holding spirit signs, smiling like it’s the latest fashion accessory. You can just see little pink hearts float off Anibal’s stupid hat. I feel a tiny bit sorry for him. To Sandy, he is also a cricket in the corner.

  Sandy and her friends sit down at a great piece of lunchroom real estate, the tables near the stage. She applies clear lip gloss and sips juice through a straw. She makes middle school look easy.

  “What are you looking at?” Girl with Scarf asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  I brace myself for whatever stinging remark she’s going to make about my carrots.

  “Ask away.”

  “Um, should I carry a purse in middle school?”

  Girl with Scarf is like the dollar-store candy machine. You put in your money, turn the knob, and wonder what is going to come out.

  “No, no, you don’t really need a purse. A book bag is fine.”

  “Okay.”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a name or should we just refer to you as Dr. Grumpy?”

  Wayne Kovok gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Rama Khan,” she says. “My name is Rama Khan.”

  “Rama Khan?”

  “Yes.”

  She has great parents, this Rama Khan girl. Her name sounds like an action hero or a wizardly command. I write it down in my notebook when she’s not looking. RamaKhan!

  But by the time we get to Texas History, I’m still shaking off a compliment about Anibal I overheard in the hallways.

  Oh, he’s so cute in science! He kept untying my shoes!

  I don’t know much about much, but I do know that if you’re easily impressed by unlaced footwear, you are probably not going to grow up and change the world.

  I’m not proud of this, but Anibal’s growing reputation irritates me so much that I create a not-so-fabulous artistic doodle in my notebook while our teacher gets all animated about the state of Texas, as if we’ve all just gotten off a bus in the Lone Star State this very minute and need a tour guide with boots. Ms. Overstreet. She is not your typical twin-set-sweater-wearing breed of educator. I can tell that already. Her bluebonnet shirt is as bright as a blue-sky day. Her ability to spit forth facts is stupefying.

  Sure enough, Wayne Kovok leans in and laps up Ms. Overstreet’s trivia like Larr
y laps up water on a hot day.

  “Texas is the only state to have had flags of six different nations fly over it. More wool comes from this state than any other in the nation. The Alamo is our cradle of liberty… and the name Texas comes from the Caddo people’s word teysha, which means ‘Hello, friend.’ That is a great way for all of us to begin this school year. Let’s all say teysha to our friends.”

  Blah. Blah. Blah.

  No teysha for Mysti.

  “Did you know that Alamo is Spanish for ‘cottonwood’?” Wayne asks.

  “Very good, Mr. Kovok. I see you, too, are a fan of Texas freedom. Teysha!”

  I wish a coconut would drop on my head right now.

  Ms. Overstreet finishes her speech about how the history of Texas is of vital importance to all current and future Texans. That the legacy the heroes left us is to be revered and carried forward. That learning about the past is important to predict the future.

  “So, cowgirls and cowboys, how can you know where you are going if you don’t know your past?” Ms. Overstreet exclaims.

  I write down The History of Anibal.

  This may just be a social experiment. This may just be my way of insulting him in private. Maybe.

  I continue drawing a stick figure of large Anibal of the past in my notebook. Then small, present-day Anibal. I thump cartoon Anibal with my fingers and imagine myself cutting him down in front of his new friends. I write that he is a stupid and formerly round you-know-what and uses discount deodorant that does not work.

  Here is a girl with astonishing grace and finesse, informing the crowd that Anibal sleeps on a mattress made of stuffed animals.

  “Miss Murphy, do you have something to share with the class?” Ms. Overstreet asks.

  Ms. Overstreet holds a Texas-shaped coffee mug, which temporarily dazzles me because she is somehow drinking from the Panhandle. I’ve lived here all my life and can never get over how many different things can be made from the shape of Texas.

  I shake my head “no,” and my face and neck go red like Mama’s tomatoes.

  Right at this moment I really believe down to my bones that I am a character in a book, not just wishing for it to be true.

  Do you know why?

  Because what happens next has so much manufactured injustice it reeks of fiction.

  Reeks!

  Ms. Overstreet approaches my desk, spins my notebook, and inspects it. Her face contorts in a manner no wrinkle cream will ever undo. Next thing I am out in the hallway, waiting for the counselor, Ms. Peet, to come give me the “zero tolerance against bullying” speech.

  Me.

  Mysti Murphy.

  I’m the bully.

  Wait, I’m the bully?

  How can that be? I just drew a meaningless cartoon, not a poster splattered across the Internet. When did quietly mocking someone in your notebook become bullying? Meanness, maybe. Lameness, probably. But if a true bully walked up to me right now, he’d tell Ms. Peet I was a pure amateur.

  Ms. Peet has a soft, even voice and scolds me in the longest run-on sentence in the universe.

  “I know this might seem like harmless doodles, but it might plant a seed of intolerance and you must show Mr. Gomez respect and not judge him and not ridicule his appearance, do you understand what I’m saying, Miss Murphy, really, we cannot have unfriendly doodles, sorry to be harsh with you, but we do expect the upper grades here at Beatty Middle School to set the example for incoming sixth graders.”

  When she says “incoming sixth graders,” I envision actual sixth graders flying through the air like missiles, the teachers shouting Incoming!

  Then I have to sign a form from Ms. Peet stating I will study the Beatty Middle School Rules of Tolerance and Kindness and commit myself to “being a buddy, not a bully,” like all the signs plastered on the walls of the school say, but which apparently don’t apply to nefarious individuals in the cafeteria who make fun of a person’s unfortunate dental situation.

  When the final bell mercifully rings, I run to my locker and pack up in a furious speed that could win me a berth on the Olympic sprinting-out-of-school team.

  If such a team exists.

  chapter 13

  Here is a girl texting Anibal Gomez simply because she can.

  Hey!

  My plan is really working. Plus U got busted. So cool.

  U R street rat crazy!

  What about your dad?

  Still sick

  Sorry

  Whatever

  I mean it!

  Thanks.

  Do you need a stuffed animal?

  Yeah, Big Bird’s beak is keeping me awake.

  Ouch! Call me!

  My phone rings and for half an hour I talk about stupid things with Anibal. Really stupid things like posters and school projects and what’s on sale at the dollar store. And then I pretend to want to know more about hipsters and listen to him talk about mustaches and specific grooming and his quest to find the perfect ironic T-shirt because he read an online article (“9 Ways to Be a Hipster”) and it recommended this kind of shirt.

  I grow bored of all this talk of hipster accessories and appearance and his Sandy infatuation, but I let it go. I just want to hear his voice. The truth is, I like knowing his voice is traveling right into the space of my ear across an unseen phone line, creating an unseen bridge of friendship.

  chapter 14

  Here is a girl with a mind full of worry and a stomach full of carrots.

  September is here.

  Unfortunately, nobody told the new month she could cool down a bit, summer is officially over. It’s blazing hot and the house only has noise because the AC is still working at full tilt. Life without Dad shows us that he was the really noisy one in our family, because these days our house is mostly quiet except for the sound of my suggestions. Don’t think I haven’t suggested that we buy food online and have it delivered to our front door. We don’t live under a rock or in a technological wasteland. We have an address and a computer.

  “Well, Mysti, I don’t trust food that someone else has handled,” Mama said after I raised this idea. “Plus, the news says that nefarious people steal credit card information, and our garden will—”

  Mama continued talking, but I tuned her out. She can let the air out of my idea balloons faster than you can say Larry.

  Larry.

  Larry’s stomach is gurgling now because he’s on a reduced diet. I’m cutting back a little until Dad can go to the store again.

  “It won’t be permanent, Larry,” I tell him. He looks at me with big brown eyes. I love this dog. I love him too much to say that there are no new signs of progress about Dad. That I don’t really know when I can give him a full bowl of kibble.

  All I know is that Dr. Randolph predicts Dad will be better by Halloween. Eight weeks. Mama is marking off the days on the kitchen calendar with red pen and signing papers from an insurance company so that money can still come to 4520 Fargo Drive. And I work out how I can feed my dog, because the insurance company did not send dog food. These are truly the problems of the great story I’m living in.

  “I can only give you half as much right now, boy,” I told Larry.

  Laura often ends up sleeping in Mama’s bed now. Mama sleeps in a lot more days than she wakes. It’s actually a blessing. She is easier to take care of when her head is on the pillow. When she’s awake, it’s like walking on eggshells. You say the wrong thing. Crack. The tears come. She tries not to cry in front of me when she is heating up a can of soup for dinner. I know she cries when she’s alone. Her eyes are red when we come home from school, and she says it’s because she just talked to her sister. I’m left to figure out what that means, I guess, but since her sister always pokes on Mama about the subject we don’t speak of, I suppose that makes her cry. And it makes me mad at my aunt for being a jerk.

  Today is a sleeping-in day.

  So it’s left to me to magically prepare a lunch for Laura and make sure she has her homework. I set
up the coffeepot but use yesterday’s coffee grounds and sprinkle a few new ones over the top, like Mama told me.

  It will stretch our supply until Dad comes back, she had said.

  We are all stretching.

  Or shrinking. Larry is shrinking.

  So I count the weeks until Halloween.

  I count the number of frozen mystery meats way back in the deep freeze. Thirteen.

  I count the remaining rolls of toilet paper in the hall closet. Ten.

  I count the cans of dog food in the garage. Seventeen.

  I count the scoops of laundry soap that produce clean-sheet day. (The unopened box says forty-four loads.)

  I count.

  I count.

  I hope today she does not paint more ships. When she is sad, she paints ships or water scenes. I don’t know why. That is between Mama and her paintbrush.

  Now, it’s not even eight in the morning and there is a storm of thinking in my head.

  I think.

  I think.

  I think until my head hurts.

  In math class.

  “Did you see him today?”

  I’m forced to hear Girl Who Draws Tortoises and Girl Who Likes Horses and all their sentences framed as questions. They continue to gush about Anibal. If only he liked one of them, half of my life problems would be solved. Maybe I should collect these compliments and pass them on.

  “Isn’t he so cute?”

  “I know, right?”

  “I wonder what kind of name Anibal is? Egyptian?”

  “Do you think so?”

  “He’s changed so much from last year when he did that stupid talent show thing with what’s-her-name. The girl who read the poem?”

  Ahem.

  They turn to me. I wave. “The name is Mysti. And I wrote that poem.”

  “Oh, well—”

  “Why do you draw turtles all the time?”

  “It’s a tortoise!”

  “Sure it is.”

  I thump my stick-figure drawing again. I should just stay quiet, like always.