by Amber Kizer
“Don’t worry. Just give him the whole having-PMS thing, and mention you’re thinking about going out for soccer to be part of the school spirit. They’re afraid none of us will try out.”
My face lights up. Okay, now I really do care. Sweaty, sexy Lucas and getting out of Brangate. I like. “I’m in.”
“Good.” Her expression has “gotcha” all over it.
I sigh. I hate running. “Give me the details tonight.”
“Sure.” She bites into a rather nasty-looking peach and spits out the bite.
I so could have told her peaches aren’t in season. But then it occurs to me I don’t know why she wants to play soccer. “Clarice, why do you want to do this?”
“I don’t know. It feels important.” She actually looks serious.
I guess I can live with that, at least until I can drag the real reason out of her. “Do you know anything about soccer?”
“Not a thing. Other than all the exchange students are mad about it. And Lucas, of course.” She shakes her head and bats her eyelashes in an effective manner.
“Of course.” I slug her shoulder.
“I’ve got a couple of DVDs with Mia Hamm on them. We’ll watch them.”
Somehow, I’m fairly certain watching the soccer will lead to playing the soccer. Oh, Holy-Mother-of-Shin-Guards-and-Grass-Stains, what have I gotten myself into?
“Ms. Garibaldi, I have to say I’m surprised to see you in my office.” Princi-Pal Jenkins leans back in his throne, trying to be all pally and stuff.
I’ve been in his office many times to pick up the Brain quarterly awards. He’s conveniently forgetting all those times. “Me too.” Seems safest to agree with him and feed the delusions.
“I have spoken with Ms. Whoptommy and she’s given me her side of the story.” He throws his hands in the air. “I know, hey, there are always two sides to a pancake. I mean, hey, I’m cool.” He stands up and moves closer to me.
What in Holy-Mother’s-Name-of-the-Elderly is he talking about? He wants something from me. Is this when kids start crying? Cuz I could try that. I pinch my outer thigh really hard to work up some wet.
“Gert.” He leans on his desk all casual-chummy. “Tell me your side of the pancake.”
“Oh.” I really don’t think Ms. Whoptommy got it wrong. I mean, there are only so many ways to say it. “Here’s the deal. I really didn’t mean to say it out loud. Really, I’m shocked it came out at all, because I respect Ms. Whoptommy.” I’m trying to get my cues from his facial expression. Can’t beat them, join them in the delusion. “I—really, so, I have really bad PMS.” I can’t believe I just said that. Who uses PMS as an excuse anymore? I feel dirty.
His eyes glaze over. He’s wearing his discomfort like a new tie—all choked up and turning red. What is it about men not getting the bleeding thing? It’s not like we have a choice.
I continue. “I just really don’t know how that happened and I assure you it won’t happen again, because I will wear duct tape over my mouth once a month to ensure it doesn’t happen again.” I frantically blink, hoping to give the appearance of tears. I wonder if I can poke myself with the pencil without his noticing. That would make me cry.
Can you believe this drivel I’m making up? Who knew I’m this quick on my feet? I should maybe think about a career where I’m all off-the-cuff all the time. I’m good at it. Passing this authoritative moment with surfing colors.
He pats me on the shoulder. “That won’t be necessary. We don’t like students to hurt themselves as part of self-expression, or in this case, self-unexpression. It’s against board policy. So please, don’t use the duct tape, I’d hate to see you back here.”
“Okay, no tape. But I will be supercareful about what comes out of my mouth.” Super? I used the word “super.”
He nods, all serious. “There is the need to make sure you understand the gravity of the situation. Now, I think you did have a point and I really appreciate you being so candid and taking responsibility for your actions. That ranks highly for me.”
Goody. I nod, try to smile.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “I want to talk with you anyway about a high school exchange program we submit student applications to each year.” He picks a thick packet off his desk. “I’m sure a girl like you is very interested in the world around her.”
He’s waiting for a response. “Of course.” I nod vigorously.
“Good. Some years the competition is very stiff, and rarely do we have multiple teachers suggest the same sophomore, but this year your name came up several times.”
“Really?” I fail to see how I popped out at people when the words “international” and “travel” were batted around.
“It’s a confidentiality issue that I can’t tell you exactly which of your teachers think this would be an exceptional opportunity for you.”
Why the hell not?
“So if it’s all right with you, I’ll have the school’s guidance office work on the paperwork from our end, and all you need to do is fill out these forms and essay and submit them by the deadline.”
He hands the packet to me. I open my backpack and shove it in as politely and nicely as I can. I sense he has more to say that I may not like to hear. “Okay. I will fill it out and send it in. Sure.” What are the odds, really?
“Good. Good. Also, here’s the information on soccer tryouts. I think this might also be a very good venue for your creative and unique approach to the world.”
I think he just called me a freak. Ah, one of the grown-up crossroads. He is offering me an olive branch of compromise. I pretend interest in soccer and he pretends he influenced my life in a healthy direction. “My friends and I were just discussing the try-outs.” I try to look all perky.
“Really?” He’s pleased.
Like I’d lie about that? Of course I would, but I don’t have to, thanks to Clarice.
“Really.”
“Well then, I’ll expect to see you at tryouts and we’ll just consider this conversation concluded.” He pats my shoulder.
“Great.” I try to sound all TV Land.
He scribbles on a pass. “Here’s a tardy slip. Better get to class.”
I practice my inflection. “Great.”
“I’m glad we had this talk.” He actually looks glad. Odd. Silly, silly man.
Slater. Aka Mr. Butt-Twitcher. “Nice of you to join us, Garibaldi.”
I slink into a desk near the front. No one likes sitting in the front of this class. We’re all afraid the twitching could be a contagious African disease he picked up in the Peace Corps.
“Richards, explain to the class what we’ve been discussing.”
Andrew sits taller in his desk. “Our term project, sir.”
“Sir”? Suck-up.
“Which is what?” Slater slaps the eraser against the board.
“A twenty-five-page paper about us.” Drew is going to slip a disk sitting that tall. No one has posture like that.
“Specifically about?” Slater doesn’t bother to turn around.
“Who we are specifically in the world around us, and who we are in comparison to a historical figure at our age.” Now Drew doesn’t sound so sure. Slater isn’t throwing him any cookies.
“Such as?”
“Christ, Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln?”
“Any women on that list?”
Andrew swallows and looks down. “Helen Keller, Queen Victoria, Cleopatra?”
Slater taps the board with chalk. “Yours is called?”
“ ‘Who Is Drew Richards Compared to Christ?’ ” There’s a distinct question at the end of that.
We all twitter. It can’t be helped. Drew as Christ is such a miscast.
“And in this paper you will answer that question in twenty-five double-spaced pages. Your historical data will be accurate. Your comparisons will be inspired, illuminating and thought-provoking. You may use quotations from literature or popular music. Anything is game if it illuminates your character. Howe
ver, you may not use more than fifty words from any one work or source. I will count, so don’t test me, people.”
This is the assignment that gets whispered to eighth graders when they tour for orientation and registration, the one seniors use to terrify the little squirts. It’s the world’s hardest paper to get a passing grade on. Mr. Slater loves failing people because they were inane and uninspired. Basically, he uses this paper to tell each kid they suck and will never amount to anything important.
We’ve all heard stories about flunking out because people didn’t know themselves well enough to prove they existed in Slater’s mind. He’s brutal. Supposedly Jenny Oppenheimer drove off a bridge after turning in a blank piece of paper. That was in the nineties, way before our time. But instead of being convinced the assignment was a bad thing, Slater took her death as validation he was pushing us in the right direction.
Tangent: sorry.
Who is Gert Garibaldi?
I wish I knew.
The parentals are out at a charity thing, so I light a bunch of candles and turn out the harsh overhead fixture. Everyone looks better by candlelight, right? Even my fuzzy pink lamp isn’t soft enough light. I strip down to nothing. Just me. Naked me. I open my eyes and stare at the reflection.
Where did I go?
I wasn’t too tall or too short, fairly straight no matter what angle I looked at. No disfiguring humps or scars or fins. What happened?
I’m still average height. Not so straight. When did my thighs get pudgy? Last week?
My bottom lip hurts from biting down too hard.
I have curves on my hips and curves from my butt, and boobs—all of a sudden I have boobs. I can’t cross my arms like I used to. I have to go under flesh, or put my hands up on my shoulders.
I half turn to the right and keep on inspecting. There are bumps on my upper arms and there’s a zit on my right butt cheek. The backs of my knees stick out; they don’t curve in like they’re supposed to.
My neck is too short. I don’t have a swan neck, I have a chickadee no-neck thing going on.
Where have I been?
My tummy pooches out, rounded like it wants to try out for a geometry class prop.
Where’s my waist supposed to be? Is it the dip under my ribs or right before my hips take center stage?
I want to know. Have I been sleepwalking? I don’t recognize myself. I don’t know this person. I pinch my side just to make sure I can still feel pain.
I have fur between my legs and, even though I shave daily, incorrigible wannabe Chia Pets under each arm.
I face away from the mirror but peer back over my shoulder, trying to see what other people witness when I walk away. Oh my God. Shoot me now. I’m so hoping to find those twin dimples at the base of my spine. Hope is overrated. No backless gowns for me. Hefty garbage bags with armholes.
Snap out of it, Gert. I tell myself to get a grip.
You’re not hideous, just not gorgeous. There are worse things than homely. Right? I could be stupid, or dense, or incapable of honest emotion.
But here’s the hideous deal: I would trade my brains for the bod of any A-list actress. Maybe being beautiful would get old.
Eventually.
No, it wouldn’t. Who are those people who think the inside is so much more important than the outside? No one gets past the outside to get to the inside unless they like the packaging. When was the last time you bought the horridly packaged hot dogs with the little flying pigs on them because you thought the inside had to make up for the piglet motif?
Tangent: sorry.
I shut the closet door, effectively bringing the curtain down on the mirror.
It’s not me in that mirror. She’s almost adult and I’m seriously missing the mutant gene that makes me deep and unshallow. Maybe it’s my problem. Maybe someday I’ll be happy with my lumps and bumps and trunk, but that day is not today.
I’m no closer to feeling at one with my body than I am to speaking fluent Swahili. It’s possible, but not highly probable. And please, no breath-holding.
Buttocks!
I throw my naked self against my pillows and navy-puke bedspread.
How come every time I try to visualize myself comfortable and at home in my skin, somehow I’m a size two, with perfect breasts, white sparkly teeth, the hair of a goddess and golden skin? Seriously, what happened to being okay with reality? I was a happy kindergartner focused on crayons, not flaws. I colored outside the lines and I was creative. Now I grow outside the lines and I’m a mutant. I don’t get it.
“You okay?” Clarice asks me on our way to lunch the next day. “You look sick.”
“Just school and stuff.” I can’t shake the post-vacation blahs. I try, but I get bogged down in odd weepiness.
“Whatever, I get it.” Clarice pats me on the back. “When’s the big family dinner?”
I’m having dinner with Stephen’s family tonight. Maybe that’s why I feel like I’m going to puke at any second. And here I’m thinking it was the shrimp I didn’t eat last night. “Tonight.” Breathe, Gert. Breathe.
“Wow. You nervous?” she asks, all guru.
“Maybe.” I swallow bile.
“I think I’d be puking.”
“Hadn’t occurred to me,” I lie.
“That’s a big step, you know. They’ll be all microscoping you and judging you. And you’ll never be good enough for little Stevie.” She speaks as one who knows.
“Not helping.” I’m going to go find a cliff to jump off, thank you.
“Sorry. That’s just what I’ve heard.”
The Oracle, aka older sister. “Older sister, right?”
“Yeah,” Clarice says almost apologetically. “She has doozy stories about weird relatives. She pretty much says it’s the determining factor about your future together.”
“Future together?” Are we kidding? I thought it was food and talking and maybe seeing where he sleeps—a chaperoned tour, of course. Can it really be about the future? “We’re not getting married.”
“You’re certainly not getting married if his mother doesn’t like you.”
“What are you talking about?” I stumble over a perfectly flat floor. “She’s met me. Driven me.” Granted, it was terribly dark and we didn’t speak in the car.
“My sister. Head over heels with this guy, and he was great to her. Perfect. His mother still did his laundry and grocery shopping, even though he lived on the other side of town. The mother hated my sister. Venom. He never called her again. Not that she was too upset because the dude’s boxers were always starched and she didn’t understand that until—”
I must stop the flow. “I get it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I know. But we’re sophomores.” Like this mitigates the relative horrors.
“Never too early to be stealing away the little prince.”
Holy-Mother-of-Small-Boys, what have you done to us? Could we just have a drive-by? I can stand on the curb and Stephen’s mom can peer out the window at me and tally up all the reasons I’m not good enough to date her son and we could all move on. Do I really have to eat food while we’re at it? I’m liable to snort it out my nose.
“I wouldn’t worry, though. Really.” Clarice tries to soothe me.
The panicked horse-near-a-rattler feeling must actually be an expression on my face, not just a lump in my gut. I have nothing to say. I’m afraid to open my mouth.
Clarice’s concern bubbles out her mouth. “My sister is a lunatic. I’m sure she’s exaggerated those stories so I won’t date until I’m thirty or something.” Clarice waves her hands around and pushes her hair out of her eyes.
“Right.” I nod. Here’s what I’ve learned about Clarice’s older sister stories: rarely are they exaggerated. I’m not that lucky.
I glance down at the skirt my mother made me change into. I will never admit this, but I’m kinda grateful she gets all forceful and tells me what to wear occasionally. A plain pale pink blouse and a black wo
ol skirt that hits my calves. I’m even wearing ballet flats I don’t remember having.
I brush a hand over the bracelet Mike gave me, which I’m wearing for luck, and lick my pink-glossed lips. I look like a girl. A nice girl. I’d want my son to date me. I don’t have the Eve-the-seducer look about me at all.
Stephen insists on talking the whole ride over. I think he thinks he’s making things better by giving me the rundown. He’s so not. “Just ignore my grandmother, her glass eye is wonky and she’s nuts.” That’s encouraging. “She lives with us; otherwise, I wouldn’t make you meet her.”
“She can’t be that bad.” Everyone exaggerates how terribly wacky their relatives are, right? To listen, we’re lucky we evolved past rocks and spears.
“She gave me a box of Depends for Christmas.” Stephen sets the parking brake and half turns in the seat to look at me.
“Oh.” How do I react to that?
He doesn’t find my reticence off-putting. “Wrapped in shelf paper.”
What the hell is that? I nod, then give in and ask, “What’s shelf paper?”
“The ugly wallpaper that goes on shelves in the pantry and dresser drawers. She had some extra from my dad’s childhood.”
“Oh.” That’s what that’s called. Mom has rolls and rolls of it in the basement. I can’t recall ever seeing it on any shelves or in any drawers, though. Snap out of it, he’s waiting for a response. “That’s pretty bad.”
“You’re not kidding. She gave my brother a letter that willed him her dentures. She wants him prepared for the future.” Stephen is playing with my hair. Why is he playing with my hair?
“Your parents cool?” I’m just plain scared. I try to pass off the shiver of fear as sophistication. That so did not work.
“They’re okay.” His parents could look like Attila the Hun and his horse named Ray.
Again with the lack of comfort. This should be a fun evening. Why did I agree to this? Because I want to see his bedroom. Do you know how much a personal space says about a person? More than any book ever could. But now I’m calculating that the odds of seeing his room without an escort are nil to none.