We look at each other for a long moment, but she doesn’t say anything back.
“May I be excused?” I finally ask.
“Sure,” she says, and puts her fork down.
I stand there for a second longer, hoping for something back. But I don’t get it. I can feel that the subject is closed.
Going into my bedroom, I shut the door behind me. My head is pounding. Why doesn’t she understand? This is my one chance. And she’s going to let it slip away.
My collage of faraway places mocks me from over my bed. The Eiffel Tower. The Tower of London. The Taj Mahal. All places I’ll never go. Growling, I grab the collage off the wall and throw it to the floor.
I’m so full of anger and sadness and frustration that I feel like I might explode. I yank down the cord to my window blinds—and almost have a heart attack.
Carmen is standing on the walkway outside my window. “You scared me to death,” I say, breathlessly.
She whinnies and jerks her head up. Her eyes are agitated, and I wonder for the billionth time how it’s possible that we can feel each other’s emotions. I pull open the window and crawl out onto the sill. “What are you doing here?”
Carmen’s head is thrashing. She’s hardly ever like this. Placing my hand on her nose, I try to soothe her. “Carmen,” I whisper, and she whinnies again. “Shhhhh,” I say gently. “What’s wrong?” I ask, but really, I already know.
I’m upset, so she’s upset. It doesn’t always happen this way. Most of the time, she calms me when I’m like this. But when my emotions are so big, like they are now, she succumbs and feels them, too.
“Calm down. It’s going to be okay,” I say, even though it’s not. But just being together, my hand on her face, our heartbeats seem to settle. We stay this way for a long time, until I say, “You know what you are, Carmen. You’re supposed to have a horn. But I’m not like you.” I lean my head against her nose and whisper, “I’m a girl.”
As Carmen nuzzles me, I catch sight of the light turning on in Emma’s room across the parking lot. Carmen may be my unicorn, but she doesn’t understand me any better than Emma does. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be . . . different. “I just can’t do it anymore,” I say quietly. “I need to be normal.”
I wipe a tear from my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, and I mean it. Then I crawl back through the window and close it shut. But even when I pull down the blinds, I can still see her pointy profile standing there, watching over me.
Suspicions
The locker room is emptying out around us as Mystic and I change after PE. I’m feeling tired and moody from the night before, and spending the past hour on the volleyball court didn’t help. Why Coach T. thinks it’s a good idea to make a girl with a horn on her head play group sports is beyond me.
After slipping on my sweatshirt, I close my locker to see Mystic balancing a silver bracelet on her index finger. It has a little ornament hanging from it. “Is that the Eiffel Tower?” I ask, amazed.
“Yeah,” Mystic says, somewhat proudly. “It’s for you.”
“Really? It’s beautiful, Myst.”
I go to slip the bracelet on my wrist, but it’s too small.
“It’s not for your arm,” she says.
I look up at her.
“It’s for your horn.”
“My horn?” I look at it again, confused. “Why does my horn need a . . .”
“Hornlet? That’s what I was thinking about calling it. Catchy, right?” She touches the metal Eiffel Tower, and it swings slightly. “I wanted to cheer you up about Dr. Stein. I mean, I don’t know anyone else who gets to wear horn flair, so . . .”
She made this for me. She invented it for me. This is the first time she’s ever made me something, so I know how special it is. But the last thing I want is to draw more attention to this horn I’ll have forever.
“Too weird?” She bites her lip.
“No! It’s nice. I just . . .”
“You don’t want your horn, so why would you want a hornlet?” she says, pretty much reading my mind. Mystic goes to take it back, but I don’t let her.
“It’s nice, really,” I say. “I’m just not ready to wear it . . . yet.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that I probably won’t be ready to wear it ever. And I know that’s a shame, because it’s beautiful. It is so authentically Mystic.
“Totally get that,” Mystic says, then reaches into her locker and pulls out another piece of jewelry.
“Brooklyn’s bracelet!” I say. I was beginning to think Mystic might “forget” to bring it back.
“Yep. So beautiful.”
“And so not yours.”
“I know.” Mystic gazes at the bracelet’s pink stone and whispers, “I’ll miss you,” then goes and places it on a far bench. As she walks back, she opens her palms and says, “Did you doubt me?”
“Of course not,” I say, but I’m relieved that Mystic is giving up a life of crime. As she closes her locker, a toilet flushes inside the locker room. Our eyes dart to each other’s. We thought we were alone.
“Crap,” Mystic mouths as Emma appears from around the stalls. Like a bracelet-seeking missile, she spots Brooklyn’s bracelet right away.
“Where did this come from?” Emma asks, and picks it up. Frozen, we watch her admire the bracelet, then slip it onto her wrist. We’re still frozen as she walks past us. Emma glances at me briefly, with what I take as a knowing smile, but after she’s gone, I have no idea what she knows.
“She heard us,” Mystic whispers, panic in her eyes. “She knows I took the bracelet.”
“Maybe not.”
“Did you see that look on her face?” Mystic says, then adds urgently. “What did I say? Like exactly what?”
“I don’t know. Something about Brooklyn’s bracelet.”
“I said those words? I said ‘Brooklyn’s bracelet’?”
I frown before I can stop myself. “Maybe I did.”
“Oh, crap, I’m screwed.”
“We’re screwed,” I say, because I may not have taken Brooklyn’s bracelet, but I’m a part of this. For all Emma knows, we’re in it together.
At lunch, we watch as Emma ceremoniously walks in and presents the bracelet to Brooklyn, who is completely overjoyed as she puts it on her wrist. Emma doesn’t look over at us, but I know she knows. She was in that stall listening to everything we said. I can feel myself sweating under my shirt.
We can barely eat, watching—but trying not to be noticed—to see if Emma says anything. It seems like she doesn’t. She just basks in Brooklyn’s gratitude.
“What’s going on with you guys?” Nicholas asks, looking up from his drawing.
“Nothing,” Mystic and I say, turning to him guiltily.
He scrutinizes both of us for a long second. “Yeah, right,” he says, then goes back to his phoenix.
“Look,” Mystic whispers, and I turn back to the popular table. Brooklyn is getting up. “Where’s she going?”
I shrug my shoulders and grab my backpack as Brooklyn leaves the cafeteria. “I’ll go see. Meet you in French.”
In the hall, I follow Brooklyn, staying far enough behind so she won’t become suspicious. She’s heading toward the eighth-grade hall. If she catches me, I can always use the excuse that I was on my way to French class to use the internet.
Brooklyn turns the corner up ahead and by the time I get there, she’s disappeared. Shoot!
Monsieur Oliver’s room is open, so I resort to Plan B, to actually check my email. But as I step inside the classroom, I see Brooklyn standing by his desk. Is she telling him?
“Oh, hi,” I say awkwardly.
Monsieur Oliver offers me a shallow wave, then he looks back at Brooklyn, so I sit down in front of a computer and try to listen to what they’re saying. After a moment, Brooklyn books it past me into the hall. I guess she wouldn’t be caught dead showing up early for class. My eyes flit to Monsieur Oliver, afraid of what she’s told him, but he’s just grading p
apers. Not looking at me suspiciously at all.
Trying to calm the paranoia that’s building inside, I open my email.
Still nothing. One more thing not going right today.
After school, I find an empty seat on the bus and close my eyes. Boys yell and play games on their phones. Girls, quieter, talk seriously like they think they’re already in high school. I float through it all like a ghost.
A group of girls moves down the aisle. I know their faces and some of their names. Megan Brotherton, Liz Wilson, someone I don’t know, and Sonya Vai. They pass and don’t even look at me. I’m just the girl with the horn.
It makes me think: Would they even recognize me without the horn? How many people actually know what my face looks like? What if I really did show up one day all hornless and normal? Everyone might think I was a transfer student from some other town. I could start over. Emma and I might even be friends again.
J + E = BBFF
What?
It’s written in black Magic Marker on the back of the seat in front of me. I feel ambushed. Dumbfounded, I stare at the letters. Fourth grade. Emma’s marker. Her handwriting. My smiley face. Am I actually sitting in our old elementary school bus?
This is where we used to sit every day on our way home from school. Emma’s the one who liked to say we would be Best Best Friends Forever. Hold it together, Jewel.
I look around, feeling exposed. Like my feelings are so big that they surely must be seen. But nobody is looking. Nobody knows how much I miss Emma. I miss sitting on the steps outside our apartments and talking for hours while Carmen watched over us. Emma was the only person in my life who ever saw my unicorn. Back then, we’d even call her our unicorn.
Emma’s not on the bus today—probably at some club meeting or cheerleading practice—but if she were, I’d make her look at what we wrote. I swear I could make her remember. Gently, I trace the letters written by Emma’s hand with my finger. It wasn’t that long ago, but it feels like forever. But who am I kidding? I couldn’t make Emma do anything now, especially be my friend again.
Everything’s piling up on me. My mom telling me no. Dr. Stein ghosting me. Emma overhearing me and Mystic. Turning down the French competition. And now this. As soon as I see our apartment complex, I’m out of my seat and up the aisle.
“Well, look at you bust a move,” the bus driver says, surprised to see me up front so fast. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.” She’s used to waiting on me because if Emma is on the bus, I always let her get off first so it won’t be awkward.
I don’t say a word, just stare at the doors. Open. Open. Open. When they do, I rush away from my bittersweet past.
Carmen is waiting for me in the parking lot, but I hurry past her without a word. I tear up the stairs, put my key in the lock, and open the door. A cheerful song from an old movie greets me when I get inside.
“Hi, sweetie!”
“Hi, Grandma!” I have to really work to muster that exclamation point.
“How was your day?” Grandma asks from the couch.
“Fine,” I answer before slipping into our room and closing the door. I really, really hope she’ll get the message and leave me alone for a minute.
I fling myself across my bed. How could everything be going so wrong all at the same time? For an instant, I picture myself on a stage at a French competition without a horn on my head. Ha! What a dream! I don’t understand how I could be so good at something and never get to use it. It’s just one more thing to slip away. Like my stuffed unicorn. Like Dr. Stein. Like my best friend . . . all gone and there’s nothing I can do.
And now that Emma knows about Mystic and the bracelet—and knows that I knew about it—that’s just another wedge to widen the gap between us.
There’s a tap on the door. “Can you give me a minute, Grandma?” I call out.
The door opens anyway. It’s Mom. “You all right, honey?” she asks.
“Why aren’t you at work?” I ask, stiffening.
“I’m going now, actually. With everybody being sick, my schedule’s a nightmare. I’ll be late tonight.” She sits down beside me on my bed and touches my cheek. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Everything,” I say, the sadness sticking in my throat.
“Oh, Jewel,” Mom says and strokes my hair. “I’m sorry.”
I look down. I can’t even meet her eyes.
“I know I’m always telling you to make lemonade out of lemons in life,” she says. “That you can be whoever you want to be, even with a horn. And I know it bothers you. I can’t possibly understand what it’s like being you.”
“You can’t,” I whisper, feeling completely defeated.
It’s silent between us until Mom says, “It’ll be okay.”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Her fingers cup the bottom of my chin and lift my eyes to hers. “It does matter. It matters a lot how you feel. Don’t you ever say it doesn’t matter.”
“No, you were right.” I have no energy left for this fight anymore. “Even if I went to California, the surgery probably wouldn’t work, and then I’d be even more disappointed.”
Mom doesn’t say anything.
“It’s okay.” I try to pull myself together.
“Jewel.” Mom says, snaking her arm around my shoulder.
“I feel so stupid, Mom.”
She pulls me into her chest. And that does it. I’m sobbing like a six-year-old.
Lemonade
When I wake up the next morning, for a blissful moment I forget. But my stuffed-up nose from all the crying reminds me of everything: Emma and the bracelet, Monsieur Oliver and the essay competition, Mom and her sad face.
Good things just don’t happen to us.
That’s what I finally got through this thick head of mine. Grandma injures her arm at the factory, Mom works at a job she hates, and I have a horn. So what if we have dreams of something better? It’s just the way it is. People like us will never live on Park Street. People like us live here, like this.
As my feet touch the floor and I rise out of bed, I can tell that something has changed. My horn feels heavier on my head. It feels final. And I finally understand why Mom does what she does every day.
She has no choice.
She always wants me to make lemonade out of lemons because her life has been full of lemons. Sour, bitter, yellow things. Hopeless things, lemons. And my mom has never found a way to make lemonade.
I am like her now. I live in a lemonade-less apartment with a lemonade-less family, and that’s the way it is. I decide one thing with certainty: Last night is the last time I’ll cry for at least a year. Tears only belong in a world where lemonade is possible.
It’s bright outside, too bright. I turn the clock between my bed and Grandma’s and see that it’s after eleven. Why didn’t they wake me? It’s Friday—a school day.
I hurry out of the bedroom and see Grandma and Mom huddled at the table, Grandma’s arm around Mom’s shoulders.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
She looks up at me. Tears streak her face like I can still feel on my cheeks from the night before. And my mom never cries.
“Sit down, Jewel,” Grandma says, and I do.
“Grandma, what is it?”
“It’s okay, baby doll. Just give your mama a minute.”
Helplessly, I watch Mom struggle to pull it together. She pushes her hair back, and wipes her splotchy face with her palm. This must be bad if she let me miss school over it.
“It’s okay,” Mom finally says, giving me a weak smile.
“Um, it seems like it’s not.”
“It is,” Grandma assures me.
“You’re freaking me out!”
Grandma looks at Mom. “Sweetie, tell her.”
Mom sniffs, and sits up straighter. “Okay,” she says, then looks at me.
“Mom?” I whisper.
“Jewel, honey, I’ve got something to tell you.”
I stare at her
, waiting. Tell me already!
“I want you to know that what you want matters,” she says, her voice breaking. “It does. And I never want you to give up on you.”
“Okay, Mom,” I say. What is going on?
“It’s just . . . you’re the most important person in the world to me. You’re my baby. Without you . . .” She trails off and her chin starts to tremble. “I don’t know what I would do.”
“What your mom is trying to say,” Grandma says, “is you are her miracle, and she only wants you to be happy.”
“I’m happy,” I say, trying to make it better. “I’m okay. Really, I love you, and I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not!” Mom says, and her face twists with a flash of anger. “I don’t know why you have this horn on your head. I don’t. I wish I did. And when none of the doctors could take it off, I just hoped you’d learn to be okay with it.” Mom closes her eyes. I think of Monsieur Oliver, saying the same kind of thing. All these adults wanting to change me into some confident girl I’m not. “But you’re not okay with it. And I can’t make you okay with it. I’m just so afraid something bad will happen.”
“I don’t understand, Mom. What are you talking about?”
“I called Dr. Stein this morning.”
My heart stops. “You what?”
“I decided that it wasn’t fair for me not to get all the information. So I called him. He told me all about the surgery and what he thinks he can do for you.”
“And?” I lean forward in my chair.
“He talked about your horn”—she makes a vague gesture with both hands—“differently than the other doctors. He said there would have to be more tests run to be sure. And he promised he wouldn’t even try to remove it unless he was ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure it was going to work.”
“What are you saying?” I ask breathlessly.
Her eyes meet mine. “I want you to try.”
I feel a sudden rush of lemonade inside. Throwing my arms in the air, I scream through the ceiling. “Woo-hoo!” I’m jumping around the room now. I’m going to get my horn taken off! I hug my mom, and whisper, “Mom, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
Not a Unicorn Page 7