by Julie Murphy
She presses her fingers to my forehead, massaging my furrowed brow away. “You’re gonna need to start using my antiaging cream if you keep wrinkling up your forehead like that. Now tell me what’s got you so worried.”
I look over my shoulder and beyond her where students wait to be seen by the principal, vice principal, or guidance counselor. “Well,” I say quietly, “shit’s sorta hitting the fan. It looks like the dance team lost one of our major sponsors, and now we’re pretty much screwed. We’re gonna have to do a few emergency fund-raisers before State, but there’s definitely not any money for Nationals.”
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Oh, goodness. Well, that just won’t do. What’d Mrs. Driskil say?”
I roll my eyes.
She shakes her head firmly. “That woman’s more useless than fuzz on a peach,” she whispers, tapping her red-painted pointer fingernail against her chin. “Mama’s gonna get you in to see Vice Principal Benavidez. Y’all girls have worked too hard for some silly little money to stand in your way. And Lord knows most of us can’t just spring for a trip to San Francisco.”
I bite down on my lower lip to stop myself from smiling. I can see her going into full-on Mama Bear mode, referring to herself in the third person. I know there’s not much she can actually do other than make the vice principal have a sit-down with me, but there’s something about seeing an adult actually try that makes me feel better. Even if it’s only momentarily. And if I can solve this problem on my own, Sam will have no choice but to name me captain.
“Thanks, Mama.” Before I get to work on picking up attendance sheets, I dig through her desk drawer for a makeup wipe to scrub away the lip print on my cheek. She may have her nose in every corner of my life, but sometimes having a smother isn’t all that bad.
Millie
Three
At lunch, Amanda and I sit in the courtyard at our usual table while she devours the Amy Poehler autobiography I lent her—or I guess I should more accurately say I rehomed it, since my mother was not too pleased when she cracked it open and got an eyeful of some of Ms. Poehler’s language. Amanda chuckles to herself every few minutes, and it takes everything in me not to ask what part she’s reading.
As my eyes roam the courtyard, I spy Willowdean peeking her head out the door and waving frantically. Following her gaze, I find Bo, her boyfriend. Her very cute boyfriend with—as Amanda puts it—a peach butt. Just the thought of a boy’s behind has me blushing.
Will’s eyes sweep the rest of the courtyard, and she waves at Amanda and me before ducking back into the building. I wave back and make a note to myself to talk to Willowdean about my current . . . situation. I’m hungry for any type of advice that will move me from Crush Corner to Boyfriend Boardwalk. (Surely I’m not the only person who imagines life in terms of board games like Monopoly or Candy Land.)
See? This is why I need to talk to Willowdean. I’m going bananas here.
But our opportunities to chat are sadly limited. I wish Willowdean, Ellen, and Hannah at least shared a lunch period with me and Amanda. That’d be a good excuse to see them.
I don’t know what I expected after the pageant. Actually, that’s a lie. I know exactly what I expected. I thought that we’d all be friends. Me, Amanda, Willowdean, Ellen, and Hannah. We’d be this renegade group of mismatched friends that didn’t always make sense, but somehow works. Our shared experience would have bonded us like in The Breakfast Club or some other great ensemble cast. Except that’s not quite what happened. And, to be honest, I’ve spent a lot of time wondering if the Breakfast Club even hung out again after those credits rolled.
I open my thermos and pour the chicken soup into the lid, resigning myself to lunch with a distracted Amanda. “I miss the pageant.”
I’m answered with silence except for the sound of the table rocking back and forth as she bounces her feet.
“Did you see that the school newspaper did a big exposé about how the cafeteria meat loaf doesn’t actually contain any meat?”
Nope. Nothing.
“I was thinking we could sign up for a belly-dancing class together?”
Silence.
I reach across the table and slowly pull the book away.
“But—but I was reading that.”
“Well, I was also trying to engage in conversation with you. And you’ve been headfirst in this book since I picked you up this morning. And!” I add. “This is my book!”
She sighs and dog-ears her place in the book. “You’re the one who made me read this thing in the first place.”
I try not to cringe. Dog-earing a book feels like a violation of some sacred unspoken rule. “What I was saying is I sort of miss the pageant, don’t you?”
She laughs. “Not even a little bit. Those people never appreciated my skills and charm anyway.”
I try not to smile. Amanda’s soccer display for the talent segment of the pageant was inspiring, but the judges didn’t really know what to make of it. I think the comment section of one of her scorecards said something along the lines of “Didn’t quite fit the tone of the pageant. Maybe try juggling next time? Or try going out for the soccer team?”
The soccer team. A sore subject with Amanda. She, her parents, and the administration at school have gone back and forth with the soccer-team coach, Ms. Shelby, who can’t seem to look past Amanda’s physical differences to see the talent she possesses.
Amanda’s been ridiculed for years about her LLD (leg length discrepancy) and about the heel lift she has to wear. But if Amanda can hear or see people making fun of her, you would never know. Her theory is that she sets the tone for how the world treats her. And in her own words: if she wants to be treated like a bada**, then she should act like a bada**. But I know it must get to her sometimes.
“You’re totally right,” I finally say. “But I don’t even mean the pageant. I’m talking about all of us just hanging out, ya know?”
She shrugs, her whole body flopping. “Yeah, I guess. But I kind of like it when it’s just us.”
For a moment her words make my heart burst. Amanda and I haven’t been friends forever like Will and Ellen, but being the butt of everyone’s jokes for much of middle school and high school has bonded us together in a way that is stronger than time. “Me too. You know that. But I just wish we all had a reason to get together every once in a while.”
She squints a little, looking past me at some memory of the last few months. “Yeah, we were like our own kind of club, I guess. Like, a badass lady gang that totally upped the cool factor of that pageant.”
I smile at the thought, but then it hits me. “A club! Oh my God! Amanda, you’re a genius!”
“Well, that’s news to exactly no one, but explain yourself,” she demands in a British accent as she holds her pencil up like a sword.
“Hang on.” I pull my cell phone out of my backpack, which has been emblazoned with all kinds of stitchwork, including flowers, clouds, stars, a few emojis I tried my hand at, and even a little fat mini me on the very bottom of the front pocket. I fire off a quick text to Amanda, El, Will, and Hannah.
Amanda’s phone immediately dings. “You didn’t have to text me, too. I’m sitting right here.” She rolls her eyes before reading the message out loud. “MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MEET ME IN THE COURTYARD AFTER SCHOOL AT 3:15!”
The first bell for next period rings. My phone dings in rapid succession as I get two responses.
ELLEN: I’ll be there.
WILLOWDEAN: DITTO! Plus El and Tim are my ride home.
HANNAH: I’ll be there but only because I don’t have anything else to do.
I drop my phone into my bag and pour my leftover soup back into my thermos.
“Are you even going to tell me what your idea is?” asks Amanda.
“You’ll see at three fifteen.” The second bell rings. “Oh, darn. I gotta go.”
Amanda waves me off, and I dash over to my next class. Anyone with short legs knows the value of speed wal
king, and with my AP Psychology class clear on the other side of the school in the temporary buildings, I barely make it before Mr. Prater locks the door.
Mr. Prater doesn’t mess around with his attendance policy, and tardiness is not tolerated. He’s a very serious guy who is also guilty of making seriously bad jokes.
“Okay, last one,” Mr. Prater says as he shuts the door behind me. “Why was Pavlov’s hair so soft?”
The only response he gets as I walk to my desk is a few groans.
“Come on, y’all!” he says. “Classical conditioning!”
I chuckle as I sit down at the back of the class next to Malik at the fat-kid table. (Well, it’s not just for fat kids. A few kids in wheelchairs use them too, but I lovingly think of it as the fat-kid table. Amanda prefers cool-kid table. She’s not wrong.) Everyone else has those little desks you slide into, but I don’t quite fit—at least not comfortably. I guess it used to bother me to be singled out, but one size doesn’t actually fit all. (Oh my gosh. That is totally my next cross-stitch.)
Malik isn’t fat, but I am, and he’s my go-to partner on group projects. He is also my crush. In fact, I think he might be THE CRUSH TO END ALL CRUSHES. So, yeah, I like him. But the better news is he might like me. I think. Amanda says yes, definitely. He went with me to Sadie Hawkins last fall. We even held hands. But no kiss. To say he’s sending mixed signals would be the understatement of the year.
My hopes were all but deflated until he volunteered to be my escort for the pageant. I thought maybe then, after seeing me win runner-up, that it just might be the night our lips locked. But instead I got a hug, a pat on the back, and a yellow rose. Nothing says “just friends” like a yellow rose. (And nothing’s wrong with being friends, but what I feel for him is different than friendship.) Not only that, but we have these wonderful hours-long conversations every night via chat or sometimes text. And then I show up to school and I’m lucky if he says more than fifteen words to me.
“Hey,” I say, catching my breath for a moment before adding, “Almost didn’t make it.”
Malik shakes his head. “Explain to me how Clover City can afford to build an indoor training facility for their mediocre football team, but the AP Psych class has to meet in a temporary building that can barely withstand a windstorm, let alone a tornado, and has no windows.”
My cheeks warm. My stomach tingles. That was a lot of words. From his mouth. Using his talky lips that also double as kissy lips. “I swear you should run for city council.”
Malik turns to me, his face a little flushed, like he’s just realized that whole rant was said out loud and not in his head. Or online.
I feel like my insides are glowing, and if I’m not careful, they’ll glow so bright everyone will be able to see.
There may or may not be a small notebook in my room with a furry seafoam cover that is dedicated to all the reasons I find Malik crush-worthy. (I like organizing things, okay? Including my feelings.) There are lots of things I might put on those pages in list form.
His thick, commanding eyebrows that perfectly match his shiny black Fonzie-like hair.
His square tortoiseshell glasses that perfectly complement his deep brown skin and the fact that he keeps a dustcloth folded in his wallet to clean them off a couple times a day.
The way he wears penny loafers and puts real, shiny pennies inside them.
How he rolls his jeans at the bottom and always wears subtle but seasonally appropriate socks.
The way he irons his T-shirts and always wears them tucked in with a cardigan in the fall and a leather bomber jacket in the winter, like a hot South Asian greaser with a little bit of dad sensibility mixed in.
But perhaps the thing that really makes my knees melt is Malik’s drive. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t spent a fair share of our AP Psych classes daydreaming about how we’d make the perfect power couple. Me on the six o’clock news and him running for local office. Or maybe even Congress or working as some kind of documentarian/philanthropist.
His leg brushes against mine as he reaches behind his chair to grab his textbook. “I think we’re doing that open-book quiz today.”
“Shoot,” I whisper before I can even dig through my bag. “I knew I was supposed to stop at my locker. You even mentioned it last night.”
He slides his book toward me. “We can share.”
I smile. There goes the fluttering again. “Okay. Thanks.”
I tear out a piece of notebook paper as Mr. Prater turns on his projector and lowers the lights. He plugs in the twinkly lights strung overhead. He hung them himself due to the lack of windows out here in the temporaries, which means no natural light for note-taking while the projector is on.
I realize this wasn’t Mr. Prater’s intention, but it’s all sort of romantic. Sharing a book with Malik underneath the low lights as our thighs touch so frequently it’s more than an accident . . .
I have to force myself to concentrate on the quiz questions displayed on the slides, but it’s hard not to let this breathless feeling overtake me completely.
Is this what liking someone is supposed to feel like? Because if this is a crush, I don’t know if I can handle the intensity of actually loving someone. Or maybe this is love. I don’t know. What I do know is that whatever I feel for Malik goes way beyond just friends.
That afternoon, Will and El are waiting in the courtyard with Tim and Bo. Amanda’s close on my heels as we make our way to their table.
“I don’t want to step on any toes,” I call out to them. “But this meeting is girls only.”
Tim shrugs, and Ellen gives him a quick kiss on the cheek with his face glued to his phone before he walks off toward the parking lot. “I’ll be at the car.”
“His latest obsession is that geocaching app with those little trolls and gnomes,” Ellen explains.
Bo gives me a quick nod. “Hey, Millie.” He turns to Willowdean. “I’ll pick you up for work if you want?”
“I think El and Tim are gonna drop me off actually, but I’ll take a ride home tonight,” she says, her golden curls tangling in the wind.
He nods before giving her a kiss on the lips and then jogs to catch up with Tim.
“Not a bad view,” says Amanda, watching him go.
El sputters with laughter, and Willowdean’s whole face looks like it’s about ready to catch fire. “Can’t say I disagree,” she finally says.
I smile. “Anyone seen Hannah?” I ask.
“I’m here,” someone groans.
I turn to find Hannah wearing a front baby sling with an anatomically correct baby in it. Her once-overgrown bangs have become swoopier than they were, so you can actually see her face. Her charcoal eyeliner is jagged and a little smudged, but the look works for her. Based on her medium brown skin, most people at school just call Hannah black or African American, but she actually prefers Afro-Latina. One of the ladies running the pageant told Hannah that was a mouthful when she included it in her pageant intro, but Hannah told her she should try harder. I tend to agree.
Of everyone from the pageant, I see Hannah the least. Not because I don’t want to, but because she goes out of her way to be unseen. Plus she has lots of slightly older friends who don’t even live in Clover City. Her elusiveness makes me want to try even harder to be friends with her.
“What the hell?” asks Will.
Hannah rolls her head back, stomping to the table where the rest of us sit. “I signed up for that life-skills class thinking it would be dumb stuff like online banking and applying for jobs, but no. It’s basically a home ec class.” She sits down and slams the doll on the table, triggering sobs from the speaker on the back of its head. “Our final,” she says, like we’re gathered around a campfire telling horror stories, “is a casserole.”
Ellen, Amanda, and Will nearly fall out of their seats in hysterics, and I bite my lip, trying not to laugh along with them.
Hannah gives them all a half-baked dirty look, but it’s the best she can do not to smile
herself.
“I’ll dig through my mom’s recipe book if it’ll help,” I offer.
She turns to me. “If you really want to help, you’ll make the damn thing for me.”
Willowdean nudges me with her elbow. “So what’s all this about? Did you gather us all here to corrupt another time-honored Clover City tradition?”
They go quickly silent with all eyes on me. Suddenly I feel very, very dumb. Self-doubt washes over me, and I am immediately positive that I like all of them much more than any of them like me. That’s just the worst feeling. It’s like showing up to a costume party where you’re the only one who dressed up.
But then I look at Amanda, and she nods, and I know that at the very least, I can always count on her.
“I miss y’all,” I finally say. “A lot. And that’s what this emergency meeting is about. I know that we’re all busy with different things and the pageant is long gone.”
“Thank God,” says Hannah, stuffing her baby and sling into her messenger bag.
“But I sort of hate that, ya know? Because I just never see y’all anymore, and, well, a lot of good things came out of the pageant. But the best part was all of us becoming friends.”
Willowdean smiles. “Well, not to be self-centered, but I sort of feel like the best part was when I wore a cardboard Cadillac on stage.”
“Okay,” I say. “Yes, that was pretty great. But back then we saw each other all the time,” I say. “Because we had a reason to, so if we need a reason to get together, I’m creating one.”
Ellen squints at me suspiciously.
“I’m not a big organized-activities person, in case you hadn’t already discerned that about me,” says Hannah.
“What’s your idea?” asks Amanda.
I inhale deeply. “Slumber parties. Every Saturday until the end of the school year. We’ll all take turns hosting.”
It’s so quiet I can hear the cheerleaders practicing in the gym.