by Trudi Trueit
I do.
Once the concert ends and roll is taken, Miss Fleischmann says, “Hand in your fairy tales, please. Pass them forward to the front of your row.”
The inside of my mouth morphs into the Sahara Desert. This is it.
Charlie takes Lorzeno’s paper, puts his assignment on top, and hands them to me. I put my story on top of Charlie’s and give the pile to Eden.
A minute later Charlie is tapping my shoulder. “Hold out your hand.”
I do, thinking he is going to give me a stick of gum. Instead, Charlie drops a silver piece of paper into my palm. It’s one of his origami gum wrappers. I look closer. It’s a sea horse! I study its long, scooping snout and tiny, curled tail. He’s even put teeny folds in the body to give the sea horse ridges. It’s a perfect replica!
“A little something for luck,” he says.
I smile. “Thanks, Charlie.”
I place the little silver sea horse at the corner of my desk. When it comes to winning over Miss Fleischmann, I’ll take all the luck I can get.
“Do you want to come to my baseball game on Saturday?” Noah asks. We are walking to the public library after school.
“Okay.”
“My dad could pick you up on the way.”
“Okay.”
“Or we could take you, and your parents could pick you up,” he says.
“Okay.”
“Or you could have one of your parents drop you off, and we could bring you home.”
“Okay.”
He stops. “Sammi, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
“I do, Noah. I’m sorry if it seems like I’m not paying attention. It’s just that—”
“What? You don’t like me anymore?”
“No! I lov—I mean, I like you.” I slap a hand over my mouth. I can’t believe I almost said “love.” Slowly, I take my hand away, unsure if I can trust myself. “Of course I like you. I was thinking about something else.”
“What?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“Try me.”
“I was thinking about . . . french fries. I didn’t get lunch today.”
Noah laughs.
I point at him. “See?”
“Come on,” he says, reaching for my hand.
There was a good reason why I didn’t eat today. First, Eden and I had to break free from Saturn’s orbit, and it took a little longer than we thought. We had to try out a couple of tables until we found one we liked. After that I bought a Cobb salad that I had every intention of eating, but each time somebody came into the cafeteria, I’d pop up to see if it was Jorgianna. I did it so much Eden started calling me a Sammi-in-the-box. Then I sent Eden to check the bathroom nearest to the cafeteria to be sure Jorgianna wasn’t inside sobbing her eyes out. She wasn’t. I know she didn’t take her lunch this morning, so what did my sister eat? And more important, where did she eat it?
Noah and I stop at Hot Diggity’s for an order of fries and two chocolate milks to go. As we cross the street toward the library park, Noah reads my mind. “You want to eat in the gazebo?”
“Sure.”
The last time Noah and I were here together, the park was packed with hundreds of people searching for books at the big library book sale. Now we are by ourselves, except for the people going into and coming out of the library. As we walk down the gravel path, the breeze kicks up. The wind plucks pink cherry blossoms off the trees to create a petal ballet. I cannot help but think of this place as ours. I wonder if Noah thinks of it that way too.
There is a bench on each wall of the hexagonal-shaped gazebo. We choose the one that faces the ornamental cherry trees. Noah hands me a bottle of chocolate milk. He takes the box of crinkle fries out of the bag and sets it on the rail behind us. As steam rises off the fries, my stomach gurgles.
I shake my milk, open it, and take a drink. The thick sweetness of cold chocolate slides down my throat, through my chest, and into my hollow stomach. I sigh. “I love chocolate milk.” Noah doesn’t answer. I look over at him. His milk is half gone already.
Noah wipes a hand across his mouth. “Me too.”
I want to ask him about Patrice, but I can’t. Does he still like her? I want to ask him how he feels about me, but I’m not brave enough to do that, either.
“I’ll be a little late to the dance Friday night,” says Noah. “I have baseball practice.”
“Okay.” I place my milk at my feet.
“Also, I should warn you, I’m not a very good dancer.”
“Me neither.”
“I’m better at line dancing.” Noah clicks his heels twice, taps each toe on the floor, crosses then uncrosses his ankles, and ends with kicks out to the side with each foot.
“That’s good. Show me how to do that.” He goes through the routine again, this time more slowly so I can copy him. I do everything exactly as he does it, except I get a little enthusiastic with the kick and my right foot hits my chocolate milk, sending it onto its side. It pours out onto the wood. “Oh no!”
Before I can move, a long arm shoots out over my knees to rescue the bottle. Noah straightens. I hold out my hand, expecting him to give back my chocolate milk, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say or do anything. I look up. Sage-green eyes are as close as they have ever been to me. And coming closer. Lips touch mine quickly, and lightly, like fairy wings. I taste chocolate. I shiver in my moss sweater, even though the tree limbs, heavy with cherry blossoms, haven’t moved since we sat down. Everything around me goes still and silent, and I am certain time has stopped. Noah lifts his head and we smile at each other. My brain goes blank. I forget about Jorgianna and Patrice. I forget about Miss Fleischmann and my A. I even forget I am hungry.
Noah and I turn so we are sitting side by side on the bench. A strange sensation begins to spread through me. It starts in my heart and flows outward, like an electrical current. It zings up to the top of my skull, then out to my fingernails and down through the tips of my toes. Here and now, everything that is wrong in my life is suddenly and mysteriously eclipsed by this one right. As usual, Banana was dead-on.
Chocolate is good for the soul.
So is love.
FOURTEEN
Inside Out and Upside Down
IN FIRST-PERIOD SCIENCE I GET a 100 percent plus earn all the bonus points on Wannamaker’s chemical reactions test. I am told it’s happened only twice in his eighteen years of teaching. In second-period history I get an A-plus on my paper on Clara Barton, the Civil War nurse who founded the American Red Cross. She has always been one of my heroes. I always wanted to be a nurse, but my mother has always wanted me to be a doctor. In third-period math Mr. Withey, the substitute, struggles with calculating permutations. I step in to show the class how to solve one of our story problems and end up finishing the lesson for him. I give no homework. The class applauds.
Everything is going perfectly in my new school. And I am miserable.
I have been steering clear of the cafeteria all week so I don’t run into Patrice and her friends or, for that matter, Sammi. I don’t mind eating alone, but I don’t want my sister feeling sorry for me. I’m still not speaking to Sammi. I know I am being mean, but I want her to feel, if only for a little while, the way I feel all the time. Isolated. Frustrated. Helpless.
After third period I do what I have been doing for the past five days. I get my lunch from the vending machines in the atrium. Today’s menu: spicy chipotle chips, corn nuts, butterscotch pudding, orange juice, and a two-pack of s’mores-flavored Pop-Tarts. My mother would have a heart attack if she knew what I was eating for lunch. I wish they sold Tums, too, for the stomachache that always kicks in during fifth-period PE.
I take my lunch outside to the courtyard. It’s sunny, though chilly, for late April. Most of the kids sitting in the courtyard are in groups of two to four, though a couple of them are alone—a girl and a boy. The girl is reading, absently plugging grapes into her mouth. The boy’s head of blond hair is bent so far over his
tablet, I can’t see his face. I don’t go up to either of them. Instead, I follow the main circular path and turn right at the overgrown holly bushes before I reach the other side of the courtyard. The offshoot leads to a dead end with a small iron bench. It’s hidden, yet gets a sliver of sun during lunchtime.
“Look, Patrice.” I lift my pudding in the air. “I’m starting with dessert. Oh, the horror!” I happily yank off the top. At least I don’t have to worry about someone telling me what to eat and when to (or when not to) eat it. Goose bumps go up my arms as I remember her sharp warning. “No tacos, Jorgianna. Never tacos!” Next Monday I am buying a taco. I will eat it alone, but I will get one.
I have decided to stop fighting fate. It’s time I accept that I am destined to go through life without a single friend, a close sibling, or, apparently, a locker. Miss Dunham in the office said my locker assignment wasn’t a typo. Since she was new, she’d gotten out the big map and given me directions to find it. I followed her map to the letter and ended up in D wing by the orchestra room. Unfortunately, all of the locker numbers were in the six hundreds. After going down a dark staircase with only a bare, flickering lightbulb and a wolf spider the size of Idaho to guide me, I decided a rectangular metal storage bin wasn’t worth risking my life. Unless this school gets some kind of locker GPS, I’ll be toting everything I own around on my back for the rest of the semester.
Snapping off a corner of my Pop-Tart, I crumble and toss it to the chickadees skittering at my feet. A big crumb accidentally bounces off a tiny feathered head. “Sorry,” I say as he picks up the tidbit with his beak.
I lift my face to a beam of sun edging into my secret garden and take a deep breath. It’s nice not having to worry, Am I saying the right thing at the wrong time? Or the wrong thing at the right time? Or the wrong thing at the wrong time? Or anything that anyone in this group even wants to hear? “Did you hear that Tanith?” I say out loud. “Four questions in a row!”
“. . . you’re coming to the dance, right?”
“Abso-positively.”
A couple of girls are coming around the main loop. I scoot to the farthest corner of my bench. I lean back so I am well hidden. Unfortunately, there’s a holly bush right behind me. Ouch!
“I hope Charlie comes.”
“Noah, too. I have a crush on him.”
“He likes Sammi Tremayne, you know.”
“I know. She’s so lucky.”
“Jealous?”
“Who wouldn’t be? I’m just glad he isn’t hanging out with Patrice anymore. That girl is so mean. She cheated off me in history—”
“Careful, Bree. The forest could be full of gossiping fairies.”
“Right.”
They pass my turnoff.
I slide forward. I don’t see any blood seeping through my sweater, but then, it is red. I look at my Pop-Tart, flattened in my rush to get out of sight. What has happened to me? Elementary school had its haters, for sure, but I never let them change me. Now I’m hiding in the bushes, talking to myself, and the only friends I have are ones that chirp.
Not so long ago I was a great blue heron soaring among mallards.
These days, I am a bunny.
A tiny, terrified, junk food–eating bunny.
“You don’t look so good.” Hanna Welch’s face hovers in front of mine.
“Must be too many sit-ups right after lunch.” We are getting dressed after PE. Hanna usually dresses on the other side of the locker room, so for her to come all this way I really must look sick. “I forgot it was a fitness test day,” I say.
“My cousin Carolyn has an ulcer. Can you imagine having an ulcer at thirteen?”
Yes. Yes, I can, but of course I say, “No, that’s awful.” I put my head through my red turtleneck sweater with the two big yellow patch pockets in front. I pull the sweater down and straighten the pockets so they line up with the two hip pleats on my sapphire-blue miniskirt.
“Wickedly great outfit,” says Hanna.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind looking like a big Lego,” snorts Tanith. She is standing at a locker behind us, buttoning a pink blouse.
“I happen to like Legos,” Hanna says.
I sit on the bench to put on my boots, and a tidal wave of acid rolls through my stomach. It splashes up into my throat and I have to swallow quickly to keep from throwing up. I taste spicy chipotle chips and butterscotch.
Hanna is beside me. “You really look sick. Do you want to go to the nurse’s office?”
“I’ll be okay. I just need a minute.”
“I’ll get you some water.” Hanna pops up and comes back with a paper cup of water from the cooler. “Sip this.”
When I finish the water, I reach into my locker for one of my boots. My stomach sloshes, but the sour, rolling sensation from a few minutes ago is gone. Hanna hands me the other boot. I zip them both and sit up. “See? Perfectly perfect.”
“Stay there.” Hanna stands. “I’m getting my coat and backpack and then I’m walking you to sixth period. Cross your heart you won’t move a muscle until I get back.”
Crossing my heart, I can’t help my grin. She sounds like Sammi. I miss my sister telling me what to do. It’s the sort of thing that little sisters pretend we don’t like, but secretly we do. Hanna is back in less than two minutes. She won’t let me carry my backpack. Once we are outside the gym, I take a few deep breaths of fresh air. “I feel a lot better.”
“You look a lot better,” says Hanna. “You had me scared for a minute. Your face went so green I thought you were going to turn into a four-leaf clover.”
“No chance of that.”
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“A wing. Language arts. Miss Fleischmann.”
“Geez, Jorgianna, what do you have in here—cement?” Hanna staggers. She is carrying my pack on her right shoulder and her own pack on her left.
“I can take that now,” I say.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it. Are you into weight lifting?”
“I . . . um . . . sort of carry all of my stuff around because . . . well, the truth is, I can’t find my locker.” There. I said it. I rush on when I see her stunned reaction. “I know, I know, you were going to show me on my first day and then Patrice came along and off I went with her. I’m sorry. I should have stayed with you. Patrice and her friends had no idea where my locker was. So then I went back to the office and asked Mrs. Dunham, and she gave me directions but I think her compass was way off, because I ended up in the basement.”
Hanna shakes her head. “Even though you did ditch me for Patrice, I still would have shown you where your locker was, Jorgianna. All you had to do was ask.”
“You know where it is?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re positive?”
“Of course. Everyone in the NSWC goes through training—that’s the New Student Welcome Club. We know where everything is, including the nicest bathrooms, the best vending machines, and every single locker. I’ll show you where yours is after school, unless you have a bus to catch.” She snaps her fingers. “I know—I could show you at the dance tonight.”
“Let’s meet after school.” I run a hand through my violet hair. “I’m not . . . not going to the dance.”
Although I do not share them with Hanna, I have four reasons for not going to the dance.
Reason #1: My contract with Sammi.
Reason #2: Patrice and her friends.
Reason #3: After my last experience trying to make friends, I am not in any hurry to repeat the process.
Reason #4: I have never been to a middle school dance. I have no idea what to do and I can’t ask my sister for advice.
We are at Miss Fleischmann’s room. Hanna hands over my backpack. “You’re sure you’re okay?” When I nod, she says, “I’ll meet you here after class and we’ll get you to your locker.”
“Thanks, Hanna.”
Sixth period cannot go fast enough. As promised, Hanna appears a few minutes after the final bel
l. “Come with me,” she says, raising her eyebrows mysteriously as she walks backward down the hall. Hanna takes me to the end of A wing. We turn left and head through B and C wing, as Mrs. Dunham had instructed me. We end up near the orchestra room in front of a group of ten lockers.
My heart sinks. I have been here before. “Hanna, these are the 600s. See? 601, 602, 603 . . .” I walk down the line. “Mine is 904, remember? We’re in the wrong place.”
“No, we’re not. You, Jorgianna Tremayne, are the proud owner of an upside-down locker.”
They look right-side up to me. “Am I going to have to stand on my head to open it or something?”
“No.” She laughs. “See, over the years, the numbered stickers on a lot of the lockers started falling off and everybody kept putting them back on. At some point, somebody put their nine on upside down as a joke, and everyone else in the row started doing the same thing. When the janitors finally got around to painting the numbers on the lockers, no one told the painter, and he painted sixes instead of nines. Every year Mr. Ostrum says he’s going to have them repainted, but we think they are cool, so we keep talking him out of it. It’s tradition now. This one”—she points to 604—“is really 904. This is yours.”
“So Mrs. Dunham did send me to the right place, after all.”
“She’s only been here for a month, so I bet she hasn’t heard the story yet.”
“But most everybody else at TMS knows.”
“Of course. It’s legend.”
“Pa—I mean, nobody told me.”
“I’m not surprised.” A shadow crosses her face. “Some people won’t tell the new students about them. They love watching somebody run all over the place trying to find their locker. They think it’s hilarious. I don’t. Not one bit. And I’m not afraid to say so to certain people either.”
She knows that I know she’s talking about Patrice, but neither of us want to say her name out loud.
“I’m with you,” I say.
She tips her head. “I am kind of surprised Sammi didn’t clue you in when you told her you were having trouble finding your locker.”