Funny Girl

by Betsy Bird

  “Oh,” she said, “that’s an interesting look, Baby-mouse.”

  Then she and the girls walked away, laughing.

  Le sigh.

  Wilson came up to my locker a moment later.

  “Hey, Babymouse,” he said.

  “Hi, Wilson.”

  Wilson had been my best friend forever. Everybody needed a weaselly best friend, in my opinion.

  “Want to go to the movies on Friday night? There’s a werewolf movie playing.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  When I got home from school, I went straight to my mother.

  “Picture Day is next week,” I told her. “Can I get whisker extensions?”

  She shook her head. “They’re very expensive, Babymouse. Each whisker is one hundred dollars.”

  One hundred dollars a whisker? Talk about whisker robbery!

  “I’m sorry, Babymouse,” she said.

  What was I going to do?

  * * *

  Wilson and I sat in the dark theater and watched werewolves roar across the screen.

  I loved horror movies because the monsters were obvious. Vampires had fangs, and werewolves had claws, and zombies had rotting flesh. It was harder to figure out who the monsters were in real life.

  After the movie, we grabbed a cupcake.

  “What did you think?” Wilson asked.

  “It was pretty good,” I said.

  “The werewolves had great makeup!” Wilson enthused. “They looked totally real.”

  “That’s it!” I exclaimed.

  Wilson gave me a puzzled look. “Huh?”

  I pointed to my face. “I want to get whisker extensions, but they’re too expensive. We can do it with monster makeup!”

  “I don’t know, Babymouse. It’s pretty hard . . .”

  Hard was walking around with singed whiskers.

  This was easy.

  * * *

  We spent the rest of the weekend trying to figure out how to create straight whiskers with stage makeup. It took a little lot of trial and error.

  But it all paid off, because when I walked into school on Monday morning I had perfect, straight whiskers. Heads turned left and right as I walked down the hallway to my locker. It was time for pictures!

  I gave my whiskers a final check in the locker, and then the bell rang.

  And then Felicia walked up.

  “Nice whiskers, Babymouse!” Felicia said, adding with a sly smile, “Or should I say whisker?”

  Typical.

  Brown Girl Pop Quiz:

  All of the Above

  By Mitali Perkins

  1. Why is Indian food so spicy?

  a. Sweating while eating means you’re burning calories. At least that’s what my sister says when she gets seconds of Mom’s lamb curry. Which makes me go for thirds.

  b. Spicy food relaxes the body. Who needs to take a smartphone into the bathroom for an hour?

  c. Chop up a chili pepper and add it to your next tuna fish sandwich. Yum, right? I rest my case.

  d. All of the above.

  2. Why do I have to take off my shoes when I visit?

  a. All of Asia does that to keep dirt outside where it belongs. And to welcome people with clean feet inside, where we belong. Come in, good to see you, have some tea, but don’t bring flattened cow dung into our living room, thank you very much.

  b. You just stepped in dog dung. My bad—my turn to clean up after Pohdoo. Thanks for helping.

  c. So your socks can clean the kitchen floor. My turn to sweep, too.

  d. All of the above.

  3. Are all Indian American kids nerds?

  a. I sure hope my teachers think so. Maybe they’ll subconsciously grade me higher. Maybe they’ll tell me all homework assignments are optional. Maybe the principal will suggest to my parents that attendance in classes is optional. A South Asian genius like me should be free to pursue academic passions at home. In my pajamas.

  b. Nope. Only the ones who win the National Spelling Bee.

  c. Some of us are jocks. Want to take me on in tennis?

  d. All of the above.

  4. Do you speak Indian?

  a. Only a few cuss words I can’t really use. Dadu, our grandfather, taught me the real words for private body parts during a boring dinner party. Turns out Dad named Pohdoo after the part our dog likes to sniff when people visit.

  b. Do you speak American? There’s no language called Indian. My parents speak Bengali, which is one of the 122 or so languages in India. Dadu knows how to swear in Hindi, Marathi, Urdu, and Oriya.

  c. I don’t speak Hindu, either. That’s a religion, not a language. The national language of India is Hindi. Do people speak Jewish? How do you say Pohdoo in Hebrew anyway?

  d. All of the above.

  5. Why is your mother wearing a red dot on her forehead?

  a. I think it has something to do with the third eye of Shiva. Let’s ask the third eye of Google.

  b. These days, Indian women wear dots or bindis on their foreheads like makeup, to match lipstick and eye shadow.

  c. It’s a good way to hide a big zit.

  d. All of the above.

  6. Why is there so much singing and dancing in Indian movies?

  a. To give viewers a chance to pee without missing too much of the plot.

  b. The real question is this: why isn’t there more singing and dancing in American movies? I can’t think of a Hollywood flick that wouldn’t be better if they put in a good song and dance number. Think of Jedi knights doing a choreographed number after the Death Star explodes, for example.

  c. Wouldn’t you rather watch actors sing and dance for five minutes than watch them kiss for five minutes? Thank you, Bollywood censors.

  d. All of the above.

  7. Are your parents going to arrange your marriage?

  a. Chill. I’m only in sixth grade. Ask me again once I’m out of college.

  b. By then, Mom and Dad will be exhausted. My sister and the dudes she dates—like the barefoot vegan training to be a tattoo artist, now that he’s out of jail—are doing a great job of breaking down the parents.

  c. Is the Internet going to arrange your marriage? Because it’s way more stupid than my parents.

  d. All of the above.

  8. Don’t you love it when Coach Owens has us do yoga in PE?

  a. Touchy subject. My ancestors did not give me the yoga gene. These limbs do not twist into pretzels.

  b. When I bend down, my toes are soooooo far away. *waves to toes*

  c. My tree pose is more of a deforestation pose. Namaste yourself, Coach. *falls over*

  d. All of the above.

  9. Have you ever worn a sari?

  a. Yes. But remind me to use safety pins next time. That whole tucking and folding thing didn’t work quite right. I was sari to see my granny panties revealed in public. Guess it was better than exposing my pohdoo.

  b. Yes. And I felt beautiful.

  c. Yes. It’s fun making grandmothers cry. For joy! Sheesh. I’m not a monster.

  d. All of the above.

  10. Do you think of yourself as Indian or American?

  a. Our family roots for Team Red, White, and Blue in the Olympics, but we also cheer like crazy when the Indian athletes march in carrying that beautiful orange and green and white flag.

  b. Both.

  c. Neither.

  d. All of the above.

  Over and Out

  By Lisa Graff

  “Now that Deirdre’s sixteen she thinks other people don’t need to use the bathroom. Over.” Riley released the button on her walkie-talkie and waited for her best friend to respond from his apartment five floors below. Nothing. She pressed the button again. “Got your ears on, Simon? Over.” Riley wriggled onto her belly to peer through the gap
below the bathroom door. She could see her sister’s legs at the sink. “She’s been in there forever. Over.”

  At last Simon’s voice squawked over the walkie. “Just tell her you have to pee,” he said. “Over and out. Or is it ‘Mayday’? I’m coming up now to play Yahtzee.”

  “You say ‘Over’ when you’re done talking,” Riley informed Simon for the millionth time. “‘Mayday’ is for serious trouble, like a boat sinking. ‘Over and out’ is when you’re finished talking for good. And I need to do more than pee. Over.”

  “I did not need to know that. Over.”

  That’s when the door was whipped open. “Riley Gershwin!” Deirdre hollered. “Stop spying on me!”

  “I wasn’t spying,” Riley lied, rolling to her feet. “I was checking if you wanted to play Yahtzee. Matthew and Logan might play, too.” Matthew and Logan were Simon’s older brothers. Matthew was thirteen and always working on bizarre inventions, and Logan was sixteen like Deirdre but not nearly as annoying.

  “No way those two are playing Yahtzee,” Deirdre said. She squeezed some goop from a tube into her hand.

  “How do you know?” Riley challenged.

  “Because.” Deirdre ran the goop through her hair. “They’re not ten.”

  Deirdre had once been an actual fun human being, before she started spending all her time texting and hogging the bathroom. Last summer she’d joined Riley and Simon in a weeklong Yahtzee marathon, and when she’d scored three Yahtzees in a single game, her touchdown dance had put the Giants’ wide receiver to shame. Now she looked at Riley like a cockroach whose guts had squished all over her shoe.

  Maybe turning sixteen was like getting bitten by a werewolf. Only instead of growing fangs and howling, you grew unbearably boring.

  “I’m leaving,” Deirdre said. “Mom and Dad know where I’ll be.”

  “Don’t lock the front door,” Riley told her sister. “Simon’s coming up.”

  Deirdre jerked her head toward the towel rack beside the toilet. “Don’t let your little friend ogle my bra,” she replied.

  Riley took in the neon pink bra that hung from the towel rack. “Can’t you wash your underwear in the laundry room like a normal person?” she asked.

  “Bras are delicate,” Deirdre answered. “They need to be hand-washed and air-dried. You’ll understand when you grow boobs.”

  Riley’s eyeballs were boiling in their sockets as Deirdre made her way across the dining room. “Maybe I’ll just flush your bra down the toilet!” she hollered.

  “Lay one finger on that bra,” Deirdre snapped back, “and I’ll murder you.” And with that, she slammed shut the apartment door behind her.

  Riley squeezed past the towel rack that held her sister’s precious bra and unbuttoned her shorts. She plopped her bare butt down on the toilet and began her business, hoping that when she turned sixteen, she’d have the sense not to worry about things like ugly pink br—

  Riley squinted at the towel rack, just inches from her shoulder.

  Deirdre’s bra was missing.

  Panic rose in Riley’s throat as she rose to her feet, yanking up her shorts. Slowly she turned.

  Floating inside the toilet was her sister’s neon pink bra. Riley must have knocked it off the towel rack before she sat down. But worse than that—worse than anything Riley had done in her entire life—was what had come after.

  Riley Gershwin had pooped on her sister’s bra.

  “Simon?” Riley called, whipping open the bathroom door. “Are you here yet? I need help!”

  No Simon. Riley turned back to the toilet and reached for the plunger beside the tank. Her only option was to fish out the bra and wash it and hang it back on the towel rack before Deirdre noticed it was missing. But as she reached, Riley bumped the toilet handle, and with a violent spurt of water the bra began to twist inside the bowl. The poop was sucked down, and the bra followed close behind. “Give me that!” Riley screeched, snagging one strap with the plunger handle. As the toilet let out its final slurp! Riley yanked the bra out—sending it soaring over her shoulder, out the bathroom door, speckling everything in its path with toilet water.

  Simon was standing just beside the dining room table when Riley turned. The bra swinging from the chandelier above him scattered eerie shadows across the walls.

  “Is this the kind of thing where you’d say ‘Mayday’?” he asked. Then, noticing the scowl on Riley’s face, he added, “Over.”

  * * *

  “I thought Deirdre told you this . . . thing had to be hand-washed,” Simon said as the elevator lurched toward the basement laundry room. The bra dripped from a pair of kitchen tongs in his outstretched hand.

  Riley hoisted the bottle of laundry detergent further into her armpit. “No way am I hand-washing something that’s been pooped on,” she said, then added, “Hi, Mrs. Applebaum!” when their third-floor neighbor entered the elevator with her yappy dog.

  “Nugget, stop that,” Mrs. Applebaum told the dog, without looking up from her phone. Nugget was sniffing at the soiled bra.

  Simon lifted the tongs a little higher.

  When the doors opened to the lobby, Mrs. Applebaum stepped out, and Riley told her, “Have a lovely day!” And then Riley spotted Simon’s oldest brother, Logan, across the lobby floor by the coffee kiosk. “Does Logan drink coffee now?” she asked Simon, leaning to see around a giant pillar.

  Mrs. Applebaum was yanking at Nugget’s leash, her eyes still on her phone. “Come, boy!”

  Simon shifted to see around the pillar, too. “Logan’s with a girl,” he exclaimed. And then: “Nugget, no!”

  Riley dumped the detergent bottle on the ground, but it was too late. Nugget had snapped up the bra in his sharp doggy teeth and was trying to snatch it away from Simon.

  Mrs. Applebaum finally looked up from her phone. “Is that a bra?” she screeched.

  Thinking fast, Riley dug a half-empty packet of M&M’s from her pocket and flung it out the elevator door. Nugget released the bra and lunged for the chocolate, sending Mrs. Applebaum scurrying after him. Riley pounded the CLOSE button as Mrs. Applebaum shouted, “Hooligans!”

  “Do you think my brother was on a date?” Simon asked as the elevator shook back to life.

  Riley plucked the bra off the elevator floor. It was riddled with chew marks and dog drool. Clearly she needed a new plan. Clearly her problems had gotten a little too big for mere washing machines. “I think,” she said, pressing the button to return to her own floor, “that I’m about to get murdered.”

  * * *

  It turns out that when a dog tries to eat a bra, it can’t be fixed with wood glue.

  “That’s it!” Riley declared, snatching up the sticky bra between a pair of oven mitts and bolting out of her apartment, down the long hallway. Simon hustled to keep pace.

  “But Deirdre will notice it’s missing,” he said when they reached the garbage chute.

  “She’ll never be able to prove I’m the one who took it.” Riley tugged open the chute’s small square door and stuffed the bra inside, waiting for the sweet sound of the bra landing on soggy garbage in the basement below.

  Instead, she heard a voice, tinny but familiar, echoing up from the darkness. “Whoa.” It was Simon’s middle brother, Matthew. “Is this a BRA?” he said.

  * * *

  A tennis racket covered in glue traps—that was Matthew’s latest invention. He’d been hoping, he explained, to catch some “incriminating documents” from the businessman in their building’s penthouse, but on his very first test run, he’d snagged something else entirely.

  “Is it Deirdre’s?” Matthew asked them, tossing the neon pink underwear from hand to hand.

  “We found it in the park,” Riley told him. “What are you gonna do with it?”

  “I’m going to hang it out the window like a flag,” Matthew said. “Make e
veryone on Fulton Street say the pledge of allegiance.”

  Riley couldn’t even begin to imagine how mortified her sister would be at that. A person might as well scream, “HEY, EVERYONE! THAT’S MY UNDERWEAR!”

  “I’ll pay you for it,” Riley told Matthew. “One hundred and sixty bucks.”

  Matthew let out a whistle. “You just bought yourself a bra,” he said.

  As they skittered off to fetch the money, Riley told Simon, “Okay, so I don’t actually have one hundred and sixty dollars.” Sixteen, that’s what she had: a ten, a five, and a one—her birthday money from Bubbe Ruth, minus four dollars she’d spent on M&M’s. “But I’ll draw zeros on all the bills, and while Matthew’s yelling at me for cheating him, you’ll grab the bra and make a run for it. Meet me at the carousel in Battery Park. We can live off the land, right?”

  “No way am I touching underwear that someone pooped on,” Simon argued.

  “When Deirdre murders me,” Riley reminded him, “you’ll have no one to play Yahtzee with.”

  And Simon could hardly argue with that.

  * * *

  Simon did manage to grab the bra while Riley was fighting with Matthew, but he only got as far as his own kitchen.

  “Dad!” Riley heard him call. “Mom! Didn’t expect to see you here. Hey, Bill and Wanda!” Riley gulped. Bill and Wanda were her parents. “Want to hear a knock knock joke?”

  Riley raced to the kitchen, with Matthew on her heels.

  “Why did the broccoli cross the road?” Simon asked the crowd of parents.

  Simon’s dad made his way to the sink. “Broccoli?” he asked. Riley didn’t see the bra anywhere. She made bug-eyes at Simon, but he was too focused on his terrible joke-telling to notice.

  “Be-cause,” he went on, “it was in a casserole! Get it? Cass-a-roll? Like the broccoli’s in a casserole car?” Silence. “Okay, I’ll work on it.”

  Riley only barely noticed that Simon’s dad was running water in the sink.

  Only barely paid attention when he flicked on the disposal.