Kenzie and I exchange glances. For months, Ms. Welch has mentioned sex, but it’s always been broken up with food pyramid drawings and excited discussions about marijuana. Not anymore. We’ve been silently praying that this day would never come, and yet, here it is. Actual Sex Education with Ms. Welch.
Ms. Welch enlists a student to pass out diagrams of male and female genitalia.
“Fill in whatcha know, then we’ll go over the rest.”
I label all of the female anatomy just fine, but I can’t figure out the other one.
“Ma’am, what’s number twelve?” asks one boy in the back.
“Really? You don’t know where your testicles are?” Ms. Welch chuckles.
I hide my face. Even I figured out that one.
Ms. Welch moves on and pushes play on the remote control.
I will not describe to you what went on in the twenty minutes following. I will, however, tell you that the film was shot in the 1980s. There were scary hairstyles, inaccurate information about AIDS, and an awful background song. It went something like this:
Abstinence, it means love and it means trust.
Abstinence, with STDs it is a must!
Why is everyone expecting me to grow up so fast?
Why am I the only one who thinks relationships are meant to last?
Ms. Welch turns off the TV.
“So, class, did you see that pus and infection? And the genital warts? That’s what happens. Don’t have sex. So, who wants to get me my lunch?”
I lean over to Kenzie, who has covered her eyes with her sweatshirt. “Kenzie, I think I’m going to join a convent.”
“Have fun, future nun.”
Friday, May 4
When I wake up and look at the calendar, I don’t think about the prom, or the party, or boys, or the fact that I’m going to have to face another day of sex education.
My sister would have been eight years old today.
The realization is like a punch in the gut, leaving me gasping and holding back tears. My little sister, Ariana, would be dancing around, wanting presents and cake. Every year I wait for this anniversary to stop hurting.
I am slowly realizing that it never will.
For me, her birthdays hurt worse than her death days. Birthdays remind me of everything that will never be.
Monday, May 7
Dear Mrs. Cornell,
I was so excited to talk to you on the telephone a while back. This whole year I’ve dreamed of hearing what you’d say about what I’m doing.
This last month, themed “Popular Attitude,” was definitely a success. I have never forced myself to do anything as hard as talking to strangers. It has always been impossible for me to make new friends and fit into a group. Now, I know and talk to more people than I ever thought possible.
I’ve learned that lots of people are afraid to make the first move in a conversation. Many are simply waiting for you to talk first. So many of them have wonderful stories and personalities.
I’d love your advice for this month. After much consideration I have decided to host a party. What kinds of things should I prepare? Do you know any fun games or have any ideas? What did you enjoy doing when you went to casual parties? Also, I would love to learn more about your middle school years. What were you like in eighth grade?
Your Friend,
Maya Van Wagenen
P S. Thank you so much for the modeling pictures that you sent me! They are beautiful, and I was so thrilled to get them in the mail! You have such a gift; your eyes and expressions are so bright! I can tell that you loved what you were doing. As soon as we get to our new house in Georgia this summer, I will frame them and put them on my walls!
Tuesday, May 8
This evening, the school holds an awards ceremony for students who made all As or had perfect attendance throughout the school year. I do my makeup in the car and try to get fluff off my slacks. Mom, Brodie, and Natalia choose a spot at the back of the auditorium. Dad has to teach, so he can’t be there.
Up front, the eighth graders have a “Reserved” section. I sit next to a less popular Volleyball Girl. She stares at me.
Shifting, under her gaze, I decide to say, “Hi.” We start chatting.
“You know,” she confides, “I never respected you until I saw you sitting there, right in the middle of all those boys just chillin’. You were amazing. You just seemed so calm.”
“Thanks.”
She smiles at me—a genuine “I-accept-your-existence-as-a-human-being” smile.
It is the most beautiful feeling.
I turn around to look for Mom and see Dad there too. He waves. He rushed to get here between classes, just to see me. I’m incredibly touched.
After the ceremony is over I talk to Dante and then rush up to give Kenzie a big hug. Ironically, we’re the only two girls wearing pants. Great minds think alike.
I can’t believe the school year is almost over. But there is still so much left to do. I’m almost there, Betty.
Wednesday, May 9
Popular.
The definition was always sort of fuzzy in my head. I knew what it didn’t mean. It didn’t mean being picked last. It didn’t mean being made fun of or having no one to sit with. It didn’t mean being alone. But that isn’t enough anymore. I need real opinions—am I really becoming popular thanks to Betty? It’s time to start asking my peers what popularity means to them. I start with Gabriel (the tall one who rescued me from being trampled) and his table of all guys, who have been much nicer to me recently.
“Hi there,” I chirp.
“You again!” says Sergio, leaning over to give me a high five.
“Yep.”
Gabriel smiles. I sit across from him and pull out my lunch.
One kid, Luis, scoots as far away from me as he can.
“What’s wrong,” asks Gabriel. “Scared of a girl?”
“Um, well, I , you see, I never know what to say around, um female types, so I, like, get nervous, and er, then I break out into hives.” He shrugs and looks at me. “Sorry.”
“Nice to know,” I say.
They talk about girlfriends, video games, and movies. Finally I pluck up enough courage to ask, “Hey, Gabriel, I’m doing a report on popularity. What do you think it means?”
He scrunches up his forehead. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. Everybody, deep down is exactly the same.”
I write that down in a notebook with a star next to it.
Very interesting.
“So who do you think are the most popular people in school?” I ask.
Luis motions over to Carlos Sanchez’s table. “Like, the jocks. They’re um, like a bunch of bastards.”
“I sat with them last week,” I say casually. “They were nice to me.”
His jaw drops. “You sat with them? Really? What do they talk about?”
The other guys lean in to listen.
“The same things that you guys talk about.”
“No way!”
“That’s impossible!”
“You’re crazy!”
“It’s true,” I say. “You should try sitting with them sometime.”
They laugh.
Thursday, May 10
I stay after school for choir practice. We’re learning some choreography for our next concert. We take a break and I sit next to Eva, one of my seventh-grade buddies from the trip.
“Hi, Maya! I’m going to make up a rhyme for your name!”
“Okay,” I say, laughing.
She scrunches up her nose. “Um . . . There goes Maya Van Wagenen . . . rocking my socks . . . again!”
I laugh, and Ms. Charles, the choir director, pulls out a microphone. “Okay,” she says. “Who’s going to audition for
the solo in the song?”
Eva grabs my hand and lifts it up, “Maya will!”
I feel my face go red. I’m okay at singing, but I definitely have more of a “group voice.”
“Eva, if I audition will you be happy?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, grabbing the microphone and pressing it into my shaking hands.
I sing the verse, and Ms. Charles shrugs. “I’ll give it to you because it was good and it’s your last year here.”
“CONGRATULATIONS!” Eva yells. I blush.
The clock strikes four, and Ms. Charles tells us all to go home and rest our voices. The concert is on Tuesday and she wants us all to be healthy.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder. It really is a very sad sight. We are required to use mesh backpacks to discourage us from carrying weapons and drugs. The mesh is always tearing, leaving gaping holes in the bottom. This is my third backpack this year. My sewing kit is already stowed away in the moving boxes so I shoved quilting material in the bottom to keep my books from falling out. People snicker as I walk by, but I don’t really care. I guess Betty helped me learn how to laugh at myself.
Sunday, May 13
Natalia wanders in at seven this morning and yells, “Beep, beep, beep!”
My sister—the human alarm clock. I sit up and glare at her. She grins widely at me and says, “Good-bye, Natalia!” She skips out and closes the door.
At least she’s more courteous than she used to be.
This morning I make two invitations for the party I have planned (with Betty’s prodding) for this weekend. Betty says, “Whether you mail or telephone them, invitations should be sent out to every person you wish to include.”
I’d like to have Ethan and Hector there, which means I have to give them their invitations at church today. This is what the cards say:
BON VOYAGE!
I’m moving this summer!
You’re invited to my farewell party!
Saturday, May 19
6:00 p.m.–9:00 p.m.
My house
Pizza & drinks will be served
RSVP
At church I hand one to Hector, and he looks at it for a while.
“I’m hosting a party on Saturday,” I say. “You and Ethan would be the only guys from church, but it would be great if you could come.”
“I can’t,” he says. “I have a choir trip.”
“Oh,” I say. I feel Ethan’s invitation burning in my pocket, but I know that I won’t give it to him. Ethan wouldn’t come if he was the only one not from my school. What’s the use?
Hector apologizes and walks away.
Monday, May 14
I’m trapped in health class, once again listening to a middle-age woman describe sex—it’s something I wish I could delete from my memory. I close my eyes and try to keep the walls from closing in. Suddenly, someone knocks at the door, and I’m confident that it’s an angel who has come to take me away from this horror.
“Morning, ma’am. I’ve come to check the students for drug possession.”
“Fine by me,” Ms. Welch says, smiling sweetly at the police officer.
“Empty all your pockets and leave sweaters and purses on the desks where they can be seen and easily accessed,” he orders.
The officer/God-sent-creature-of-mercy leads us out of the classroom and into the hallway where a huge drug dog is waiting. He nonchalantly walks the canine down the row of students eyeing each of us carefully, then takes the dog into the room.
We’re told later that two students in my grade got arrested today. Hope it’s not anyone I know.
. . . . . . .
I stay up until 11:00 making the rest of the invitations for my party. I have to admit, it isn’t actually putting together the invites that takes me so long, it’s coming up with the guest list. After everything that’s happened, it feels strange not to include everyone. For hours I sat mulling over who I considered “most important,” and it hurt. Betty says the following about those you invite:
A point to remember here is to be generous. Don’t boycott friends you happen to be peeved with. Don’t keep your list down to just the same old circle. Vary your guests.
The list is about 70 percent choir girls, but there are the Goth Art Chicks, Nicolas (my new algebra crush, whom I plan to ask to prom), Carlos Sanchez, Kenzie, all the Social Outcasts, Dante, etc. Every time I think I’m done, I realize I’ve forgotten someone. I’ve prepared twenty-seven invitations, but I could add ten more guests in a heartbeat.
How do people host parties? It’s so gut-wrenching to decide who comes and who doesn’t that I feel physically ill. In light of everything I’ve learned so far, this kind of exclusivity just feels . . . wrong. But alas, it’s something else that I must push through.
Tuesday, May 15
Twenty-seven invitations are hidden in my backpack. I’m no longer feeling down. Instead, I’ve decided to just enjoy everything. Kenzie doesn’t ride the bus this morning, but that’s okay. I’m on top of the world! I’m also looking forward to getting my braces off during my orthodontist appointment today. Everything’s finally happening! I’m feeling invincible!
I see Catalina from choir leaning against a wall in the hallway before school starts.
“Hey there, Catalina,” I say. “How are you doing?”
“Good, I guess.”
“Awesome. So, I’m hosting a party this weekend and would love for you to be there.” I give her an invitation.
She opens the envelope and reads.
“It sounds like a lot of fun,” she says. “I’d love to come to your farewell party, Maya, but I can’t.”
“Why?” I ask. This definitely catches me off guard.
“Allison, you know the one in our choir? She’s having her birthday party that same night.” She places it back into my hands. “I can’t come to yours. Sorry.”
My heart begins to sink, as I force the next question. “Who else is going?”
“Everybody,” she says. Quickly she realizes her oversight. The fact that I wasn’t invited. “I mean, everybody except . . . some people.”
“It’s okay, Catalina,” I whisper. She makes an excuse and runs off. I shuffle through the stack of invitations in my hand, the majority of which are choir girls, all of whom will go to Allison’s party. On the top envelope, written in big hopeful letters, is Allison.
I look away, trying not to cry.
I trudge through the hallway, struggling to stay optimistic. I’m not even sure if the party is going to happen, so I think about the prom. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nicolas. My heart leaps into my throat. He’s talking with a pretty Band Geek. He’s laughing as he drapes his sweatshirt around her tiny shoulders. She smiles and bats her eyelashes. They hug and walk off to class together. Their hands hang at their sides, almost touching.
I shove the envelopes angrily in my mesh backpack, the quilting spilling out the sides, like the guts from a wounded animal.
My heart aches. I thought things were going to be different. I guess I’ve been fooling myself all along.
. . . . . . .
After poking various instruments in my mouth, my orthodontist determines that I will be keeping my braces on for another five weeks. I won’t get them off before school ends.
. . . . . . .
The choir concert is tonight.
I hug my knees and imagine that I’m somewhere else, someone else. I now wish I’d never auditioned for the stupid solo. Who am I kidding? With my luck I’ll probably fall off the stage.
Song after song is performed until it’s our turn to sing our finale, “It’s a Beautiful Day.” If this isn’t irony, what is? I remember most of my choreography, but when it’s my turn to sing, my feet are like lead. Somehow I manage to walk to the microphone. I hear the CD play my introduction. I start to sing.
I look out into the audience. There’s Dad filming the concert, Natalia with her ears covered, Brodie with a vacant expression on his face, and Mom looking hopeful.
I close my eyes and try to focus on the lyrics, but I stumble and miss a phrase. It feels as if a brick has hit my chest and it’s impossible to breathe. I manage to recover enough to finish, but for me, the damage is done.
Choking on my solo
When the concert is over one of my choir friends tugs my arm. “You did super good.” She snorts. “Well, at least until you messed up. The look on your face was so dumb. You messed up, like, a lot!”
“Thanks, Claire . . .” I say, looking down. A few seats away I can hear girls mocking me, singing my solo, and pretending to choke.
All of their names are written on the envelopes in my backpack.
I hold myself together until we get into the car.
“Oh, honey,” Mom says. “It wasn’t that bad!”
I cradle my head in my hands as hot tears run down my face.
It’s not just Claire’s comment that hurts. When I was in fourth grade I was an iris in the school play, Alice in Wonderland. I had a handful of lines. I pretended it was real, and I got into the character. People would laugh when they saw me, but I assumed it was because I was good.
On the day before the performance, I came in late to rehearsal. All the other flowers were sitting in a circle talking about something.
“And then she says her lines so stupidly! If only Maya realized that she looks like an idiot every time she opens her mouth,” said the Daisy. “She’s so bad at acting. . . .” Then she looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. She sneered and said my lines, exactly like I’d say them. All the other flowers laughed.
I hid in the bathroom, crying all over my sweatpants.
And now, when I look at my life, all I can see is the joke it has become. The Daisy’s laughter still echoes through my head.
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