Bubble World

by Carol Snow

  She thrust her schedule at him. He scanned the paper and nodded. “You’re in my AP class.”

  “Yes.”

  He handed the schedule back. “Excellent. See you sixth period.”

  For the first time, it struck her that the classroom was empty. “Isn’t this sixth period?”

  He shook his head. “It’s lunch. For another”—he checked the clock above the door—“twenty-six and a half minutes. And then it will be sixth period.”

  “Lunch? Now? But school is almost over.”

  He took a swig of Mountain Dew. “Yeah, I know—it’s stupid. Though, officially? I didn’t say that.” He motioned to the empty desks. “You’re welcome to hang here till class starts, if you’d like.”

  She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m famished, so I think I’ll go get some nibbles. Where would I find the spread?”

  “The…”

  “Is there some kind of buffet?”

  He considered. “There’s a portable food service station in the student commons.”

  “That sounds scrummy enough.” She handed him the school map. “Can you show me where the commons is?”

  With only a couple of wrong turns (and a quick stop in the girls’ bathroom, which had toilet paper on the floor and mirrors so scratched they didn’t count as mirrors), Freesia found her way to the vast, noisy, crowded space where lunch was being served. The food at the portable food station was not only not scrummy, it was possibly not food. As it turned out, it didn’t matter because the line was so long that Freesia was unable to score so much as a square piece of pizza.

  Minutes before the bell rang, when it was clear she wouldn’t be eating, Freesia spotted Angel standing on the edge of a large group. Angel was smiling. And laughing. But they weren’t like a real smile and laugh—more like forced contortions.

  Freesia edged closer, careful to stay out of Angel’s line of sight.

  A blond girl in short shorts sat on a plastic chair in the center of the group. She was very pretty, very blond, with just a touch more black mascara than Freesia would have advised. She had broken a bone, apparently—a highlighter-pink cast covered her right calf and foot, leaving her perfectly manicured toes peeking out. A boy sat on the ground by her feet, signing the cast. Another boy held her crutches.

  She was telling a story—something about a basketball game and a cheer section and a ball bouncing off someone’s head. Around her, everyone listened and laughed in all the right places.

  She’s like Chai, Freesia thought—only not so over the top that the other girls realize they should just ignore her.

  As if she sensed that she was being watched, Angel looked around and met Freesia’s gaze. Recognition flickered for just an instant before she turned and took a step closer to the sea of backs.

  * * *

  At least she made it to sixth period on time. Mr. Janz assigned her a seat and said, “Hey, class—this is Francine. Make her feel welcome.”

  Dutifully, the class ignored her.

  She slid into her seat and put her binder on the desk.

  “We meet again.”

  Surprised, she looked up to see Adam sitting next to her.

  He said, “Is your name Francine? I thought you said it was Freesia.”

  “It’s both. Freesia is…” She had no idea how to explain this.

  “A nickname?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “That’s cool. How was your first day?”

  “Odious.”

  “It gets better.”

  “Truly?”

  He considered. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to say.” He smiled.

  She liked his smile. If only Adam had a straighter nose, a less-wide mouth, a better haircut, and more muscle, he’d be kind of good-looking. Freesia wasn’t shallow. Yes, okay, she was shallow. But she’d spent the past three and a half years surrounded by flawless beauty. Physical imperfections jarred her.

  By the end of the class, Mr. Janz was still her favorite teacher. He made jokes. He asked questions. He got students talking. But Freesia was just as lost in English as she’d been in French, which was really disappointing, since she actually spoke the language.

  At last, the bell rang. For once, it struck Freesia as a happy sound.

  Adam said “see ya” and was out the door before she’d closed her binder. She’d almost made it to the door when a girl said, “Francine! I can’t believe it’s you!”

  Freesia turned around and immediately felt unbalanced. Somehow, she knew this girl. She’d seen her wavy orange hair before, her apple cheeks, her rosebud mouth. An oversized blue sweatshirt was insufficient to hide her ample curves.

  Jelissa. That’s who she looked like—not exactly, but enough to be her sister or maybe a first cousin. But this girl wasn’t Jelissa, of course. Jelissa lived in Canada, and probably looked nothing like this in real life.

  Freesia said, “Hi, um…”

  “Erin.” She clutched her bulging book bag in front of her like a shield. “Do you really not recognize me?”

  Erin. Freesia knew that name. She knew this girl. It was more than the resemblance to Jelissa. She recognized the freckles above her lip and the way her ears stuck out a little bit. Erin. Who was she?

  “Of course!” Freesia said. “It’s just—been a while.”

  Erin nodded. “Your dad said you liked your new school.”

  “I did. I do.”

  “It was online, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I asked your dad—last year, or maybe the year before—I asked him for your number, but he said you were so busy with your classes and activities that you didn’t really have time to … you know.”

  “Right.”

  “But you’re going to finish up at Tumbleweed?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s really good to see you. And I’m glad you’re in my English class. Call me if—you know.”

  “I will.”

  Erin put her bag on the floor and rummaged around until she pulled out a cell phone. “Can I have your number?”

  “I don’t have a cell phone.”

  “Really?”

  “I know. I’m kind of a freak.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s okay.” Freesia couldn’t believe she had found someone who was even more uncomfortable in her own skin than she was.

  “I’d better go find my dad,” Freesia said. “He’s driving me home.”

  Erin nodded. “Yeah. Well, see you tomorrow, I guess. And … it really is good to see you, Francine.”

  “It’s actually … I go by Freesia now. It’s my nickname. So if you could call me that—”

  “Of course! Freesia. It’s nice. I like it.”

  Freesia nodded. “Me too.”

  22

  “Who is Erin?” Freesia asked.

  It was dinnertime in the Somers house, but tonight there was no pot on the stove, just a freezer full of premade entrees that probably wouldn’t taste as pretty as their pictures. Mother had already confirmed Freesia’s greatest fear: despite countless calls, e-mails, and texts, she had made no progress getting the Bubble World account reinstated.

  Mother ripped open a cardboard box. “Erin Reilly?”

  “I don’t know. Erin in my English class. She has red hair?”

  “Erin Reilly.” Mother nodded. “Your best friend.” She pulled a plastic-covered tray out of the cardboard box and stuck it in the microwave.

  “I had a best friend?” Freesia was stunned.

  “Of course.” Mother pushed some buttons on the microwave.

  “But you said I didn’t have any friends.”

  Mother said, “You had friends when you were little. Not a lot, but some. But by the end of seventh grade, when you enrolled in Bubble World, you didn’t have any friends at all. I’m sorry, Freesia. I don’t mean to stir up any painful memories.”

  “You can’t stir up painful memories
, because I don’t remember anything.”

  “So that’s a good thing, right?”

  The microwave beeped. Mother took her dinner and disappeared upstairs.

  * * *

  Freesia devoured a (surprisingly tasty) piece of lasagna in front of the television set while watching a history show with her father. The show was about World War II in England, which, from the look of it, was even worse than Phoenix of today. There were air raids and food shortages. Also, hemlines were a good five inches below flattering.

  During a commercial break (for a computer program that could teach you to speak Italian in six months or your money back), Father told Freesia that he loved history so much that every summer he traveled to Pennsylvania, where he dressed as a Union soldier and reenacted the Battle of Gettysburg. Freesia smiled and nodded as if this were a normal way to spend one’s holidays.

  When the show was over, Freesia went upstairs and knocked on Angel’s door. And knocked. And—

  “What?” She opened the door a crack.

  “May I borrow your computer?”

  “No.” She shut the door.

  From the hallway, Freesia heard muffled voices coming from her sister’s room. Angel’s and … someone else. A boy.

  Freesia put her ear to the door and tried to hear what was being said. She knocked. And she knocked. And she—

  “Leave me alone!” Angel yanked open the door.

  “Leaving you alone is my greatest wish.” Freesia tried to see beyond her sister into the room. “But I can’t do that unless I get back to Agalinas. And I can’t get back to Agalinas unless I use your computer.”

  The door opened just a crack. Angel went back inside, murmured something to whoever was in there, and returned holding the silver tablet Freesia had seen her tapping at the day before.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s my computer. Duh.” She handed the thing to Freesia. “Be careful. And give it back to me as soon as you’re done.”

  “I don’t know how to use this thing.”

  Angel looked at the ceiling. “Fine. I’ll show you.” She pulled her door open wider and took her computer over to her desk. Unfolded, it had a screen on the top half, a keyboard on the bottom.

  To Freesia’s surprise, there was no one else in the room. “Were you talking to someone just now? I thought I heard another voice.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Was it just your phone?”

  “I was video chatting. My boy—my friend has a laptop, too, so we can see each other when we talk. I still have homework. Can we get this over with?”

  “I need to send one of those letter things.”

  “An e-mail?”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you have an e-mail address?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have an e-mail for the person you want to write to?”

  “No.” Freesia rubbed her face. Her whole body ached with fatigue. “Is that a problem?”

  “Depends. Who do you want to write to?” Angel asked.

  “Todd Piloski. The—”

  “I know who he is.” Angel tapped a few keys. “What do you want your e-mail name to be?”

  “My what?”

  “I’m creating an e-mail account for you. I’ll try Francine, see if that’s available.”

  “I hate that name. Try Freesia.”

  Angel tapped the keys. Onscreen, a message read,

  That name has been claimed by another user. Still available:

  Freesia249

  Freesia177

  Freesia621

  “You want any of those?” Angel asked.

  “Try Sweet Freesia.”

  “You’re calling yourself sweet?”

  Freesia kept her eyes on the screen. “It’s what my mother calls me. My mother in Agalinas, I mean.”

  Angel poked at the keys until a message popped up:

  Congratulations! Your new e-mail address will be: sweetfreesia@botmail.com.

  Angel tapped a few more keys, and the Bubble World website popped up. Looking at the home page’s aerial shot of Agalinas, Freesia felt a big lump in her throat. She swallowed hard.

  “Almost like being there, huh?” Angel said.

  “No. Not at all.”

  Angel clicked and tapped some more until she found Todd Piloski’s e-mail address. “Okay, it’s ready. You can write your e-mail.”

  Angel retreated to her canopy bed, stuck a couple of buds in her ears, and opened a textbook.

  Freesia leaned close to the screen. “Hi, Todd. It’s me, Freesia. Francine. But I’d rather be called Freesia. I’m in Arizona. I went to school today, and it was odious.”

  “What. In the world. Are you doing?” Angel pulled the buds out of her ears and gaped at Freesia as if she were an utter freak. Since Freesia was used to having her sister look at her this way, she wasn’t fazed.

  “I’m—what do you call it. E-mailing Todd.”

  “Unbelievable.” Angel shut her textbook and scooted off the tall bed. “Just tell me what you want to say. Stick to the important stuff.”

  “Okay, here goes.” Freesia bit her lip, closed her eyes, and began to dictate.

  Hello Todd,

  I want to come back to Agalinas. It is my home and where my friends are. I understand why you punished me. I am sorry. I will never do it again.

  You might be wondering if I told people here what was going on there. You know what I mean. I haven’t said a word. And I won’t say a word if you let me come back. But if you make me stay in Arizona, I will be forced to tell the truth.

  That is not a threat.

  Okay, maybe it is.

  Sincerely,

  Freesia (don’t call me Francine) Summers/Somers

  “I sent it.” Angel looked up from the computer.

  “How will I know when he answers?”

  “I’ll check for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Angel held her gaze. “What haven’t you said?”

  “Huh?”

  “What’s the truth that you’ll be forced to tell?”

  “Nothing.” Freesia’s mouth twitched.

  Angel’s face shut down. “Fine. Close the door on your way out.”

  23

  After Freesia’s first day at Tumbleweed High, things could only get better.

  Except they didn’t.

  First was the problem with sleep—or, to be precise, with lack of sleep. Freesia’s sleepy juice prescription had been written by the official Bubble World doctor, and after just two nights, the supply ran out, and they couldn’t get more.

  No Bubble World, no sleepy juice.

  No sleepy juice, no sleep.

  Happy juice didn’t help. If anything, it made her even more awake at bedtime, but during the day it made her head feel all fuzzy and odd. The medication was calibrated for a virtual world, not a real one.

  To combat her fatigue, Freesia’s parents pumped her full of coffee that left her edgy and tense. Her hands shook. Her heart raced. But at least she was awake.

  At school, the mass of students made her nervous. She perspired into her cousins’ hand-me-downs. Her hands trembled. Her back ached from hauling around so many books.

  No one noticed.

  Erin continued to say hello and sometimes to chat a little bit. So did Adam. A couple of girls in her math and physics classes did not befriend her, exactly, but included her in their between-class homework-is-killing-me complaint sessions.

  Truth was, homework was not killing Freesia because she was not doing any. The textbooks were so big, the print inside so itty, the words, the paragraphs, the pictures—all so far beyond her grasp.

  Surely someone would say something? Do something? But no one did.

  Once upon a time, Freesia had felt ugly. Now she felt invisible. Somehow that was worse.

  “You want to be in a group together?” Erin asked in English class.

  “What?” Freesia had been doodling clothes: palazzo pants with a wide belt and
a body-hugging top.

  “The Ralph Waldo Emerson group project,” Erin said. “Mr. Janz said we could have up to four people in a group.”

  Adam looked up. “I’ll be in your group.”

  “Great!” Erin said. “Let’s all go to my house after school tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Adam said.

  Freesia nodded. Her hands trembled. She perspired.

  * * *

  “Nothing,” her mother said when Freesia walked into her office after school. It had been the same every day: no word from Todd Piloski.

  “Nothing,” Angel told her, checking Sweet Freesia’s e-mail.

  Today Angel wore tight black jeans, a tight peach T-shirt that accentuated her orangey blush, and about fifteen strands of long, mismatched beads: red, gold, silver, turquoise, orange, purple. Purple!

  Freesia couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Can I give you a makeover?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re really pretty. Way prettier than me. Obviously. But your choice of clothes … your makeup technique … the way you do your hair…”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “You always look so … un-utter.”

  Freesia braced herself for one of Angel’s nasty comments. Instead her eyes got all shiny and her nose turned red. And still she looked better than Freesia on her best day.

  Without a word, Freesia went to the closet, which was so crammed she couldn’t even see what was in there. She pulled out an armload of clothes and dumped them on Angel’s bed.

  First up, a lime green sleeveless blouse. “Will you ever wear this?” Freesia asked.

  “No.”

  “Good answer.” She chucked the blouse onto the floor. A fraying tube top and a faded floral sundress followed.

  When she came across a long, see-through filmy black blouse, Freesia said, “How about this?”

  Angel shrugged. “I’ve never been able to figure out what to wear it with.”

  Freesia lit up. “Black tank top, skinny jeans, granny shoes, and one strand—one—of long beads. You’ll look de-vicious.” She slung the blouse over Angel’s desk chair and then went back to the pile on the bed, rescuing only a handful of items before retrieving another armload from the closet and tackling that as well.