by Cari Simmons
“En français,” Madame Fournier added.
“Oh, okay,” Gigi said. “I mean, d’accord. Um, je suis très bien, merci.” She felt pleased with herself and smiled at her new French Club friends. “I brought some chocolate mousse. I made it myself. Well, my mom helped. Anyhoo, where should I pu—”
Vanessa shook her head. “En français. Se souvenir?”
“Uh . . . oui?” Gigi said. “I would like—um, je . . . voudrais . . . un souvenir.”
“Souvenir is a verb,” Vanessa explained. “Not a noun. It means ‘remember.’”
“Oh,” Gigi said. “Je suis . . . sorry?”
“Désolée,” Vanessa whispered.
Gigi flashed her a grateful smile. “Oui. Je suis désolée.”
Madame turned towards Gigi and said, “Nous parlons toujours français dans le club de français.” Gigi turned the words over in her head. She knew that dans meant “in” and was pretty sure that toujours meant “always.” As for parlons . . .
“Oui,” Madame Fournier said. She smiled warmly at Gigi. “C’est difficile au début, mais vous allez vous y habituer.”
Gigi stared at her blankly. Then she looked at her new friend Vanessa, who shrugged as if to say, “I don’t know what that means either.”
“C’est difficile,” Madame repeated slowly, gesturing to the club’s members.
“It’s difficult,” several said in unison.
She nodded. “Au début.” When no one responded, she held up one finger and said again, “Au début.”
“At first?” a skinny blond boy piped up.
“Oui. Excellent!” Madame Fournier smiled broadly at the boy. “Mais . . .”
“But . . . ,” the club translated.
“Vous allez vous y habituer.”
More blank stares.
She said it again: “Vous allez vous y habituer.”
Still no takers. Madame Fournier drew in a deep breath. “Vous . . .”
“You . . . ,” they said back.
“Vous allez vous y habituer.”
Pin-drop silence.
“It’s difficult at first, but you’ll get used to it!” Madame Fournier said, sounding rather exasperated. She sighed. Then, in a softer voice, she said to Gigi, “You will. Get used to it, I mean. Nous parlons en français because it makes it easier for you to learn.”
Gigi nodded, but what she was really thinking was, Um, I still haven’t figured out how to conjugate aller.
Gigi sat through the rest of the meeting. The conversation swirled around as she got by with a well-placed oui or non. As she picked at her perfect mousse, she thought, Finn would laugh so hard at this. And then, She’d probably make up some crazy French-sounding words so the two of us could pretend we were participating.
Gigi sighed. All this effort was supposed to distract her from being apart from her best friend. But sitting here, Finn was still pretty much all she could think about.
After the French Club fiasco, Gigi decided the best course of action was to focus on the cupcake bake-off. At least for now.
She thought about the zeppole cupcakes that Miranda wanted them to tackle. Gigi Googled “St. Joseph’s Day” so that she could learn more about it. This led her to search for “Italian holidays,” which led to a search on “Italian travel.” She landed on a page outlining “100+ Things You Need to Know if You’re Going to Italy.” There, under the section titled Culture, Gigi saw the thing she didn’t even know she was looking for until she’d found it.
“Sunday is a holy day—and not just for church, but for soccer!”
An enormous lightbulb went on over Gigi’s head. Italy. It was perfect. Fantastic food, fun fashion, and fierce football (which is what the Europeans apparently called soccer). It was the best of Eff and Gee, all wrapped up in one gorgeous, theme-party-friendly package!
Plus, her dad was still in Milan, at least for a few more days. Gigi was sure if she asked him to pick up some authentic Italian things for the party, he’d totally do it. She wondered if it would be warm enough to hold the shindig outside.
Gigi’s head swirled with thoughts of fountains and gondolas and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Would it be better to have a pasta bar or a build-your-own-grilled-pizza bar? She wondered if her parents would let her create a minifestival in their backyard. They could set up a bocce ball court, a gelato cart, and—oh! There could be a runway show, like it was fashion week.
And instead of a birthday cake, they could have an assortment of all of the cupcake recipes she’d been trying out. Gigi had a feeling that Miranda could help her fix that cannoli one, easy peasy lemon squeezy. She wondered if Miranda would mind helping her cater the whole event.
Would that be weird, though? Having Miranda at the party? She wouldn’t know anyone, but Miranda was Gigi’s friend now, so it only made sense to invite her.
Then it occurred to Gigi: the same held true for Lauren Avila. With a sinking feeling, Gigi began to resign herself to the fact that, now that Lauren and Finn were officially friends, she’d have to be included on all future guest lists too.
Wait. Why was she upset? Gigi decided right then and there that her jealousy of Lauren—because, she could admit to herself, that’s really what it was: jealousy—had to go. There was no room—no time—in her life for such ugly feelings. She had a party to plan! And a cupcake bake-off to win! And a To Do Someday list that was sorely in need of a win.
What had Miranda said? “Jealousy is a wasted emotion.”
She was totally right about that.
Gigi turned back to the someday to-do list, closed her eyes, and dropped her finger down randomly. When she looked, she saw that she was pointing to item number three: Play clarinet. Hmm. She would have to ask her mother if she could drive her into school early the next day, so that she could speak to the band teacher, Ms. Panettiere, about joining the woodwind section.
After all, learning an instrument couldn’t be any more disastrous than what she’d already experienced, right?
CHAPTER 15
Gigi had never actually spoken to Ms. Panettiere; she knew her mostly from assemblies and the holiday concert. She was one of the younger teachers at Sterling Middle School, pretty and fashionable to boot, and the older girls liked to gossip about which of the boys had crushes on her.
In the past, walking into a strange teacher’s classroom would’ve turned Gigi into an electric ball of nerves. But lately, all she ever seemed to be doing was walking into places she’d never been and talking to people she’d never met.
No big deal. I got this, she thought.
Ms. Panettiere was bent over her desk, scribbling furiously in a notebook. Gigi knocked on the open door to get her attention.
“Hello there,” Ms. Panettiere said warmly. “How may I help you?”
“I’m interested in joining the band,” Gigi said.
“Oh!” she said, the surprise registering in her voice. “Okay. Well, what instrument do you play?”
“I don’t,” Gigi said. “Yet. I want to learn the clarinet. I think.”
Ms. Panettiere nodded. “It’s a lovely choice. Do you have a sibling who played?”
“No. I’m an only child.”
She smiled. “Let’s back up a little. I’m Ms. Panettiere, but everyone calls me Ms. P. And you are . . .”
“Gillian Gemma Prince. But everyone calls me Gigi.”
“So, Gigi, what made you interested in the clarinet?”
“Julia Roberts.”
Ms. P’s head tilted to the side. “I don’t quite follow.”
“She’s this actress—”
“I know who Julia Roberts is,” Ms. P said, another kind smile spreading across her face. “But I’m not quite sure what she has to do with the clarinet.”
“Oh,” Gigi said. “She played it. In high school. She was in the band.”
“And you admire her?”
Gigi nodded. “I feel this—what does my mom call it?—kinship with her, ’cause she’s got curly red hair l
ike me.”
“Ahh,” Ms. P said. “I see. What grade are you in, Gigi?”
“Sixth.”
“Good,” Ms. P said. “So here’s the thing: it’s pretty late in the school year to join the band, let alone take up a brand-new instrument. But you know, in a couple of months you’ll be selecting your classes for next year, and maybe over the summer you could take some private lessons to get you caught up.”
Wait, what was Ms. P saying? Was she telling Gigi that she couldn’t join the band?
Even though Ms. P was being super nice, and even though everything she said made complete sense, Gigi still felt like someone had sucker punched her in the gut.
Sure, there were still three other items on her someday to-do list (four, if you counted number eight), but in that moment, “play clarinet” was everything. Not because of Julia Roberts, or even because she’d had some lifelong burning desire to be a musician (she hadn’t). It was just that right then and there, Gigi couldn’t imagine failing at yet another thing, especially without even having the chance to try it first.
“Is everything okay, Gigi?” Ms. P asked. “You look a little upset.”
“Sure,” Gigi said. “I just really, really, really wanted to play the clarinet. I don’t know if I’d even like it, or be good at it or whatever. But I really, really, really wanted to try.”
Ms. P looked at her thoughtfully, her eyes squinty and lips scrunched in a way that said “My brain is working overtime.” Then she asked, “What are you doing after school today?”
“I have soccer practice.”
“And tomorrow?”
Gigi shook her head. “Nothing.”
Ms. P lightly slapped her hands on the edge of her desk and said, “It’s settled then. You come to the band room tomorrow after school, and I will give you a private clarinet lesson. And if you decide that this is something you want to pursue, I’ll talk to your parents about renting you an instrument and getting some lessons. Sound good?”
“Good? That sounds great,” Gigi said, her heart filling up like a balloon of gratitude. “Thanks, Ms. Panettiere. I mean it . . . thank you.”
She was rewarded with a thousand-watt smile. “It is my sincere pleasure, Gillian Gemma Prince,” she replied. “I like your fire. Must be the hair.”
Gigi grinned. “Something like that.”
Her victory in the band room put Gigi in an absolutely fantastic mood. She was so chipper, in fact, that nothing could seem to bring her down: not the pop quiz in geography, not the run she discovered in her brand-new purple tights, and not that Mrs. Dempsey still refused to reveal what the spring musical would be, even though auditions were scheduled for a week from Monday.
Then came lunch.
Typically, Gigi brought her lunch from home. Despite the fact that the Sterling Middle School cafeteria had supposedly improved its options this year, Gigi had a feeling that was only in the nutritional sense. Taste-wise, the menu left an awful lot to be desired.
But this morning, in her great rush to get to school early enough to see Ms. P before homeroom, Gigi had blown by the fridge and completely forgotten to grab the insulated sack she packed meticulously each night. If she’d had a cell phone, she could’ve texted her mother to ask if she wouldn’t mind bringing it to her (just another reason why she had to have one for her birthday). Instead, the only thing Gigi could do was whip out the emergency school lunch card her mom had loaded with twenty dollars at the beginning of the school year. So far, Gigi had used the card exactly once.
The menu board outside the cafeteria listed KLUX DELUX CHIX PATTY SANDWICH and WACKY VEGGIE MAC as the main dish options. That didn’t sound so bad. Gigi wished it all maybe smelled a little better, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Gigi was trying to figure out what made the veggie mac so wacky when she felt an insistent tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Kendall, a look of grim determination on her face.
“Hey,” Gigi said. “What’s up?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Kendall said. Her hands were balled up on her hips. “What is going on with you and Finley?”
“What do you mean?” Gigi asked. Had Finn said something to their group? The idea was too awful to contemplate.
“You guys never went anywhere without each other,” Kendall clarified. “Now it’s like you’re never together, and Finn’s always hanging out with Lauren Avila!”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes, that,” Kendall said. “Are you going to stop being friends with her?”
“What? Why? What did Finn say?”
Kendall sighed. “She told Katie that you were mad at her, and when Katie asked why, Finn said it was because she was, like, really good at soccer and you’re not.”
Gigi was fairly certain that Finn would never say such a mean thing, but the words hurt nonetheless.
“She also said that Finn said that you’re jealous because she’s friends with an eighth grader,” Kendall continued. “And then this morning, Maggie asked Finn about your guys’ birthday party, and Mags said that Finn said that the two of you couldn’t even have a conversation about it without you getting really weird about the whole thing.”
“Weird?” Gigi echoed. “I might be weird. You know, if we actually had a conversation about it. Every time I try to plan stuff, she totally bails on me to go hang out with Lauren.”
“So you are jealous!” Kendall exclaimed. “I get that. Remember when Katie broke her arm in third grade and everyone made this huge deal about it and started fighting over who got to write more stuff on her cast? And the thing that I wrote—like, first, before everyone else—got totally crowded in so that you could barely even see it? I was totally jealous.”
Gigi shook her head in disbelief. “This is nothing like that, I assure you.”
“Then what’s your deal?” Kendall asked.
Gigi didn’t know how to respond. Sure, she knew things between her and Finn weren’t okay, and clearly Finley was aware that something was off as well. But Gigi had thought that the two of them were doing a pretty good job of keeping everyone else out of that particular loop. They sat together at lunch, carpooled home after soccer practice, and even had a brief phone conversation on Sunday night, though their six-minute chat consisted mostly of a) Finn gushing about the Union soccer match she and Lauren had attended the previous evening and b) double-checking the assignment due in English the next day.
“I’ve just been really busy,” Gigi said after a pause. “And so has Finn. But we’re fine, Kendall. I swear.”
Kendall eyed her suspiciously. “Are you sure?”
No, not really, she thought. But she said, “Absolutely,” in what she hoped was a convincing way.
“That’s good,” Kendall said. “I mean, you’re Eff and Gee. There’s, like, no you without her, and no her without you.”
Gigi shook her head as if to clear the debris of this awkward, uncomfortable conversation. But not before she thought, Maybe that’s the problem.
She picked up two grayish-green lunch trays and handed one off to Kendall. When she reached the server, she asked for the Klux Delux.
“Gross,” Kendall whisper screamed. To the server, she announced, “I’ll have the Wacky Mac, please!” A thick, yellowish blob dotted with clumps of green landed on the foam plate with a sickening plop.
Gigi vowed right then and there that she would never, ever forget her lunch again.
All afternoon, Gigi kept replaying her conversation with Kendall. She knew her friend had a tendency to exaggerate, but she also knew that Finn must’ve said something to set her off. Rather than let this niggling feeling fester, Gigi decided it would be better to simply ask Finn straight up.
In the locker room before soccer practice, Gigi steeled herself and said, “Can we talk?”
“Uh, sure,” Finley said. “What’s up?”
Gigi paused, unsure how to say what it was she needed to say without stirring up any more drama.
“Kendall . . . ,”
she said, her voice trailing off.
Wait—was it her imagination, or did Finn just tense up when she said Kendall’s name?
“What about her?” Finn asked stiffly.
“Somehow she got the impression that I am jealous of your mad soccer skills.”
“Um . . . ,” Finn said. She was staring at her cleats, tightening her laces, tugging at them extrahard. “I didn’t say you were jealous. I just said there was some . . . tension.”
“Because you’re good at soccer and I’m not?” Gigi asked, incredulous. She couldn’t believe she even had to ask the question in the first place.
Finn’s silence felt like a solid response to Gigi.
“That,” she said to Finn in a soft, quiet voice, “really hurts my feelings.”
“Why?”
“Because I would never be this angry with you for something as dumb as that! And I am really, really, really angry!” As she spoke the words, Gigi felt the full weight of them. She’d had no illusions about her ability on the soccer field. The only reason she even stayed in soccer—besides the school’s rule about playing for a sports team—was because of Finley. To support her. To spend time with her. Because that’s what friends did.
“I’m sorry, Gee,” Finley said. “I was frustrated. If I knew venting to Katie would’ve gotten back to you, I never would’ve done it in the first place.”
Gigi shook her head. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“You should’ve told me that you were frustrated,” Gigi said. “Not Katie. Or if you did tell her, you should’ve told me afterwards. We don’t talk behind each other’s backs. At least, we never used to.”
Before Finn could respond, Gigi shot up from the locker room bench and stormed out onto the field.
Quitting soccer would leave her with few options; the only spring sports offered for girls at Sterling Middle were softball, track, and co-ed lacrosse—none of which appealed to Gigi. Next year was a different story. Next year, she could go out for cheerleading in the fall, or even join the marching band’s color guard. Backflips and dance-filled flag routines were much more her speed than kicking a stupid ball across a stupid soggy field.