Fetching

by Kiera Stewart

  Like I said, I know that smile.

  I blink, and breathe, and quickly turn my gaze to the window. A billboard on the side of the road advertises Floyd County. There’s a picture of the courthouse and the old church, and the high school we’ll all be going to next year if we don’t screw up too much. Despite the fact that the sun has faded the sign and the colors are worn, Floyd County looks a whole lot prettier on that one-dimensional poster than it does in the three dimensions of reality.

  Too bad life’s not that simple. Or people, for that matter. It would make them a lot easier to love—and a lot less complicated to hate.

  IT’S SATURDAY, and I’m supposed to be doing my homework. Instead, I’m watching another Full House rerun. I’m curled up with Oomlot, and we are both ignoring Queso’s attempts to play, when the phone rings. My grandmother picks it up and calls for me. I tear myself away from the TV, accidentally exciting Queso, who does a little play-bow and hops around. I’m expecting to rush Mandy or Delia off the phone so I can get back to Uncle Jesse, but it is neither of them.

  “Olivia?” the voice says, as my brain scrambles to identify it.

  “Yes?” I say. Queso looks up at me expectantly. I reach into my backpack and pull out an eraser. She wags her whole tiny little body. I throw it and watch her scurry and skid across the floor, and finally go in for the attack. That’ll keep her busy for a few minutes.

  “It’s Brynne,” the voice says. When I am in too much shock to say anything, she adds, “Brynne Shawnson? From school? Hellooo? ”

  “Oh.” My. God. “Hi.”

  “So, you have Mr. Renaldi for English, don’t you?”

  “Uh, yeah. Fourth period,” I say.

  “Oh, thank God. I have him for sixth, but no one in my class will answer their stupid phones.”

  I am quiet. I wonder if this is why she’s calling me. If somehow she’s figured out I’m basically the reason why.

  But then she says, “So do you know what we’re supposed to do for homework?”

  “Oh. Yeah, hang on.” I pull my notebook out of my backpack, still reeling, and tell her the assignment. We’re supposed to write a scene of fiction based on the western pioneers’ experience.

  She is quiet for a second, then asks, “What did you write?”

  I’m afraid she’s going to ask me to read it out loud—which is terrifying—and then copy it—which is maddening—so I just say, “I haven’t written it yet.”

  “Well, me either, obviously.” She laughs. “They died a lot in those days, didn’t they?”

  “I think so,” I say.

  “YOU FRIGGIN’ WASTE OF FLESH!”

  My heart jolts. So this is what it’s about. It’s another joke on me. I’m about to hang up when she says, “Oh. Em. Gee. I’m so sorry about that.” And then she screams, “GET OUT!!”

  I’m frozen. Queso has laid the eraser by my toe and is patiently waiting for me to throw it again, but I’m too stunned to move.

  “Olivia? Sorry, sorry! Just hang on.”

  Then I hear her slam a door. “My brother. He’s only nine, but he’s already a tool,” she explains to me. “Sorry to bug you with this, but like I said, I just don’t know what’s going on. Everyone acts like they don’t want to talk to me.”

  This is awkward.

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” I catch myself wincing in the mirror as I say it.

  “Thanks,” she says. “I probably shouldn’t care anyway. Honestly, you’re probably smarter and nicer than all of them put together.”

  I laugh nervously, unsure of what to say. A million stupid little things come to mind, but thankfully, none of them make it to my mouth.

  Now I hear a woman’s voice rising in the background. “Okay, Mom,” Brynne whines. “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

  She hangs up and I sit there for a second before picking the phone back up to call Delia and tell her what just happened. I still feel slightly stunned, and my words come out kind of flat and baffled, but Delia’s full of excitement.

  “This is incredible! You’re a genius, Liv. I can’t believe the plan is working so well!”

  “Me either. I’m just—shocked. I mean, Brynne Shawnson calling me for help? Saying I’m smarter and nicer than any of her friends? It just feels bizarre.”

  “I know. Have you seen the new batch of Brynne’s campaign posters? The ones Carolyn and Tamberlin did? They just took markers and wrote ‘Vote for Brynne’ on regular lined paper and stuck them up in the science hall with Scotch tape. And I heard Corbin Moon was supposed to do a bunch of posters, but just showed up with a pad of Post-its instead. He was going to write her name on them and stick them on the bathroom stalls, but Mrs. Vander-Pecker wouldn’t let him go into the girls’ room.”

  “Ugh. You think that’s true?” I say, throwing the eraser again for Queso.

  “That’s what I heard,” she says. “I mean, Corbin was calling it ‘grassroots campaigning,’ but who does he think he’s fooling? It’s like none of them really care if she’s elected anymore. I’m telling you, Liv, it’s all because of the plan.”

  I curl back up with Oomlot and remind myself of all the things Brynne’s done to deserve this.

  THERE ARE NOW three popular girls who have picked up on the lip-marker trend. And Joey and I actually witnessed Brant smiling at Phoebe—a real smile, not a smirk—in the hallway when we were all walking to the bus. And Delia’s cheeks are looking clearer—not just her hairline. And when Joey spilled his Yoohoo in the ice-cream line in the cafeteria, small-nostriled Corinne d’Abo, who was in the line in front of him, ran and got some paper towels to help him clean it up. And I saw Corbin Moon glance at Mandy and look away, like she was just a normal person—maybe even a pretty person. But the real turning point for me comes at lunch on Monday, when Brynne walks over to our table. In front of everyone, she slips four stapled sheets of paper in front of me. “Will you read it?”

  I pick it up and study it. Despite what she said on the phone, I’m still half expecting this to be some type of cruel joke—a petition voting us out of the campaign, for example. But all I see, centered in the middle of the page, is the word “Reclaimed.” Under that is, “By Brynne L. Shawnson.”

  “It’s my pioneer story,” she says, her fingers clasping each other, fidgety. “Do you have time? Would you…read it over before I turn it in?”

  “Okay.” I swallow. “Sure.”

  Delia glances at the paper. “Nice title.”

  “Thanks.” Brynne smiles kind of sadly. “Just let me know how suckish it is. I’ll come by your locker after lunch.”

  She walks away, and everyone’s eyes pop open. “Let me see,” Phoebe says, trying to snatch the paper. I pull it away, like a reflex.

  Delia asks me what I’ll say to her if it does suck. I tell her I don’t know.

  “Wow, she’s like totally over herself,” Mandy says. For a second, she looks concerned. Then she bursts out with a laugh. She and Joey butt fists, and then, with his hands, Joey mimes a plane flying, falling out of the sky, crashing and bursting into flames, complete with all the expected sound effects.

  “This is awesome,” Joey says.

  “She looked kind of, I don’t know, worn out or something, didn’t she?” Delia asks.

  “Yeah, amazing what happens when you strip someone of their confidence,” Mandy says, grinning. “Hey, am I getting any better looking?”

  “Well, your scab’s healed up pretty nicely,” Phoebe tells her.

  While they continue their self-congratulations, I grab a pen and start reading Brynne’s story. With each sentence, I’m surprised. I mean it’s a little far-fetched, but it’s pretty good. It’s about a prairie girl named Elizabeth, whose parents have died on the trip out west, and she has to find a family to adopt her.

  “So does it suck?” Delia says, trying to look at the little notes I’ve written in the margin.

  “It’s actually not bad,” I say.

  “What’s yours about?” Mand
y asks. She hasn’t written hers yet because she doesn’t have to go to her fifth period class; her mother is picking her up for a dentist appointment.

  “It’s about this family that lives on a prairie, and they have a bunch of kids, and one of them gets really sick and almost dies.”

  “Oh,” Mandy says. “Isn’t that basically Little House on the Prairie?”

  “It’s similar,” I admit. Suddenly I am disappointed with myself. The truth is I just wanted to get the story out of the way so I could catch the rerun of the very first episode of Full House, where the mother just died and Joey and Uncle Jesse move in with the girls and their father. It’s my favorite episode. Sometimes I wish my dad had had a brother and best friend to move in with us when my mom left, but then I’d probably still be afraid of dogs, and I’d have never gotten to the point where a former celebrity like Brynne would be asking for my help.

  “Well, I’m sure your story is much better than Brynne’s,” Delia says.

  “I wish,” I say. “But to be honest, hers is just a better story all around. She’s actually a good writer.”

  “Careful, there,” Mandy says, smirking. “Sounds like you’re sympathizing with the enemy. Some abolitionist you are.”

  “Yeah, more like Benedict Arnold,” Joey says.

  “Wow, would you listen to yourselves?” Delia jumps in. “Olivia was just trying to say she liked her story. She didn’t say she liked her.”

  “Yeah, I mean—okay, I guess it doesn’t hurt that she’s also being nice,” I say. And before I really do start to feel like a traitor, I add, “I’m just saying, we got her where we want her. We don’t have to stick the knife in and twist it.”

  Joey starts acting out my words. He stabs and twists his milk straw into Phoebe’s upper arm, and Phoebe yells at him about the difference between literal and figurative. And I’m actually relieved because I don’t feel like I have to defend myself anymore.

  And anyway, it doesn’t matter how nice or smart or, okay, vulnerable, I think Brynne is. I’m not a traitor.

  ON WEDNESDAY, I’m on my way to third period when I hear a squeal, then two bare arms wrap around my shoulders so tight it hurts.

  It’s Brynne. She’s almost knocked down several seventh graders on her way to me. “Oh. Em. Gee!” she pants. “I got an A! Thank you! Thank you!”

  I feel this weird little happy rush—her hug, her gushing appreciation, her acceptance of me. And then I have a panicky realization. I’ve been waiting for this moment. It’s the stamp of approval I was hoping for. It’s like I’ve finally been accepted into that country club, even if it is a little more like a rec center now.

  “Which way are you going?” she asks.

  “Oh,” I say. “History. Knapp’s class.”

  “Cool. I’m going that way.” She walks next to me like she weighs twenty pounds, practically floating, while I thud away next to her trying really, really hard to think of something funny or enlightening to say. I get nothing.

  “Mr. Renaldi even said that I’ve got talent,” she practically squeals.

  “Oh,” I say again. Marvelous vocab I have. “Yay.” Despite that secret inner thrill, my words come out flat and unimpressed. I wish I’d been prepared for this!

  “I know, right?” She laughs. “Oh my God, I sound like such a spaz!”

  “No,” I manage to spit out. It seems one-syllable words are all I can handle.

  “Well, see you at lunch,” she says, and peels off to her next class.

  “Bye,” I say. I kind of want to smile, but then I remind myself not to let it go to my head. I tell myself whatever I’m feeling is just a little pang of success. It’s not personal. I can’t really like her and she can’t really like me. She’s just responding to the training like any dog would. It’s that simple. Like any dog.

  I don’t get it. When I walk into the cafeteria, Brynne waves and slaps the seat beside her. I look over at my table. It’s early—Phoebe sits alone, quietly disassembling a bag lunch. She spots someone and waves a bit ridiculously—I follow her gaze and see Brant waving back. Yes, that’s still going on.

  Then Brynne calls my name. I find myself being drawn in her direction.

  And then I hear the sound of Delia laughing as she and Joey sit down at the table with Phoebe—it’s something Joey’s said—and I feel the tug of belonging in the opposite direction.

  I throw a sheepish smile at Brynne and set my backpack down next to Delia, who—thankfully—isn’t even slightly aware of my weak moral character. The fact that, for even a second, I could be lured away by someone else, let alone Brynne…I’m ashamed.

  Peyton Randall appears. “You’re sitting there? I asked Delia to save me a seat next to her.”

  Delia hears her. “Oh, sorry, Peyton. You can sit here tomorrow.” She smiles up at me, but I don’t smile back. Wait. Was she really going to let someone else have my seat?

  Peyton sighs and heads to the other end of our table. Janie Lindy says hi to everyone and sits down across from Peyton. I’m starting to feel like the hound that I am. Territorially aggressive. This is my table, and this is my pack.

  Delia is smiling at everyone like this is the greatest thing, these new people at our table. Her herd’s growing, with people she’s personally approved, so she’s happy.

  Stupid herders.

  I mark my spot, leaving my backpack on the seat next to Delia, and get in the back of the lunch line. Mandy spots me and forgoes her better space in line to stand with me. I try to smile.

  “You’re quiet today,” Mandy says.

  “Sorry if I’m not a laugh a minute.”

  She looks at me like she’s not really sure she gets me, and I know for a fact that, at this single moment in time, she doesn’t. I’m not even sure I get me.

  Mandy’s black marker has worn away on all but the outer rims of her lips. For some reason, it annoys me.

  “Your Sharpie’s wearing off,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” she says, and rubs at her mouth a little carelessly. “I’ll fix it after lunch.”

  But it looks stupid now, I fight the urge to say. Don’t you care that you look like a total Marcie?

  We sit down in silence, and Tamberlin Ziff and Carolyn Quim approach our table, lips fruity red and clipboards in hand.

  “We need some ideas for our Spirit Dress-Up Days, so we’re taking down suggestions,” Tamberlin explains.

  “Um, Circus Day?” Janie offers.

  Panic flashes across Carolyn’s face.

  “That’s a little insensitive,” Tamberlin chides Janie. “Lots of people are scared of clowns. It’s an actual syndrome.”

  “Backward Day? You wear everything backward?” Delia says.

  “That sounds good,” Tamberlin says, “but it’s just so uncomfortable. I mean, bras really don’t work when they’re put on backward. What else?”

  “How about Favorite Scientist Day?” Phoebe starts. “That would not only be fun but edu—”

  “Sorry, Phoebe, but ehhhhh!” Carolyn says, imitating a rejection buzzer, and giggling. “Olivia, don’t you have any ideas?”

  “Uh…” The problem is that I really want to have a great idea. I really want to impress them, but my brain is doing what it usually does when it’s under pressure, which is to malfunction. My eyes dart around the cafeteria looking for something—anything—to offer. And here’s what it comes up with. “Trash bags.”

  “Huh?” they both say.

  I wish I could grab one of Mandy’s Sharpies and scribble through my suggestion. But I can’t. The only thing I seem to be able to do is stutter. “Um, I, I mean, um—”

  Mandy rescues me. “She means Trash Bag Day. You can wear anything you want, as long as it’s a trash bag. Great idea, Liv.”

  I glance at her. She’s sitting up tall, delivering this with perfect spinal alignment and a confident tone—artfully, and perhaps quite magically, spinning my brain-doo into a somewhat reasonable- sounding idea.

  “Oh my”—Tamberlin looks
excitedly at Carolyn and squeals—“gosh! That’s excellent!”

  “This. Is going. To be. Great!” Carolyn says. “Thanks, Olivia!”

  And I think, Really?

  “Hey, anyone want a cookie?” Delia says, quick with the reward. Each of the girls grabs one and crams it into her mouth.

  “Nice, uh, necks, both of you,” Joey adds. “Very, uh, gooselike.”

  “Swan!” Delia corrects him. “He means swanlike.”

  They both laugh and say, “Oh, Joey. You are so funny!” before they scurry back to their usual table.

  “Trash Bag Day,” Peyton says, with a little admiration and wonder in her voice. “Huh. I would have never thought of that. You guys are so interesting!”

  “You’re interesting!” Joey says. It’s the lazy boy’s version of a compliment—a recycled one. Still, Peyton seems pleased.

  “Peyton, would you care for some Wite-Out?” Phoebe adds.

  While Peyton is being awkwardly flattered and begifted at the opposite end of the table, I say quietly to Mandy, “I should probably thank you.”

  “Yeah, you should. You know, you’ve been acting kind of weird, Olivia. This whole plan was your idea. You can’t just start coasting now.”

  I look over at Brynne’s table. I can’t help but wonder—could Brynne and I really be friends? Could she really like me? The spot next to her is now filled by the willowy but incredibly whiny Izzy Van Norton, who is eating her daily half-pretzel and, no doubt, complaining about how full she is. For just a second, I feel a rush of regret at giving up my window of opportunity.

  And then I sigh and tell Mandy that I’m sorry, because I know that despite the fact that I have Caribbean-green eyes and dancerlike legs and hair nicely controlled in a ponytail, I’m still the Marcie for even having my incredibly stupid regrets.