“Whatever.” Raven held up her hand. “Like I said, stay away from me, and stay away from my stuff.” Raven stepped around me and slunk into the multipurpose room.
I followed her. Rows of folding chairs faced a darkened stage, where a thin red carpet ran from front to back. It reminded me of a large, toothless mouth, ready to swallow me if I set one foot on that monster. Off to the side, a portable whiteboard stood with a message scrawled in blue marker:
The seventh-grade class
will perform CINDERELLA in December.
Tryouts are in two weeks.
Okay, so Cinderella was definitely my favorite fairy tale. Something about her story gave me a hopeful feeling. Maybe it was the dress, or the ball, or the pumpkin carriage. But still, reading the whiteboard made me want to run out the door, down the hall to the principal’s office, and request a schedule change. Why in the world had I agreed to stay in drama?
Because Ellen asked you to and she’s your best friend, I reminded myself as I walked down the aisle. That’s what best friends do.
Raven plunked down in a middle row. I didn’t want to sit anywhere near her, so I chose a row toward the back and placed my backpack beside me to save Ellen’s seat.
More kids quietly slipped inside, until the door burst open and Ellen bounded in, followed by a girl with golden skin and hair. I waved at Ellen. But Ellen was too busy talking and giggling with the Golden Girl to notice.
Everyone turned to watch Ellen and the Golden Girl as they trooped up the aisle, and I felt a familiar feeling—like something was coiling around my chest and squeezing tight. Jealousy. Not that I wanted people watching me—but sometimes it was irritating having a best friend who was really smart and really pretty. Wasn’t there a rule somewhere that said you could be one or the other, but not both? And how come I didn’t get to be either?
I studied Ellen’s new friend. She kept giggling and tucking her hair behind her ears as she sashayed up the aisle. She reminded me of when Sarah dressed up in Mom’s clothes and pranced around, just waiting for someone to tell her she was beautiful.
“Hey, look,” she said loudly, “there’s Raven.”
Raven turned, and I saw her face pucker like she had just sucked a lemon. But Ellen and her new friend didn’t seem to notice; they plunked down next to Raven and began whispering to her.
Ellen knew Raven? And who was the Golden Girl? And most important, why hadn’t Ellen looked for me?
“Excuse me?” an accented voice said above me.
I looked up. A girl with mocha-colored skin and hair the color of coffee beans grinned at me. She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why.
She smiled and looked right at me as she pointed to the empty seat and said, “May I sit there?”
This was very different from the girl who asked me that same question in English class earlier. She had smiled halfheartedly, and looked at the door while she spoke. Like in a sea of unknown faces, she had weighed her options, and decided I might have potential. But, if someone else walked into class, someone with better hair, or better clothes—someone who looked like they might one day become middle-school royalty—then she might change her mind.
But this girl continued to smile right at me as she repeated her question.
“Sure,” I said, snapping back to attention and moving my backpack.
“I think my uncle lives next door to you,” she said, sitting down. “Esteban Garcia? I just moved here from Mexico—he said I could come live with him. My name is Ana,” she said, pronouncing it like Ahn-a.
“Okay.” I had seen Ana before—in the front yard while the two Garcia boys chased each other with squirt guns. At the time, I just thought she was their new babysitter.
“I’m Callie.”
“I’ve seen you in your window, writing,” Ana said. “Did you have school in the summer?”
“Summer school? No, I just like to write. Stories and stuff like that.”
Ana looked impressed. “I love stories. You must show me yours sometime.”
“Sure,” I said. Ana settled in and I looked at the front row again.
I felt stumped as I watched Ellen—like I was staring at a puzzle with missing pieces. How had Ellen managed to make a whole new group of friends in the last six hours? I slipped on my glasses, waited for the screens to appear, and then stared at the Golden Girl’s thoughts.
At first there was an image on the screen hovering next to her—a picture of a pudgy girl with dull blond hair and green rubber-band braces. Then the screen changed and words scrolled across: I can’t believe I have two new friends already! I love science class! How awesome is it that we can all be lab partners? Don’t be an idiot, Stacy, and forget their names: Ellen Martin and Raven Maggert. Ellen Martin …
Okay, so Ellen had science class with Raven and Stacy the Golden Girl. So what? I sat with two other kids in science class too. That didn’t mean I was going to suddenly start ignoring my best friend.
I looked at the screen hovering by Raven: I can’t believe these morons are my lab partners. Then Raven glanced at Ellen and smirked: Maybe I could get the uptight one to do most of the work.
I grinned and turned to Ellen’s screen, expecting to see a ton of thoughts about how middle school totally rocked: I am sick of all these ridiculous classes! What’s the point? If I do well, I’ll just end up at Tara’s stupid college anyway. I am so tired of hearing how wonderful Tara is. And why won’t Mom and Dad let me get a guitar? It’s not like I’m going to start a punk band or something.
What? Those couldn’t be Ellen’s thoughts. I took my glasses off and banged them against the chair in front of me, like a flashlight with dying batteries. But when I put them back on and the screen appeared by Ellen, her thoughts were the same. I took my glasses off again and polished them with my T-shirt.
Just then I noticed a boy sitting a couple of rows ahead of me. His shaggy brown hair was pulled back into a short ponytail. My mouth dropped open and my heart started doing jumping jacks. Scott Fowler was in my drama class! I watched as he spoke to the boy next to him—who, I realized with a sinking feeling, was Charlie Ferris.
Last year, Scott Fowler was the cutest boy in the sixth grade. And I would know. I spent large chunks of classroom time staring at him and his ponytail. Ellen said his ponytail made him look scruffy and unhygienic, but I thought he looked mysterious, especially with his usual smirk, like he knew something no one else did.
When we studied poetry last spring, Scott wrote the most romantic haiku I’d ever heard. I even copied them into my journal, which Ellen thought was lame. “It’s not like he wrote them for you, specifically,” she’d said. But I didn’t care. In the stories I wrote about Scott, I pretended he did write them for me—right before he confessed his undying love.
Just then Scott looked over. Our eyes met and my face flamed up like I’d crunched a gazillion Red Hots. As I quickly slipped my glasses back on, my thoughts were clear. Last year, I would’ve given anything to know what Scott thought of me. And right now, I could find out. I held my breath as the air waved and shimmered and the screen appeared next to him: Dude, those glasses are epic ugly. Wait, isn’t that Polka Dot? Ellen Martin’s best friend? What was her name . . . Carrie, maybe? The one who never talked.
Scott gave Charlie a nudge and pointed at me. A screen launched up next to Charlie as he turned: Hey, it’s Polka Dot! I knew I saw her in Spanish class!
I looked away and sniffed, causing Ana to ask, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I mumbled.
But really, I wasn’t sure what I should feel more upset about:
1. That Scott thought my glasses were “epic ugly.”
2. That Scott remembered “Polka Dot,” but thought my real name was “Carrie.”
3. That Ellen hadn’t looked around to find me, not even once. Now that she’d found Stacy the Golden Girl, it was like she’d forgotten about me completely.
Chapter 4
Super Freaky Glasses
Rule #3
Most people tell little white lies. Don’t get offended. You do the same thing.
WHEN THE BELL RANG, STUDENTS BURST FROM CLASS LIKE soda from a punctured can. I hung back and waited for Ellen, who was talking to Stacy.
“Callie, there you are,” Ellen said, like she’d been looking for me.
“I was sitting behind you the whole time.”
“I didn’t see you. I figured you were late. Like usual.”
Then why didn’t you save me a seat? I wanted to ask but didn’t. Instead I said, “I looked for you in the cafeteria.” My stomach rumbled then, reminding me that when I couldn’t find Ellen, I decided to skip lunch. So I’d fled the crowded cafeteria and hid out in the library till the bell rang.
“I looked for you, too,” Ellen said. But then the air shimmered and the screen appeared. Inside I saw an image of Ellen and Stacy laughing and eating sandwiches in the cafeteria. I blinked, confused. What did it mean when the screen showed images, instead of words? Did it mean Ellen and Stacy ate lunch together? Was I seeing one of Ellen’s memories?
Ellen introduced me to Stacy—Wanamaker—and explained they had four classes together, drama making it five. Then she turned to Stacy. “And this is Callie Anderson.”
“I’m Ellen’s best friend,” I added quickly.
Stacy’s grin faltered, but then she said in a bright voice, “Nice to meet you. I like your glasses, they’re way cute.”
The air shimmered again, and a screen appeared by Stacy. And my super freaky magic glasses showed me she was a total liar: Should I tell her those glasses are way dorky? The screen changed, and an image appeared of the pudgy girl with braces Stacy had been thinking about earlier. Was that someone she knew? I wondered. And what was I supposed to do with a pair of magic glasses, anyway?
I’d had enough middle school for one day. Reading the blue screens and wondering what it all meant tired me out. I wanted answers, and only one person could give them to me.
I said good-bye to Ellen and Stacy and turned away, but Stacy stopped me. “Do you take the bus?”
“No, I just live a few tracts over, on Butterfly Way. But—”
“No way. I live close by too.” Stacy leaned forward, and I caught a whiff of overpowering vanilla body spray. “My mom could take you home—maybe you and Ellen could come over.”
“No,” I said, more forcefully than I intended. “Anyway, I’ll see you guys later.” I avoided looking at the screen hovering next to Stacy and sprinted home, my overstuffed backpack slamming against my back. Inside my house, I thumbed through the yellow pages, but Dr. Ingram wasn’t listed.
A note from Mom leaned against the phone, letting me know she would be late picking Sarah up from the baby sitter’s so could I put the casserole in the oven at 4:30? And could I unload the dishwasher and fold the towels? And for just once, clean my room because it was a total disaster?
Figuring I had plenty of time, I tossed the note aside, kicked off my flip-flops, and headed upstairs to my room. Mrs. Dillard had given me a receipt for my order. Dr. Ingram’s phone number was probably on it.
I was right. “Callie, how are you?” Mrs. Dillard said. “Dr. Ingram said you might be calling.”
“I bet,” I mumbled.
“Good to hear from you,” Dr. Ingram said, coming on the line. “How are those glasses working out? Seen anything interesting?”
“You could say that,” I said, then paused. Should I tell him about my glasses’ super freakiness? I thought he knew they had magic powers. But what if he didn’t? What if he told my mom? Or worse, what if he thought I was a weirdo?
“I’ve seen lots of interesting things,” I said finally. When Dr. Ingram remained silent, I added, “And I was wondering if you could get my other glasses any faster? I don’t think I like the loaner pair.”
“Oh really? And why is that?”
Now I was silent.
“How was your first day of school? Do you like your classes?”
“I guess,” I answered. “Except I’m taking drama and I have to figure out how to avoid auditioning.”
“Auditioning for what?”
“For Cinderella. Our class is putting on a play in December.”
“Wait just a moment,” Dr. Ingram said. “You mean to tell me, you have the opportunity to be Cinderella, and you’re not going to take it? You’re not even going to try out?”
“Not if I can help it, and I’d never try out for the lead, anyway. And that’s not the point.”
“Yes. Yes, Calliope, that’s absolutely the point,” Dr. Ingram said. “Anyway, you wanted to know when your glasses will come in and the answer is I don’t know. I’m afraid this is going to take much longer than I originally thought.”
Dr. Ingram said good-bye and hung up. For now at least, I was stuck with the magic glasses. But what was I supposed to do with them? Even if I used the glasses wisely, wouldn’t that be spying on people’s thoughts? Was that even legal?
Outside my window I saw Ana walking down the sidewalk and carrying a stack of textbooks. I decided to perform one more experiment. I slipped my glasses out of the side pocket in my backpack and put them on. Then I jogged down the stairs and out the front door.
“¡Hola!” I said, using the one Spanish word I knew (other than taco and enchilada) as I met Ana on the sidewalk. The cement was hot on my bare feet, and I hopped from one foot to the other, before stepping back onto the grass.
“¡Hola!” Ana answered, laughing. “Hello.”
“So . . .” I thought carefully before asking my question. “What did you think of drama?”
“It was good,” Ana said. The air shimmered and the screen launched up. Words scrolled across, but I couldn’t understand any of them—they were all in Spanish.
“How did you like Pacificview?” I asked, trying again.
“It was good,” Ana repeated. The screen changed, and what looked like a commercial began to play. A group of girls hanging out by a row of lockers laughed and pointed at Ana, who looked away and pretended not to notice.
Did that actually happen to Ana earlier? I wondered. Then I looked at Ana. Really looked. At her turquoise stretch pants and hot pink T-shirt. And I realized no one, not even someone as beautiful as Ana, could wear something like that to Pacificview and not catch grief.
Maybe the way I looked at her tipped her off, because Ana glanced at her clothing and said, “Is something wrong?”
“Well, it’s just that your clothes are really . . . colorful. A little on the funky side.”
“Funky? What does ‘funky’ mean?”
“Um, different?”
“And different is bad, yes?”
“No. Well, sometimes, I guess. Especially in middle school.”
“Ah, you are giving me—what did my English teacher call it? A good cultural tip.” Ana took a flyer out of her pocket. “My teacher also gave me this.” She held it up for me to see—it was the same flyer Ellen had pored over earlier in the day. “There are a few clubs she thought I might want to join.” Ana smiled widely and her eyes seemed to sparkle. “I’m going to show this to Tío tonight.”
“Cool,” I answered, trying to sound enthusiastic. Was I the only person in the entire seventh grade not excited about middle-school life? Everyone else at Pacificview seemed eager to join this club, or try out for that team. In gym class earlier I heard a couple of girls talking about soccer tryouts. One girl was just dying to be the goalie. But I didn’t get it. Diving in front of a ball that was kicked by a girl with calves the size of Colorado did not seem like fun.
The screen hovering beside Ana changed then, and Spanish words began to scroll across. “How was your day?” she asked, shifting her textbooks from one arm to the other. The tone of her voice made me think it was the second time she asked.
“My day? Oh, yeah, no—it was good too.” So far, my test wasn’t going that great. I still didn’t know how to use my glasses. I just knew Ana’s day had probably been harder than she let on.
“So, how come you wanted to come to America?” I asked, changing the subject.
“My mother always wanted me to learn English very well. So I studied a lot. Then mi tío—my uncle—said I could come live with him to get an American education.
“Also.” Ana paused. She seemed to struggle with what to say next, but then squared her shoulders like she’d made some kind of decision. “My father is sick.”
“Sick?”
“Sí. Yes.”
Ana told me about her family. They lived in an apartment in Mexico City. One morning, her father couldn’t button his shirt—his hands were shaking too hard. Ana’s mother helped him with the shirt, and he continued his day, selling newspapers on a street corner. But as the weeks passed, his hands shook harder. Soon after, he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.
It became harder and harder for Ana’s father to work, and Ana’s mother, who earned money by taking in laundry and cleaning apartments in the city, tried to increase her workload. Ana began missing school to sell newspapers, or to clean houses with her mother. When Mr. Garcia offered to let Ana come live with him, her parents thought it was an answer to their prayers. Ana had another relative in southern California—her aunt, Rosa. Aunt Rosa also offered to take Ana into her home, but Mr. Garcia insisted, saying he had a bigger house, and that it might be nice for Ana to get to know her younger cousins. He even offered to send Ana’s parents money.
At first Ana spoke haltingly, but once she got going, the story just sort of flowed out of her, like she’d wanted to talk to someone for a while. Ana’s English was good, and I gave up trying to understand the Spanish words scrolling on the screen next to her. If there was a word she didn’t know in English, we just kept talking until I figured out what she meant.
“Mi madre—my mother—asked Tío if there was anything they could do to say thank you,” Ana said.
“Was there?” I asked.
“Sí. He said maybe I could—what’s the word?—kidsit?”
Seeing Cinderella Page 3