Hannah never volunteered an answer in class, but she aced every assignment, every test. She always knew more than she let on. Could she be spying on the play? Trying to sabotage it? But why?
I wish I were a brainiac like she is. Then maybe I could figure out where to hide the evidence.
I glanced around. I had posters or pictures from magazines on three walls. Maybe I could hang Donabell’s notes behind a poster. No one would look there. But when I tried it, it caused a noticeable bump.
I sat back on my bed, out of ideas, so I considered redoing my room. If I cleaned this summer, I could replace the kiddie curtains and bland brown bedspread with something cool. But if I cleaned this summer, how many more embarrassing situations would I find myself in?
I pulled the $80 out of my sock drawer and counted it again. The extra $20 I’d earned was in my wallet, and I thought of at least a jillion ways to spend it without deciding on the One Perfect Purchase.
I sighed and pulled out The Watson’s Go to Birmingham. It was an assigned novel for English class, but our social studies teacher said we’d also be studying Civil Rights through the book. I had no idea how fighting for the right to vote and going to integrated schools tied in with Byron getting his lips frozen to a side view mirror on their car.
I sighed again, remembering the cell model was due Monday. I should have made the effort to get Hannah and Maria to help out.
Do that later. Read first. Lose yourself in someone else’s troubles.
CHAPTER 20
“Mom! Mom!” My voice rose an octave as I dumped my sock drawer onto my bed. Not only had the twenty disappeared from my wallet, I couldn’t find the three tens and a fifty I’d tucked inside a pair of neon green socks.
“Shh.” I could barely hear my mom, but I could tell she was coming up the stairs to my room. She waited until she was inside with the door shut to add, “Your dad’s still asleep.”
I was about to say something obnoxious about him sleeping more than Rip Van Winkle when it hit me like a dodge ball in gym class.
“Dad took my money.” I sat on my bed in a numb heap. That had to be it. He’d been very chipper last evening when a buddy of his picked him up after supper “to watch the game.” Maybe he had “watched the game.” Probably at some sports bar. He’d definitely been drinking. I’d smelled the stale odor of cigarettes and beer when he came home.
“Honey, you don’t know that.” My mom’s words were certain, but her tone said the opposite.
I shot her a knowing look. Her mouth was drawn into a pained smile, her eyes sorrowful, defeated.
“Hang tight.” She patted my knee and disappeared for a moment.
I buried my face in my hands. Even if I could talk Mrs. Baker into believing me about the fiasco on Friday, I had to have the $80 to keep my spot in the cast since neither mom or I could remove the ink stains.
Nothing mom and I tried had worked. Ballpoint pen bonded to cotton like superglue. I couldn’t believe I’d done all that cleaning for nothing. All I’d have to show for my Saturday morning were the taunts of some snooty girls who’d witnessed my humiliation at the Diva’s trash dumpster.
Life was so unfair. No matter what I did, something else popped up to make things hard. My mom’s soft knock interrupted my pity party. She came in and sat beside me, pressing some folded bills into my hand.
“I’m sure your money will turn up.” She searched my face to see how I was taking this. “Just explain that all you have today is this forty, but you’ll bring the rest when you can.”
“Mom, they have to be ordered and today is the last day to get your money in. They aren’t going to order mine now and hope I come up with the cash later. They’ll just kick me out.” The tears I’d bravely held at bay all weekend poured out like a gushing fire hydrant.
Mom hugged me and patted me, and I just cried it all out. I hated being weak. I hated crying. But if I had to cry in front of someone, I guess it was better now, in front of her, than at school.
***
Since Becca had an early morning dental appointment, I had braced myself for facing the humiliation in math class solo. I figured the Diva would drop a few casually caustic comments about cleaning, meant to be overheard. Instead, she and the Devotees made about fifty million snide remarks and their hurtful comments cut me more than I was prepared for. All during class they looked at me and giggled, pantomiming sweeping or scrubbing.
I, Gabby St. Claire, am a survivor. They will not break me.
I couldn’t even look at Brandon. I’d seen in those green eyes Friday the suspicion that I had deliberately messed with the flats and gels. By English, I was counting the minutes until lunch. I’d been so upset about the missing money, my stomach had turned into a Mexican Jumping Bean, so I skipped breakfast. But lunch would have to wait until I talked to Mrs. Baker.
I knocked on the door to her classroom and she motioned me inside.
“I have forty dollars now and will have the other forty . . . soon.” I shifted my weight from left to right, front to back, trying desperately to gauge Mrs. Baker’s reaction to my words. She had refused to talk to me before school, instructing me to come see her during my lunch when she had her planning period.
“Gabby, please sit down.” She calmly pointed to a seat. “What happened Friday?”
I sat across from her and relayed exactly what happened. Surprise washed through me when she didn’t even blink at my news about Hannah being backstage.
Instead, she changed the topic. “This play is part of my PhD dissertation. Do you know what that is?”
I shook my head “no.”
“In order to get a doctorate, a candidate—a fancy word for a graduate student—has to do a paper, almost a book, on some original research they have done. I chose to research the effect of theater participation on breaking down barriers between diverse groups of people. Other people had shown how it works in community theater. I thought I’d see if it would work with middle and high school students in a public school setting.”
I nodded politely but wondered what in the world this had to do with me, the money, and the stuff plaguing our production. “Kind of like the farmer and the cowman being friends?”
Her eyes lit for a moment, as if she were impressed. “Exactly.”
“I get that.”
“Now, why do you think someone might be sabotaging the set?” She clearly wasn’t convinced.
I thought it was fairly obvious but prepared to lay it out more directly when a thought snuck up on me.
She’s checking up on me. Maybe she thinks I’m a liar. She’s trying to see if I tell her the same thing again.
When my dad lied about things, his story would change. Like this morning when, against my mom’s wishes, I’d stormed into their room and demanded to know where my money was. First my dad had said he didn’t know anything about any money, but then he said he didn’t take my $100. Since I had never mentioned the amount, I knew he was lying about not knowing anything.
“I don’t know why exactly.” I wasn’t going to mention my bizarre theories about a home school conspiracy to shut down extra-curricular activities or Madame Cherise being upset over the play being changed. Talking to Becca, the theories had sounded iffy. Now, in front of a teacher, they’d sound paranoid, lock-her-up-in-the-looney-bin-crazy. Plus, I didn’t want to have to explain about taking the pink skirt or digging in the trash, possibly being arrested as a thief for removing and reading the notes between the Diva and Caveman.
“All I know is that Hannah was back there and she isn’t involved with the play in any way, shape or form and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, either someone else was back there too or Hannah jerked the flat out of my hand.”
“I see,” was all she said, and she again changed the topic. “Gabby, why do you want to be in Oklahoma?”
“I thought it would be fun.” I studied her face, looking for a clue about how she was buying my generic answer. I didn’t have to read her face. She said what she w
as thinking outright.
“I think you, like many others your age, are looking for a place to fit in, to belong, to contribute.” Her words were soft and gentle and, for a moment, I thought about pouring out my heart to this sympathetic woman who was looking at me with sad compassion. Compassion, but not pity. That was an important difference.
“Gabby, I know there is tension between people in the show. I’m sorry if Lydia, Gail and some of the others were rough on you. They may be in high school, but they don’t have it all together yet. They’re learning how to lead.” She smiled encouragingly. “They make mistakes. I make mistakes. We all do. The trick is to learn from them.”
“Okay.”
“Good things are going to come of this show. I just know it.” Her smile widened into a confident grin, and she tilted her head, examining me, maybe evaluating me.
It made me uncomfortable, but I didn’t know why. Just to be safe, I didn’t say anything.
“The best way not to be accused of something you didn’t do is to not be in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. Do you know what I mean by that?”
“Yes. Like Hannah was.” My voice carried more of an edge to it than I had meant it to have.
Mrs. Baker sighed. “See you at rehearsal.”
Halfway out the door, I realized I was still holding the money my mom had given me. “I almost forgot. Here.” I held out the cash.
My director shook her head. “Your costume has already been paid for and ordered.”
“Really?” I squeaked.
She nodded. “Really.”
I walked down the hall like a zombie.
Who had paid to replace my costume? Dad?
Could he have had a friend drive him to Mrs. Baker’s while saying they were going to watch the game? Could he have stepped up and taken care of it for me?
But then I remembered the smell of his jacket and all of the $100 being missing and the fact he wouldn’t know where Mrs. Baker lived and my mom giving me some of her money. It had been wishful thinking. Me wishing my dad would act like I wanted my dad to act. To be the dad I wanted him to be.
I had no hopes of that ever happening.
CHAPTER 21
After chatting with Mrs. Baker, I headed to lunch to join Becca and tell her the latest.
At least you have a costume, Gabby.
Becca started the conversation by dropping an academic bomb. “Did you finish Watsons and the cell model?”
“Yeah, Watsons . . .” My words started pouring out before my brain engaged. Then her whole sentence registered in my pea brain. My mouth dropped open.
How could I have forgotten half of my homework?
How could the cell project have slipped my mind like the spaghetti slithering down the drain the time I tried to use the pot lid rather than have to wash an extra dish—the colander?
I jumped up, knocking into everyone around me. I mumbled “sorry” as I scanned the lunchroom, checking Hannah’s usual spot at the Reader Table where geekier kids who read or played chess during lunch sat. Her place was vacant. Sometimes she sat with the Trolls (kids who acted anti-social just because they could). No luck.
The whole lunch table clique thing worked. It made it easy to see who was who and how everyone was connected. Usually, it made it easy to find someone. But today of all days, Hannah was MIA. And I needed a cell model, and I needed it pronto.
“Where is Hannah?” I wailed desperately. “Why did she pick today of all days to skip school?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’d never skip school!” Becca’s comment brought me back to reality. “Maybe she had court again?”
If that were true, I might be able to wrangle some extra time to do the project.
“Maybe Ms. Shernick will give me an extension?” I offered.
“I doubt it since you didn’t talk to her this morning and you’ve had three weeks. You know how rigid she is about that stuff.” Becca shook her head.
“Oh, what a hideous morning,” I began, sarcastically paraphrasing the lyrics to the opening song from Oklahoma. “Oh, what a horrible day, I've got a terrible feeling, nothing's going my way.”
“Maybe Maria brought something?”
Becca was grasping at straws, but I mulled it over. “Even though it is about as likely as Raff getting off probation, it might be worth a shot.”
I looked over at the Mocha Loco Table. If you or a close family member had ever been arrested, if you wore wife beaters and flannel shirts buttoned at the top only, and if, in direct defiance of the rules, you had a tiny corner of a bandana sticking out of your back jean’s pocket, you sat there. Bandanas were forbidden in school since the administration considered them gang related, but most of the Mocha Locos did it anyway.
The Mocha Locos were a local gang. Drugs, carjackings, assault and battery, even a robbery or two had been attributed to them in the media reports. Except for maybe Raff, who was still in seventh grade but old enough to get a driving permit, none of the kids at that table were likely to be actual gang members or involved in a carjacking. Just wannabees. I hoped.
As usual, the sixth, seventh, and even some eighth graders were dropping off their tributes to Raff and his inner circle: cookies, chicken nuggets, juices—whatever the best thing on the menu was that day. He had a racket on extra food.
“So, what are you going to do? Stand there sending mental messages to Maria?” Becca asked, snapping my mind back to my problems.
I hated to do nothing, but there was nothing I could do. My lab partners had let me down just like my parents and everybody else in my life. Truth be told, I’d let myself down.
Gabby, get ahold of yourself! You are a fighter.
I had to do something, to try, even if it meant invading foreign territory.
“I’ll ask her,” I said, resigned to my fate.
If I was lucky, I’d get beaten up for invading Mocha Loco space and sent home. I marched over, focusing on not bumping any of the Mochas.
“Maria, did you bring anything for the cell model?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard over the noise. When Maria failed to answer, I asked again, nearly shouting, “Did you bring anything to make the cell model? It’s due today.”
Maria barely looked up and shook her head “no” without dislodging the hair that veiled her face. Unexpectedly, Raff answered me.
“You gotta get my girl a good grade, ya know.” Raff’s voice was pushy, demanding, and I didn’t like it.
Normally, I wouldn’t have braved an answer, but I was fuming inside about forgetting, the false accusations, my dad, everything. I snapped.
“We’ll get a zero ‘cuz I got nada!” I immediately regretted using Spanish. It was probably politically incorrect and Raff would kill me or something. Then again, maybe I should just be put out of my misery.
“Nada? You got nada?” Raff’s voice had an edgy quality.
I vaguely noticed his glossy dark hair, spilling into his eyes, needed trimming. Maybe he wore it that way on purpose, like Maria did, to keep people from seeing his eyes. They were chocolate brown and fringed with long lashes. Mostly, I noticed the defiant look there.
The table fell silent. I was dead meat. I shifted my weight and tried to figure out where to run.
“Here. You got algo.” He scooped up a handful of juice and milk lids and handed them to me.
I had no idea what algo meant, but it didn’t matter if it was Spanish for trash or Italian for moon boots. I reached out to take them, a collection of trash in different colors and shapes. I would leave quietly and humbly and throw them away when he wasn’t looking. Then it hit me in a flash of brilliance. It could work.
“You’re a genius,” I blurted, and I meant it. “If we just had a couple more things . . .”
“Ya hear dat. Red says I’m a genius.” Raff sounded pleased.
The table visibly relaxed. Both crises were averted.
“You.” Raff pointed at a skinny kid with acne at the end of the table. “And you.�
�� He pointed to another sixth grader. “Get her whatever else she needs so Red gets my girl an A.”
Apparently, Becca and I weren’t the only ones who gave their peers nicknames. But why would Raff’s group have reason to talk about me? I decided to think it through later and focused on the task at hand.
I sent my sixth grade servants scurrying while I hustled back to my table. Becca, who was always prepared, would have scissors and glue and stuff. My cell model might not rate an A, but it wouldn’t be a zero.
That was going to have to work for me.
CHAPTER 22
Compared to the other models, mine looked like it had been slapped together by a second grader. The Diva had a 3D model sculpted from Styrofoam and dotted with sequins and glued on jewels for organelles. Others had been carefully crafted from clay or yarn and pipe cleaners. Mine looked like what it was made of . . . lunchroom garbage.
But at least I might not get the lowest grade. Someone had made a model using green gelatin and fruit cocktail in direct defiance of the no food law. Ms. Shernick had ordered it out of the room immediately, before it could attract the dreaded vermin.
“I must say one of these models has really caught my attention.” The teacher smiled as she spoke and Donabell straightened her shoulders, already beaming from the praise. “I’m pleased that at least one group has been listening to the morning announcements.”
Nobody listened to morning announcements. They could broadcast that aliens had landed and were passing out free Busch Gardens tickets and no one would know.
“This model not only will get an A quiz grade, it will also be entered in the Hampton Roads Green Recycling Contest.” Ms. Shernick held up my project. “This is an excellent example of repurposing recycled materials. Gabby and Maria, excellent work.”
My mouth dropped open, then burst into a smile. I ventured a glance in Maria’s direction and caught Raff giving me a thumbs up. I grinned back at him. For the rest of class, the Diva fumed.
Sometimes life just works itself out, I realized. It just works itself out.
The Curtain Call Caper (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries) Page 8