Over the Top

by Alison Hughes

  Mom was smiling, looking off into the distance.

  “Didn’t matter, though, did it?” I said.

  “What?”

  “It didn’t matter that you didn’t have a promposal? That you didn’t have a big party and a fancy dress?”

  “Well, no, I guess not. We had such a fun time. Even with that ugly dress. Danced the whole night! Once we both kicked off those terrible shoes.”

  “So maybe all this hoopla—” I waved my hands at all the decorations “—isn’t necessary if the two people really like each other. Right, Mom?”

  Mom sighed and looked longingly at all her sparkly decorations.

  “No, I guess it’s not. You’re probably right, Diva.”

  “So,” I continued, leaning forward, “when I don’t want a promposal party, when I totally refuse to have one, you’ll understand, right? Right?”

  “Oh, I’ll understand.” She looked at me with her dancing brown eyes. “But then I’ll throw you one anyway!” She laughed and hugged me.

  Mission so not accomplished.

  CHAPTER 7

  Managing a Sentence of Normal Conversation

  At recess the next day, I was sitting under a tree pretending to read my book very intensely.

  I’m fine, I told myself, just fine. I’m happy, happy sitting here all alone. Very restful.

  I could have tried to find those two nice girls from my class who gave me the pity-invite yesterday, but how awkward would that be? I could just see myself wandering up to them, forcing a smile, them forcing a smile back as they remembered that Mr. Khan told them to play with me…

  Why was it all so hard?

  Hero raced by my tree with a group of boys running after him. How, in four days, did he have a whole herd of friends?

  That feeling of envying your younger sibling, even though you’re older and should have it more together.

  Was it easier in fourth grade? He saw me and gave me a smile and a little wave, but he didn’t stop. I don’t blame him. Older sisters, like younger brothers, can be embarrassing at times.

  I hoped he didn’t pity me. I’d make a point of telling him later that I was just taking a break, having a little time to myself, finishing this really, really good book. Would he buy that, or would he just pretend to but secretly not buy it? Hero was pretty sharp.

  As I was watching him and his little gang swarm the climbers, Spencer and another boy from our class came over and flopped on their backs under the tree. They’d been playing soccer, and both looked hot and tired.

  “Shade!” Spencer said. “Must. Have. Shade.” He turned his head to look at me. “Sorry, Diva, only tree near the soccer field. Okay if we die here?”

  “Haha, sure, haha,” I said. Not my wittiest retort ever. Later, I thought I should have said something like “Only if I don’t have to drag your bodies back to class.” Or something like that.

  That feeling of thinking of a smart or witty comment or a cutting retort way, waaay after the moment has passed…

  They panted for a few minutes, and I pretended to read.

  “What’re you reading?” Spencer asked.

  Not trusting myself not to do the ridiculous, nervous “haha” again, I just turned the book so he could see the cover.

  “Hey! The Wizard of Oz! We’re doing that for the play this year, did you know that?”

  “Really? Wow. No, I didn’t. What a weird coincidence.” Okay, calm it down there, Diva. I didn’t know why I was lying.

  “Maybe you missed the notices. Auditions are on Monday,” he said. “You ever been in a play before?”

  “At my old school. Small parts. Mostly narrators.” Could I be more boring?

  “I always used to be the narrator,” the other boy said. “I hated narrating. Yack, yack, yack. Sentence after sentence. And they take so long. Hours and hours. Mostly I just prayed for the thing to be over. In fact, I pretty much hate plays in general. It’s all just made up, right?”

  Spencer sat up.

  “Wow, Jeremy, you couldn’t be more negative. Unless you ended that last sentence with ‘… and everybody dies.’”

  “Haha,” I yelped. Couldn’t help it. He was funny.

  “Acting is my thing,” Spencer explained. “Basketball’s his. So, Jeremy, let’s just not go all negative. Because there’s lots I could say about sweating in a gym for an hour trying to put a small ball in a hoop just a few more times than a bunch of other guys. Back and forth, back and forth. Like, what’s with that?”

  “Okay, okay. But at least there’s some point to it. Like this next play, you’re going to be—what? A lion? A guy made of metal? Why?”

  “Tin. He’s a Tin Man,” Spencer corrected.

  Jeremy looked at me as if to say “I rest my case.”

  “They’re symbolic characters. It’s a classic… anyway.” Spencer turned an exasperated face to me. “Diva, if you’ve acted before, you should audition! We need some new blood. The sheets are at the office. Just memorize the paragraph, come to the auditions with Madame Ducharme, and boom! give it all you got.”

  He made it sound so easy.

  “I will if Jeremy will,” I said. “I think he wants to be the tin-guy.” Both boys laughed. There. Nailed a normal little bit of conversation.

  Maybe I could do this.

  CHAPTER 8

  When You Are a Glitzy Giant Fish, Swim Away from the Mean Girls

  I picked up the audition sheet. It directed “any student wishing to audition” (so far, so good… ) to “memorize ONE of the following paragraphs and, if they wish to try for a singing role, to rehearse ONE of the songs from the play.”

  I brought the sheet home, laid it on my bed, and stared at it every so often as I wandered around my room biting my thumbnail. Did I really want to do this? Was it just opening myself up to humiliation? Or could it actually be a way to meet people and make some friends? Then I remembered Miranda. But she didn’t own these plays. A lot of other people participated, too. People like, say, Spencer.

  After ignoring, then circling, then fidgeting with the sheet for about nine hours, I sat down and actually read through the paragraphs. Dorothy’s “no place like home” speech jumped out at me. I loved that one, and practically knew it by heart. Memorizing that would be simple. Easy. Practically done already.

  And obviously I would have to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” even though probably 98 percent of the kids auditioning would choose that one. With all the tempo changes, that song isn’t quite as easy as it seems. It’s taken years for Mom and me to perfect our version of it.

  I paced around my room, humming the song. Then I started softly singing the words. Then gradually I found myself belting it out full voice, flinging my arms wide and twirling around as I sang the last verse. When I finished, I glanced down at the audition sheet.

  I think I’d decided to audition for this play.

  Problem time: it was a very busy weekend.

  “Deeeee-va!” Mom called. “Remember, the party tomorrow? I need you AND Hero. I had a great idea for this children’s party. Big surprise!”

  My heart sank. The children’s parties were the worst. They all had themes—the “Arrr, Matey Pirate Party,” the “Grrrrowling Grrrreat Animal Party,” the “Clowning Around Circus Party,” the “Pinkest Princess Party,” and the “Rowdy Robots Party.”

  But the themes weren’t the problem. The problem was Mom. She always had to take everything up a notch. It wasn’t enough to have balloons and massive loot bags and endless totes full of games and prizes and piñatas. She needed characters to come and mingle with the kids. Costumed party-partners. Mascots.

  Enter Hero and me.

  True, we got paid for it, and I bought a lot of the books on my shelves with the money I made at Mom’s parties. I didn’t mind it so much when we started out. It was fun dressing up, fun being the big kid helping out with the little kids. But I was, like, eight then. Somehow when you’re eleven, you’re less enthusiastic about climbing into a gorilla suit
(that costume is so hot). And by the way, they don’t growl. I looked it up.

  Mom adored each and every party she helped throw. Loved them. If we didn’t go with her, she’d come home and gush over every detail, telling us how wonderful it all was. She honestly couldn’t understand why I wasn’t still as thrilled about every single party as she was.

  “It’s their birthday!” she’d say, as though some random stranger-kid turning six should of course have me leaping enthusiastically into a pirate costume, merrily mock sword-battling smaller pirate Hero. Other than the lame pirate, I’ve also been an unfunny clown (itchy, wild red wig), a not-so-pretty pink princess (crowns suck), a metal robot (can’t sit down in that one), a giant hamster (fake fur: again, so hot), and a tall, bored tube of toothpaste. The toothpaste costume was a special request from a couple of dentists who wanted an oral hygiene–themed party for their daughter. Because we all know every kid is just dying for a party with a teeth-cleaning theme. But Mom made it fun somehow, and I dutifully stood around being toothpaste, handing out toothbrushes and helping with the tooth floss limbo game.

  Mom made every single costume Hero and I wore. She’s a wizard with a sewing machine, and honestly, if you could bottle that woman’s energy, we could probably heat the house for a couple of years. Hero and I always had the elaborate Halloween costumes that other kids envied. No pre-made costumes off department store racks for us.

  But right now, I was wary of Mom’s great idea.

  “Just advertised the ‘Under the Sea Party’ on the website last week, and boom! Got a booking for Saturday, right here in the neighborhood,” she smiled. “So, Diva, you’ll be a gorgeous MERMAID,” she shrieked, shoving a slippery, shiny costume at me, “and ’Ro, you’ll be a darling little RED CRAB!”

  “Hey, do these pincers really work?” ’Ro scrambled into his costume, delighted with his enormous claws.

  I quickly held my costume up, worried Mom might actually have gone full Little Mermaid with a clamshell bikini top. I would never have worn that. She must have known that because, thankfully, there was a loose, shimmery T-shirt for the top. The bottom was the real show-stopper. It was an enormous fish tail in gleaming greens, blues, and purples. I could tuck my feet in and be all swishy mermaid, but if I had to walk, there was a small hole so I could slip my feet out.

  “Not much room for movement here, Mom,” I said, taking teeny baby steps around the room while my fish tail dragged on the ground. Whiff, whiff, whiff… the costume made a swishing sound with every tiny step.

  “Well it’s not like you’re going to be sprinting anywhere, kiddo,” Mom laughed. “Oh, here’s the pink wig to go with it. Aaaand the eyelashes. Aaand the glitter eyeshadow! You’ll just lie on the couch looking gorgeous, swishing your tail, blowing bubble wands, and handing out gummi fish and candy necklaces. Okay? ’Ro will scuttle around helping me and doing the ‘Crab Catch’ game. Which does not involve actually catching kids. Just snapping at them. At the air near them. Got it, Hero?”

  So, on Saturday, there I was, batting my shimmery eyelids and floppy false eyelashes, flipping my long, pink hair and swishing my giant fish tail. It wasn’t terrible. The little birthday girl was totally, screamingly delighted with her personal mermaid, and kept running over and giving me hugs. How could I be a miserable mermaid with someone like that around?

  There were about fifteen girls at the party, and judging from the laughing and shrieking during ’Ro’s games, they enjoyed themselves very much.

  The party was almost over when things took a turn for the worse. And by “the worse,” I mean, The Worst.

  I had just flopped awkwardly onto my right side to give my left hip a break when the doorbell rang. The nice mother running the party said, “Oh, that’ll be Noriko’s mom. She has to leave a bit early.”

  But it wasn’t a mother who stood there in the doorway. It was a girl, about my age. Long, silky black hair. She turned her head, and I caught my breath in a horrified gasp.

  It was Miko. And then, like the universe didn’t think that was quite horrible enough, Miranda joined her at the door. Both girls came into the house.

  “Noriko,” Miko called to one of the little girls who must have been her sister. “C’mon. Gotta go.”

  My mind started racing, trying to figure out a dignified escape. Dignified. Who was I kidding? I was a giant fish. Better not shoot for dignity. Any escape at all would do.

  There was a group of kids between me and Miranda and Miko. And lots of balloons. So I was shielded a little. But it would be a total disaster if they saw me. Recognized me. I remembered how they’d gossiped about Mom and me that day when I hid in the school bathroom.

  I could only imagine what they would say about pink-haired mermaid-girl to the rest of their little pack. How they would all laugh. I could imagine them telling other sixth graders, who would tell other sixth graders, who would…

  Bathroom, I thought. That’s where I should go hide, right immediately now.

  I slid off the couch in an awkward, thrashing roll, like a fish caught in a net. I pawed desperately with my feet to find the hole in the costume so I wouldn’t have to slither, fish-out-of-water style, out of the room. I finally found it and shoved both feet through.

  It seemed to take me about a year to struggle upright, but when I did, I moved as fast as I could. I was heading down the hall to the bathroom, whiff-whiff-whiffing with each tiny baby step, when I heard my name.

  “Diva!” a voice called. Oh, no. Mom.

  Go, Diva! Get your fish tail in gear! Go! I went faster. Whiffwhiffwhiffwhiff. This hallway was endless. I stumbled and toppled over, then struggled back to my feet, my wig sitting crooked on my head.

  “Deeeee-va!”

  Faster, faster! Whiffwhiffwhiffwhiffwhiffwhiff. I pumped my arms. In my head, I was practically sprinting, but in my feet, I was moving ridiculously slowly.

  Come on, Diva—move! Move!

  I looked over my shoulder just as Mom appeared at the end of the hallway.

  “Ah, there you are, you gorgeous mermaid, you! Look who’s here! It’s Miranda! And another friend, uh…”

  “Miko,” said Miko in a totally dead-bored voice.

  I turned, snatched off my pink wig, and leaned against the wall nonchalantly. So that way, nobody would notice my gigantic fish tail, right? Riiiight.

  I gave a casual wave.

  “Oh, hi.” I tried to match Miko’s bored voice.

  “Wow, that’s some costume,” said Miranda. She looked at Miko and they both turned to look back at me, small smiles on their faces.

  “Very… aquatic,” drawled Miko.

  Mom clearly thought this was polite interest, two nice girls, friends of her daughter, genuinely appreciating a really artistic costume.

  Mom didn’t have a clue.

  Mean people don’t need to say much. They don’t actually need to say anything. Sometimes we non-mean people forget this. We sometimes think all meanness is out there in the open. We think it’s all sneering comments, mocking insults, shouts, and punches. It’s not. Meanness can be there in a long look. It can be there in a smirk. A small, shared smile. All the unspoken undercurrents of meanness were lashing out at me now, as obvious as if Miranda and Miko had shouted them and laughed out loud.

  They were enjoying this, enjoying me burning with embarrassment, enjoying the feeling of catching me doing something stupid and humiliating.

  Silent bullies are still bullies.

  “It’s been fun,” said Mom. “Diva’s been giving out gummi fish and shell necklaces! And blowing lots and lots of bubbles. Underwater theme you know.” Stop, Mom. Just stop talking. “And the birthday girl had her own personal mermaid! Doesn’t she look amazing?” said Mom, not picking up on one, single, screaming clue.

  Miranda looked me up and down.

  “A-ma-zing,” she said. Mom surely heard that dripping sarcasm.

  I looked at her. Nope, apparently not. She was smiling as though we were all having just the best time. A bun
ch of BFFs hanging out.

  “Diva’s got loads of costumes,” Mom said excitedly, digging me deeper into the pit.

  “Loads of them. How fun,” said Miranda. She looked straight at me, that little smile appearing again.

  “But this one’s new!” Mom kept right on going. “But where’s the wig? Oh, there in your hand. The pink wig really sets it off, girls. Show them the wig, Diva.”

  “Yeah, show us,” said Miranda. Her bulgy blue eyes were dancing.

  That’s it, I thought. I’m not going to model this ridiculous wig for two girls who I’m pretty sure are semi-openly ridiculing me now, and 100 percent certain to ridicule me later as well. This whole thing was already bad enough.

  I’d had it with all three of them.

  “You want to see the wig?” I croaked loudly. “Sure. Here you go!” I threw it down the hall toward them. Then I turned, quickly whiffed into the bathroom, and slammed and locked the door. I struggled out of the stupid, stupid mermaid tail like a toddler in a tantrum kicking off her snow pants. It was a relief to be free of it, to be able to move normally in my leggings.

  As I straightened up, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror.

  Great, just perfect.

  I looked way worse than I could have imagined.

  I had pulled my black hair into a tight bun this morning so it would fit under the wig. It had been perfectly smooth, even sleek. But when I snatched off the wig, wild, frizzy strands of hair had escaped, standing up all over my head. There was a red, itchy-looking line straight across my sweaty forehead from the pink wig. My pink lipstick was smudged down on one side of my mouth like a sad clown. One of my long fake eyelashes had become snarled up like a spider, and tears tracked smeary glitter down my cheeks.