Over the Top

by Alison Hughes

  Anyway, thanks great-grandparents-who-I-never-knew, because Mom had a total, urgent need to do better for me and Hero. Not just a little better. Waaay better. Professional-party-planner better.

  Hero and I didn’t have regular birthday parties like other kids had. Ones with a few friends and maybe some burgers and cake and a movie. I loved those kinds of parties. Low-key, easygoing, fun. Maybe you’d run around at some park, but mostly you just joked around and laughed with a few friends. The best party I ever went to was Helen Mendoza’s in fourth grade. She had three girls over, and her mom and dad made some delicious Filipino food—dishes they grew up with. Then—and this was the super-fun part—Helen pulled out a trunk with a ton of fancy dresses that her mom used to wear when she was a singer on a cruise ship! And we tried them all on and piled up our hair in outrageous and unflattering styles and clomped around in too-big sparkly shoes and sang along to Taylor Swift songs and had so much fun. That was it. Simple. Just a trunk full of old clothes. Best party ever.

  Hero and I never had simple birthday parties. We had extravagant birthday parties. Over-the-top birthday parties. Looong birthday parties. Bowling and pizza and cake, then laser tag and swimming and build-your-own sundaes and a bouncy castle and a two-night sleepover with face painting and crafts and movies and scavenger hunts and blah, blah, blah.

  I would never have told Mom this, because it would have hurt her feelings terribly, but those parties that she worked so hard at always started out great, but into day two, everyone just wanted it to be over. I know I did. Even kids you really like can get annoying at two a.m. when they’re still talking and everyone’s had too much sugar. I’d calculate how long it would be before I could be alone in my room, reading a book in bed. Mom would never have understood that.

  Hero loved the parties, of course. Mr. Personality enjoyed every minute of them. He once told me he wished his birthday party could last all birthday week. “Birthday week” was a phrase in our house, because our own personal celebrations lasted at least that long. Pancake breakfasts and surprise gifts and scavenger hunts and favorite dinners and on and on.

  But no chance of all the hoopla this year. I was so relieved.

  “So, Diva, what are we doing for your birthday?” Mom asked as I did my homework at the kitchen table. “I have a few ideas…”

  I looked up, alarmed.

  “No, Mom. Hold it right there. No ideas. Do not even think of one idea…”

  “Just a few. Little ones!” She playfully squinted and measured an inch with her thumb and finger. “Tiny!”

  “Mom. I don’t really know anybody yet,” I said, thinking of the nice girls in class. I’d only spoken to a few of them. A few words here and there. “There’s nobody I know well enough to invite to a party, so—”

  “You have Miranda! Right next door! I keep telling you that you can always ask her to pop over.”

  “Mom, you don’t understand.” I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. “I don’t… she’s… we don’t really get along. She’s got other friends, okay? We’re not friends, so stop thinking that we are! She never even talks to me.”

  How could I tell her that it was crystal clear that Miranda wasn’t remotely interested in being friends? That she seemed to go out of her way to avoid me, literally turning her back on me when we caught each other’s eye at lunch recess. And when Miranda didn’t completely ignore me, every time she passed me in the halls or by the lockers, she gave me a look that said: “I belong here. You don’t. And we both know it.” Or, worse than just a look, she’d make rude comments under her breath to one of her friends about pink houses or mermaids or party-planning. Just loud enough so I could hear.

  Mom pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t realize that. I guess I hoped—well, anyway. It’s been difficult, huh?”

  “Sort of.”

  “It’s hard meeting new people sometimes,” she said. I nodded. “But it’s only been a few weeks! It will come, Diva. You’re such a wonderful person, so much fun, so smart! So much to offer. It will happen.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it, hard. She had a look on her face that hurt—desperately wanting to do something to help me but knowing that she was powerless.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, pulling my hand away, but patting hers so I didn’t hurt her feelings. “It’s okay. Really. I’m fine. It’s just, coming into a new class near the end of the year, people have formed their groups already. Some kids have been nice and friendly, but there are no birthday-party level friends, if you know what I mean. It would be totally awkward to invite them here, to our house. I mean, you need to be at a certain stage of friendship for that. I just don’t know them that well. Do you understand?”

  “Of course I do, pumpkin,” murmured Mom.

  “So none of your over-the-top birthday hoopla is going to work this year.”

  She started to protest, but I talked over her.

  “And I’m fine with that, Mom. Really. A party with just our family. That would be nice for a change. Just us. Something small and simple. I’m turning twelve, right? Getting too old for birthday parties anyway.”

  “What? No! Don’t say that. You’re never too old for birthday parties!” Mom smiled brightly, but I could tell she was worried and feeling sorry for me. “Things will improve, Diva, I just know it. I have a great feeling about that. A great feeling.”

  She meant well, but I wished she hadn’t said that.

  CHAPTER 12

  A Roadmap to Humiliation

  “… and our final announcement: the results of the auditions are in, ahhh… and the cast of our play, The Wizard of Oz, has been selected. At recess or at lunch only, and in an orderly fashion, ahhh… students may check the list posted outside the theater to see if they, ahhh… made the cut, as it were.”

  Our principal, Mr. Harris, was the only person I knew who could suck the life out of such an exciting morning announcement. I remembered Mrs. Krantz, the principal from my old school, shrieking into the mic: “Woo-hoo! Roles for the play are out! No sniveling if you didn’t get the part you wanted. Suck it up, buttercups! We can use anybody and everybody for sets and costumes.”

  My heart started to pound. The list was out. It was actually posted outside the theater at this very minute. Just a single piece of paper that could change my life at this school. Was my name on it? Did I want my name to be on it? I honestly didn’t know. I guess I did, because if I didn’t, why was I so stupidly nervous right now?

  That feeling of desperately hoping for something, but telling yourself repeatedly you don’t care at all, not even one little bit.

  Shaya turned and caught my eye. She crossed her fingers and smiled in a nice way, as if to say “I hope we both get parts.” I liked her. I made a mental note to try to find her at lunch recess.

  I tried to concentrate on math and waited until the middle of next period, Health, to ask if I could go to the bathroom. The bonus was that I got a break from a cringey video on “personal hygiene” narrated by some enthusiastic nurse. She was going on about acne care when I left.

  The hallways were completely empty—exactly what I wanted. The very last thing on earth I could bear was to stand with a crowd of other kids, all of us jostling to see whether we made the list, everyone else knowing who made it, the ones who did shrieking and high-fiving, the ones who didn’t trying to act like they didn’t really care. All of that would happen at recess. Right now, the coast was clear.

  I had to hurry. The theater was way farther away than the bathrooms, on the other side of the school from my classroom. I ran-walked down the long, empty hall, my footsteps slapping loudly. Finally I turned the corner to the theater doors. There was a long piece of paper taped to the right door.

  My heart did this weird squishy thump, which under other circumstances might have worried me. I took a deep breath.

  I’ll take a quick peek, see that I’m not on the list, then I can just relax and get on with my life.

 
I looked at the sheet, headed “The Wizard of Oz Production: Cast List.” On the left, a column of names, linked by a line of dots to their role listed in a column on the right. Pretty simple, even for somebody whose insides were shaking like jelly.

  I ran my finger down the names on the left. It started with Miranda Clay. She was Dorothy. Of course she was. Spencer got the part of the Wizard, which made me happy. Then some other names I didn’t know. Miranda’s friends were on there, too. Kallie got the Scarecrow, Miko was the Tin Man. Sliding down the list, I saw Shaya was a Munchkin.

  My finger stopped at the last name. The very bottom of the list. Diva Pankowski! I made the list! I got a role in the play! My breathing quickened. I slid my finger over to the right, following the trail of dots.

  Only when I got there, the words didn’t make any sense.

  I went back to my name, put my finger on it, and followed the dots over to my part.

  How…? What…?

  Underneath Dorothy, the Wizard, Glinda, and the rest of them, underneath even the Munchkins and the Jitterbugs and the anonymous roles like the three beauticians and two Oz men, there was my role. My big debut at St. George. My part in the play.

  And if it wasn’t a mistake, if this wasn’t some horrible typo or terrible misunderstanding, it was going to be so humiliating.

  I wanted to snatch the paper right off the door and crumple it up, so nobody else would see.

  But I turned and walked quickly back to class.

  That night at dinner, I could tell that my parents wanted to ask straight out whether I got a part in the play. But I think they realized I wasn’t very happy, either. I knew they were looking at me, and I saw them glance several times at each other.

  Hero was completely oblivious. He chatted on about his soccer goals, the cool new robotics club he went to, his friends. When he stopped talking long enough to take a bite, Mom jumped in.

  “So. Diva. You’ve been pretty quiet. Anything new today?” she asked.

  “Nope.” Eyes on my plate, I pushed a piece of fish around and around.

  “Okay, that’s gotta be a lie,” Dad teased gently. “Nothing new? At all?” He gave me a quick, worried look. The worry made my decision.

  I put down my fork.

  “Okay,” I said loudly, “you should probably know. The list of who got a part in the play was posted. And I got a part—”

  “Woo-hoo!” shrieked Mom, dropping her knife and fork in a clatter and pumping her fists in the air.

  “No, Mom, would you listen? This is definitely not a woo-hoo moment. It’s so stupid I don’t even know what to think about it.”

  “What, the play is stupid or your part is stupid? And if it’s a part, how can a part be stupid?” Hero asked, his mouth full.

  “’Ro: chew. Diva, no part is small in The Wizard of Oz, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” said Mom. “Every part is important. Every. Single. One.”

  Mom and Dad stared at me, clearly baffled.

  “What part, exactly, did you get?” Dad asked.

  Here goes…

  “The Yellow Brick Road,” I muttered. Saying it out loud was even more embarrassing than seeing it written down.

  Hero snorted out a laugh. “What? The Yellow Brick Road? The road? How are you supposed to be the road? You must not talk at all, because a road can’t talk. What can a road do, even? What kind of a part—”

  “Hero, please, you are not helping.” Dad said.

  “No, actually, Dad, let him laugh. Everyone will laugh. He’s right. Who ever heard of someone playing the part of the Yellow Brick Road? It’s so stupid. It’s a thing! It’s something that’s painted on the floor! It’s tarmac! It’s definitely not a part.”

  “Well, Professor Ducharme must be interpreting the play so that the Yellow Brick Road is somehow brought to life,” said Mom calmly, picking up her knife and fork and starting to eat. Surprised, I looked at her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well—” she swallowed a mouthful “—when you think about it, the Yellow Brick Road is a powerful symbol in the story. It’s something Dorothy is told to follow because it leads to all the good things. It leads Dorothy and the gang to Emerald City.”

  “Mom’s right,” said Dad. “We’ve seen that movie a hundred times. It’s true—it’s the path to the prize.”

  “So maybe Professor Ducharme thought that the Yellow Brick Road would be a character the others follow,” said Mom, pointing at me with her fork. “Maybe you get to sing the ‘Follow the Yellow Brick Road’ song! One of my favorites.”

  Mom was actually making me feel a little bit better about this. Or if not better, at least a little less miserable.

  “Maybe…”

  “Professor Ducharme knows what she’s doing,” said Mom. “She’s a professional. A professional professor. Trust her.”

  “Mom’s right,” said Dad, relief in his voice. “Absolutely.”

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. “Maybe you’re right, Mom.”

  “Well that’ll be a first,” laughed Mom. “Oh, and congratulations, Princess! First part at your new school. Go in there with your gorgeous head held high.”

  “Yep, take the high road,” said Dad. “No pun intended.”

  “The high road. Get it, Diva?” said ’Ro, ready to explain the lame joke further.

  “Yeah, I got it, ’Ro. Everybody got it.”

  I almost laughed.

  Almost.

  CHAPTER 13

  People Are Talking (About Me, Not to Me)

  I don’t actually know if Miranda and Miko blabbed about me being a part-time pinkish mermaid, or if people heard about me also being a yellowish Yellow Brick Road (take your pick for which one sounds stupider), but I had the feeling all the rest of the week that people were talking about me.

  That sounds paranoid, I know. It sounds like I’m being a bit of a drama queen, actually. But the truth is, I’m almost sure of it. I’m about 94 percent sure I’m not imagining it. Maybe even 96 percent.

  I’d moved on from being The Invisible Girl, the ghost who haunts the bathroom and the tree in the school field. But I was still used to an attention level of around… well, zero. Maybe a few degrees above zero attention. Even now, when Catherine and Lila in my class included me at recess, I mostly watched and listened. I hung out with them but didn’t actually feel part of the group yet.

  I didn’t get a chance to try to make friends with Shaya. I had it all planned. I’d just walk up to her totally casually and congratulate her on getting a part for the play (meanwhile praying that she hadn’t seen what my part was and ready to laugh about it good-naturedly if she had). But she went home sick on Tuesday and wasn’t at school for the rest of the week.

  But then weird things started happening. A group of kids I walked by totally stopped talking. I’m not making this up. There was that electric silence that there should be a word for (mental note for my book) where everybody knows that the person being talked about just walked by, including the person who just walked by. I knew immediately they were talking about me. I knew even before I passed by them and heard one of them whisper “That’s her.” That’s who? Me? Why me? That’s the crazy Yellow Brick Mermaid?

  If that were the only incident, I might have shrugged it off. New girl stuff. Nothing deeper than that. But other things happened as well.

  For example, another time, I just happened to look up in class and two girls who were looking at me quickly looked away. But I wasn’t doing anything at all, so why should they be looking at me? One shoved a paper under her binder like she didn’t want me to see it. So maybe they were not only looking at me, but also passing notes about me. It was unsettling.

  And another time at recess, I noticed two boys in a different sixth grade class talking. Total strangers, but I saw one glance over at me and do a head-tilt in my direction to his friend. As if to say “That’s her. There she is.” The other boy turned his head and looked right at me, then turned back and said something to ma
ke the first guy laugh. I pretended not to see, but I did.

  I know, I know: these are all small things, just quick glimpses, impressions—barely-there stuff that you think might be all in my imagination. But added up, they seemed big. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going on, that people knew something I didn’t. Something that wasn’t good. And I felt like I was groping around in the dark, trying to figure it all out.

  The only bright spot in a weird, weird week was when Spencer stopped at my desk on Friday before heading out for recess. I was rummaging in my backpack at the time.

  “Hey, Diva, did you get a part in the play? I didn’t get a chance to see the whole cast—everyone was there at recess on Monday, pushing and shoving…”

  “Haha. Yeah. Crowded!” Breathe. Full sentences now. “A part? Yes, I got a part. Just a little one.”

  “Hey, congrats! Which—”

  “How about you?” I cut in before he asked which part. I was determined to keep the words “Yellow Brick Road” a secret for as long as I could. “I’m sure you got a part, right? What did you get?” Like I didn’t already know. But I didn’t want him to know that I knew which part he got.

  “I got Oz!” He looked genuinely pleased that I’d asked, which made me think that he hadn’t only asked me so that he could tell me which part he got. Which is something many people do. Which also made me think that I needed to stop overthinking everything and calm down.

  “Wow, congratulations! Excellent. Like, really, really… wow. Lots of, you know… talking…” I made a weird motion with my hand like that would clear it up.