For a moment, she pauses, and for a moment, I feel myself flinch at the pain in her face. “I get it,” she says, clutching her photography equipment and storming out of the family room. I can hear her muttering, “I’m definitely going to talk to Tosh about this.” Some people go to therapy, my mother goes to Tosh, Reiki healer, medium, and spiritual advisor. Okay, I feel a little bad, but not bad enough to run after her. Maybe if nobody else was in the house.
Maybe in a different life.
Uh-Oh
And that’s when I think about how I didn’t really have anyone. To go to the dance, that is, with everyone expecting me to make the BIG appearance in the limo on my birthday.
Sure, Tyler Hutchins had asked me, and I had put him off to play it cool—but not for long. I mean, the truth is, I’ve never had an actual boyfriend. Just guys, like Justin Grodin with too much saliva, that I’ve kissed at a party.
As I sit on the couch, The Girls crowd around. They want to hear about my next move. “Tomorrow’s Tyler’s lucky day,” I say, “since I’m going to talk to him at lunch.”
Condemned
Somehow, I make it through my morning classes and through most of lunch avoiding direct contact with Winslow Fromes. I take a breath and decide, yes, after gym, I’m going to talk to Tyler about Winterfest. Not that he’s going to say no. It’s just that I’m sick of everyone watching me all of the time. It’s like I’m on stage and I’m not supposed to blow my lines.
At least being in gym always calms me and makes me feel confident because it’s just a place I totally excel. Right now, I’m standing in front of the free throw line, ready to take a shot when suddenly there’s a man hovering over me.
That Man is Mr. Dribble
“I need to speak with you, Ms. Smith.”
Whenever any teacher uses your last name, it’s definitely not a good sign. We’re not talking extra credit and a smiley face here. And it’s most definitely even worse when that teacher shows up in the middle of your gym class—the only class I don’t worry about because there are no tests.
Dribble knows. Dribble knows I cheated. But he’s never figured out anything before. How many times have I texted all of the questions for Petra and he’s NEVER once caught me?
In the bleachers reading a book, with another excuse to get out of gym, sits Olivia Marquez. Her long, straggly, hennaed hair shields her eyes, but I can still see that she’s got this funny little smile on her face and looks absolutely, disgustingly happy, which is very strange because the girl is ALWAYS depressed. She told him. I can tell. That poet wench told him I copied off of Winslow Fromes.
Olivia bites down on her tongue, smiles, and begins to mutter something that sounds like “fodderus frot.” I bet it’s some kind of ancient incantation. I feel a little chill.
She deserves what we did to her last year. All of it! A couple of months ago, she started speaking only in Old English. By the water fountain right outside the music room, I once found a poem that she wrote in iambic pentameter in curly calligraphy, saying how we were as dry and as superficial as Cheetos. Petra and I finally got her back. We wrote fake love e-mails to her from Tyler. She totally bought it because, the next day, Olivia taped milk-chocolate hearts and a poem about purple falcons to his locker. Last I checked falcons are NOT a big turn-on item for guys.
As Mr. Dribble glares at me, Olivia stands up, shaking her skinny arms so that her peasant blouse billows like it might fill up and carry her away like a hot-air balloon. I wish it would. She squints her medieval eyes at me and then smiles at her dorky, community-activist friend Ninai Levine, who’s actually wearing her girl scout uniform—white shirt, khaki pants, and a sash. Does she understand this is eighth grade, which is practically high school, which is almost college?
I glower at Olivia as she grins and pushes all of her bracelets up her arm, jingling. Really, if I were cadaver-pale and wore tentlike peasant clothing, I don’t think I’d wear jangly jewelry to call attention to myself!
Petra and Caylin give me looks of sympathy. Gracefully, I throw a basketball up in the air as a final punctuation mark to the moment. The ball spins in the net, rattles the hoop, and bounces out of the basket. Blahh! Outside one of the gym windows, I stare at the fields, which are permanently green, even in the summer, because of the extensive watering system donated by the very generous La Cambia Parents Club.
Dribble smiles so big you can, unfortunately, see his yellow teeth, and his bushy mustache wriggles like a guinea pig. “I’m waiting, Ms. Smith. Collect your things and let’s go back to the classroom. Now.” Patting down his comb-over, he folds his arms across his chest and taps his foot.
“I’ve heard he’s kicked out five kids from school just this year,” says Petra under her breath.
“He’s such a meanster,” Caylin whispers, then gives me a half smile. “Don’t worry, we’ve got your back.”
A Fresh Start
Mr. Dribble bites into his sandwich and holds up two papers. One has my name on it. The other, Winslow’s. “Can you explain this?”
The room smells like Spam and Dr Pepper. “Look, I’m so sorry. It’s just that my birthday’s coming up and I was planning—” I can barely choke out the words. There are no words. When you cheat, the school rule is that you go on N.P. (no privileges), which means you can’t attend any school functions such as dances, which means no Winterfest!
Mr. Dribble pulls a pickle out of a jar on his desk. He crunches down onto the green, pimpled spear, and juice runs down his chin.
I start to cry now. Chest heaving. Tears streaming. Room spinning. “All of my friends will be there. I rented a limo. We’re going to Benihana. We’re going. Oh. I—just tell me what you’re going to do.”
Chugging from a Dr Pepper, Dribble paces in front of his desk, which is cluttered with Ziploc bags from his lunch and tissues. “You know what you need? A CYT file.” He takes a bite out of his sandwich.
I’m so confused. A file? CYT? What was the man talking about? “A CYT file? What’s that? Are they down in the office?”
Dribble laughs so hard he snorts and a bit of sandwich flies out. Ewwwwwww!
“Want to know what a CYT file is?” he asks. “It’s a Cover Your Tracks file. Lots of folks don’t know about it.”
I try to figure out what all of this means. What is he talking about?
Aha!
Dribble inhales another bite of his sandwich. He chews on the left side of his mouth and makes a popping sound. “There’s lots of folks who are real smart and educated but they’ll leave their hot ashes in a double paper bag and set it on their wooden deck and wonder why their house catches on fire. It’s called common sense.”
He gazes out the little bit of window at the top of the cinder block wall. “The fog’s about burned off by now. Good for ducks.” Winking, he rips open a Hostess Twinkie and stuffs it whole into his mouth. I don’t get this man. What does this all mean? Well, for one thing, since my eyes are all teary my mascara is probably running.
Dribble opens his mouth to talk, revealing Twinkie cream on his right front tooth. “See, you’re upset. We don’t want that. I want to help you out. My accountant told me I’m the only honest person in San Mateo County. With my consulting business, I used to report every tip and bit of money coming my way. My accountant told me to go to a restaurant with a mirror behind the counter so I could see the drawers of the register after I paid in cash. And sure enough, I watched them pocket the cash and push ‘no sale.’ Then I walked around feeling like a giant lollipop. A huge sucker. After that, I did what everybody else was doing. I got smart.” He peers at me. “Wouldn’t you say that I got smart?”
“Uh, yeh-aah.” I still had no idea what he was talking about.
He chews extra slowly like he’s assessing something. Suddenly, Dribble jumps in front of his desk. “How would you like a chance to do things differently?” His mustache wags and I can see his banana-colored teeth again. “A fresh start?”
What does that mean? “Like
a complete do-over?”
He smiles fully so that the yellowness is now overpowering. “Yup. A complete do-over.”
I nod, thinking about him canceling out that test, letting me retake it after winter break and pretending like none of this ever happened. “Wow. That’d be amazing.”
“Whenever I think you’re ready for the fresh start, it can happen. We’re talking about a glimpse of a whole new world.” It’s just a test. What the heck is he talking about now?
“So you’re going to erase what I did,” I rephrase, just to make sure I’m getting this. It seems too good to be true.
“Mmm-hmm. If you’re really sure that’s what you want to do.” He glances at me, arching his eyebrows so they practically touch his hairline. Am I sure that’s what I want to do? I’m sure I’m sure. Is the man crazy? Who wouldn’t want that?
“Yes. I’m so there.”
“Okay, if that’s what you really want,” he says, adding an extra syllable to the word “really.”
I try to take in the meaning of this, to make sure my ears aren’t playing tricks. He smiles big so I will get his drift. I do. I stand there, in total awe. Hallelujah! Yes! Yes! Yes! It’s a bonafide miracle. Everything’s going to be okay, I think, glancing up at the pinholes in the ceiling, then down at the dry-erase board filled with dates and facts comparing and contrasting the Magna Carta with the Mayflower Compact. More than okay. Mr. Dribble isn’t mean. They have it all wrong. He is truly an excellent teacher and deserves every accolade available to a middle school educator. I try to take in everything and freeze-frame the moment. The way that the fire alarm evacuation map is stapled crooked on the bulletin board, even Mr. Dribble’s Spam sandwich and sour dill pickles.
My life is converging upon perfect.
“Thank you. Thank you so much. I promise you won’t regret it.”
“I know I won’t.” I can imagine him soon tearing up my paper. The ripped-up shreds that used to be my test will flutter like snowflakes into the pine green trash can.
“A fresh start,” he says in a trancelike tone. “Everything will be wiped clean. You’ll be like a whole new person.”
A deep cold shoots through my veins. My body feels all tingly, as if I have the chills. My legs shake as if a tremor is rollicking under the floor, and little pinpricks of static energy roll through my arms and curl my toes.
’Sup?
It’s so bad I have to stop next to the water fountain where the John F. Kennedy mural says something about doing stuff for your country. As fast as the chills came, they are gone.
But for some reason, my body’s still jumpy from that tremor and I’m feeling jittery. How random. What did just happen, exactly? Hello, you live in the Bay Area of California, Taffeta. Earthquakes, mudslides, and traffic are a part of life. Get over it. I look around. Nobody is exactly acting all weirded-out or anything.
The bell rings, and soon everybody streams into the hallways. The bulletin boards have been newly decorated with Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa decorations that Leadership organized. The seventh graders did a decent job putting them up, although some of the dreidels are crooked. But I’m not exactly feeling the holiday spirit, after those chills and everything.
Down the corridor, I spot Tyler Hutchins strutting over to his locker. I try to stand up straighter and stop the slight tremors in my legs. Even from a distance, he looks hotter than any other guy in the eighth grade—his white hair with its beautiful green sheen, low-rider jeans and a Boardgarten T-shirt.
I’ll speak to him, my Nordic god, very soon. Tyler will be thrilled when I say yes to Winterfest.
I stroll down the hall to Tyler’s locker and knock into a seventh grader. I swing back my hair and my hips. True, I don’t really have hips, but life’s all about illusion.
Right?
Sure enough, all of The Guys whirl around to check me out. Justin and Tyler huddle in the hallway, kicking around a hacky sack.
“Look, it’s coming!” says Justin, cupping his mouth in his usual megaphone style. It. What is he talking about? Tyler spins around, and so do the rest of The Guys, so I smile at them with my top lip pulled taut against my whitened teeth for maximum smile effect.
“Hey!” I call out, strutting over to Tyler, and he stares at me as I put my hand on his shoulder. He takes a big gulp of air. Could the boy be intimidated by me? Probably.
I stare seductively at him, my eyes following his fingers as he scratches the long skinny scar that crawls like a caterpillar along his chin. I can’t help thinking about how Tyler escaped from kidnappers. I wonder how you go about attracting robbers and letting them know you’re up for ransom?
“Hey, Ty. It’s me, ready to talk. This is your lucky day, bay-bee!”
Taking a step backward, Tyler crams his binder into his locker. “Afraid of that.” This comment takes me totally by surprise. Usually Tyler demonstrates, like, not one iota of sarcasm or humor. He wheels around, slams his locker shut, glances down at his Nike trainers, and mumbles. “I didn’t copy off you in math last week.”
What is he talking about? Under my glare, he squirms. “Okay, just a little, but Justin did it first.” Justin twists his face and makes a cross with his fingers like I’m a vampire. “I didn’t copy off of it.”
“Copy? It? What are you talking about? I’m terrible at math.” Every morning, I get my math homework from Maggie the Mushroom’s invisible friend or some number-smart person. “Math. Not my thing,” I say with a wave of my hand.
The corners of Tyler’s eyes crinkle. “Yeah, okay, sure, Einstein. What-evah.”
“We need to talk.” I raise my eyebrows as sexily as possible and swivel my shoulders so my chest is at its premium. “Alone.”
Edging away from me, Tyler clenches his jaw and shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. Weird. Tyler is proving quirkier by the second. Maybe I misjudged him. Okay, I take in a little bit of breath. Normally, I never get nervous doing these things. Usually, I feel charitable giving someone a piece of my time because I’m always being pulled in ten million directions at once. “The answer is yes!”
“Yes? Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ll meet up with you at Winterfest.” I give him my biggest-wattage smile. “On my birthday, you know. We’re doing the limo thing. A Hummer.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
Oh, now he’s playing drama queen. Just because I made him wait. “Tyler, you’re being, like, ridiculous. You dropped hints, begged me practically. The e-mail, text messages, et cetera….”
“I didn’t send you a thing.”
“Oh, shut up!” You did too. Liar!
I had it memorized.
I really wish the birds outside weren’t chirping. Makes everything seem happy and right now I am anything but happy. A crowd gathers around us. Now Caylin and Petra strut down the hall and circle around me. But they’re whispering furiously to each other and laughing. It’s like they’re all in on something funny, and I’m the punch line. Sweat beads down the back of my neck. My skin prickles, my nose feels strangely heavy—because I’m wearing glasses. “What??!!!” I pull them off, and suddenly my world goes out of focus. “I’ve got glasses!”
“Aren’t you quick,” quips Petra, who in her green dress looks like a fuzzy blob of mold.
Normally, I wear my glasses only in the morning before I put in my contacts. Okay, this is weird. I really thought I put my contacts in before school. I scratch my neck like mad, which makes everyone laugh.
At me. At me? At me!
I slide the frames back on and everything becomes clear. Doors have edges and people have strange staring faces. But that isn’t the really scary part. The scary part is that I’m wearing a black skirt with an elastic waist band. Elastic! And ankle socks with unicorns. I’ve got on some kind of polyester blouse, too, with horses jumping over fences. How had I not noticed this before?
“Someone did something to me!” I yell.
“You’re tripping, Ernestine,” says Petra.
Ernestine. She called me Ernestine. Why is she calling me by my old name? What is up?!!!! Staring at the cement, I speed down the hall to my special place. The place that I go when I’m sad or depressed. The place that always puts me in a good mood.
The Bathroom
Specifically, the mirror.
I dart into the bathroom. I have to see myself SOON. Taking a deep breath, I get the usual whiff of soggy paper towels, bleach, and urine. Slowly, I raise my chin to the mirror. No need to move too quickly. Soon I would see that perfectly symmetrical face, lovely green eyes with lashes so dark and long they look false, that aquiline nose without a bump, smooth skin with no blemishes, no circles under the eyes, and my long auburn hair which is always silky—so long as it’s properly conditioned.
Ninai, Olivia’s Girl Scout friend, bumps into me before I can check myself out. “Remember, the Book Worms are meeting after school today,” she says, actually whipping out a toothbrush and charger from her backpack.
Huh? The Book Worms, that’s the name of those library helpers. Like I would do that. Ninai is always jumping into convos and making comments. I admire geeks who keep to themselves. At least they know their place. Not Ninai. She’d speak to anyone, even with an electric toothbrush in her mouth.
So now I look up, staring at the face staring back at me. There must be some mistake. I must still be washing my hands. There must be someone else looking at herself in the mirror. I open my mouth. The person in the mirror opens her mouth. I touch my nose, and so does the skeevy in the mirror.
Ninai, with her mouth full of toothpaste and looking official in her Girl Scout outfit, rushes over to me, staring intently. “What’s the matter? You don’t look well.” She spits in the sink. “Are you sick, Ernestine?”
“Ernestine?!!!! Why are you calling me that?” My neck is perspiring again. Everything itches and my temples throb. And I think I smell a little.
Things Are Gonna Get Ugly Page 3