Am I sick? Sick? My hair is frizzing out like I stuck my finger in an electrical outlet, pimples dot my pasty forehead like a gravel road full of potholes and piles of dirt. I lean over so I can see my legs. I still have on those unicorn ankle socks! They are rolling down to my thickish calves, my black skirt hikes up a nondescript waist—backward! My glasses slip down my nose. When I breathe, my glasses fog up.
“No, I’m not sick!”
I am realizing something unimaginable has happened.
I Am a Geek
Clenching every muscle in my body, I hold my breath. Make this go away. I glance back at the mirror. I’m still a geek. Not working. I jump up and down, shake my head from side to side, splash cold water on my face, and then dump it down my neck.
Okay, now I’m just a wet geek.
I’ve got to get out of this school. There’s only one way that I know.
The School Nurse
Mrs. Johnson briefly glances at me. She’s filling up a glass full of miniature candy canes and bopping to an elevator-music version of “Jingle Bell Rock” on her radio. “What’s the matter, hon?”
“Everything.” I pat my cheeks, chin fat, pimples, and my head. “My hair’s having a party, and I’ve got spillage!” I show her where a rim of fat hangs over my belt. “See!”
Mrs. Johnson cocks her head and peers at me like I’d look better if I were only sideways. “Hon, body issues are common at your age.” She leafs through a bunch of brochures on a shelf, and hands one to me. “You might want to take a look at this.”
The brochure features two girl linking arms, standing on the beach in tank dresses. The cover reads, Body Issues: What you need to know about maintaining a healthy diet and lifestyle. This poor woman thinks I am in need of counseling. “You don’t understand. It’s not like that. It just happened. Right after fourth period. People are calling me Ernestine.”
“They would. That’s your name.”
I throw up my hands so I don’t use them to strangle this woman. “Yes, it’s my name, but it’s not the name I use, okay? Nobody at this school has ever, ever called me Ernestine. Not until today, that is.”
Sitting down, Mrs. Johnson stuffs herself into her chair and pulls my file up on her computer. “Honey, I’ve got your name as Ernestine.”
“Okay, fine. It’s my, whatever, official name, but I changed it to Taffeta on my registration form in sixth grade when I came to La Cambia. That’s the name you should have.”
Mrs. Johnson hums to “Jingle Bell Rock” and pulls out a thermometer.
“Okaaaaay, I get it. This is some kind of joke or something. Ha. Ha. Very funny. You’re all in on it.”
Mrs. Johnson jams the digital thermometer into my ear. “In on what? I’m not in on anything. Hon, it sounds as if you’re having some self-doubts about body image and identity. It happens eventually with most girls, sooner in your case. Maybe you want to make some changes. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about when your mom picks you up.” Then she smiles at me. “It’ll all be okay, Ernestine.”
“My name is Taffeta. Taffeta Smith. I’m pretty and popular. I’m loved. Ernestine doesn’t exist. Ernestine is nothing. I am NOT nothing! I am Taffeta!”
She smiles at me so that her hooded eyelids creep up. “You know, I did that when I was your age. I pretended I was Jane Fonda. Taffeta. That’s a nice name. When you become eighteen, you can call yourself whatever you want.”
Mom, the Rescue Hero
Okay, my mother is once again outdoing herself, and setting world records for how to embarrass her daughter. Right now she’s sporting mismatched socks, a floppy crushed velvet hat with a giant poppy on the top, and a lapel pin that says, MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR.
Just a moment ago, I had been SO happy to see her. Really, I could have just kissed her a million times, because I was SO tired of this game. And waiting here with Mrs. Johnson, Christmas Muzak maniac, didn’t make it any better. It made me feel CRAZY. And I’m many things. I mean, I know I have at least one fault—I’m too organized—but I’m not crazy!
Anyway, I threw my arms around Mom’s shoulders, feeling the slippery, wrinkly polyester material. Then I tried to explain to her EVERYTHING that had happened. Of course, everything came out mumbled and garbled. But she thought—get this—that I was talking about some fantasy story I had made up.
How random. Now I stare at my mother, who thinks my life is a myth. “Can we go home?” Maybe if I take a shower it’ll all go away.
Mom fingers my damp, limp hair. “It’ll be okay, Little Love.” When she says that, in the same way she always does, my heart stops the galloping, and my whole body relaxes. “It’s okay, Ernestine,” she coos.
“Ernestine?” I look up. My whole head feels unbalanced, like I just stepped off a tilt-a-whirl. “DID YOU JUST CALL ME ERNESTINE?”
Call Dad
“He’ll understand what’s going on,” I state as Mom and I trek through the hallway. “He, of all people, won’t call me Ernestine.” We’re standing in front of the trophy case and I’m gaping at my reflection in the volleyball plaque.
Mom bites her bottom lip. “Okay, look, I’m sure you can talk to your father when he calls on Sunday.”
“SUNDAY? I can’t wait that long. This is an emergency! I’ve got to speak to him now!”
“Be my guest. You know, you can call your dad anytime.” As she’s talking, I’m dialing his number on my cell. I still have that, at least.
The phone rings, and then Dad’s voice mail comes on. “Hey, it’s Dirk. I’m probably out doing a jog with my dog. Surf’s up. Leave a message.”
“Dad, it’s me. Something terrible has happened. It’s really bad. Worse than you can imagine. Call me back right away!”
Mom reaches out her arms to me like I’m a little kid. “Can I give you a hug, Ernestine? I know how frustrating it’s been for you not always being able to reach him.”
“NO, this has NOTHING, do you hear me, NOTHING TO DO WITH DAD! Please go away.”
Mom sucks in her breath, and then she finally opens the door leading to the pickup circle in front of the school.
I feel lost.
Knock Knock?
“There is no way I’m going to be caught dead on that,” I say, folding my arms in front of my chest. In the parking lot, the one people use for cars, Mom points to her vintage bicycle built for two with lots of peeling paint and plenty of rust. “Why did you have to pick me up on that thing?” Ever since the divorce, Mom’s gotten real serious about being green. And I’m all for the environment but not when it creates unnecessary embarrassment. I’ll take the extra pollution, thank you. There’s an unwritten law at La Cambia that parents (or nannies) aren’t allowed to pick up kids unless they’re in a new Beamer or a Mercedes. I’m serious. I’ve never seen anything else unless you count the four-wheel drive Volvos. But even those are a little subpar.
Mom lines up the numbers on her combination lock. “Oh, well.” She throws up her hands. “Guess you’ll have to stay in school, then. It sounded to me like things were pretty bad.” She stares at her wrist as if she has a watch (which she doesn’t). “I even cancelled my appointment with Tosh this afternoon to clear the deck.”
“Aw, big sacrifice,” I say. “Canceling with your medium. Couldn’t he just like fly to you in your dreams or something?”
Mom laughs and snaps on her helmet, then hands me mine. It’s pink and sparkly. “You know, the truth is I was really looking forward to today’s session, but I did reschedule.”
Reluctantly, I edge into the seat behind her and put on the helmet. Do I have a choice? I have to get away from school. Soon we are far away. We bike down El Camino Real past Kepler’s Books, and, naturally, it’s pouring down rain. Even though cold water lashes against my cheeks, I don’t worry about my mascara running because I’m not wearing mascara—or any makeup, for that matter!
As the rain lets up, we pull up to an apartment complex, the Sierra Garden. Not that there’s a garden in sight. It’s the
sort of run-down place where you’d expect some artistic type who didn’t have a steady income to live. “Why are we going here?” I say. “Let’s go home.”
Mom stares at me as if I was abducted, taken into Area 51 and reprogrammed. “This is our home. Did you forget it was moving day? Paying for them to unpack and pack us was worth every penny. Even if it means the two of us tightening the belt a little for the next few months. The moving company did a wonderful job. Even the clothes are back in the drawers.”
“I guess I forgot,” I mumble. “About the move.”
Mom squints at me. “Are you okay?”
No, I’m not okay. I’m less than myself. A ghost of me. “Since we didn’t do any packing I guess I sort of made it—the move—not happen in my mind or something.”
“I could see that,” said Mom. “I know it’s not easy.”
Understatement, Mom. Über understatement. Oh no, it has happened. We’ve really moved to the Sierra Garden apartments. Whenever Mom would be SO mad at Dad after he’d come home super late from a meeting and then tell her that he had to go out again and train for his triathlon, she’d be the one to get on to the phone with her sister Megan and fume, “If things get really bad, I can always move with Taffeta to the Sierra Garden apartments.”
At the time I thought it was a sort of fun, downsizing-your-life daydream. Why would she really want to give up our amazing home in Menlo Park for some apartment complex? I stare at the mission-style building with its red tiled roof and naked, statue-boy fountain that doesn’t work in the center of the courtyard. Little kids run around in the front parking lot, totally unsupervised, from what I can tell, which is probably typical of poor people who live in apartments like Sierra Garden. If I had been a baby here I could see me now, barefoot, in a soggy diaper, heading into traffic. Why can’t we have our old house back? Why? I guess the fact that we’ve moved into an apartment is NOTHING compared to the fact that, somehow, I’m like a TOTALLY different version of myself.
A New Day, Unfortunately
I jump out of bed and glimpse my face in the mirror above a scratched-up chest of drawers plastered with Lord of the Rings stickers. Only everything’s out of focus and fuzzy. I think I spot a pair of purple plastic glasses next to a stack of fantasy books on the nightstand.
I squint and instinctively push the glasses onto my face. No chintz bedspread bought with last year’s birthday money at Pottery Barn. Nasty-looking clothes, such as socks with images of little dragons, litter the floor. Posters cover the walls—posters with creatures from Star Wars and UNICORNS!
On the walls, I see posters of MORE unicorns and a green dragon winging over a lavender volcano. I gaze at the face of the dragon and once again look at my face in the mirror that’s over my bureau.
The dragon and I have a lot in common. We are both depressingly similar-looking.
I see a girl with frizzy hair, like a halo of fire. Round cheeks dotted with whiteheads. I am not looking at my mother’s middle school yearbook photo.
Or Olivia.
Me. It’s for real.
I jam a brush through my hair, but no matter how many times I try, my do won’t cooperate. It’s possessed! In desperation, I plaster my hair with gel. I now look like I have either very wet or very greasy hair.
It’s useless.
On a hook behind my door, I spy a floppy flowered hat, plop it on my head, and call it good.
Then I head over to attack the closet. It’s a jumbled-up mess with clogs and old rainboots tossed haphazardly on the dusty floor. Dresses hang next to wrinkled pairs of purple pants hanging precariously on wire hangers. None of the shirts are buttoned. A box of headless Barbies and Bratz dolls sit on a shelf with pink plastic ponies, a microscope kit, and a dirty white down comforter. There’s definitely nothing decent to wear in there. Wait! I spot a pair of black capris.
I yank them off the rusty hanger and put them on. I glance in the mirror, and think that I actually look semipassable. Maybe I can dress myself back into being me. The idea lifts a little hope in my chest. Turning around, I suddenly see the damage on the pants—a giant stain on the back.
I yank the pants off and throw them onto the bed. There has to be a decent pair of pants somewhere. I need makeup—no, require makeup. But where to find some? In the bottom of the bathroom drawer, I find a blue vinyl bag containing one lipstick, ten nail files, and a bottle of very old mascara. I dip my finger into the lipstick, spread it on my lips and cheeks, and attempt to get some color onto my pale, stubby lashes, but it looks clumpy and pathetic.
I remember this meditation I made up to help me relax when I was really little: “Am I me? Are you you? Am I me?” Wrapping my pillow around my face, I’d chant it over and over before I’d go to sleep at night. The “you” in the chant meant everybody, every living creature. At the time, when I was three or something, it made sense. I think I was a lot smarter back then. I remember later on it helped me transition into going to sleep at night even when my parents, before the divorce, were fighting, even when they were very loud, and hysterical. I’d think, Are you you? Am I me? until you and me blurred into one, until I felt the comfort of not being distinct.
This time not being me doesn’t bring happy thoughts. This is not working.
Yesterday afternoon, after pacing around in this apartment and hoping it was all a very bad dream, I had even biked over to the pool to show up for swim practice but Coach Gina acted like she had no idea who I was. Me! Junior Olympic Swimmer. The girl who placed at Far Westerns. I am so not me.
I crawl into bed and bury myself deep within the comforter, waiting to disappear. For a moment, I reach out to snuggle with Napoleon, our golden retriever. But then I remember we had to put her to sleep last month. Napoleon gone. Dad down in L.A. Myself altered beyond recognition! Oh, I can feel the sadness of all humanity. The depths of despair in SpongeBob. Yet, I’m still me. At least these are my thoughts. Am I in a coma in some sort of vegetative state? A high fever?
Who’s There?
It’s Mom, banging on my door, calling out, “You’re going to be late.” Mom is telling me that I’m going to be late? Now there’s a first. “Honey, get up now.”
I don’t speak. What’s there to say? Her curly brown hair sticks straight up but she’s fully dressed, if you can call baggy sweatpants and the same shirt she wore to bed being dressed.
I plunk down in a beanbag chair actually shaped like a spaceship.
“What’s going on?” Mom asks, entering my room. This is special. Usually, she’s been up too late reading books on photography and the lost worlds of Atlantis and Lemuria to be up at seven a.m. She must have been told to share some morning sunlight time with me from her medium Tosh. I think if he told her to sell shares of me on eBay, she would do it.
“I don’t feel well,” I say, sinking farther down into the beanbag chair. I’m not about to get into the whole I’m-not-myself thing again. Then I remember the quake. “Maybe I’m still jittery, you know, from the tremor yesterday, waiting for an aftershock, or whatever.”
Mom opens my door and peers into the room. I can see the hall is filled with unopened moving boxes. “You sure?”
“Yes,” I say, standing up. “It felt pretty major.”
“Let me go check online because I didn’t feel a thing yesterday, and I was shooting some photos for The Palo Alto Tribune up on the ninth floor of the VA Hospital. Believe me, if there’d been a quake that thing would’ve been swaying like a pendulum.” Mom pads into the hallway, hopping over the boxes, down to the computer in the kitchen, and a moment later, she calls out. “Nope. Honey, nothing. Maybe it was construction or something.”
Construction? I don’t think so. As she closes my bedroom door, it comes to me. It was something all right. I know I felt the floor shaking right after Dribble said he was going to help me. Hello. Right afterward, as in microseconds later. Earthquake. Fresh start. Dribble. Helping me. Major life change.
I think I’m getting this. Why did it take me so lo
ng to see what happened?
The direct connection jolts me, and it’s like my whole body’s buzzing. Quaking. Alive. But not in a good way.
Yesterday afternoon, when Dribble asked me if I wanted a fresh start, I thought he was talking about the test. Now I know better—he meant my life.
I Have to Get to School
For the first time, I’m dying to see Dribble.
But not to see me and my scary clothing. Apparently, it’s not a budget reality to go to the Stanford Shopping Center and get a whole new wardrobe. Even when I very reasonably suggested a couple of small items from Max Heeder online, like their baby doll T-shirts, which are on sale for three hundred dollars, my mother declined.
With no decent choices, I pull on a pair of baggy jeans and a T-shirt that says QUESTION REALITY. Lovely. My new motto. On a hook behind my door, I spy a purple hoodie with flowers, and put it on over my shirt. Looks-wise, I feel like I’ve stepped into a vat of bugs.
Is There Anybody Out There?
I slink down the hall with my hoodie pulled down over my head. Except for a custodian pushing a mop bucket down the hall, the place is deserted.
I race until I’m in front of my first-period class, social studies with Mr. Dribble, classroom number thirteen.
Of course.
How hadn’t I noticed the BAD LUCK number on the door? Duh. I always knew he was a veeeery strange teacher—but completely altering someone? That’s just WRONG!
I look both ways, expecting a black cat to cross my path or a ladder to crash on my head.
“Dribble! Yo, Dribble!” I bang on the door. “Hello in there!” Caylin opens the door, and I have never been so happy to see her freckled ski-jump nose and Tahoe blue eyes. “Girlfriend, I’ll explain everything la-ter.” She glances at me, her eyebrows raised into a question. Dribble dramatically throws up his hands. “Welcome to class, Ernestine. I’ll need your late pass, ma’am.” He turns to face the rest of the class. “Anyhoo, what page did I say?” How can he act like everything is normal?
“Did you just call me Ernestine?” I ask.
“Did you just call me Dribble?” He wriggles his bushy mustache. His real name is Mr. Drabner, of course. But it’s easy to forget.
Things Are Gonna Get Ugly Page 4