Miracle Girls: A Novel

by Anne Dayton

  “My mom’s here, so . . .”

  Tyler nods.

  “Bye, Ana.”

  I smile, unsure of what else to do, and then walk to the car. Pulling the door open, I slide into the passenger seat and force myself not to look back at him. I also force myself not to grin from ear to ear.

  “You would not believe the traffic tonight. There was an accident on Highway 1, and it’s got everything backed up for miles,” Mom says, panting, as if she, not the car, has been running. She backs out of the parking space, revs the engine, and drives toward the parking lot exit. “Were you waiting long?”

  “It’s okay,” I say, resting my head against the fogged window. As we drive away, I cave in and look at Tyler, standing alone watching us drive away, and allow myself a little smile.

  7

  I’m checking my teeth in my locker mirror (I don’t want to go from God Girl to Green Teeth) when I see a flash of red hair behind me. I shut my locker quickly and turn around. It’s her. I make myself move before I lose my nerve.

  Zoe is putting a book into her locker when I walk up behind her. I cough, and she turns around, and smiles when she sees me.

  “Hi,” Zoe says quietly. She has several books and an instrument case in her arms.

  “Um, hey.” I say the first thing that pops into my head. “What’s your next class?” The smell of french fries wafts into the hallway as the noon rush begins.

  “Spanish. It’s my fav—”

  “Do it, Zach!” a voice says across the hall. We both turn and see Riley and her airhead cheerleader friend Ashley laughing with Zach Abramo, that huge junior she’s always hanging out with. He’s on the football team and kind of looks like Governor Schwarzenegger. Zach’s football goon Andy comes up behind him, making whooping noises and doing air circles with his hand. A few kids whistle, and people are crowding around Riley. I shrug and turn back to Zoe.

  “I’ve got English. Ms. Moore is great.”

  I hear a whistle, and Zoe and I both turn our heads to look at Riley’s group again. Zach is bent down in front of her, and she’s climbing onto his shoulders. Ashley and Andy are egging her on, and others are starting to turn and make noise too.

  I look up and down the hall, incredulous. Is no one seeing this? Where are all the teachers?

  “Seriously, aren’t there hall monitors at this crazy school?”

  Zoe smiles and shrugs. “It’s a small school.”

  Riley is now trying to stand up on Zach’s shoulders, and lots of people are laughing and cheering her on. He’s staggering around, but she’s laughing and doesn’t seem to be concerned that she might fall. I turn back toward Zoe. I can’t stand to see Riley crash to the tile floor and crack her head open. This isn’t to say that I care about her. I’m just worried out of common human courtesy.

  “So . . . we should . . . hang out sometime . . . if you want or you’re not busy. We could have lunch? But you probably are too busy or whatever.” I sound like an idiot. There’s no way she’ll want to hang with me now. “I was going to go to French Club right now, but we could maybe have lunch—” I stop when I see Zach walking down the hall with Riley on his shoulders. People are giving her high fives as she passes them.

  The speaker in the hallway crackles and the principal Ms. Lovchuck—sadly, that isn’t her nickname—begins to speak. For someone with “love” in her name, Ms. Lovchuck has very little of it for high schoolers.

  “Attention, students.” The way she says “students” makes it sound like she said “cretins.” A few people quiet down to hear the announcement but most go on as if nothing is happening. “Mr. Dumas, our art teacher, will be starting an Art Club.”

  While Ms. Lovchuck is explaining what the Art Club is, Riley and Zach stumble down the hallway. Zach puts Riley within arm’s reach of the speaker. She looks around uncertainly, but when people around them start chanting, “Do it! Do it!” Riley’s face breaks into a smile. She reaches out her arms, and when Zach steps closer to the wall, Riley grabs hold of the speaker and begins to pry it out of the wall. The face falls off easily, so then she begins to pull at the wires connecting the speaker.

  “The first meeting will be this Thurs—” Ms. Lovchuck’s voice goes dead as a cheer goes up from the crowd at Riley’s feet. She has pulled the wire loose and disconnected the speaker. She raises her arms triumphantly, then totters a bit on Zach’s shoulders while the group around her applauds.

  “I can’t believe she just did that,” Zoe says.

  “I don’t get her.” I shake my head. “A stuck-up cheerleader with a death wish? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Zoe shrugs. I wait for her to say something, but when she doesn’t, I realize that I’ll have to stand alone on this one. Somehow I doubt Zoe has ever said an unkind word about anyone. I feel my cheeks flush. Who’s the Christian now?

  “We could hang out after school if you’re busy for lunch.” Zoe smiles shyly.

  “Sure.” I nod. “I mean, wait. I could do lunch too. I’m—” I think of the tiny and disorganized French Club meeting. “I’m free now.” I cough. “I mean, if you are.”

  “Good,” Zoe says. She smiles, and her pale face reddens a bit.

  “Okay.” I grab my peanut-butter-on-a-bagel sandwich out of the locker. “Where do you usually sit?”

  8

  “Why do you think Achebe chose to write his book in English?” Ms. Moore levels her eyes on the class.

  Her outfit today just might outdo all of her past outfits, which is really saying something. Most teachers here wear really frumpy, hideous clothes that my mom wouldn’t be caught dead in. Like, literally. If she were dead and I tried to bury her in them, she’d come back to life and ground me forever. They wear horrible stuff like pleated pants, polyester pantsuits, or on Fridays, acid-washed jeans up to their necks with rolled up cuffs. Rolled up! I’m not even into fashion, and I know that you should never roll up your jeans.

  Ms. Moore, on the other hand, looks kind of like she was shopping in L.A., took the wrong door in an alley, and ended up in AP English. She’s wearing a jumper dress with a black turtleneck underneath it and black ballet flats.

  “Anyone want to venture a guess? It’s English class. It’s not like there’s only one answer.” Ms. Moore smiles at her joke.

  No one raises their hand so I sort of half raise mine. I try to be subtle about it. No need to advertise that I’m killing everyone in this class. Cheerleader Girl might have me beat in polynomials, but she’d better not even try when it comes to dangling modifiers and Hemingway.

  “Christine? Why don’t you take a stab at this for me,” Ms. Moore says, completely ignoring my hand.

  Christine looks up from her copy of Things Fall Apart and shrugs. I hadn’t realized she was even in my English class until after that day in detention. But once you meet Christine, you can’t stop noticing her everywhere she goes. Her hair is pink, after all. And today she has hot pink eyeshadow to match. Christine crosses her arms. “I didn’t read the book.”

  A few people snicker. Christine is usually really quiet in class, and this wasn’t exactly the answer I was expecting. I sit up straighter.

  Ms. Moore smiles as if what Christine has said is a very clever joke. No screaming, no threats, no pressing Christine to say something about the book. That’s just how Ms. Moore is. She’s a little kooky, but it kind of works for her.

  “Well, then. You must have a punishment,” she says, then turns and begins to write on the board. I crane my neck to see what it says, but even when she steps back so we can all read it, it doesn’t really make any sense: “Christine Lee does NOT have detention today.”

  “Ana?” Ms. Moore turns around and nods at me. “Do you want to tell me why you think Achebe wrote in English?”

  I clear my throat. “He wrote the book in the late fifties, during a time when the Western world saw Africa as very backwards and ‘primitive.’” I make little quotation marks around “primitive.” Ms. Moore constantly stresses that no culture i
s primitive. “He wanted to show everyone how complex and rich the Nigerian culture really was, and the only way to do that was to write a book that could have a huge reach around the world. Thus, he needed to use English.”

  “Good, Ana,” Ms. Moore says and then asks someone else for an alternate reason. I glance over at Christine. Does she think I’m a show-off for answering her question? What does that message Ms. Moore wrote on the chalkboard mean? Who’s ever heard of a student not getting detention as a punishment? This school is cracked.

  Christine is doodling on her notebook like she doesn’t have a care in the world. I guess if she wants to fail English then that’s her funeral, right? I lean in closer to see if I can see what she’s drawing, but all I can see are dark squiggles.

  “So for your assignment this weekend—” Ms. Moore walks to the board. She does not erase Christine’s “punishment,” but writes underneath it—I suck in my breath—ESSAY.

  A groan goes up.

  Ms. Moore turns around with a crooked grin on her face. “Were you hoping for two essays? I hate to disappoint you guys.” People groan again, and Ms. Moore smiles and turns back to the board. She outlines the assignment and turns back to us.

  “And one final note of business.” Ms. Moore glances at her watch. “I have been asked to start a club. Ms. Lovchuck’s initiative for the year, as I’m sure you all know from the rally last week, is to make this your school by getting more students involved.”

  Ms. Moore turns around to the chalkboard again and writes EARTH FIRST CLUB just above Christine’s punishment. “I am starting an environmental club. If anyone is interested, the first meeting is at lunch next Monday.” She looks around the room, and maybe I imagine it, but I could swear she winks at me.

  The bell rings, and people spring from their desks and start packing up their books.

  Hm. Maybe joining an environmental club would be cool. I’m not really into granola and all that, but I always recycle, and an environmental club might look good on my transcript. I’m already in enough clubs, but I could drop Key Club. It’s just a bunch of popular people sitting around in the cafeteria planning events that never really come together anyway.

  I stand up and pile my books into my bag, then glance over at Christine. Now that I’m standing, I can see her notebook clearly. I study the picture she was working on and realize that it’s a very cool cartoon of Ms. Moore. In the picture, Ms. Moore doesn’t have a huge nose or a mean look on her face or big ears. If I didn’t know any better, if I hadn’t been sitting in this class the whole time, I could swear that the girl actually really likes Ms. Moore.

  Christine catches me staring at her notebook and slams it shut. She stuffs it into her book bag.

  “Hey, Christine—“

  She stops for a moment and stares at me. I guess it does seem weird, talking to her like this, since I’ve never said anything to her since that day in detention, but for some reason I think she might want to join me and Zoe for lunch sometime.

  “I . . .” She’s looking at me like I’m absolutely crazy. I lose my nerve. “Um . . . never mind,” I say quickly.

  Christine turns and stalks out of the room. She doesn’t even look up as she passes me or Ms. Moore. I find myself really hoping she joins the art club.

  9

  Youth group is technically over, but I promised myself that this time I would try to hang out inside until my mom came to pick me up. The last thing I need is to develop a reputation as the girl who stands outside alone all the time. I head toward the snack table. That seems like a safe bet. At least there I’ll have something to do with my hands. Riley is talking to her friend Tanya in the middle of the room, and some junior girl who I think is named Tricia is standing on stage and singing into the mic like she’s on American Idol. Thankfully, it isn’t plugged in.

  I’m trying to hold my head up and look like I know what I’m doing when Tyler passes by me, carrying a pick in his teeth. I put my hand into a tub of Trader Joe’s cookies and watch as he puts his pick into his guitar case.

  “How’s school, Ana?” Judy, the youth leader, comes up behind me in a sneak attack. Judy is in her twenties and is quite stunning, with short brown hair and fine features. I think a few of the high school guys have crushes on her, but too bad for them she’s married to Fritz. But I’m not really thrilled that she’s talking to me. Everyone knows it’s the leaders’ job to talk to the kids no one else is talking to.

  “Fine,” I say, tucking a cookie into my mouth. Judy creases her brow and purses her lips to make a face that shows she’s really listening. I think they teach that face in Youth Leader Training because all of them have it down pat.

  “What’s your favorite subject?” She tilts her head a bit to the right. I try to keep a straight face as I tell her about English and Ms. Moore, but she’s looking at me like I’m a hurt kitten or something, and I can’t help but wonder what she would do if I said something really outrageous and four-lettered.

  I keep one eye on Judy but manage to watch as Tyler snaps his guitar case closed and walks over to the wonky pool table. Someone donated it to the youth group, and it leans a little to the left. I watch as Tyler gives a high five to Dave, and they start talking. My heart skips a beat as Tyler picks up a pool cue.

  Judy must notice me staring over her shoulder, because the next thing I know she’s pulling me over to the pool table and picking up a cue. Tyler and Dave are talking about chord progressions or some guitar nonsense and don’t seem to notice us invading their territory.

  “Come on, guys, let’s play.” Judy holds out cues.

  “Uh . . . ,” I say stupidly. On the one hand, I want to say yes, because, hello, Tyler, but on the other hand, I don’t exactly want to embarrass myself today. “Sure. Okay.”

  Dave cocks an eyebrow at us. I’ve never spoken to him, and he always struck me as a bit weird, but he gamely grabs another cue and moves aside to make room for Judy and me around the pool table. He’s tall and gangly, and I don’t think he goes to my school. If he did, I would probably notice, because in addition to his typical outfit of board shorts, flip flops, and a T-shirt, he’s wearing a necktie—a bona fide paisley, silk tie like my dad would wear. Isn’t he afraid everyone will talk about him? Even if he is a total weirdo, though, you have to admire his courage . . . or maybe he’s just color blind?

  “Shall we play boys against girls?” Judy rolls a few solid balls toward Tyler.

  Tyler laughs. “Maybe we’d better switch it up.” Okay, so maybe we don’t look like the most formidable opponents, but that doesn’t mean he has to look so certain of victory. “Judy, you and Dave take that side,” he says, nodding across the table. Butterflies take flight in my stomach. Tyler is trying to get on my team.

  “Sounds good to me.” Dave runs his fingers through his messy hair—it looks like he’s been experimenting with his sister’s styling gel. Something on his arm catches my eye. Is that a tattoo? I peer a little closer and realize that it’s actually marker. He has written in all capital letters, from his inner elbow to his inner wrist: FEED DOG.

  “It’s so on.” Dave racks the balls while I chalk my cue. I’m not sure what that’s all about, but everyone seems to do it, so I play along. Tyler finds a stool and brings it near the table. He plops down right next to me, then looks up at me and grins. Okay, that has to mean something.

  Dave points his stick at me. “You can break, um . . .”

  “Ana.” Does he really not even know my name? I try to stare him down. I can at least look intimidating, even if they’ll quickly learn the truth.

  “Ana, you can break because I want to make sure you get at least one turn,” Dave says, laughing. Judy scowls at him, but I ignore the comment. I can’t believe I’m actually playing pool with Tyler.

  “Come on, Ana,” Tyler says, clapping as he balances his cue between his knees. My heart races, but I try to stay calm. I decide to impress him with my wit.

  “How can a guy who can’t even remember to feed his dog
be any kind of threat?” I laugh as I get the white ball in my crosshairs and pull the cue back in my hand. With a loud thwack, I scatter the balls in all directions. By some miracle, I even manage to sink two stripes.

  I see the admiration in Tyler’s eye. I wonder if he’ll ask me to go get ice cream or something after this. He’s definitely giving all the signs he will. How could I get Mom to let me go? My mind is reeling, which might explain why on my next turn I scratch and Dave nearly dies of laughter.

  Just as Dave is lining up his shot, I hear a familiar voice behind me and my stomach is seized by cramps. Please not now.

  “What are you guys doing, Tyler?” Riley asks. I love how she specified exactly who she was talking to. Tanya is watching from a few feet away.

  “Hey, Riley,” Judy says, her voice cheerful. “Wanna take over for me?” I know it’s her job to be nice, but I could hurt her right now. Dave sinks a stripe and mumbles under his breath. Judy hands the cue to Riley, who holds it like she doesn’t know what it is.

  Tyler’s whole face lights up, and it feels like my heart is being stabbed by little pins. He takes a shot at the orange-striped ball, but he doesn’t even connect with the cue ball.

  “I’m not really playing,” Tyler says nonchalantly, leaning his pool cue against the wall. “These two are like pool experts. I’m just watching.” Dave immediately picks up his cue and sinks a solid.

  “Yeah, I figured,” Riley says, looking at me. She rolls her eyes.

  My stomach falls. What does he mean he’s not really playing? Dave misses his next shot and sighs in frustration.

  “Come outside and show me how to shoot a basketball.” Riley puts her hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “I’m still doing granny shots.” I can feel the flush of anger creeping into my cheeks.

  “Your turn,” Dave says, eyeing me.

  I ignore him. “Wait a minute. It’s your turn,” I say to Tyler. “I need you here.” I give Riley a cold hard stare. She smirks at me.