by Nancy Rue
“I’ll stay open for a few more minutes, yes.”
I thanked him and went to a computer and typed:
Dear Lydia,
Remember I told you about the five-step plan Mr. Devon gave us for our project? Do you think we could have one for me, for how I can be me without anybody bothering me? If you can’t, I’ll understand. But I think it would really help.
Sincerely,
Ginger Hollingberry
Maybe it was stupid and weird, but I clicked send anyway.
Chapter Seven
Shelby was right about one thing: everybody that used Twitter in our class had obviously gotten the Twitter message. The minute I walked into the gym locker room Friday morning I could feel the look-at-Ginger-look-away-quick thing going on. I wanted to crawl into my locker.
I got changed fast and went out to the gym so I could sit by myself and not see what people were thinking. As long as I couldn’t look in their eyes, I wouldn’t start believing it was true, about my mom being with a drunk driver. I didn’t know what was true, but it just couldn’t be that.
It was raining, so Coach and Mrs. Zabriski were setting up some of the obstacle course in the gym. I could hear them talking to each other since nobody else was in there. I, of course, was invisible.
“Who calls a faculty meeting on a Friday after school?” Coach barked at his wife.
“It’s about this bullying thing everybody’s making a big deal out of,” she said.
Coach growled. Really, he did. “It’s the girls. Boys just pound each other and it’s over.”
“I’d like to pound a few people myself,” Mrs. Z said.
He growled again and motioned toward the bleachers with his head. Mrs. Zabriski looked at me as if I’d just crawled in from underneath them.
I put on my Stone Face.
I wore it all morning, and it worked. Nobody needled me about my mom or gave me lip-curled looks. Of course, nobody talked to me or basically even looked at me at all, and my stomach was in so many knots I lost count. But at least nobody bothered me.
At lunchtime, I even went into the cafeteria and sat at a table no one used and unwrapped my sandwich. We were out of peanut butter at home, so it was just pickle, which always helped when my stomach hurt. Sitting by myself brought on the blotches, but I was only on Number Two when I felt somebody standing over me.
“Can I sit with you?” said a voice that broke at the end.
I looked up and stared at Colin until I realized my mouth was open.
“Yeah,” I said. “Of course. I’ll move my stuff.”
I rearranged my lunch and pushed out a chair for him with my foot and almost knocked it over, and it would have crashed to the floor if he hadn’t caught it. It was totally surprising that he didn’t change his mind and bolt.
Once he sat down, I stopped freaking out because it was just like it was in the library. Calm and not nervous and okay.
“Where do you usually sit?” I said.
“I don’t,” he said. “I find someplace to do homework or whatever. I hate coming in here.”
He opened a plastic container that was shaped like a brown lunch bag and pulled out a sandwich in a Baggie. Mine was in Saran Wrap because Dad said Baggies were too expensive. Colin must be richer than us (who wasn’t?), but he didn’t look at my soggy sandwich and my bruised banana and curl his lip into a roll.
“I hate it in here too,” I said. “Did you ever eat your lunch in the boys’ bathroom?”
Colin shook his head. “I tried, but Mr. Jett made me come out.”
“Oh,” I said. “Did you ever pound anybody?”
“You mean like beat them up?”
“I guess so.”
He shook his head again. I liked the way his hair fell over his eye and he had to nod it back. It reminded me of the silky stuff on an ear of corn.
“It’s not worth it,” he said.
He took a bite of his sandwich, which smelled like the peanut butter that was missing from mine.
“Did you ever try pickles with that?” I said.
Colin’s mouth went up on one side. “Peanut butter and pickle?”
“It’s my favorite,” I said. “I only have pickle today.”
“Can I try it?”
“You want some pickle for yours, you mean?”
“Yeah. Do you mind?”
“No. Here.”
I pushed a slice of kosher spear across the table on the Saran Wrap and watched him slide it into the part of the sandwich with the bite out of it.
He smiled that half of a smile again. “I’m goin’ in,” he said and chomped into it.
“Well?” I said.
“Man, that is good.” He put the other half of his sandwich on the wrap and pushed it back at me. “Have this. Put your other pickle on it.”
“You sure?”
He chewed and nodded.
“Isn’t this cute?”
Riannon’s pointed voice.
“It is,” I heard Heidi say—well, snort. “I didn’t know you two were going out.”
I let the pickle drop. But Colin looked straight at me, and he said, “So, I thought if we want to make our presentation thing epic, we should use all the time we have to work on it. I mean, right?”
I stared for a second, and then I said, “Right.”
“Hel-lo-o, ru-ude,” Riannon said.
Colin held my eyes with his like they were hands.
“Fine,” Heidi said.
I imagined them flouncing off all huffy, but I didn’t look. And I didn’t look when one of the BBAs came by and made a kissing sound. Or when an entire table somewhere in the lunchroom all went, “Oooooh-ooh,” at the same time. I just looked at Colin, who said, “So, you think? We work at lunch and fifth period and then whenever else?”
“I’m in,” I said.
And I was pretty sure it didn’t come out like I was using a bullhorn.
We weren’t the only ones getting ready for the Fifth-Grade Fair. Mrs. Bernstein told the whole class about it sixth period.
“We’re responsible for the Spanish booth,” she said. “We’ll have Hispanic food and make some posters, maybe use costumes. Anything to show the fifth-graders that Spanish class isn’t a torture chamber.”
Mrs. Bernstein was sarcastic a lot, and she used her up-and-down velvety eyebrows and her sharp face to make it work. Sometimes it was pretty funny to me. When she wasn’t pointing it at me.
“This is totally not a torture chamber,” Kylie said without raising her hand. “You’re our favorite teacher.”
Mrs. Bernstein wasn’t my favorite teacher, and I knew she wasn’t the Tribelet’s either. That was so Kylie. I kind of wanted to spit.
“I’m going to assign the jobs,” Mrs. Bernstein said.
Tori raised her hand, and Mrs. Bernstein nodded at her, black ponytail swaying.
“We’ll do whatever you want before the fair,” Tori said. “But Winnie and Ophelia and Mitch and I have to be at the Anti-Bullying booth.”
That dark wave washed over me again.
“Okay, let me make a note,” Mrs. Bernstein said.
She picked up her clipboard, and Tori raised her hand again.
“Go on.”
“And Winnie and I are doing a thing for Mr. Jett’s science team too.”
“That sounds thrilling,” Riannon said. Right after Kylie poked her.
Tori smiled. “It is. I’m geeked out and proud of it.”
Those Girls blinked at her like they were all wearing Riannon’s contacts.
“Mrs. Bernstein.” Mitch had her hand up this time.
“Señorita Michelle?”
“I gotta be in Coach’s physical fitness demonstration.” She waved her arm over the soccer girls. “All of us. And the BB—the boys.”
The BBAs pumped the air and then punched each other like they just won the Super Bowl. The other guys in the class just sort of shrugged.
“Okay, checking all of you off.”
Ophelia�
��s hand waved.
“Señorita Smith?” Mrs. Bernstein said it like she was trying not to get irritated.
“Evelyn and Shelby and I are doing a social studies thing for Mr. Jett because . . . what he was going to put up there was kind of boring.”
Mrs. Bernstein looked up from her clipboard. Her eyebrows went into upside down Vs. “I’m going to go with Tori’s suggestion then. Each of you will have an assigned thing to bring or make for the booth, and that leaves, let’s see, who to man it?” She ran her pencil down the paper. “Señoritas Kylie, Heidi, Riannon, and Izzy.”
None of them even moved an eyelash back at her. Kylie made a hissing-in sound. Well, yeah, there was kind of a you are the leftovers feel to it. I had some of that going on myself. As in, Mrs. Bernstein hadn’t mentioned my name at all.
Izzy, however, was on it, after the passed-on poking from Kylie down.
“What about Señorita Gingerbr—Ginger?” Izzy said, cheeks like wax apples.
Mrs. Bernstein looked straight at me. “Aren’t you doing something special with Mr. Devon in the library?”
“Sí,” I said.
“Thank you for using your Spanish. All right, Señor Patrick and Señor Douglas, I want you to pass out the Hispanic Culture books—over there, on the top shelf . . .”
The class buzzed like they did when books were being handed out, and Mrs. Bernstein was doing something else, this time going to the door. Izzy’s head popped up from the noise, and she said to me, “What are you doing with Mr. Devon?”
“Señorita Ginger.” Mrs. Bernstein came down the aisle with a big brown envelope. “This just came for you.”
For Ginger Hollingberry, the label said. From Lydia Kiriakos.
I wanted to open it so badly my fingers twitched, but I wasn’t going to spoil whatever it was by letting Kylie or anybody else see it. If she tried to grab it from me . . . well, I could have gotten expelled.
Handling it very gently, I slid it into my backpack and made sure the zipper was all the way zipped. Safe.
Or not. Kylie was now in the desk next to mine, giving me the Barbie smile. My stomach squeezed.
“You must be so special now,” she said, in a voice that made my bullhorn sound like a whisper. “You get to go to the library every day fifth period. You’re doing something with Mr. Devon for the fair. And now you get a delivery right to class.” Her eyes were so wide and innocent she looked like a Disney princess. “I want to know all about what you’re doing.”
I put on my Stone Face.
“You gotta be kidding me.” Ophelia was in the middle of the aisle with her hands on her hips. Her bigger-than-anybody’s eyes were on Kylie. “Kylie, that was the worst acting job I have ever seen. You didn’t mean one single word of that.”
Kylie’s eyes went down into those slit things, until Mrs. Bernstein came down the other aisle saying, “Señorita Smith! That was uncalled for.” Kylie immediately looked like someone had just taken away her birthday.
Ophelia was wrong. Kylie was a great actor. As always, she had Mrs. Bernstein fooled.
“Lunchtime Monday,” Mrs. B said to Ophelia. “You’ll report to the library conference room to get some anti-bullying work done. Are we clear?”
“Sí,” Ophelia said.
She didn’t even look that upset over being called a bully. I was so glad I had the Stone Face to use because I had no acting skills at all.
Over the weekend, when I wasn’t eating outside with Dad and Jackson—because Jackson said if one of us sat still for too long Dad would put us on his new grill—or doing house chores or homework, I was studying my Five-Step Plan.
That was what was in the envelope I got sixth period, that practically started a catfight between Ophelia and Kylie. Lydia had typed it out in fancy writing:
STEP ONE: Find a one-line assertive response for bullies.
STEP TWO: Even though bullying is not your fault, you can still do things to avoid being a target.
STEP THREE: Find a place for yourself so you’re better able to deal with those who don’t have a place for you.
STEP FOUR: Stop blaming God and look at what God can do.
STEP FIVE: Love your enemies.
I didn’t understand Step One, but I was sure Lydia would help me with that. I liked the sound of Steps Two and Three; I might be able to do those. Step Four could be hard. Really hard. So hard I didn’t want to think about it yet.
Step Five, though? That was never going to happen. The whole idea of loving Kylie Steppe made me want to climb up the walls of my room.
By Saturday night, though, I had talked myself off the ceiling. Steps Four and Five were probably a long way off. I should probably just get started on the first three. Baby Steps. Lunch with Lydia couldn’t come fast enough.
But there was Sunday to get through. Dad took us to church as usual. Well, dragged is a better word. The first time I whined about it to Jackson, he said Dad was “totally into God,” so I should just shut up and deal with it. Like he did. He did his best sulking in church.
I didn’t used to mind that much. I liked the music and sometimes the sermon when the pastor told a joke or a story. Mostly, I used to like sitting next to my dad. When did I ever get him for a whole hour? Even though he obviously wasn’t thinking about me, I could pretend he liked being there with me.
But that stopped about a year before we moved to Grass Valley, when we were in the town before Fresno, which was Stockton. The preacher there was fun to watch because he got all into what he was talking about and, well, talk about a bullhorn. He had “passion,” Dad said, which I decided meant he really believed what he was saying. So he must have really, really believed what came out of him one Sunday when he said that God could do anything God wanted. He chose to let His people suffer sometimes so they would come to Him.
I almost stood up right on the pew and shouted, “Who wants a God like that?”
I didn’t, of course, but ever since then, I hated going to church. I couldn’t talk to God if He chose not to save my mom, and He chose to let things be so hard for our family since we didn’t have her salary as a nurse now or her hugs or any of the other things I could barely remember anymore.
I went to church without whining though because I didn’t want to upset my dad, especially now. But I didn’t have to speak to God.
Usually during the sermon, I tried to make up new scenes in my head for my fantasy story, which was, like, six books long in there already. But that day, Sunday, March 22, something kept bugging me.
STEP FOUR: Stop blaming God and look at what God can do.
That didn’t make any sense. How could I not blame God if God was the one who decided my mom had to be taken from us in the first place?
I know what You can do, I thought. You can let people die in accidents that must have been so awful the kids can’t even be told. So horrible other people can use it to keep me away from my friends. Why did you choose to give me friends and then take them away? It doesn’t make sense, God!
“Let us pray,” the pastor said.
Wait.
I was praying. How did that even happen?
After the service, I stood in the back of the church while Dad shook hands with everybody in the whole place and Jackson went out to wait in the van. I’d been talking to God, all right, but was that the way you were supposed to do it? All getting up in His face?
“Hi.”
I looked up. Colin was standing there. His hair was damp, and he had on a shirt that buttoned and jeans that were brand-new stiff.
“You’re here!” I said.
“So are you,” he said. “Go figure, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Even though it was crazy seeing him someplace besides school, I suddenly wanted to ask him how he prayed. He never blinked at anything else I asked him . . . But then Dad called to me from the door, so I didn’t.
“So, bye,” Colin said.
“Yeah. See you tomorrow?”
“Definitely.”
He was walking backward. Two more steps and he’d collide with the rack of booklets about Lent.
I started to warn him, but I was too late.
Brochures splashed to the floor. Colin’s foot got caught in the rack, and he couldn’t kick it off.
“Ginger, let’s go,” Dad said near my ear. “Don’t embarrass the poor kid.”
Too late for that too. My own face felt like a hot blotchy mess, so I could imagine what was going on with Colin.
It was sort of like I’d just seen the male version of myself.
Chapter Eight
I thought Monday couldn’t come soon enough. But when we got to P.E., I decided it had gotten there too fast. We lined up in our teams, and Coach announced we were going to start the wall climb.
Why, oh, why couldn’t I get small pox or all of a sudden discover I had a broken arm or have an asthma attack (even though I didn’t have asthma)? I had been dreading this for eleven days, and now all that fear gathered in my stomach and I wanted to double over. It was real pain. Why didn’t that disqualify me from the wall climb?
“This is how we’re going to do this, people,” Coach barked. Like a pit bull.
I heard Winnie give a little cry all the way over in the other line. She was probably wishing for small pox too.
“You’ll go up two at a time, one person from each team. Alternating the boys’ teams and the girls’ teams. Clear?”
He didn’t wait for any of us to go, “Huh?”
“You see we have mats in case you slip and fall.”
He kicked at the mini-mattresses on the ground at the bottom of the wall. They didn’t look thick enough to me.
“You’ll also have us as spotters watching you.”
Watching me break my neck?
“Iann! Demonstrate.”
Mitch stepped out of our line and stood in front of the wall, staring up.
“Notice that she assesses the situation before she starts.”
I already had. It was too hard.
Coach continued to tell us what Mitch was doing as, big as she was, she went up the wall like Spider-Man. She was back on the ground before I realized I hadn’t really heard any of the instructions. I was sure even the bottoms of my feet were blotchy.