What Every Girl (except me) Knows

by Nora Raleigh Baskin

  Then Dad said, “Oh, really? Which ones?”

  Lately, he was turning into a regular Mr. Upbeat.

  I was getting hungry for something more than the steamed vegetables I was pushing around on my plate. I wanted the now-cooked chicken, which smelled like sweet-and-sour, but the platter sat by Cleo’s old elbows and I couldn’t reach it. I hadn’t spoken a word to her since my dad came home. Ian came back an hour later, and half an hour after that we were all there: sitting down like one big, happy something. This was our first all-family-plus-Cleo sit-down meal.

  “You look so much like your father,” Cleo was saying to Ian. “So you’ve inherited his artistic talents, as well.”

  “But my dad’s a painter and Ian is a guitar player,” I added quickly. And I figured once I had spoken I might as well get to eat.

  “Can someone pass me the chicken?” I asked right away.

  Cleo handed me the platter. “Well, I meant artistic in general. Ian probably inherited his musical abilities from…”

  I knew what she was thinking.

  She stopped herself, but it was too late.

  From your mother, she was going to say. One of the very few things I knew about my mother—I think but I’m not sure—was that she liked to sing. I knew she had brown hair and little eyes, like me. And I knew her first name was Arlene, because I had her real driver’s license in my photo album. But that’s about it.

  I wondered how Cleo could know anything about my family, but I could tell she did know from the way she stammered.

  Cleo regained her composure. “…from your mother. Your dad told me your mother liked to sing.”

  Boy, Cleo really was open. She wasn’t afraid to say anything. No one ever mentioned my mother. It was as if the expression “your mother” didn’t exist for me. It was only for other people talking about somebody else’s mother. I was immune. I was no woman’s daughter. I was my daddy’s little girl.

  End of story.

  If Ian heard what Cleo had just said, his face didn’t show one sign of it. My dad was just chewing away, like nothing had been said at all. Your mother. It sounded so strange, like she couldn’t possibly be talking about me. Everything was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  So I just blurted out, “Dad, can I get a new winter coat?”

  Last winter when Ian ordered a new winter coat from the L. L. Bean catalog, I wanted the same exact one. Last year, I was literally writhing on this very floor begging for a coat just like Ian’s.

  “You just got a new coat last year, didn’t you, Gabby?” My dad was never entirely sure about anything.

  Ian didn’t say anything, but he rolled his eyes, so obviously he remembered. But I hated my coat. It made me look like a boy. And I, for one, could not afford any surplus female disadvantages.

  “But can I get a new one, Dad?” I asked again, confessing, but not entirely so.

  “Let me see this coat you got last year, Gabby,” Cleo broke in. “Maybe it’s too small already. Did it fit last year?”

  I needed no further prompting. I was out of my seat and heading for the coat closet. I returned as the olive drab marshmallow girl, Iditarod contender.

  “Whew,” Cleo said, looking at me.

  Neither my brother nor my father registered that anything was wrong with this picture. The coat fit and was obviously warm.

  “There, I knew you got a new coat last year,” my dad said.

  “But it’s so small,” I said.

  I tried to push my arms out as far as they would go, hoping the sleeves would look too small, but the elastic held tight and the excess of bubble material stretched with me.

  But Cleo knew.

  “Whew,” she said again.

  “It looks fine, Gabby,” my dad said, satisfied, and he began to clear the dishes. I was starting to sweat.

  “Gabby needs a new coat,” Cleo said firmly.

  My dad was already in the kitchen washing dishes and putting them right back into the cabinet wet, which I had always thought was normal until I saw a movie one day where a family was washing and then drying their dishes with dish towels. It went on my list.

  “We can consign this one,” Cleo said. “I’m sure it was expensive. I bet we can even get a nicer one for less than we sell this one for.” She spoke louder so my dad could hear as she stared at me and my coat, shaking her head.

  We. She had said, “We.”

  “Whatever you think,” the voice came through, over the running water and clanking of plates.

  “When?” I asked Cleo.

  “Soon,” she said, with a smile and a wink. A girl-to-girl wink.

  And before I even asked, Cleo added, “This weekend.”

  Chapter 4

  My town sat in the valley of the dark-green lumbering Wallkill River. The Wallkill River flows in the wrong direction. It flows north. Upstream. Against the tide. Away from the ocean. It runs right behind our house.

  We learned in science class that the Nile River in Egypt also flows north. I went home and looked it up on the Internet and found out that the Nile is where Miriam from the Bible left her little brother, Moses. Miriam hung around to watch what would happen to him, because her mother told her to.

  My mother didn’t leave anyone around to watch and see what would happen to me. Maybe she thought she left my brother to look out for me. Boy, was she mistaken.

  Our science teacher, Mr. Everett, liked to study the river. He tested water and monitored pollution. He said the river had stories to tell if you knew how to listen. He had us bring in mud samples from the riverbanks and use litmus paper. We counted snapping-turtle eggs.

  Mr. Everett wanted all his students to call him by his first name, George. We all thought that was pretty cool, even if not everyone could bring themselves to actually do it.

  “Nobody has turned in their science project sheet,” George told the class toward the end of the period. He held up a blank copy to remind us.

  I knew I hadn’t.

  “Come on, people, work with me,” George said. “Any medium. Any idea. Any research. Artwork, drama. Just present your ideas for approval.” He added, “By the end of class. I’ll give you a few moments for quiet reflection on the topic.”

  A report on the Wallkill River. It was worse than the report on the Huguenot Stone we all did in fifth grade. The Huguenot Stone marked the site of something very old and sat in the center of our town’s historic district. It was a huge rock, which was replicated on senior class rings looking exactly like a rock. Teachers loved stuff about our town, claiming the oldest remaining street in America, stone houses, and the deep and slow Wallkill River.

  I had no ideas for my project. Most of us sat with our heads perched on our hands, hands bent at the wrist, elbows propped on our desks, staring into space. That’s exactly how I was posed when the new girl walked in.

  The assistant principal stuck her head into the doorway and looked like something disembodied from a horror movie. Miss Crosby could never seem to bring herself to call George, George. “Excuse me…Mr. Everett? This new student is all ready to begin school.” Miss Crosby stepped fully into the room, however cautiously. The new girl stepped in beside her.

  George was all ready. He pulled out his plastic glasses and nose, with the eyeballs that bounced out on metal springs.

  “Hel-lo new student.” George hopped up onto the lab table and bowed like Sir Lancelot.

  So here she was, my potential new friend. But I knew as soon as she entered the room that this new girl would be one of “The Ones” before the day was over. She was definitely Amber Whitman material.

  The new girl had blond hair. She was thin and walked with the exact female glide I admired but knew I would never master. She had straight white teeth, no braces. (I knew because she was smiling widely at George’s Knights of the Round Table routine.) She wore stretchy black pants that flared out at the bottom and a striped top. She wore black platform sneakers and a jacket made of some kind of silver material. She was,
in two words, Very Fashionable. I was certain she would be invited to sit at the table with Amber Whitman by lunch today.

  Amber wasn’t in this science period. She would have to get all the details from her right-hand woman, Kelly Noonan. I could see that Kelly was taking mental notes.

  George had gotten down off the lab table and was now doing his “efficient bureaucrat” imitation. He held an invisible clipboard in his hands and pulled an invisible pencil from behind his ear. Miss Crosby pretended not to notice, but her cheeks flared bright red.

  “And now, does this new student have a name? Last name first and first name last and middle name middle, please.” George cleared his throat purposefully. “Or if you prefer, last middle, middle last, and first first.”

  George flustered the assistant principal so completely that instead of letting the new girl speak for herself, Miss Crosby stared even more deeply into her clipboard and read from her paperwork.

  “Well, there are two new students this week in our middle school. Our AFS student, Lisalotte Verspui and…umm…Taylor Tyler. No, Tyler Taylor…Taylor Such?”

  More than a few giggles escaped into the room. It was the combination of George pretending to write down everything that was said and Miss Crosby stammering nervously with the new girl’s mixed-up name.

  “Taylor Such? Are you supposed to be here or in gym right now?”

  Only the new girl wasn’t laughing. Her perfect smile was gone.

  “Such? Is your last name Such? Or Taylor?” Miss Crosby now searched for answers in her manila folder. “Or Tyler?”

  “Ahem, what’s your name, New Girl?” George asked formally.

  “My name is Taylor Such.” The girl spoke in a voice that matched her appearance, both delicate and feminine. “My mother’s new last name is Tyler,” she said. “Because she’s remarried.”

  “Oh, well that explains that.” Miss Crosby regained control. “Taylor Such is the new student,” the assistant principal said, and she hurried out the door.

  Clearing up the confusion didn’t end the laughter. The name “Taylor Such” brought on another wave of snorts and chuckles. Taylor Such was about to cry. George might have been trying to be funny and everyone’s pal, but sensitive he was not.

  “To such or not to such, that is the question.…” George was holding a plastic skull in his open palm when the bell rang.

  Taylor hid her face, wet eyes, and was the first one out the door. As I was gathering my books off my desk I looked over at Lynette. Lynette didn’t seem to notice anything. She was collecting her things, putting her pencils in size order before zipping her pencil case.

  She’s coming and she’ll cry.

  I wonder how Lynette knew.

  Chapter 5

  Taylor Such was nowhere to be found at lunch that afternoon. As I walked past Amber Whitman’s table I could hear Kelly Noonan telling Amber all about the new girl and what happened in George’s class.

  “She is so weird…,” Kelly began.

  Kelly leaned over the long Formica table. Kelly Noonan had breasts and, in my opinion, she stuck them out whenever possible. This was one of those occasions.

  Maybe if Taylor Such had been in the lunchroom to refute this whole story, if she had been there as living proof that she was not weird, but only shy, things might have turned out differently.

  “So weird…,” Kelly repeated. “And she is a major show-off.” Kelly withdrew her bosom from the table and paused for emphasis.

  “You should see what she’s wearing. The stupidest shoes I’ve ever seen in my life.” Kelly mocked a horrified scream just as I walked by. “They’re like platforms!”

  I was so startled I had to steady my hot lunch tray to keep from dropping it.

  “And she cried like a baby because everyone heard that her mommy has a new last name,” Kelly went on.

  I tried to walk very slowly past The Ones’ table so I could hear more, but after a few minutes of purposeful feet shuffling I had to move on. I slipped my lunch tray down onto the table beside Patty Parker. When I looked back at Amber, she and her gang were huddled close and laughing. I couldn’t understand why they would turn on one of their own.

  Taylor appeared again, at recess. In the distance, I saw Miss Crosby urging Taylor out to the playground. She handed Taylor a piece of paper—her schedule, I guessed—and left. Taylor stood by herself, holding her arms tightly around her. She didn’t budge except to push up her sleeve, look at her watch, down at her paper, and back at the watch.

  That’s when Kelly Noonan spotted Taylor. The Ones were stationed at their usual gymnastics spot just inside the football field, next to the shot put and long jump area. Amber Whitman uncurled from a back bend and followed Kelly’s pointed finger. Amber nodded as Kelly made the positive identification.

  I was able to watch all this from my vantage point under the elm tree, whose roots were completely visible from years of trampling. I had a favorite exposed root that I liked to stand on. I liked to imagine that some early colonial girl had stood on this very spot. I liked to imagine a girl who looked a lot like me but lived in another time, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, and walked down those cobblestone streets, but was somehow going to be my best friend.

  I tried to keep my mind away, but my eyes were drawn to what was happening up on the hill. Amber Whitman led the other girls as she marched up the hill toward Taylor Such. Taylor had no idea what she was in for.

  I did because I, myself, am a survivor of a dissing experience. It happened the beginning of last fall, not on the playground, but in the gym.

  Maybe I should mention something about what I look like. I am not fat or thin. I am kind of tall for a girl in sixth grade. I have dark hair and brown eyes. I turn real brown in the summer. My hair is curly, but it is always in a tight ponytail so it looks straight. I wear the sort of stuff that my brother wears. Jeans and T-shirts (a horribly ugly winter coat), sweatshirts, whatever’s comfortable.

  I have tried to dress differently. I saw a pleated skirt in a Seventeen magazine once, and then by total chance I saw it in the window of a store when I was in New York City visiting my grandfather and step-grandmother. (My mother’s mother died five years ago and my grandfather remarried.) Of course, my grandfather made me try it on as soon as I mentioned that I liked it. Or I might have just mentioned that I had seen it somewhere.

  Anyway, he had me try it on in the store. It was a little long, but it fit. The skirt was made of a beautiful sheer material that touched softly against my legs, and when I twirled around it lifted into the air. I suddenly had to have this skirt, and my grandfather was so happy to have something to buy me.

  But when I got back home and put it on for school I looked terrible. I didn’t have the shoes that the girl in the magazine had. I didn’t have the sweater. I sure didn’t have the face. And I didn’t have something else, but I didn’t know exactly what that was, exactly.

  I just knew I didn’t have it.

  Girls with mothers have it.

  But it was late—the bus would be coming soon—so I wore it anyway. As soon as I got to school wearing my skirt, I couldn’t wait to get home. It was like having really bad chapped lips and no Chap Stick. It irritated me the whole day, and I promised myself I’d never try to be a girl again. At least I felt better when, at one o’clock, we changed for gym. So I must have been playing ball a little extra hard. I accidentally hit Melanie Berger in the back of the head with the volleyball, and she was on my team.

  “Ow.” Melanie dropped instantly.

  Amber went rushing to her side. The gym teacher blew her whistle to stop the game and freeze the score.

  “I’ll get some ice,” she announced, and she disappeared through an unidentified door only gym teachers use.

  “Gabby, what do you think you’re doing? Trying out for the Olympics?!” Amber glared up at me.

  Melanie had tears in her eyes. She remained on the gym floor. Above her head was the sagging volleyball net. The boys in the class immed
iately took the volleyball and began shooting it through the basketball hoop at the other end of the gym. Lynette wandered off toward the bleachers and sat down facing the wall, counting something.

  Kelly and Sophie stepped over from the other side and hovered over the wounded Melanie. Now more than half of The Ones were present and attending to Melanie like they were all Clara Barton. I wanted to say I was sorry. I had wanted to say it right away, but now it was too late.

  “What’s your problem, anyway?” Kelly started it. She put her hands on her waist and positioned herself in front of me but several feet away. There were bleachers behind me and a wall beside me. Entrapment is a major feature of the “diss-out.”

  “Is it that stupid skirt you wore today?” Amber joined the attack immediately.

  I wonder how it is that someone so mean can be so accurate.

  By this point all the girls were circling around me, and most had their hands poised like Kelly’s. But it was Amber who did all the talking.

  “Gabby Weiss. Do you have to be so angry?”

  Then just to prove that girls have to pretend to be nice even when they’re being mean, Amber said, “You know, you shouldn’t wear a skirt like that, anyway. It just accentuates your hips.”

  Never before had I given any thought to my hips at all.

  I wasn’t even sure what “accentuates” meant, or even where my hips were, exactly. But I knew that from that day on I would forever be aware of that particular part of my body.

  My fists were clenched. I imagined twisting Amber’s arm around her back and locking her in a half nelson until she begged for mercy, which I’ve only experienced as done to me by my brother.

  Instead I said, “Amber, do you have to be a complete asshole? You know, every time you open that mouth of yours it just accentuates your assholeness.”

  The dissing ended right there, and that was a long time ago, already. Amber and I actually talk to each other now. We did a social studies project together last month when the teacher assigned the groups. We got an A, mostly because of me. Amber Whitman definitely has respect for me.