The Real Us

by Tommy Greenwald

  After class, I wait in the hallway for Damian to come out. I see his red jacket before I see him, and before I know it he’s past me. I hurry to catch up.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He barely glances over at me, and I can feel his nervousness. Boys don’t usually get nervous around me. It feels nice.

  “Hey,” he says. “That was nice, what you did for Calista.”

  “I almost got in trouble for it.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m Laura.”

  “I know.”

  I pause for a second, then say, “I hope you’re not blaming yourself for what happened to Calista’s face. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I bashed her nose with my elbow,” Damian says, more to the floor than to me.

  “Yeah, but it was a total accident.”

  “Her other friends didn’t seem to want to help her very much.”

  “Well, they’re jerks,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  Damian stops walking and really looks at me for the first time. “Why are her friends jerks?”

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” I say. Then I let out a small laugh. “I don’t know. They just are. They specialize in jerkiness.”

  We start walking again. “They’re in all the honors jerkiness classes,” Damian says. “And they’re great students!” He laughs loudly at his own joke, which is fine by me.

  “Will Hanson is in that class, too,” I add, which makes Damian tense up. I sense I’ve crossed a line.

  “Will isn’t a jerk, he’s just mean,” he says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve seen how Will talks to you. He really, truly is the worst.”

  “Yeah he is.”

  Damian and I walk for another minute or two, not saying anything.

  “I have to go,” Damian says, stopping in front of the nurse’s office. “I’m a little sick.”

  “Okay,” I say, offering him a quick smile. “See you later. It was really nice meeting you.”

  “It was really nice meeting you, too.”

  As he opens the door and goes in, I read the back of his jacket: RENEGADES. Funny, I’ve seen that red jacket ever since Damian moved here, but I never noticed that before. For a second I wonder who the Renegades are, then I forget about it and go to my next class.

  “Calista, your mom’s here.”

  I’m reading The Curious Incident in the main office when I look up to see Dr. Michener, the principal, standing over me. She bends down. “Want some help?”

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  When I get up I feel the blood rush to my face, making my whole head throb. My mom gets buzzed in through the front door, then breaks into a run when she sees me. I can tell by her eyes that she’s a little shocked.

  “Honey,” she says. “Calista. Come here.”

  She holds her arms out and I fall into them and my body sags against hers and I feel incredibly tired.

  My mom gently pushes me back and stands me up. “Let me look at you.” I see her eyes scanning my face, searching for every mark and imperfection. “Oh, it’s not so bad!” she says, lying through her teeth. “Is it true, you tried my concealer? To hide that pimple?”

  I glance at Nurse Kline, who is also standing there. I’m mad that she told my mom, but I don’t blame her. That’s her job.

  “I—I wasn’t sure what else to do.”

  “That’s crazy.” She takes my face in her hands. “You’re a beautiful girl. A beautiful girl. One little blemish is never going to change that.” She turns my head a little bit to the side. “Your nose got a nice whack. Holy smokes.”

  “The boy who did it feels horrible,” I tell my mom.

  “He oughta,” she says.

  Dr. Michener steps forward. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Calista?”

  “I guess so,” I say. “If I feel better.”

  “She’ll be fine,” my mom says. “It’s nothing that a little nap can’t cure.” Then she looks at me and whispers, “And then a quick trip to the mall.”

  I stare at her. “The mall? You were serious?”

  “Yup. We’ll get some of those cinnamon buns you love; it’ll be just what the doctor ordered.” She grabs my hand, and we start walking to the car. “Plus, we’ve got a dress to buy.”

  My mom takes me home, where I immediately fall asleep for an hour and a half. As soon as I wake up, I remember everything that happened during the day, and I pull the blanket up over my head. But my mom hears me and is in my room in five seconds.

  “Ready?”

  “No.”

  “Good. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

  Ugh.

  I argue with my mom for the next nine minutes, but there’s no point. We’re going to the mall, and that’s that. I think it’s because she wants to keep me distracted, and to get me out of the bathroom, where I’d just stare in the mirror at my broken face all day.

  On the way there, my mom keeps asking me questions—“So tell me about the kid who elbowed you?” “What time did you get the rash?” “Which friend told you to use the concealer?”—but I don’t want to talk about it. I mumble one-word answers. Finally, she changes the subject.

  “What kind of dress do you want? Is this a formal dance?”

  “Uh…” I say, which is not the answer she’s looking for.

  “What, honey?”

  “Um, actually, I’m not sure I’m going to the dance?” I say it as a question, probably because I know my mom will have an answer.

  “Of course you’re going,” she says in that tone of voice that means this is not up for discussion. Then, just to eliminate any possible confusion, she adds, “This is not up for discussion.”

  The mall isn’t very crowded, so we get a parking space near the door. It’s starting to rain, and I get paranoid that the wetness will make my hives flare up again, so I run inside and head straight to the little store that sells my favorite cinnamon buns. Every time I go to the mall I get one. It’s like a reflex. My mom comes in a minute later, and we sit across from each other, eating in silence. It’s nice. I feel my body start to relax, just a little bit.

  Then I hear a voice I recognize. “Callie?”

  I turn around and try to smile.

  “Hey, Laura. What are you doing here?”

  She looks self-conscious, like she’s searching for a lie, but she decides to go for the truth. “Getting a dress for the dance.”

  “It’s so good to see you, Laura!” blurts out my mom. “We’re getting a dress, too. Do you want to shop with us?”

  “Sure,” Laura says. “Sounds great.”

  I shoot my mom a look.

  Sometimes parents just don’t get it.

  “I’m going to get a coffee,” Calista’s mom tells us. “You girls get started without me. I’ll be there in a few.”

  We head into the store.

  “I really appreciate you having my back with Mr. Cody today,” Calista tells me. “I’m sorry I put you on the spot like that.”

  “No worries,” I say. Then I add, “That’s what friends are for,” slipping in a little dig at Ellie and Ella.

  “For sure,” Calista says. I can’t tell if she gets my extra meaning. “Thanks again.”

  “I’m meeting Rachel here,” I tell her. Calista nods without saying anything. I’m pretty sure she’s not in the mood for a social gathering. “We don’t have to hang out, if you don’t want,” I add.

  “No, it’ll be fun,” she says, trying to be a good sport.

  Two saleswomen come up to us. “Can we help you ladies?” they say, even though neither one of them looks at me. They’re both totally focusing on Calista. Her face might be a little bit of a mess, but she’s still the main attraction.

  “I’m looking for a dress,” I say, but I can’t seem to get their attention. Hello, I’m over here! “We have a dance this weekend, and I would prefer not to embarrass myself and others.”

  Finally the saleswomen notice me. �
�Excuse me?” says one of the women, as if I’m speaking French.

  “Let’s do this!” I say. “Make me gorgeous! Find me something hot!” The snobby saleswomen laugh, and we all relax.

  Hey, if you can’t get them with beauty, get them with comedy, am I right?

  Laura tries on five dresses before I even try on one. She’s having a blast, twirling around in front of the mirror, acting silly. When Rachel gets here, they hold pretend microphones, singing made-up songs at the top of their lungs. They seem so happy.

  “How about you?” The two salespeople stand in front of me, each with two dresses in their hands. “Ready to try these on?”

  “Don’t you want to finish up with them first?” I say, pointing at Laura and Rachel.

  One of the women shakes her head. “Oh, they’re fine,” she says. “We’ll check back with them in a few minutes.” To be honest, I’m used to the sales staff at clothing stores fawning over me. Usually I don’t really even notice it, but today I do.

  I’m trying on the third dress when my mom comes back. “I love it!” she says. “It fits your body perfectly.”

  “Great,” I say. “I’ll take it.” I hurry back into the dressing room and take it off. Through the curtain I can hear Laura and Rachel cracking up about something. I walk into their dressing room and they’re standing there in their underwear, each holding a dress in front of them, making faces in the mirror. It occurs to me that if I had the same body type that they do, I might be a little self-conscious about anybody else seeing it. But there they are, having the time of their lives. Amazing.

  They look up and notice me.

  “Calista!” Laura exclaims. “Check out our dresses! Did you find something?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Rachel starts putting her clothes on. “Did you look stunning?” she says. “As stunning as us?”

  “Ha!” Laura howls.

  Rachel smacks her on the butt. “What? We’re totally gorgeous, and don’t you forget it!”

  Laura also starts dressing. “So, see you at soccer later?” she asks me.

  “I don’t know,” I say, before realizing I’m saying it. “I don’t think so.”

  They both stare at me.

  “Huh?” says Laura.

  “I don’t think I’m coming,” I say.

  “What do you mean?” Laura asks. “Even if you can’t practice today, you’re still supposed to come and be with the team.”

  “It’s not that,” I say. “I actually don’t think I’m going to play this year.”

  The air in the room changes as their moods darken.

  “Are you kidding?” Laura asks. “Of course you’re playing. You’re like, one of the best players. You played amazing in practice yesterday. We need you.”

  Rachel rolls her eyes. “This happens all the time with pretty girls,” she says. “Did someone tell you that sports aren’t ladylike? Is that it?”

  “Not at all,” I say.

  “Actually, someone did,” Laura says. “I was there.”

  Rachel puts her hands on my shoulders. “Guess what! There are beautiful jocks in the world, and you’re one of them!”

  “It’s not that, I swear,” I say. “I’m just tired of soccer. Plus I have too many other things to do.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Laura says, practically sneering at me.

  I get annoyed. “I don’t care if you believe me or not.”

  “But we’re a team,” Rachel says, practically begging. “You can’t turn your back on people who need you!”

  Before I can answer, I hear Laura mutter under her breath.

  “Why not? She’s done it before.”

  I had a feeling Calista would quit soccer eventually. I expected it. I waited for it. But now that’s it happened, I can’t believe it.

  “You guys don’t understand,” Calista says, lamely. “I don’t blame you for being mad, but you just don’t get it.”

  “What don’t we get?” I say, trying not to sound hurt. “That pretty girls don’t play soccer? I heard Ellie and Ella yesterday. And why are you even friends with them, anyway? They were laughing today when you came down with that rash, and how about when they were too busy to even walk you to the nurse’s office? They’re the ones you’re trying to impress?”

  “Easy, Laura,” Rachel says, but it’s too late—the damage is done.

  Calista flushes, her hives turning purple in the harsh light of the dressing room. “No! That’s not it at all. I just don’t want to get injured. You tackled me hard yesterday in practice and I’m lucky I didn’t hurt my knee really badly and it made me scared. I don’t want to spend the next six months on crutches.”

  “That makes sense,” I say, sarcastically. “Maybe you should take up checkers, it’s a lot less dangerous.” I fold the dress I’m buying, then pick up my backpack and open the door to the dressing room. “Let’s go, Rachel.”

  I start to go, but Calista calls after me. “Still friends, right?”

  I just look at her. “Remember what I said before—that’s what friends are for? I take it back.”

  We leave her standing there, and as we walk away I start to cry, which makes Rachel crazy.

  “You are getting way too upset about this,” she says. “It’s not life or death! It’s just soccer! Go let Calista live her own life, with her own friends—it’s much simpler that way.”

  “Simpler how?” I say. “What do you mean? Because she’s beautiful and I’m not, I shouldn’t be able to have a friend like that?”

  “No, no, no, the opposite,” Rachel says. “You’re like, too good for her. Way too good! And life’s too short for all this drama!”

  Rachel does a twirl and starts singing again. I’m amazed at her ability to be in a good mood all the time. Why can’t I be like that? “Very funny,” I say. “I’m not too good for her. And she’s not too pretty for me. We’re two people, just like everybody else.”

  Rachel looks at me as if I’m three years old.

  “You are so adorable,” she says.

  When I find my mom by the store entrance, she can tell right away that I’m upset.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Can we just go to the car?”

  “I have to pay for the dress.”

  “I don’t want the dress!” I catch my breath. “I’m not going to the dance.”

  My mom grabs my hand, and we stop walking.

  “What happened in there? Did you get into a fight with Laura?”

  “No,” I say. A few seconds later, I add, “A little.” Then, a few seconds after that, I add, “I told her I’m thinking of quitting soccer.”

  “What? Why?”

  I feel my rash get hot. “Because yesterday at practice everything started going wrong and I sweated so much I got a pimple and that was the beginning of everything going wrong and I hate soccer and I don’t want to play anymore!”

  My mom thinks for a minute, then decides not to argue with me. “We can talk about this later.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it later! I have to stay after school tomorrow anyway so I can’t go to practice and the team will just think I’m a spoiled brat. Forget it.”

  My mom’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean, stay after school?”

  “My English teacher hates me,” I throw in, because I may as well get everything over with at once.

  “Wait, what?” says my mom. “That’s absurd. He doesn’t even know you.”

  “Well, I didn’t do the summer reading, and he hates me.”

  My mom lets out a big sigh, “Okay, slow down. I get it. It’s been a long day. Let’s just go home, we’ll eat some dinner, you can have a nice relaxing night and start fresh tomorrow.”

  I nod, and we walk to the parking lot. Just as the stress starts to leave my body, my mom pauses before unlocking the door. She looks up at me.

  “Okay, just so I have this straight. Two things you really used to enjoy were soccer and reading. Now you don’t want to do
either?”

  I sniffle, more for pity than out of necessity. “Something like that, I guess.”

  My mom shakes her head. “I swear, I wish I knew what was going on inside that beautiful head of yours, Calista.”

  Then she unlocks the car and we get in.

  I turn the volume way up on the radio, so it’s too loud to think.

  WEDNESDAY

  I have a morning routine.

  I shower. I dress. I eat a bowl of raisin bran. I take my medication. I stuff two extra shirts into my backpack. I say goodbye to my mom and my sister. I walk to the bus stop. I get on the bus and try to sit as far away from Will Hanson as possible. It’s not far enough. I ignore him and his stupid comments.

  Today, though, something changes. On the bus, Patrick Toole tells Will to quit annoying me and decides to sit near me himself.

  “Hey.”

  I nod. “Hey.”

  “You all good?”

  I stare straight ahead. “Are you here to make stupid jokes about me, like your friend? Like, how I shouldn’t elbow my way into Calista’s business? Or how my lunch tasted bloody delicious? Because I would rather not hear them.”

  “Oh, hey, no, not at all,” Patrick says. I look over at him to see if he’s telling the truth, but I can’t tell.

  “What do you want then?”

  “Someone told me you’re the kid who’s painting the poster for the First Week Dance?”

  “Yes, that’s true. Mrs. Henshaw emailed me over the summer asking if I’d do it.” Mrs. Henshaw teaches art, and she’s my favorite teacher at the school.

  “You’re a really good artist, right?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so. Some people think I am.”

  Patrick points at my backpack. “Do you have any drawings in there that I can see?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, cool.” He gets up. “See you later, Damian.”

  “See you later.” I watch him walk to the back of the bus. I try to figure out what that was about, but can’t come up with anything.