The Real Us

by Tommy Greenwald

  “Okay, time,” announces a voice.

  Wait, what?

  I raise my hand. “What do you mean, time?”

  “I mean, that’s forty minutes,” says Mr. Cody. “Study hall is over. You’re free to leave.”

  I look at the clock. He’s right. Forty minutes have gone by. It seemed like five. Actually, it seemed like none.

  “This book isn’t terrible,” offers Will Hanson.

  “I’ll be sure to tell the author you said so,” says Mr. Cody.

  Will snorts as he gets up. “Later, peeps.”

  Mr. Cody shakes his head. “Peeps? Really?”

  I start gathering up my stuff, and Mr. Cody comes over to my desk. “You’re enjoying it?”

  “Yeah, it’s really good.”

  “That’s great.” He takes a seat at the desk next to me. “So how’s that nose of yours?”

  “Fine, I guess. Still hurts a little.”

  “It does look like it’s getting better.” Mr. Cody claps his hands together. “Anyway, that’s enough learning for today. I received a text from my colleague Coach Sweeney a few minutes ago, she said that you’re running late for practice. You better get going! No contact drills, though. See you tomorrow.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure I’m playing soccer this year,” I say. I have no idea why I tell him that, but there it is. Now I’m going to have to hear all about what a bad decision that is, how sports build character, blah blah blah—

  “I think that’s an excellent idea,” Mr. Cody says.

  Huh?

  “You do?”

  “I totally do.”

  “Oh. I thought you were going to say something different.”

  “Nope.” Mr. Cody sits back behind his desk. “Couldn’t agree more. Girls shouldn’t play sports.”

  I stop in my tracks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Girls shouldn’t play sports,” he repeats.

  “Are you kidding?” I repeat, as my heart starts to beat a little faster. “Why not?” I’m not sure what I’m feeling at first, then I recognize it. Anger.

  “Think of all the stuff you guys have to deal with these days,” Mr. Cody says, and I notice he’s got this quirky smile on his face as he says it. “Nails, hair, makeup. Making sure you look pretty. Why would you want to mess that up?” He points at my face. “Plus, you get injuries like that nose of yours. Not very ladylike.”

  “That’s not how that happened,” I say sharply. “It happened at lunch. I thought you knew that.”

  “Oh, right,” he says, holding up his hands. “I forgot. Sorry. Why are you annoyed? I’m agreeing with your decision.”

  “I have to go,” I tell him.

  “Okay, see you tomorrow,” he says, and goes back to his reading.

  I pick up my backpack, then immediately put it back down. “Why would I be annoyed because of some crazy theory of yours? You better hope I don’t tell people what you said, by the way. You could get in trouble.”

  Mr. Cody puts his book down. “I know I could. But isn’t that exactly what this is about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean,” he says, and I suddenly realize he’s been sarcastic this whole time.

  “Oh,” I say. “I get it.”

  He gives a little laugh and shakes his head. “It’s sad that there are actually people who think like that. But remember, it’s always up to you. If you like soccer, play soccer! Don’t listen to anyone else. Make up your own mind.”

  “I gotta go.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and walk down the hall without looking back. But when I turn the corner, I stop and lean against the locker.

  Make up your own mind.

  Easier said than done.

  Mrs. Henshaw, the art teacher, is cleaning the paint brushes when I walk into her studio after school.

  “Mr. White!” she sings, when she sees me. She’s one of those people who is always in a good mood. I kind of wish I was like that.

  “Hey, Mrs. Henshaw.” I pull out my sketch pad.

  “Oh, you won’t be using that,” she says. Then she points at the giant easel in the middle of the room. “This is a big poster, for the school dance! You’re going to be painting giant, swooping, moving figures that catch our school spirit for all to see!”

  “Okay,” I say. I’m nervous. I’ve never worked on such a big canvas before. “Uh, but don’t I need people to draw? I’m not the type of person who can just sketch someone out of thin air—”

  “Taken care of!” Mrs. Henshaw chirps, opening up the door to her inner office. Out walks Patrick Toole.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Getting extra credit, dude, what do you think I’m doing?”

  “Meet your model,” Mrs. Henshaw says, grinning.

  “He’s my model?” I look at Patrick, shocked. “So, wait. Is that why you were asking me all those questions on the bus?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He sits on one of the stools in the art room. Actually, it’s more of a slouch. I wish I could slouch like that.

  “So what do I have to do?” Patrick asks.

  “Be a good boy and stay still,” says Mrs. Henshaw. “Can you do that?”

  Patrick shrugs. “How hard can it be?”

  Mrs. Henshaw laughs. “Pretty hard, actually,”

  “You probably don’t need extra credit,” Patrick says to me. “You’re an art guy. I’m not an art guy at all.”

  “Can you dance?” I ask him.

  “Can I dance? Why?”

  “Because I need you to strike a dance pose.”

  “Are you serious?” Patrick rolls his eyes and looks at Mrs. Henshaw. “You didn’t say anything about striking some pose.”

  “Oh, relax, you,” she says to him. “It’s no big deal. And you will be the star of the school!”

  Patrick grumbles under his breath, but gets out of his chair. “Pose like how?”

  Mrs. Henshaw puts Patrick’s arms in the air and sticks his legs out at funny angles, as if he’s a piece of clay. Patrick tries to be still, but keeps shifting around. It turns out Mrs. Henshaw was right—posing is hard.

  Finally Patrick manages to keep still, but we’re missing something pretty obvious. “Who’s the girl model?” I ask Mrs. Henshaw.

  She smacks herself on the forehead and starts to pace. “Oh, no!” she mutters, mostly to herself. “I knew I forgot something! How could I be so foolish?”

  I put my brush down. “What are we going to do?”

  Just then, Calista Getz walks by.

  Walking down the hall, I decide to text my mom.

  AFTER-SCHOOL READING IS OVER. CAN YOU PICK ME UP IN TEN MINUTES?

  TWENTY, she texts back. JUST FINISHING UP WITH CLIENT.

  OKAY. DO I HAVE DANCE CLASS TONIGHT?

  YES 6:30.

  I put my phone away and start heading toward the front doors when I hear voices coming from the art room. I walk over and see Damian White, in his red jacket of course. He’s talking to someone I can’t see.

  Before I can decide whether or not I want to say hi, Mrs. Henshaw’s voice rings out down the hall.

  “Calista! Calista dear!”

  I smile and wave weakly. “Hey.”

  Grabbing my hand, she pulls me into the room. “You’re just in time!”

  “Just in time for what?”

  That’s when I notice Patrick Toole, standing there with his arms and legs spread out like he’s striking some sort of crazy yoga pose.

  Even though I’m not exactly a huge Patrick Toole fan at the moment, I can’t help but laugh out loud. It feels like the first time I’ve really laughed in three days.

  “Holy moly,” I say. “You look ridiculous.”

  “That’s really not helpful,” Patrick says.

  “Well, sorry, but it’s true.”

  “I guess.” He shrugs, then looks away. Neither one of us knows what to say next. The memory of our last con
versation is still in my head. It’s probably in his head, too.

  “Well, see you later,” I say, starting to walk away.

  “Patrick needs a partner,” Mrs. Henshaw says. “Are you available?”

  I stop. “A partner for what?”

  Patrick moves his head slightly my way. “Damian is making the poster for the First Week Dance,” he says. “It’s supposed to be a couple dancing, but so far there’s just me. You could be the girl. You can get extra credit.”

  I shake my head. “Why not ask Ellie? You’re going to the dance with her, after all.”

  Patrick blushes and looks down, then back at me. “Mrs. Henshaw asked you.”

  I immediately touch my face. The skin feels warm where the rash is. I realize I haven’t looked in the mirror in a few hours. I don’t know what I look like.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. Then to Damian, I say, “Why would you want me to pose?”

  “What do you mean?” Damian asks.

  “You know … with my face.”

  “Your face looks fine,” says Patrick, still trying not to move. “I mean, yeah, it’s not what you usually look like, but I’m sure Damian will make you look perfect, right Damian?”

  “Right,” Damian says.

  Patrick scratches his knee, then puts his arm back in place. “So, can we get on with it? I’m dying up here.”

  “Calista, dear?” says Mrs. Henshaw. “Shall we?”

  “How about this?” I say. “I can pose and you can use everything except my face. You have to use somebody else’s face, like a model from a book or something. Is that fair?”

  I can tell by Damian’s expression that he thinks I’m being weird, but he nods. “Okay. Can you start now?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t. My mom is coming to pick me up, and I have dance class in an hour. I could come tomorrow after school, maybe.”

  “You’re a dancer?” Mrs. Henshaw says, clapping her hands together. “Even better!”

  “Whoa,” moans Patrick. “I’m going to have to come back tomorrow and do this all over again?”

  “Is that so horrible?” Mrs. Henshaw says.

  Patrick shrugs. “I guess not.” Then he looks at me. “As long as you make Calista look just as ridiculous as me,” he says, grinning.

  I try not to smile back, but do anyway. “I gotta go.”

  On my way outside, I take out my phone and start texting Ellie and Ella. It’s like a reflex, but when I realize what I’m doing I stop. I put my phone away, pull out my book, and start reading.

  The first time my mom honks, I don’t even hear her.

  I sketch Patrick for about ten more minutes before we both decide to just start over the next day when Calista joins us.

  “Again, I apologize,” says Mrs. Henshaw. “This was my fault. I totally forgot about the girl! I must be getting old.”

  “You’re not old,” I tell her. “You’re just an artist, and artists are forgetful sometimes.”

  “You’re such a dear,” Mrs. Henshaw says, patting my back.

  “Are you forgetful?” Patrick asks me.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Why?”

  “Well, you’re an artist.”

  “I am?” I smile. Patrick calling me an artist makes me feel good.

  Mrs. Henshaw disappears back into her office and Patrick and I both take out our phones. After about a minute, Patrick says, “So, you and Calista are friends?”

  “A little, I guess.”

  “Did you know her before you bonked her in the nose?” He notices me blush and adds, “No offense or anything.”

  “We met when I moved here last year. And yesterday before lunch I was in the nurse’s office when she came in with her rash.”

  “What were you in for?”

  “Oh, nothing really.” I rub my arms, feeling the leather of my jacket, old, cracked, rough to the touch. “I just wasn’t feeling great, I think.”

  “Are you better now? I hope it’s not contagious.”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “She’s a pretty interesting person,” Patrick says.

  “Calista?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess.”

  “I messed up.” Patrick gets up and starts pacing around the room. “I, like, totally wanted to ask her to the dance but then all this stuff started happening and my friends and her friends said I couldn’t go with a girl with a rash and I convinced myself she wasn’t going to go and before I knew it Will talked me into asking Ellie and now it’s too late to do anything about it.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  He stops pacing and looks at me. “You think I can make it up to her? I really want to make it up to her.”

  “I guess.” I stand up. “Just tell her the truth.”

  “The truth?” Patrick says. “That makes sense! Thanks, dude.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What about you?” Patrick asks me. “Anyone you like?”

  I feel a bead of sweat pop out on my arm. “What do you mean? Like, a girl?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, like a girl.”

  “No.”

  “What about that girl, Laura?” Patrick asks. “That’s her name, right? I saw you guys talking in the hall. Looked like it was going well.”

  “Yes, that’s her name,” I say, my heart racing a mile a minute.

  “She seems cool.” Patrick grins. “Maybe give it a shot? Like my football coach always says, you can’t win if you don’t play.”

  “I gotta go,” I say. “My sister’s picking me up.”

  “Whoa, hope I didn’t scare you,” Patrick says, smacking me on the back. “You’re a good dude. And you’re going to draw a cool poster, right? You won’t make me look like an idiot?”

  “I will not,” I promise him.

  “Great!” He throws his backpack over his shoulder and runs out of the room. A few seconds later, he sticks his head back in.

  “Cool jacket you got there, by the way,” he says. “It’s, like, so beat up and grimy! I love it.”

  I think about telling him that Laura said I needed a new one, but I decide not to.

  I’ve been dancing since before I can remember. It feels as natural to me now as breathing. It helps me forget about the rest of the world.

  Also, I’m not very good at it.

  So I don’t feel any pressure when I go to dance class: it’s just a way to relax and have fun.

  It’s nice to be one of the many, instead of one of the few.

  The instructor, Cindy, used to dance on Broadway, which is something I can’t even conceive of. It’s like being from another planet or something.

  When she sees me come in, she runs over and gives me a big hug, since it’s the first class after summer break. “Calista! You’ve grown like a weed!” Then she notices my face, and smiles. “What happened to you?”

  I stare at her in shock. “Sorry?”

  “Your face. What happened to it?” Cindy repeats. “You look like you got hit by a truck. And I see you got a pimple, huh? Your first one?”

  “How could you tell?” I mumble, mortified.

  Cindy laughs. “People always pick the first one, even if it’s in the worst place, and I recognize a picked-pimple-scab when I see one. Youch.”

  After a second, I realize that she’s the first person in three days to actually tell me that I look terrible. It makes me feel different. It makes me feel relaxed.

  “Yup, I picked it,” I tell her. “Also, I put some of my mom’s concealer on it and I had an allergic reaction, which is where the rash came from. And then my nose—well, that happened at school and it’s too complicated to explain.”

  “Very cool!” Cindy says. “Sounds like you’ve been through the wringer a little bit. It’s all good, though—builds character. And that first zit is like a badge of honor.” She suddenly gives me a big hug. “Welcome to the sisterhood.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Uh, what does that mean?”

  “It means, it’s not th
e end of the world,” Cindy says. “It’s not the end of anything. In fact, it might be the beginning of everything.” She claps her hands together. “Okay everybody, let’s do this!”

  We all spread out around the room and start our stretches. For the next hour and a half, I do nothing but dance. I stumble and bumble, I trip and almost wipe out, I fall behind the beat about fifty times, I feel my muscles yelling at me in protest.

  It feels great.

  THURSDAY

  I wake up to a text from Calista: CAN WE TALK? I HAVE AN IDEA

  I wait a few minutes before texting back.

  SURE.

  Before leaving for school, I stare at my red jacket for about five minutes before deciding to put it on.

  On the bus, Patrick waves but walks by me without saying anything. I wave back.

  After five minutes, Will comes over and takes his usual seat across the aisle from me, but before he can say anything, I say, “Not today.”

  He looks shocked. “Did you just say ‘not today’?”

  “Yes. Not today.”

  “Whoa,” Will says. “Look who’s feeling all brave.”

  “Just leave me alone.”

  Will looks as if he wants to say about a thousand things. But he doesn’t say any of them. Instead, he mutters, “Sweatbox,” and walks away. I pretend not to hear him.

  I take out my pad and start sketching. Three minutes later I hear a voice behind me saying, “That’s pretty good. What is it?”

  I turn around to see Patrick sitting there. I had no idea he was right behind me.

  “A sand dune,” I tell him. “Somewhere in the desert.”

  “You can almost feel the heat,” he says.

  I smile inside. “Really?”

  “Kind of,” Patrick says, laughing. “Mostly I just thought it sounded good. You like drawing deserts?”

  “I guess so.”

  “That’s cool. A little weird, but cool. See you after school.”

  “Okay.”

  I go back to my drawing.

  I tell myself that this is going to be the last desert I draw for a while.

  Maybe ever.