by Tish Cohen
“But why was she bringing the contracts with her to Toddler Splash?” Mom asks. She’s frantically digging through her purse now.
I slice some skin off the chicken and notice little sharp things sticking out. Then I realize that this bird doesn’t even have all its feathers pulled out yet. “Gross! This chicken’s still alive; I’m not touching it!”
Mom shushes me and whispers, “Just pull off the skin, Zoë!” Then she turns away. “Are you sure all three copies went under?”
“It’s too revolting,” I say, dropping the knife onto the counter. “I feel like a murderer! Grandma, can you do it?”
“Give it a try,” Grandma says. “Just catch the feather shafts between your fingernails and yank.”
“Disgusting! I can’t do this!”
Grandma shakes her head, stands up, and shuffles slowly toward me. Then she takes the knife from my hand and drops it onto the counter. The blade spins around to face me. Gleaming metal pointing directly at a kid’s knuckles seems like the kind of thing that should bother an adoring, sane grandma, doesn’t it? Well, it isn’t bothering mine.
I decide my fingers might be safer in my pockets, so I stuff them there—fast. Then she says, “It’s simple. Watch me.” Just like she said, she rips out the broken feathers, one by one, and tosses them onto the counter, where I can look at them and try really hard not to heave.
I cover my mouth. “Ugh.”
Grandma swipes the feather stems into her hand and drops them into the trash, smiling at me. All of a sudden she seems like an incredibly adoring, sane grandma. I mean, anyone who can pluck broken-off feather stems with their bare hands and not even come close to vomiting has to be pretty solid, right?
Then she looks at me, shakes her head, and sighs. “One of these days I guess I’ll learn you just can’t polish a poodle.”
Polish a poodle? I glance at Mom real quick, relieved to see she didn’t hear Grandma. One thing’s certain. I’m going to have to cover for Grandma. Talk like that could definitely get her locked up.
Even Bad Reputations Need Expiration Dates
“So anyway,” I say with a mouthful of apple.
It’s recess. The early November sky is dark gray and I think I see a few snowflakes blowing around. It wasn’t supposed to be this cold today, so I’m wearing a thin red Windbreaker that is actually doing a rotten job of breaking up the wind. “What was your major news yesterday?”
Susannah pushes her sunglasses higher up her perfect nose and pulls a hood over her head until all that’s left of her face is her nose and glasses. It’s like talking to the Grim Reaper, only without the sickle. She pulls Laurel and me closer to the brick wall and whispers, “I knew all about this new girl coming. Maisie.”
Laurel snorts. I don’t think she meant to make an actual snort, but it comes out that way. “That’s major news? It isn’t even news anymore. She’s already here.”
“So she showed up a day too early. It was news at the time.”
“Still,” Laurel says. Then she makes eyeglasses with her hands so she looks like Susannah. “A new kid is coming! A new kid is coming!” She laughs. “It’s not that newsworthy, that’s all I’m saying.”
Mostly, Laurel and Susannah are pretty solid BFIS number twos to each other. But there’s a tiny amount of…tension between them that bubbles up. It’s been going on for a long time now, and it’s a very delicate situation that I try very hard to ignore.
People assume it’s because they both put me in their number one BFIS slot. That could certainly cause stress. And everyone thinks Laurel is jealous of Susannah’s number one spot with me. Which may or may not be true. But these aren’t the real reasons behind the on-again, off-again tension.
Sadly, Laurel used to be a bed-wetter. So when Susannah got the commercial, Laurel was glad. Finally, she thought, someone is going to bring bed-wetting out from under the sheets. A beautiful girl is going to announce to the world that she wets the bed and then it will become, if not cool, then at the very least not quite so embarrassing.
That was what Laurel had hoped. Of course it didn’t happen that way. Susannah, who can be a teensy bit insensitive, moaned and groaned about not wanting people to think she was a bed-wetter and went into perma-hiding. It kind of enraged Laurel.
And just about the time when Laurel outgrew her nighttime problem, Susannah landed her second commercial, which aired last year. This one was even worse than bed-wetting. It was for sanitary pads. By the time Laurel finished giggling about the humiliation Susannah would face, not only had the commercial aired, but Susannah was known across the country for having become “A Woman.” Her schoolwide fame reached dazzling new heights and she had to get even bigger sunglasses. Whether she’d started her period or not (she had, but I’ll never tell!), we all knew Susannah was miles more mature than the rest of us.
Laurel still hasn’t gotten over Susannah’s comeback. And who can blame her? As of yesterday, she’s still the only girl in seventh grade to not have her period.
Nature can be so cruel.
Suddenly someone near the baseball diamond screams, “GIRL FIGHT!” and hordes of kids race over from every which direction. By the time we get there, they’re chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” We push past a group of GameWizard boys, better known as LameWizards, and nose our way in front of the basketball chicks to find two fifth-grade girls, bundled up in puffy pastel coats, colored tights, and sheepskin boots, whacking the stars out of each other with pretty woolen hats.
It’s like a fight between two muppets.
The one with neon-pink braces pushes the other one down onto her back, hollering, “Leave us alone!” The whole school gets a peek at the purple bloomers she’s wearing over her tights. Bloomer Girl then kicks out at Neon Pink’s knobby knees but misses entirely. Poor Bloomer Girl’s jacket is so padded she can’t get any good traction. Somebody gives her a lift from behind and she runs full force into Neon Pink, knocking her straight into Mrs. Kettleby, the librarian.
“All right, show’s over,” Mrs. Kettleby says, grabbing the two of them by the mittens and prying them apart. “The rest of you go about your business while I straighten out these two.”
“Well,” Susannah says, kicking a ball toward some sixth-grade boys who aren’t particularly good at playing foursquare, “I happen to know more about Maisie than anyone else in the school.”
“Okay, spill,” I command. Who knows? This might get juicy.
Susannah has been waiting for this moment. She lowers her glasses, looks around, then whispers, “Her family used to rent a cottage near ours on Lake Labrador every summer. Remember that guy, Nicholas, I used to talk about?”
Laurel pulls a blue juice pack from her pocket and punches a straw into it. Blue juice spurts out all over her coat, which, luckily, is blue. “Talk about? You scratched his name into the crabapple tree in my backyard. And the next year it didn’t bloom.”
“I don’t remember that,” Susannah says, checking her Grim Reaper hoodie for accidental blue squirts.
“My mother does,” says Laurel.
Susannah says, “Anyway, back to me. It was the last year we were at the lake. Nicholas was planning to take me for a canoe ride at sunset and I packed some pâté and grapes I stole from my parents’ dinner party. Right before I left, Maisie knocked on my door. She handed me a note, said it was from Nicholas, and disappeared.”
“What did the note say?” I ask.
“It said he had to cancel. He was sorry and he hoped I enjoyed sixth grade.”
“Bummer,” says Laurel.
“But that’s not the worst,” says Susannah. “Later that week, I heard from my cousin that Maisie wrote the note herself and then gave him a note from me. It said something about me not wanting to expose my hair to the damp evening air.” Susannah shakes her head. “Everyone knew what she did. Her Lake Labrador reputation was ruined.”
“Why’d she do it?” asks Laurel.
“So she could go canoeing with Nicholas, who
, naturally, was brokenhearted that I canceled.”
“Wow. The old bait and switch,” I say, shivering and wrapping my waste of a Windbreaker tighter around me. Grandma used to say that when my mother dangled chocolate chips in front of me so I’d eat my lima beans.
Bloomer Girl runs past, being chased by Neon Pink, who’s carrying a broken lunch box and screaming.
Laurel’s eyebrows scrunched together. “The old what?”
I smile. “Nothing.”
“The point is,” Susannah continues, “Maisie has a terrible reputation. And a reputation follows you everywhere you go. Forever.”
Don’t I know it. Another reason for balloons to be banished from society. I zip my jacket to my chin.
Laurel points toward the side of the school where the bad kids hang out. “Look. There’s Maisie now. How do you think she knows those bad girls already? Are rotters just drawn to each other like magnets?”
Maisie is laughing with Tara Smye, Sylvia’s bigger, badder sister; Monica Granitstein, Smartin’s bigger, just-as-bad older sibling; and Jessie Krutz, who once toilet-papered Principal Renzetti’s Toyota. With twenty-seven double rolls. Quilted.
Suddenly I remember something. “How did you know Maisie was coming to our school if you haven’t seen her since that summer?”
Susannah bugs her eyes. “My mother works with her mother. She had a bad reputation at her last school, too.”
“So what exactly did Maisie do at her last school to earn her this reputation?” I ask.
“She’s mean.”
“How mean?” asks Laurel.
“Very mean,” Susannah says, arching her eyebrows. “She has a reputation for being horrible, rotten, stinking mean.”
Laurel laughs. “Kicked out of school for being mean? Principal Renzetti should have been tossed out years ago!”
“How do you know?” I ask Laurel. “You’ve never even spoken to Principal Renzetti!”
She fidgets with her coat collar and looks around. “I hear things.”
At this point, something perfectly delicious happens. Riley Sinclair runs by and tugs on my hair. Then he turns around to face me and, walking backward, says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I shout back. Then Riley runs off, because his friends are chasing him with a squirting water bottle.
It’s weird what the littlest, nothingest “hey” can do to your whole day. One tug on my hair and suddenly I’m beaming. I’ve stopped shivering. The brats have stopped screaming. The sky is suddenly filled with swallows.
Then again, they could be buzzards. What do I know about birds?
Even Maisie and her reputation don’t look so bad.
Neon Pink is walking backward now, pulling Bloomer Girl by her boots. Bloomer Girl almost looks like she’s enjoying the ride until her right boot comes off, exposing a striped toe sock. Then she wails like a stray cat. Mrs. Kettleby comes trotting over again, waving a finger at Neon Pink, who takes off with the lavender boot.
We move away from the wildness while Mrs. Kettleby chases Neon Pink across the soccer field. Honestly, these babies should not be allowed in school until they’re at least eleven. And a half.
I finish my apple and toss the core at the trash can, missing it by a mile. “You know what I’m thinking? Maisie’s fresh and new now. No one but us knows of her past. She’s done nothing mean here. Yet. So,” I continue, picking up the core and depositing it properly, “we should consider her as having no reputation. Give her a clean slate.”
“What?” says Susannah. “She already has a reputation here. Because I know all about her. And so do you. She walked right into the same reputation as ever.”
“Even bad reputations need expiration dates. Let’s dump hers down the sink.”
“You can’t dump it down the sink. It is what it is!”
“Not if we do the right thing. Dump it.”
Laurel turns to me. “So, just like that, her old reputation is irreverent?”
Susannah and I look at each other.
“I think you mean irrelevant,” I say. “‘Irreverent’ means disrespectful. Rude.”
Laurel’s cheeks get pink. “She sounds pretty rude to me!”
“A reputation can’t be rude—” I stop myself. I don’t have the energy. “But yes, just like that, her past is irrelevant.” I glance over at Maisie, who is trying on Monica’s shredded jean jacket. “I think she needs our help…”
“Our help?” Susannah and Laurel say together.
“We can’t let her bury herself again. We may be her only chance.”
“Well, good luck to you. I’m certainly not helping anybody who hangs out with Monica Granitstein,” says Laurel.
“Me neither,” Susannah says. “I’ve been burned once by that girl. Besides, my mother said to stay away from her.”
“That’s okay,” I say as the bell rings. Kids everywhere scream and tear back toward the school doors like they’re being chased by killer bees. Once they pass, all that remains are a few dozen granola-bar wrappers and one very fleecy, very lavender boot.
I walk across the pavement and pick it up. “I can handle this on my own.”
It isn’t until after school that I finally find Bloomer Girl. She’s heading toward the parent parking lot wearing one beige sneaker and one lavender boot.
“Hey,” I call out, not knowing her name and not wanting to depress her further by telling her I know about the bloomers. I catch up to her before she gets into her mother’s Mercedes. She smiles when she sees the boot. “You found it!”
“Yeah. I tried to buff out some of the dried mud between classes. It’s a very nice boot. You must be proud.”
Taking her boot from me, she shrugs. This girl has the kind of haircut where the back is all short and choppy like a boy’s and the front comes down to her chin. Like her hair is on backward. “I guess. Doesn’t do me any good, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Just that no one ever wants to hang out with me. That’s what the fight was about. My parents told me to go up to a few girls and ask if I could hang out with them. I tried it a few times and, well, you saw what happened.”
My instincts were correct. Bloomer Girl is a good guy. Which reminds me, “What’s your name?”
“Allegra.”
“Allegra. Pretty.”
“Thanks. I don’t want to take up your time. I know who you are. You’re the Zoë Lama. You’ve got clients way more important than a stupid fifth-grader. But thanks for saving my boot.”
Her mother beeps her horn and Allegra turns to get in. I grab her sleeve. “Wait a minute. You’re just as important as my older clients. Here’s what you do. Never ask anyone to hang with you. It’s needy and a turn-off. You want to appear as if you’re having a great time—all the time—and they’ll come to you, begging to join in. Get it?”
Her mother calls, “Piano lessons, honey. We’re going to be late.”
She looks up. “I’m coming, Mom.” Then she turns back to me. “Kind of…”
“Never beg for fun. Make your own fun and then sit back and let them beg to join in. Find something funny in the playground and laugh your head off. Notice something strange in the hallway and point it out. Don’t be quiet either. Make sure you’re heard. Before you know it, they’ll be crawling all over you.”
A smile spreads across her little face and she leans down and hugs me tight. “Thank you, Zoë Lama. It’s just like they say—you’re the best!”
Never Argue When There’s Candy at Stake
“Zoë!”
A gigantic beetle has just discovered me hiding under the kitchen sink. Only it’s not our sink, which has broken baby-proof latches on the cupboard doors from when I was little so I didn’t fill my sippy cup with Mr. Clean or something. Anyway, the beetle is horrifying and he’s shining a flashlight right into my eyes, turning it on and off, on and off, on and off.
It’s getting on my nerves, actually.
“Zoë, honey, get up!”
&
nbsp; My eyes shoot open and then slam shut again because my ceiling light is flicking on and off, on and off, on and off, and completely blinding me.
“We’re late and I really need your help this morning,” my mother says.
I open my eyes to see Mom hopping on one foot while trying to ram her other foot into a perfectly innocent pair of panty hose. “Stop it, Mom!” I jump out of bed and grab the flimsy nylon away from her. “You’ll shred them and then it’ll look like you’ve been attacked by piranhas.”
She balances herself in the doorway while I coax the nylons slowly up her ankle. “You have to take it up an inch at a time; you don’t shove your leg in whole, like a horse’s head going into a feed bag.”
“I know, I know. You’ve got much more patience than I do. But what I really need is for you to get Gram’s cereal ready for me. I’m putting you in charge so I don’t have to worry, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Because I’ve got a very busy day today and I can’t be even a second late. Because it’s going to be very—”
“I know, I know.” I yawn. “Very busy.”
Once I am dressed, I hunt for Grandma. Which isn’t very hard—I just follow the sound of her tongue clicking against her teeth until I find her in her room, sitting in her flowered chair and looking at a framed picture of me as a little kid. Her face is peaceful, as if she’s remembering something nice that I did—like not interrupt her when she told me a story for the millionth time about her mother making her scrub all the floors in the house on her hands and knees, so how come I can’t rinse my dishes before putting them in the dishwasher?
She looks up when she sees me. “Hello, little girl,” she says. “Would you like some candy?”
I’m not sure why she’s calling me little girl, but who’s going to argue when there’s candy at stake? I hurry over to the candy bowl, which is nearly empty, and take a few butterscotch chews wrapped in gold paper. “Thanks, Grandma. I’m going to go make your breakfast. Do you want Fiber Buds, like Mom says you should have, or can I slip you some of my Froot Loops?”