I spin around quickly, feeling like a spy, and head to another bathroom—the one on the opposite side of campus. And after I actually do pee, I hang out in the bathroom for a while just to be on the safe side, because I don’t want to run into those guys again on my way back.
The problem is, I wait too long, so when I finally get to class it’s almost over.
“I’ve already collected the homework,” Ms. Vail tells me. She’s looking at me like she knows I’ve been up to something. And I guess I have been—if avoiding someone at all costs counts as “something.”
“Okay,” I tell her guiltily. “Sorry about that.”
If I were someone else, she’d probably ask more questions, be suspicious, but I’m a good kid. Quiet, too. So quiet, actually, I’m not 100 percent sure that she even knows my name.
I open my notebook and pull out my homework sheet and add it to the pile. As I sit down I notice that Jenna and India are whispering to each other. They’re not looking at me, so it probably has nothing to do with me, but it still makes me nervous.
I tell myself that India probably doesn’t even remember that we ran into each other at the mall yesterday. And she certainly couldn’t have seen me singing. Right? It’s bad enough that Blake saw me. I don’t know what I’d do if Jenna’s friends saw my whole Janis Joplin routine.
I sink down lower in my seat and wish, for the gazillionth time, that I could disappear.
Lola leans closer and whispers, “You okay?”
I nod and lie: “Fine.”
They are not even looking at me. I’m sure it’s nothing. I tell myself this and I mostly believe it but I am still nervous.
When the bell rings I jump up and leave, finally free.
Sophie does her normal campaigning while Lola and I eat lunch. She hasn’t brought up the T-shirt thing again. My non-T-shirt-wearing, I mean. I think she knows who I am, who I can’t be. And she seems okay with it. So that’s good.
I am eating my sandwich when suddenly Blake comes up to our table and says hi.
He’s looking right at me and kind of smiling, and I am too surprised to say anything at first and this is a good thing because actually my mouth is full. I’m in the middle of chewing my sandwich. Worst timing ever!
I try to swallow too fast and it goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m choking, coughing loudly.
Lola slaps me on the back and my face is red and I take a gulp of water and swallow the rest of the sandwich. None of it leaves my mouth, so I guess it could’ve been worse, but just barely.
It’s mortifying. And Blake is still standing there in front of me, witnessing this embarrassing scene. He looks like he’s about to say something, but then Davis comes up to him and says, “What’s up, dude? You gonna sit down or what?”
“Huh?” asks Blake. “Oh, sure.”
Then he sort of waves to me and goes to his regular table.
I am stunned because it almost seems as if he’s sought me out, but that can’t be. It’s impossible.
But it turns out I’m not the only one who noticed.
“Wow, he totally likes you,” Lola whispers.
So I guess it’s not all in my head, but what does that mean? I stare at my sandwich, eyes burning, face red. Blake had to show up now, when I was mid-chew?
“Do you really think so?”
I ask this so quietly I’m surprised that Lola hears. But she must because she’s nodding as she answers, “No question.”
18
After school, we go over to Sophie’s because she wants to practice her speech. She’s got the entire thing written out on blue index cards. Her handwriting is neat and blocklike. I’m impressed and also confused, because I don’t know when she found time to do it.
“Are you ready?” she asks as she puts on her rainbow-striped headband. “Are you comfortable?”
“Sure,” I tell her.
We’re sitting on her bed and she is standing in front of us with a serious expression on her face.
“Are you going to wear that on Friday?” asks Lola.
“The headband?” asks Sophie, touching it lightly with her fingers. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“It goes with your dress,” I say. “Kind of.”
Sophie seems nervous, fidgeting back and forth on her feet. “Yeah, but I think it would seem weird.”
“You’re probably right,” says Lola. “Want to borrow some of my hair clips?”
“Maybe,” Sophie says. She bites her bottom lip, like she wants to say more but can’t for some reason.
“Cool,” says Lola. “I’ll bring a few of them to school tomorrow. Maybe they’ll bring you luck. Not that you need luck.”
“Okay, thanks,” says Sophie. “I think I’ll start now.” She clears her throat and stands up a little straighter. “Hello, Beachwood. My name is Sophie Meyers. I’m new to school here. I only arrived at the beginning of the school year, four weeks ago, but I already feel at home. It’s a wonderful school, I can tell. But there are ways we can be even better. We can recycle more, for one thing. There are lots of recycling bins but half of them get filled up with regular garbage at lunchtime. I think we should have a bin for composting. Then we can turn rotten food into nourishment for fresh vegetables. We can plant them by the soccer field—there’s plenty of extra space. And I know that a lot of people care about animals, so I was thinking we could have a bake sale and raise money for the Harrison Animal Shelter. They do amazing work. Also, there are lots of homeless people in our city. And we can help them out by doing a food and clothing drive. And these are just a few things. In conclusion, I think Beachwood Middle School is a really good place. I’d like to help everyone make the school a great place. I’m Sophie Meyers and I’m running for class president. Please vote for me. Thank you.”
When she finishes she does a very deep bow, except it’s not like she’s actually bowing, more like she’s poking fun at people who bow for real. At least I think that’s how she means it. I suppose I can’t be completely positive unless I ask, and I’m not going to do that. Lola and I stand up and clap.
“That’s awesome,” I say.
“Yup. Totally impressive,” Lola agrees. “You’re a star!”
“Thanks for the standing ovation,” Sophie says.
“Oh, you deserve it. Did you write that whole speech by yourself?” asks Lola.
“Pretty much,” Sophie says. “My dad saw an earlier version and he had a few notes, but it’s all in my own words. Mind if I read it to you one more time? I think I need some more practice.”
“No, go ahead,” I say.
She recites the speech again, this time making a point to look up from her note cards and make eye contact with us.
After she finishes, we clap again. And Lola stands up and stretches. “That was awesome, Sophie.”
“Thanks. You guys want to play Ping-Pong?” she asks, which is predictable but also not a bad idea.
“Oh, that sounds super-fun but I promised my mom I’d be home early tonight,” Lola says.
“I can stay,” I reply.
“Cool,” Sophie says. She opens up her closet and pulls a spare headband out of a drawer. “Want to wear one of these? I have a bunch of extras.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll play without.”
“Suit yourself,” she says.
We head downstairs and say goodbye to Lola and then go out into the backyard.
“You want to serve?” she asks, handing me a paddle and the ball.
“Let’s hit for a bit and not keep score,” I say.
“Okay,” says Sophie, adjusting her headband so it comes about a half an inch above her eyes.
We are outside in the shade of a big Chinese elm tree. Every once in a while a leaf will drop down on the table and Sophie will make a T-shape with her hands and call a time-out and move it out of the way. That’s how serious she is about the game.
“I don’t mind the leaves,” I say. “It’s not like this is the Olympics. Plus, we’
re not even keeping score.”
“Okay,” says Sophie. “Maybe I’m getting a little obsessive. I’ll stop. Um, it’s your serve. Yeah?”
“Yup.” I take the ball and let it bounce on the table once before I hit it over the net. As soon as I do she hits it right back, fast and low, but I’m ready. I whack it straight to her again. We rally for a while and it’s fun. We don’t give each other impossible shots. This is a friendly game. I like the hollow pinging sound the ball makes when it bounces on the table. It reminds me of the metronome my mom used to use when she tried to teach me how to play the piano. One of the times she tried to teach me, I mean. Before she realized I have no rhythm and we both gave up.
“So are you nervous about the election?” I ask.
“A little,” says Sophie. “I don’t mind the speech part, though.”
I wonder where she gets the confidence. It’s impressive.
As for me? I don’t think it’s physically possible for me to speak in front of my entire grade. I don’t even think I could give a speech to one class. I know I can’t, in fact.
Back when I was in the fourth grade I was supposed to do an oral report on Eleanor Roosevelt, and instead of actually going through with it, I faked sick for three whole days. My parents took me to the doctor on day two, and the crazy thing is, I actually did have the flu. Except I swear it started out as a lie and I think I willed myself into being sick. I never had to do a makeup. I wrote such a good report, my teacher, Mrs. Wiseman, said I could be excused. It was almost like she knew I was so shy and that was okay, and it’s a good thing, too, because if I’d been forced to speak in front of the class, it would’ve been a disaster.
“So do you really mean what you said in your speech?” I ask. “That you think Beachwood is a good place?”
“Sure,” Sophie says with a shrug. “I like it a lot more than most schools I’ve been to.”
I laugh. “How many schools have you been to?”
“A lot,” says Sophie. “Beachwood is my fifth.”
“Really?” I ask. This is surprising. I was born in Beachwood and I’ve always lived here. Everything is familiar at my house, from the jacaranda trees in our front yard to the blood-orange tree out back. Lola and I have been friends since we were babies. I went to kindergarten with more than half the kids I’m in seventh grade with. Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve always been the shy and quiet kid. The one who sat in a corner and cried for the entire first month of kindergarten. The one who never spoke up in class, who never got mad when those girls stomped on my foot. It’s like everyone already knows me and there’s no room for change. We are who we are. And even if I wanted to change, I wouldn’t know how. It would be impossible.
“Why’d you move around so much?” I wonder.
Sophie takes a deep breath, as if this is going to be complicated and take a while to explain. And it turns out, it is. “Well, I was born in New York City, but when I was five my parents got divorced and my mom and I moved to New Jersey. First we lived with my grandparents in Red Bank, and that’s where I started kindergarten. But then my mom got her own apartment in Warren, so I went there for first and second grade, and then my mom got remarried and we moved to Westport, Connecticut, with my stepdad. And that’s where I went to third, fourth, and fifth grade. And then my mom died, so I moved in with my biological dad. He was living in Seattle, so I went to school there for sixth grade. And then he got a job in Beachwood, so we moved here.”
Sophie is still focused on the Ping-Pong ball, hitting it back and forth, not looking up.
Finally, she shoots it to me and I miss. It goes bouncing down the driveway and into the gutter.
“Sorry, I’ll get it,” I say, running after it.
“That’s fine,” says Sophie.
Once I’m back she asks, “Can we play a game now?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll serve.”
“Okay,” I say as I toss her the ball.
Five schools is a lot of schools. I have so many questions. How did she do it? How does she seem so happy? And her mom actually died? The way she said it was so matter-of-fact.
I’ve only been to two schools in my whole life—elementary school and middle school. And I have two parents. Same house, same room, same everything.
“I didn’t know that your mom died,” I say.
“I know, I never told you,” says Sophie.
I don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, and then feel really dumb because it’s not like it’s my fault, but apologizing seems like the right thing to do. “I mean, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.” There, I say it again, even though I don’t mean to.
“Yeah,” Sophie says.
“Um, what happened to her?”
“Car accident. A truck hit her on the highway when she was coming home from work one night. She was in a coma for a few days and never woke up.”
“Wow, that’s so sad. I’m really, really sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say,” Sophie says. “And it is so sad, but it’s more sad for my mom.”
“How do you mean?” I ask.
Sophie looks up at me as if surprised by the question. “Her life is over. At least I get to live.”
19
A clown party is never a good idea. I always think it’s the most obvious thing, but every year at least one family asks for one. Usually we manage to talk them out of it. And that’s what my dad is in the process of doing when I get home from Sophie’s.
“You know, clowns are not always so popular with little kids. For some strange psychological reason, people find them creepy. Threatening…”
It’s hard to keep a straight face because I’ve heard my dad give this speech a gazillion times. I can tell he’s having a hard time, as well. He doesn’t seem to find the conversation funny, though. He’s struggling to have patience. He’s pacing back and forth across the living room. Except instead of normal pacing, he’s climbing over the coffee table with each trip.
He’d climb over the couch as well, except that’s where I’m sitting, about to start doing my homework. That’s what I planned to do, anyway. Now I’m simply eavesdropping. My dad notices and winks at me and I can’t help but smile.
“No, we certainly have a clown costume and we’re available to work the party. I’m more than happy to help you out. I’m just suggesting that there might be a better direction to go in. For a two-year-old, bunnies or puppies are always a surefire hit—”
My dad stops talking abruptly, and he stops moving as well. Now he’s standing on the coffee table. Whoever’s on the other end must’ve cut him off. It must be a first-time parent, with only one young kid. First-time parents are always the most demanding. That’s what my mom and dad tell me, anyway.
I look up at him questioningly and he grins and winks at me again.
“I see. Okay. Of course. Absolutely. Well, if that’s what you want and you’re sure about it. Yup … Okay, hold on, let me write down the address.”
He waves one hand at me and whispers, “Will you write this down?”
I nod and flip to a clean sheet in my notebook and write down exactly what he tells me to: 3723 North Windsor Terrace. Six o’clock.
“Got it. I’ll be there with bells on. Literally. My clown costume has bells, and a horn. I’ll bring my assistant, too. She’s the best.” My dad is talking into the phone and acting cheerful but rolling his eyes at me.
After he hangs up and tosses the phone on the couch I say, “Well, that didn’t go well.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” he says. “Apparently Sarah, she’s Tanner’s grandmother, has the most wonderful memories of her own clown birthday party from when she turned two.”
“She remembers her party from when she was two?” I ask.
My dad grins. “Well, she thinks she does. She kept talking about this picture she has of herself with a clown, how it was one of the most wonderful moments from her childhood—she actually said it like tha
t. And she wants to provide the same opportunity for Tanner. She has a double photo frame and she wants Tanner’s picture and her picture side by side.”
“Huh,” I say.
“People have weird ideas about family and what’s important,” says my dad. Then he glances at me. “Hey, how busy are you? Think you can help me out with this one? At the very least, I’m gonna need some assistance with the makeup.”
“Of course,” I say. “And by the way, I heard you tell them I’ll be there. Unless you have some other assistant I don’t know about.”
“Nope. It’s all you, babe. Thanks for volunteering.”
“Hah,” I say. “No prob, but when’s the party?”
My dad raises his eyebrows and glances down at his watch. “Uh, it’s tonight—in about an hour!”
20
It isn’t easy finding all the clowning supplies. We don’t use them very often because clowns are not super in fashion these days, if they ever were—I’m not totally convinced. Usually my parents are good at persuading people to go in another direction. Of course, typically they deal with parents, not grandparents. And it turns out that grandparents are even trickier than first-time parents.
After searching the basement, the hall closet, and the back bedroom closet that we never actually use, my dad decides to check the attic, which involves pulling down a ladder hidden in a panel in the ceiling.
We both climb up and it’s spooky. We have to crawl on our hands and knees because the ceiling is so low, and everything is a dusty mess. But that’s where we find the clown box, tucked into a dark corner behind my mom and dad’s wet suits.
They used to be scuba-diving instructors in Hawaii, and in fact they got married on a boat in between dives. I wasn’t there, obviously, but I’ve seen the pictures. They kept their masks and fins on because they thought it would be funnier that way.
“Hold your breath,” my dad says as he takes the cover off the box marked CLOWN. He lifts the clown suit out and a cloud of dust rises right along with it.
We Are Party People Page 10