“Mom’s gonna kill me. Oh, man.” Alex jumped out and slammed the door.
Quietly, Gracie slid the blue journal from her backpack. She opened it and wrote: Alex got an A on his science test.
She closed the journal, feeling ever so philanthropic. He was a pain in the you-know-what, but, hey, he was her brother.
Jen squealed back out onto the road, changed lanes without looking, and slammed on the brakes at the last minute to avoid hitting a Honda.
“Hey, that’s Brian Greentree in the car in front of us,” said Jen. “Didn’t you have a crush on him last year?”
“No,” Gracie lied, sliding down in her seat. Brian Greentree, who played center-mid on the eighth-grade soccer team, had the most amazing legs, curly dark hair, and eyelashes girls would die for. But he was way out of Gracie’s league. She’d confessed to Jen last year in a moment of weakness that she liked him, and the next day one of his friends poked him in the side when she walked by in the hall. Jen had told! Gracie had been colossally embarrassed. That wasn’t going to happen again.
“That was someone else,” she said now. “I don’t like anyone.” She reiterated. “Really, anyone.”
“Are you sure? I thought it was him.” Jen banged her palm on the steering wheel as she lurched into a parking space and cut the engine. “There’s Sean. Omigod, he’s so cute. Gracie, this is no lie, when I see him in the hall I stop breathing.”
“For how long? That could be dangerous.”
“This always happens. Crap, today I look terrible, and there he is. Watch this: Tomorrow I’ll spend an hour on my hair and I won’t see him all day.”
“You don’t look terrible,” Gracie said. She didn’t. Jen was “the pretty one,” just as Gracie was “the smart one.” Jen’s body was curvy, Gracie’s was beanpole straight. Jen’s hair was blond, Gracie’s was light brown, nondescript. Jen’s eyes were green, Gracie’s were a muddy brown. Jen tanned, Gracie freckled. Et cetera.
Jen turned off the engine just as My Chemical Romance sang about a young boy whose father asked him to save the broken and the beaten and to defeat the demons of the world. Gracie loved those lyrics. They always gave her goose bumps.
Jen climbed out of the car, holding one thin notebook. “You coming?”
The words of the song echoed in Gracie’s head. “Sure.” She dragged her forty-pound backpack across the backseat. “How do you get through school with just one notebook?”
“Priorities,” Jen said. “Hey, Sean! Hang on, I’ll walk in with you.” She turned to Gracie. “Lock it, okay?” She tossed her hair over her shoulder as she caught up with Sean Romanowsky. He was a football player, and built like a refrigerator. Hence his nickname, the Fridge. Jen had liked him forever, and he’d never so much as called her.
Gracie locked the car and put her backpack on top of the trunk. Quickly, before anyone saw her, she pulled out the journal and wrote:
Sean “the Fridge” Romanowsky asked Jen out for Friday night.
Jen was mean to Gracie ninety percent of the time, but still, she was her sister. Feeling ever so caring, Gracie watched Jen and Sean walk across the parking lot together, headed for the high school wing. Sean slapped Jen on the butt, like she was just another football player or something, and Gracie winced.
She gazed across the parking lot at all the kids slouching toward school, the clumps of kids joking around on the defeated grass in the front yard and reluctantly filing up the worn marble steps. The ROTC, after raising the flag, marched between the chipped white columns and through the scarred double doors. In the yard, a big black crow landed on the Rock. The Rock, a legendary Chesterville landmark, was Volkswagen-sized and covered with layers of graffiti built up like tree rings by nearly fifty years of middle school and high school students. The crow pecked at some crumbs someone had left there.
Gracie rubbed her fingers across the blue suede cover of the journal and felt reassured. All of a sudden she knew what it must be like for superheroes—Spider-Man or Batman, for instance—to feel the pressure of power. It was a weight, a responsibility. Dylan was right. This was a test for flying-under-the-radar Gracie. Could she pass the test? Did she have what it took? Could she keep her head?
She shouldered her backpack, staggering slightly under its ridiculous weight, and headed slowly across the parking lot toward the middle school wing. The words of that song about the broken and the beaten still rang in her head. Her head buzzed with the possibilities, all the things she could do, all she could make happen with a stroke of her pen. Last night on the news they’d said that the local chapter of the Red Cross was out of type AB blood. The Chesterville Soup Kitchen was low on all canned vegetables except pumpkin. And what about all those cats and dogs at the Chesterville Animal Shelter, desperately needing a home? She sat down in the parking lot and began to scribble.
People from all over Chesterville generously gave enough blood to the Red Cross to help everyone who needed it.
People donated enough canned goods to the Chesterville Soup Kitchen to last for the rest of the year.
People came from far and wide to adopt every homeless animal at the Chesterville Animal Shelter.
Gracie thought her writing style was getting better. Feeling satisfied and extremely hopeful, she stuffed the journal into her backpack. So many good deeds, so little time.
CHAPTER FOUR
“We’re almost out of time,” Ms. Campanella said, pushing her smooth dark hair behind her ears. Ms. Campanella was slim and pale in what Gracie thought of as an angelic way. Her long, languid fingers even seemed like feathers trembling on the tips of angel wings. “Tomorrow, I’d like to continue this discussion, and I’d like you to think about John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany in relation to this question: In this book, does what happens in the world make sense?”
Gracie wrote, Does what happens in the world make sense? Ms. Campanella’s words had a powerful resonance in light of what had been happening with the journal. Gracie stared at the words, stunned, and the moment stretched out as though she were watching a ceiling fan slowing, slowing, slowing to a stop. She was struck with a yearning to tell Ms. Campanella everything.
Dylan raised his hand, as always.
“Yes, Dylan,” said Ms. Campanella.
“I would venture to say that Irving’s theme is divine providence. You might consider either the Calvinist idea or the Judaic concept of free will, which both make provisions for God’s intervention in earthly events in the form of miracles, such as Owen’s sacrifice at the end of the book.”
As always, everyone in the class stared at Dylan with their mouths hanging open.
“Thank you, Dylan,” said Ms. Campanella. “Does anyone have anything to add to Dylan’s assessment?”
There were no hands. Dylan’s assessments were so far beyond everyone else’s that no one ever had anything to add.
“Well, I’d like to get someone else’s input. Everyone think about this and be prepared to continue the discussion tomorrow.”
At that moment the PA system buzzed, and Clueless Chet Wilson, interim principal, interrupted with an announcement.
“Attention, student body.” Clueless Chet’s reedy voice echoed through the crowded, ancient halls and classrooms. “After twenty-five years as vice principal, I now address you as your new principal. I want to let you know that first and foremost I am an administrator who respects you. When there is trust and respect, I do not feel that a dress code should be necessary. Until such time as student behavior demonstrates that it needs to be reinstated, the dress code is suspended. Two words,” he concluded. “Trust. Respect. It is a two-way street, ladies and gentlemen. The onus is on you.”
A raucous cheer went up in every classroom, reached a crescendo, and overflowed into the linoleum-lined hallways. No one had expected this. It was an absolutely thrilling surprise. To everyone, of course, except Gracie. (And Dylan. She’d shown the journal to him at lunch.)
Gracie felt heat rise to her face and glanced at Dy
lan in the next row, knowing he’d be looking at her.
“Onus,” he mouthed, an elfish grin playing around his lips. He pointed at Gracie. “The onus is on you.”
What was an onus? That word was so weird. She pictured someone huge and helpless, like Gulliver when he was tied to the ground with the tiny ropes in the land of the Lilliputians, and some fleshy monster called an onus jumping on him as if in a wrestling match.
The first bell rang, breaking the spell. The high school seniors in the other wing, who were released five minutes early, stampeded into the hall, whooping. Gracie closed her English notebook and reassured herself that she had done a good thing. No more dress code. She had to have made every student happy at Chesterville Middle, and at Chesterville High too.
“Woo-hoo!” The students remaining in the classroom heard the shout from the school entrance, and Gracie joined the ones who jumped from their desks to look out the window.
Maeve Carlsen, senior member of the cross-country team, stood on the front steps of the high school wing. She’d reportedly gone to Spain last year for the running of the bulls and raced through the streets of Pamplona in a pair of flip-flops and a bathing suit. Now she ripped off her T-shirt and threw it into the air. “No more dress code! That’s what I’m talking about!”
Gracie glanced over at Dylan. He pointed at her again.
“Onus,” he mouthed. Gracie’s mouth fell open as Maeve climbed the Rock and did a victory dance in her sports bra. Two of her friends peeled off their polo shirts and danced around her. They were all chanting, “No more dress code, no more dress code.”
That wasn’t at all what Gracie had meant to happen. Suddenly, Clueless Chet charged onto the front green, yelling at Maeve and her friends. Soon they were heading into the principal’s office. Now what? Should Gracie write something in the journal to try and fix this? If so, what the heck could she write?
Gracie was reaching for the journal, her thoughts a crazy jumble, when the final bell rang. She and Dylan usually let the rest of the lemmings rush the door, but Dylan stacked his books with more than his usual speed today.
“We have to talk,” she said.
“Definitely,” he said, joining the throng in the doorway. “But it’ll have to be later. I’ve got to run.”
“But why?” Gracie followed him and grabbed his elbow. “A lot of weird things are happening here, and you’re the genius, you’ve got to help me figure this out. Do you think Maeve and her friends will get suspended?”
“I don’t know. Clueless Chet is an unproven entity. But ex–vice principals are not generally known for their sense of humor,” Dylan said, watching the door. He made a break for an opening.
“Maybe I could write something to fix it.” Gracie ducked between two people to follow him. “You could help me.”
“Can’t right now. Maybe later. I told Lindsay I’d meet her backstage to help her go over notes for the social studies test.”
“Dylan!” Gracie hurried to catch up with him as he strode down the hall. “You’re not supposed to try to make it happen. That defeats the whole purpose.”
“Gracie, I swear to you, she asked me. And she’s the one who chose the place.” Dylan reached his locker and yanked the door open.
“She did not!”
“Did! And how do you know what you’re ‘supposed’ and ‘not supposed’ to do as far as this journal is concerned? Did you find a rule book?” Dylan took out a small golden spray bottle printed with some combination of initials and the words For Men. “I wasn’t aware there was etiquette involved when it came to magic journals.” He pulled out the collar of his polo and sprayed cologne down the front.
“When did you start wearing cologne?” Gracie coughed. “Dylan, who are you? I feel like you’ve morphed into another person.”
“Gracie, give me a break, please? None of my crushes has ever even noticed me. And now Lindsay Jacobs is momentarily in some hallucinogenic state—granted, it may have been caused by your journal—where she actually finds me attractive in spite of the massive IQ that normally cripples my social life. Let me have my moment in the sun. Let me have my fifteen minutes of fame.” He slammed his locker door. “Let me strike while the iron is hot!”
He dropped his nose to his collar and sniffed. “Ahhh. Wish me luck.” He patted her shoulder, did a very Puckish abrupt left turn, and headed for the auditorium.
Before Gracie could go after him, Jen came running up and grabbed her arm. Gracie was pretty amazed, as Jen hadn’t set foot in the halls of the middle school wing for three years.
“Gracie! He asked me out!”
“Who?” Gracie’s response was a reflex, but she knew exactly who. Her heart thudded.
Jen cupped her hand around Gracie’s ear. “Sean,” she whispered, and then did a sensual twirl in the hall, like a belly dancer. “We’re going out tomorrow night.” She squeezed Gracie’s wrist. “I am so excited. I’ve never been so happy in my entire life.”
Had Gracie been crazy? She’d written in her journal that Sean “the Fridge” Romanowsky would ask Jen out and now that had come true too. Was that a good thing? Did he actually like Jen? With a shudder, she remembered the gross way he’d patted Jen’s butt in the parking lot that morning. Had his feelings changed, or was he just obeying fate as decreed by the journal?
Everything was coming true. Gracie ought to be happy, but in her mind she was seeing Maeve and her friends heading into the principal’s office in their sports bras. Her mouth went dry.
The traffic leaving school was horrendous, as always, and Jen was so impatient she drove across part of the soccer field to beat the traffic. “Hey!” someone shouted as Jen bounced by in the beat-up blue Mustang, with Gracie clinging to the door handle with one hand and her seat belt with the other.
“You die, Jen Rawley!” someone else shouted.
“Oh, bite me,” Jen said, laughing, cutting in front of a slow-moving van. “Can you believe Maeve and her friends basically stripped on the front lawn of the school? That is awesome.”
“You think they’ll get in trouble?”
“No way! Maeve’s already gotten a free ride to State. Clueless Chet wouldn’t mess with that.”
“Hmm.” That sounded encouraging. Maybe it would be okay for Gracie to just wait it out. “So, where are you and Sean going tomorrow night?”
“Where?” Jen glanced over at Gracie and smiled, showing her dimples. Gracie couldn’t remember the last time her sister had smiled at her. “I don’t know. He said something about me picking him up after the game and going over to Matt’s house. Listen, I have to look fabulous. Will you pluck my eyebrows for me?”
“Sure,” Gracie said. She squelched her doubts about whether the Fridge would notice perfectly plucked eyebrows. Writing the thing about the Fridge asking Jen out had been good. Look how happy Jen was. And this was the first civilized conversation she and Jen had had in about a year. Why was Gracie worrying about whether the Fridge actually liked Jen? Her sister was a big girl. She could take care of herself.
When they pulled up in front of Chesterville Elementary to pick up Alex, he was nowhere in sight. Jen called him on his cell, but he’d turned it off.
“If he’s in there playing pickup basketball I’m going to let him have it,” Jen said. “I’ve got places to go, people to see. Go get him, Gracie. I’ll wait here.”
A few students stood around waiting for their parents. They looked like spindly little kids to Gracie. And the front entrance seemed to have shrunk since Gracie’s days there. It reminded her of the tiny door at the bottom of the rabbit hole in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. She glanced into the principal’s office at the dreaded green corduroy couch and saw Alex sitting on it. His hair, straight and brown like Gracie’s, lay flat on his head, and he slumped, staring at his shoes.
“Alex?” She gave him a questioning look, taking in the rest of the office.
Behind her desk was Elena MacAvoy, the motherly principal of Chesterville Elementary. She
wore muumuus and, during the course of her long administrative career, had lost more than one pencil in her nest of flyaway blond ringlets. She glanced through the doorway at Gracie and gestured for her to come in. The expression on her face would not be described as motherly, unless one remembered that Medusa had been a mother too.
“What’s, um, going on?” said Gracie, stepping into the office.
“Maybe you’d like to share some of today’s highlights with your sister, Alex,” Mrs. MacAvoy said.
“I…uh…” Alex stuck his index finger in his right ear and wiggled it around. “I…uh…”
“He cheated on the science test,” Mrs. MacAvoy told Gracie. “He copied his answers word for word from Carrie Talbot’s paper.”
“How do you know Carrie Talbot didn’t copy from me?” Alex said weakly.
“Ever the humorist, I see, Alex.” Mrs. MacAvoy glared at him, then at Gracie. “I’ve left several messages on your home phone and your mother’s cell phone.”
“I made a hundred on the test,” Alex said to Gracie.
“Alex!” Gracie’s mouth dropped open. He hadn’t even remembered to take his book home. How could he have made a hundred? He must have cheated.
“He’ll have detention tomorrow, and his teacher has changed his grade on the test to a zero,” said Mrs. MacAvoy, pushing herself up from her chair. “This is very unfortunate. Gracie, please make sure your mother or father returns my call so we can talk about this.”
“I will,” Gracie said. “I think Mom had to make some kind of presentation today, and I’m sure as soon as that’s over she’ll be in touch.” She smiled in what she hoped was a helpful way. She didn’t say anything about Dad. Lately it was Rawley family policy not to talk too much about Dad.
Alex stood up, rolling his eyes so only Gracie could see, but his shoulders were hunched.
What had Gracie been thinking, writing that Alex had gotten an A on his science test? Alex had only had one A in his life—on a math project that involved calculating batting averages. Alex getting an A was so far outside reality that the journal had resorted to having Alex cheat to make what she’d written come true. This was awful. This was Gracie’s fault!
Write Before Your Eyes Page 3