It would be easier if you could.
“I just can’t figure out if we should open with juggling, or with David Lesser and his Corgi,” Meghan says as she stirs her yogurt.
“What does David’s Corgi do?” I ask. I’ve met Priscilla — she’s a great dog, but her legs are so short and stubby that I can’t imagine her jumping through a hoop, or anything.
“She does ballet, apparently,” Meghan says.
“Are you joking right now?”
“No.”
“No, really. Tell the truth.”
“I am.”
“Quit lying.”
“Swear,” Meghan says, holding up three fingers, scouts-honor style. “David says she dances on her hind legs.”
“Open with that,” I say, and nibble a plantain chip. I seriously love them. The salty kind, not the sweet ones.
Meghan nods, makes a note, then takes a bite of her yogurt. “This talent show is really coming together.”
“Have you asked Ms. Lang’s permission yet?”
“Not exactly.” Meghan blows her pink bangs out of her eyes.
I sigh. I should have known.
“If everything’s all set, it’ll be harder for her to say no,” Meghan reasons.
“If everything’s all set, it’ll be easier for her to go ballistic,” I shoot back.
Meghan chews on her pen cap. “Do you think it’s possible to do it without her finding out?”
“No. And if you try, Meghan Markerson, I swear, you can forget about my help.”
“Okay, okay.” She rolls her eyes and makes another note. “Too bad Artie won’t help us. She could probably convince Ms. Lang to go for it.”
It’s as if the mention of Artie’s name causes her to appear. I see her cross the cafeteria and approach the dramarama table holding her tray. She hovers at the end for a moment, and I think that she and I realize at the same moment that there isn’t an open seat for her. Artie glances over at the other nearby chairs, as if she might drag one over, but nobody at the table even looks at her. I see her mouth move, forming, “Hey.”
Still nobody glances her way.
“Okay, I’m thinking that Adelaide Green’s jazz trio can open the second half,” Meghan is saying, but I’m barely listening. I can’t tear my eyes away from the train wreck happening at the dramarama table. Artie hesitates a moment, uncertain. Chang finally looks over at her. But that’s all she does. She eyeballs Artie from head to foot, then turns back to Trina Bachman. Sharp little needles stick into my heart as Artie turns and walks toward the double doors.
“Where are you going?” Meghan calls, and that’s when I realize that I’m chasing Artie. I don’t even remember deciding to go after her. I’m just doing it.
“Artie?” I ask softly once I’m two steps behind her.
She wheels, her eyes flashing. “How many times do I have to ask you to call me Artemis?” she snaps.
“Um — one more?”
She huffs out a sigh, and her nostrils flare. “What do you want, Hayley?” she asks. She sounds tired.
“I just wondered if you wanted to eat lunch with me and Meghan,” I say.
Artie blushes, and I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have let her know that I saw her get dissed by the dramaramas. “Sit with the two of you?” she hisses. Her eyes fill, and a tear catches on her long eyelashes. “Are you serious? This whole thing is your fault!”
I almost walk away. Almost. But, for some reason, my feet stay bolted to the floor. The usual noise of the cafeteria surrounds us — the clank and chatter of lunch. It reminds me of the café, and I find myself thinking of Gran and Uzma.
Sometimes the people who most want to share are the ones who aren’t very good at it, Gran had said.
“Yeah, I get that,” I say to Artie. “But — maybe you want to sit with us, anyway.”
Artie stares at me for a moment. She sneaks a sideways glance toward the drama table and presses her lips together, so that they form a slim seam. She doesn’t need to speak.
I turn and walk back to my table. Artie is right behind me.
“Oh.” Meghan’s eyebrows are raised in surprise as Artie places her tray on our table. “Hi.”
Artie doesn’t reply. She looks down at her food. Her face is hidden by a curtain of auburn hair, but I see a teardrop spill into her salad.
Meghan pulls a crumpled tissue out of her bag.
Artie looks at it, then takes it. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I pick up the cupcake from my tray and place it on Artie’s.
My Ex-Best blows her nose and then takes a bite of the cupcake. “This is really good,” she says after a moment. Her voice is quiet and she doesn’t look up when she says it. That’s okay.
She doesn’t have to say anything else.
I know she means more than the cupcake.
∗ ∗ ∗
The final bell rang ten minutes ago, and I’m walking down the hall toward the costume shop when I hear piano notes floating from one of the practice rooms. They’re so beautiful, I feel like I can catch them in midair, like butterflies.
I’m pretty sure I know who’s playing, but I peek as I walk by, anyway. I pause in the doorway.
It’s Kyle.
His fingers are long and slim, and almost as pale as the ivory keys they dance across. I tuck my hair behind my ear and hitch my book bag higher onto my shoulder, wishing I knew what to say to him. I want to apologize. I also want him to understand that he shouldn’t be embarrassed — it’s not his fault that Jamil and Omar are jerks.
But I also kind of want to just walk away.
“I hope you’re enjoying this, whoever you are,” Kyle announces. He doesn’t turn his head toward the door frame, and I wonder how he knows I’m here. Maybe I’m blocking some of the light.
This is my last chance to escape unnoticed. I don’t take it.
“It’s Hayley,” I tell him.
His fingers pause for just a moment, then he plays on. “Hi,” he says. The keys at the top of the keyboard tinkle.
“What are you playing?” I ask, mostly because I can’t think of anything else to say.
Kyle shrugs. “Just something I made up. Well, I’m still working on it.” He plays a few more notes, then pushes himself away from the keys.
“You’re making it up?”
“I was thinking of playing it at the talent show.”
“You know that might not be a real thing, right? I mean, Meghan hasn’t told anyone in the administration that it’s happening. She hasn’t even reserved the auditorium.”
Kyle’s smile is lopsided. “She’ll work it out.”
“You’re probably right.”
“She has freaky powers,” Kyle says. “People do what she asks.”
I laugh a little, but it comes out like a snort. “Tell me about it.”
Kyle scoots over on the piano bench, and I come and sit down beside him. His fingers stray over the keys a little as he plays a simple melody from the song he was creating a moment before.
“That’s really beautiful,” I tell him.
“Thanks,” Kyle says. His fingers drop from the keys.
Neither one of us speaks.
His arm shifts, and it presses against mine for a moment. I don’t move mine away, and he doesn’t move his, either.
My whole head starts to tingle. I can hear myself breathe.
Kyle turns toward me. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Why?” The word is a whisper. I don’t mean it to be, but I can’t quite catch my breath.
“I didn’t mean to be so — I don’t know. That whole Jamil and Omar thing … That wasn’t your fault. I didn’t mean to get mad at you.”
“I know,” I say, even though I didn’t know, not until he said so.
“Those guys aren’t so bad….”
“They’ve just gone crazy lately,” I agree.
“Yeah.” Kyle sighs, and I feel his breath against my arm. His eyes are the gray of a deep ocean beneath a stormy sk
y. “I wish —” he says, then breaks off.
“What?”
He smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “I just wish I could see your face right now, Hayley,” Kyle says.
His arm is still warm against mine. I forget to breathe.
“Hayley Hicks, what are you doing in here?” Ms. Lang screeches from the doorway.
I jump from the bench, like electricity has just shot through me. “Oh!”
“You’re supposed to be in detention! You’re late! You’ll stay an extra twenty minutes!” She’s like a car alarm.
“Okay, okay,” I tell her. “Fine.” And just like that, I scramble out of the practice room. Ms. Lang is right on my heels.
I don’t say good-bye to Kyle. I don’t even look back.
I feel as if my hair was on fire and Ms. Lang just doused me with a bucket of water.
But I’m not sure that I’m grateful.
What did that mean? Why did he want to see my face? Why do I feel so dizzy?
Do I have a crush on Kyle? I don’t know.
When I used to see Devon, I’d feel tongue-tied and shy. I’d get clumsy and say stupid stuff.
I’m not like that with Kyle. When I’m with him, I just feel kind of … happy. The way you do around a friend.
Except I don’t feel that way around my other friends.
Just Kyle.
Today’s assignment: script highlighting.
Yes. That’s right. My detention “job” is to take a highlighter and mark everything that the character Mr. Wallings says in the script for a play called Laugh Tracks. When that’s finished, I get to take the next script and highlight everything Mrs. Wallings says. Then I get to highlight a script for Pesky Stahl.
It’s a thrill.
“This play is so bad,” Meghan says as she flips through a script. “Seriously, my cat could write a better play.”
“I think it’s funny,” Artie says.
Meghan rolls her eyes. “‘Something’s fishy,’” she reads from the script. “‘Oh, darling, that’s just the salmon I cooked for dinner.’” She purses her lips in Artie’s direction.
“Maybe it’s all in the delivery,” I say.
Artie doesn’t say anything. She just marks up her page and flips it over.
“All I know is that the dramaramas are going to perform an original improv at the talent show, and I’ll bet it will be fifty times funnier than this play,” Meghan says.
Artie scowls and flips another page. It’s an angry page-flip, if you know what I mean. Crinkly.
Meghan is completely oblivious to Artie’s furious highlighting. “So, listen, I think I’m going to talk to Ms. Lang today.”
“Finally,” I say.
“Don’t do it,” Artie puts in.
“Why not?”
Artie snaps the cap back onto her highlighter and looks at Meghan evenly. “Because it’s going to be a huge disaster.”
“What’s going to be a huge disaster?” Ms. Lang asks as she walks into the costume shop. She narrows her eyes at me, and I look down at my script and highlight the first thing I see. Shoot. Wrong line.
“Ms. Lang, I’ve been learning a lot by spending time in the drama department,” Meghan says in her Teacher Hypnotist voice. I’ve heard her use this tone before — teachers and administrators seem to find it soothing. They usually agree to whatever she suggests.
Ms. Lang doesn’t seem hypnotized, though. She folds her arms across her chest. “Really,” she says.
“Yes! And I’ve been thinking — there’s so much talent here at Adams Middle School. Wouldn’t it be great if we could do a talent show?” Meghan’s eyes are shining, and I feel my heart pulsing against my chest.
Ms. Lang shakes her head. “I’ve got enough to do,” she says.
“Oh, but a talent show doesn’t take much prep or rehearsal, because everyone just brings the talent they’ve already got,” Meghan explains. “The kids who’ve signed up are —”
“Signed up?” Ms. Lang snaps.
“Well, uh — I haven’t really signed them up exactly …” Meghan looks over at me for help, but all I can do is wince.
“You do realize that you need permission from this department to use the stage, don’t you?” Ms. Lang glares at Meghan.
“Yes, of course — I just thought —”
“You thought that I’d love your brilliant idea as much as you do?” The drama teacher’s voice is scornful. “Yes, who wouldn’t, Meghan?” she demands sarcastically. “What teacher wouldn’t be thrilled to take on more work in order to humor you?”
Meghan’s cheeks are flushed. She opens her mouth to speak but doesn’t make a sound. I’ve never seen her speechless before — it’s a little unnerving. She looks at me again. I don’t know what to say.
“Well, Meghan was just so excited because she thought it would be a good fund-raiser for the Appletree Foundation,” Artie says suddenly.
For a moment, Ms. Lang doesn’t tear her eyes away from Meghan. It’s like it takes a while for Artie’s words to settle over her. Finally, she cocks her head and looks over at Artie. “Fund-raiser?” she repeats.
“Right,” Artie chirps. “Since you’re on the board of directors for Appletree, we thought you might be interested.”
We? I look at Artie in surprise.
Artie doesn’t glance at me, though. She’s looking at Meghan.
“Oh, right!” Meghan says. “You know, art for a good cause,” she says brightly.
“Hmm.” Ms. Lang runs her index finger over her right eyebrow. “Well, that’s a bit different, isn’t it? Actually, that’s a good idea. Yes.”
“The three of us have already done a lot of the legwork,” Artie says. “You know, just in case you said yes. But lots of the kids are really excited about it. Especially David Lesser.”
“David Lesser?” Ms. Lang repeats.
“His dog does ballet,” Meghan puts in.
Oh, Artie, you evil genius. Everyone knows that the Lessers are loaded. Ms. Lang’s eyes go wide, and I can almost see the dollar signs in them. Appletree is a nonprofit that brings arts classes to homeless teens. I’ve heard that Ms. Lang is really passionate about it, but it doesn’t have a big budget.
“Well, girls, I think this is a good idea. An excellent idea. Once you finish up the scripts, you can work on putting the talent show together. When were you thinking of holding it, Meghan?”
“Friday after next,” Meghan says.
“Ambitious.” Ms. Lang frowns.
“Like I said, no rehearsal, no problem.” Meghan smiles her charming smile.
“Well, you have my permission to move forward,” Ms. Lang says. Then she strides out of the costume shop.
Meghan gives Artie a hilarious fish-lipped, lifted-eyebrow look. “Well, that was amazing,” she says.
“I couldn’t just sit here watching you two squirm,” Artie shoots back. She looks at me and shakes her head.
“Besides, you know this is going to be super fun!” I tell her.
Artie looks at me. Then she laughs a little. “Yeah, Hayley,” she says. “It’s going to be fun.”
I can’t help smiling. I actually really think it will be.
Fun, I mean.
“What do you think?” Artie asks Monday morning in homeroom. She holds up a glittery poster that reads, ADAMS SCHOOL TALENT SHOW. IF YOU’VE GOT IT, WE WANT TO SEE IT, in glittery letters. There’s a sign-up sheet at the bottom.
“Perfect!” Meghan gushes.
“I submitted the info for the morning announcements,” I say just as the PA system starts to crackle.
“Sit down, everyone,” Ms. Anderson says in a bored voice. “Take a seat. Listen up.”
“I’ll put this up in the drama wing,” Artie says as she rolls up the poster.
“Front hall is better,” Meghan tells her. “More people will see it.”
Artie just cocks an eyebrow, and I know that the poster is going up in the drama wing.
“Good morning, fellow students,” blar
es from the PA. It’s the president of the eighth-grade class council, Gia Andres. “It’s Monday, February 27. All students who wish to participate in this spring’s election should attend an orientation …”
Meghan passes me a note. Have a few ideas for talent show. Talk at lunch?
I fold it over and write back. Let’s talk at detention so Artie can join.
Okay. Last day — yay!
I look over and grin. I’ve been waiting to get that extra hour back in the afternoon. Which I’ll now be spending planning the talent show, of course.
The PA drones on. “… and finally, anyone interested in signing up for the talent show —”
Meghan puts out a thumbs-up.
“— should sign up — Hey! What are you —”
Oh, no. A familiar voice — make that two familiar voices — plow over the sound system.
“This is Jamil —”
“And Omar!”
“And we’re here to rhyme!”
“So pardon us for busting up announcement time!”
Meghan looks over at me. Her eyes are dangerous slits. “I’m going to throttle them,” she murmurs.
I catch Artie’s eye from across the room. She’s shaking her head.
I roll my eyes. Great. My announcement got rap-bombed. I’d spent a lot of time writing it, too.
If Meghan wants to throttle those guys, I think, she’s going to have to get in line.
“We’re getting too many sign-ups,” Artie says as she brushes a green wig. The costume shop is really looking good. It’s our last day of detention, and at least it’s served some purpose. The racks are hung with clothes that are clean and repaired, everything organized by size and color. The tables are stacked with props, the hats are in boxes or displayed on shelves. “We should weed a few people out.”
“Weed a few people out?” Meghan looks aghast, which is kind of hilarious, given that she’s wearing a black pillbox hat with cherries on it. “Why should we weed people out?”
Artie lifts an eyebrow. “Um, because some of these acts sound horrible?” She puts down her wig and scans the list. “What’s an ‘Umbrella Dance’?”
“But isn’t the fun of a talent show the fact that some of the acts are bad?” I ask as I put another stitch into the cape I’m working on. It’s purple velvet, and I’m repairing some gold trim at the edges. I can’t decide if it’s gorgeous or hideous. Both, kind of.
Confectionately Yours #3: Sugar and Spice Page 7