He passes around a bowl of nuts. Not the eating kind, but the metal kind that sit at the end of a screw. And then he passes out balloons. The whole time most everyone is already howling. And Mr. Levy doesn’t stop us.
He tells us to each put the nut in our balloons before we blow them up. When we swirl our balloons around, they make weird, squeaky noises. I’m not sure if that’s what a banshee sounds like, but it’s super loud.
Bernard swings his balloon so wild, he hits the boy sitting next to him, who acts like Bernard punched him or something. I’m pretty sure a balloon wouldn’t hurt that much, but Mr. Levy sends Bernard to the office anyway.
I don’t think Mr. Levy likes Bernard.
Today’s a minimum day, so each class is shorter, which means I get to meet up with my friends at break earlier than usual. But when I get to our spot, only Isabella is there.
Her long hair is in two braids, and she has a bright yellow flower pinned on one side. Her top is white and it’s a little off her shoulders, and then she has a bright skirt on that’s full of flowers and birds. She looks amazing.
“You look great,” she tells me. “What are you dressed as?”
“A protester. From the sixties. The Black Panthers?” Then I force myself to say, “You look awesome.”
Isabella spins around. “It’s from a painting. I really like the artist, Mia Roman Hernandez? She’s Puerto Rican, like me.”
“Oh, cool,” I say, even though I’ve never heard of this Mia person.
“I don’t look stupid?” Isabella asks, fiddling with her braids.
I can’t believe Isabella doesn’t realize how fantastic she looks. “No,” I say. “You definitely do not look stupid.”
“Where do you think Julia is?” Isabella asks. I’m pretty sure I know, but I don’t say. Isabella shrugs. “Guess she got held up in second period.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say. Or she wants to stand around and laugh at every dumb thing Stacy says.
I wonder if Julia will be sad when she sees that Isabella and I dressed up. Especially since everyone in costume gets a special pass to eat lunch on the front lawn.
It’s weird to think I probably won’t see Julia at all today.
When it’s time for lunch, Isabella and I meet up out front instead of the lunch tables.
The front of the school is nice, with a big hill of grass and trees and flowers and stuff. Normally it’s off limits for lunch because there’s no gate, and I guess they think kids would just wander off.
A sculpture of a guy’s head sits right in the middle of the grass, and when Isabella and I go over to look, I see that of course it is Ralph Waldo Emerson. He looks pretty grim. Maybe I should have dressed up as him for Halloween; that would’ve been scary.
Coach West comes over while I’m reading the engraving on the plaque below the statue. It lets me know Emerson lived from 1803 to 1882, and it says:
OUR GREATEST GLORY IS NOT IN NEVER FAILING, BUT IN RISING UP EVERY TIME WE FAIL.
I think about that for second. Honestly, if I have a choice, I’d pick not to fail.
“Interesting man,” Coach West says. She points to the quote. “No one really knows if he’s actually the one who said we should get up after we fail, but I’m guessing he would’ve thought it was true. He believed an easy life doesn’t teach much.”
“I guess,” I say.
“Sounds like my mom,” Isabella says.
Coach West chuckles at that. Then she says to Isabella, “You look like you walked right off of Mia’s canvas,” and Isabella grins real big. Then Coach West looks me up and down. “Huey Newton? Bobby Seale?”
I’m not surprised Coach West would know my costume is for one of the Black Panther activists. Even though I didn’t know those names before Hana told me, I nod happily.
“You should enter the contest,” Coach West tells us, and nods toward a row of benches.
The student council is having a costume contest, and if you want to be in it, all you have to do is join the people waiting for a turn to walk across the benches Student Council lined up like a runway. Isabella giggles and I rub my itchy hands together and say, “No, thanks.”
“Okay, well, have fun,” Coach West says.
Isabella and I find a spot on the pokey grass, and just as I’m rearranging my beret for the millionth time, I see Julia.
24
Batgirl & Boots
Julia’s dressed as Batgirl, and let me point out there’s no way anyone could come up with that costume at the last minute. But that’s not the worst part.
All her other friends are dressed as superheroes too.
I can’t even believe Julia did a group thing with them and not with us. I can’t even believe she didn’t tell us. I can’t even.
She comes over and plops down like it’s no big deal. “So, Shay, what exactly are you supposed to be?”
I don’t want to answer her. I don’t want to talk to her. I pinch my wrist to keep from saying anything.
“Huey somebody?” Isabella says. “A protester from a long time ago, I think.”
“Ooooh,” Julia says. She picks a wish flower from the grass and blows it. I want to tell her you’re not supposed to do that. It’s just spreading weeds around. “Yeah, I get it, bruh,” she says, nodding. “On the real.” Then she stands back up.
I look up at her and shield the sun out of my eyes so I can see her better. I have a ton of questions sitting fat and slimy on my tongue that I want to spit out.
“Nice costume, Jules,” Isabella says, and even though Isabella doesn’t say it in a mean way, I think all three of us know there’s a lot being said right there.
Julia’s cheeks get a little pink, “Hey, you want to hang with us?” she asks.
“No thanks,” I say, barely opening my mouth to get the words out.
Julia just stands there for a second like she isn’t sure what to do, but then she says, “Okay, then, late!” and runs back to her other friends.
This is another new Julia-ism. Instead of saying, I’ll see you later, like a normal person, she shouts late at you, like she is too busy to be bothered with adding the r. She even does it in text messages.
I can’t tell if Isabella is as mad as I am. I’ve never really seen her get upset over anything unless she’s fighting with her little brother. She’s just too nice to call Julia out, and the reason I didn’t say anything to Julia is because if I said one word, a whole bunch of other ones would’ve come out.
And Momma tells me all the time not to say anything you can’t take back.
I watch Julia and Stacy whisper together and then crack up laughing, and my belly pinches tight.
“She acted like she wasn’t going to dress up,” Isabella says. There’s a question tucked in Isabella’s voice. She starts sucking the end of one of her braids.
I don’t say anything.
Isabella’s eyes are big and sad, and that makes me even angrier. “I guess she changed her mind,” Isabella says.
I don’t say anything.
“Well, she looks great,” Isabella says with a little sigh.
“But she acted like dressing up was dumb,” I complain.
“She must’ve decided it wasn’t.” Isabella shrugs. “And we dressed up anyway.”
“That’s not the point,” I say. “Doesn’t it make you mad?”
“I wore what I wanted. Didn’t you? Besides, maybe it was a command,” Isabella says.
“Is!” I start in, but a darkness blocks out the sun.
Bernard.
He has a patch over one eye, which seems less like a costume and more like he got into a bad fight recently. He must’ve had it in his backpack, because he wasn’t wearing it this morning in science. I can’t believe an eye patch is a ticket to the lawn. And I can’t believe when I’m feeling like punching somebody, Bernard is over here bothering me. Obviously, I can’t punch him. I look over at Julia and then away quick. I don’t want her to think I’m worried about her at all.
�
�Hey,” he says. His voice isn’t just really loud, it’s also really deep.
“Oh, hey, Bernard,” I squeak out. I glance at Isabella, wondering if she’s on the verge of freaking out too, but she doesn’t seem bothered.
“Hey,” she says to Bernard.
Bernard glares at me, but I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong. Maybe he just wants to sit in this spot. The grass is scratchy, so I wouldn’t mind leaving if he wants us to. I don’t have Bernard figured out anymore. I know if he wants something, he’ll just take it, but at the same time, he doesn’t act all that mean to me. Still, I can’t help but feel afraid every time I see him.
“I want to sit here,” he says, and plops right down.
Isabella and I exchange looks again. This time her eyes are wide like mine.
Great. We are in the space he wants. At least he didn’t shove us out of the way or anything.
I look around to see if Coach West is still around. She’ll step in if something’s about to go down. I know Bernard isn’t doing anything wrong, but my brain can’t keep adding yet.
“Sorry,” I say, and get up. “We were just waiting for the contest line to die down.” I grab Isabella’s hand. “So, come on, Is, let’s go.”
“Fine,” Bernard says, frowning at me.
Once we are in line, Isabella asks, “You really want to enter the contest?” She sounds surprised, because it’s not the type of thing I would normally do.
“We have to now,” I say. “Bernard freaked me out. It’s like he’s after me.”
“Drama queen? It doesn’t seem like he’s after you. And anyway, he doesn’t seem so bad now.” Isabella adjusts her flower.
“You haven’t seen him when he’s mad.” As soon as I say it, I feel guilty because I haven’t really seen Bernard acting all that mad recently. (Snatching Legos when we were in second grade probably shouldn’t count.) But he did break that slide. And knocked over his desk. And whacked someone with a balloon. It’s not my fault he’s scary.
We slowly move up in line, and my stomach starts doing cartwheels.
Isabella goes first. And she walks down the runway of benches like it’s no big deal.
I take a couple of steps on the first bench. I had no idea it was going to be so wobbly! I take another step and start to slip. I wave my arms to catch my balance. I look ridiculous, and the only thing I can think to do is try and turn my wack moves into a dance, and so I wave and slip and groove my way across the benches.
I hear Coach West shout out, “Go, Shayla! Go, Shayla!” and then Bernard says it too, with his deep booming voice. And then it seems like everybody is shouting at me to go.
Gladly, I think.
I’ve thought of Bernard as a bully for so long, it’s hard to think of him any other way. Maybe Isabella is right and he’s not so bad. But I still know better than to make him mad.
If I had dressed up as a superhero, I would have been Atom Eve, with those cute pink boots. That would have been cool.
25
Black Power
After fifth period, on my way to shop, I run right into Principal Trask. Like, literally. She turned the corner the same time I did, and wham!
“Sorry!” I say, and try to rush off, but she stops me.
She looks me up and down and frowns. “Young lady, do you really think it’s appropriate to wear that to school?”
I look down at myself, because I don’t know what she’s talking about. “This?” I’ve seen girls in ridiculously flashy, slinky costumes today that seem inappropriate, but there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with what I have on.
“Yes. Glorifying such a violent time in history . . . such a violent movement.” Principal Trask shakes her head. “Just doesn’t seem like a good idea, does it?” She tips her head to the side, waiting for my answer.
My mouth goes dry, and my heart is pounding so hard, it feels like someone’s beating it like a drum. And my hands are on fire. “But—” I want to say how the Black Panthers weren’t about violence, but my mouth won’t cooperate.
“Maybe you should take it off,” Principal Trask suggests, almost as if she’s being helpful.
I’m not sure if she’s actually telling me I have to, and I sure don’t want to. But no way can I get into principal-level trouble. Momma would kill me.
“Okay,” I finally say. I slide the beret off my head and wriggle out of Daddy’s coat. Luckily, under that I have on regular stuff. Just a black T-shirt and black jeans.
Principal Trask looks me over. “That’s better, right?” she says, and actually almost smiles at me like we’re pals now or something. Principal Trask isn’t good at smiling. “And watch where you’re going.” She sniffs and brushes past me.
I head to shop, feeling awful. I don’t think my costume was bad, and it sure wasn’t supporting violence. Momma never would’ve let me wear it if that had been true. And I hate how Principal Trask wanted me to agree with her that my costume was a bad idea.
When I get to class, my sour mood must show all over my face, because Yolanda asks me right away what’s wrong. She’s dressed up as Princess Leia, and her hair is in those two huge buns.
When I tell her, her eyes go wide. “That’s not fair.”
“I know,” I say.
“Wait, Trask made you take off your costume?” Tyler says, butting in. “I thought it was cool.” He sticks his fist up. “Black power!”
I don’t want to say she didn’t actually make me take it off. Maybe I shouldn’t have. “We weren’t talking to you,” I tell him, and Yolanda frowns at me. I’m being a tiny bit rude, but he’s being majorly rude for just busting into a conversation he wasn’t invited to.
Tyler laughs like I said something nice. “Yeah, my bad.”
“She’s just in a bad mood because of Trask,” Yolanda explains to Tyler, and he nods.
“Cool. Cool,” he says. “Talk to you later.”
When he walks away, Yolanda sort of hisses at me, “That was rude.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “I don’t think he even notices.”
“He has feelings,” Yolanda says. “Everybody does.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “Sorry.”
26
Squad Goals
When Momma picks me up, she asks me why I’m not wearing my costume.
“It got too hot,” I say. I don’t want to tell her about Principal Trask because I bet Momma would get heated about that. All I want to do now is go home and figure out how to waste time until trick-or-treaters start showing up.
I’m in that weird in-between Halloween stage. Too old to go out and get candy, and too young to go to the kind of parties Hana goes to. Hana and her friends have “old school” parties. Everyone goes to someone’s house, and they play a lot of music and dance. Sounds fun.
Isabella thought that maybe we should go to Fright by Night at Six Flags. I didn’t even have to ask Momma if I could go. A big N-O is what she’d have to say to that. I don’t mind too much because walking around in the dark with zombies and monsters jumping out at you is not my idea of a good time.
Sometimes I wish I could be more like my friends, but it sure seems like being brave gets people in a heap of trouble. And just thinking about that makes my hands itch.
It’s not so bad being stuck at home tonight. I get to pass out the candy, and the kids who come to our door are the cutest. I’ve seen about twenty Wonder Womans and a whole slew of minions. Spies are big this year too, and a little girl in a tiny trench coat and dark sunglasses is absolutely hilarious.
I take some snaps and send them to Is and Jules. Our group chat started when we all got phones last year. It’s pretty cool that I can scroll all the way back to those old messages. We don’t have nearly as many messages this year.
Isabella is sending updates from the horror-movie marathon she’s watching. It’s the only way I want to see a scary movie. Her saying, Oh no, she doesn’t see the mean doll moving behind her is enough to give me a tiny heart attack. Julia only
texted once, to say she ate too many Reese’s Pieces and then a snap of her with a silly Halloween filter.
By nine o’clock our porch light is off. Momma says she doesn’t want any big kids knocking on our door that late, and she tells me it’s time for bed even though I’m not even a little bit tired.
I snuggle into my flannel sheets and flip through pictures on my phone. I’m not really supposed to use my phone after nine, but it’s way too hard to try to sleep when you’re not tired.
My phone buzzes with a message from Isabella.
Isabella: Check out Stacy’s posts.
Me: You’re friends with Stacy?
Isabella: I follow her online. I follow everybody!
I have a bad feeling, but I find Stacy’s profile and click on the first post. It’s a picture of her and Julia and a few other girls. In their superhero costumes at Six Flags. I flip through more pictures. They’re at Westwood. At someone’s house swimming. At the movies. Each picture gets me more upset. I can’t explain it. It’s not as if I didn’t know they were friends, but seeing Julia’s smile like that—her really, really wide one, that she only does when she’s having the best time ever—makes me feel bad. And she must think there’s something wrong with these pictures if she didn’t post them on her own profile.
Stacy makes a new post, and this one’s a video. And even though I want to shut off my phone and not look anymore, I click the volume so I can hear them, and they are screaming like zombies are about to chew off their faces and then they all shout, “Squad Goals!”
Seeing that makes my eyes tear up.
And then my bedroom door bangs open and there’s Momma filling up the doorframe. “Shayla? What are you doing?”
I slide my phone under the covers, hoping to hide the glow.
Momma isn’t stupid. “I know you’re not texting after nine o’clock.”
This is Momma’s way. To tell you she knows you’re not doing the very thing you are doing.
“I’m . . . I’m . . .” I wipe my nose and blink back tears and hope I look as sorrowful as I feel. Maybe Momma will understand.
A Good Kind of Trouble Page 8