One Tough Chick

by Leslie Margolis

  “Okay,” said Oliver. “I’d better go now. See you soon.” He turned around and jogged back to his mom’s car.

  Leaving me with nothing to do but walk inside.

  “How was your night?” asked my mom when I walked past her. She was sitting in the living room with her knees propped up and a stack of essays at her side. Her wild blond hair was piled up on top of her head. My mom teaches high school English and usually spends weekends grading or lesson planning. Tonight was no exception.

  “It looked like she was having a lovely time,” said Ted, walking into the house through the garage.

  “Not that you were spying or anything,” I said.

  “Sorry about the timing, Annabelle. I didn’t mean to ruin your privacy.”

  “Privacy?” My mom raised her eyebrows. “Why would you need privacy, honey?”

  “No comment.” I sprinted up the steps before they could ask me anything else.

  Once in my room I turned on my stereo and put on the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine. Then I flopped down on my bed.

  Pepper joined me and rolled onto his back. I scratched his tummy. Rachel made me promise to call her as soon as I got home, but I didn’t feel like talking to anyone about my date. Not yet and maybe not ever.

  I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror. Did I look different from a few hours ago? Before I’d had my first date? I couldn’t stop smiling, but other than that, I couldn’t tell.

  I grabbed my camera and took another picture of myself.

  Then I downloaded both photos on my laptop and compared my before-the-date image to my after-the-date image.

  In the first photo I looked flushed and excited. In the second I seemed wiser and more experienced. Or maybe that was my eyes playing tricks on me.

  Did I look older?

  More experienced?

  Maybe anyone else wouldn’t be able to find any differences between the two photos.

  Maybe I was looking too hard because it seemed like the outside of me should match my inside, and I definitely felt different on the inside.

  Maybe it didn’t matter that I didn’t look any different on the outside. What’s important is that I’d changed on the inside. Right?

  When the phone rang moments later I picked it up on the first ring, expecting Rachel’s call. I figured she’d seen me come home, since she lives just across the street and her bedroom faces my house.

  Maybe she’d watched Oliver and me from her window.

  Maybe she could tell me if it looked like Oliver had wanted to kiss me.

  No, she probably couldn’t see his face clearly from across the street in the dark.

  Not unless she’d been using binoculars.

  Binoculars with night vision.

  Or was that creepy?

  Except it wasn’t Rachel on the phone or any of my other friends.

  It was a woman whose voice I didn’t recognize.

  As I said hello, I realized Ted was on the phone, too.

  “Ted? Is that you?” asked a strange woman’s voice.

  “Patricia, nice to hear from you,” said Ted. “We need to talk.”

  “No kidding,” she replied in a no-nonsense tone of voice.

  They didn’t know I was on the phone, and I hung up before they could figure it out.

  Normally some random phone call for my stepdad wouldn’t get me thinking twice, but for some reason, this particular one did. For one thing, it’s past nine o’clock on a Saturday night, so I doubted the call was work related. And secondly, even though I didn’t recognize Patricia’s voice, her name sounded familiar. At first I wasn’t sure why, but then it struck me.

  I did know of a Patricia. She’s Jason’s mom. Jason is my stepbrother. He’s Ted’s son from his first marriage, his son with Patricia. Which means that Patricia is Ted’s ex-wife.

  I wondered why they needed to talk. Was something going on with Jason? He and I are pretty close considering that we only met a year ago and he’s ten years older than I am. Except he’s not around these days. He’s in college and living in Switzerland for the year. We e-mail sometimes, and in fact, he just wrote to me two days ago. “Hey, Annabelle—how’s life in Westlake? Snow is still awesome and I’m boarding every day. Will definitely give you a lesson when I get back to town. K? Peace out!”

  Jason is kind of a hippie dude, in case you couldn’t tell. But my point is, if something was going on, I’m sure I’d already have known about it.

  I turned on my computer and sent Jason a quick e-mail anyway. “Just embarrassed myself at IHOP, but did have some awesome froyo. See ya soon! Annabelle.”

  Chapter Five

  a Hot (Dog) Mess

  When I answered the door on Monday morning I found Rachel on my front stoop with a Band-Aid on her forehead and a thick black brace wrapped around her ankle.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “What happened is that I have finally perfected the art of unicycle riding,” Rachel replied, dramatically holding up her new unicycle. It looked strange, like a broken bicycle with a really high seat.

  I blinked at her, trying to figure out what felt off. Besides the bandages, I mean. Then it hit me. “Hey, why does your voice sound so funny?”

  “Oh, my tongue is a little swollen because I bit it on my last fall,” she admitted.

  “Ouch!” I said, raising one hand to my own mouth.

  “Don’t worry,” Rachel replied, seemingly unfazed. “It was totally worth it. I can ride forward and backward and turn on a dime.”

  “On an actual dime?” I asked.

  “No, turns out that’s only an expression. It means I can make super-sharp turns.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s still pretty cool.”

  “Yeah, I tried turning on an actual dime,” Rachel admitted. “That’s how I fell and twisted my ankle.”

  I shrugged. “A dime would be too small to see from the stage anyway.”

  “Yeah, unfortunately that only occurred to me recently, as in after my fall.”

  “At least you didn’t break anything, right?”

  “Nope,” said Rachel. “And I have the emergency-room X-rays to prove it. My mom insisted that we go after I accidentally rode into our swimming pool and hit my head on the edge of the deep end. She’s so over-protective.”

  I laughed. “It’s pretty impressive that you taught yourself how to ride that thing.”

  Rachel and I both stared at the unicycle. “Yeah. The juggling I’m still working on. And the juggling while unicycling may not happen in time, but I figure I could do two minutes of each during my act and still have time for some jokes.”

  “Jokes?” I asked.

  “Yup. I’m going to do a stand-up routine, too. Comedy, unicycling, and juggling. It’ll probably be a Birchwood first.”

  “Maybe the first in all of Westlake,” I said. “I’m impressed, but are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Surface wounds,” Rachel said with a wave of her scraped-up hand. “And totally worth it. So, are you ready?”

  “Hold on. Let me get my backpack.” I ducked inside for a second to get my stuff and yell good-bye to everyone, and then I joined Rachel.

  “Can I see you ride the unicycle?” I asked.

  “I promised my parents I wouldn’t ride it on the street,” said Rachel. “Only in our backyard and onstage. But you’ll see me this afternoon.”

  “I can’t wait!” I said.

  The talent show committee was holding auditions after school. Pepper and I had practiced his tricks all day on Sunday. We were ready, but I still felt super-nervous. My stomach felt so twitchy I could hardly finish my breakfast this morning, and Ted had made blueberry pancakes.

  “Where’s Pepper?” Rachel asked. “You’re still doing the dog-training act, right?”

  “I am. My mom is going to drop him off after school. It’s not like I could stuff Pepper into my backpack or tie him to the bike rack.”

  “Good point,” said Rachel.

  We walked to
the corner where we always wait for Yumi, but today—for the first time ever—she was waiting for us.

  She wasn’t merely waiting, though. She was practicing her windup, pitching invisible softballs in slow motion. That’s what Yumi is doing for the talent show—a pitching demonstration. Except with real balls at regular speed.

  As soon as she saw us, she stopped what she was doing and said, “Hi. What took you so long?”

  “We’re early,” said Rachel.

  “I know but not early enough. It’s a big day.” Yumi stuffed her softball mitt into her backpack—not an easy task, since it was already filled with balls.

  “How many do you have in there?” I asked.

  “Ten,” said Yumi. “For my ten perfect pitches. Isabella is going to catch for me, but I didn’t want her to have to toss the ball back to me ten times. Otherwise my act might look like two girls playing catch.”

  She swung her backpack onto her back and readjusted her Dodgers cap. Her shiny black ponytail poked through the back. “Are you guys ready?”

  “I am,” said Rachel. “And I’m so nervous. What if I don’t make it?”

  “Do you really think they’re going to reject people?” I asked.

  “No,” said Yumi. “The only reason they’re holding auditions is to avoid disasters. Like last year. This eighth grader named Becky Spillman decided to do a performance-art piece involving three gallons of blue paint.”

  “Blue paint that splattered everywhere—including all over the first three rows of audience members,” said Rachel.

  “Blue paint that it turns out wasn’t washable,” Yumi finished.

  “It was a nightmare. Everyone looked like Smurfs,” said Rachel.

  “That actually sounds kind of cute,” I said.

  “It was madness,” Yumi said. “But that wasn’t even the biggest disaster of last year’s show. Apparently, these five eighth-grade guys decided to have a hot-dog-eating competition.”

  “Yuck!” I said. “Who wants to watch a bunch of guys stuffing themselves?”

  “Did we already tell you about the pukefest?” asked Rachel.

  “No, but I’m not sure I want to know. It’s a little early in the morning to talk about puke, don’t you think?”

  Yumi ignored me and explained anyway. “The winner ended up in the emergency room having his stomach pumped.”

  “And the loser? He puked,” said Rachel.

  “Actually three of the losers puked,” Yumi said. “Sour, pink hot-dog-flavored vomit all over the stage.”

  “Like I said, more information than required.” I crinkled my nose.

  “Two audience members puked, too,” said Rachel. “After they got puked on.”

  “It really wasn’t the year to sit in the front row,” said Yumi.

  “Let’s not talk about puke for the rest of the walk to school, or I might lose my breakfast. Okay?” I pleaded.

  My friends laughed. “We’ll try to restrain ourselves,” said Rachel.

  We were silent for a moment, but then Yumi yelled, “PUKE!”

  And Rachel screamed it, too.

  I covered my ears with my hands and sang, “La-la-la,” at the top of my lungs.

  “Puke, puke, puke,” said Yumi.

  “Vomit, throw up, regurgitation,” Rachel screamed.

  “Upchuck!” yelled Yumi.

  “Upchuck is a good one,” I had to admit, dropping my hands.

  “It’s not just messy acts that were a problem,” said Rachel. “Last year six groups danced to the same Lady Gaga song.”

  “Which is almost as bad as regurgitated hot dogs for some people,” said Yumi.

  At lunchtime, all my friends could talk about was the talent show. Claire had designed a bunch of clothes and was going to do a one-woman runway show. “My label is called Claire with a Flair,” she told us. “And all of my clothes will be made out of recycled material. I have an entire tank top made out of Bazooka Bubble Gum comics, and I turned an old game of Twister into a raincoat. With the spinner on a matching hat.”

  “Wow!” I said.

  “Except I only brought three pieces to show because I still have a lot to work on,” Claire admitted.

  “Want to really impress the judges?” asked Rachel. “Make something out of the cafeteria meat loaf.”

  Claire shuddered. “I would never even touch that stuff!”

  “We know!” said Rachel.

  “I’ll never eat anything that can smile,” Claire reminded us for the hundredth time. (She’s a strict vegetarian.) “With the exception of Goldfish crackers.”

  * * *

  By the time auditions rolled around I was a nervous wreck. My mom and I were supposed to meet in the parking lot after school for the Pepper drop-off. But ten minutes after school got out, she still wasn’t there.

  I watched other kids get picked up.

  I said hi to Nikki, who was dressed in a purple sparkly leotard. She and Taylor and Hannah and Jesse were dancing and lip-synching to some song by Lady Gaga. I know this because they told everyone else not to perform to her music or else. And as far as I know, everyone in the sixth grade listened.

  “Good luck,” I said to Nikki.

  “Thanks,” she said, not wishing me luck in return. That’s okay, though. I didn’t need luck. I had Pepper. At least I should have Pepper.

  Glancing at my watch, I realized auditions would be starting at any moment. There was still no sign of my mom but I did see Oliver.

  “How come you’re not in the gym?” I asked. “You are auditioning, right?”

  “I am, but I forgot my lucky sketch pad,” said Oliver, holding up a large notebook. “My mom just dropped it off.”

  Must be nice to have a mom you can depend on, I thought. Maybe my mom had a reason for not showing up. I hoped she was okay.

  It’s funny that Oliver and I both needed stuff for the audition. What are the odds? Okay, there’s a big difference between a lucky sketchbook and a dog, and I didn’t exactly forget Pepper, but still …

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “My mom was supposed to drop off Pepper fifteen minutes ago. And without him I have no act.”

  “Why don’t you call her?” he asked.

  “I have no cell phone, remember?”

  “Here. Borrow mine.” Oliver handed over his phone. It was fancy—flat and thin—the kind you could download games and other apps onto. It didn’t have a regular keypad like other phones I’ve used, so Oliver had to show me how to get to the numbers.

  I dialed my mom’s phone. It rang and rang and then it went to voice mail. I left a frantic message. “Mom? It’s me, Annabelle. Where are you? Please call me at this number. It’s Oliver’s phone,” I added, then felt embarrassed.

  When I glanced over at Oliver, he bent down to tie his shoe so it wouldn’t seem like he was listening. “You were supposed to bring Pepper to school. Remember? You’re probably on your way and you can’t talk while driving because otherwise you’ll get another ticket. That’s what I’m assuming. Right? So I’ll see you soon … I hope …”

  I hung up and handed the phone back to him. “Thanks,” I said, sitting down on an empty bench.

  “No problem.” Oliver sat down next to me. “I’ll wait with you.”

  “Don’t you need to get in there?” I asked.

  “I do, but you told your mom to call you at this number.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “You can leave your phone if you want. Oh, wait. You probably don’t want to do that. I’m sorry.”

  “No problem. I got a late audition number anyway—twenty-two.” He held up his number. It was a red raffle ticket.

  “I’m going right after you,” I said, showing him mine—number twenty-three.

  “That’s so funny,” said Oliver.

  We were both silent, smiling at each other as if we wanted to keep talking but neither of us could figure out what to say.

  “So, we should go out for pancakes again sometime, or something els
e. A regular dinner. It doesn’t have to be breakfast for dinner. We can do dinner for dinner. Or not. I don’t mind either way. I just thought …”

  I decided to stop talking to avoid rambling, although it was a little late for that.

  “Let’s definitely go out again,” said Oliver. “How about on Saturday night? You can come over. Or I can go to your place. Or maybe we can go to the movies. What’s better for you?”

  “All of the above,” I said, then worried I sounded too eager. “Actually, I should check with my mom first, but I’m sure she’ll be okay with it.”

  “Cool.”

  We watched the parking lot empty out.

  Soon all of the buses pulled away. “Hey, do you mind if I borrow your phone again? I’m thinking maybe I should try calling my stepdad.”

  “Sure.” Oliver handed his phone back over.

  I checked my notebook for Ted’s number. I don’t have it memorized because I hardly ever call him, but this was an emergency. Luckily he answered his cell phone right away.

  “Do you know where my mom is?” I asked.

  “Annabelle?” he replied, sounding fairly confused.

  “Sorry. Yeah, Ted. It’s me.” I told him my mom was supposed to meet me at school with Pepper.

  “That’s strange—I just saw her for, um, lunch, and she never mentioned anything. When she left she said she was going grocery shopping.”

  “Grocery shopping?” I yelled. “Now? What about Pepper?”

  “As far as I know he’s still at home.”

  “But he’s supposed to be here,” I said. “It’s the talent show auditions. This is my only shot.”

  I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes. Without Pepper I had no act. This was horrible. The worst. No—worse was that I was crying in front of Oliver. Nearly crying, that is, which is close enough.

  I blinked hard and breathed in deeply through my nose. I had no Pepper, which means I had no act. How could I have no act? Everyone had an act. I had to come up with something else.

  My mind raced as I tried to come up with another talent. Maybe I should do something basketball related, like shoot free throws. But that was too close to Yumi’s idea to pitch strikes. Plus, there was no basket onstage. This was a disaster.

  “I guess I can’t be in the show,” I said sadly.