Worst Enemies/Best Friends

by Annie Bryant

  There was dead silence as all eyes in the cafeteria turned toward…me.

  What happened? And why were they all staring down at my parts?

  I looked down to see my worst fear come to life. I, Charlotte Ramsey, without help, on the first day of school, in front of an absolutely full cafeteria, had zipped a tablecloth into my pants, and yanked four trays’ worth of food, syrup, and milk to the floor.

  The cafeteria erupted in cheers. A table of boys held up score cards they drew on napkins: 10, 10, 10, 10. They were right—it was the perfect disaster. Maybe my best ever.

  I wrestled with my zipper to release the stupid tablecloth. By that time, my fingers were so sticky I couldn’t unzip my pants. I’d done it again. The “First-Day-Disaster Curse” had struck again. All I could do, with 640 eyeballs staring at me, was throw the tablecloth over my shoulder like a Roman toga, and head to the nearest exit. I made it through the applause, laughter, hoots, and a sea of grinning faces, and pushed open the door.

  Out in the corridor, I collapsed against the wall. How could something as simple as lunch go so wrong?

  Someone said, “It’s just the first day. It gets easier. How can I help?”

  It was the tall, silver-haired grandmother who had rescued me that morning. Was she was my guardian angel?

  “Can you put me on the next plane to Paris?” I asked.

  “Would that fix everything?” she asked, a smile barely showing.

  I shook my head and tried to blink back tears.

  “We haven’t formally met,” she said, shaking my sticky hand. “I’m Mrs. Fields, and if I remember correctly, the name on your paperwork this morning was Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte Ramsey,” I mumbled.

  “Well, Charlotte Ramsey, come with me.”

  With that, she picked up the end of the tablecloth and walked down the hall beside me, chatting cheerily, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for her to be holding the end of my red-checked toga.

  We finally made it to the front of the school, where Mrs. Fields opened the door to the main office. She led me behind the tall, gray counter, past two office ladies at their desks. One of them handed her a stack of pink memos as we walked by. The other peered over her glasses and smiled at me.

  “Meet my friend Charlotte Ramsey,” Mrs. Fields said to her. “Charlotte, this is Ms. Sahni. If you ever need to know anything, ask her. She’s the power behind this school.”

  “Nice to meet you, Charlotte,” said Ms. Sahni. “That’s an interesting wrap you have.”

  I blushed again.

  “Don’t worry, Charlotte,” said Ms. Sahni. “It will get better. It always does.”

  I sighed heavily. First day, I thought, first day.

  “Can you still cover for me this afternoon?” Mrs. Fields asked Ms. Sahni. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint the girls.”

  “Don’t I always?” she answered. “Just don’t forget my rate’s gone up. I want two pieces of the famous apple crisp this year.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Mrs. Fields as she opened the door marked “Principal.”

  Wow. I was certainly getting around, today. Oh well, maybe it wasn’t so bad having the school principal for a guardian angel.

  “Please sit down,” Mrs. Fields said, dropping the tablecloth and pointing to a chair. “Just give me a minute, and we’ll get you sorted out.”

  Quotes, written in beautiful gold cursive on black paper, lined the wall behind her desk. I read them as Mrs. Fields skimmed her messages.

  I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

  —Martin Luther King

  Underneath it was:

  Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.

  —John Fitzgerald Kennedy

  A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.

  —Maya Angelou

  I smiled when I saw a quote that survived all my moves:

  You must do something to make the world more beautiful.

  —Miss Rumphius

  I guess I hadn’t smiled in a while, because Mrs. Fields noticed the change.

  “Recognize something?” she asked.

  “Yes. Miss Rumphius was one of my favorite books when I was little.”

  “It’s one of my favorites now that I’m a grown-up,” said Mrs. Fields. “I love the idea of one person making a difference simply by making her own neighborhood a more beautiful place to live, don’t you?”

  I nodded—she was right—but the main reason I loved the book was that I remembered my mother reading it to me. Sometimes when I read Miss Rumphius or Charlotte’s Web, I close my eyes and can still hear her soft voice and smell her perfume. I wish she were here, now.

  Mrs. Fields opened the bottom drawer of a large metal cabinet. A hammer, a saw, a wrench, a long black flashlight, and a shiny pair of pliers lay neatly arranged inside. She picked up the pliers and a spray bottle full of WD-40 and walked toward me.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, spraying on the clean edge of the tablecloth. “When you get to the bathroom, just rub this on the zipper to loosen it up. It will be good as new.”

  She leaned out the door. “Rita, I’m sending Charlotte out. Could you show her the emergency clothes box and steer her to the office bathroom?”

  LOST AND FOUND

  Ms. Sahni had a whole box of sweatpants and sweat-shirts in a closet.

  “You’re the first this year,” she said in a happy voice, as if this were some kind of honor. “Someone had to be. Think how much better you’ve made everyone else feel who will follow after you.”

  I appreciated her trying to make me feel better, but it wasn’t very comforting to know that I had eased the way for all future school disasters. Any kid who had an accident now would be saying, “At least I wasn’t as pathetic as the girl who zipped the tablecloth into her pants.”

  Even though the office bathroom had concrete walls, it didn’t feel much like a school bathroom. There was a rug and a picture of a sailboat with two small children waving. Fresh roses and a basket piled high with cakes of almond soap were on a stand by the sink.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. Yuck.

  I washed the milk spots off my glasses and picked food from my braids. I didn’t even get the worst of it. I’d left that for my lunch partners. Horrible. They’d probably never speak to me again.

  After rubbing the zipper with WD-40, it opened enough for me to wiggle out, but the tablecloth was still stuck in the bottom half of the zipper. I pulled on the red sweatpants Ms. Sahni had given me and went back to the office.

  Mrs. Fields attacked the zipper with pliers. It didn’t seem to fit that this fancy lady in a tailored, cream-colored suit was so handy with a pair of pliers, but she got the tablecloth out in a flash. I wondered how old she was. She had silvery hair but no wrinkles except for the smile lines around her eyes. She must have been even more beautiful when she was young.

  Mrs. Fields dropped my pants into a clean garbage bag and handed them to me.

  “There you go,” she said. “Good as new, minus one round in the washing machine. Now, before you go back to class, tell me a little about yourself. All I know is that you’re a seventh grader. Where’s home?”

  An easy question. But at that moment, it seemed totally complicated. I sure didn’t feel like home was Brookline, where I was already the laughingstock of the school. Except for the balcony off my bedroom, nothing about the second floor we rented in the big, old yellow house felt like home yet. Maybe we could move back to Paris before Dad settled into his teaching job. Then I remembered the awful family with the three yelling, runny-nosed little boys who had come to buy our houseboat. They had terrorized Orangina. That was the day she ran away, the last time I saw her…Next thing I knew I was crying.

  “Please don’t make me go back to the classroom,” I so
bbed. “My lunch group hates me.”

  “Nobody hates you,” she said, handing me a box of Kleenex. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  She hadn’t seen the looks on my lunch partners’ faces when the food and milk and syrup wrecked their clothes. Or when the whole cafeteria started clapping.

  Mrs. Fields’s telephone rang.

  “Which elementary school did you go to last year?” she asked, ignoring it.

  “We just moved here two weeks ago from Paris,” I said, sniffling.

  “Really?” she asked. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”

  She looked so interested, I talked a little more.

  “Before that we lived in Australia,” I said.

  “My goodness!” said Mrs. Fields.

  “And before that, Africa,” I said proudly.

  “No! Not really!” said Mrs. Fields.

  “Really,” I said. “Tanzania,” which came out all nasal and weird since my nose was so stuffed up.

  “What an exciting life! You’ll have to tell me all about your adventures. I’ve never been further than Washington, D.C., myself.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Really,” said Mrs. Fields. “I live in the same house I grew up in, right here in Brookline. Can you imagine that?”

  I sure couldn’t.

  “Ruby,” called Ms. Sahni, “I think you’re going to need to take this call.”

  My blotchy face must have looked so pathetic that Mrs. Fields said, “Tell you what, Charlotte. Why don’t you help Ms. Sahni stuff envelopes for Parents’ Night? Have her clear it with your teacher.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fields,” I said, standing up and dabbing my eyes with Kleenex. She paused for a moment. “Would you like to join my granddaughters and me for apple crisp baking this afternoon? It’s our annual First-Day-of-School tradition. We’d love to have you.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. We’d love to have you, Charlotte,” nodded Mrs. Fields.

  CHAPTER 3

  KATANI

  Home Invasion

  Thanks to that Charlotte girl’s performance in the cafeteria, the Pucci knockoff I designed and worked on all of August was history. It was NOT cheap—that silk fabric cost me two weeks of babysitting.

  I was in the bathroom trying to clean up when Maeve, the red-haired flirt with the laptop and designer jeans, walked in.

  “Do you believe that girl?” she whined. “I look like I just went through a car wash! Do you have any idea how bad milk smells after five minutes?”

  Whatever. She hadn’t sewn everything she was wearing. Rich kid.

  The bell rang.

  “Come on, Katani!” she said. “We’re gonna be late.”

  Like I actually cared. I worked on the spots for ten minutes, did the best I could, and walked back into the classroom slow and easy. That’s my thing. Never let them see you sweat. Attitude is everything.

  “Katani,” said Ms. Rodriguez.

  “Yes,” I said, not looking up in any hurry, expecting to get yelled at. But Ms. Rodriguez surprised me.

  “We’re writing down our first impressions of our lunch partners in the blue journals I’ve passed out. What you write is for your eyes only. I won’t be collecting them.”

  What’s up with that? I thought. What teacher gives an assignment and then doesn’t read it? I wasn’t buying it. Ms. Rodriguez had to be watched.

  Katani Summers—First Impressions

  Since you’re not reading this, Ms. R (ha ha) here’s

  your fashion report card:

  Hair: A-

  Nice shine, no split ends, natural color. Lose the clip.

  Nails: B as in boring

  Nice shape but clear nail polish? What’s the point?

  Clothes: C as in classic teacher

  A little too serious if you ask me.

  Jewelry: A

  Like the bold statement. Big earrings, big necklace,

  lots of rings. But turquoise and silver is last year.

  Try mod.

  Accessories: F

  No belt? No scarf? Qué pasa?

  Attitude: A

  Love the way you walk in high heels. Must try that.

  Maeve’s Fashion Report Card:

  Hair: A-

  Beautiful, natural red. Wish I could bottle that color.

  Smells like Herbal Essence, though. Way overstyled.

  Lose the gel and stop straightening. Free your

  natural wave!

  Nails: W as in WOW!

  Are they for real? I want that color.

  Smile: A as in amazing

  How do you get dimples like that?

  Clothes: L for label hound and E for expensive

  Do your parents buy you anything you want? Is that

  why you’re using a $1,500 laptop in the seventh

  grade instead of writing with a free pencil like

  everyone else? BTW…what’s with the shirt?

  We’re not on MTV.

  Jewelry: C for cool

  Saw those earrings at the mall but couldn’t afford

  them. Cool rings.

  Attitude: F for flirt

  Why do you keep smiling at the guy at the next lunch

  table? Isn’t our conversation interesting enough?

  Don’t you have anything to think about besides boys?

  Time to get a real life, sister.

  Presentation: O for out there

  What’s with the big words and dramatic poses?

  Who says stuff like “I absolutely adore him”?

  Avery’s Fashion Report Card:

  Hair: S for same old, sporty. Soccer pony tail.

  Nails: F

  Does the word nailbrush mean anything to you?

  Smile: C-

  Giggle overload. Quit playing with the rubber bands

  on your braces.

  Clothes: D

  How many team logos must we wear at once?

  Jewelry: F

  Hello?

  Accessories: F

  A yo-yo is not an accessory.

  Attitude: C-

  Sporty, sporty, and did I say sporty? Probably a

  sports snob who will laugh at me in gym when

  she finds out I stink at basketball even though

  I’m really tall.

  Charlotte’s Fashion Report Card:

  Hair: C

  Loosen up. Undo the braids. Let your hair down.

  Nails: D as in disaster

  Smile: C-

  Clothes: C

  What are you hiding? Come out from under that hoody.

  Jewelry: A+

  Super fantastic bracelets. I want.

  Accessories: F

  Hello? Bonjour?? You lived in Paris. You must

  have a bunch of them. Where are all your scarves

  and belts?

  Attitude: D-

  Ouch. Get this girl some klutz insurance. She’s a

  total spaz.

  I closed my journal. “How do we know she won’t just look at them after we leave?” I thought.

  Just then, like she had psychic powers, Ms. Rodriguez said, “You’ll just have to trust me, Katani.”

  Was that freaky or what? It felt like her eyes were penetrating my brain. When the bell rang, I bolted for the door—forget the rules. I just wanted to get away from that stare and ride home in my grandmother’s car. Grandma Ruby is the principal of our school. Everyone in Brookline loves her, so when you’re riding in the front seat beside her, you feel like a celebrity. All the years of elementary school, I had watched my older sisters pull into the driveway laughing and chatting about school in Grandma’s car, the Triple B (Big, Blue, Buick). Finally, it was my turn! No more walking home!

  Being the youngest is a pain. I’m the last to do everything. Candice, my oldest sister—eighteen, brilliant, gorgeous—says I have it easy. Candice has no idea what she’s talking about. For one thing, she never did anything wrong. Her worst tragedy was getti
ng one B+ last year. All she did was set a standard none of the rest of us could live up to.

  Patrice, my second-oldest sister—sixteen, sports superstar, beautiful—says I’m spoiled rotten. She thinks I whine to get what I want. Personally, I believe Patrice is the bossiest older sister on the planet. I’m glad she’s at the high school this year. The only thing is, now I have to pick up Kelley.

  Kelley, who is two years older than I am, has a kind of autism. That means she does stuff like carries a teddy bear, talks too loud, and imitates cartoon characters even though she’s fourteen and almost six feet tall. Also, she can’t handle noise. We can’t even go to restaurants or stores that play music, or she starts groaning and covering her ears.

  I love her anyway, because she’s always happy and happens to be the most truthful person I know. She says the first thing that comes into her mind—what everyone else is thinking but doesn’t dare say out loud, which can be really funny. Like in elementary school, our principal wore a hairpiece that seriously looked like roadkill. Whenever he walked by, Kelley would say, “Good morning, Mr. Plenning. Why are you wearing a squirrel on your head?”

  Sometimes it’s easier to love Kelley at home, away from the stares, the whispering, and the jokes. I hate the kids who make fun of her and I hate myself for feeling embarrassed in front of them. If they tried their whole lives, they could never be as nice or as happy as Kelley is. So, why should I care what they think? I know I shouldn’t, but I do…

  “Hi Katani! Hi Katani!” Kelley yelled. Ms. Mathers—her aide—had a hard time keeping her from running right at me. A group of kids walking down the hall moved away. They always do that when I’m with Kelley, like she’s contagious or something. It’s so ignorant. But still, I rushed her through the hall.

  “Hi Kelley—ooof!”

  Her hug almost knocked me flat.

  “You look stunning, Katani!”

  Kelley uses words she memorizes from television commercials.

  “Thanks, Kelley. Say thank you to Ms. Mathers.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Mathers,” said Kelley. “Have a scrumptious day, Ms. Mathers!”

  Ms. Mathers laughed and gave me a wink. “Thank you, Kelley, I’ll do that.” I steered Kelley to the right.