by Laura Preble
“You sound so surprised.” She folds her arms across her chest and bites the inside of her cheek as if she’s concentrating very hard. “It’s like I never do anything nice for anyone.”
I kindly don’t respond, but keep walking past her.
“What? What are you saying, that I don’t ever do anything nice for anyone?”
“It’s just that most of what you do revolves around the most important person in your life: you.” I turn and face her and she plows into me, knocking both of us butt-first onto the sidewalk. I land in a dusty pile of dead weeds that passes for landscaping and she gets a scrape on one knee.
“I bleed for you,” she whines, faking a major injury. “See? How much more can I do, Shelby? Please tell me!” She uses her most exaggerated drama voice, puts a hand over her eyes and wails, “Oh, God, please help me set things right with Shelby, and let her forgive me for my horrible self-absorbedness.”
“Self-absorbedness?”
She comes out of the drama pose. “I’m trying to make an impact. Don’t correct my grammar.”
“That’s actually not grammar, it’s—”
“Shut up!” She stands, grabs my hand and yanks me off the sidewalk. “I’m not the selfish ass you think I am.”
“You’re some other selfish ass?” I can’t help but smile at her as she grits her teeth, links arms with me, and forces me forward.
“You think that because I didn’t want to share you with Fletcher that I’m glad you two have broken up?” I say nothing, and she takes it as a yes, which it is. “Well, that’s great. That makes me sounds like the worst friend ever. I didn’t like sharing you, but if it made you happy…well…I was okay with it.”
“It didn’t feel like that. But it wasn’t your fault we broke up. It was me.” It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, and it stings. It was pretty much all my fault, and the part that was Fletcher’s happened because I treated him like an undesirable old shoe.
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it was anyway.” She lets go of my arm and, grabs my hand, swings my arm rhythmically as we walk. “The point is, if I did anything to make it worse, I’m sorry.”
It catches me by surprise. I’ve never heard her say those words, not to anyone. It causes me to stop walking. “What did you say?”
She stops too, and seems puzzled by my amazement. “I said I was sorry. You want me to prick my finger and mingle my blood with yours and swear on the ghost of my dead aunt Tillie—”
“You have an aunt Tillie?”
“No.” We both giggle, a little at first, but then the giggles become big booming laughs that echo across the stone retaining wall near the freeway and fill the sky, scaring birds and stray clouds.
“Can you stay over tonight?” I ask after we’ve calmed down and the guy selling flowers on the corner has gone to hide behind his green umbrella. She says yes, and it feels like last year, when it was just us, and all we had to do was hang out and plan our global domination. Good times.
Dad and Euphoria are once again in the garage tinkering with Eugene when we get home. “He’s kind of sexy, Euphoria,” Becca teases.
“He’s well shaped, and his circuits are quite powerful,” Euphoria says evenly, but her red lights are flashing more brightly than usual. “I can’t wait until he talks!”
“And then you won’t be able to wait til he stops talking,” Dad jokes.
“Becca’s staying over, Dad.” I pick up a magazine lying open to a picture of a creepy, cobwebby Victorian living room. “Thinking of redecorating?”
“Hmmm?” He’s tightening something in Eugene’s midsection, so he has to crane his neck to look up at the magazine. “Oh. Thea and I were looking for ideas for the party.”
Becca’s eyes get wide, and I hear a little gasp. “Thea…as in, my mom?”
“Yeah.” Dad is so distracted with Eugene that he doesn’t see the panic in Becca’s eyes. I guess he must feel it, though, because he frowns and stands up straight, rubbing his oil-coated hands on his jeans. “Is something wrong?”
“You’re letting my mom help you plan the Halloween party?” She sounds almost frightened, which is extremely unusual. “Excuse me a minute.” She whips her cell phone out of her pocket and charges off toward the house.
Dad chuckles and glances over at me to see if some joke is being played on him. I just shrug, because honestly, I can’t figure out why she’d be so freaked out about her mom helping. “So, how’s it going with Eugene?”
“He’s almost ready. What’s going on with Becca, anyway?” I can hear her voice rising, getting louder, and she sounds pretty upset.
“I don’t know.” I stretch out past the garage door to see if I can get a glimpse of the argument. All I see are Becca’s blond spikes bobbing above the Mexican fan palm at the front door. Dad pantomimes for me to go and listen in on the conversation, making an exaggerated face that says either, “Go find out what they’re saying” or “My facial muscles are spastic and I look like a monkey.” Intuitively, I know he wants me to eavesdrop, so I drop to a squat, inch forward and huddle next to the palm.
“You have no right to get involved,” Becca is saying angrily. “I don’t want you helping with the party. I don’t want you involved in my life at all, if you want to know the truth. If it weren’t for my friends, I’d go live with Melvin, even though I hate him.”
I don’t hear the other side of the conversation, but I can tell it can’t be good. Finally, Becca says, “Only if you promise not to mess it up. It’s not going to turn into a showcase for your artwork, Mother, do you understand? And there better not be any other reason you want to help.” I hear the phone slap shut, and I skitter back to Dad, trying to look as natural as a person can when they’ve been spying on their best friend. I only have time to shoot him a bewildered look before she marches back to us. “So,” she says, overly cheerful. “Where were we?”
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Sure. Just had to touch base with good ol’ Mom. You know how she worries. Let’s go get something to eat.” She turns on her heel and heads for the front door. I just shrug at my dad and follow her.
When I catch up (remember, she has those long legs and can outrun pretty much anyone, especially if food’s involved), she’s already pulling a chocolate torte out of the fridge. “Wow, didn’t take you long to find that.”
Grabbing a fork from the drawer, she plops the cake on the counter and digs in. She chews angrily, barely stopping to breathe in between bites. Finally, she says, “My mom is trying to ruin my life.”
It’s hard for me to respond to this; since my mom is dead, I can’t exactly say, “Yeah, I know what you mean,” because honestly, I’d give pretty much anything to have her back. When Becca starts the predictable gripe about her mom, I usually tune out, but this seems worse than usual. What I say is: “Sorry.”
“Well, she wants to help with the party.” She says it as if her mom offered to bake a cake full of poison or something. She stares at me, anticipating that I’ll get the point, but of course, I don’t. She sighs, frustrated at my obvious slowness. “She wants to stick her nose into everything. Why do you think she’s so excited to help, huh? She doesn’t do anything unless it’s good for her in some way.”
“Maybe she just wants to be part of your life.” I get a fork and start eating too.
As quickly as she got angry, Becca’s mood changes, and she’s all enthusiasm and sunshine again. Maybe it’s the chocolate. “I got another letter from the rabbit.”
“You’re kidding.” I stab at the cake again. “Another poem?”
She nods as she chews another massive chocolate mouthful. “Same stuff. Here.” She digs into her jeans pocket and produces a grubby note that’s been read and reread a bunch of times. “Here we go:
Oh, Becca, sweet, when will you see
This rabbit longs for your company?
We all do play so many parts
But I want you as my Queen of Hearts.
Isn�
��t that amazing?” Her face glows with excitement, and with the hotness of guys in rabbit suits.
“But what good is it if you don’t know him?” She deflates a bit, and frowns. “It’s cute, but that’s what, three notes, and he’s never talked to you? Seems like it’s a yank.”
She hasn’t thought of that, obviously, and I don’t think she appreciates me suggesting it, but in true Becca fashion, she just skewers more cake and changes the subject. “Let’s talk about the plan to save your marriage.”
“What?”
“Well, your future marriage to Fletcher. Now, what are you going to do at GeekFest that will get him back?”
“Ah, I don’t think I want to—”
“Well, luckily for you, I’ve already thought of the perfect thing. Picture this: You do a karaoke song that expresses your undying love for him and admits to the confusion that made you a total moron.”
“I haven’t heard that on the radio.” I take another bite of chocolate and picture myself on a stage in front of tens of people (I mean, face it, are we really going to get hundreds of people? Probably not). The idea of me doing karaoke in my room alone terrifies me, so I don’t see any way that I could do it in front of anyone else. “Not a good idea, anyway.”
“Yes, it is! Think of the irony, the symmetry, the…the…”
“Stupidity,” I offer.
“Don’t be so negative. It’s very unattractive.” She covers the cake with plastic wrap and puts it back in the fridge before I can protest. “Let’s go on the web and look for your song.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Yes, you are. But I know you’re scared, so I have another great idea: We’ll all sing with you!”
“We?”
“Amber, Elisa, me. Maybe even Euphoria! Why not? That would totally be a ticket seller! ‘Come See Shelby Chapelle and Her Dancing Robot!’ Don’t you think people would pay to see that?”
I don’t answer because my head is spinning. “Let’s do something else for a while. Let’s work on the Halloween party.”
We go to my room and plan to spend most of the afternoon writing and recording fortunes to be used with the bald-headed guy in the crystal ball that we bought at the Masquerade store. He tells fortunes, but we decide they are too lame and cheesy, so we want to record our own. “How about this one?” Becca squints at her paper. “‘In times like these, it is advisable to bribe the hostess with all the money in your pocket to guard against food poisoning.’” She grins at me. “Funny?”
“Not so much.” I tap my pen on the notebook on which I’m writing, and my fortunes are equally as lame. “‘Never walk your duck without a paddle.’ I don’t even know what that means.”
Euphoria rolls in bleeping sadly. “Eugene is just giving your father fits,” she says. “He can’t get the processor and the voice command module to synch up. I’m afraid he may never be whole again.”
“He wasn’t whole to begin with, Euphoria,” Becca reminds her. “He’s hubcaps and staplers, right?”
Euphoria sighs heavily.
“We’re writing fortunes. Want to help?” I ask her.
“I suppose.” She notices the bald-headed guy gazing vacantly from the crystal ball. “He’s kind of cute.”
“Again, not really a whole person,” Becca points out. “Don’t keep dating the same kind of guy. It’s really a pointless pattern.”
Euphoria snorts. “So, how does writing a fortune work?”
“It’s usually just a one-line thing, sort of mysterious, maybe funny. Here, listen to the bald guy do one.” Becca switches him on, and the head lights up and seems to blink. His fishy mouth opens and some bubbles float out. He says, “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”
Becca arches her eyebrows. “Hey, that’s pretty deep for a disembodied head.”
Euphoria turns the head over, and scans the electronics inside. “Oh, this is simple. He just has a loop of phrases here, and it’s motion activated.”
Becca jumps up and acts as if she’s been shot. “Oh my God! I just got the most amazing idea!”
She puts her hands on what passes for Euphoria’s shoulders. “Listen. You can be our fortune-teller. You can actually respond to each individual person…. It wouldn’t be totally random! They could ask you questions and you could answer!”
“I don’t know….” Euphoria says, but I can tell by her lights that she’s somewhat intrigued.
“And we could dress you up like a gypsy!” Becca whirls around, caught up in her own idea. “This is so amazing. Oh, and we could have you do it at the GeekFest too! Before the show even starts! And we could charge extra!”
“Hang on,” I say. “Dad might not even let us take her out.”
“Your father can’t just tell me what to do,” Euphoria says, mildly annoyed.
I wonder if Dad knows she feels like that, but I don’t bring it up. “But you don’t really want to subject yourself to that, do you, Euphoria? All those kids pawing you, asking you stupid questions…. Wouldn’t that be boring?”
“I never get to leave the house,” she whines. “I’d love to do something outside!”
“And at the Halloween party,” Becca reminds her. “This could introduce you to a whole new class of people!”
I have a feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me this is a bad idea, but as usual, I say nothing. Once Becca decides on something, that’s pretty much it. “I’ll be back. I’m going to the bathroom,” I mumble, feeling nauseous.
I look in the mirror at myself, something I haven’t done much lately. I look different than I did last year, I think. More worried, less confident. And the corners of my mouth seem like they’re turning downward. I wonder if that’s how people start to be old: Maybe it starts with one little sad thing that puts a tiny wrinkle at the edge of your lips, and then more small, sad things happen, leaving you with bunches of wrinkles and lines, all tying back to some tiny tragedy. I bet thinking about this will give me a wrinkle.
When I get back to the kitchen, Euphoria is trying out various gypsy fortune-teller voices. “Good evening,” she drones, sounding like a cross between Cruella De Vil and Shaquille O’Neal. “May I tell your fortune?”
“That’s pretty good,” Becca says as she wraps a tea towel around Euphoria’s head. “Try it with an accent. Like Dracula.”
She does try it, and it’s kind of incomprehensible, like she’s saying, “Goo deepening, meow dahlia four tune.”
Becca frowns and says, “Yeah, we’ll practice that.”
16
SILLY RABBIT, TRICKS ARE FOR GIRLS
(or Scary, Scary Night)
At our next meeting, we tell all the girls about our idea for the juice bar, and everyone is excited. Amitha tells us that the principal has given the okay, and so we can start advertising for the show, which will be right before Thanksgiving. We sign up about seven other girls for GeekFest acts (one of which involves flame-eating guinea pigs), which makes the show about an hour, which is perfect. The rest all agree to make sure nobody at school is unaware of the fact that we might get a juice and smoothie bar.
Rehearsing for the GeekFest is kind of annoying. We get together most weekends, mostly at my house, and mostly talk about nothing and sprinkle in occasional rehearsing. Amber is totally ready with her Office Supply Poetry act; Elisa has decided to do a dramatic reading of the song “She Blinded Me With Science” and Becca is going to do some piece of performance art. Even though I have no idea what it is, I’m sure it will probably be embarrassing and may get us thrown out of school.
“We still need a song for you to do,” Becca whines at me one Saturday as we sit around eating Cheez-Its and Diet Pepsi. If you mix the two things, they sort of start to feel like cheddar-flavored plaster in your stomach.
“I don’t want to do a song,” I insist, reaching for more crackers. Addictive snack foods should be illegal.
Amitha, Caroline, Claudette, and two other girls have shown up for this Saturday rehearsal an
d Cheez-It orgy. Caroline and Claudette can actually sing, so as far as I’m concerned they don’t get to criticize me. But Amitha says, “Shelby, if you’re frightened, maybe we could all stand with you. As backup singers.”
Becca practically does a back flip off the couch. “Beautiful! That’s just what I said she needed, backup singers! We can be the Supremes to her Diana Ross! The Black Eyes to her Peas! The—”
“Hold on.” Sometimes I wish I had a rope or something that I could use to tie Becca to a piece of furniture so she wouldn’t hop around like a bunny rabbit on crack. But that’s just who she is, I guess. “I can’t sing, and it won’t matter how many people are on stage with me, I still won’t be able to sing. Why are you so stuck on this?”
“You want—no, you need—to patch this up with Fletcher. You guys are so right for each other, it’s almost like you ordered him off the Internet.”
“Well, then I should get my money back,” I mumble.
Amitha gestures to get our attention. “I have an idea,” she says meekly. “What about that song ‘Always Something There to Remind Me’? Almost everyone knows that. And it’s so perfect for what you’re going through with Fletcher. And…” She scurries into the hallway and comes back carrying a strangely shaped case. “I have a special twist that will make it even more…well…special.”
She pulls out a thing that looks kind of like a guitar, but with a long, skinny neck and a rounded body. “What’s that?”
“It’s a sitar,” she says proudly. “My dad taught me how to play. He brought it all the way from India, and it belonged to my grandfather. And this,” she says, producing a CD, “is the karaoke version of your song. So, ladies, shall we make musical history?”
“You’re going to play the sitar to a rock song?” Elisa asks, her face wrinkled as if she’d smelled something bad.
“Don’t judge it til you’ve heard it.” Amitha strums a chord on the sitar, and it does sound beautiful. “I’ve already learned the chords.”
“Euphoria!” Becca yells. Euphoria rolls in and bleeps expectantly. The other girls have already met her by this time; their first sight of her made them kind of nervous, but now they’re used to her. “Can you play this CD?”