They’re not a treat, even though Dr. Abdelwahab acts like braces are sparkly treats for kids. They’re painful and ugly. Food gets stuck in them. The brackets rub against the inside of my cheeks. I didn’t expect them to be so uncomfortable, but Dad says that I’ll get used to them. I don’t believe him. How am I ever going to get a boyfriend with a sci-fi mouth? I feel like I’m in a Star Trek episode as a specimen from the planet Ceramico. This is a disaster.
I go to school and nobody seems to notice for the first few hours. But then Lisa says something stupid—she thinks that the position of secretary in our government is an actual secretarial job, which means typing and filing for the president—and I laugh so hard that people see them. “Almira, you’re wearing braces!”
“They don’t look so bad,” someone behind me says.
“They look all right,” Lisa says.
“Thanks,” I tell people, trying to keep my mouth as closed as possible
“You look really cute with them on,” Peter says, smiling at me.
Huh? I look cute? And from Peter. I glow inside, but I try not to smile. Anyway, I’m trying to avoid Peter. After he says that compliment, I scurry away from him in the hallway. I chide myself for that: I want to get closer to him, not further away from him. But I don’t want to be anywhere near him since I feel shy with these new braces in my mouth. We had such a good time at the gallery, I felt so pretty and sexy, we had chemistry—and now these uglifying braces are in the way. I’m no longer ashamed of that stupid drawing I made of him that Shakira showed him, because now these braces are the bane of my existence. Something always has to go wrong, whether it’s to mess with my head or my looks. On top of my braces, Lisa is more rabid than normal about Peter today. She’s coming on stronger than usual, putting her arms around him, patting him on the back, and using any excuse to touch him in the hallways.
Since Peter’s locker is next to mine, I walk away when I see him at his locker. I go to class without my American History book. My teacher is surprised that I don’t have it and tells me to share a book with someone. “Really, Almira, this isn’t like you,” she says. I know I’m not acting like myself.
Not only am I frantic about Peter’s image of me, but the back of my mouth feels raw. The doctor gave me a small case of wax that I’m supposed to rub into balls and place on brackets that hurt me. I have several pieces of wax stuck to the brackets in the back, because my mouth is being ripped apart from the friction between braces and flesh. A nice, cold glass of water would feel fantastic, but I’m still fasting.
“Hi, Almira,” a boy I don’t recognize says.
“Hey, girl,” another boy says.
I’m definitely becoming skinny and I pat my stomach, which is flat now. It’s also growling like a beast. It’s lunch time and I go to the library, away from the temptations of food. I sit behind the biography section. I’m trying to do all of my homework, getting so lost in my textbooks and binders that I block out the noises around me. It usually annoys me when I hear talking of any kind, and there are always study groups or students whispering into their cell phones.
What catches my attention is sniffling, coming from right next to me. It keeps getting louder and louder. I get up, look in between the shelved books, and see a head of black hair bent over a tabletop. I usually mind my own business, but I really want to see who’s crying and why.
Walking around the shelf, I see that it’s Shakira. Her eyes are red and puffy and she’s holding a tissue to her nose. She still looks outrageously pretty with red eyes, a pink nose, and tear streaks down her face (darn it, I look like a hot mess when I cry). She looks up at me and I feel empathic—it’s Ms. Odige’s word of the day—with sorrow stirring for this enemy of mine. Shakira, of the quick mouth and hurtful words. Why am I feeling sorry for her?
“Leave me alone,” Shakira whispers.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper back. “Did something happen?”
“Everything happened. Nobody likes me.”
She sniffles some more and I don’t know what to do. Whenever Lisa cries, I hug her. When someone isn’t a friend, I usually just bring over tissue, but she already has one. At this point it makes the most sense to be truthful with her. “Well, you make it very hard for people to like you,” I say.
Her eyes widen when I say that.
“You haven’t exactly been nice,” I add.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on. You make snide remarks about how Peter wouldn’t be interested in me, or that clothes don’t fit me right. And you were rude to Maria.”
“But I meant nothing by saying that stuff.”
“It doesn’t seem like it. You’re vicious.”
“I know I say what’s on my mind, but people take it the wrong way,” Shakira says. “I never called you fat, but I knew that dress in the store was wrong for you. I didn’t imply that Maria was stupid for wearing those shoes the day her nail broke, but that she wasn’t following school rules. I was also teasing you about Peter. I really thought you should be honest and say what you want to him, to see if he likes you back.”
“It’s the way you say things. It comes out wrong and arrogant.”
Shakira shakes her head. “I never meant to hurt anyone. At my last school, my friends warned me that I shouldn’t come to a new school the way I am, that I’d make enemies, and they were right. They knew me for a long time, since elementary school, and they were used to my bluntness. Here I am, the new girl, acting that way with strangers. I should have softened up before starting here.”
I’m turning sympathetic toward her now that she’s being candid and sorrowful. She finally admitted that she can be extremely blunt, to the point that everyone, except for boys, shuns her. I sort of see things her way. There are people who blurt things out because that’s a personality trait of theirs, and they accidentally upset people. It looks like Shakira is one of those people. But as the new girl who is so drop-dead gorgeous that most girls are jealous of her, she has treaded on too many toes.
“I’m sorry if I ever offended you,” Shakira says.
“I accept your apology,” I say. “Let’s get to class. The bell will ring soon.”
“You must think I’m a creep for showing your doodle to Peter.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I thought it was a funny picture. He thought it was funny, too.”
“What else did he say?”
“That he felt flattered that you drew him.”
“What else?” I ask.
“That’s about it,” Shakira says.
That’s a relief. I want Peter to think that the portrait is an innocent, nothing gesture (when it really reflects the inner turmoil of lust and love I have for him). Shakira’s sniffling stops and she packs her things, since lunch is almost over. I carry her heavy science book since her arms are already full. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
“Come on,” I say with the wave of my hand. “I have something to ask you.”
“What?” We stop walking and stand by a trophy case to talk.
“You know I love chocolate?”
“Yeah, I heard you telling Lisa that it’s your most-missed food during Ramadan.”
“Have you been leaving chocolates for me?”
“What?”
“Chocolates,” I repeat. “Have you been leaving them on my seats and desks in our classes?”
“No,” Shakira says. “Why would I do that? It would be mean, since you’re fasting. I wouldn’t want anyone to leave pretzels around for me to eat.”
Pretzels are her downfall! Of course they are. They’re low in calories and she has the perfect figure. Meanwhile, I can’t resist anything that has globs of fat in it.
“Okay,” I say.
“Chocolate is really fattening,” she says.
“D
uh, I know that.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I had a moment there. I hope I wasn’t rude.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Are you sure?” she whines.
“Yes, that was okay,” I say.
“I’m sure you think that I’m saying you eat a lot of heavy foods—”
“Shakira, I accepted your apology already. Let’s get to class.”
“She apologized,” I tell Lisa and Maria.
“Wow,” Lisa says.
“Hmmm,” Maria hums skeptically.
“She’s really sorry that she says things in the wrong tone of voice,” I say.
“I hope she means that,” Maria says. She’s eating a Little Debbie cake. Another crème cake, this one chocolate covered. It probably tastes part chocolate, part chemical plant, but it looks mighty tasty.
“I haven’t had Little Debbie in ages,” I say.
“Then have one,” Maria says, offering me a cake.
“No,” I say, backing away as if she’s offering me an apple in the Garden of Eden.
“You can take one bite,” Maria says.
What if I take a bite just to taste it and then spit it out? But then the residue will somehow run down my throat and into my stomach. It’s cheating.
“Maria, why do you always do this to her?” Lisa says.
“I’m testing her.”
“Do I pass?” I ask.
“With flying colors.”
I smile at that. I’m acing Ramadan. Food will not beat me down with its many temptations: iced cakes, marinara sauce, seasoned hamburgers. I’m winning. Just a little bit longer to go. Someone, Maria I’m sure, left another Hershey’s Kiss on my science seat today. Maria isn’t even in my science class, but she’s next door in another class. She’s really going out of her way to try to get me to cheat.
“Oh no!” Lisa says.
“What?” I ask.
The final bell rang moments ago and we’re all about to walk home when Lisa turns around to see that Peter and Shakira are huddled together next to his locker.
“Get away from my man,” Lisa says between gritted teeth.
They’re several yards away from us and can’t hear us, but I’m positive that Lisa is going to barge over to where they are and separate them.
“You can’t claim him,” Maria says.
“Yes I can, because he likes me and we have chemistry.”
Like oil and oil or water and water. “Peter’s nice to everyone,” I say. “Just because he’s nice to you doesn’t mean that he likes you.”
“Oh, but he does,” Lisa insists.
Maria playfully pinches my arm, but she really hurts my skin. A red welt forms on my upper arm. “Watch it,” I say.
“Oops,” Maria says.
“She-man,” Lisa jokes.
Maria’s eyes bug out and Lisa runs away. Maria takes chase, but I know they’re just playing. They run into the courtyard and disappear behind a wall of hedges. I start to walk out of the building, but then I see Mr. Gregory pushing a cart full of boxes to his room. I ask him if he needs help and he says yes.
“These are new beakers and thermometers,” he says. “I’d really appreciate it if you help me shelve them, as long as you don’t have to take a bus home and nobody’s waiting for you.”
“I’ll help,” a deep voice behind me says.
I turn around and see Peter. He grabs one end of the cart and helps Mr. Gregory push it into his room. Then Mr. Gregory opens the back room for us. He tells us to line up the beakers on one shelf and leave the thermometers unopened on another shelf. “I’ll be right back,” he says. “The secretary has some more boxes for me.”
I’m alone with Peter. How exhilarating! Maybe I can partake in some harmless flirtation.
“Come on,” he says when he sees that I’m standing there like a dope doing nothing. Hmm, he doesn’t seem to be in a romantic state of mind.
“I’m right behind you,” I squeak. I open a box and see the tops of beakers staring up at me like multiple eyes. I gingerly pick up each one and put them next to the old beakers. I love the back room because every time I’m in it I discover something new. I see pickled baby alligators, a human skull, all sorts of things in there. I even learn about Mr. Gregory, because he has a signed autograph picture of Robert Pattinson in a drawer that I open. Aha, I knew I saw him in the Twilight movie. Science is cool. Mr. Gregory is cool. Peter is the coolest.
“You like him?” Peter asks when he catches sight of the autograph.
“Of course,” I say.
“Who is that, anyway? He looks familiar.”
Has Peter been living under a rock? “He’s superfamous,” I say. That’s the only explanation necessary.
I leave the drawer open. When I put the picture back, I see a Ferrero Rocher chocolate in the drawer. I pick it up and turn it around in my hands. Ferrero Rocher. Wafer, hazelnut, chocolate. I can eat a whole box of Ferrero Rocher on my own (I actually did this once).
“I know you like chocolate,” Peter says.
“I guess Mr. Gregory does too,” I say, putting the chocolate back.
“No, take it.”
“Who knows how old it is. Anyway, I can’t steal from him.”
“He won’t notice.” Peter grabs the chocolate and puts it in the side pouch of my bookbag. Okay, if he’s going to be pushy about it I’ll eat it later, even though it feels wrong to steal.
“It’s really hard to eat with these braces,” I say.
“Your braces really fit you. You don’t look weird with them at all.”
Peter is so close to me that his arm brushes against mine. Our eyes meet and he smiles at me. No wonder Lisa is willing to fight for him. She’ll fight dragons for him, climb mountains, roam deserts. I want to do these things for him too, as long as none of these activities kill me.
“Do you want to see my sketchpad?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. Of course. He’s been hiding it from my prying eyes for weeks now. I wouldn’t mind seeing all his drawings, and the hope that he has sketched me lingers, even though I know it was Shakira he was using as a model.
Peter takes the sketchpad out of his bookbag and shows me the first page. It’s a scene of a gondola floating on a Venetian canal. Very nice. He randomly flips the pages and shows me a replica of a perfume ad with a beautiful model. The next page is a portrait of a movie star from the forties who I can’t remember the name of. He also has a sketch of a knight and maiden, which is very close to the one I gave him, but he drew it slightly different.
“And this is Shakira,” Peter says.
He shows me the page and my heart aches again. He’s drawn her with so much detail that the sketch looks more like a black and white photograph than a pencil drawing. It seems like I’m staring directly at her pupils. The detailing is so strong that I can imagine her luscious hair swaying with her movement.
“You’re so talented,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“I bet you have an A.”
“I do.”
“I wish I could draw, too.”
“And last but not least … are you ready?” he asks.
“Sure.” My heart is hammering. What’s he going to show me? A picture of him and Shakira together, surely. Shakira as a mermaid. Shakira in a bikini with sea froth at her feet. Maybe Lisa is right about his love for her, and the next picture will be of my best friend.
He slowly flips the page and I’m looking on in anticipation. I almost don’t recognize the sketch. The dark eyes. The black hair. Long lashes. Full lips.
“Do you like it?”
“Uhhhhhh,” I hum.
“What do you think?” he asks in a near whisper.
I’m confused. I can swear that the sketch
portrays me, Almira Abdul, invisible to most boys who walk this Earth (until recently with the weight loss). But the sketch looks better than me, even on a good day when I have shiny eyes, clear skin, a smile on my lips, and an indescribable glow. It’s like there’s a third dimension where everything has been sketched with pencil, and I look so much better in this dimension. I look hot.
“It’s you, Almira,” Peter says.
“Oh!” I yelp. “I didn’t know you were drawing me.”
“You left a portrait photo on your desk once, I think from the last picture day we had. I took it when you weren’t looking. I hope you don’t mind.”
“That’s okay.”
“I used the picture as a model, but I also used my memory. It’s how I see you, so pretty all the time.”
“Oh.”
“I like you a lot.”
“Oh.”
“It was great being at the gallery with you. It’s like you really understand me. I try to explain art to other girls and they act like airheads in front of me, but I saw the spark in your eyes. It was cool. I’ve never felt like that with another girl before.”
“Peter, it was all you. You showed me something different,” I say.
“The point is, it was something new for me, and you seem to feel the same way I feel about you,” he says. “Shakira showed me the sketch you did of me. I know you’re not an expert artist, but it was awesome that you drew me.”
“Yeah?”
“Shakira said you like me, and I hope it’s true.”
“Huh?”
“I hope you’re not embarrassed. She told me in private, so it wasn’t like she told everyone. The thing is, she told me that because I’d already told her I like you.”
“She did? You told her that?”
“Yes. I’ve even kept your drawing.” He shows me the end pages of his sketchpad. Clipped to the back of his pad is the alien representation I made of him days ago, with the paper crinkled since I’d balled it up. I was so mad at Shakira for giving it to him, but now I see that she played a small part in bringing the two of us together, because we’re meant to be together.
Bestest. Ramadan. Ever. Page 16