The bell rings.
“And that’s all for today! More details tomorrow! Make good choices.”
I throw my binder into my bag and dart out of the room with my eyes glued to the floor. Making good choices seems like such a simple thing. If only it were that easy.
* * *
The rest of the day passes in a blur. All I can think of is the hurt in Maddie’s eyes, and how I’m going to have to see it again soon. It makes my stomach churn, and the sloppy joes they serve at lunch don’t help at all.
We play improv games in musical theater, and the next thing I know, the final bell is ringing and it’s time to face what I’ve done.
I feel lost walking through the halls, even though I know exactly where I’m going. After I pass through the double doors and leave school behind me, there’s no delaying it. The moment is here. I brace myself and climb aboard the bus. Maddie sits closer to the front this time, shoulders slumped. She looks up at me as I pass. Too late, I notice that she scooted over for me to sit next to her.
It was a chance to make it right, and I missed it! I could turn around right now. Maybe it would be okay. If it wasn’t too late a few seconds ago, it’s not too late now. No more excuses. I can do this.
I turn back to the front and squeeze past a few kids in the aisle. “Excuse me,” I mutter. “Sorry, c-coming through!” Right then, Tristan and Josh reach the top of the bus steps.
I freeze.
“Ugh, sixth graders,” an eighth-grade boy grumbles at me. “Move already!”
I stare as Tristan and Josh slide into the seats around Maddie. A huge knot forms in my throat.
“C’mon, move!” another kid says to me.
So I move in the opposite direction, farther away from Maddie, and throw my bag into an empty seat. I hug my knees to my chest and stare out the window as the bus moves away from the curb. I’m the worst friend in the world—if she even considers me a friend anymore.
* * *
Later that night, Mom hollers upstairs, “Charlotte! It’s time to set the table!”
“Okay!” I’m sprawled across my bed on my stomach, trying to do homework, but I can’t really think about anything but Maddie. I close my book and go downstairs.
In the kitchen, Mom removes a pan of rolls from the oven. “What have you been doing up there?”
I make a beeline for the silverware drawer. “Just homework.”
She smiles. “Let me know if you need any help.”
I need help. But not with homework. I shrug. “It’s okay. I’ve got it under control.” I stroll over to the cabinet for plates. “Hey, Mom?”
“Mmm?”
“Say you have this friend, um”—my eyes wander to a beach vacation photo on the fridge—“Savannah. And let’s say she really hurt another friend’s feelings. What could she do to fix it?”
Mom studies me. “ ‘Sorry’ is a good start.”
“Yeah, but…what if it’s too big for ‘sorry’?”
“You mean like Savannah needs to do something kind?” She makes air quotes with her hands when she says “Savannah,” and I cringe.
“Yeah. Like that.”
“I still say start with ‘sorry.’ Say it, mean it, and then never do the hurtful thing again. That’s how you fix the situation.”
“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Savannah.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “Oh, right. That’s how Savannah should fix it.” She adds the final toppings to a tossed salad. “Hey, did Maddie ever give you an answer about Wicked? Tickets go on sale tomorrow.”
I almost drop my plate. It’s not like I can ask Maddie to go with me now. What would she say if I had the nerve to call her? Mom may think I can fix it by saying “sorry,” but she doesn’t know what I—I mean, Savannah—did. I don’t think there’s a universe where “sorry” is going to work. “She can’t make it.”
“Oh no! Would it help if I called her mom?” She glances toward the phone on the countertop.
“NO!” My eyes widen. She can’t do that! What if her mom knows about the Bad Thing I did? And what if she tells my mom?
Mom gives me a sharp look. “Why not?”
“I—I—I mean, no, that’s okay,” I say, trying to sound super casual. “They, um, have a family thing that night.” I force a tight smile. Maybe they do. If they’re together in the same room, that’s a family thing. I mean, I’m not really lying.
She studies me for a moment. She always knows when something is up. Keep it together, Charlotte!
She wipes her hands on a dishtowel and says, “Is there anyone else you’d like to ask?”
My shoulders relax from relief. I shake my head. “Not really.” I’d have to actually have friends for that. All the kids that I knew in elementary school have been randomly assigned to different wings in the middle school. I’ve only seen a few in the hallways here and there.
As if she’s heard my thoughts, my mom asks, “Have you gotten to know any of the other kids?”
I shrug. “Haven’t really had time yet.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. Again. I don’t know who I am anymore. I always tell my mom the truth. It’s like one little lie blooms into another one.
She pats my arm. “You will. Wait and see! And we’ll have a great time with just the two of us. Are you excited?”
“Yeah!” But as I walk to the table, I feel heavier than I’ve ever felt before.
It’s Friday. Finally. I didn’t think this week would ever end. All I have to do is make it through today. Just one day. I take a big gulp of chocolate milk. I can do that.
Mom rummages through a cabinet, throwing odds and ends together. She hands me a sack lunch and pats my shoulder. “Today’s menu says tuna fish. Thought you’d rather have peanut butter.”
I smile up at her. “Thanks.” Now that I’m in middle school, I’m supposed to pack my own lunch if I don’t want to eat cafeteria food. But I always daydream or wait until the last minute, and then it’s too late.
Dad tops off his travel coffee mug. “Okay, we’re off!” He bends down and messes up my hair.
“Dad, no!” I just spent five whole minutes trying to make it smooth. “Ugh!”
He laughs.
“It’s not funny!” It’s not like last year when I could just go to school and no one really paid any attention to my hair. Or did they? I never picked up on them noticing it then, but they do now. I don’t need to give them another reason to laugh.
Mom nudges him and shakes her head the tiniest bit.
He clears his throat and says, “Sorry. See you this afternoon!”
“Mmm-hmm.” I shovel a spoonful of cornflakes into my mouth, and they’re out the door. I glance at the seat next to me. It’s the one Maddie always sits in at breakfast after we have a sleepover. Last time, we stayed up late watching The Greatest Showman and my mom woke us up with pancakes. I think of Maddie saying that middle school scared her more than anything. My stomach gurgles, and I drop my spoon into my bowl. Why does everything have to remind me of her? I can’t stop thinking about what I did.
This isn’t who I am. With my heart pounding, I pick up the phone and dial Maddie’s cell. It rings once. She’s probably still at home. It rings a second time and goes to voice mail. I frown and hang up. Maddie always listens to music on her phone in the mornings, which means she saw me calling and sent it to voice mail. At least she knows that I called, but it’s not enough. I scribble I’m sorry on a piece of paper and stick it into my pocket. I’m not sure this is enough, either, but I have to do something.
My eyes dart to the clock on the microwave, and I dump my dirty dishes into the sink before heading down the street to the bus stop. Lyric is already sitting by the curb, playing on her phone. Her perfectly polished aqua fingernails pop next to her deep brown skin. That color was always her favorite. It seems like f
orever ago that I used to paint her nails for her.
“Hey,” I say quietly, just to see what she’ll do.
She doesn’t look up from the screen.
I drop my bag to the ground and plop down against it with a sigh. She wasn’t like this in elementary school, when we all used to ride bikes together. But that was before her parents got divorced and she started spending half her time at a different house. Then she grew half a foot, and everything changed. At first, she said that she was too busy to play, or that it was too hot to go outside. It took me forever to realize that she didn’t want to see me anymore. It’s like she suddenly decided the rest of us were still little kids and she wasn’t.
Maybe you just outgrow people. How does that even happen? Like, one day your friends are your friends, and the next, you’re like a winter coat that’s too small. So they donate it and leave it in the driveway for pickup, right where I’m sitting.
Every now and then Lyric absentmindedly pulls on curly strands dyed with really cool blue streaks at the end. The color almost matches her nails. She taps her phone a few times until it makes a whooshing sound.
I wish I had a phone so I could text Maddie. I asked my parents for one when school started, and Dad said, “We’ll talk about it when you’re in eighth grade.” He might as well have said “never.”
We both look up when we hear the engine chugging up the hill.
When the bus stops, I climb the steps and glance at my usual seat. Maddie isn’t next to the window. Her bag is, and she’s on the side closest to the aisle. My seat is gone. Did she see that I called? I drop the note onto her bag and wait for what feels like forever. She glances up at me, and then turns and looks out the window.
My heart aches. I swallow the lump in my throat and continue toward the back of the bus.
Lyric glances at me out of the corner of her eye when I sit near her. I look out the window and brace myself for the rest of the ride. Tristan and Josh lean over Maddie’s seat again, and this time, the kid sitting in front of Maddie turns around and laughs with them.
I watch everything from the safety of the back of the bus, and when I can’t take any more, I look out the window. What is it about middle school that changes everything—and everyone? It shouldn’t be possible to destroy years of friendship in half a second, but I managed to do it. And I realize, amid the cruel laughter coming from behind her seat, that I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.
* * *
I’m sitting in English as my eyes read the same lines over and over again. I have no clue what I’m reading. I can’t concentrate on anything today—not since homeroom. Maddie had crumpled my apology note up into a ball and left it on my seat. But I guess I knew a simple “sorry” wouldn’t work. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Mr. Burton gave me another note that I definitely didn’t want. It said:
Dear Charlotte,
I missed you on Wednesday! Why don’t you come chat during homeroom one day next week? Just tell Mr. Burton you need to go to the library, and he’ll know! Can’t wait to meet you!
—Ms. Garrett
I threw both notes into the trash.
“Time’s up!” Ms. Harper says, moving to the front of the room. “Before we get started on anything else, I want to talk about our new project. Starting Monday, we’re going to write every day.”
I close my book.
“It can be funny or serious. It can be short. It can be long. It can be anything you want, as long as you just write something. Maybe you want to treat it like a daily journal, or you could write part of a short story every day. Whatever it is, it’s okay. Just write. It can be fact or fiction. It can be fact you wish were fiction. It can even be facts that you turn into fiction!
“And it doesn’t have to be perfect, either. What matters is that every day, we write something, just like we read something every day. Together. I’m going to write, too!”
I wonder what Ms. Harper writes about….
“We’re all going to be writers in here, and I can’t wait to read your work.”
I lean forward, and my chair squeaks. If she’s going to read our work, we can’t really write anything. So how do I decide what to write?
She looks around the room at each of us as she speaks. “You all have the potential to be”—she lands on me—“extraordinary.” Deep in my bruised heart, a spark catches and pops out the dented places. Whatever I write, I’m going to make it the best thing I’ve ever written.
“If you want to be funny, go for it! If you want serious, that’s fine. Oh! For the artists in the room, if you want to tell your story in comic strips like they do in graphic novels, that’s great.” Ms. Harper’s eyes light up as she talks about everything we can write.
“We can draw cartoons for this?” Ben asks.
“Of course you can!” Ms. Harper says. “Graphic novels are important books that tell stories, too.”
“Awesome,” the guy in front of me says.
“If you feel stuck coming up with ideas, try this: write what means something to you.”
Maddie. But it’s not like I can write about what happened if Ms. Harper is going to read our work. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. I just…I don’t want anyone to know. Especially Ms. Harper. My excitement fades.
“Questions?” She looks around. “No? Okay, time for lit circles!”
I can’t imagine what she’d say if she read my story about the Bad Thing. I’d better tell another one.
* * *
At lunch, I open the paper sack that Mom surprised me with this morning. Folded up right on top of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich is a piece of paper. I smooth it out and read:
Charlotte,
I hope you’re having the best day! I’m so proud of the young lady you’re becoming. Your kindness shows in everything you do. I love you!
Xoxo, Mom
I grip the note in my hand. I’m not kind; I’m a coward! If she saw the real me, she wouldn’t be leaving me lunch notes. Or lunches.
I was so busy trying to save myself that I made someone else feel bad. But that’s not the kind of person I am. I have to do something. I tap the note against my juice carton.
Ben walks by my table with his tray. His missing hair looks even worse up close. He keeps his eyes on the floor and ends up at the next table. I wish there were some way to make him feel better.
I tap the note again and glance down at it.
I have an idea.
In social studies, I line up a piece of paper next to my notes so I can start thinking about another kind of note. I just have to wait for the right moment in class. We already worked in groups on our vocabulary words and had to illustrate each one and use it in a sentence. Now Ms. Yang wants each of us to take a turn reading the definition of a vocabulary word out loud and acting it out, and then the class has to guess the word. If we don’t want to do it, all we have to do is say the magic word “pass,” and the exercise moves to the next person. There’s just one problem. P is a hard sound, and I can’t start a sentence with it without stuttering. I can’t read out loud without stuttering. I don’t know why we can’t just learn stuff without being embarrassed every five minutes.
“Pass.”
“Pass.”
“Pass.” The line zooms closer to me. No one else wants to read, either.
“Pass.”
“I’ll read,” a girl named Sophie says. Phew! Glancing up at Ms. Yang, I nod like I’m listening, and then I look down and write:
Dear Ben,
I tap the end of my pen against my chin. What do I say? I want him to know he has a friend, even if he never knows it’s me. I like the idea of it being anonymous. I jot down:
Has anyone ever told you that you’re awesome?
“Charlotte?”
“Yeah?” I look up, and everyone is staring at me. It’s my
turn. Maybe if I start with a soft sound first, I can get the words out. “Uh, p-pass.” Ugh! I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I sound like I’m searching for my words when I say “uh” like that, and it didn’t even work this time. My cheeks burn, and even though they’re already saying “pass” in the next row, my pulse continues to race. I glance around at the other kids with their open social studies books, sure that at least one of them noticed. But no one is even looking at me. They’re all following along on the page like nothing happened.
I tug at my collar, glance down at Ben’s note, and pick up my pen again. My mom’s words echo in my head. Your kindness shows in everything you do. So I write:
You’re always nice to everyone, even if they don’t treat you the same way. I think that’s my favorite thing about you. I just wanted to tell you that you’re not alone. I wish I were brave enough to say it out loud, but I’m not. But I wanted you to know it, so I’m writing this note.
Your friend,
I stop. How should I sign it? I don’t want to use my real name. It made me too nervous to do that when the principal asked me to write about the bus. But I felt safe to write the truth about the bus because the principal said it was secret. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but there’s something about being anonymous that lets you tell the truth, no matter what. So, for the first time all year, I own up to exactly who I am:
The Biggest Chicken at Carol Burnett Middle
* * *
On the first day of musical theater, Ms. Harper told us that performing is all about presence, and she asked if we knew what it meant. Of course, no one really had any clue except for Aubrey, who squirmed and waved her arm around while Ms. Harper ignored her. When Ms. Harper finally called on her, Aubrey said, “It’s when you’re completely comfortable in front of everyone, and they love watching you.”
Say It Out Loud Page 4