Never Been Texted

by Linda Joy Singleton

  “Not your fault. She’s playing you.”

  “You don’t know her like I do,” he argues.

  “I know her better than I want to. She’s selfish and manipulative.” I glance at my phone, remembering Beatrice’s smug voice as she bragged about punishing Derrick. Suddenly, I’m glad I’ve been getting Derrick’s texts instead of her, and I slide my phone back into my pocket. “She’s just using you. You deserve someone better.”

  He looks at me as if I’ve told him dogs are really cats in disguise. But someone had to tell him the truth. The choke leash Beatrice has on him is ridiculous, and his father doesn’t sound any better.

  “Maybe Beatrice isn’t perfect, but my father isn’t either, and I still care about them.” Derrick runs his hand through his hair, scowling. “Today has been great. But I asked to see you again because I could use a friend. I’m not looking for a new girlfriend. Thanks for the tour.”

  His words rip at my flesh, and I’m bleeding humiliation. Did I just tell a hot guy that I like him too much? Seriously! How pathetic is that? I want to yank out my tongue and grind it through a garbage disposal so I’ll never say another stupid thing. Why didn’t I think before I spoke? Of course he’s going to defend the girl he’s loved his whole life. I blew my only chance to be his friend.

  He jumps to his feet without even looking at me. Clutching the doggie pirate hat in his hand, he walks away.

  I want to run after him so badly my muscles ache from holding back. But I’m just a random girl he’ll never see again, and it’s stupid to hope for more. Beatrice broke his heart, and only she can mend it.

  But there is something I can do for Derrick, as a friend.

  I power up my phone and click on one of Derrick’s messages. The screen blurs as I blink back tears. I won’t cry. I won’t. I’m going to do this, even if it kills me. And it might.

  I write my first and last text to Derrick, a parting gift that hurts worse than watching him walk away:

  Miss you lots.

  Come see me. Don’t text back. Getting new #

  I click on Send.

  Her stepsister said, “Would you not like to go to the ball?”

  “Alas!” said she, “you only jeer me; it is not for such as I am to go to such a place.”

  “You are quite right,” her stepsister replied. “It would make the people laugh to see a Cinderwench at a ball.” (Perrault)

  Early the next morning, my phone blasts hard rock music and I jolt awake like a cat doused with ice water. What the hell? I didn’t set the phone alarm.

  Pushing aside my blankets, I cross the room to my desk and grab the annoying device. Stupid phone! I touch the power button, ready to shut it down, when a photo flashes across the tiny screen. It’s Toffee! Dancing at Swap Market, prancing on her back paws, her spinning golden tail and snowy ears frozen in the moment.

  I didn’t snap this photo, so how did it get on my phone? From the background, I know it was taken yesterday when I was with Derrick. But who sent it? Definitely not Derrick. He doesn’t know my phone number. Well, okay, he does, but he doesn’t know it’s my number. Besides he hates me now. Cross him off the suspect list. I check for new messages, but there are none. No surprise since I’ve only given my number to Rory, and no chance of her being at Swap Market since this is her every-other Saturday with her father who lives sixty miles away.

  Could I have accidentally snapped the photo? No, the angle is all wrong, taken from a distance while I was on the platform with Toffee. I gnaw at an uneven thumbnail, desperately trying to come up with a logical explanation because I’m afraid there isn’t one. The obvious explanation has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with magic.

  Despite all the weirdness, I can’t wrap my brain around the reality of magic. Believing in something so fantastical is bigger than what’s going on in my life, my town, or the whole world. I mean, what is magic anyway? A word for things people don’t understand. But often things one person doesn’t understand can be explained by somebody else. Like computer techs totally get how computers work, but when I click on my computer, awesome magic happens that seems impossible. And what about rainbows? When I was little I thought rainbows were the sky’s way of smiling, and I’d smile back – until a science teacher explained that rainbows were ordinary, something about a refraction of sunlight. Still, rainbows seem magical to me. Just because something can’t be explained doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

  All I know for sure is that lots of really unexplainable stuff has been happening since I got my phone at a store that doesn’t seem to exist. I wonder what will happen next.

  I slip into jeans and a yellow shirt then quickly check my phone to make sure the photo hasn’t disappeared. Still there, and I’m surprised how relieved this makes me. I love the photo, not only because it was taken during my day with Derrick, but Queen Bee photos always remind me of my mother.

  Raising Queen Bees was Mom’s passion, not Blake’s, although the way he obsesses over them now, you’d think he created the breed. Yet it was Mom who grew up with no siblings, surrounded by kennels of Queen Bees, who inherited a love for the purring darlings.

  Blake knew zero about Q-Bees until the grand opening of Bow-Wow Boutique when he showed up looking for a job. Mom hired him and within a month, they were dating. I hated him, of course. It had been just Mom and me against the world, and we were more like best friends than mother and daughter. Blake changed that, but he also changed Mom into someone who laughed a lot. Blake proved to be a hard worker with a gentle hand and genuine respect for the dogs. When Mom told me they were going to be married and asked me to give him a chance, I stopped looking for reasons to hate him. We discovered a mutual love for knock-knock jokes and dog puns, and I started calling him “Dad.” When Mom announced she was pregnant, Blake celebrated by transforming his office into a nursery and ordering baby-shaped dog cookies for the kennel dogs.

  We were almost too happy – like a sitcom family, only the laughter was real instead of canned – until the day Blake sprained his ankle and couldn’t drive. Mom was the one who drove to pick up the new stud dogs. A red light, crashing cars, a call into the school office. We went from sitcom to tragedy.

  The stud dogs survived. I can’t stand to be around them, but they’ve become Blake’s obsession. He spends ridiculous amounts of time fawning over Brutus and Cretin or at the store, forgetting I exist. I might as well be the microwave or the vacuum cleaner, useful for meals and chores, but otherwise of no interest to my stepdad. The child he wanted died with Mom.

  My hair dangles over the phone as I sit cross-legged on my bed, puzzling over the photo of Toffee. I start to reach for her then remember I couldn’t sneak her into my room last night because Blake worked late in the kennels, repairing the stereo system for the dogs. I offered to help, but he said he didn’t need me. Yeah, like that’s news. Although sometimes I catch him looking at me with the saddest expression, like he wants to tell me something. Once I even asked him if he needed to talk, but he cut me off with a voice as sharp as an executioner’s axe and ordered me to mop the kennel.

  I don’t ask personal questions anymore.

  At least I have Toffee, and I love her so much I can’t stop admiring her epic cuteness in the dancing photo. It’ll make a cool avatar. I bet Derrick would like to see it, too — if I dared send it to him.

  Why am I thinking of him again?

  I know the answer, even though I hate admitting it even to myself.

  In one short afternoon, Derrick slipped under my skin like a tattoo inked into my heart. I even dreamed of him last night — I don’t know where we were but it felt like another planet with dazzling lights, waterfalls flashing rainbows and whirling dancers. I was dancing, too — with Derrick. Spinning in the air as if we were flying — then we were flying, his arms holding me tight to his firm-muscled chest. And I thought of kissing him. He pulled me closer, and I lost myself in his chocolate brown eyes. My heart on my lips, my lips lifted toward his. So very r
eady to taste his mouth, knowing it would be sweet and wonderful. I could feel his warm breath, and leaned in, my breath mingling with his and then…

  The stupid phone alarm rang.

  “Do not think about him,” I order myself as I glance into the mirror over my dresser. I undo my braid then flip my messy hair from my face and drag a brush through my tangles. I pull tight and cruelly, glad for a pain that makes sense.

  I wave the brush at my reflection. “You’ll never see him again, except at a distance like when he picks up Beatrice at school or you see him on TV.”

  Or at Talent-Mania, I think suddenly.

  Not that I’m going. What would be the point? To give Beatrice new opportunities to humiliate me? Still I did sign up, which is, like, a ticket to attend. I could mingle in the crowd to watch the performances—and Derrick. No talent required.

  That’s when I get the idea.

  I don’t have any talent.

  But Toffee does.

  I’m consumed with texting Rory. She can’t come over because she’s still at her dad’s house, so we text furiously back and forth with plans, because of course I told her I was entering the contest.

  She’s thrilled and says this will be a great way for me to meet a hot guy so I’ll have a boyfriend, too. What she doesn’t know is that my heart has become a traitor, sneaking dreams into my head and tormenting me with images of Derrick. But I won’t talk about it, not even with Rory.

  In homeroom the next day, Rory shows me a photo on her phone of the henna dragon she stained on her boyfriend’s bicep. “Ian missed me so he came over to my dad’s. When he saw my henna designs, he wanted one. He loves it and promised to show his friends so I can start my henna business.” She leans closer to my desk. “You really need to find a sweet guy like Ian so we can go on epic double dates.”

  I nod like I’m all for double dating, but inside I’m aching, not wanting to think of dating any guy except Derrick, who is already taken. I switch the topic to Talent-Mania. “What should I call my act?” I whisper because we’re supposed to be prepping for a test. We have a sub today, though, who is checking email and not paying attention to us. Got to love sub days.

  Rory leans over like she’s picking up a paper she conveniently dropped and covertly whispers back, “How about Dancing Doggie?”

  I stick out my tongue.

  She tries again. “Prancing Paws?”

  “Worse.” I grimace.

  “Something wicked and dark like Dogma?”

  I shake my head. “Too enigmatic.”

  “Enig-what?”

  “My point exactly.” I sigh. “Choosing a name isn’t nuclear science, so it shouldn’t be this hard.” I think of DJs mashing-up songs to create new sounds. “What about a mash-up of dog plus ballerina?”

  “Dog-ball?”

  “No.” I chuckle. “I was thinking DogRina.”

  “Sure, it might work—if you’re in kindergarten.” Rory’s arrow stud comes to a sharp point with the rise of her brow. “You need a name that will grab the audience by their hair roots and yank them to a standing ovation—not something that sounds like a B-minus show on Cartoon Network.”

  “I think DogRina is cute.”

  “Kittens and fancy cupcakes are cute. Slam the door on cuteness. Go for wild and wow.” She taps the blunt end of a pen on the book she’s supposed to be studying, which causes Sophia, who sits in front of me, to turn around with a “shush!”

  Rory rolls her eyes and doesn’t bother lowering her voice as she asks me, “DogRina is the best you can come up with?”

  “Sadly, yes.” I sag against my desk.

  “There must be something else.”

  “Nope. Totally out of ideas.”

  She wags her pen at me. “Ms. Super Achiever never lacks ideas.”

  “True.” I grin. She knows me too well. “Toffee is the star, not me, so the name of our act should showcase her talent or breed. Something to do with queen since Toffee is a Q-Bee, like Queen Dancer or – “

  And because great minds (and BFFs) think alike, we say it together. “Dancing Queen!”

  Sophia whirls back around, glaring. “Shut up already. Some people are trying to study.”

  And some people have a stick up their butts. I don’t say this, though, because I’m still smiling at the name for my doggie act. Dancing Queen, that’s exactly what Toffee is, my darling, dancing Q-Bee.

  At the front of the room, the sub has put down her phone and is looking my way, so I give Rory a “finish this later” look and crack open my textbook.

  Later happens during break when we meet at our shared locker.

  Right away, I know something’s up, but I can’t tell if it’s good or bad. Rory’s hair flies around her flushed face like she’s been jolted with electricity, pressing her lips with such intensity as if she’s been holding back a flood of news so long she’s gonna burst.

  “Ohmygod! Wait ‘til you hear!” She hooks her arm around mine and drags me over to our locker. As she spins the combo on the lock, she lowers her voice to a foreboding whisper. “You will never, not in a zillion years, guess who just stopped me in the hall.”

  “Skip the guessing torture,” I say. “Who?”

  “Beatrice and that mousy little shadow of hers.”

  “Hannah?”

  “Yeah, that’s her name. They don’t usually bother talking to me because they know I’ll knock their faces off if they say crap about you. So, I was shocked when Beatrice smiled like we were besties and said she had something for me.” Rory sucks in a deep breath. “Well, not for me. For you.”

  “Anything she wants to give me is something I don’t want. You told her that, didn’t you?”

  “Not exactly.” She shrugs. “She was being so fake, but I was curious, so I asked what she wanted to give you and she handed me an envelope.”

  “Death threats aren’t her style,” I say wryly.

  “Yeah, she’s the knife-in-your-back type. Here.” Rory digs into her pocket then holds out an envelope.

  Eying the plain white envelope, I imagine what evil lurks inside. “It doesn’t look explosive, but just in case, get ready to call the bomb squad.”

  “Words can be as explosive as TNT. On second thought, you should destroy the envelope. It’s suspicious how nice Beatrice acted when she knows I’m your friend and she’s always such a bitch to you.” Rory’s dark brows narrow. “She was in a really good mood, which worries me.”

  Me, too.

  Yet I take the envelope.

  Suck in a deep breath.

  Then rip it open.

  Her stepsisters took her dresses away and made her wear an old gray skirt. “That is good enough for you!” they said, making fun of her and leading her back to the kitchen. (Grimm)

  The deep breath I’ve been holding whooshes out as I withdraw a plain folded paper from the envelope. “No bomb.”

  Rory raises a brow. “It could be a death threat.”

  I shake my head. “It’s only rules for the Talent-Mania.”

  “No venom or drama?” Rory sounds disappointed. “I expected something less boring.”

  “I’ll take boring.”

  The bell rings. No time to read the paper. Hastily, I shove it back into the envelope and wave at Rory as I take off running for my next class.

  Thirty minutes later I’ve finished an essay question and have nothing else to do until class ends, so I pull the paper from my backpack.

  Attention Contestants, it begins in small print then lists rules and instructions for the competition. Entrants must arrive a half hour early and report to the “green room” near the ballroom. Ballroom, huh? Cool. I hope there’s no rule against canines. I quickly skim through the list. I suck in an uneasy breath when I read the seventh rule.

  7. This is an individual competition; groups are prohibited, as there can only be one winner. However, competitors may use background musicians or utilize props to assist in their performance.

  Does performing with my
dog constitute a “group?” I read this over again, deciding that I still qualify. Since my talent is training dogs, Toffee falls under the category of “prop.” A darling, adorable prop.

  It’s crazy, but suddenly I’m looking forward to the competition. Not that I expect to win, and that’s okay. I love teaching Toffee creative tricks, and this challenge will raise my training skill to a new level. Being in the competition will also show my classmates I’m more than a stupid nickname. Even kids I hung out with in middle school avoid me because of Beatrice’s poisonous mouth.

  I continue reading through the rules until I come to the location of the competition. When I see the address, I slap my hand over my mouth so I don’t squeal in class. OMG! It’s being held at the Mayor’s house.

  Un-freaking-believable!

  Since I was little, I stared longingly up at the majestic “castle” on the highest hill in Castle Top. Three stories spiraling to the sky with wrought-iron balconies, spindly turrets, and pointed arches. I’ve heard the interior is equally grand with crystal chandeliers, stained-glass windows, murals painted by renowned artists, massive sculptures, and a waterfall fountain in the foyer. I imagined myself a captive princess trapped on one of the balconies, wishing for a rope of long hair or a winged dragon to rescue me.

  And now I’m invited inside.

  Realistically, I know anyone can attend for the price of a ticket, and it’s unlikely I’ll be allowed to go beyond the ballroom. Still, it’s a dream-come-true experience, and for a few hours I’ll be close to Derrick.

  I’m so lost in my thoughts I almost skim by rule eleven, until a word snags my brain like a fishhook, jerking my attention back to the paper.

  11. Judging will be based on performance and originality of entrant’s costume.

  I have to wear a costume?

  I strum my fingernails on the desktop, frowning. I never gave any thought to what I’ll wear. What sort of costume and how I will get one? My fashion style is simple, because I don’t have one. Give me comfy jeans and a T-shirt and I’m a happy girl. Why bother with trendy clothes when I spend hours every day on my knees rolling up urine-drenched dog-potty papers?