Never Been Texted

by Linda Joy Singleton

  When I gripe to Rory about rule eleven during lunch, she suggests renting a costume at Mask Parade in Empire.

  “I wish,” I say with a shake of my head. She understands about my lack of funds.

  Over chips and bag lunch sandwiches, we toss around ideas. I come up with a great costume idea, but not for me. For Toffee. The velvet doggie vest I got at Swap Market will look cute on her. But what will I wear?

  Rory offers some great suggestions, but they all involve spending oodles of money that I don’t have. She even offers the use of her credit card, but I give her that look to remind her I’m not a charity case.

  Sipping mango juice, I contemplate the costume issue. With less than five dollars in my pocket and only three weeks prep time, I’ll have to get creative with a costume, like I’m my own craft project. A costume made of winding sheets toga-style? No. All-black theme with a black-cloth mask or a sheet draped over me like a spectral dog trainer? Definitely not. With each idea comes a soundtrack in my mind of the audience laughing at me.

  “Remind me why I’m doing this.” I sink my head into my hands.

  Rory pats my shoulder. “You thrive on self-torture.”

  “Public humiliation is so appealing,” I say grimly. “I might as well walk out on the stage naked.”

  “Most original costume ever – Lady Godiva, the Dog Trainer.”

  I groan. “I’d rather poke needles in my eyeballs while walking barefoot on fiery coals and broken glass.”

  “But you won’t give up.” Rory rips open a bag of spicy salsa chips, tossing me a challenging grin. “You’re made of awesome-sauce.”

  “Who needs to quit? I’ll be disqualified if I don’t have a costume.” As I say these words, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. I never would have entered the competition if Beatrice hadn’t pushed my anger button.

  “You’re looking at this wrong.” Rory taps her finger on the rule sheet, her expression thoughtful. “It says your score will be judged on your costume, not that you have to wear one.”

  “You think?” I ask with a morsel of hope.

  She sips cranberry-pomegranate juice and shrugs. “Don’t know for sure. Why not ask someone in charge?”

  “There’s no contact number on the paper. I already looked.”

  “Someone in the school office might know.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Rory crumples her juice box and tosses it in the garbage. I cram my half-eaten sandwich in my baggie and score a direct hit when I throw it into the trashcan.

  In the office, we ask about the competition, but no one has any answers. A student assistant, Macy from my science class, suggests calling the mayor’s office, but I’m reluctant to call any number associated with Derrick.

  “I know who you can ask,” Rory says as we leave the office.

  “Who?”

  She grins wickedly. “Beatrice.”

  “Shut up!” I smack her shoulder. “Like she’d do anything for me.”

  “Afraid to talk to her?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “So go ask her. Now.”

  I stop abruptly in the hall, glaring at Rory. As if I want to talk to the super bitch who treats Derrick like a trained pet, jerking on his choke chain when he doesn’t obey her commands. She’s like an abusive pet owner who kicks her pet for sport.

  Am I afraid of confronting Beatrice?

  It’s not so much fear of her, but fear of what will happen if she pushes me too far. Her self-entitled, snarky attitude makes me boil, and I’ve been holding back for so long. If I explode, it won’t be pretty. And for sure I’ll get one hundred percent blame, which in a school with zero tolerance for violence means ruining my permanent record and chances for a scholarship.

  Still, I can’t stand a coward, especially when it’s me. I tell Rory I’ll talk to Beatrice. What can it hurt? A few words never killed anyone, right?

  It’s easy to find Beatrice because after she failed to convince the school board to turn the cafeteria into a vegetarian café, she lunches in the library. She’s tight with the librarian, Ms. Farrow, who feeds her biblio-appetite. Beatrice brags that she speed-reads a book a day, mostly non-fiction history and political biographies. You’d think she was prepping for SATs but no, she’s prepping for a future as a politician’s wife.

  Our shoes click-click down the hall, the sound echoing my quickening heartbeat. Keep control, I caution myself. One question then I’ll leave before Beatrice can sharpen her tongue and stab me with her sarcasm. I’ll smile and act polite so she won’t get a chance to mock me. I’ll pretend I’m like Rory, who keeps her cool in any situation and is respected for her fearless, funny attitude. I’m glad she’s coming with me.

  Ms. Farrow, a pink-haired pixie with thick mascara framing unusually green eyes, glances up from her desk as we enter the library, a ginormous room with murals of children reading and skylights brightening shelves and computer stations. The librarian absolutely loves Beatrice, telling other kids they could learn a lot by following Beatrice’s thirst for knowledge. I’m a big reader, too, but with Beatrice it’s like a race to read the most books in one lifetime.

  I don’t see Beatrice on the library computers but Anthony Dunwilly is there, and when I ask him if he’s seen Beatrice, he points to the back of the room. Winding down tall shelves, I find Beatrice with Hannah in the Teen Zone, sitting on a plastic chair beneath a Hunger Games poster. Hannah zombie-stares at a video on her iPad while Beatrice is engrossed in reading a book so massive it probably weighs more than she does.

  Rory gives me a nudge, and I take a step forward, reluctantly. I clear my throat. “Beatrice,” I say.

  “Huh? Oh, you.” Her eyes narrow down to my shoes, which have been scrubbed so clean they look and smell new. “I’m surprised Abi, I mean, Ms. Farrow, let you in. The library has strict hygiene standards.”

  “No animals allowed,” Hannah adds, giggling.

  Beatrice high-fives her loyal minion. “Exactly!”

  Do not lose your temper. Do. Not.

  “I have a question about the competition,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Be quick. Ms. Farrow trusts me to watch over the Teen Zone,” Beatrice says in a lofty tone. “If the other kids complain about a bad smell, you’ll have to leave.”

  “Was that supposed to hurt?” I shrug. “Not even bruised.”

  “Only because you’re too dense.” Beatrice rolls her eyes.

  “Pathetic.” Hannah copycats an eye roll.

  “Why did you even enter Talent-Mania?” Beatrice’s frosted plum smile would seem friendly to anyone who glanced at us. “Talent is so important, and I’m afraid you’re sadly lacking.”

  “You have no idea what I’m capable of,” I say in a low warning tone.

  “I can smell failure, and you reek of it.”

  Anger strikes a match and tosses it on my fuse. I’m going to rip off her lips and shove them down her throat. I start forward, hands clenched into fists.

  Rory grips my arm hard. “Not worth it,” she whispers, and she’s right.

  Deep calming breath. “About the competition…” I begin.

  “It’s not too late to drop out.” Beatrice slips a bookmark into her book then slams it shut and stands to face me.

  I’m spitting mad, and it takes all my control not to strangle her with her own hair extensions. But I manage to hold my head high and speak firmly. “Not. Dropping. Out.”

  “You should rethink that. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time you quit something. Didn’t you drop out of the Brain Bowl right before their big championship, which they lost?”

  I lost so much more. I say nothing, frozen on the outside while a flash fire burns inside. I won’t…I can’t…talk about the car accident, about losing Mom.

  Rory, though, is the one now knuckling her fists. I turn toward her and shake my head in a “don’t bother” gesture, and she backs off.

  Beatrice mistakes my silence for triumph. “I’m sure you h
ave some talent, but not good enough for Talent-Mania. Like this book I’ve been reading advises, ‘Never overestimate your abilities; accept your limitations, and embrace your natural skills.’ This isn’t like the Brain Bowl where everyone applauds when you spout off facts like a computer. Take my advice—save yourself the public humiliation.”

  I dig my nails into my palms. Do not rip off her face. Do not.

  “I just want to know about rule number seven in the contest rules.” I press my lips so tight I taste blood. “Does everyone have to wear a costume?”

  “Duh. Costumes are mandatory. Mine is created by that designer who just won the Reality Fashion Runway.” Beatrice’s smile is poisonous with satisfaction. “If you don’t have a costume, you can’t perform. Sorry, but it’s the rules.”

  She’s not sorry. Not even one little bit.

  I’m defeated before I even walk on the stage. I’ll look ridiculous in a homemade costume competing against designer costumes.

  “I’ll be happy to cross your name off the list,” Beatrice offers.

  No costume and long days of work ahead training Toffee. Beatrice is right. I should just quit now. But then I think of the grand house on the hill that I’ve dreamed of visiting, and the boy who lives there.

  I lift my chin. “Not quitting.”

  “There’s zero chance of you winning against entrants with real talent.” She gestures to herself with a flick of her purple-frost nails.

  Rory steps forward and drapes her arm around my shoulder. “Beatrice, shut your face up! I’m sick of your attitude, especially when you’re totally wrong about Ashlee. She has more talent in her pinky finger than you have in your entire over-blown ego, and that’s saying a lot. Her talent is so freaking amazing she’s gonna blow everyone away.”

  “Amazing talent?” Beatrice’s voice drips thick sarcasm.

  Rory looks at me expectantly, but what can I say? A dancing dog won’t impress Beatrice, not unless the dog can also sing and recite poetry while tightrope walking in high heels. But backing down isn’t one of my best skills, so I shrug with a mysterious attitude. “Sorry, but I can’t reveal what I’ll be doing.”

  “Ashamed to tell me?”

  “My…um…mentor swore me to secrecy. But it’s not cliché like singing.”

  Beatrice presses her lips angrily. “You only wish you could sing as well as I do. I’m professionally trained.”

  “Yay for you,” I say in my most condescending tone. “But if you’re so good, then why try to influence the judging?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. This is all about talent, and I’ve got the most.”

  “Prepare to be disappointed. You won’t win.”

  “And you will?” She snorts.

  Angry hot waves flood my brain. “Definitely.”

  Rory is grabbing my arm, saying something about needing to leave, but I’m locked in a staring war with Beatrice. I’d rather eat my sneakers than back down. I don’t have to, though, because Beatrice’s cell phone interrupts.

  Bending down to the table, Beatrice lifts her red-metallic phone and glances at a text. Her crimson rage melts to rosy cheeks and shining eyes. This Beatrice is a changeling I don’t recognize. She says nothing as she reads her message, and I sense she’s not with us anymore. Finally, she blinks, looking up at me with annoyance. “What are you still doing here?”

  Good question. The fireworks in my head have cleared to a hellish sulfur haze, and I’m regretting everything I just said. Once again I inserted my mouth without thinking first. I’ve really messed up. Now showing up at the competition isn’t good enough.

  I have to win.

  When Rory tugs me away from Beatrice, I don’t resist. The fight has faded from me, and I have nothing left to say. Behind me I hear Beatrice murmur “Derrick” in a breathy tone. The ground seems to tilt, plunging my emotions down a hellhole. My hand goes to my chest as if pressing against my heart will ease the ache. But pain comes anyway. I can’t even hate Beatrice because she has no idea I know Derrick or that for an amazing week his texts went to me.

  My last text obviously worked. Derrick stopped texting the wrong girl, and all is right in his world. Beatrice has forgiven him and they’re back together. Derrick must be so happy. I should be happy for him.

  I lower my head, blinking back tears I refuse to cry. I walk faster, bolting into a run for the exit. I hear Rory running behind me, past rows of computers, book aisles, and a librarian who shouts at me to slow down. The library door thuds behind me, but I don’t stop running until I’m outside the building, slammed with a shock of chilly air.

  I collapse onto a bench, hugging myself and only vaguely aware of Rory beside me, putting her arm around my shoulders, asking what’s wrong. She thinks I’m upset because I lost my temper, and I don’t tell her otherwise because I’ll completely lose it if I speak his name.

  He’s not mine. He never was. He never will be.

  If winning Derrick’s heart were the competition, Beatrice would have already won.

  Her godmother, who saw her all in tears, asked her what was the matter. (Perrault)

  Rory forbids me to speak to Beatrice ever again. “You’re a runaway train wreck around her.” We pause at the hall intersection, where we’ll split off in opposite directions for our next classes, and she touches my shoulder gently. “You gonna be okay?”

  I nod, but I’m lying. I spend the rest of school mentally replaying my meltdown over and over. Did I seriously tell Beatrice I’d win the contest? That’s like an ant challenging an elephant to arm wrestle, and the elephant wins by a trunk. Stomp, squish, good-bye ant. What was I thinking?

  The smart thing would be to bow out of the contest graciously, say I have a terminal illness or take a trip out of the country or fake a broken leg.

  Even as I consider this, I know my competitive gene is too strong to give up. As a chronic over-achiever, I always go for the win. But whoever heard of a dog trainer winning a talent contest? First place typically goes to a singer with a wow-factor voice. Still, I have to try.

  So begins grueling days of practice.

  For Toffee it’s all a fun game, and she never tires. Her hoop tricks may impress people at Swap Market, but we’ll be playing to a tougher audience and I need to come up with an outstanding trick. Like any project, I start with research, analyzing results from dog shows and hundreds of videos of amazing dog tricks. I finally settle on a routine comprised of doggie gymnastics and dancing.

  Every morning I get up thirty minutes early to work with Toffee before going to school. Rory helps after school, at least for a few days until her boyfriend tells her he has some paying customers for her henna art.

  By Saturday, it’s just me and Toffee. I wake at an ungodly dark hour and drag myself out of bed. The way my body aches you’d think I was the one dancing on four paws. I’m grouchy from lack of sleep (why am I still dreaming of Derrick?), and I’m frustrated because my act isn’t working. Cute dog tricks might win applause but not first place.

  After a quick breakfast of yogurt and fruit, I zip through kennel chores then take Toffee into the garage where we can practice without interruptions from the snarky stud dogs. I created a playlist of background music from hip-hop to salsa, and when Toffee masters a complex trick I reward her with a gourmet doggie treat from Bow-Wow Boutique. Today, we’re working on a pirouette somersault.

  “Again,” I say to Toffee in a gentle, encouraging tone. It’s funny how I can lose my temper so easily with people but never with animals.

  Toffee whines, her mismatched eyes shining with longing. “No treat until you perfect this trick,” I say with a firm shake of my head.

  I turn on the music and start from the beginning. This time Toffee spins her pirouette perfectly, but stumbles on the somersault. She springs back up, gold tail wagging, eager to try again, but I shut off the music. “Good job, Toff.” I toss her a bow-shaped doggie treat. “We both need a break. Rest or walk?”

  She goes to h
er leash, and I know exactly where she wants to go – the Swap Market.

  Setting the CD player on a shelf, I gesture for Toffee to follow me. I’m heading for the garage door when it bursts open. My stepdad stands there, stud dogs flanking him like a canine army.

  “What’s going on? I heard music.” Blake taps his chin with his finger as he peers around the garage. There’s nothing out of the usual — old bikes, boxes, an electric lawn mower, a ladder, and tools hanging on a wall. Only the CD player propped on a shelf hints at what I’ve been doing.

  “Just hanging out,” I say casually.

  “In a drafty garage?” His narrowed gaze makes me feel like a little kid caught stealing cash from a wallet.

  “I like it here. Is that a crime?”

  “No, but it doesn’t make sense.”

  The stud dogs sniff menacingly at Toffee and me. Toffee whimpers then dives behind my legs.

  “Your dogs are scaring Toffee. Tell them to back off.”

  “They’re harmless and just being playful. I’m waiting for your answer.”

  His attitude rubs me like sandpaper on a bleeding cut. Why should I tell him anything? He doesn’t care what I do as long as I keep the kennels clean. I doubt he’d bother to come watch me perform if I asked him. Should I ask him? But he’s really into Q-Bees. Toffee is so talented he couldn’t help being impressed. Other performers will have family in the audience rooting for them. Other than Rory, who will root for me?

  “I’m training Toffee.” I hesitate, biting my lip. “Because there’s this thing.”

  “Thing?” He lifts a brow.

  “A talent competition.” I reach down to scoop up Toffee, who licks my arms and wiggles her golden tail. “I’ve taught Toffee some tricks. She’s really good, and I can show you if you, um, want to see.”

  He glances at his watch then shakes his head. “There’s a dog food shipment arriving in an hour, and inventory will keep me late tonight. I’ll have free time tomorrow and I’d like to see what you’ve taught Toffee. Can she roll over and jump on command?”

  “Much more than that. She can dance.”