The Tori Trilogy

by Alicia Danielle Voss-Guillén

  I like thinking that I’m wrapped up in a piece of Peru. Spending time with Abuelito and Abuelita always makes me feel closer to that part of my background. And, as Abuelito flicks off the guest room lights, I realize something else: being with my grandparents makes me very proud to be half-Peruvian.

  Gina and I stay up talking till after three in the morning. We eat the entire bag of Sour Patch Kids that Gina brought, tell a few ghost stories (until Gina gets scared), and discuss Andrew and Stephanie’s baby and our friends and all the truly annoying things about Mr. London, but also the things we like about him. That brings us to the subject of the new girl.

  “All we know is that she’s from Georgia,” I say. “Let’s play a guessing game, and then on Monday, we’ll find out if we were right.”

  “Sounds fun,” agrees Gina, poking a red Sour Patch Kid into her mouth. “I’ll start. Hair color?”

  I think hard. “Strawberry blonde.”

  “I was going to say light-brown,” Gina replies.

  “We’ll see who’s right. My turn. Eye color?”

  “Hazel,” says Gina.

  “Green,” I say.

  “Short, tall, or medium?”

  “Tall.”

  “I think so, too.”

  We play the game for a long time until we’ve agreed that the new girl will be tall and skinny with an outgoing personality and a very Southern accent. We don’t agree on the rest, but that’s okay. Monday will be here soon enough.

  At long last, we are so tired, we can’t keep our eyes open anymore. We switch off our flashlights and snuggle down under the warm blankets.

  I turn onto my side and hug Starfire tightly. “Goodnight, Gina,” I whisper.

  But she’s already asleep.

  Bright and early Monday morning, the new girl walks into Room 5L. Immediately Gina and I study her, trying to figure out who won that guessing game. Her long hair is blonde, but not strawberry blonde, and instead of green or hazel, her eyes are the deepest blue I’ve ever seen. She’s medium height and thin, but not skinny. We’ll find out about the Southern accent and the outgoing personality soon enough. But so far, it doesn’t look like either of us wins the prize for that game.

  Mr. London introduces her to the class as Anastasia Adams from Savannah, Georgia. I can’t get over that name. First of all, what a mouthful! And second, the only Anastasia I’ve ever heard of before is a character in a Disney movie. Anastasia is wearing cream-colored leggings with a navy-blue sweater-dress and matching navy-blue boots that are the exact shade of her eyes. The whole outfit looks like something you’d see in one of those over-the-top expensive kids’ clothing catalogues. A thin gold chin dangles from her neck, and her fingernails are French-manicured. I’ve never seen anyone under twenty with a real French manicure!

  Even in ordinary clothes, Anastasia would be beautiful. Her hair is shiny and thick, with no split-ends, and her eyes are big without being too big, and everything about her seems graceful somehow. But let me tell you, in the outfit she’s wearing today, she looks unreal, like a princess from some fairytale, not a ten-year-old girl joining Mr. London’s fifth grade.

  The classroom is absolutely silent, which is pretty unusual, and as I look around, I see that all of my classmates are having the same reaction as I am. Their mouths are hanging open. They’re speechless. I think we’d all been expecting someone totally different, almost the opposite of Anastasia, a girl from the South with freckles and braids and maybe even a smile with gaps in it. But not this fashion plate who’s standing in front of us! We don’t know what to do or say. We’re in shock.

  Mr. London asks Anastasia to tell the class a little bit about herself. She smoothes her perfect hair between her palms and takes a tiny step forward. She runs her hands down the front of her dress, like she’s checking for wrinkles that aren’t even there. After a long pause, she opens her mouth and begins to speak. “As you all know, my name is Anastasia. My family moved to Forest Grove from Savannah only a week and a half ago. My father was transferred, because the Chicago-area branch of his company decided they couldn’t live without him.”

  Talk about laying it on thick. I glance back at Gina, and then at our friend Shannon, who, I can tell, are thinking the very same thing. Gina winks at me and I suddenly realize why: the new girl has a Southern accent...not a heavy one, but still. We were right about something!

  “I have an older sister, Cynthia, who’s in college at Stanford,” Anastasia continues, “and a Toy Poodle named Brigitte. My hobbies are reading and playing the piano. I’ve been taking lessons on our baby grand since I was four. Back in Savannah, I attended a private girls-only academy. This is my first time ever in a public school, and I can already tell that it’s going to be very different.”

  I stare at the new girl, unable to believe what I’m hearing. Not only does she look and dress like a princess, she lives like one, too! I mean, a four-year-old playing a baby grand piano, a sister at Stanford, a private academy for girls, and to top it all off, a pet Toy Poodle with a fancy name like Brigitte! I’m not sure yet whether or not I’m actually going to like this girl, but there’s one thing I am sure of, and I can tell that the other girls in my class feel the same way. We’re all dying to find out more about Anastasia Adams.

  Chapter Three

  With Anastasia in our class, Monday morning is very interesting. After she finishes talking about herself, the classroom is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. We’re all so surprised that none of us knows how to respond. Luckily, Mr. London doesn’t waste any time in asking us to introduce ourselves to Anastasia, row by row, front to back. We give our first and last names, which in my opinion is really kind of pointless. You just can’t expect someone to memorize twenty-two names all at once.

  When that’s done, Mr. London shows Anastasia to her desk. She stares at it as though she’s never seen one before, and I am almost positive that she makes a face at her blue plastic chair with metal legs, the kind we all sit in. I start to wonder what they used for chairs and desks at the girls-only academy in Savannah. Cushioned thrones and jeweled tables?

  When the lunch bell rings, we all spring out of our seats and make a run for the door. All except Anastasia. And, I notice, glancing back, Shannon. Shannon’s desk is just in front and to the left of Anastasia’s. Now Shannon is turned around, talking to the new girl. I edge back through the crowd of kids till I’m close enough to hear.

  “I was wondering,” Shannon is saying, “would you like to sit with my friends and me in the lunchroom today?”

  I hold my breath, waiting for the new girl’s answer. I hope she says yes. This could be the perfect opportunity to ask questions and find out more about Anastasia.

  But Anastasia doesn’t reply right away. Instead, she studies my friend carefully, as if she is a sponge soaking up every last drop of Shannon, from her gray eyes and wavy blonde ponytail to the outfit she’s wearing: a short-sleeved sweater, new jeans, and the pair of boots she picked out at the beginning of the school year, which are nice but nowhere near as expensive as Anastasia’s.

  After a long, long pause, Anastasia says, “All right.” Not “thank you” or anything like that. Just “all right.”

  Shannon smiles. “Great! Let’s go.”

  I walk with the two of them to the lunchroom. Anastasia, I notice, is looking at me the same way she was looking at Shannon. The difference is, she takes a much longer time with me. I begin to feel uncomfortable.

  Shannon notices, too, but I guess she thinks Anastasia is just curious. “This is Tori,” she tells her. “She’s one of my best friends. I know it’s probably hard for you to remember everybody’s name.”

  “Hi,” I say, flashing Anastasia my friendliest smile.

  “Hello,” she replies. She squints her eyes and continues to study me. “What did you say your last name was?”

  What a weird question. “It’s Salinas,” I answer.

  “I thought it was something like that.”

  Shannon turns
to me, her eyes wide, her hands lifted in a shrug.

  I shrug back. What is the deal with this girl?

  In the lunchroom, Anastasia and I wait in line for whatever mysterious glop they’re serving today. Shannon, who always brings a lunch from home, walks to our usual spot at our usual table, saving seats for the rest of us.

  “Don’t get too excited about this food,” I tell Anastasia, trying to make conversation. “I’m sure the food at your old school was much better.”

  Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. Anastasia screws up her mouth as if she’s just swallowed something sour. “Wasn’t everything,” she mutters.

  “What?” I ask.

  She shoots me a dirty look. “I said, wasn’t everything at my old school better.”

  It isn’t a question, but I am tempted to come back with, “Well, you tell me. Was it?” That’s the kind of sarcasm my brothers and I use on each other, and our parents hate it. But I hold my tongue. After all, Anastasia is brand-new at Forest Grove Elementary, brand-new in Forest Grove, period. That’s got to be hard. I decide to give her another chance.

  Pretending not to have noticed her nasty tone, I say, “At least it’s lasagna today. Out of everything they serve here, the lasagna is probably the best.”

  Anastasia tosses her head, and all that blonde hair flies past her shoulder, then settles perfectly into place against the back of her dress. She doesn’t say anything, nice or mean. Instead, she studies me again, the way she was studying me in the hallway.

  “What is it?” I ask finally. I hate feeling like a bug under a microscope. “Why do you keep staring at me?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know, Tori. You’re just so...interesting.”

  “Interesting?” I don’t know whether to be pleased or upset about that. “How do you mean?”

  We have reached the lunch counter by now, and have to pause our conversation while we pick up trays and pass them over the divide to those bored-looking lunch ladies who fill them up with so-so lasagna, burned garlic bread, and soggy garden salads. At the end of the counter, we take napkins and plastic forks. I skip the refrigerated chest full of milk cartons (I can’t stand the taste, smell, or sight of milk), but Anastasia stops and pulls out a carton, then makes a face at it and drops it back into the chest.

  “I hate milk, too,” I tell her. “My mom makes me drink it at home, but it’s even worse here at school. She lets me bring water or juice for lunch.”

  Anastasia shrugs, looking totally uninterested.

  Which brings me back to what we were talking about before we got our food. “You said I was interesting,” I remind her. “What does that mean?”

  “Does it have to mean anything?” she replies.

  I don’t know what to say to that, though I do feel a little offended. Then I remind myself that I have to be patient with the new girl. Once she feels like she fits in, maybe she’ll be friendlier. I lead the way to the table where my friends and I always sit.

  Shannon is not by herself any longer. Gina has joined her, and so has Emily, our good friend from the other fifth grade class. They are already picking through their lasagna and making faces at the bread and salad, while Shannon happily eats her lunch from home.

  I sit down, and after a short pause, so does Anastasia. I notice she’s watching Gina and Emily closely, curiously. Especially Gina.

  “Anastasia,” says Shannon, “these are my other best friends, Emily and Gina. Emily’s in Ms. O’Malley’s class, so that’s why you didn’t see her this morning.”

  They both give the new girl friendly welcomes.

  Anastasia looks from one to the other of them. She studies them, the same way she studied Shannon and me. I watch her as she scans Emily’s shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, and embroidered hoodie. Then she moves on to Gina, taking a much longer time.

  Finally, Shannon breaks the silence. “Anastasia,” she says, “I’ll bet you didn’t know that Gina and Tori are cousins.”

  Anastasia’s eyebrows rise. “Cousins?” She actually seems interested for once. She looks at me, then at Gina. I can feel her eyes boring holes into us.

  “Yeah,” I say. “My dad and her mom are brother and sister.”

  “Hmmm.” Anastasia tries a tiny bite of lasagna, makes a face, and lays her fork down at the edge of her Styrofoam plate. “I’ll have to say, you two really don’t look that much alike.”

  “We’re both half-Peruvian,” explains Gina, “but my dad is Puerto-Rican and Tori’s mom is white. That’s why I’m a lot darker than she is.”

  Anastasia’s mouth gapes for a moment. When she finally remembers to close it, she reaches for a napkin and dabs at her lips with it. Then she spreads it out over her lap, slowly and carefully, the way you would smooth a tablecloth into place for a fancy dinner. She doesn’t say a word.

  What’s this all about? I wonder. I pick up my black-at-the-edges garlic bread and take a crunchy bite. To my surprise, it doesn’t taste like anything at all, good or bad. I must be too busy thinking. Something about Anastasia Adams bothers me, and it’s more than just her rudeness.

  After dinner that night, I sit at the kitchen table, doing my homework...or at least trying to. My thoughts keep going back to Anastasia. Her expensive clothes. The “speech” she gave our class. The way she acted all throughout lunch. I wiggle in my chair, chewing at the eraser end of my purple pencil. As hard as I try, I just can’t concentrate on my math worksheet.

  Nate wheels around the corner into the kitchen. He flicks on the light above the counter and starts rummaging through the cupboards for an after-dinner snack. Pulling out a box of cookies, he pops it open, tears into the packaging, and turns around, noticing me at the table.

  Nate’s twenty and a sophomore at Glenmore Community College, a few towns over. When he’s not in class, he’s either cramming for exams, working at the college bookstore, playing video games on his Xbox, or hanging out with his friends, working on their cars. He’s going through a phase right now in which he is the absolute best at everything he does. You know, all his teachers think he’s smart, his employers sing his praises, his friends don’t want anyone but Nate fixing their cars, the girls fall at his feet. Everything he touches turns into gold...according to Nate.

  But...there’s a softer side to him, if you peel away the cockiness. I’ve been learning to look beneath the surface when it comes to my brothers. Sometimes they surprise me. As I said, there’s a chance they might be human.

  Now Nate pours himself a glass of chocolate milk and carries it to the table, along with the box of cookies. He drops into the chair across from me. “You want some?” He pushes the box in my direction.

  “Thanks.” I take a few cookies and start nibbling slowly.

  “What are you working on?” my brother asks.

  “Math. Fractions and decimals.” I make a face. “I am so bad at this stuff.”

  “You want some help?”

  “Sure,” I say, surprised by the offer. See what I mean?

  “I’ve always been killer at math,” Nate goes on.

  Maybe I spoke too soon. Just the same, I’m grateful that he gets up and crosses to my side of the table, bracing himself against it with his hands while he studies my worksheet. I tell him exactly what is giving me trouble and listen while he explains it more simply than Mr. London.

  I try a few problems, relieved to find that Nate has made my work much easier. “Thank you!” I tell him.

  He grins. “Anytime.”

  I manage to finish the assignment and slip it into my folder. Then I drop my face into my hands and sigh loudly.

  Nate, who’s returned to his seat, laughs at me. “Was it that bad?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not just the math.” And then I surprise myself by telling him all about Anastasia Adams. “I don’t understand it,” I finish. “She acts so weird, especially with Gina and me.”

  Nate is quiet for a while. He rolls his neck from side to side, massaging behind it with his hand. His longi
sh brown hair flops into his eyes. Finally, he shakes it back, propping his elbows on the table. “You don’t have any idea why?” he asks, his voice a notch above a whisper.

  “No,” I say. But just the same, my skin prickles, as if I’m very cold. Neither of us says anything for a long time. Then I look straight at my brother. “Do you?”

  “I hope not,” answers Nate.

  The prickles on my skin run together in a chill that I just can’t shake away.

  Chapter Four

  Anastasia is different on Tuesday. I notice it the moment I walk into 5L. She’s standing with a group of girls by the row of windows, chatting and laughing before the first bell. One of the girls is Shannon.

  Strange, I think. Maybe she just needed a little time to adjust. I drop my folder onto my desk and head over to join them. “’Morning, guys,” I say brightly.

  “Tori!” Shannon breaks out of the cluster to hug me. “Check out Anastasia’s outfit today. Isn’t it amazing?”

  The new girl is wearing a deep purple sweater with three-quarter sleeves and a thick collar that hangs almost like a scarf around her neck. The color makes her skin glow. And her jeans! They are probably the coolest pair of jeans I’ve ever seen, stretch denim with deep purple ribbon laced up the legs.

  “Wow,” I breathe. “I’ve never seen anything like that before. It’s...awesome!” I mean it, too. I’d love to have that outfit, especially since purple is my favorite color.

  I expect Anastasia to smile and thank me, or something, because of the nice way she seems to be treating my classmates. Instead, she tosses her long hair and kind of looks down her nose at me. “Of course you haven’t seen anything like this. Do you know where my clothes come from?”

  Suddenly feeling stupid, I shake my head. “Where?” I hate that my voice comes out sounding wimpy; I hate that I even asked that question in the first place. Anastasia is obviously being a brat, and I wish I could have shot back something clever and sarcastic.

  She laughs, but it isn’t the friendly laugh I heard out of her a few moments ago. This time, she seems to be laughing at someone. And that someone, I realize, is me. “Stores you’ve never even heard of,” she replies. “Fancy stores. And some of my clothes are even custom-made by my mother’s tailor.”