Laughing, Brooklyn said, “No! You are. You’re the queen!”
Just then the bathroom door flew open. One of the Cell-belles rushed in and shouted, “Lipschultz is right behind me!”
I heard two thunks and then quiet as Ms. Lipschultz entered.
“What are you girls up to? Are you using your phones in here?”
“I’m not,” Hailey Joanne protested. “I don’t even have my phone with me. You can check my backpack.”
“I put mine in my locker so I wouldn’t be tempted to look at it in class,” Brooklyn added sweetly.
“Well, all right,” Ms. Lipschultz said. “On your way. Now. Unless you need to use the facilities.”
I watched the shoes of the three girls leave the bathroom, followed by Ms. Lipschultz’s. I let my feet drop to the floor and hunched over. Had my bestie truly gone over to the dark side? Was she now proud of being cruel?
No, I thought to myself, that couldn’t be true. I would just have to get Brook alone and talk some sense into her. She was a good person inside. A little thing like a phone—even though it was a big deal—couldn’t have changed a girl so completely and so fast.
I left the stall, went to the sink, and turned on the faucet. I started filling the basin, planning to splash some cool water on my face, when I heard tweet tweety tweet. I looked around. I was the only one in the lavatory. Where had the sound come from? Then, tweet tweety tweet again. The alert was coming from the wastebasket.
Leaving the water running, I moved toward the wastebasket, lifted the lid, and there, lying amongst the pile of crumpled paper towels, were two bedazzled animal-print-cased cell phones. I reached in and picked up Brook’s phone, the one with the leopard print. The screen was lit, having just received a text message that said,
I couldn’t help myself. I knew it was wrong, but I used my finger to scroll and read some of Brook’s earlier text messages.
The sound of water filling the sink was drowned out by the bell. Lunch period was over. I could hear the noise of kids heading for class, but I couldn’t move. My lungs were paralyzed. My best friend in the whole wide world had just done the most unforgivable thing ever. She’d made fun of my mother! Brooklyn Minelli really was the Queen of Mean!
My hands began to shake. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the bathroom door suddenly flew open, and that’s how the phone slipped from my hands into the sink full of cold water.
Brook, standing at the door, screamed as we watched her brand-new phone drown.
CHAPTER 4
The Pressure Principal
Brook’s blood-curdling scream brought the teachers on hallway duty flying to the girls’ bathroom, where I was quickly apprehended and taken to the principal’s office. After one of the teachers spoke in a low voice to Ms. Pegg, the principal’s secretary, she looked at me over her glasses and said, “Have a seat, Margo. I’ll have to call your parents in before you see Ms. Lipschultz.”
“It’s Mango.”
She looked up from her computer. “What?”
“My name. It’s Mango.”
“Oh yes, right, beg pardon.”
I sank down on the bench, the mango pit in my belly swelling to record size at the thought of my mom having to come to school to meet with Ol’ Frosty Eyes. She would have to wake Jasper up from his afternoon nap, which made him really cranky. And this would interrupt her Muscle Torture workout schedule.… Oh man, she was going to be mad to the thousandth power.
The tap tap tippity tap tap rhythm of Ms. Pegg’s typing made my eyelid’s super heavy, and, well … I guess I fell asleep, because the next thing I knew, my father was shaking my shoulders, waking me up. I quickly wiped the slobber from the side of my mouth with the back of my hand and hoped I hadn’t been snoring. Then my brain reloaded, and I realized it was Dada who came to get me. My mind started careening off into the über-dramatic part of my imagination. Why was Dada here instead of Mom? Did something happen to her? Did she misplace her leg? Or have a car accident? Or maybe something was wrong with the baby! Did Jasper’s eczema get worse? Did he have to go back to the hospital? Or was he kidnapped, and Mom was out with the police searching for him?!
There is no way Dada would show up here if something weren’t horribly wrong. You see, besides being the most handsome man on the planet, he was the chef at Minelli’s Italian Restaurant, and he was always busy at this time of day making fresh pasta and prepping the kitchen for the dinner service. Something had to be really wrong if he’d left Minelli’s to come all the way over to my school because of what I did.
He sat beside me, his almond-shaped eyes crinkled with concern, and said, “Mango, gal, what a gwan?” That meant “what’s going on?” Dada was born and raised in Jamaica, and his accent swam all the way back to the island when he became emotional or worried or when he was hanging out with his Jamaican friends laughing and slamming dominos onto the kitchen table.
My throat was so swollen, I couldn’t dredge up any words of explanation for Dada. He held me as my shoulders quaked and I drenched his shirt with tears and crying snot. I thought I would never be able to stop weeping until Ms. Lipschultz stepped out of her office. Her gray, hailstone eyes froze my tear ducts, and my crying jag was over.
Ms. Lipschultz directed Dada and me into the two wooden chairs that faced her desk. I thought these chairs were smaller on purpose, so she could tower over you from the high leather office chair behind her desk. Even Dada, who was a tall man, seemed shrunken facing her frosty eyes from his chair.
Although this was my first visit to the principal’s office, it didn’t mean I was a perfect angel who’d never been in trouble. My previous offenses were petty compared to what happened today. Talking in class. Passing notes. Chewing gum. Excessive giggling. Not obeying directions from staff or student hallway monitors (power-hungry mini-monsters who lived for the chance to carry a clipboard and push somebody around). They were the kind of violations your teacher would dole out punishments for, like staying after class for a private lecture; writing a two-page essay on “Sticking Gum Under Your Chair and Other Ways of Spreading Germs to Your Fellow Students”; detention, where they kept you for forty-five minutes after school; or, worst of all, sending a note home to your parents that you had to return signed in the morning. But all of those “misdeeds” were piffles compared to the felony I was charged with today.
Ms. Lipschultz interlaced her fingers on the desk and got right to the point. “Destruction of property is a serious offense, Mango. Do you understand that?”
I couldn’t lift my head to face her cold stare, so I just nodded and mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.” A little part of me was hoping Dada had noticed that I was being polite, just the way he taught me. His lecturing me to say “yes, ma’am,” “yes, sir,” “please,” “thank you,” “you’re very welcome,” “I beg your pardon,” and “excuse me, please” had not been in vain. I was hoping there was a slim possibility that my good manners would help excuse my crime in his eyes a teensy-weensy bit.
Ms. Lipschultz continued, “Then you must also understand that your actions come with consequences. Yes?”
I was beginning to feel like I was in court. Ms. Lipschultz was the judge, and I was the accused. I began to lift my head a little bit, thinking, I can’t be convicted without putting up a defense. It was my right. I had learned that from watching Judge Judy. It was also my right to have an attorney represent me, but since I didn’t have one of those, I had the right to defend myself. Thank you, Law & Order reruns.
I finally spoke. “I’m not guilty, Your Honor—I mean, Your Principal, uh—I mean, Principal Lipschultz, ma’am.” I cleared my throat and took a deep breath, trying hard not to keep sounding like an idiot.
Ms. Lipschultz sighed, “Brooklyn witnessed you tossing her brand-new phone into the sink.”
I shot up out of my seat and thrust a finger into the air. “I object!” My outburst was so sudden and so forceful that I startled Ms. Lipschultz, Dada, and myself.
Dada patted m
y shoulder, “Calm down, Mango.”
Ms. Lipschultz, having backed away from her desk at my outburst, rolled forward and said, “Take your seat, Mango. We are not in a courtroom. I’m more than willing to hear what you have to say on your own behalf. Just sit down and speak calmly.”
I sat back in my low seat, unclenched my fist, and cleared my throat again. “Ahem! I didn’t toss Brooklyn’s phone in the sink. I dropped it. By accident. Because I was startled when she opened the door.”
Dada asked, “Why did you have her phone in the first place?”
“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Fuller, that was my next question, too.” Ms. Lipschultz said, cocking her head to one side and lifting her eyebrows in a “if you’re so innocent, explain that, smarty-pants” expression.
Uh-oh. My inner girl-code alarm started beeping and vibrating. If I explained that Brook and Hailey Joanne had hidden their phones in the trash can just before Ms. Lipschultz caught them in the bathroom, I would be ratting out my best friend. But was she really my best friend anymore? My thoughts went back to what I had read on her screen—she probably couldn’t win a race with her peg-legged mother.
Her peg-legged mother.
Her peg-legged mother.
Peg-leg—
“Mango.”
I turned to face Dada. He said, “Answer the question.”
My throat started filling with prickly nettles because of the pain I felt realizing that those words were texted by my best friend’s thumbs. The only friend I trusted enough to bring into my home. The only one I trusted enough to open my mother’s closet and reveal the trophies she had hidden away, because thinking of that part of her life was still too hurtful for her to talk about. Brooklyn was the only person outside my family that I was comfortable enough to share family business with and even sing in front of, and she betrayed me!
I lowered my head between my legs and tried to take deep breaths again, but it didn’t work this time. The tears began to roll down my face and splash onto the floor. I was crying for my mother and mourning the loss of my bestie. I was all twisted up in knots, because even though Brooklyn had treated me so badly, I still couldn’t rat her out. She’d get into trouble if I said what she was doing with her phone in the restroom and that she and Hailey Joanne had ditched them in the trash can before the principal caught them texting each other. On top of all of that, I’d be admitting that I’d been in the stall eavesdropping. And even worse, I’d be labeled a snitch for the rest of my days at Trueheart Middle School. Snitches are branded, scorned, and left to spend the rest of their school days in a social desert without water, companions, or even a compass to guide them back to society. As much as I wanted to put Brook on blast, the thought of being shunned for the rest of my middle-school life was too heavy to bear.
Dada rubbed my back. “Mango, baby, if you don’t speak up for yourself, you’re going to have to suffer the consequences of your actions. Honey, come on, try to tell us what happened.”
I shook my head. It hurt too much to even stand up for myself.
Ms. Lipschultz leaned forward and spoke softly, “Mango, I understand that you and Brooklyn are close friends.”
I shook my head again, unable to shout “No!” the way I wanted.
“I can see that something happened to cause a problem in your friendship, but whatever that was didn’t give you the right to destroy her phone, even by accident. Perhaps you girls can work things out and become friends again.”
This time, I forced myself to push past the nettles of pain in my throat and blurt, “No!”
“All right. That’s between the two of you. My job, as your principal, is to rectify this problem as best I can.”
My father spoke. “No worries, ma’am. We’ll replace the phone right away.”
“Thank you. Now, as for the consequences of your actions, Mango—for destruction of property on school grounds, I could suspend you, but I have never seen the sense in giving a child a vacation from school as punishment. Also, you’re a good student, and I won’t take away your ability to learn. However, because there is such a strong rift between you and Brooklyn, I am suspending you from Girls On Track for the rest of the school year.”
I lifted my head and shouted through my tears, “No! I love Girls On Track. It’s not fair.” I turned to my father. “Dada, please!”
But Ms. Lipschultz continued, “We have plenty of other extracurricular activities for you to explore, but some distance from Brooklyn seems necessary. I also need you to apologize to Brooklyn. I think that should be handled here, in my office, when you give her a new phone. Do you agree, Mr. Fuller?”
“Yes, I believe that’ll be best.”
“No,” I said. “I won’t tell her I’m sorry. I won’t make up with her. Ever!”
Dada turned toward me. “Mango, don’t be disrespectful.”
“I don’t care. I’ll never say sorry to her, not after what she did.” Dada and the principal prodded and waited and prodded some more, but I wouldn’t tell them what Brooklyn did. I wasn’t protecting my ex-bestie; I felt I was protecting my mom. Protecting her from the humiliation of ever finding out that I had exposed her personal business and that, because of me, she was being ridiculed by the Queens of Mean.
In Dada’s car, I couldn’t stop sniffling and blowing my nose. I came to the realization that snot is a by-product of tears. The tear ducts must be attached to your nostrils somehow. Why else would your nose fill up with so much of that gunk when you cry?
Dada pulled into the parking lot of the mall and asked if I wanted to come in with him to purchase a new phone for Brooklyn. Looking down at my hands, which were holding the mess I’d made of Dada’s bandanna, I shook my head and said, “No, sir. No, thank you. I’d rather wait here, please.”
Dada reached over, took my chin gently in his fingers, and turned my face toward him. “Remember, my sweet Mango, sometimes when it seems things are falling apart, they are really just falling into place.”
“What does that mean?”
“Think about it. Sit back, relax yourself, and let it roll around in your brain awhile.”
I tried to take his advice, but I didn’t get to do much thinking. It seems as though the minute I shut my eyes, I fell fast asleep. Crying and dealing with a bunch of emotions is exhausting. I didn’t wake up until Dada had pulled into his parking space in the garage beneath our apartment building.
I knew my eyes were red and puffy from all the crying and sleeping, so I was happy no one else was in the elevator as it tugged us up to the sixth floor. Not that I’m vain or anything. At least, I didn’t think I was any more vain than any other twelve-year-old girl. Seriously, who wanted to be seen looking like they’d been through five rounds with a boxing kangaroo?
Jasper was in his high chair when we entered the kitchen. Oblivious to what had gone on, he started bouncing and holding out his chubby arms until I picked him up. He was happy to see me. It seemed he was the only one.
Mom, lips pressed tight together as if she were holding in a mouthful of scolding, only stared at me with her fists on her hips. Dada gave her a hug and placed the bag with Brooklyn’s new phone in it on the counter. Mom immediately reached into the bag and took out the receipt. A hand went to her chest. “Four hundred and fifty dollars, Sid? Who buys a child a phone for four hundred and fifty dollars?”
Mom was the family accountant. She’s the one who paid the bills, set the budget, clipped coupons, hunted for sales, and made sure nothing was wasted. It’s not that she was a cheapskate, it’s just that she felt responsible for making Dada’s paycheck stretch as far as possible, especially since she stopped working when Jasper was born. It didn’t make sense for her to go back to working full time until Jasper was old enough to go to school, because child care cost more than her pay as a manager at Target. She was a pretty good writer though, so she held on to her freelance job, writing articles on high school and college sports for the local newspaper. That job didn’t pay much at all, but she hoped she could
become the full-time sports editor when the current one retired, quit, got fired, or was abducted by aliens.
Mom took the box out of the bag and examined the phone. “This is top-of-the-line. What kid needs this much storage?”
“I know,” Dada said. “I purchased that model as a way to sort of … make it up to Brooklyn for what happened today.”
“You mean for what your daughter did,” Mom said, looking at me and narrowing her eyes. It was always “your daughter” or “that daughter of yours” whenever I did anything to displease her. When her temper blasted off, she dropped me like a hot potato.
“What about what Brooklyn did?” I asked Dada, my lips trembling. “She didn’t deserve to get a better phone for—” I cut myself off, not wanting to step into all of those emotions again.
Dada moved toward me with his arms outstretched. “What, Mango? Why won’t you say what she did to make you destroy her property?” His brow furrowed over his almond eyes. I could see that Dada, the most easygoing man on the planet, was slowly losing his patience with me.
Jasper whined as I put him back in his high chair. “May I be excused, please?”
“No.” Mom said, her fists back on her hips. “Not until we discuss your punishment.”
“I’ve already been suspended from Girls On Track.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but that’s the school’s punishment. You also have to pay for what you’ve done to the family.”
“What have I done to the family?” Unintentionally, my fists went to my hips, mirroring Mom and her attitude.
Dada held his hand up to me. “Watch your tone, Mango.”
“I’m not being disrespectful.” I dropped my hands to my sides. “But I think I should know what kind of horrible thing I’ve done to the family to deserve more punishment.”
Mom folded her arms across her chest. “Your father just paid four hundred and fifty dollars to replace a phone you destroyed. Do you know where that money came from? Do you?”
Mango Delight Page 3