Bessica 2 - Bessica Lefter Bites Back

by Kristen Tracy

  I reached out and grabbed her hand. “Because today was the day we divided the mascot schedule.” I couldn’t make my mind stop zooming. Alice had hated me even before we both competed for school mascot. After everybody had voted and we ended up tying, Alice Potgeiser’s hate for me quadrupled. If I wasn’t there to divide the schedule, she was going to make me cheer against all the mascots she thought were cruddy. I gasped. All my efforts to build an awesome new reputation would be flushed down the toilet.

  “Won’t everything get split fairly?” Sylvie asked.

  Sylvie was very naïve. I rolled my eyes. “You’re in middle school. You know the answer.” I thought back to the assembly where Alice and I had competed in front of everybody. She was so vicious-looking in her fake bear head. There was no way she’d split things fairly.

  I collapsed into a lying-down position. The room spun around me.

  “Bessica,” Sylvie said, lowering her face to look into mine. “I think you’re overreacting.”

  I stared up at Sylvie. I could see right up her nose. Her nostrils looked like dark caves covered in hair. I sure hoped that wasn’t what my nose looked like when people stared up it. I closed my eyes very tightly.

  “Don’t freak out,” Sylvie said.

  I couldn’t believe that Sylvie didn’t have any sympathy for me. “I’m doomed.”

  Sylvie flicked me with her finger. And that surprised me. Because she’d never finger-flicked me before. Middle school was really changing her. “Just call the school and let them know there was a mix-up.”

  Wow. Sylvie had never come up with a solution to a problem before either. Usually that was my job. This felt a little weird. I reached for my backpack and my cell phone but my fingers were trembling too much to dial. And then I remembered something else, and it made me cry a little. “We were going to get fitted for the costume today.” There was no way Alice and I were the same size. So the bear mascot outfit would get fitted to her and she’d look neat and wonderful and I’d look floppy and not very ferocious. I moaned again.

  “It’s not the end of the world,” Sylvie said.

  But that was exactly what it was. Why couldn’t Sylvie see that?

  Sylvie took my phone out of my hand and smiled. “Don’t worry, Bessica. I’ll help you.”

  Even though it felt weird and I was a little unsure about it, I let Sylvie Potaski use my phone and fix my life. Only that wasn’t what happened. No. No. No. After I gave Sylvie my phone, things in my life didn’t get any better. They got much, much, much worse.

  Before Sylvie could call the school, my phone buzzed.

  “That might be my grandma,” I told her. Ever since Grandma had run off with her Internet boyfriend to climb around in caves, she hadn’t been calling me as much as she used to.

  I thought Sylvie would hand over my phone, but she just kept trying to solve my problem. And she answered the call. It was very weird to watch Sylvie behave this way.

  “Hello?” Sylvie said. “No, this is not Bessica Lefter.”

  When Sylvie used my last name, I stopped thinking that Grandma Lefter was calling me.

  “Let me see if I can find her,” Sylvie said.

  Sylvie looked a little freaked out. She covered the receiver with her hand and whispered, “It’s your principal!”

  I gasped. “You shouldn’t have answered it!”

  “But I did!” she said.

  The terribleness of my situation hit me very quickly: Sylvie Potaski was not good at solving my problems.

  “Tell her I’m in the hospital,” I said.

  “I’m not going to lie,” Sylvie said.

  “Well, you can’t tell her I’m sitting at your house planning your disco/jungle–theme birthday party. It’ll look like I don’t care about being mascot. She might strip me of my mascot duties and give them all to Alice.”

  “Cookies are ready!” Sylvie’s mom called.

  “Shhh,” I said. I sure hoped Principal Tidge hadn’t heard her. Because that wasn’t something people hollered in hospitals.

  Sylvie lifted the phone to her face. “I’m still looking for her.”

  “Why would you still be looking for me if I’m at the hospital?” I whispered. “That doesn’t make sense. They make you stay in your room until they discharge you in a wheelchair.”

  Sylvie looked like she didn’t know what do.

  “Please don’t ruin my life,” I said. “Please just tell a good lie for me. Just this once.”

  Sylvie took a big breath. “Bessica is resting.”

  And then, so Sylvie wouldn’t be lying as much, I flattened down on the floor like I was sleeping.

  “Um, you’re asking me if she’s sick?” Sylvie said, looking at me.

  I nodded with a lot of energy and also stuck out my tongue and moaned.

  “Sort of,” Sylvie said.

  I bolted upright. “Not ‘sort of,’ ” I whispered. “I am sick. Lie! Lie! Please. It’s easy!”

  I jumped to my feet, but my shoe twisted and I bent my ankle funny and I fell down.

  “She’s hurt,” Sylvie said nervously.

  Uh-oh. Sylvie shouldn’t have told my principal that. I was a mascot. Injuries could get me sidelined. I shook my head no, no, no. Then I rubbed my ankle, because it did hurt a little, and then I realized my socks were itchy, so I kicked off my shoe and scratched my foot through my sock.

  “She has a foot fungus. And her, um, treatment has her, uh, immobilized.”

  My mouth dropped open. It was like my best friend had gone crazy and decided to hate me at the same time.

  “I’ll give her the message,” Sylvie said. Then she hung up the phone and I started yelling at her.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

  “I can’t lie!” Sylvie said.

  “Of course you can. You just did! I don’t have a foot fungus!” I put my shoe back on.

  “Remember that one time you went barefoot in the showers at the public pool and you thought you had athlete’s foot and your toes itched for a month?” Sylvie asked.

  “That was in third grade!” I said. “And it turned out my cheap, imported socks were the problem.”

  “I know. I know. But when I saw you scratch your foot it was all I could think of,” Sylvie explained.

  “What if she tells Alice Potgeiser?” I asked. “I’ll be so unpopular nobody will want to cheer for me.”

  “Okay,” Sylvie said. “We can fix this.”

  But I didn’t really believe that at this point. I didn’t want Sylvie to ever try to fix anything for me again.

  “Right now we have a bigger problem,” Sylvie said.

  This panicked me. My current problem was so enormous, I couldn’t imagine a bigger one.

  “Your principal is going to call your mother to reschedule your mascot fitting.”

  “But what if Principal Tidge brings up the fungus problem and my mother tells her that I don’t have a fungus problem and that I’m at your house planning a birthday party?” I slapped my forehead. My life hadn’t felt this miserable in a long, long time.

  “That would be a rough night at the disco,” Sylvie said.

  “What?” I asked. Why was Sylvie talking about disco dancing when my life was falling apart?

  “That’s something Malory and I say when something goes really wrong,” Sylvie said.

  I pointed my finger at her face. I felt panicked and annoyed at the same time. “You’re obsessed with disco!”

  I took my phone back from Sylvie and tried to call my mom. But her phone went to voice mail. Which was terrible. Because it meant that my mom was either ignoring me or already talking to somebody. Maybe Principal Tidge.

  Knock. Knock. Knock. Sylvie’s mom opened the door and looked in at us. “Is everything okay? I can hear yelling.”

  Of course Mrs. Potaski could hear yelling. I didn’t have time to politely explain to her why she heard it. I needed to get to Alma’s croquet game and talk to my mom so she would know she was supposed to lie to
my principal and tell her I’d been immobilized by foot fungus.

  “I’ve got to go!” I said.

  “But I’m supposed to feed you lunch,” Mrs. Potaski said.

  “It’s okay. I’ll eat something at the croquet game!” Then I sped out of Sylvie’s house and headed to the back field and ran through shoulder-high weeds all the way to Alma’s. When I got there, I had quite a few pieces of field grass stuck in my shoes and I was covered with cockleburs. Plus, my legs were all scratched up.

  “Mom! Mom!” I yelled as I ran over to her.

  “I thought you were going to call before you came,” she said, holding her mallet still.

  And just then her phone started ringing. I threw my arms around her. “Don’t answer that!”

  “What’s going on?” my mom asked. She tried to make me release my squeeze on her. But I didn’t.

  “Is this your daughter?” a woman asked.

  We both ignored her. Because that was a dumb question.

  “Mom,” I said. “I have a serious, serious problem. It’s vital.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Bessica,” my mom said. “Who’s calling me? Is everything okay with Mrs. Potaski?”

  I felt my mother reach for her phone and I snatched it out of her hands.

  “Mom!” I said. “You can’t talk to this person until I explain the situation to you!”

  I did not want to tell everybody that my principal was calling. And I also didn’t want to discuss “the situation” in front of them. For the first time I looked around at all the women at the party. They were all wearing more makeup than I thought necessary to play croquet.

  “Who’s calling me?” my mother asked.

  She moved closer to me like she was still interested in answering her phone. So I jogged backward a little bit and leaped over a wicket.

  “Mom!” I said. “Wait!” I was bummed out that my mom couldn’t demonstrate more patience.

  My mom’s phone finally chimed that the caller had left a message.

  “Bessica, let’s pursue this conversation off the playing field,” my mom said.

  She seemed angry. She took her mallet and walked stiffly toward the part of the lawn that wasn’t mowed.

  “What’s this about?” she asked. “And give me my phone back.”

  But I didn’t want to give her the phone until we were both on the same page.

  “Mom,” I said. “Sylvie ruined my life.”

  “How does this involve my phone?”

  I released a big breath. I didn’t know where to start, so I spilled everything.

  “Today was the day we divided mascot duties and got fitted for the costume,” I said. “I was supposed to be at school.”

  “Shoot!” my mom said. Then she smacked herself on the forehead with the heel of her hand. “I totally forgot.”

  This made me feel better, because it was beginning to look like my terrible situation could be blamed a little bit on my mother.

  “Principal Tidge called me,” I said. “And Sylvie accidentally answered my phone. And I didn’t want to tell Principal Tidge I was planning a birthday party, because that would make me look like a slacker who lacked team spirit.”

  “Riiight …,” my mom said slowly.

  Explaining this to my mom was turning out to be easier than I’d thought it would be.

  “And then Sylvie’s mom yelled that our cookies were done. And I worried that Principal Tidge would think I’d missed the meeting because I liked eating cookies more than being mascot. And then I worried she’d think I was such a gigantic slacker that I didn’t even deserve to be mascot.”

  “Don’t cry, Bessica. Everybody knows you’re not a gigantic slacker,” my mom said.

  I was glad my mom said that, because I hadn’t even realized I was crying.

  “Things aren’t as bad as they feel,” she told me.

  So I gave her her phone and watched her listen to the message. Her face frowned.

  “Okay. I understand why you didn’t want to tell Principal Tidge you were planning a party and eating cookies. But why does she think you have an immobilizing fungus issue?”

  “Sylvie told her that,” I said.

  “Why would Sylvie tell her that? Have your toes been itching again?”

  “No!” I said. I couldn’t believe my mother would ask me that at a croquet game. “Sylvie answered my phone and lost her mind.” I spun my finger next to my head. “I don’t know what they’re teaching her at South, but she’s behaving like a totally different person.”

  “Okay,” my mom said. “All we need to do is call Principal Tidge and tell her there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  But this made me want to cry a little bit more.

  “What’s wrong?” my mother asked me.

  “Okay. I’m going to talk to you like we’re both adults,” I said, sniffling. “Middle school isn’t like elementary school at all. Middle school is a heinous place that can kill you.”

  “Let’s not take things over the top,” my mom said.

  I held my hand up to let her know that she should stop interrupting me. Because I was saying very serious things. “It’s nothing like fifth grade. You aren’t guaranteed good grades and friends and a classroom pet. You have to earn everything.”

  “I know it’s a big transition,” my mother said.

  I reached out and took her hand. “Mom, the only way to survive middle school and enjoy yourself is to find your spot. When you start you don’t have a spot. You have to make one by becoming something interesting like a cheerleader or hall monitor or yearbook photographer. I’m the mascot. And I don’t want to lose my spot.” I could feel more tears forming behind my eyes.

  “Oh, Bessica,” my mom said.

  “And I don’t want people to think I have fungus either.”

  My mother ran her hand through my hair. “You’re not going to lose your spot. And we’ll explain to Principal Tidge that your feet are fine.”

  “But then why did I miss the meeting today?” I whined.

  I could think of a lot of great reasons why I’d missed today’s meeting. But they were all lies. And I knew my mom wouldn’t lie to my principal for me. Because my mom liked being honest. It was a huge bummer.

  “Do you want Principal Tidge to think you’ve got a fungal foot infection?”

  I sniffled. When she put it that way, I wasn’t sure. “Becoming a mascot is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t want to jeopardize it.”

  “Bessica,” my mother said, in a tired tone. “I’ll make an appointment to meet with her and we’ll straighten everything out. I’m sure telling the truth won’t jeopardize anything.”

  My mom sounded really confident. I let out a sigh, and my mother put her arm around me. “Did you figure out what Sylvie wants for her birthday?”

  I had forgotten that was my job. And to be honest, when I thought about Sylvie, I got a little bit mad at her. Because until she told Principal Tidge I had foot fungus, my problem was very fixable.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” my mom said.

  I thought about Sylvie and what she deserved. And the perfect present popped into my brain.

  “Yes. I know what I want to get her,” I said.

  “Do we need to go to the mall after croquet?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “The mall would be perfect.”

  My mom smiled. “What are you getting her?”

  I smiled too. “I can’t tell you. I want it to be a big surprise.”

  Sylvie called me three times that weekend, but I never called her back. I was so mad I didn’t even listen to her messages. She also texted, “So worried for you! Call me as soon as you know anything.”

  But I didn’t plan to text her until I’d forgiven her. And I wasn’t sure when that would happen.

  I carefully loaded all my homework into my backpack and slid my cell phone into the front pocket. Even though we were banned from using them at school, it was nice to have it in case
there was an emergency. Or in case I wanted to text Grandma Lefter at lunch because I was bored. As long as I was sneaky and nobody ever saw me using it, I knew I’d never have a problem. My backpack was so stuffed it was hard to zip it up. But I finally did. Then I dragged it down the hallway to the front door.

  “I’ve made a surprise egg dish for breakfast,” my mom said. “A frittata!”

  That was not what I wanted to hear. Because in nutrition my assignment was to make a collage of all the food I ate for two weeks. And I didn’t know where to find a picture of a frittata.

  I sat down and stared at an egg glob with toasty brown parts on it. Sometimes surprises weren’t good.

  “What is this again?” I asked.

  “A frittata,” my mother said. “Alma gave me the recipe.” I poked at it.

  “You’ll like it!” she said. “It has cheese.”

  That did sound good, so I took a little bite. My frittata was actually very tasty.

  “Wow. Your backpack looks like you stuffed a dog inside it,” my mom said.

  I frowned. “No, it doesn’t.” Then I looked at my backpack. It was pretty loaded.

  “Did you finish your math worksheets?” my mom asked.

  But before I could answer, I felt somebody grab me from behind. And I screamed.

  “Calm down, sunshine,” my dad said. “It’s me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But it’s hard for me to know that when you’re standing directly behind me.”

  “Care for some frittata?” my mom asked.

  “Indeed I would,” he said.

  Once a month, my dad had a morning meeting at the bread supplier warehouse, which meant he had to drive an hour and a half to Pocatello. So instead of sleeping in, he got up at the crack of dawn with the rest of us.

  As soon as my mom put the frittata down in front of him, he cut it apart with his fork and started chomping on it.

  “So what’s in the backpack?” my dad asked. “A Shetland pony?”

  My family was starting to make me feel self-conscious about the size of my school belongings.

  “We were just talking about that,” my mom said.

  “You might need to graduate to roller luggage,” my dad said. “It’s better for the back.”