I couldn’t tell if she was buying Em’s self-defense plea, but it didn’t matter. Vandanhoover seemed way more concerned about Matt and his pocket knife than a couple of Dijon mustard stains anyway.
“Matthew, I’m going to let you off with a stern warning this time. You are not to come within fifty feet of the Manning school property. If a similar violation takes place, we won’t hesitate to press charges.”
“But—” Sarah started, obviously planning to complain about her lunchtime make-out privileges being taken away. Vandanhoover cut her off.
“I’d suggest you return to Sterling High now.” Matt stood up and left. “Emily, I’d like a word with you. Sarah and Margot, you can return to class.” Sarah J. got up to follow Matt. “Straight to class,” Vandanhoover added in a no-nonsense tone.
I glanced at Em, wondering if I should ask to stay. After all, I’d thrown half the sandwich, so this was half my fault—but she was playing with a ring on her pinkie finger like she wasn’t worried at all. I stood up and left, pulling the door almost all the way closed behind me.
Despite Vandanhoover’s warning, Sarah had run after Matt (I could see them talking in the hallway outside), and the secretary must have been in the bathroom, because the front office was empty. Maybe it was because I felt partly responsible for Em getting in trouble, or maybe it was just because I’m nosy like that, I took two small steps toward the doors, then stopped and stood as silently as possible, listening.
“You realize, Emily, that I’ll have to call your social worker and your mother to report your involvement in this incident.”
“But I wasn’t even—I was minding my own business, and Sarah was way out of line.”
“I’d like to believe you, Emily. I really would. Because I want to see you get off to a fresh start here in Darling. A better start. So does Mrs. Hoolihan at Social Services and Mrs. Martine in Student Support. It may seem harsh to you, but the reason we’re keeping such a close eye on you is to help you find your way.”
If Em gave any answer, I couldn’t make out what it was.
“You’re obviously a bright, creative girl, Emily. If you apply that energy to your studies, you’ll be amazed at what you can achieve here. Now, tell me,” Vandanhoover said, taking a softer tone, “how was your first week? Have you made any friends?”
“It was fine, I guess,” Em mumbled. “I met Margot. She’s all right.” All right? I leaned in slightly, more than a little bit offended, waiting to see if she’d say anything more about me, but she didn’t.
“That’s wonderful,” Mrs. Vandanhoover said. “A good peer group is key to a student’s success.” She pushed her chair back from her desk, so as much as I wanted to hang around, I didn’t wait to hear anything more.
I didn’t really get a chance to talk to Em again until after school, but I did spend a lot of time watching her out of the corner of my eye, trying to guess what Vandanhoover could have been talking about. Em had a social worker? She needed a “fresh start”? Clearly, she had a sucky glazed-hamlike episode of her own.
“Everyone’s talking about what happened,” Em said, coming up behind me after the bell rang. I saw her reflection in my locker mirror. “That was such sweet revenge. She’s never going to get that mustard stain out.”
“I know,” I said. “It was pretty good, wasn’t it?”
“It didn’t make her cry.” Em sounded a bit disappointed. “But don’t worry. I’m just getting started.”
I gulped. If that was “just getting started,” I couldn’t even imagine what else she had in mind. “What did Vandanhoover say to you?” I asked casually.
“Not much,” she answered. “She just wanted to hear my side of the story again. You know, to write it down in case they want to press charges next time.” I closed my locker door. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.” I pretended to look for something in my bag. I obviously couldn’t tell her I’d been eavesdropping, that I knew she was lying to my face, and that I’d overheard her say she thought I was just “all right.” “I guess I’m worried about what’s going to happen now.” That much was true. Not only had we crossed Sarah, we’d also crossed Matt—her ninth-grade, Swiss-Army-knife-carrying boyfriend. And maybe he wasn’t allowed within fifty feet of the school, but who said that was going to stop him from finding us?
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Like, what if he’s waiting for us outside?”
“He won’t be,” she said. “Anyway, did you see how small he is? We could take him if we had to.” But there was the tiniest bit of uncertainty in her voice. “Look, he has better things to do than wait around for us.” I wasn’t reassured. “Okay. If you’re all uptight about it, I’ll walk you home. Where do you live?”
“It’s fine,” I said, too quickly. “You’re probably right. He’s got better things to do. It’s out of your way anyway.” Gormon Avenue was about ten blocks from Lakeshore. But that wasn’t the only reason I didn’t want her to walk me home. First, I was a bit mad about her lying to me, but also, I didn’t want her coming to my house, meeting my psychic mother, and seeing how dirty and disorganized everything was. I could feel my cheeks start to burn as I thought about my babyish butterfly quilt and our mismatched furniture.
“Whatever,” she said. “Shut up. I’m walking you home.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Em said. “I don’t really feel like going home anyway.” She bit her bottom lip, possibly thinking of the phone call her mom and social worker would be getting from Vandanhoover that afternoon. “Seriously. I’ll be your bodyguard. Let’s go.”
I glanced nervously around every corner and behind every bush, but we didn’t end up seeing Matt—or Sarah. “She probably ran straight to the dry cleaners,” Em said. “I heard her telling Maggie how much that coat cost.” When we got to my place, I was desperately hoping Em might just turn around and go home, but instead she asked to come in to use our phone. “My cell battery’s almost dead,” she explained.
“You have a cell phone?” I couldn’t hide the look of envy on my face.
“What? You don’t?”
“I’m getting one,” I lied. “Probably for my birthday.” I opened the front door. “Hi,” I called. I was expecting to see Grandma Betty. Instead, I heard my mom’s voice.
“Oh, Margot. I’m so glad you’re home.” She came out of the living room wearing her I’M 100% ORGANIC T-shirt. I glanced at Em, who was busy kicking her Diesel shoes off into our giant avalanche of a front-door shoe pile. “Donatello has strep throat,” Mom went on, doing up her watchband. “He needs me to cover for him at the store. I canceled all my tarot clients. Grandma was going to come help babysit, but she’s been held up at the doctor’s office waiting for her flu shot, and then she’s got a visitation that she really can’t—Oh. Who’s this?” she asked, noticing Em, who was still dealing with the shoe-pile situation.
“This is my friend from school—Em. She just has to use the phone.”
“Oh. Hello, Em.”
Em just smiled slightly and kind of nodded.
“It’s fine,” I told my mom. “Go do your shift. I can babysit on my own until Bryan gets home.”
“Well, that’s the other problem,” Mom went on. “He has his first test tomorrow, so he has a study group until eight.”
“I can put them to bed,” I said. “I’ve done it before.”
“Oh, Margot. You’re a lifesaver. There are VTV dinners in the freezer. Call me at the store if you need anything. Do you like eggplant bharta, Em? You’re welcome to stay and keep Margot company.”
Em pulled her eyes away from our goddess of fertility painting to look at my mom. “Um, sure,” she said.
“That’s Venus of Lespugue,” Mom said, smiling at the painting. “Just one interpretation of the divine feminine.”
I winced. The goddess of fertility was fat, naked, and had droopy boobs.
“Mom,” I said urgently, helping her into her coat. “Aren’t
you going to be late?”
“Right.” She flashed me a quick apologetic smile. “Nice to meet you, Em,” she called as she dashed out the door. I breathed a sigh of relief. But the feeling didn’t last long.
“Magoo, look. I did a craft.” Aleene had walked into the front hall and latched herself onto my pant leg. She held up her hand to show me a Popsicle stick she’d painted red. It had two googly eyes glued to it.
“That’s nice, Aleene.” Then I noticed that the paint was still wet. And not only was it still wet, it was all over my pants. “Oh, God, Aleene!” I shouted, grabbing the Popsicle stick from her, taking it to the kitchen and throwing it in the sink. I got why my mom was all for encouraging the triplets to express themselves creatively, but couldn’t she let them do it with crayons or building blocks? Something that wouldn’t get stains all over my stuff?
Aleene immediately went into hyperventilation mode. “Okay, fine,” I said. “Here.” I took off the green jacket Em had given me, then fished the Popsicle stick out of the sink and handed it back to her. I honestly didn’t care if she got red paint all over everything in the house (except that jacket), as long as it kept her quiet.
“Magoo?” Alice came into the kitchen then, holding two Popsicle sticks of her own. “Juice?”
“Oh my God!” Em said, “How many of them are there?” Alex came in behind her, without any Popsicle sticks, but with her hands covered, back and front, in red paint.
“Too many,” I answered, grabbing a dishcloth and going to work on Alex’s hands. I glanced at Em to see if she was noticing how messy our kitchen was, but she was busy looking at the clock.
“What time do they go to bed?” she asked.
“About seven thirty,” I answered.
She looked deep in thought for a second. “Do they know how to tell time?”
“They’re only two.”
“Wait here.” She waved good-bye to the girls, who looked at her with big curious eyes, then she went into the living room, closing the sliding door behind her.
“Juice,” Alice reminded me.
“Right.” I opened the fridge. Apparently, with the exception of a freezer full of VTV frozen entrées, we had approximately nothing to eat. Thankfully, I found one can of concentrated orange juice in the freezer door. By the time I’d finished blorping it into the jug, Em was back.
“Is that orange juice?” she asked. “Oh, goody!” She could have been Cinderella herself the way the triplets were mesmerized by her every move. “I think we should drink our juice in the living room, don’t you, Margot?”
“Okay,” I said, still not quite sure what she had in mind. Em closed the kitchen door behind us as we stepped into the nearly pitch-black room. She had already closed all the blinds, and then she started propping throw cushions against the gap under the door. We sat down on the floor and played a halfhearted game with giant Legos for a few minutes, then Em started to yawn.
“It’s already dark out. Aren’t you sleepy, Margot?” she asked.
That was about the time I caught on. I faked an exaggerated yawn. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s late.”
Em leaned toward me. “What are their names?” she asked. I told her. “Forget it,” she said immediately. “I’ll never remember.” She patted Alex’s head. “I know three little girls who should be in bed soon,” she said, tickling Aleene’s tummy. Alice moved closer to her and sat down on her lap. “Ooooh, goodness!” Em said, yawing again. “I am so sleepy.” She batted her eyelids.
“I’m sleepy,” Alex mimicked. Aleene yawned. I couldn’t believe it was actually working. Half an hour later, at 4:30 in the afternoon, we’d brushed their teeth, read two stories (short ones, plus Em skipped pages), tucked them into bed with their unopened cans of Dora pasta (they’d been toting them around like teddy bears ever since we got back from Costco the day before), and turned out the lights.
“What?” Em said, after we closed the door softly and I glanced at my watch, amazed. “You didn’t think we could outsmart a bunch of babies?”
“They’re going to wake up at, like, two in the morning.”
“Do you have to get up with them?” she asked.
“No,” I answered.
“So?” she countered. And then she seemed to forget all about the girls. “I’m starving. What do you have to eat?”
This might sound weird, but I loved the fact that Em didn’t seem to love, or actually even like, my sisters. Every time Erika-with-a-K came over, she wanted to play dollhouse or cuddle with them, and she always repeated whatever latest cute thing one of them had said. It had started to get a little annoying a few weeks ago, when she wouldn’t stop calling french fries “bench guys” because Aleene was saying it that way. It was refreshing to have some mature conversation.
I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, even though I knew the situation was beyond dismal. “We’ve got mustard and chutney,” I said. “And this box of baking soda. Sorry. We’re doing this frozen meals thing, but they’re really gross.”
“God. I know all about it. My mom’s on this macrobiotic brown rice and seaweed diet. Wait!” Em shouted suddenly. “I know a game.” She grabbed two dish towels and tied them together. “Put this on like a blindfold,” she said. “Sit.” She pulled out a chair.
I could hear her opening and closing drawers as I adjusted the tea towels over my eyes. “You’re not going to throw knives at me, right?” I asked, only half joking.
She laughed. “Margot, when are you going to learn to trust me? Are you ready?”
“That depends. Ready for what?”
“Mystery on a spoon!” she announced. “The greatest game ever invented. I mix together mysterious things on a spoon, feed them to you, and you try to guess what they are.”
“Couldn’t you just throw knives at me instead?” I said, shuddering. I knew what was in our kitchen.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “There are rules. Rule number one is that you can mix no more than three things, so that limits how disgusting it can get.” I heard her close the fridge. “Rule number two: only edible things can go on the spoon. Rule number three: you have to swallow it, no matter how gross it is. But don’t worry. I have to go next, so if I feed you something really bad, you can make me pay.”
I heard a few cupboard doors open and shut. “God, you weren’t kidding,” Em remarked. “You have no food.” I heard a shaking noise like a box of cereal, except I knew I’d eaten the last of it that morning. “Oh, disgusting,” Em said. A drawer opened and closed. “Okay. Open wide.”
I took a deep breath and was just about to open my mouth when the doorbell rang. “Gotta get that.” I jumped up, reaching for my blindfold.
“No!” yelled Em, grabbing my hand away. “You’ll see what’s on the spoon. Just answer it like that.” Em put two hands on my back and pushed me so hard in the direction of the front hall that I practically had to run to avoid tipping forward. I reached up with one hand and pulled off the blindfold before opening the door.
It was Erika. I suddenly remembered. It was Monday. “Oh my God,” I said. “I forgot.”
“I waited at the cemetery for an hour,” she said. “Again.” I racked my brain trying to think of some believable excuse or, at the very least, something to say. She beat me to it, though. “I thought maybe you were sick, or got abducted by a stranger, or that something was really wrong, like maybe one of your family members was in a car accident.”
“No,” I said, stuffing a corner of the tea-towel blindfold into my back pocket. “I’m so sorry. My mom had to cover a shift for her boss at All Organics, and I’m babysitting alone because my grandma’s getting the flu shot. I just…forgot.” I’ll admit I didn’t say it in a very apologetic way. It came out sounding more amazed than anything because, honestly, I was so surprised myself.
Tears started to spill silently out of Erika’s eyes. I stepped toward her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I just completely forgot,” I said in a pleading tone. “Look, I’m doing somethi
ng right now.” I glanced back toward the kitchen nervously. “But what if we meet up tomorrow? Three thirty, by the cemetery gates. I swear, honestly, I’ll remember this time.…”
“Who’s there?” Em yelled from the kitchen. Erika’s eyes widened.
“That’s just,” I explained, “this girl from school. We’re…doing a food sampling project together. For health class.”
Em came into the hallway. “Are you coming?” she asked. “It doesn’t matter how long you avoid it, that spoon isn’t getting any less nasty.” When she saw Erika, she sighed heavily, pushed past me, then smiled sweetly. “Thanks,” she said to my best friend, who was tugging at the sleeves of her white school-uniform shirt, “but we don’t want any Girl Scout cookies.” Then she slammed the door shut in her face.
“Em!” I shouted, the second the latch clicked.
“Oh, wait! Do you know her?” Em asked.
“Yeah,” I said, grabbing frantically at the doorknob.
I stepped onto the front walk, but it was too late. Erika was running toward the street, and I knew that even if I called after her, she’d keep going.
“Oh, sorry,” Em said in an offhanded way. “I didn’t know she was your friend. Anyway, come on. You can call her later or something. Blindfold back on.”
I stood there another second, watching Erika go, her backpack bouncing up and down heavily, the edges of her kilt flapping. I felt numb, and sick, and empty—like everything my best friend and I had had for so many years had suddenly fallen into a bottomless pit and there was no way to get it back.
“Come on,” Em urged again. I blinked back tears and shut the door, then tied the tea towels over my eyes. There was nothing else I could do at that moment. Erika was furious with me. I’d just have to let her cool down, then apologize later, and somehow make it right. She had to forgive me.…She was the person who could still remember the names of every doll I’d ever had, every favorite song I’d ever danced to; the one who was there when my grandpa died, when my mom got married, when my sisters were born.…
Mission (Un)Popular Page 13