When we got home I went straight to the garage, moving aside the sports equipment, to get to the box of old photos we’d never unpacked. I found what I was looking for halfway through the first album. It was a sunny fall day in the photo. We were dressed in Windbreakers. Erika had bangs, two thick braids, and huge, crooked front teeth. She was crouched beside a barrel of red apples, but she wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking at me, and I was looking back, grinning. Except for the fact that I was smaller and my hair was frizzier, I looked pretty much the same.
I took the picture out of its plastic sleeve and brought it back to my room, where I flipped it over. There was my mom’s slanted handwriting: “Margot and Erika at Orchard Fest. First grade. Best of friends!”
First grade. That was two years before my grandpa died. Three years before my mom and Bryan met. Four whole years before the triplets had been born. I flipped the photo again. We looked like we’d just thought up the world’s funniest joke. We probably had.
Just then, there was a knock at the door. I was expecting my mom and the lecture of a lifetime, but my grandma’s face appeared. She came and sat on the bed beside me. “Bryan told me what happened.”
I stared at the outline of a quilted butterfly on my overturned blanket so I wouldn’t have to look her in the eyes.
“I’m not here to be hard on you, Margot. I know you. You’ll be hard enough on yourself. I just wanted to let you know that I love you.” She kissed my cheek. Somehow, I would have rather she’d given me a stern look, or even a speech about the dangers of household cleaners. I didn’t deserve her understanding and her love. It made my cheeks burn with shame.
The rest of the night, I tossed and turned in bed, waiting for my mom to come talk to me, but nobody else knocked on my door.
All of which brings me to this morning, when I woke up and found my mom waiting for me in the kitchen. She took one look at my face. “Do you want some coffee?” she asked.
“I hate coffee,” I said.
“I know,” she answered. “But do you want some?”
I nodded. She handed me a mug and sat down across from me. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” I took a sip and resisted the urge to spit it back into the cup. It didn’t even have sugar in it. I looked at my mom, but didn’t know where to begin. “Is it all right if I say no?” I asked.
Mom took a sip before answering. “No.”
“Well, is it all right if I say not right now?”
She thought about it again. “Okay,” she answered. We sat in silence. Well, sort of in silence. The triplets were having a screaming fit over who had more milk in their cereal bowl and why it wasn’t fair, which my mom was ignoring.
“I have to get ready for school now,” I said finally. Mom nodded vaguely, like she was a million miles away.
“I’m going to cancel my clients tonight,” she said. “I’ll be here when you get home. Maybe we can talk then?” I nodded and went to get dressed, and that’s when I noticed the bag on my dresser with the spider plant in it (a little worse for wear, because I hadn’t watered it or given it any sunlight since I got it). Before leaving for school I put the plant and the note on the coffee table in the living room, where my mom would find them.
I was in no rush to get to school. I asked Bryan to take the scenic route, but I still ended up getting there five minutes before the bell. Bryan opened the van door for me and handed me my crutches.
“I’ll be here to get you the minute school lets out,” he promised.
As I made my way through the yard, I could feel people turning to look at me. Michelle whispered something to Bethany, who shrugged. Maggie and Joyce, already perched on the concrete ledge, didn’t say a word, but stared hard at my back. Andrew, Mike, and Amir all stopped the game of basketball they were playing. For a second it looked like Andrew was going to walk toward me, but Amir put a hand on his arm to stop him.
The one thing I was thankful for was that Em didn’t seem to be around.
Still, everywhere I looked, there were reminders of what I’d done. “Why do you think the boys killed Simon?” Mr. Learner asked, balancing an open copy of Lord of the Flies on his thigh as he perched awkwardly on the corner of Mrs. Collins’s desk. “Anyone? Ken?” I waited for the inevitable smart-assed pig pun.
Ken sucked at his teeth. “It’s like they forgot how to be decent,” he said. Mr. Learner nodded for Ken to go on. “They were stuck-up choirboys, but then they got stranded on this island and just went nuts.”
We’d just finished reading a scene from the book out loud, and it had sent chills down my spine. There was this one quiet kid on the island, called Simon. He was a bit of a loner.
Probably the most mature of them all, though. And when he’d only been trying to reason with everyone, they’d all taken out their spears and stabbed him to death. They were chanting: “Kill the beast. Kill the beast.”
“Good,” Mr. Learner said. You could tell from his tone that he was surprised. “That was a thoughtful response, Ken.
“Anyone else? Margot?” I looked up from my book. The fact that I’d barely slept the night before was starting to catch up with me. All I wanted to do was lay my head down on my desk.
“They forgot who they were,” I answered. “Kind of like Ken said.” Ken gave himself a thumbs-up. “And they didn’t even realize Simon was a person anymore. All they could see him as was, like, the enemy.”
Mr. Learner nodded, satisfied with my answer. He moved on. I wished I could have moved on as easily, but every time I looked over at Sarah J.’s empty desk, a fresh wave of guilt washed over me. And every time I glanced to my left, the sight of Em’s empty desk filled me with dread.
I lay my cheek against my hand, trying to focus, but it was useless. So instead I looked out the window and counted shoes for a while. I got to ten sets before the bell rang.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Learner said, holding up his hand, “this is good-bye. I’d like to thank you for your attendance, your attention, and your insights. Mrs. Collins will be returning tomorrow.” A collective groan went up, and Mr. Learner smiled for the first time. “Your misery warms my heart,” he said. “Before you go—” He held up a stack of marked essays and started calling names. “Tiffany Abraham, Amir Ahmed, Bethany Bluffs…”
“Sir?” Amir raised his hand when he got his paper. Mr. Learner waved him up to the front to see what the problem was. While they talked quietly over the essay, George turned around in his seat.
“So they’re moving back to New York.” I looked up in surprise. He was the first person who’d said a word to me all morning. “You know you ruined everything for her, right?”
Amir and Mr. Learner had finished talking by now. “Margot Button,” he called, passing my test paper down the aisle. When it got to George, he turned, placing it facedown on my desk. “Oh, and one more thing…she told me you never met K.wack’ed.” If I hadn’t been so totally depressed, I might even have laughed. Of all the things that had happened, and all the lies Em had told, this was what George was upset about?
He flipped his hair, and suddenly I could see it. Em hadn’t been that far off when she’d said he was like a Ken doll. Gorgeous George was always cool, always well dressed, and he was incredibly hot. But he was also kind of empty, and a little bit plastic. Like another accessory in Barbie’s closet.
I turned my paper over and stared at it hard until George faced the front. I got an A+. Mr. Learner had scrawled a comment in red ink using totally unreadable handwriting. As the class started to empty out, I gathered my stuff and walked to the desk where the teacher was sitting. “Excuse me, sir?” I interrupted him. “What does this say?”
“What do you think it says?” Mr. Learner asked, without looking up from his paperback.
I squinted at his handwriting. “‘A zaythful onlys. You’re a right squirl, Margot’?”
“Hmmm. I don’t recall writing that.” Even he had to squint. “Right,” he said, and read in a monotone voice: “A
thoughtful analysis. You’re a bright girl, Margot.”
“Really?” I couldn’t help smiling just a little.
“Really,” he answered, turning his attention back to his book.
I desperately wanted to ask Mr. Learner which part of the essay he’d liked best, but I could tell I was only bugging him, so I turned to go. I was almost at the door when I heard his voice. “Don’t let the bastards bring you down,” he said. “You’re too smart for that.” I looked back to see who he was talking to. “Yes, you,” he said, glancing up as he turned the page. “They can call you names and fart at you with their armpits and behave like animals, but don’t let them break you.” He waved his book at me. “Now get lost.”
I like trees, I thought, as I sat alone under the red maple at lunch. They’re so leafy, so barky, so rooted to the ground. They never lie to you about who they are; never glare at you, whisper behind your back, or try to trip you in the hall—like Ken had done after math class. “Way to get my man George’s girlfriend kicked out of the country,” he said. (So much for thinking I was so beautiful.)
Friends are for losers. Trees are for winners, I told myself as I sat miserably in a pile of leaves.
“I heard they had to pump her stomach and that she was like, clinging to life by a thread,” an eighth grade girl said as she walked past with her friend.
“What did the other girl feed her anyway?”
“I think it was gasoline and lighter fluid. She could have easily died.”
“Then that blond girl. The one who threw the party with the SubSonic song? She got sent to juvenile detention or something.”
“God. Seventh graders are so dumb.”
I lay my head back against the trunk and closed my eyes, trying to block it all out. After all, Em was gone and nobody was going to believe anything I said about what had really happened, so what was the point of even caring about my reputation anymore?
I was about one breath away from falling asleep when I heard a bang and felt the whole trunk shake. I jumped, expecting to find Ken standing beside me, kicking my tree for revenge, but when I looked around, nobody was there. Then a basketball rolled by and came to a stop beside my cast. I looked in the direction it had come from and saw Andrew walking across the yard, his hands in his pockets.
“Sorry,” he muttered when he reached me. He picked up his ball and turned to go back to the court, where Amir and Mike were waiting.
“Andrew,” I called. “Wait.” But he kept walking. “Andrew.” I tried again; my voice came out small and shaky. I noticed a crushed 7Up can sitting on the ground. It was within reach, so I grabbed it and threw it. I hadn’t played War of the Druids in at least a week, but the improved hand-eye coordination was obviously long-lasting, because it hit Andrew’s heel. He stopped and turned to see where the ball had come from.
“I was calling you,” I explained, trying to hold back tears. “But you didn’t hear me, so I had to resort to throwing stuff at you.” He took a small step toward me, looking doubtful. “I know I’ve been acting like a total idiot lately,” I started, talking fast, trying to get it all out before he could turn and walk away again. “I should never have ditched you for Em. Or lied to you about the party. You didn’t deserve that. And about what I said yesterday in the hall with Sarah J.—”
“Classic Margot.” He cut me off flatly, shaking his head as he switched the ball from one arm to the other.
“What?”
“Classic Margot. You know, always saying something you shouldn’t.”
“Yeah,” I answered, biting my lower lip.
“I hear you’re poisoning people now,” he went on. “So that makes you, what? A ham-stealer-slash-attempted-murderer?”
“I guess…”
He nodded. “I don’t know if I can be friends with a person like you. Bad influence, you know.” I looked at the ground. I understood. After all, I wouldn’t want to be friends with me either if I were him. “Are you crying?” I wiped a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand. “Margot, I was kidding!” He walked back and crouched down in front of me, but I could hardly look at him. “Do you seriously think I’d believe you tried to murder someone?” I didn’t answer. “And as for the other stuff, no big deal. I forgive you, okay? When have I ever not forgiven you?” He paused. “Okay, maybe there was that one time in fourth grade when you said my cursive letter Q’s looked like little flowers. I still can’t write the word quiet without feeling kind of girly. Or quail or quicksand . . .”
Was he actually making a joke? “But how can you forgive me?” I said. “I lied to you. And then you found out I was in the bathroom with George Wainscott…even though, seriously, nothing happened. But that’s not the point. I should have been honest with you, and told you I didn’t like you…I mean, like that. Not that there’s any reason why I shouldn’t. You’re such a great guy, it’s just that—”
“It’s okay,” he said, looking off toward the fence before meeting my gaze. “You can’t change how you feel, right? I can take the rejection.” He shrugged and smiled. “Anyway, there are, like, hundreds of girls waiting to get my number.” He glanced behind him as if he was looking for the imaginary lineup. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll just have to settle for being my friend. Here,” he said suddenly. “Catch.”
He threw the ball at me. I tried to react, but it was too late. It had already hit me in the face. My nose started bleeding immediately, but I was almost relieved. At least now we could both pretend the tears running down my cheeks had to do with the pain.
“Oh God,” Andrew said. “Sorry.” Before I realized what he was doing, he had taken his sweaty shirt off and was pressing it against my face. “Pinch here,” he instructed, demonstrating on his own nose. “Lean forward.” I did, letting the tears flow, too. I held my breath for as long as possible to avoid having to smell the shirt, but when I finally did take a breath, I was amazed. It smelled clean, like soap, and also fresh, like ocean air. It was a smell I recognized. I closed my eyes and breathed in again. It came to me instantly: Gorgeous George.
“What’s this smell like?” I asked, still pinching the bridge of my nose.
“My mom got me deodorant,” he said. “Old Spice. She says I stank.” He shrugged. “Did I?” I nodded. I was never going to lie to him again. “Well, I would have thought you of all people would have said something.” He rolled his eyes at me. “I’d tell you if you stunk, which, by the way, you do.”
I elbowed him in the arm as hard as I could without letting go of my nose or the shirt. “Wait here,” he said, pulling himself up suddenly. “I’m going to get another shirt from my locker.”
He started jogging across the yard. “You can keep that one,” he yelled behind him, and flashed me a smile that lit up his entire face. As I watched him go, all I could think was this: one day, Andrew was going to make some girl so happy, and one day, I wouldn’t be all that surprised to find myself regretting that it wouldn’t be me.
35
I Am the Fool
IF YOU’D ASKED ME A MONTH AGO, I would have told you I was mature for my age. I drink coffee, after all (even though I hate it). And I sometimes watch the local news (mostly because I’m waiting for something else to come on, but it counts). Still, as I rode home with Bryan, mentally preparing myself to tell my mother everything I’d done, I felt like a little kid again. I could already picture the disappointed look on her face. “What were you thinking?” she’d ask. And I’d have to admit, yet again, that I didn’t know.
So I was incredibly relieved when I got in and found the door to the front room shut. Grandma Betty was in the kitchen helping the triplets make necklaces out of Organic Oaty-O’s, so, obviously—even though my mom said she was going to cancel her readings—she was with a client. Probably some emergency.
Maybe Sheila Wheeler met another guy on Lavalife, or Kathy Malloy needed help choosing the best fertilizers for her feng shui shrubs.
“Your mother’s waiting for you in the front room, Margot
.”
Grandma Betty poured more Oaty-O’s onto the table.
“But the door’s closed,” I said.
“I know, dear. But she said for you to go right in.”
I stood up uncertainly. Opening the door to the reading room went against everything I’d ever learned in life. “Are you sure she said that?” I asked. Grandma nodded, but I still had my doubts.
I went down the hall and pushed the door open a fraction of an inch. A strong waft of sandalwood incense drifted out. My mom was definitely doing a reading. I tried to look through the tiny crack with one eye, but all I could make out was a sliver of the sofa.
“Margot?” I heard my mother’s voice call sharply. I jumped twelve feet and slammed the door shut. I was already heading for my room when the door opened wide.
“I was wondering where you were.” I turned to face my mom. She was wearing a brown peasant skirt with a purple button-up blouse. Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail. For the first time in a long time she looked relaxed. She’d even put on earrings. They were big and dangly and gold. They made her look like herself. In the room behind her, the tarot deck was on the table, wrapped in its silk scarf. “Come in,” she said.
“I’ll come back when you’re done with your client,” I said. The last thing I wanted was to tell her the awful things I’d done, and ruin her good mood.
“You are my client.” She stepped aside, leaving the doorway open.
“I am?” It literally didn’t make sense to my brain.
Mission (Un)Popular Page 32