I’ve bought the hot lunch: hot dog, corn chips, and a scoop of applesauce. There’s a little ice cream cup, too. Spumoni, my favorite. I stand on my tiptoes and scan the entire room. A bunch of people brush past me—louder, taller, bigger kids—and I step closer to the wall to get out of the way. Over at the far sides of the cafeteria, I see the back of Hector’s head. He’s alone at a table. I hope he doesn’t turn around. My palms are starting to feel slippery against my tray when I spot Hazel.
She’s already at a table with some of her new teammates. I spot Lucy and Annemarie and Gina. Some of the girls look older. I thought we’d just sit with other sixth graders.
“Hazel,” I call. Then, I say it a little louder. “Hazel.” A few kids chuckle nearby. One nudges his friend and points in my direction. Hazel must hear me, too, because she looks right at me. I hold on to my tray tightly with one hand so I can wave with the other.
“Room for me?” I say when I’m finally close enough not to have to yell anymore. I force myself to sound easy-breezy even though my heart is pounding. As I look around, all the seats are taken. I don’t quite know what to do, though, so I just stand there with my tray.
“Sure,” Hazel says. She glances at the other girls. “There’s room for Em, right? Squeeze in.” She scoots over so that she’s only occupying half of her chair, and I sit down on the other half—between her and Lucy. I stare at the hot dog on my tray like it’s the most interesting thing ever and try to ignore the fact that Lucy has scooted her lunch all the way over so that it doesn’t touch mine.
“You’ll never guess who I’m sitting by in Language Arts,” I whisper. “The ogre!”
“Who?” Lucy asks. She takes a bite of salad from her Tupperware container. I look around. I’m the only one who has a hot lunch. Everyone else brought one from home.
“You know, Hector. Soap Boy.” I wince the second I say it and glance over to where he’s sitting like maybe he heard me, even though there’s no way. He’s not alone now, though. Ms. Arnold has her hand on his table and is laughing. Maybe they’re talking about Nightshade. I’m brought back by a pinch on my leg, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. Lucy’s giving Hazel a raised-eyebrow look.
“What?” I rush out. “Someone called him that in class. Is that not his name?”
“That’s the worst,” Lucy says, making a face. “Did he smell?”
I nod. It isn’t a lie, but I actually thought he smelled kind of pleasant—like mint toothpaste and pancakes. Lucy shakes her head like she knew it all along.
I’m quiet after that. I don’t want to say anything else wrong, so I just listen. There’s a bunch of “Did you see’s” and “Did you hear’s” and whether or not they’d have to run laps at practice later. I’m thinking to myself as I take a bite of applesauce that I could do this. I could sit next to Hazel for the next couple of months and just keep to myself and to my food. And if someone’s glance would fall on the table for a quick second, it might look like I actually belong.
That’s sounding pretty good to me as I move on to my chips when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up.
It’s a man with a mustache and a whistle and a giant yellow stain on his tie where he probably tried to wipe off a blob of mustard. “You can’t sit here,” he says to me. “It’s a fire hazard. One student per seat.” The other girls look anywhere but me. My heart’s in my throat now and I can’t seem to speak.
I nod and grab my tray. I worry that my trembly legs won’t be able to hold me up.
“Ugh, he’s so unfair,” Hazel says when the teacher walks away. She doesn’t get up. “What’s the worst that can happen, you know? Like there’s really going to be some fire.”
“We could sit over there,” I say. I nudge Hazel’s shoulder with my tray because it doesn’t seem like she’s heard me. She’s taking a carrot stick off Lucy’s napkin.
“Oh, what?” Hazel looks where I’m pointing. There’s this little booth that has a few crumpled napkins on top of it, but it’s empty and we’ll fit.
“Sure,” Hazel says slowly. She moves to stand.
“Nooo. Staayy!” Lucy says.
“Yeah, don’t go, Hazel,” Annemarie chimes in. “We have very important team stuff to talk about.”
Another two of the older girls giggle. Only Gina looks a little bit guilty.
Hazel makes a frown face. “Tomorrow, okay?” She holds out her pinky for me to shake.
It’s a good thing that our bodies do a lot of things automatically—our hearts beat, our lungs breathe—because in that moment my feet somehow start walking on their own. So instead of being the weirdo girl standing in the middle of the cafeteria where everyone can see her, I’m the weirdo girl sitting in a little booth all by myself.
Ms. Arnold has moved on from Hector’s table now and is patrolling the aisleways with her clipboard. I see her stop and watch me slip out of sight. I will her not to come over. The only thing worse than sitting alone is sitting with the teacher who feels sorry for you.
I tuck myself right against the wall on the side, facing away from the girls. But I can’t get away from Hazel’s laughter that cuts clear across the room. It’s this goose honking sound, but from her it sounds quirky and charming.
I resist the urge to turn around and look over my shoulder. Instead, I take a bite out of my hot dog. It’s ketchup-less and cold.
GIANT NEON ARROW
On the Saturday after Dad left for good, we ran out for groceries and came back with a dog. Mina suggested we make sandwiches with thick bacon and tomato and lettuce, as if that would somehow fix everything.
It was Mina who first spotted Bean. She was two stores down from the grocery at the pet food store in the same plaza. People had set up lawn chairs and a table out front. There was a sign, Columbus Greyhound Rescue, and a bunch of skinny dogs lined up on leashes wearing bright knitted sweaters.
Mina took me and Mom by the hands and dragged us both over. One named Princess Cupcake shoved her nose up on Mina’s knee, right where her jeans had split. “This is the one,” Mina said.
I guess if Dad could meet someone new, then so could we.
I studied her. Long spindly legs, narrow nose. She tilted her head to the side like she was waiting for me to say something. “She looks like a bean,” I said. She did. One of the long fancy green beans that Grandma Bebe would serve on our Thanksgiving plates with almonds and butter. The name stuck.
Bean wasn’t used to being in a home. All she knew was the track and her kennel. Everything was brand new to her: the way our couch sank in the middle, the slipperiness of the floor, her reflection in the mirror. We had to walk her around the house on a leash. Mark the windows and the individual panes of glass door with blue painter’s tape so she wouldn’t crash through them. Teach her how to take the steps one at a time. Show her where to go outside and what things were okay to lie on.
That’s what I needed.
Not so much the tape and everything—I wasn’t going to bust through any middle school windows by accident—but a guide. Instructions. Advice. Somehow, everyone seems to know what to do—who to laugh with, how to bring their lunch, where to sit—but me.
That’s what I’m thinking about at midnight. I can’t sleep.
My T-shirt blanket, which normally feels cozy, only feels scratchy on my legs, and the little fan on my dresser isn’t enough to cool me off. Even Bean is restless and flops her little body from side to side every five minutes or so.
I need to stop thinking about everything that’s happened the past few days. Between Mina coming home soon and my back-to-school outfit and lunchtime and getting a permanent seat next to Soap Boy, my insides feel all shaken up like a snow globe. The little pieces refuse to settle.
I do all the normal things I do when I can’t sleep. First, I pull my calendar off the wall. I count. There’s five days till Mina comes home. Thirty-six days till the Unicorn Chronicles movie premiere. A hundred and seventy-nine school days till the end of sixth grade. Ugh. That is fore
ver. Thinking about it only makes it harder to get back to sleep.
I write and delete text messages to Hazel:
Emily: Sra. Alvarez says dog in Spanish is perro. Bean es un perro. Cool, right?
Emily: How was practice tonight? What was the important team stuff?
Emily: Why didn’t you sit with me?
Then I reread the end of Moaning Moat. I’ve had it for only a few days, but I’ve already read the whole thing twice and dog-eared the pages. Even though Hazel told me not to read the end first, I totally did. Knowing how something ends makes it a lot easier to enjoy what it takes to get there, I think.
But Nightshade’s adventures aren’t enough to distract me. I shift Bean off my leg, throw my blanket to the side, and scoot off the bed. My feet are quiet against the floor and even Bean seems to have gotten the message, because when she jumps, she lands on my giant floor pillow instead of the hardwood.
I open up my bedroom door, making sure it doesn’t creak and wake Mom.
Downstairs, I pour myself Cinnamon Toast Crunch and milk. I make a little bowl of kibble for Bean.
We flop down on the couch and Bean burrows in next to me. She breathes warm little puffs onto my arm. I rub her ear a little; it’s like velvet. She loves that. With the other hand, I flip the TV on with the remote and cycle through the channels. I Love Lucy reruns, a religious show with some old lady talking about salvation, late night talk. Finally, I find what I’m looking for.
Infomercials.
Hazel doesn’t get it. She always makes me turn them off at sleepovers, saying, “Emily, it’s just like a long commercial. We can skip over those.” But I like them. Some of the stuff is really cool and practical: a blanket with sleeves, a knife that can cut through shoes, a small towel that can wipe up huge gallon-sized messes. And not only that, but the people on the infomercials are smiley and enthusiastic in spite of their inability to do anything right. That might be why I like them best of all. There is possibility in it—that someone could do so many wrong things but still come out the other side happy.
I sit back, expecting to see some kind of magical blender or mighty putty, but some guy comes on who I’ve never seen before.
“Hello there,” he says.
His voice is calm. “Have you had a bad day?” At this, I almost choke on a cereal square. Bean pops her head up and looks at me, concerned.
I cough a couple of times, then whisper, “I’m okay.” She doesn’t look convinced, so I set down my spoon and cereal bowl and pat the little bald spot on the top of her head.
The man continues. “Maybe you’ve had a bad month or a bad year. Maybe your life seems a little bit out of control.” At this, I lean forward. It’s strange, but it’s like he is talking directly to me. “Do you need a guide to help you face your problems head-on? A pathway to a new and improved YOU?”
This is it. A sign. A giant neon arrow pointing at the TV.
Yes. Yes!
The camera pans back to show the man now sitting in an armchair. It has an old-fashioned paisley pattern, and there’s a cat on his lap. “If you answered yes to any of these questions, I have a solution for you. Introducing the Be the Best You series from Mind over Matter Industries. This series of CDs specially created by me, Dr. Henry Franklinton-Morehouse, will allow you to discover the best you. A you that’s capable of being in control and not only facing your problems but solving them.”
That all sounds great to me.
“Each of our CDs will focus on the Be the Best You principles and will include different exercises to help you incorporate them into your own life. The program has been successfully implemented again and again in a series of studies we’ve conducted. Meet Marlena.”
Now there’s a lady with headphones on. She’s sitting at a kitchen table. Every few seconds or so, she nods thoughtfully and jots something down in a notebook. “Marlena was just like you. Lost. Confused. Without direction.”
At this, Marlena takes off the headphones and turns toward the camera. “But then I found the Be the Best You CDs and they changed my life. My marriage was in trouble. My aunt was sick. I found it hard to deal with everyday problems. But these CDs changed my thinking. They turned my I Can’ts into I Cans. I found a new job. I sought out travel and new situations. I grew better at taking chances. I truly did become a better me. A new me.”
I lean back against the couch, and my heart is bouncing in my chest. Marlena’s life kind of does sound like mine. Mom and Dad are broken up. Mina’s sick. I don’t need a new job, but I do want to make it through sixth grade, and right now that seems like a lot of work.
Now Dr. Henry Franklinton-Morehouse is back on. “If you want your life changed like Marlena’s, don’t hesitate. Call now for a very special offer. The first twenty callers will get the Be the Best You CD set for the low price of forty dollars.”
I turn to Bean. “This could be the answer!” I jump from the couch and race up the stairs as quietly as I can. I lift up the right-hand corner of my mattress and feel around until my hand finds the little tear in the fabric. I wiggle my fingers in and pull out a small roll of bills I saved up from weeding Mrs. Pruett’s garden this summer.
With a leap down the hall and an excited tiptoe down the stairs, I’m back to a waiting Bean. I sit on the floor and count out the money while she watches. “One, two, three,” I whisper, smoothing out each of the bills. When I get to the last dollar, I shake my head. “Twenty-two dollars, Bean. It’s not enough.”
I start to stack up the money when I get a thought. It’s a pretty bad thought. But at the same time, really pretty good. Right next to the number on the bottom of the screen are different payment options.
And one of those options is a credit card.
Mom has a credit card. It’s for emergencies only, she says, but what is this situation if not an emergency?
Mom’s wallet is on the counter, not even in her purse or anything. I open it but pause when I see the unopened stack of bills from the mail earlier. I should just ask Mom if it’s okay.
But she doesn’t need one more thing to worry about. Besides, in the hierarchy of worry, with Mina at the top and then the stuff with Dad and then the bills and her job and paying for Mina’s treatment, which is “not cheap,” my problems fall at the very bottom. I try to ignore the little pang of guilt in my stomach and pull the card out of its slot. Bean’s watching me.
I take a deep breath and pick up the phone. It’s old and still attached to its cradle by a springy cord. “It works fine,” Mom said whenever Mina asked about getting a different one. And it does work fine as I pull the cord around into the family room. I carefully punch in the numbers on the screen and take a deep breath.
It rings once. Twice.
“Good evening,” a voice says.
“Um, hi,” I reply. For all this watching of infomercials, I’m not really sure how the whole process of ordering works. “Is this Dr. Henry Franklinton-Morehouse?”
The voice laughs. “No, this is Dave from the call center. Would you like to be the best you YOU can be?” He’s enthusiastic, like some self-help cheerleader.
I nod, even though Dave from the call center can’t see me. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
“Well, you made the right call,” he says.
I say my name is Maura Murphy. I read the numbers off the front of the card just like Mom does when she orders pizza (which Mom classifies as a dinner emergency). I flip the card over and read the three special numbers on the back.
It’s easy. It’s the first easy thing that’s happened today.
To be honest, now I’m kind of worried about myself because here I am stealing and then lying to this nice man on the phone.
Just like that, it’s done and Dave says, “Okay, we’ll ship the CDs out to you at the address you’ve provided. They’ll be there in five to seven business days.”
Five to seven days?! I calculate the time in my head. That means they’ll get here maybe next Friday. It seems like a very long ti
me to wait. “Can they get here any faster?”
“Would you like to add expedited shipping?”
I grimace. Shipping things faster always costs extra money. Money that I don’t really have, but I can’t make myself say no. Instead I say, “Yes, that would be great. Thank you. The faster the better.”
I hear the clicking of the computer keys in the background and then Dave says, “Okay, you’re all set. They’ll go out right away. You must really need these CDs!”
Dave doesn’t know the half of it.
WILDEBEESTS
The next day, Mom drops me off at school early. She has to open the bank today.
The parking lot is empty except for a few cars and teachers toting giant bags and steaming cups of coffee.
“Coffee,” Mom says in one long breath. “That’s what I forgot. I don’t even know how I’m functioning right now.” She leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I put a Honey Bun in your lunch bag for breakfast.”
I had packed my own lunch today.
When Mom had gone to pull the peanut butter and jelly out of the cupboard, I had asked, “Could I have a salad instead?”
Mom turned around, her eyebrows knit together. “You don’t even like vegetables.”
I shrugged. I was propped up on a stool at the kitchen counter. “I don’t know,” I said. “Giving something new a try, I guess.”
Mom grabbed the bagged salad out of the fridge, a Tupperware container, and a lunch tote. “Okay, honey,” Mom said. “It’s great to try different things.” She paused. Her next words were slow, careful. “You’re not having bad thoughts, right? About food?”
I rolled my eyes. “Mom. I just want some vegetables. I’m not Mina.” Even my own lunch has to be about her.
Mom sighed. “I know.” She paused. “But you’re not having bad thoughts?”
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