“You’ll get it next time,” Alice says encouragingly. Her cheerfulness only makes it worse.
“I got the wrong ball,” I mumble. I grab the green one from the rack for my next turn.
I almost don’t go to the arcade when I see some of the kids in the lanes next to us taking a break from their games. Maybe Anita will forget that she asked me to meet her. Or maybe she’ll stay with her parents. But then I look at Alice and Dad, who are still sitting on top of each other like there aren’t tons of empty seats around, and I think maybe I’ll just go take a look.
Anita waves me over when she sees me. She’s sitting at a little table in the café section with a huge plate of fries in front of her. “You have to eat some of these,” she says.
I take one of them. They’re smothered in orange cheese. “Where’s Hector?”
She points to a pool table. There are two teen guys with pool cues and a bunch of the younger boys around the table watching. Hector stands a step or so back from the group. Even from here I can see there’s leftover cheese on his mouth. Like a thick cheese lipstick. He laughs when the other boys laugh. He groans when the other boys groan. But somehow, even though he’s with them, he’s also not with them.
A tightness forms in my chest. I turn back to Anita.
“Are you and Hector twins?” I ask.
“Fraternal,” she says. “He’s the older one. By two minutes. Most people think he’s my younger brother, though.” She pauses. “He hates that.”
“My sister’s older, too. She’s in high school.”
“That’s cool,” Anita says. “She should come next time.” I think about how heavy the bowling ball was in my hand. I wonder if Mina would even have the strength to hold it. “Hey, do you want to try the dance machine? It’s open.”
I follow her gaze. There’s a giant glowing machine on a raised platform with handles you can hold on to and two grid-like footpads where you place your feet. “Okay,” I say. We leave the fries, and Anita feeds two wrinkly dollars from her back pocket into the machine. We step onto the platform.
“Choose your dancer,” an electronic voice commands. I pick a girl with funky blue hair and baggy jeans. Anita picks a girl that looks like her—brown skin, dark hair pulled up into a bun on the top of her head.
The machine starts counting down. My heart speeds up. “What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do?”
Anita points at the screen where two animated dancers stand. “Follow the arrows. Up, down, left, right. Sometimes you’ll have to turn. Hang on to the handles for that.” A nervous, excited feeling bubbles up in me. “Okay, here we go!”
The music starts. It’s tricky at first. A left arrow here. A right arrow there. But then I get the hang of it and Anita and I are bouncing and laughing and turning in time to the music. By the time the song’s over, there’s a small crowd around us. “Totally Rad!” the game cheers as it tallies up our points.
Anita brushes a sweaty piece of hair from her face. “You’ve never done that before?”
I shake my head. “I took dance classes, so maybe that helped.”
“Really? Me too! I take Jazz and Hip-Hop.”
“I did mostly tap,” I reply. “A little ballet.”
I hear applause behind me. I turn around. It’s Dad and Alice. They’re smiling. Alice is holding my regular gym shoes and bag. “I guess it’s time to go.”
Anita leans over and gives me a quick hug. It surprises me. “See you on Monday.”
We all return our shoes. I set mine on the counter real fast so the guy won’t call me Button again. I’m relieved when he doesn’t see me. Alice leans toward me. “Maybe you could invite that girl over. She seemed nice.”
“Anita? I dunno. She’s just my locker buddy,” I say. “Maybe I’ll invite Hazel.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see that Hector’s rejoined Anita at the table. They’re laughing together, and he waves the cheesiest fry in my direction. I look away.
It’s a warm night. In the car on the way back to Dad’s, he rolls the windows down and taps on the steering wheel in time to the music—some nineties song I don’t recognize. Alice sings along like she’s a regular backup singer. When there’s a pause, he says, “Wasn’t that great? Maybe we should join the family league,” like it’s the best idea ever.
All the good feelings I had built up whoosh out of me like air from a flattened bike tire. “It’s for families, Dad.”
Even over the music I can hear Dad take in a breath to say something. Alice puts her hand on his. She shakes her head.
MOVEMENT!
We start each Language Arts class with silent reading time. Ms. Arnold reads, too. That Monday, she’s lounged back in her chair and her feet are propped up on her desk. She’s wearing these bell-bottom-like pants and brown clogs, which probably shouldn’t look cool but do. I sneak glances at her book—Anastasia something. The last name starts with a K but I can’t read it from where I’m sitting.
I sneak a peek at Hector’s book, too, while I’m stretching out my back from sleeping on the floor all weekend. It’s a graphic novel with picture panels of robots zapping each other with lasers. I can hear the pages crinkle as he turns them; it must be brand new.
Ms. Arnold glances up and I meet eyes with her. She smiles. When reading time is almost through, she walks over to my desk. She kneels down next to me and leans in so only I can hear her. “You know, Emily, if you ever want to read something different—and I’m not saying you do—but I think these might be a good choice.” She hands me the book she was reading. The K word is Krupnik. Anastasia Krupnik. There’s a girl on the front—must be Anastasia—with big glasses surrounded by a bunch of papers. “I know it looks a little old-fashioned, but I love these books.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say. I make a show of opening the Unicorn Chronicles book four back up and looking very intently at the page. I’m not sure why I’d want to read anything different when I love these characters and stories so much.
“Okay,” she says. She pats my shoulder. Then she goes back up to the front of the room and claps her hands together. Reading time is over. “Let’s talk about informational writing!” She writes it on the board, complete with an exclamation point. A couple of people in the class groan; she ignores them. “Today, we’re going to start our first writing project for the year. It’s going to be a partner project.”
Kids are already making eye contact with each other across the room and nodding. They’re pairing up; no one’s looking at me. I rub my hands on my shorts. “Not so fast,” Ms. Arnold says. “I’ve randomly put you in pairings, which you’ll get in a moment. It’s important to get to know how to work with different kinds of people.”
She hands a stack of papers to the front of each row. Hector passes me one over his shoulder. The heading at the top of it says “MOVEMENT!”
“You and your partner will choose a nonfiction topic related to movement. Maybe you want to research the transcontinental railroad. Or maybe you want to write a report on Rosa Parks, whose deliberate lack of movement on a bus helped push a nation forward during the civil rights era. Or maybe you’ll connect it to your current science studies about migration. Once you have your topic, you’ll research together and craft some kind of informative presentation—whether it’s written or oral—that educates your classmates about your topic.”
“You’ll have class time,” she continues. “But you’ll also need to work together outside school—in person or online.”
She picks up a clipboard off her desk and starts reading the pairings. “Clare Pavell and Ronald Atwater. Tricia Hannah and Jenna Mar. Hector Garcia and Em Murphy.”
I watch as Hector writes my name in the partner spot on his paper. I leave mine blank. The second Ms. Arnold finishes reading the list, I pop out of my seat and run up to her desk. I think about Friday night at the bowling alley. His cheese-crusted grin. His tucked-in shirt. The way he doesn’t seem to fit in. I’m starting to feel a little bit desperat
e. I just can’t be paired up with him.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” I whisper. I look up. Hector’s watching me. “I can’t work with Hector.” I’m picturing Lucy starting to call me Soap Girl and sneaking a bar of soap into my desk. I try to sniff myself without being too obvious about it, as if somehow Hector’s not-bad-at-all smell could have rubbed off on me.
“Has he been mean to you?” she asks, concerned. I shake my head. “Do you feel like he won’t do his share of work?”
“No,” I say in a small voice. “I think he will do the work.”
“Is there any good reason you can’t work together?” I’m quiet.
Ms. Arnold purses her lips. “To be honest, I didn’t expect this from you.” My hands grow tingly and I shove them into my pockets. I think about how rotten the words coming out of my mouth probably sounded. “Hector will be an excellent partner to work with.”
“Okay, yeah.” I can’t even look at her now. I just stare red-faced at the floor. I feel so wrong-side-out these days. I slink back to my seat and slide into it.
Hector turns around. “So what are you thinking?” He doesn’t ask why I was just up at Ms. Arnold’s desk or why there’s a blank next to “partner name” on my sheet. “It might be cool to do space travel or, like, what about the movement of people? Ooh, what about the gold rush?”
I jot them down in the idea box on my paper. My normally smooth handwriting is shaky.
“We should get together soon to start,” he says. “You could come over to my house.”
“I might not have a ride,” I say. “You could come over to mine, I guess.”
“Sure!” Hector says. “My dad can bring me. I’ll bring over the new Unicorn Chronicles/Robots of Doom super special.”
“Really?!” I say, forgetting that I’m not supposed to be excited about any of this with Hector. “What do you think of them doing this? I mean, robots and unicorns?”
“It’s awesome,” Hector says. His eyes get this sparkliness to them. “Think about all the new story lines and all the characters. There could be a thousand more books. Besides—can you imagine Nightshade and Robotical pairing up on a mystery?” He makes a motion like fireworks are coming out of his head. “Mind blown.”
When I get home that afternoon, the telephone is ringing. I drop my backpack in the hall and grab it on the third ring, smooshing the receiver next to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hey, Emily.” It’s Mina. She’s upbeat. Today must be a good day. Even so, I’m anxious.
“Hi,” I say in a quiet voice. I wish I hadn’t picked up. On Wednesdays, there’s at least Evie and Mom in the room. I can be as quiet as I want sitting on my corner of the couch. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. The phone is harder. “Mom’s not home.”
“I know,” she says. “I called to talk to you. How’s school?” I picture Mina curled up on the wooden bench in the phone booth. There are two of them, right off Pinehurst’s main room. They’re not allowed to have their own cell phones.
There’s a loud knocking in the background. A muffled voice. It startles me. “It’s loud there.”
“Yeah, hold on.” I picture Mina cupping her hand over the receiver. “I just got in here,” she yells. Then, “Sorry.” Her voice is clear now. “So tell me about things. Is your locker in the blue hallway? Is Mr. Georges still there?”
“Mr. Georges?”
“Lunchroom monitor,” she says. “Always something on his tie.”
I think back to the first day of school and the man with the mustard-stained tie in the cafeteria and all that went with it. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Did you make new friends? How’s Hazel?”
Mina can’t see the knot that’s formed in my stomach. Maybe telling her would start to unravel it. But then I think about how big Mina’s problems are and how small and unimportant mine are in comparison. “She’s fine.”
“Oh,” she says. She almost sounds disappointed. “Are you going to do any clubs? I did newspaper. Remember that? And choir! What about choir?”
“Maybe.”
Mina takes a deep breath. “Emily. I just want to talk to you.” She’s starting to sound frustrated. “I want to hear about school.”
“I know,” I say. I twist the phone cord around my finger again and again until the tip of it turns red. “I want to talk to you, too. But I’ve got to let Bean out and I have all this homework. . . .”
“Fine. You can have the phone now,” she says to the girl probably still waiting outside the glass door. She doesn’t bother covering up her end of the telephone this time. “I’ll talk to you later. Okay?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She hangs up the phone.
My hand shakes as I put the phone back in its cradle.
Just a year ago, we had set up a telephone system between our rooms. Plastic Solo cups attached with string. It had been for my fifth-grade Science Spectacular project, and we had come up with different trials to see which one worked best. Mina and I tested four types: yarn, a thick thread, fishing line, and the kind of thin metal you curl into jewelry. We could hear each other so clearly with the fishing line that we left it up for weeks, even after we had taken pictures of it for my tri-fold board. We’d talk to each other, late into the night, through closed doors. We had so much to say.
Up in my room, I flop down on my bed and groan. Bean leaps up to join me and licks my face. She always knows what to do. I roll over and grab my laptop. I flip it open and click on my email. There’s one from the Unicorn Chronicles fan forum site.
From: Unicorn Underworld Fan Forums
To: Emily Murphy (UnicornGirl11)
Date: August 29 at 3:45 a.m.
Subject: MOVIE COUNTDOWN
Hey Chroniclers!
Whether you are Team Nightshade, Team Starlight, or Team Disastero (ha! Yeah right!), we bet you are getting pumped up for the brand new Unicorn Chronicles movie. We cannot wait to see our favorite characters in action again on the big screen. We know that not everyone will be able to see the movie on the very first day, SO we are going to set up a special thread on the forums just for you early moviegoers to discuss all the spoilers you want!
As always, feel free to send us your fan art, fan fiction, or fan pics. You could be our featured fan of the day.
Thirty-two days! Ahh!
—The Unicorn Chronicles Fan Forum Team
I squeal out loud. Only thirty-two days! I can’t believe it’s so soon. I draw an extra yellow star on my calendar. I still need to talk about the plans for the movie with Hazel. I make a point not to look at Mina’s coming-home date.
I pull my planner out of my backpack. I scroll down my assignments. I should get started on my math homework, but I keep glancing over to my CD player and notes sitting on the edge of my desk.
I pop in the second CD, prop some pillows against my headboard, and join Bean on my bed. I press play. The music starts.
“Hello again. I’m Dr. Franklinton-Morehouse. I’m so glad you’re continuing on this journey to be the best YOU possible along with us. Let’s review. Last session, you explored who you currently are. You left room in your chart for who you’ll be at the end of our sessions.”
Before Emily and After Emily. I put a star on my paper next to the After.
“What I need you to do now is get moving in the right direction. But we need to know what this new and better you looks like. You need a goal. I’d like you to take a moment now and write down a definition—just like in the dictionary. Define who this new YOU would be.”
The music starts up again.
I take a clean sheet of notebook paper from the pile. I write my name in my best, curliest cursive:
Em Murphy (noun).
Cool.
Girl who fits in.
Best friends with Hazel.
Friends with Lucy, Annemarie, and Gina.
Knows the right things to do (hair, boy stuff, clothes).
Fancy-pants.
“Good,” Dr. Franklinton-Morehouse says. �
��This is what you’ll come back to. I’d like you to hang it up where you can see it. A constant reminder. In spare moments of your day, I want you to visualize this person. How do they talk? How do they act? Try it now. When this CD ends, I want you to imagine the person you’ve just described.”
The CD whirs to a stop.
Bean nuzzles up to me. I love her sweet doggy breath. I give her a kiss on the nose. “Okay, Bean, I need to visualize. Perfect me, perfect me.”
I close my eyes. I picture a girl. There are other girls around her. They’re laughing at her jokes. Her hair is swishy and super straight and shiny, almost like it’s full of sunshine itself. She’s wearing skinny black pants and Converse sneakers and her shirt is straight out of the newest Teen Scene. Her lips are the most perfect shade of pink because she’s wearing this secret lip gloss that’s probably made of magic or crystals or something.
Everyone wants to sit with her at lunch. In fact, people get up just to make room.
Perfect me has no problems. Her mom and dad are together, still living in their small house on Persimmon Way. They go on road trips. To Florida, I think. Family vacations to the brand new Unicorn Chronicles Magical Underworld theme park. Perfect me knows how to talk to her sister on the phone. She knows how to say the right things to make everything okay.
I sigh.
It’s the exact opposite of who I am now.
BE THE BALLOON
Tuesday morning before school, we’re in the dining room having breakfast. It’s so early it’s still dark out and Bean is snoozing away on her folded-up blanket in the corner of the room. There’s a new painting on the wall. Well, not new, but one Mom dug up from the basement To Keep pile. She shined up the frame last night with cleaning polish, and we hung it up together while Bean supervised.
It looks nice, like it’s always belonged up there.
Mom has her reading glasses on and her coffee, but it’s still pretty much filled to the top. I’m sure it’s cold now. Puzzle Time magic. She’s scanning the pieces looking for one with a little squiggle of yellow. We almost have South America completed.
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