Best Kept Secret

by Debra Moffitt

  “Inclusive, not exclusive,” Ms. Russo said.

  I so agreed that I piped in with, “Exactly! You can’t believe all the relieved people who wrote to the PLS this week.”

  Oops.

  I saw Ms. Russo sit up straighter and look over both shoulders before continuing. What she said next, she said in a whisper.

  “Jemma, by the PLS, I assume you mean the Pink Locker Society? Isn’t that group supposed to be dormant right now, shut down?”

  We nodded.

  “You girls would do well to keep all that Pink Locker business under wraps, understand?”

  Yes, we nodded again.

  Ms. Russo told us to wait a minute, stood up, and walked over to the door. She opened it and peeked her head out to look up and down the hallway. Just as she did that, we heard someone calling her name from the direction of the lobby.

  “Yes, I’m here,” she called back. We heard her footsteps and then she said, “Right. Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  Ms. Russo poked her head back in the band room and said, “Sorry. To be continued.”

  Bet and I just sat there a minute with me wondering how big a mistake I had just made. What if Ms. Russo told the principal and the principal told my parents?

  “Ugh. Why do I always say the wrong thing?” I massaged my temples as if I had a pulsing headache.

  “Don’t worry so much,” Bet said. “I can’t say for sure, but I think Ms. Russo is on your side.”

  * * *

  I left Bet and moved back into the loud music zone. I gave in—how could I not?—and spent some time with Kate and Brett. I had to admit they made a cute couple, and they were not one of those annoying duos who are so googly-eyed for one another that they make you, the third person, feel dumb. Still, when DJ Jeff said, “Let’s slow it down a little bit,” and the music took an obvious turn toward a slow dance, I told them I had to go find Bet.

  Really, that’s the only trouble with going to a dance without a date: You feel like there’s a spotlight shining on you when the music gets all quiet and couples start moving, hand in hand, to the dance floor. I didn’t want to linger, for fear I’d see Forrest and Piper snuggling up. I might be forced to plow into them and force them apart. Maybe we could dance—all three of us—to show Piper just how much she had intruded on my deepest, longest, most treasured crush ever.

  As I headed away from the dance floor, Taylor Mayweather and her replacement boyfriend brushed by me.

  “Where’s your sixth-grader?” she said.

  The music was loud enough that I could pretend I didn’t hear her. I had yet to see Forrest and Piper slow-dance, but I watched Kate and Brett, Tia and Fitzy, and a bunch of other couples make the awkward adjustments necessary. It looked to me like a hug, where you left some space between you and the other person. Then you shuffled your feet a little bit to the music. The part I knew I could never do is gaze into my partner’s eyes the whole time. No lovesick staring contest for me, not even with Forrest.

  But I was saved by the bell, or the vibration anyway, of my pink cell phone. I had turned off the ringer for the night and thought it might be my mom, or Bet trying to find me, but it came up as Piper. Shocked, I opened the text she sent to me and Kate.

  COME TO MY LOCKER. IMPORTANT!

  Fifteen

  In moments, all four of us were gathered there. Bet saw me darting off and had followed me. I didn’t stop her. Thankfully, Forrest was nowhere to be seen. I worried for a moment that they all had already found out that I spilled the beans to Ms. Russo. But that wasn’t it.

  “I told her,” I said, when everyone paused in recognition that Bet had come to the surprise secret meeting.

  “Good. We need all the help we can get,” Piper said, flashing her phone at us. “Just look how many questions and messages the PLS got during the dance. We have people sending us messages while they are here!”

  I noticed the questions coming in on my phone, but it wasn’t, like, a zillion. Did we really need a meeting about this right in the middle of the dance?

  “Hmmmm … I noticed some people were asking questions, too. I felt bad that people were home needing help instead of having fun at the dance,” Kate said.

  Our phones vibrated, almost in unison.

  “And there’s another one!” Piper said. We all looked at our screens.

  We all watched a new e-mail message appear in the box. The subject line said “SLOW-DANCING SCARES ME!”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know how to answer that one,” I said, looking at Piper.

  “I don’t know either,” Piper said, “since my date is either playing music or outside with his friends.”

  Piper looked both angry and sad, but I didn’t care if she was having a bad time with Forrest. In fact, I was not-so-secretly pleased.

  “Are there any emergency questions?” Kate asked.

  “There are a few from people who didn’t come and are kinda lonely at home,” Piper said. “And some others are from people here at the dance who, like, don’t know what to do or say to the people they like.”

  Our phones vibrated again.

  “There’s another one!” Piper said.

  As I looked back through the evening’s mail, I saw the usual mix of questions about the PBBs (periods, bras, and boys). But as Piper and the other girls chitchatted behind me, I noticed one message that stuck out.

  Dear PLS,

  I am sad, sad, sad, and you are the only one I can talk to. I am not being conceited but I am very talented in a particular sport, so much so that if I told you which sport, you’d immediately know who I am. Let’s just say that I have been in the newspaper and the principal is forever mentioning my latest achievements on the morning announcements. How I wish he’d stop!

  This did bring to mind a couple of girls—one an ace basketball player, the other an all-county soccer player. Whenever anyone mentioned these girls, a parent was likely to say, “Must be nice to be college-scholarship material.” I, on the other hand, despite my former flirtation with gymnastics and my new affiliation with the track team, was not scholarship material, apparently.

  Well, the trouble is that I no longer want to do that sport. I wake up in the morning, wishing I didn’t have to go to practice. I’ve even started “forgetting” required pieces of my uniform or equipment. But that hasn’t worked. Someone always finds me a replacement this or that. My mother has twice interrupted her workday to zoom home and retrieve the “forgotten” item. I can’t bear to tell my parents, coaches, or teammates the truth: that I just want to stop playing right now.

  I don’t care if I’m good at it. I don’t care if I could make it to the Olympics or get a free ride to college. I’m just done, done, done with it. If I tell the truth, everyone will ask why, and I can’t really explain. I’ve even thought of doing something like breaking my finger or toe or something so I’d have to take time off. I’d do anything to stop. Pleeeeease keep this message a top-secret secret.

  Signed,

  Queen Quitter

  Just as I was sifting through my memory to try to match Queen Quitter with one of those alpha athletes in our school, another message came in.

  “See?” Piper said.

  But the latest message wasn’t from anyone at the dance or Queen Quitter or any one of our usual customers.

  Girls,

  Really, it’s time to close up shop. I’m not the enemy, but you’re on dangerous ground!

  A P.F.

  “Dangerous ground?” What did that mean?

  But I still wanted Piper to feel dumb for calling this impromptu meeting. Really, what could the four of us do at this minute, standing in the hallway outside a dance?

  “I say we answer these on Monday, like usual. I really don’t see why you called us here,” I said.

  Piper dropped her chin to her chest and spoke these words to the floor: “I guess I just wanted to see you all. I feel alone here even though I’m with someone.”

  That was about all I could take, so
I walked away and Bet followed me. Kate stayed behind with Piper. To talk about what? How terrible it is to be at a dance with the hottest guy in school?

  * * *

  Back out in the lobby, Mr. Ford was back at the microphone, this time with Ms. Russo at his side. He was thanking Pythagorean Theorem. Forrest looked tired, sweaty, and like he was ready to exit, stage left.

  “A nice round of applause for this band that has a lot of … uh, promise.”

  A smattering of claps followed.

  “Before we turn it back over to DJ Jeff for the final half hour, Ms. Russo would like to say a few words.” Ms. Russo smiled out at the crowd and announced that she was forming a blue-ribbon committee to advise next year’s eighth graders for the Backward Dance. Anyone who was interested was asked to sign her clipboard, and she’d be getting in touch soon with meeting dates.

  “I think we’ve already taken some very positive steps this year. Enjoy the rest of the dance!” Ms. Russo called out and handed the microphone back to Mr. Ford.

  She made a move to leave the stage, but Mr. Ford called her back.

  “Hang on just a minute, if you could Jane,” he said into the microphone so that the whole crowd could hear.

  She stopped and looked at him. It’s always funny to hear teachers called by their first names, but something even stranger was in the air.

  “Jane, I don’t know if this is the right place or the right time, and I know you probably need me about as much as ‘a fish needs a bicycle,’ but … will you marry me?”

  A room full of jaws landed with a kerplunk on the floor. Was our math teacher asking our art teacher to marry him? He extended his hand to Ms. Russo, palm up, holding a small blue velvet box.

  As Mr. Ford pulled back the top of the box to reveal a beautiful diamond ring, total disbelief splashed across Ms. Russo’s face Then she started nodding and they hugged for a long time. It was enough time for DJ Jeff to find just the right song. He played the oldie “What a Wonderful World.” Bet scooted to the front with her video camera.

  “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” we all began chanting—and they did. It was strange to watch two of my teachers kissing, but I couldn’t look away. Then there was a lot of commotion with getting the ring on her finger and other teachers and grown-ups coming up to say congratulations. I saw the very unhuggy Mrs. Percy come up and give Ms. Russo a big hug. (I guess Ms. Russo had forgiven her for saying she needed to relax about the dance.) She looked pretty relaxed now.

  Everyone was talking and laughing about what just happened. As the last notes of the song ended, Mr. Ford grabbed the mic again. He looked happy-dizzy. “You guys,” he said, sweeping his arm out over the crowd, “are all invited to the wedding.”

  Sixteen

  When I got home, I answered my parents’ predictable questions: How was it? Who was there? Did you have fun? I didn’t tell them about Ms. Russo and Mr. Ford. I knew they’d find out eventually, but I wanted time to think about Forrest and the whole night without any parental noise. I had seen so much and I wanted to sort it out on my own.

  My feelings for Forrest had not gone away just because he had gone to the dance with Piper. And I didn’t stop liking him when he was going out with Taylor. The truth was I didn’t want to stop liking him. My crush was like an old comfy sweatshirt. Those crushy feelings were all mine, even if he wasn’t. After changing into pajamas, I sat on my bed and pulled out the notebook I kept under my bed. If Forrest liked Piper so much, maybe I needed to figure out what she had that I didn’t. Making two columns, I began the lists:

  Me:

  Piper:

  Short

  Tall

  Nice

  Long hair

  Medium-length hair

  Beautiful

  Funny

  Smart

  Smart

  Nice (sometimes)

  Runner

  Funny

  Romantic

  Volleyball player

  Confident

  There was more though. It pained me to write the words, but I did it:

  Me:

  Piper:

  Small chest

  Big chest

  Piper looked like a woman already. Lots of people noticed. She shopped only in women’s clothing stores. I could buy a thing or two in those sizes, but I didn’t need to. OK, if that was really why he chose her over me, what was I supposed to do? Stuffing just didn’t really work. What would happen in the summer? Would I flap around our community pool with a wad of soggy tissues in my bikini top?

  It was so unfair. I was still waiting for my period and all that came with it. But my brain and my heart were just as grown up as anybody’s, probably more so. Who else was up at midnight trying to figure out the mysteries of the universe, including how to get a boy to like me more than my beautiful, popular (former) best friend?

  I wanted to know what happens between two people when they decide to be together, like Mr. Ford and Ms. Russo. Who says “I love you” first? I can barely make eye contact with Forrest. Could I ever tell him the truth—how I think of him every day and try to watch him without looking too obvious?

  I imagined Forrest and me ten years from now. I would have grown up (and out) and he would be just as hot, but taller. I’d be someone who travels for my job, and he’d come to meet me somewhere, like on the cliffs of Capri in Italy. My parents took me there once on vacation, and it was filled with honeymooning couples. Just try to find a table for three there—no chance. The entire trip, I was crammed in with them at tiny, romantic tables. I was only eleven, but I caught the pie-eyed way my parents sometimes looked at each other there. What makes people become couples?

  I know, I know. I’m not alone in all my wondering. The Pink Locker Society gets oodles of questions about crushes, like:

  • My crush is acting strange. He is usually happy and funny, but today he yelled at me. What am I supposed to do?

  • SHOULD I TELL MY CRUSH WHAT I FEEL ABOUT HIM?

  • I have a crush on this guy in school, but he likes my best friend. What should I do?!!!

  Hey, that sounds a lot like me. But my anger for Piper was starting to mellow into something else. I missed her.

  It’s like all of my friends are ingredients in a delicious dish. (And not something simple like macaroni and cheese, either.) Together, we’re like this chicken my mother makes. I like it because the recipe has no quantities for the ingredients. You just put the chicken in a pan and top it with soy sauce, pepper, garlic, lemon juice and zest, scallions, honey, and paprika. As much or as little of everything as you want. As it cooks, you can smell the flavors warming up and mixing in with one another. First, the honey melts and bubbles into the salty soy sauce. Then the juices surround the chicken, picking up the bold garlic, the zing of the lemon zest, and the oniony scallions. My mom won’t make it unless she has each and every ingredient—even if she’s missing something skip-able (if you ask me) like paprika.

  “The sum is greater than the parts,” she has told me more than once. That’s the kind of math you’d expect from someone who writes poetry. No Pythagorean Theorem there.

  But I was starting to wonder if this was also true of friendship. Piper might be the paprika, but without her, life now seemed as bland as a soggy bowl of corn flakes.

  Seventeen

  Back to the basement during study hall—that was the Monday routine for me, Kate, and Piper. As promised, we met to follow up on the backlog of questions, including some from the dance. I never liked to arrive earlier than anyone else in our new basement headquarters. It was dark until you fumbled for the light switch on the wall panel. But that first switch, we learned, only gave you stairwell lighting. Once you reached basement level, you had to aim your way toward the pull cords of bare lightbulbs. Our routine was to wait in the stairwell together and then slowly walk into the darkened space together.

  We kept our arms outstretched like zombies until someone found the first cord and pulled it—click! Once one of the lightbulbs was switched o
n, you could usually find the others and fill our end of the basement with enough light to work by. If we got desperate, we could always use the light from our laptop to guide us.

  “It’s times like these I really miss our fancy desk chairs and the fresh flowers,” Kate said.

  “And the snacks,” Piper said.

  Piper opened our pink laptop on a desk-high stack of boxes that contained the scratchy restroom towels that filled every dispenser in the school. We pulled aluminum folding chairs around her in a circle. Being secreted away like this in our subterranean hideaway made us speak softly. Though we had been getting away with it for weeks, we were still an unofficial, unauthorized group meeting in a completely prohibited way.

  “Question 1: ‘I don’t have my period yet, but I am worried about using pads. Won’t people hear them crunching and rustling when I walk?’ ”

  “Good question,” I said.

  “Hmmm,” Piper said, “I never think about that.”

  “Well, they do make noise, but it’s such a soft noise, I don’t think anyone would notice,” Kate said. “I’ll take that one.”

  I had decided that I wanted to take Queen Quitter on as a special project. She really seemed to need help, and I was tired of answering questions about embarrassing stuff. This was a chance for me to do more than answer questions about see-through shirts or inconvenient burps. I pounced as soon as Piper said, “Next question: ‘Dear PLS, I am sad, sad, sad…’ ”

  I said “I’ll take it” so quickly that Kate asked if I thought this was a game show. I wondered if Kate or Piper would be able to figure out who Queen Quitter was.

  “Question 3,” Piper continued. “Well, this isn’t a question. It’s another one of those threats.”