Better With Butter

by Victoria Piontek

  I stand onstage frozen like a block of arctic ice, petrified into a human statue by uncontrollable full-body panic. The only thing that functions right is my heart, which beats so hard, so fast, and so loud that I’m surprised the microphone doesn’t pick up the rapid thumping.

  A buzzing sound fills the room as a trillion kids begin to talk about me.

  Ms. Day turns the flashlight off and on again, demanding that I speak, but I can’t.

  I start to sweat. It pools into my palms and on my forehead. A drop slides down my face, and there’s no way it’s going to go unnoticed by the hundreds of judgmental kids gawking at me and recording me with their contraband cell phones.

  I breathe faster and the microphone echoes my panicked puffs around the auditorium.

  It’s been at least fifteen seconds since I approached the microphone. As I stand there frozen, I start to count the accumulating seconds in my head … twenty … twenty-five … thirty … I should be done with my speech, but instead of wrapping up, I’m a slow-motion catastrophe unfolding before my very own eyes. I know I’m going to end up on YouTube or turned into a meme.

  Thirty-five seconds zooms by, but it feels like hours.

  The buzzing turns to laughter. Like a sonic wave, it starts from the back of the auditorium with the eighth graders and washes forward over the other grades until it overtakes everyone—even the little kids in front.

  From the very back row of seats some kid shouts, “Get her off the stage!”

  This starts a chorus of chants, and soon more kids are yelling, “Get her off the stage!” Even a couple of the little ones in the front row join in, thinking it’s some kind of funny game.

  Teachers call for quiet, but no one is listening. It’s a full-scale riot.

  I agree with them. I want to get off the stage as fast as possible, but I can’t figure out how to move. The only thing that seems to work right is my eyes. I shoot them toward the stage wings, desperate for an escape route.

  Instead, I see Principal Huxx striding toward me. As soon as the kids notice her, a hush falls over them. She walks across the stage purposefully and quickly. When she reaches me, she puts her hands on my shoulders and leans into the microphone, “Let’s hear it for Marvel McKenna, everyone!”

  Oh. My. God. I can’t believe she said my first and last name. Up until that moment, I was an unknown sixth grader in an old-lady costume. I mean, of course my name would get around, but as a rumor. Not as a fact. Thanks to Principal Huxx, my identity has been caught on camera to be replayed over and over again. My name and image will be forever linked with the LOSER who froze onstage in front of the ENTIRE SCHOOL.

  Ms. Day is the first person to start pity-clapping. Then the other teachers join her.

  “Time to go, Marvel,” Principal Huxx says, and uses my shoulders to try to steer me off the stage, but I don’t budge. I can’t.

  Pockets of snickers erupt from the kids despite Principal Huxx’s authoritarian presence.

  She glares at them and gives me a nudge to prod me into moving.

  I stay stuck.

  Principal Huxx leans down close to me and says, “Walk, Marvel.” The microphone picks up her words, and they ricochet around the auditorium.

  I want to. I really do, but I can’t. I stand there, wide-eyed and stock-still.

  Everyone loses it. The kids roar with laughter. Even the teachers have trouble holding it together.

  Principal Huxx huffs, not even pretending to be in control anymore. She beckons to the PE teacher, who dashes up on stage. When he gets to us, Principal Huxx says, “Help me out here. Get her feet.”

  The PE teacher grabs my legs, and my upper body tips into Principal Huxx’s waiting arms. She’s a lot stronger than she looks.

  They hoist me up and carry me offstage like a rolled rug. Gales of laughter burst from the audience again, and I might actually die of shame.

  As we pass by Addie, she asks, “Is Marvel okay?”

  “Just some stage fright,” Principal Huxx says.

  That’s the understatement of the year. This isn’t stage fright. This is a complete and total full-system meltdown combined with an out-of-body experience capped off with the most embarrassing moment of all time.

  Principal Huxx and the PE teacher lug me through the backstage area and out the door. They set me on my feet, and the PE teacher leaves me alone with Principal Huxx.

  It’s weird, but outside, it’s a normal NorCal day—blue skies, white clouds, and bright blooming flowers everywhere. I was kind of expecting to see a massive chasm in the ozone or a black hole implosion because that’s exactly what just happened to my world.

  I wiggle my fingers and wave my arms, testing them. Then I do a couple of deep knee bends. My body appears to be working again, which is both confounding and a relief.

  Principal Huxx watches me with thinly veiled annoyance. I know I exasperate people. I only wish they knew how much I frustrate myself. It’s not like I want to be the way I am or want my body to mysteriously stop working.

  “All better now, Marvel?” She’s not being mean exactly, but she isn’t being super nice either, which seems unsympathetic considering what I’ve just been through.

  “Yes,” I say, even though I’ll never be okay again.

  “Good. Follow me,” Principal Huxx says.

  Despite my quick once-over, I’m utterly stunned when my feet do their normal thing and walk. I thought they were broken. Fascinated by their sudden reliability, I stare down at them as they carry me along.

  Principal Huxx escorts me all the way to the office and uses our time together for a teachable moment, which I totally don’t need. “Why didn’t you let someone know you weren’t up for the presentation? You’re in sixth grade now. You need to advocate for yourself.”

  I want to tell her I did tell my mom, and I tried to tell Ms. Day, but no one listened to me. I don’t say anything, though. I’m too busy mentally assessing my body, amazed it’s working, and questioning if it’s going to stay that way or suddenly decide to freeze again.

  We get to the main office, and Principal Huxx pauses at the door to inspect me like she’s wondering how I got so hopelessly defective. To be honest, I’m wondering the same thing.

  Principal Huxx seems to figure out my issue because she says, “You let your anxiety get the best of you today, and that’s not a pattern you want to fall into.”

  No kidding.

  “You’ve got to take control over your own life. Believe in yourself. Be the master of your destiny.” She sounds like she’s reading quotes from inspirational posters.

  I nod. It’s not the first time an adult has wanted to pep-talk me into a different person. It doesn’t work. If a pep talk had magic healing powers, don’t they think I’d use one on myself? In fact, I literally just tried to do it a few minutes ago while onstage, and the whole school saw how that worked out.

  “I suppose you’ll want someone to call your mother to pick you up?”

  Of course I do. Holy cow! She can’t possibly think I’m going back to class to face those people. I should have said my last goodbyes as soon as I got to Bayside before the incident happened because I’m NEVER EVER coming back here again. I’ve been begging Mom to homeschool me for a while now. This is the perfect moment for that transition.

  “Marvel, do you want someone to call your mom?”

  I must have spaced off. “Yes.” A thousand times yes.

  “I’ll drop you off with Skippy, then.”

  Skippy is the school nurse. She and I are quite close. Because of my stomachaches, we spend a lot of time together. It will be nice to have a final goodbye with her.

  Principal Huxx leaves me with Skippy and goes into her office or to wherever it is she goes. Principal Huxx has a way of being everywhere at once, which is part of the reason she’s so scary.

  Skippy, on the other hand, isn’t scary at all. She’s well into her eighties, with rosy cheeks and eyes that twinkle. I’m not kidding.

  Someon
e must have already filled her in on what happened because she seems to have all the details (see what I mean about the way news travels) and gets busy checking me over.

  She takes my temperature.

  Normal.

  Checks my blood pressure.

  Normal.

  Shines a bright light in my eyes.

  Normal.

  Tests my reflexes.

  Normal.

  “Looking good, Marvel.” She hands me an ice pack, even though nothing is bruised, and gives me a juice box.

  I’m both surprised by her assessment and not. At the moment, I feel physically fine. Emotionally I’m a complete wreck. I didn’t imagine what happened to me up there on stage. If this is the start of an ongoing unexplained medical phenomenon related to my anxiety, that’s next-level. I might need to see a specialist.

  Skippy pats me on the knee. “Rest here until your mom can pick you up.”

  I nod, relieved to have a place to hide until Mom rescues me and I never have to see any of these people ever again.

  To my complete dismay, Mom isn’t able to pick me up right away, and I spend the rest of the morning lying around in Skippy’s office. It’s really boring, and the hours drag by slowly. There’s nothing to do except lie on a cot with crinkly paper. With all the idle time, it’s impossible not to replay the events of the morning over and over in my head. It’s called rumination, and I’m supposed to work on it, but I don’t know how to stop my brain from thinking.

  By lunchtime, I’ve ruminated so much that I burn myself out like an exploding star. I’m still utterly humiliated, but I don’t feel the total-body panic like I did before. With time to think about other things, I start to wish I hadn’t gotten freaked about my Famous Californian presentation. I really did work super hard on my speech, and it would have been great if a few kids had learned a little something about Grandma Prisbrey. Since I didn’t do my talk, a whole generation of kids is going to think everyone in California is either a gold miner, a director, a musician, or a cookie baker. Without me, there was no one to represent the octogenarians. (That means “old people.” Internet research can be very educational.)

  When the clock says 2:35, the phone rings and Skippy answers it. I can tell she’s talking to my mom by what she says.

  “She’s fine. I’ve checked her out and have been observing her all day. I’m not concerned.” Skippy pauses and nods. “She’s more embarrassed than anything. Stage fright happens. I have to admit, her reaction was rather dramatic.” There’s a long break in Skippy’s end of the conversation, and for a second, a flicker of unease turns her lips down. “How far is the walk?” When she hears the answer, she perks up, all traces of apprehension gone. “Oh, that close? She’ll be fine. Not to worry. I’ll tell her to call you when she gets home.”

  I don’t like what I’m hearing.

  Skippy hangs up the phone. “It took your mom a while to get out of her meeting, and then she got stuck in traffic on her way here. There was an accident on the Bay Bridge.”

  My stomach drops like I’m on an elevator. I immediately imagine the worst.

  Skippy holds up a hand. “Nothing to worry about, dear. Your mom is fine, but she’s not going to make it here in time to drive you home before the final bell.”

  I’m shocked by this news. Mom always picks me up. “She’s not coming?”

  Skippy’s face is kindness sprinkled with understanding. “She’s been doing her best to get to you all day. She’s beating herself up pretty hard, but sometimes life gives us more roadblocks than freeway.”

  Skippy pats my arm, and I feel a bunch of ways at once—humiliated, ashamed, frustrated, and sad. Really, really tired of being me. The whole day slams into me, and I start to feel tears, but I don’t let them come. As quickly as I can, I stuff it all back down. As far down as it will go. I only work one way. I can’t think too hard about the kind of kid I am or the kind of kid I should be—the type who aces presentations and doesn’t need her mom to pick her up all the time. If I do, it hurts. Way too much.

  Skippy watches me. I think she’s making sure I’m not going to cry. Skippy seems to decide I won’t turn into a faucet because she says, “You’ll have to walk home. Your mom said it was very close and your older brother will be there waiting for you.”

  I don’t like walking home. It’s true that I only live five minutes away from Bayside. Really. I can practically see it from my house. It’s just I don’t like walking across the sports field. There are always eighth graders hanging out in groups, goofing around, and texting. It’s intimidating.

  It’s why I make my mom drive me even though it’s a waste of natural resources. Life is full of competing choices. It’s very stressful.

  Skippy calls up to my classroom and asks Ms. Day to send down my stuff.

  Addie brings my backpack and a cookie. I’m glad it’s her. Addie is the one person who might be my friend. I’m not sure, though. I like Addie, but because of my stomachaches, I’m not always in class or at lunch when the stuff that makes people friends happens, so our status is unclear.

  “I saved you one.” Addie hands me the cookie. “Sorry you …”

  She doesn’t know what to say, so my mind fills in the blanks for her—freaked out, made a fool out of myself, went bananas, completely lost it.

  “Missed everything,” Addie says.

  “Thanks.” It was nice of Addie to bring me the cookie.

  “How’d the rest of the presentations go?” I hope she says it was awful. I don’t wish bad things for Addie or anyone else, but I’m starting to think I missed out.

  “Awesome!” Addie sounds like she just got home from the moon. “Everyone loved the cookies. And Ms. Day told me I was a born orator. That means ‘speaker,’ which is totally great because that’s the whole point of this semester, isn’t it? To learn public speaking skills?” She’s shining from the inside out, and I wonder if Addie is part glowworm.

  “Yep. Yes, it is,” I say, knowing my failure of sixth grade is imminent, which is one more reason to homeschool. I mean, if this whole semester is about public speaking, I think I’ve proven it’s not going to go well for me. If Addie is part glowworm, then I’m 100 percent earthworm, unremarkable and disappointing.

  Addie leaves, and I stuff my wig into my backpack.

  Now that all my limbs and extremities are in perfect working order, I can’t help wishing someone had heard my Grandma Prisbrey speech and called me a great orator.

  Another day down. Another opportunity lost.

  I guess I better get used to disappointment because apparently this is my new normal. Yippee for me. I’ve aced the one thing no one aspires to ever—failure. I wonder if Principal Huxx has a pep talk for that.

  The bell rings, and I head home.

  I don’t know what the sports field looks like to other people, but to me, it’s a big, yawning sea of unknown between my school and my house. Every time I get to it, I start to stress. Too much can go wrong. I mean, nothing ever has, but stuff can. And now I freak out and freeze up, so what if that happens on my way home? Would anyone even call my parents if I’m stuck in the middle of the field immobile like a statue? How would they know my mom’s phone number? Maybe I need a medical ID bracelet that says, This is Marvel McKenna. If found, she is not stone, but a real girl with a horrible problem. Please call Anne McKenna 455-555-7555.

  Though, I suppose I don’t need to worry too much because I’m never going to school again, so this is basically the last time I’ll have to endure this walk.

  I take a few deep breaths to fortify myself as I start to pass the scariest part of the field—the baseball diamond. I don’t like it because there are dugouts where kids can hide from the alert eyes of adults and a border of thick bushes where raccoons nest because of all the old food scraps left behind after games.

  What I hate about it the most is that it’s too far from school to go to the office for help and too far from home for my mom to rescue me.

  It’s no-man�
�s-land.

  And that’s exactly where I am when I see them—a group of eighth graders standing in a circle by one of the dugouts.

  Here’s the thing about eighth graders. They’re really big. Their growth spurts start to happen at the end of seventh grade, and all summer they grow like mutant soybeans, so that’s one thing. The other thing is they’re giddy with power. They rule the school, and it goes straight to their heads. Forget the fact that in a few short months they’ll be at the bottom of the social ladder again. They don’t even think about it. It’s like they’ve never heard of karma. I have an older brother, so I know this for a fact. Everyone sorts themselves out again in high school, but for that one year, beware.

  That’s why, when I see them, I immediately start to alter my course to put as much distance between them and me as I can. Walking near that pack of kids would be like diving into shark-infested waters without a cage. Not smart. Especially after the spectacle I made of myself onstage. My frozen freak-out might as well have been a public service announcement for all the bullies at Bayside. Hey, folks, need to feel better about yourself? Need someone weak and pathetic to pick on? Look no further than Marvel McKenna. She’s here to help.

  Only something in the way they’re laughing makes me stop and look.

  It’s a laugh with a mean edge. A sound I know well. I just heard it onstage, and it wasn’t the first time. You can’t be me—bundle-of-nerves me—and not know what bullying sounds like. I’m just weird enough that sometimes kids (and even grown-ups) want to tease my anxiety out of me. Like that ever works.

  Seven kids stand in a tight circle. From my position, I can’t see what’s in the middle, but I know they have something in there. Nearby is a trash can on its side and garbage strewn all over the place.

  A BIG part of me (almost all of me) wants to keep walking. Get out of no-man’s-land to one of my safe zones, but I’m transfixed.

  I wish I had a cell phone. I’ve been telling my mom I need one for situations just like this, but she never budges. If I had one, I could call her or my big brother or, even better, Principal Huxx. She scares everyone. Obviously, I wouldn’t use my real name. I’d leave an anonymous tip.