by K. L. Denman
Before Lacey can take control again, I say, “Let’s go to your place first.”
Lacey frowns. Then she shrugs, looks away and mutters, “Whatever.”
I feel like I’ve scored. I don’t know why, but it’s like I just won some sort of a point. “Cool. I’ll meet you by the flagpole after school?”
“Sure, see you then.” And she turns her back on me. Sore loser.
Lacey doesn’t show up at the flagpole. I wait for twenty minutes, and then I go home. I’m in a very bad mood when I get there and when Mom asks, “How was your day?” I don’t bother to reply. I just walk right past her and go straight to my room.
Big mistake. One minute later, she’s knocking on my door. “Sable? What is wrong? Can I come in?”
“Nothing is wrong. I just need to be alone. Go away.”
Her voice rises. “Sable! You should talk to me. Maybe have snack.”
I don’t answer.
She opens the door and peeks in.
I snarl, “What are you doing?”
“I think maybe you spend too much time alone. Is not so good.”
“What do you know?” I sneer. “This is normal for kids in Canada.”
Her eyes go wide and sad, and then her mouth crumples into a wobbly line. “Is it?” she whispers.
I feel like crap. Why does she have to do this to me, make me feel guilty? It’s like there’s some sort of thread between us, a line that ties us together. Every time I’m upset, her mom radar goes off and she starts harassing me. I think that thread needs to be broken.
“Yes,” I say, “this is normal.”
“But,” she says. Then she stops and shakes her head. “But, Sable, I miss you.”
“No, Mom,” I answer. I force myself to look at her steadily. “I just remind you of my father. You miss him. You miss Bosnia.”
She recoils as if I’d hit her. “No! That is not so! I am happy here, very happy. Safe.”
“Safe?” I ask. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she insists, “I am sure. There are no soldiers. No bombs. We are safe.”
I can think of several things I’d like to say. She’s wrong; there are soldiers and bombs and guns here. We just don’t see them too often. Plus, she sidestepped my point about her missing Bosnia. I know she does. She talks about going “home” to visit one day. Another thing I could ask is if she’s only happy because she feels safe. How lame is that?
But all the anger suddenly leaves me. I just say, “Whatever, Mom.”
She stands there for about ten seconds, staring at me, and then she goes without another word.
About two minutes later, she’s back, handing me the phone. “A girl calling you,” she says. I take the phone and Mom stands there watching me. I turn away from her and mutter, “Hello?”
“Hey, Sable. It’s Lacey. How come you, like, ditched me after school?”
She’s unbelievable. “I didn’t. I waited at the flagpole for twenty minutes.”
“The flagpole? Really?” Then she giggles. “Oh right! You did say that. Silly me. I was waiting by the gym door.”
I don’t say anything.
Lacey bubbles on. “So, like, I guess you’re at home now.”
I have to ask, “What was your first clue?”
Giggle. Giggle more. “Well, I’m sorry. So if you want, I can just come over to your place.”
“No,” I say, “you can’t come to my place.”
And there’s my mother, yelling like a soccer fan, “Yes! It’s fine. She can come over.”
“Um,” says Lacey, “so, should I come over, or not?”
Mom is waving her arms. “Is not a problem. Your friend can come, Sable.”
I cover up the receiver and hiss at her, “Would you shut up?”
Mom’s face gets red. “Shame on you, Sable, speaking to your mother like that!”
She has no idea what other things I’d like to say. None of them are nice. And there’s Lacey’s voice again, “Hello? Hello?”
“Fine!” I shout into the receiver. “Come over.”
“Cool. I got your address from the phone book, but can you tell me what color your house is? I’m not so great with numbers.”
“It’s green, okay? With white trim. And there’s a blue van in the driveway. Is that enough information for you?”
“That’s awesome,” she coos. “Be there soon. Bye.”
I don’t say good-bye. I just hang up.
chapter six
Mom gets over her anger quickly when she hears that Lacey is coming over. “Wonderful! Shall I make snack for you?”
“Mom,” I say, “no. Lacey is not my friend. She’s just someone I got stuck doing homework with, okay? I don’t like her. She’s a freak.”
Mom frowns. “Freak? What is wrong? You mean she is disabled? Doesn’t matter. You should be kind to this freak person.”
I don’t have the strength to explain. I nod wearily. “Fine, Mom. Whatever.”
“Whatever,” she repeats. “I think I am knowing what this means now.” She does her arm fling and says, “Phht!”
When the doorbell rings, I don’t rush to answer it. I slowly make my way to the door, but Mom beats me to it. She whips the door open, smiles and holds out her hand. “Welcome! Come in.”
I can see Lacey standing on the step, blinking. She nervously eyeballs Mom’s outstretched hand. In a gentle voice, Mom encourages Lacey. “It’s all right. Please, come in.”
Great. Obviously Mom assumes Lacey has a mental disability. Which when you think about it, is true. Mom gives up on the handshake. Instead she starts waving her arm in a circle like one of those traffic people on the side of the road.
Lacey takes a small step and says, “Um. Hi. Is Sable here?”
“Yes, yes. Come in.” Mom opens the door wider and keeps up the traffic routine. Lacey catches sight of me waiting outside the range of Mom’s arm and smiles with relief.
“Hey,” she says, “I wasn’t sure I had the right place.”
“This is it,” I say. Now what? I don’t especially want Lacey in my room, but Mom is still hovering, hands fluttering, and it would be best to avoid her. If we stay downstairs, she’s likely to bring out milk and cookies.
“Come on.” I gesture for Lacey to follow. Once we’re in my room, she prowls around, looking at everything. Nosey. She checks out my black bedspread, the black and white photos, the glossy black desk, the black vase holding fake black roses.
“So,” she says, “I’m guessing your favorite color is black?”
I drop my gaze to her vivid pink sneakers. “And yours is pink?”
She ignores my question. “Is black really a color?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I don’t think it is. It’s, like, a non-color, isn’t it?”
“Sort of,” I say. “It absorbs all the light.”
“Wow. Don’t you think that’s, like, depressing?”
“What would someone like you know about it?” I ask.
She stares at me. I’ve never seen that particular expression on her face before. It makes her look different, like someone else. Someone with a brain. “Sable,” she says, “this art project is important to me. I need to get a good mark. Can we just work on the assignment?”
I shrug. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m here to get to know you, aren’t I? Whether you like it or not. So why don’t you just give the whole hostility thing a rest?”
I shake my head. “Maybe we ought to ask Mr. Ripley for different partners.”
She does an eye roll and admits, “I already tried. That’s where I was after school. I told him that we’re, like, opposites, and chances are we couldn’t understand each other.”
It takes a second or two for this to sink in. She lied? And she tried to get rid of me? Not exactly surprising, but why is she admitting it?
“I’m sorry, okay?” she blurts. “But I figured you felt the same. You don’t like me one bit, do you?”
“So?” I ask coldly. �
�What did he say?”
“He said that’s exactly why he put us together. We’re supposed to get past our differences. And so then I thought, okay, I can do that. I mean, why not?”
“Why did you lie to me?”
Lacey frowns. “Why don’t you answer my question?”
“What question?”
“The one about you not liking me. I mean, come on. It’s so obvious. And since you wanted a different partner too, what’s your problem with me asking Mr. Ripley?”
“You shouldn’t have lied,” I say.
“Okay! I said I’m sorry. Look, can we just do this? Mr. Ripley said no matter how great our frames turn out, our final mark depends on what he called ‘meaningful discovery.’”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not. That’s what he said. Sucks, huh?”
I sink down onto my bed. “Yeah.”
Lacey slumps down beside me. For some reason, this doesn’t bother me the way it should. Maybe it’s because we have something in common now. We’re both victims of Mr. Ripley’s cruelty.
“So,” says Lacey, “I guess we have to deal with it.”
She’s probably right, but I consider my options. I could fake a major illness and miss the next couple weeks of school. Only then I’d get crappy marks in everything. Plus I’d probably have to take art over again next year. Run away? Nah, too extreme. I can’t think of any other options.
“Forget it,” I say. “It’s not worth it.”
Lacey sits up straight. “You mean you’re not going to do it?”
“No,” I say, “I mean I am going to do it.”
She looks at me with the same nervous face she had when she met Mom: eyes wide and watchful. Slowly, she says, “Ohhh-kaaay. Now that we’ve got that settled, should we start over?”
This girl can actually focus when she wants to. She doesn’t even wait for me to answer. She keeps going. “So, have you thought about what color your mirror frame will be?”
My turn to do an eye roll. “Can’t you guess?”
She grins. “Black?”
I can’t help it. I grin back. “You got it. And yours will be, uh, pink?”
Her forehead wrinkles. “I don’t know yet. I was thinking about maybe, like, a rainbow.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. The whole top of the frame will be shaped like a rainbow.”
I start picturing this and get an image of the baby room my mom decorated when the twins were born. Ick. “Are you going to make puffy clouds for the bottom part of the frame?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. That would be too cute. I was thinking about lightning bolts underneath. I haven’t decided for sure yet. What about you?”
I haven’t thought about it at all. I do now and, bam, I get a great idea. “I’m going to make the frame look like a snake curling around the mirror.”
“Eeeuw,” says Lacey.
“What?” I ask.
“Well, think about it. You’d look in the mirror and it would be like a snake is wrapped around your face.”
She has a point. I feel torn. On the one hand, she’s right, a snake around my face could be creepy. On the other hand, I don’t want to admit I’m wrong. So I defend my idea. “What’s wrong with that? Maybe seeing a snake around my face will be a reminder that I need to watch out for enemies. And I’ll make it look really cool, black with emerald eyes.”
“You need to watch out for enemies?”
I shrug. I’m not about to explain that to her.
Lacey frowns. “I don’t get you at all. You’re not a Goth, right? I mean, hello, you don’t wear any makeup. So are you, like, a witch or something?” she asks.
I open my mouth to say no, but then I close it again. And I just smile.
Lacey stands up. “Well, I better go now. So, this was a start anyway. Right?”
“Yeah,” I say, “it was. Should we go to your place tomorrow?”
She hesitates, looks around my room, stares at the black roses and gives a little shiver. “Um, yeah. Sure.”
chapter seven
The school grounds are practically deserted, and I’m ready to give up on Lacey again when she finally shows at the flagpole. She’s twirling a long strand of hair around her finger, round and round. She’s also putting a lot of energy into chewing a gigantic wad of bubble gum.
“Hey,” she says.
I answer, “Hey.”
“So.” Chew, chew, twirl. “My place is this way.”
She starts walking very fast. Then she slows down. Speeds up. Slows down. I start wondering. She never said a word to me in art class. She hasn’t looked directly at me once. Is she embarrassed to be seen with me? Or is she afraid that I’m going to cast a spell on her?
Then she blows a bubble and it explodes into a big blob on her face. She reaches for it with the hair twirling finger. The obvious happens.
“Oh no!” she shrieks.
It’s pretty bad, all right. The hair, the finger, the gum, all have bonded. Lacey yanks her finger free and yelps, “Ow!”
“Um,” I say, “do you want some help?”
“No! Not unless you know some magic trick to fix it!”
“Oh.” I look off into the distance. “About that. I’m not really a witch.”
“Well, duh! Only a total idiot would believe you are.” She does an eye roll and starts nibbling on the gum mess. When she bites off a piece of gum and spits it out, a tuft of gummy hair goes with it. “Oh my God!” she wails.
“You know,” I say, “I didn’t think stuff like this happened to girls like you.”
Lacey is staring at the nipped hair tuft in horror. It looks like a diseased caterpillar lying on the sidewalk. Without looking up she mumbles, “What?”
“I mean, I thought your life was just naturally perfect.”
Now she looks at me. “Are you, like, crazy? You are, aren’t you?”
“No,” I say hastily, “I’m not. Not really. You should try ice. That’s supposed to work.”
Lacey takes a step away from me. “Ice? What are you talking about?”
“You put ice on the gum, and then it gets hard and you can scrape it out of your hair.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“No,” I admit, “the only certainty is death.”
Lacey holds up a hand. “Okay. That’s it. Just stop being so freakin’ weird for one minute, will you?”
I shrug. “I can try. I’m not promising anything.”
“Of course you’re not. But Sable, I want you to focus here on what’s, like, important. Try to remember.” Lacey’s voice intensifies. “Will the ice work or won’t it?”
I almost laugh, but I sense that would be the wrong thing to do. Possibly even dangerous. I mean, people have been slapped for less. Not that Lacey has ever seemed like that sort, but still. No point in taking chances. “Lacey,” I say, “I think the ice works. Either that or peanut butter.”
“Great,” she says. “Let’s go.”
She starts walking again, even faster than before. Then she starts twirling the hair again, and I start worrying that she might blow another bubble. I’d rather that whole scene didn’t happen again. So I say, “You seem kind of stressed today.”
“Wouldn’t you be stressed if you, like, totally destroyed your hair?” she asks.
This time I do laugh. It comes out in a snort. “Your hair isn’t totally destroyed. What a drama queen!”
Lacey stops. Gives me a look I’ve been getting from girls since grade six. It’s a mix of pity and disgust. I hate that look. And then I’m snarling, “What? Do I stink or something?”
She blinks. “Huh?”
“Never mind! I don’t know why I’m asking you. You’re too good to waste your time on me, right? You’re so freaked about being with me that you stick gum in your hair.”
Lacey shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This isn’t about you at all. It’s my place that stinks.”
“What?”
“I don’t usually bring people home, okay? That’s why I’m stressing. But I have to bring you over to get a good mark, don’t I?”
I don’t know what to say. What could be so bad about her place? And does she mean the only reason she’s with me is to get a good mark? Of course that’s the only reason she’s with me. That’s the only reason I’m with her too. Now I’m feeling stressed. I shouldn’t have reacted to the look. I should have ignored it. I wish I had some gum to chew.
“Well,” I mutter, “we probably only have to go to your place once, right? Then we’ll be done with this.”
“You think? I doubt it, Sable. We didn’t get too far yesterday, did we? I mean, you gave me that garbage about being a witch and that was pretty much it. I don’t have a clue about a quote for you yet.”
She has a point. We walk in silence until she stops abruptly and says, “So, um, this is it.”
Lacey has stopped in front of the dumpiest little old house I’ve ever seen. Green slime is growing up the side. The fence is sagging and the yard is dirt and weeds. A garbage can off to the side has been knocked over and trash is strewn everywhere. Sparkly Lacey lives here?
“Yeah, right,” I scoff.
She doesn’t say anything. She just marches right up the driveway and goes around the back of the house. I shuffle along behind her and when we get to the back door, I notice the paint is peeling off in large chunks. “You think this is bad,” she says, “just wait until you see the inside.”
I don’t want to see the inside. It’s probably filthy, stuff piled everywhere, cobwebs and mold...But I follow Lacey in and don’t find what I expected. Quite the opposite. I even feel dizzy for a second because the inside doesn’t match the outside at all.
We’re standing inside a tiny laundry room, and everything is pure white. The walls, the floor, the appliances. Everything. And it smells like bleach, not mould.
“Don’t move until you take your shoes off,” Lacey warns. She points to the closet where I see she’s already placed her shoes. I slide my black runners in beside Lacey’s pink ones and feel guilty over the bit of dirt I see clinging to a shoe lace.