by Vail, Rachel
Then I crouched down and jumped off the beam. Mr. Brock yelled dismissed, but I was already pushing open the door to the girls’ locker room.
“What a jerk,” Zoe whispered, right behind me.
“Mmm-hmm.” I didn’t want to open my mouth and risk crying.
“Are you mad at me?” Zoe asked. “I just said that because, I tried to think how to get you down from there.”
I sniffed. She had a point.
“That was so unfair of him,” she whispered, “singling you out like that.”
In front of our gym lockers, I yanked off my T-shirt and shorts, not even caring if she or anybody saw my flat body. “I’m so sick of—”
“Of what?” Zoe asked.
“Do you think, seriously”—I looked in her eyes—“do I try to act special?”
Zoe shrugged. “You are special.”
“You sound like my mother.” I jumped to yank my jeans over both feet at once.
“Sorry,” Zoe said. She wiggled into her soccer shirt.
“Do I, though?” I whispered. “What Morgan said yesterday. Do I act all, better, separate from everybody?”
Zoe sat down. She didn’t answer or look up as she strapped her shin guards onto her legs and pulled her long soccer socks over them.
“I don’t want to be,” I said, pulling my book bag out of the gym locker. It got caught on the part of the locker that sticks out to catch the door. It frustrated me so much I just tugged and tugged until it tore free, making a little rip in the front of it. I slammed the bag down on the bench. “I just . . .” I was so angry—at Mom, at Mr. Brock, at Tommy—everybody who makes me feel like a stupid little jerk separate from the whole world. “That’s not what I want to be,” I said.
“What?” Zoe wiggled her foot into a cleat, then looked up.
“Separate.”
Mom, I’m sure, was craning her neck trying to hurry me up. I sat down on the bench. I unzipped my ripped bag and pulled out my blue folder. I opened the folder and pulled out the permission slip, then dug around in the bottom of my bag for a pen. I spread the permission slip carefully on the bench, read it over, and signed my mother’s name.
“I’m going apple picking,” I said.
“Are you sure?” Zoe asked. She tied her cleats in double bows while she looked over what I had done.
I smiled. “I have to do what’s right for me.”
“True,” said Zoe. “But what if you get caught? I mean, you’re, you’ll, you—”
“Breathe,” I told her. I felt so calm, it was weird.
She took a breath and asked, “What’s gonna happen?”
“It will all work out.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. “I have every confidence.”
eleven
I handed my permission slip to Ms. Cress in homeroom the next morning.
“Finally!” she said. “But Ms. Masters won the cookie.”
“Sorry.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes you win, usually you lose.”
“Oh,” I said. “And I was, is it, I mean, can I still get on the soccer team?”
“I thought ballet interfered.”
“No,” I said. “We just decided it was too much, ballet four times a week. It didn’t leave time for anything else.”
Ms. Cress nodded. “It did seem like a lot.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I said. “So I’ll just, take ballet Fridays, because we don’t have soccer Fridays, right?”
“Right,” she said.
I smiled, surprised by how calm I felt. I’d had this weird, foggy, relaxed feeling from the moment I forged my mother’s signature on my permission slip. All through dance class yesterday I felt it, and ironically I danced better than ever—even Fiona complimented me. At dinner, Paul told us about giving his oral report on the four senses—he totally forgot the sense of taste. He was really funny; we all laughed until our eyes were watering. Daddy came in to give me a special kiss later when I was in bed and told me he was glad I was feeling back to normal. He hadn’t kissed me in a while.
“Great!” Ms. Cress said, going to her desk. “So you can start Tuesday.”
I nodded. “Yeah. After the trip.”
“I saved number five, just in case,” she said.
“Really?”
“Well, not too many of the girls would fit into such a small shirt, anyway,” she admitted.
“My lucky number,” I said. “It’s all working out.”
“Where are those forms?” Ms. Cress asked herself, riffling through the mess on her desk. “I know they’re here somewhere. I’m happy you’ll play, CJ. We can always use a player who has your, your . . .” She was searching not just for the forms, I knew, but for an adjective to describe my lousy soccer abilities in a nice way. “Here. With your enthusiasm,” she finally said, holding a packet of forms in the air triumphantly.
“It’s OK,” I said. “I know I stink. I just, I like, I-I-I want to, like to be a part of the team.”
“Great attitude.” She laid the forms on my desk, placed her hand on my shoulder, and bent over to show me. “This one is the schedule, this yellow is the medical form, the pink is the parental release form—try to be quicker with that one?”
“Ha,” I sort of laughed.
“And this blue one, oh! That’s for ordering your soccer jacket. It’s optional, and it’s forty-nine dollars, so talk it over with your parents. ’K?”
“I’m sure they’ll say yes,” I told her. “They’re very supportive of-of-of soccer. Playing. And, jackets. They really want me to be on the team, so . . .”
Shut up, I told myself.
“Good to have you on the team,” she said. “Come to the gym at lunch, if you want to pick up your team jersey.”
“I do,” I told her.
twelve
I walked into the cafeteria, straight over to the table where all my friends were sitting, and pulled my new soccer shirt out of my bag. Everybody’s eyes opened wide. I just smiled.
“But . . .” said Olivia.
“You . . .” said Morgan.
I climbed onto the bench and sat down across from Zoe, who kept blinking. I shrugged, opened my lunch bag, and looked in. “I just decided I’d rather be on the soccer team,” I said slowly, taking my time with the words I’d rehearsed in my head the whole way over from the gym.
“Rather than what?” Olivia asked.
“Rather than dance.”
“You’re quitting dance?”
“No need to alert the media,” I told her. That’s Tommy’s favorite expression. I saw Zoe smile a tiny bit, just the corners of her mouth. “Or your mother,” I added, realizing too late that Olivia would probably tell her mother as soon as she got home, and Aunt Betsy would call my mother, and I’d be caught.
I tried to remain calm.
Olivia blushed. “Well, what did your mother say?” she asked. “She must be devastated.”
Olivia always says stuff like devastated when a normal person would say mad. I knew I was furious at Olivia mainly because she had the power to ruin everything for me, but still. I shrugged again. “It’s my decision.”
“When did you realize that?” Morgan asked.
“Yesterday,” I said.
Morgan smiled but quickly blew her bangs out of her eyes to cover it up.
“She’s disappointed, of course,” I added, trying to imagine the ideal scene between me and Mom. “She said she wished I felt differently, but that I have to do what’s right for me.”
I looked at Zoe, who took a huge bite of her sandwich. She’s the only one who knew I was making this all up. I pulled out my yogurt and took a spoonful.
“Well,” said Olivia. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. And I’m coming apple picking, too.”
M
organ looked up from her lunch. Last year when those kids got caught hay-stacking, we spent lots of afternoons imagining what it would be like when we were finally in seventh grade, and who we’d want to hay-stack with, and promising that even if we had boyfriends we’d tell them sorry, I’m sitting with my best friend. She was planning Tommy for herself and Jonas for me, then.
Olivia unwrapped her box of pretzel sticks and offered some to me. For the first time ever, I accepted. “I was wondering why your name was finally erased from Ms. Cress’s board,” she said.
“That’s why.” I chewed. The pretzel sticks tasted great.
“I guess we won’t be having a class trip to see you in The Nutcracker this year, then,” Morgan pointed out.
I took a deep breath and didn’t answer. I tried to smile like, so what? I don’t care about that. The Nutcracker music from the entrance of the Polichinelles blared in my head.
Morgan crumpled her lunch bag and tossed it over me into the garbage can. We all watched it arch in perfectly. She leaned toward Olivia and asked, “You ready to go outside?”
Olivia chewed faster, swallowed, and said, “Yeah.”
After they both left, I stopped smiling and leaned toward Zoe. “I’m so caught.”
“I know,” Zoe whispered back and stood up. “Let’s go talk.”
“What am I going to do?” I asked Zoe on the way, trying to block out the Nutcracker music inside me. “No way Olivia won’t tell her mother.”
“Shhh,” Zoe said. “Wait till we’re safe.”
When we got into the girls’ room she checked under the stalls—no feet. “OK,” she said.
I smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “I feel like we’re in a movie, checking under the stalls like that.”
Zoe laughed, then whispered, “The nuclear weapons are in the black attache case.”
Roxanne came in, so we both shut up. She went straight into a stall. When she came out and was washing her hands, she looked back at me in the mirror. “You quit dance?”
“Wow. News travels fast,” I said.
She tore a paper towel out of the dispenser, dried her hands, and started to leave. “Can I get the social studies from you, Zoe?” she asked.
“Sure,” Zoe said. “Be out in a few.”
“Thanks.” The door banged Roxanne in the behind as she left. We could hear her say “Ow,” in the hall, and we smiled at each other.
“You’re so nice,” I told Zoe. “No wonder everybody likes you.”
“Please,” Zoe said.
“What? You were sixth-grade president. And fifth.” I was nominated last year for sixth-grade secretary but I lost. My parents helped me make posters with white marker on black oak tag. They were unique, and my dad’s printing is excellent because he’s an architect, but, well, no big deal. Secretary is a lousy job anyway.
“Yeah, well,” Zoe said. “Giving out your homework always helps.”
I shrugged and smiled, but then covered my face with my hands, breathed twice, then looked up at her. “Olivia’s mother and mine talk every day.”
“Yikes.”
“Well,” I said, trying to be confident, the new me. “I’ll just have to keep my mother from talking to her.”
“All weekend?”
“At least until I explain.”
“You’re gonna tell her you forged your permission slip?” Zoe’s eyes opened huge.
“I haven’t actually come up with a plan yet,” I admitted. “I just feel like, something will come to me. You know? Something will happen, and I’ll tell her, and it’ll be fine.”
Zoe shook her head without taking her big blue eyes off me. “OK,” she said. “Sounds good to me.”
“Can you sleep over Saturday?” I asked her.
“I thought you were sleeping over my house.”
I shook my head. “I have to sit by the phone all weekend. Right? Well, actually, except Olivia’s mother volunteers at the science museum Saturdays until three. So we could still go pay our installment on the rings then. I’ll be done with dance and home by noon, and my mom could pick you up and drop us off at Sundries and then pick us up at three. OK?”
“Um, OK,” Zoe said. “Whew, complicated.”
“And then we could do whatever at my house on Saturday and be there in case the phone rings and grab it so Olivia’s mother doesn’t have a chance to tell my mom. And also, in case I figure out a way to tell her, you’ll be there, so she can’t get too furious at me.”
“OK,” Zoe said again, blinking a lot. “Wow, talk about being in the movies. You should be a spy.”
I smiled at her. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry about the whole Lou thing.”
“Forget it already,” Zoe said. “Come on. I have to go cheat with Roxanne.”
thirteen
The way to tell my mother didn’t come to me Friday night. I was so busy trying to make sure she didn’t call Aunt Betsy, I didn’t really get much chance to think. While we were eating dinner, Mom said, “Oh, I have to call Betsy and see how Olivia did today.”
“At what?” I asked, in my best imitation of a calm voice.
“Her braces.”
I had totally forgotten that Olivia was getting her braces put on after school.
“Was she nervous at school today?” Mom asked me, passing the string beans to Paul, who took one.
“Yes, a little,” I guessed. “But she said the whole family was planning to pick her up and go out for frozen yogurt for dinner and then, um, a movie. So, they won’t get home until very late. You know,” I added, “to take her mind off it.”
I waited to see how they would react. Before this year I never even lied about if I’d brushed my teeth. Mom and Dad looked at each other. “Isn’t that nice,” Dad said.
Mom nodded and passed Paul the potatoes. I felt myself smiling—such a powerful thing, lying. Before, I always thought they’d just know if I made something up—like they’d be able to tell, like there was no privacy inside my own head. But, there is.
I swallowed my mashed potatoes and asked, “Can Zoe sleep over here, tomorrow, instead of me going there?”
“Sure, of course,” Mom answered. “Why?”
“She just really likes it here,” I invented. May as well make them feel good. I was feeling powerful enough to be generous.
“I’m glad,” Mom said. “Maybe you and Zoe could baby-sit for Paul, then, and Dad and I could go out?”
They smiled at each other.
“I don’t need a baby-sitter,” Paul said.
“You’re eight,” reminded Dad.
“But I’m very mature.”
“We’d be happy to,” I answered generously. It would be good to get Mom out of the house and away from the possibility of hearing my news from Aunt Betsy—worth having to pay attention to Paul. “Zoe likes Paul, too.” Why not? Zoe likes everybody. I think Paul blushed. “We’ll do fun stuff,” I told him. “I promise.”
I was up this morning before Mom woke me, but I pretended to be asleep. She reminded me to use the exercise bands for my feet at the end of my stretching. I did an extra five on each foot, promising myself that on the way to dance, I’d tell Mom everything.
But I didn’t. Where to start? She’d be so disappointed in everything I’d done—forging, quitting, backing out of my commitment, lying. . . . I decided I’d wait until after class. Another few hours of having her like me and trust me. As Zoe had said, “The longer you can avoid a conflict, the better.”
Class was good, again. I wasn’t falling out of my turns. Sometimes dance class is even better than performing, because it’s like an hour and a half away from thinking anything. Your body works, your mind is in quiet mode. No words, just the teacher counting out beats: la, yum, ba-bi-bum. Position! And when you’re on, when you’re focu
sed and pushing, higher on the jumps—straighter legs—longer line—hold! Ah. Yes. There’s nothing else but the clacking of toe shoes or the whispering of ballet slippers against the wood floor, the plonking of the piano, and your fingers brushing the barre.
When Yuri clapped to signal the end of class, I looked up at the clock, surprised it had gone so fast. Next to me, Fiona bent to pull her black sweater pants over her tights. “Strong work today,” she said, the second time in a row.
“Thanks. You, too.” I hadn’t noticed her but she’s always good.
She put on her thin, flowered tank-sweatshirt and strode toward the door. “See you Monday,” she called.
“Monday,” I echoed. “Oh . . .”
“What?” She stopped and turned around. She is so bony even her eyes bulge out.
I felt like I should tell her, No, I won’t see you Monday because I’ll be apple picking, but instead I said, “Nothing. I just, nothing.”
She stretched her neck, then left. It’s often between me and Fiona for parts in recitals or now, ballets. I wondered if she would miss my company in class or be happy to be rid of the competition. It’s different with ballet friends. There’s always an edge, and you don’t tell each other your secrets, you just don’t. I think we’re too used to standing silently close in class and in the wings to figure out how to chatter together.
Mom and I walked out to the car, and she started the engine before she told me she had peeked in and seen me, and that she was impressed with my focus. “Your dancing is really blossoming,” she said. “I’m so excited for you. I think this year will be a real jump forward, professionally, for you.”
I couldn’t very well tell her I was quitting after that, so I just changed my clothes and didn’t talk, all the way to Zoe’s house. Aunt Betsy wouldn’t be around until after three anyway, so I had a little leeway.
Zoe was waiting for us on her front lawn, wearing cut-off shorts and a red sweatshirt. She waved as we pulled into her driveway. I had put on the old blue sweatshirt she’d lent me and my short yellow shorts, so we were dressed similarly, which made me happy. I never cared about stuff like that until recently, but I guess since Wednesday, especially, I keep stressing about being the only one wearing the wrong thing.