Definitely Daphne

by Tami Charles

  I have to admit, I’m kind of disappointed that Mr. Fingerlin doesn’t look like Colonel “Fingerlick’n Good” Sanders. That’s the mascot for Kentucky Fried Chicken. Believe it or not, we had plenty of those back in Germany.

  “Aim high!” Mr. Fingerlin throws his bald head back and points his face to the sky.

  Then, on cue, Mom says, “Fly, fight, win!”

  And then they hug again, this time slapping each other’s backs so hard I can hear their ribs vibrate.

  Dad shakes Mr. Fingerlin’s hand and that turns into another hug.

  “It’s been a long time, Ruben. Good to see you!” Mr. Fingerlin says.

  Buddy and I just stand there, staring at each other. She’s legs-up-to-her-neck, supermodel tall. The sun is beaming down on her, creating a halo around her dark brown braids, matchy-matchy outfit, and sparkly red nail polish.

  “This is Annabelle.”

  I don’t look up when Dad says this. I just zoom in on my Converse sneaker-boot, which is untied again. A clear sign that even my shoes want to break free of this place!

  “Pleasure to meet you.” Mr. Fingerlin shakes my hand firmly. “Wendy and I go way back to our Academy days in Colorado. She was always tougher and smarter than me. And look at her now. Master Sergeant!”

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us so early, Pete,” Mom says.

  “No problem. Forgive me. This is Rachael Myers.” Mr. Fingerlin points to Buddy girl. She gives a weak smile and shakes all of our hands.

  “Look at that! You already have a friend, and the day is just beginning!” Mom’s voice is beyond excited.

  Great. A forced friendship is just what I need.

  “Rachael will show you around before the day starts,” Mr. Fingerlin says.

  “Mom, Dad, I have it from here. You can leave now. OK?” I say with my teeth pressed together.

  “You sure, schätzchen?”

  “Bless you!” Rachael says to Mom.

  “Oh!” Mom chuckles. “I didn’t sneeze, dear. I was calling Annabelle my little—”

  “Mom!” I cough one time. “I’ll see you when I get home.”

  “Can’t wait to hear all about your first day. Viel glück!” Mom winks at me.

  Rachael’s eyebrows rise half an inch.

  The back of my neck is burning. I don’t respond in German. All I say is, “Bye.”

  They head toward the exit. Dad walks like a normal human, and of course Mom is walking backward, blowing kisses at me before she disappears out the door.

  “Let’s get started!” Mr. Fingerlin hands me a folder with my schedule and papers of all the activities McManus has to offer. He explains that Rachael is the president of the Positive Behavior in Schools (PBIS) club and they do character-building activities for the school community. The more he talks, the more I start to think that PBIS stands for Practically Babysitting Incoming Students. I want no part, and, judging by Rachael’s lack of enthusiasm, neither does she.

  “And now, I’ll have Rachael take over. I’ll be in my office if you ladies need me.” Mr. Fingerlin walks down the hall in the opposite direction.

  Rachael starts walking, and I follow.

  “Yo,” she says, “what in the world did your mom say to you before she left?”

  “She wished me good luck.”

  “You from Russia or something?”

  “Germany. But I was born here.”

  Rachael stops short and whips around. One of her long braids smacks me right in the nose. “They got black people in Germany?”

  I knew that was coming. Off base in Germany, sometimes I felt like people stared at me like I was a circus act. I see it’s not going to be any different here.

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “Not a lot of black people, though. Mom’s in the Air Force, so we move a lot.”

  Rachael makes a face that I can’t quite read.

  Then she grabs my folder and takes a look at my schedule. “All right, I’ll make this quick. Hope you’re a fast learner.” She stops in front of a wall with mini metal doors and locks. “You’re number six-one-nine.” She points.

  I open it and look inside, super confused.

  Rachael stares at me. “OMG, they don’t have lockers in Germany?” She laughs. “You put your things in there. But you’re gonna need a lock for your stuff. We got a few people with sticky fingers around here.”

  Images of syrupy hands touching my things — especially my MacBook, which I have in my knapsack right now — run through my mind.

  “I’m sorry. Why are their fingers sticky?”

  Rachael doesn’t answer. She just laughs some more and says, “Maybe hold on to your things for today. Have your parents take you to Target to get you a lock.”

  Maybe they do have lockers in Germany. I wouldn’t know because I’ve been homeschooled! But of course I don’t tell her that. I just nod my head like, Totally! I get it!

  Rachael zips around the whole school in what feels like five minutes. Up the stairs and down the stairs, every word coming out faster than the other like she wants to hurry up and get this over with. Cafeteria. Gym. Auditorium — “for useless assemblies.” Playground — which looks nothing like what we had in Germany. There’s absolutely nothing to play with on these grounds. My homeroom, 201, which is also Rachael’s. And the locations of the rest of my classes. By the time we’re back at the entrance of the school, I don’t remember a thing.

  It’s official. I want to go home. Now.

  Our last stop is the bathroom.

  “The bell’s gonna ring soon, so I have to put my face on.”

  I look at Rachael, puzzled. But your face is on… right? Of course, I don’t say that, I just trail inside behind her.

  She pulls a fuzzy, pink bag out of her backpack. The next part plays out like a Hollywood glamour short film. Off screen, a fan is blowing. Better yet, there are two people — one at each side — moving gigantic fans up and down. Rachael’s braids whip against the wind. The camera zooms in as she starts to umm… put her face on. Lip gloss. Mascara. Black pencil on her eyelids.

  The camera pans right, and the lenses have to refocus when they get to me because apparently my entire outfit is distorting the image. There I am, staring and saying nothing while Rachael transforms herself into Beyoncé’s twin. Then, I don’t know why, but I start looking at my reflection in the full-length mirror compared to hers: my purple leggings, which are sagging, thanks to the fact that my whole body is made up of parallel lines, compared to her form-fitting, curve-hugging blue jeans. My old, worn-out Converses, compared to her spotless Nike sneakers. My hair, which is playing a game of Which curl can touch the ceiling first? compared to hers, which apparently grows downward.

  Rachael must think I look ridiculous.

  “Want some lip gloss?” Rachael jolts me out of the scene.

  I swallow. “No, I’m fine. I left mine at home.”

  Shopping list for Target: 1. lock 2. lip gloss

  “You know, for a black German girl, you speak good English. Like no accent or anything.”

  The tension in my shoulders loosens a bit. A voice inside whispers, Play it cool, Annabelle.

  “Well, English is my first language.” I hop on the sink counter and lean against the wall. “We moved bases a lot, so I picked up on German. Dad’s half Puerto Rican, so he taught me Spanish, and my best friend is Japanese, so she and her dad taught me a little of that too.”

  I’m almost ready to mention living in the UK. You know, hit her with the good stuff. Show off my impressive British accent. But then I feel my left butt cheek turn wet, and I start to slide off the side of the sink counter.

  “Whoa, you OK?” Rachael catches my wrist before I fall.

  “Yeah… totally.” I pull my shirt down to hide the water stain on my butt.

  “You’re like a walking, breat
hing globe.” Rachael laughs.

  Then I start laughing too. And there we are, laughing together like two amigas. Really, I’m not sure if Rachael meant that as a compliment or an insult, but who cares! If only Mom, Dad, and Mae could see me now!

  The bell rings, and outside the halls get loud — fast. Rachael tosses her makeup in the pink bag and beelines it for the door. She turns quickly. “Good luck, umm… what was your name again?”

  My heart plummets to the floor. “Annabelle.”

  I’m not sure if she hears me, because she’s already opening the bathroom door. There’s a crowd outside, and they’re all waiting for her, like the paparazzi. They’re taking selfies with Rachael and saying things like:

  “You slaying that outfit, girl!”

  “Great lip gloss shade, bae!”

  “I’ll cut off my pinky toe and donate it to science if you sit next to me in homeroom.”

  OK, the last one might be a stretch. But seriously, this exact scene is why I don’t do school.

  A couple of super cute guys walk by, smiling and waving at Rachael and company. Meanwhile, I’m standing there, trying to look… down with my bad self!

  “Who’s that?” one of her adoring fans asks.

  Rachael stops selfie-posing for a split second and says, “Oh, that’s just the new kid.”

  The bell rings, and just like that they all rush to homeroom. Without me.

  5

  The Day Gets Better

  As I near homeroom, I hear noise and commotion. I take a deep breath and pray that no one notices me so I can quickly find a seat. Here goes nothing.

  The chaos stops as soon as I get to the doorway. The whole class is staring at me. If this were a movie, the houselights would dim, and the spotlight would land right on my horrified face.

  The teacher stops writing on the board and turns to me. “You must be our new student!”

  My whole body turns to ice. I hear a chuckle coming from somewhere, but I can’t pinpoint it.

  “I’m Mrs. Rodriguez.” She walks over and grabs my hand to shake it. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in! Come in!” Mrs. Rodriguez grabs me by the shoulders, walks me inside, and plants me dead smack in front of the room.

  I have an audience. Lovely.

  “Class, we have a new student!” she says.

  I’m dying inside. Slowly. I try my best not to look at anyone, though I see Rachael and company and I feel everyone’s eyeballs glued to me.

  Mrs. Rodriguez inches her face real close to mine and smiles. She has a smear of red lipstick on her teeth. Looks like she didn’t do a good job putting her face on, I think.

  “Go on. Introduce yourself,…” —she looks at her roster to double-check my name— “Annabelle.”

  My eyes find the floor. I whisper, “My name is Annabelle. Annabelle Louis.”

  “Speak up!” Jerk #1, for $500.

  “We can’t hear you.” Jerk #2, double the money.

  “Yo, is she a student or the janitor?” Jerk #3 wins it all!

  The whispers spill out. I stay busy looking at the tile patterns on the floor. Red-blue-red-blue and one random black, like they ran out of tiles in that one spot.

  Is this over yet?

  “She’s from Germany, y’all!” It’s Rachael. At least she remembered that. There’s a small tug in my stomach.

  “Is that where she got those kicks from?” someone pipes up. “’Cause I ain’t never seen nothing like those in the mall!”

  The whole class erupts into talking and laughter. That’s it. I’m never coming back. I don’t care if Dad is going back to work. I’ll homeschool myself.

  “OK, class, that’s enough!” Mrs. Rodriguez screams, and that shuts them up. “You may find an empty seat, Annabelle.”

  I half look up at the desks aligned in perfect, mile-long rows, praying there’s a seat right in the front so I can put an end to the museum exhibit that is Annabelle Louis. But nope, nada.

  “There’s one back here!” A smiling kid with a mouth full of braces stands up and beckons me to come join him.

  “Ooooh!” someone calls out.

  I can’t take one more second, so I speed-walk to the back of the room where Brace Face is happily waiting for me. You’d think things couldn’t get any worse, but my shoelace decides now is the proper time to find the floor. Again. By the time I realize it, it’s too late. My right foot finds the left lace and…

  TIMBERRRRR!

  I go tumbling. My knapsack goes airborne. Brace Face catches it before my pencils, notebooks, and MacBook fall out.

  “SAFE!” he yells, holding it up like it’s a trophy.

  The class is laughing. I’m dying. Brace Face is smiling like he’s the king of seventh grade. Mrs. Rodriguez is telling everyone to quiet down so she can take attendance.

  I’m definitely going to YouTube some homeschooling videos as soon as I finish setting up my girl cave.

  Everyone settles down after attendance. Then Mrs. Rodriguez starts to write some words on the board: SPORTS DAY!

  A lot of the kids start cheering.

  “Don’t forget that Sports Day is next week. Who would like to stand up, introduce themselves, and tell Annabelle what that means?” Mrs. Rodriguez looks around the room hopefully.

  Brace Face doesn’t waste a second. He bolts out of his seat and squares his shoulders. “Hello, Annabelle. My name is Johnathan Lopez, but you can call me John. Welcome to McManus! Sports Day is cool because for one whole day, all of our academic classes are replaced by sports. We get to check out the different sports that McManus has to offer. Everybody gets a chance to play. That’ll help you decide if you want to try out for a team. Personally, I’ve got my eyes on the swim team.”

  Two students clap. A girl and a boy seated in front of us.

  John takes a bow and then flashes me a shiny smile.

  “Excellent! Thank you, Johnathan,” Mrs. Rodriguez says. “I’m going to pass around a list of what you’ll need to bring for each activity.”

  Mrs. Rodriguez walks around passing out our individual Sports Day assignments. “We had to place you where we could, since you joined us a little late,” she says when she reaches me.

  I take the paper and stuff it into my knapsack. Doesn’t matter anyway because I won’t be here by next Wednesday.

  John leans toward me and asks, “What sports did you get?”

  I don’t even look at him as I shrug.

  “Don’t worry. The day gets better, Annabelle. Promise.”

  The bell rings. I toss my knapsack over my shoulder and get out of there as fast as I can.

  6

  Texting from Base

  Mom: Schätzchen! Mi amor! My love! I’m working a double shift, so can’t talk on the phone. BUT TEXT ME ABOUT YOUR FIRST DAY! <3

  Fifteen minutes later…

  Mom: Annabelle, you there?

  Mom to Group, Belle, Dad: Ruben, please don’t tell me you forgot to pick our daughter up from school!

  Dad to Group, Belle, Mom: I picked her up… on time. She’s locked away in her girl cave. She won’t talk to me.

  Mom to Group, Belle, Dad: Annabelle, we’ll talk about everything as soon as I get home. OK, sweetie?

  Three hours later…

  Belle to Group, Mom, Dad: There’s nothing to talk about. Effective immediately, I’m dropping out of middle school.

  7

  Daphne Doesn’t

  Me and my big mouth! (Or should I say fingers.)

  As soon as I clicked send, my parents sprung into action. Mom left work early, sped up the highway, and hit me with a lecture as soon as she got home: There shall be no dropping out of anything, young lady. Not when I busted my butt getting three degrees! We don’t do failure in this family!

  Needless to say, I’ve been carrying out my sentence at M
cManus Middle School ever since. And to make things a little more interesting, Mom thought it would be a good idea for me to see a therapist.

  So here I am pacing the wooden floors in the doctor’s office, puzzled by the googly-eyed horse heads protruding from the walls. There are four of them, half black, half brown hair sticking out in mid-air, staring me down like I’m hiding a carrot in my back pocket. And they don’t look too happy right about now. That makes five of us.

  Still in uniform, Mom is seated on a leather couch next to large double windows.

  Dr. Varma walks in with a gigantic smile and caked-on makeup that’s way too pale for her brown skin.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Master Sergeant Louis. Thank you for your service.”

  Mom rises and shakes Dr. Varma’s hand. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

  “And this must be Annabelle?”

  “Hi.” I keep my eyes on her wedge sandals.

  “Ah, she’s shy, I see,” Dr. Varma says, like she’s known me my whole life. “Herzlich willkommen. Welcome!”

  “Danke!” I thank her, surprised to be feeling a little more relaxed now. “You speak German?”

  “My dad served in Germany, like your mum. And in the UK and Japan too. We moved around quite a bit, just like you. I bet you know a few different languages.”

  Three years in Japan, two and a half years a piece in Spain and the UK, and five years in Germany will do that.

  “Oh, I speak a bit of this and that,” I say, shrugging.

  Dr. Varma asks Mom to sit in the waiting room while we talk. Then she tells me to take a seat on the couch.

  “Annabelle, what are your thoughts about your mum bringing you to see a therapist?”

  I scan my brain for the right response. On more than a few occasions, I’ve heard Mom and Dad speak in whispered words:

  Annabelle is so… shy.

  Maybe all the moving is affecting her.

  She just needs to make friends.

  Dr. Varma tips her head as though I’m taking too long to answer.