Flipped

by Wendelin Van Draanen

Not really. I didn’t want to be the neighborhood rancher. If my girls quit laying altogether, that would be just fine with me.

  I put away the rake and shovel, clucked a kiss on each of the hens, and went inside. It felt good to take charge of my own destiny! I felt strong and right and certain.

  Little did I know how a few days back at school would change all of that.

  Bryce: Flipped

  After the dinner Juli was nice to me at school. Which I hated. Mad was better than nice. Gaga was better than … nice. It was like I was a stranger to her, and man, it bugged me. Bugged me big-time.

  Then the auction happened, and I found myself with even bigger problems.

  The auction is this bogus way the Booster Club raises money for the school. They insist it’s an honor to be chosen, but bull-stinkin’-loney to that! Bottom line is, twenty guys get shanghaied. They have to come up with fancy picnic lunches and then be humiliated in front of the whole school while girls bid to have lunch with them.

  Guess who made this year’s top twenty.

  You’d think mothers would say, Hey, there’s no way you’re going to auction my son off to the highest bidder, but no. Instead, they’re all flattered that their son’s been elected a basket boy.

  Yes, my friend, that’s what they call you. Over the P.A. you hear stuff like, “There will be an organizational meeting of the newly elected basket boys in the MPR at lunch today. All basket boys must attend.”

  Pretty soon you’ve completely lost your name. You and nineteen other saps are known simply as Basket Boy.

  My mom, of course, was into it, coming up with all sorts of stuff to put in my basket so I’d get the highest bid. I tried to explain that I didn’t want to be in Mayfield Junior High’s Basket Boy Hall of Fame, and that really, what was in the basket didn’t matter. It wasn’t like girls were bidding on the basket. When you got right down to it, this was a meat market.

  “You eat lunch on campus and that’s the end of it. It is hardly a meat market, Bryce. It’s an honor! Besides, maybe someone really nice will bid on you and you’ll make a new friend!”

  Mothers can be in such denial.

  And then Garrett bends my ear with the news that Shelly Stalls is breaking up with Mitch Michaelson, and that she, Miranda Humes, and Jenny Atkinson are starting some bidding war over me. “Dude!” he tells me. “The two hottest chicks on campus. And I swear to god, man, Shelly’s dumped Mitch because of you. I heard it direct from Shagreer, and dude, Shagreer the Ear knows all.” He throws me this nasty grin and says, “Me, I’m rooting for Jumbo Jenny. It would serve you right for being such a basket boy.”

  I told him to shut up, but he was right. With the way my luck was running, I’d probably get stuck with Jumbo Jenny. I could just see it — six feet of beefy babe downing both halves of my lunch and then coming after me. Jenny’s the only girl or guy on campus who can dunk a basketball. The whole gym shakes when she lands. And since she’s got no, you know … female parabolas, the girl could shave her head and make it in the NBA. Seriously. No one would ever suspect.

  Her parents give her anything she wants, too. Rumor has it they converted their garage into a full-on basketball court just for her.

  Which meant that in the game of the basket boys, I was as good as slam-dunked.

  Unless, unless Shelly or Miranda was high bidder. But how could I make sure that happened? My brain went into overdrive, constructing a plan, and in the end I decided that there was only one sensible course of action.

  Kiss up to both of them.

  Halfway through my first day of doing this, I felt like a skunk. Not that I was being gross about it or anything. I was just, you know, friendly. And even though Shelly and Miranda didn’t seem to smell a thing, Garrett did.

  “Dude!” he says to me on Thursday. “I can see your game, man.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t deny it, dude. You’re working them both.” He comes up and whispers in my ear, “Basket boy or not, I’m in awe.”

  “Shut up, man.”

  “Seriously! The Ear says they were, like, clawing each other in P.E. today.”

  I had to know. “What about … Jumbo Jenny?”

  He shrugs. “Haven’t heard. But we’ll find out tomorrow, won’t we, dude?”

  My mother dropped me off at school on Friday with my stupid oversized picnic basket, and since all basket boys have to dress up, I was choking in a tie and feeling completely dweeblike in slacks and dress shoes.

  Kids whistled and shouted, “Oooh, baby!” as I headed up the walkway, and then Jumbo Jenny passed me, taking the front steps three at a time. “Wow, Bryce,” she said over her shoulder. “You look … delicious.”

  Oh, man! I practically ran to the classroom where all the basket boys were supposed to meet, and the minute I walked in, I felt better. I was surrounded by other dweebs, who seemed genuinely happy to see me. “Hey, Loski”; “Yo, dude”; “Doesn’t this suck eggs?”; “Why didn’t you take the bus, man?”

  Misery loves company.

  Then Mrs. McClure, the president of the Boosters, the lady who lassoed us all, hoofs it through the door. “Oh, my!” she says. “You all look so handsome!”

  Not one word about our baskets. Not one little sneak peek inside. No, for all she cared, those puppies were empty.

  Meat market?

  You better believe it!

  “Don’t be so nervous, boys,” Mrs. McClure was saying. “You’re going to have a wonderful day!” She pulls out a list of names and starts ordering us into line. We get numbers; our baskets get numbers; we fill out three-by-five cards to her insane specifications; and by the time she’s got us all organized and is sure we know what to do and what not to do, we’ve missed all of first and most of second period. “Okay, gentlemen,” she says. “Leave your baskets where they are and go to … where are we now? Still in second?” She looks at the clock. “Right. Second.”

  “What about passes?” some sensible basket boy asked.

  “Your teachers have a list. But if they say anything, tell them I say your neckties are your passes. I’ll meet you back here when everyone’s dismissed for the auction. Got it? Don’t dawdle!”

  We grumbled, Yeah, yeah, and headed to class. And I can tell you this, not one of the twenty of us listened to a word any of our teachers said that morning. How can you listen with a noose around your neck, pinched toes, and a room full of idiots thinking it’s open season on basket boys? Whoever started this stupid tradition ought to be crammed into a basket and tossed downstream without a serving spoon.

  I was basket boy number nine. Which meant I had to stand there on the stage in the gym while nearly half the guys got auctioned off. Minimum bid, ten bucks. And if nobody bid, the secret was a teacher was assigned to bid on you.

  Yes, my friend, the possibilities for mortification were infinite.

  Some of the moms showed up and stood off to the side with their camcorders and zoom lenses, fidgeting and waving and basically acting as dweeby as their sons looked. I should know. My mom took an hour off work to be one of them.

  Tim Pello was basket boy number five, and his mom actually bid on him. No kidding. She jumped up and down, yelling, “Twenty! I’ll give you twenty!” Man, that’ll brand you for life. Lucky for Tim, Kelly Trott came up with twenty-two fifty and saved his sorry self from everlasting torture as a mama’s boy — one of the few fates worse than basket boy.

  Caleb Hughes was up next, and he fetched the Boosters all of eleven fifty. Then came Chad Ormonde, who I swear was ready to pee his pants when Mrs. McClure made him step forward. She read his card, pinched his cheeks, and raked in fifteen even.

  At this point what stood between me and the auction block was Jon Trulock. And I wasn’t exactly interested in what he had in his basket or what his hobbies and favorite sports were. I was too busy scanning the crowd for Jumbo Jenny, sweating my pits off.

  Mrs. McClure calls into the microphone, “Do I hear ten?” and it took me a
minute to tune in to the fact that no one said “Ten!” No one said anything. “Come on, out there! The lunch is delicious. Strawberry tarts, um … ” And Mrs. McClure goes back to reading off the three-by-five about Jon Trulock’s lunch.

  Talk about embarrassing! This was worse than being a mama’s boy. Worse than lunch with Jumbo Jenny! How’d he get voted basket boy if nobody wanted to have lunch with him?

  Then off to the right of the crowd I hear, “Ten!”

  “Ten? Did I hear ten?” Mrs. McClure says with a fluttery smile.

  “Twelve!” came a different voice from the same area.

  The first voice came back with “Fifteen!” and all of a sudden I recognized whose voice it was.

  Juli Baker’s.

  I searched through the crowd and found her, hand waving in the air, that look all over her face.

  “Sixteen!” came the other voice.

  There was a pause, but then Juli shoots back with “Eighteen!”

  “Eighteen!” cries Mrs. McClure, who looks like she’s about to collapse from relief. She pauses, then says, “Eighteen going once … Eighteen going twice … Sold! for eighteen dollars.”

  To Juli? She was the last person I expected to bid on a lunch. Anybody’s lunch.

  Jon staggered back into line. And I knew I was supposed to step forward, but I couldn’t budge. I felt like I’d been slugged in the stomach. Did Juli like Jon? Is that why she’d been so … so … nice lately? Because she didn’t care about me anymore? All my life she’d been there, waiting to be avoided, and now it was like I didn’t even exist.

  “Step up, Bryce. Come on, don’t be shy!”

  Mike Abenido shoved me a little and said, “Your turn for torture. Get up there!”

  It felt like walking the plank. I just stood up front sweating bullets while the Booster queen dissected my lunch and started running through my list of favorites. Before she’s even finished, though, Shelly Stalls calls out, “Ten!”

  “What’s that?” says Mrs. McClure.

  “I’ll give you ten!”

  “Oh,” she laughs as she puts down her notes. “Well, I guess I hear ten!”

  “Twenty!” calls Miranda Humes from dead center.

  “Twenty-five!” It’s Shelly again.

  I’m looking around for Jumbo Jenny, praying she’s gone home sick or something, while Shelly and Miranda go up by fives. “Thirty!”

  “Thirty-five!”

  “Forty!”

  Then I spot her. She’s about twenty feet behind Miranda, cleaning her fingernails with her teeth.

  “Forty-five!”

  “Fifty!”

  “Fifty-two.”

  “Fifty-two?” interrupts the Booster queen. “Well, this has been lively! And from the looks of this basket, well worth the —”

  “Sixty!”

  “Sixty-two!” calls Shelly.

  Miranda scrambles around trying to beg money off her friends as Mrs. McClure calls, “Going once!” But then Jenny stands up and bellows, “A hundred!”

  A hundred. There’s a collective gasp, and then the entire student body turns and stares at Jenny.

  “Well!” laughs Mrs. McClure. “We have a hundred! That is certainly an all-time record. And such a generous donation to the Boosters!”

  I wanted to boost her, right off the stage. I was doomed. This was something I would never live down.

  Then there’s this big commotion, and all of a sudden Shelly and Miranda are standing right next to each other calling, “One-twenty-two … fifty! We’ll give you one-twenty-two fifty!”

  “One hundred twenty-two dollars and fifty cents?” I thought the Booster queen was gonna polka. “You’re pooling your resources to have lunch with this fine young man?”

  “Yeah!” they call, then look over Jenny’s way. Everybody looks over Jenny’s way.

  Jenny just shrugs and goes back to cleaning a nail.

  “Well, then! One hundred twenty-two dollars and fifty cents going once … One hundred twenty-two dollars and fifty cents going twice … Sold to those two beautiful young ladies for an all-time record of one hundred twenty-two dollars and fifty cents!”

  “Dude!” Mike whispered when I got back in line. “Shelly and Miranda? How am I supposed to follow that?”

  He didn’t even come close. He got Terry Norris for sixteen bucks, and the most anyone else got was forty. And when it was over, all the guys told me, “Dude! You are, like, the man … . Score!” but I didn’t feel like the man. I felt wiped out.

  My mom came up and gave me a hug and a kiss like I’d won a gold medal or something, then whispered, “My little baby,” and clickity-clicked off in her high heels, back to work.

  So I was wiped out, embarrassed, and then practically dragged to the multi-purpose room by Shelly and Miranda.

  The Boosters had outfitted the MPR with little tables for two, all decorated in shades of pink and blue and yellow, with balloons and streamers everywhere. I felt like the Easter bunny with my stupid basket boy lunch clutched in both hands while Miranda held on to one arm and Shelly latched on to the other.

  They gave us the biggest table and whisked in an extra chair, and when everyone was seated, Mrs. McClure said, “Boys and girls? I don’t think I need to remind you that you are excused from class for the rest of the day. Enjoy your lunches, enjoy your friendships … . Take your time, relax, and thanks again for supporting your Boosters. We wouldn’t be us without you!”

  So there I was, with the two hottest girls on campus, having lunch. I was “the man,” the envy of every other guy in school.

  Buddy, I was miserable.

  I mean, these two girls may be gorgeous, but what was coming out of their mouths about Jumbo Jenny was embarrassingly ugly. Miranda works herself up to, “What was she thinking? Like you would ever want to go out with her, right, Bryce?”

  Well, yeah. That was right. But it seemed really wrong to say so. “Look, can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure. Like what?”

  “I don’t care. Anything else. You guys going anywhere this summer?”

  Miranda shoots off first. “We’re taking a cruise to the Mexican Riviera. We’re supposed to stop in all these cool ports and shop and stuff.” She flutters her eyelids at me and says, “I could bring you something back … .”

  Shelly scoots her chair in a little and says, “We’re going up to the lake. My dad has a cabin there, and you can get the most outrageous tan. Do you remember what I looked like at the beginning of this year? I was, like, black. I’m going to do that again, only this time I’ve got a schedule all worked out so that it’s even every where.” She giggles and says, “Don’t tell my mom, okay? She would have a ka-nip!”

  And this, my friend, is how the Tan Wars began. Miranda told Shelly that she didn’t even notice her tan at the beginning of the year and that the place to really roast is on a cruise ship. Shelly told Miranda that anyone with freckles can’t really get tan and since Miranda had freckles everywhere, the cruise was a guaranteed waste of money. I choked down my third of the lunch and looked around the room, trying to let it all flow past me.

  Then I saw Juli. She was two tables away from me, facing my direction. Only she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at Jon, her eyes all sparkly and laughing.

  My heart lurched. What was she laughing about? What were they talking about? How could she sit there and look so … beautiful?

  I felt myself spinning out of control. It was weird. Like I couldn’t even steer my own body. I’d always thought Jon was pretty cool, but right then I wanted to go over and throw him across the room.

  Shelly grabbed my arm and said, “Bryce, are you all right? You look … I don’t know … possessed or something.”

  “What? Oh.” I tried taking a deep breath. “What are you staring at?” Miranda asked. They both looked over their shoulders, then shrugged and went back to picking at their food.

  But I couldn’t stop myself from looking again. And in the back of my mind,
I could hear my grandfather’s voice saying, “The choices you make now will affect you for the rest of your life. Do the right thing … .”

  Do the right thing … .

  Do the right thing … .

  Miranda shook me out of it, asking, “Bryce? Are you in there? I asked, what are you going to do this summer?”

  “I don’t know,” I snapped.

  “Hey, maybe you can spend some time up at the lake with us!” Shelly said.

  It was torture. I wanted to scream, Shut up! Leave me alone! I wanted to run out of the building and keep on running until I didn’t feel like this anymore.

  “Lunch is really delicious, Bryce.” Miranda’s voice was floating around. “Bryce? Did you hear me? This is really a spectacular lunch.”

  A simple little thank you would’ve sufficed. But could I come up with a simple little thank you? No. I turned on her and said, “Can we not talk about food or tans or hair?”

  She gave me an uppity little smile. “Well, what do you want to talk about, then?”

  I blinked at her, then at Shelly. “How about perpetual motion? Know anything about that?”

  “Perpetual what?”

  Miranda starts laughing.

  “What?” I ask her. “What’s so funny?”

  She looks at me a minute, then snickers. “I didn’t realize I’d bid on an intellectual.”

  “Hey … I’m plenty smart!”

  “Yeah?” Miranda giggles. “Can you spell intellectual?”

  “He is too smart, Miranda.”

  “Oh, stop kissing up, Shelly. You’re trying to tell me you’re after his brain? God, it’s making me sick to watch you grovel.”

  “Grovel? Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. He’s not going to take you to the grad dance anyway, so just give it up, why don’t you?”

  And with that, it was all over. One of my mom’s flaky apple tarts got ground into Miranda’s hair; the extra ranch dressing got smeared into Shelly’s. And before Mrs. McClure could say, In the name of Boosters! What are you doing? they were rolling on the floor, scratching each other’s makeup off.

  I took this opportunity to leave my table and head for Juli’s. I grabbed her by the hand and said, “I’ve got to talk to you.”