Katie-Rose did a spit take, making chocolate milk spurt from her nose. Violet grinned and shook her head. But Milla lowered her gaze and grew still. She was quiet throughout the rest of lunch.
In the hall outside Ms. Perez’s room, Yasaman pulls back from Milla, just slightly. She lets go of Milla’s shoulders and slides her fingers down until she reaches Milla’s hands, which she takes. In her head, she tries out various questions: Is it because Modessa used to be your friend? Are you mad at Elena for craving her approval? You don’t want to be an “evil chick” … do you?
She doesn’t have to ask that last one. She knows Milla better than that. But since she can’t decide what she should ask, she asks nothing, and instead says, “Well, if you are thinking about … you know … Elena …”
Color rises in Milla’s cheeks.
Yaz hurries to fill the silence. “You don’t have to, is all. I mean, you can if you want to, but you don’t have to worry about anyone’s problems except your own.” She frowns. “Well, and mine. Or not mine, but ours, and by that I mean all of us—you, me, Katie-Rose, and Violet. Because friends take care of friends. And that goes for family, too, and I guess nice people in general, and I suppose sometimes we worry about people we don’t even know …”
Okay, she is making this overly complicated. She squeezes Milla’s hands and ducks her head, coaxing Milla to look at her. “I’m not making much sense, am I?”
Milla meets her eyes. Two blue eyes, two brown eyes. No more big wobbly eyes. She gives a small laugh and says, “Much sense? Yaz, you’re not making any sense. What happened to setting up Ms. Perez and Mr. Emerson?”
Relief makes Yasaman woozy. “Right. Right. That is what we’re here to work on. I posted a Big Begonia about it this morning, but I’m guessing you haven’t read it.”
Milla shrugs. “We’ve been at school. I haven’t been online.”
“Um, right again.” She lets go of Milla’s hands and adjusts her hijab. “Well, a while back we decided that getting Mr. Emerson and Ms. Perez together was going to be our next flower power project. We were going to call it Project Teacherly Love.”
“You mean Teacherly Lurrrrve”, Milla says.
“Omigosh, you’re right!” Yaz says. “You do remember!” She darts forward and peeks inside Ms. Perez’s room. “She’s there, and she’s by herself. Let’s go!”
Milla stalls, digging in with her heels as Yaz pulls on her. “But what are we—”
“Yasaman?” Ms. Perez says, appearing in the doorway. “Oh, hi, Camilla. Do you girls need something? Come on in.”
Milla gives Yaz a you’re in trouble look. Yaz smiles sweetly, first at Milla and then at Ms. Perez.
“Well, um, we’re doing a survey,” she says as she follows Ms. Perez back into the room. She drags Milla with her.
“Oh?” Ms. Perez asks, perching on top of her desk.
“Yes, and we want to interview you, if that’s okay,” Yasaman says. She pulls up two chairs. She sits in one, and Milla takes the other. Then she hops up and grabs a piece of paper, a pencil, and a book to bear down on from the supply shelf. She drops back into her chair, only slightly out of breath. She positions the pencil over the piece of paper. “So can we?”
Ms. Perez smiles. “Sure. But what’s this survey about? And what’s it for?”
Yaz falters. “Well … um …”
“It’s just for fun,” Milla supplies. “We want to compare what people like and don’t like and see what patterns emerge.”
“Yeah,” Yaz says, making a concentrated effort not to gape at her friend. And see what patterns emerge? Yaz is so impressed. Milla is making it sound so real!
“And we’ll probably share the results with my mom,” Milla adds. “She’s a caterer. She’s always interested in finding out more about her target demographic.”
“Am I her target demographic?” Ms. Perez asks. She seems amused.
“Do you enjoy good food, or are you more of Burger King kind of person?” Milla asks.
“Both,” Ms. Perez says, “though I avoid Burger King as much as I can.” She glances at her thighs. “I don’t always succeed.”
“Then you’re totally her demographic,” Milla says with authority. “And you’re right not to go to Burger King, because Burger King is super unhealthy. But if you’re worried about, like, your weight, you shouldn’t be. Women are meant to have curves, that’s what my mom says.”
For some reason, this makes Ms. Perez smile.
“That is a great mentality,” Ms. Perez says, “and I think it’s great that she’s passing it along to you. My mother was always encouraging me to go on a diet. She still is, for that matter.”
Milla clucks. “Everyone’s different. Like, even though my Mom Joyce agrees that women are meant to have curves, she herself is more of a toothpick. But it’s not because she’s on a diet. She was just born that way. And my Mom Abigail is the exact opposite, right, Yaz?”
Yaz isn’t entirely comfortable discussing the body types of adults. But she nods, because Mom Abigail does have the exact opposite body type of Mom Joyce. Mom Abigail is plump and rosy-cheeked and smells like vanilla. She wears soft T-shirts and flowy skirts, and she’s almost always smiling. Yasaman can’t imagine her looking any other way.
“But they’re both equally beautiful,” Milla says. “That’s what I think, anyway.”
Ms. Perez tilts her head, regarding Milla as if she’s a rare butterfly that randomly flew into her room. “You know, Mr. Emerson once told me that he learns more from his students than they do from him,” she says. “If they’re all like you, Camilla, I bet he does.”
Yasaman blinks twice. Ms. Perez just brought up Mr. Emerson all by herself, and Yaz should be excited. Instead, she is struck by an unwanted stab of jealousy. Ms. Perez is her teacher, not Milla’s, and she—Yasaman—is Ms. Perez’s favorite student. Not Milla.
She stares at her blank sheet of paper, feeling dumb. Then something nudges her knee. It’s the toe of Ms. Perez’s glossy red wedge pump.
“Not that I’m surprised, seeing as how you’re one of Yasaman’s best friends,” she says, addressing Milla but looking at Yaz. “Yasaman’s pretty special. She’s taught me a few things as well.”
Warmth spreads through Yasaman, melting her jealousy away. She and Ms. Perez share a smile.
“So, speaking of Mr. Emerson,” Milla says. “Do you two spend time together outside of school?”
She asks this with complete innocence, thrilling Yasaman with her courage. It reminds her that Milla is pretty special, too—not that she ever truly forgot.
Ms. Perez opens her mouth, then closes it. She laughs. “Um … is this part of the survey?”
Milla lifts her shoulders prettily. “Just curious. He’s always saying what good taste you have, that’s all.”
Ms. Perez turns pink. “He is? He said that?”
“Not just once, but lots,” Milla says, and even Yasaman thinks, Wow. Really? Then she realizes that Milla is probably telling a bit of a white lie for the sake of Project Teacherly Lurve. Meaning that Mr. Emerson might or might not have commented on Ms. Perez’s good taste, but it surely can’t hurt to toss the idea out there, especially since Ms. Perez does have good taste. Even if Mr. Emerson hasn’t said so out loud to Milla, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t agree.
“Well, I’m sure it’s just because I laugh at his jokes,” Ms. Perez says.
“Sometimes he’s funny,” Milla says casually. “I like people who are funny. What about you, Yaz?”
Yaz snaps to attention. It’s time she contributed to Project Teacherly Lurve instead of letting Milla carry all the weight. “Yes! Funny is good!” she says with too much enthusiasm. She takes it down a bit. “As long as it’s nice funny. Right, Ms. Perez?”
“I—I suppose,” Ms. Perez says.
“Cool. I’ll write that down,” Yasaman says.
She grins at her teacher, who still seems flustered.
“What about baked goods?” Milla asks. “
Do you like baked goods?”
Baked goods?! Yaz thinks. For some reason, the term strikes her as funny.
“As long as they’re good baked goods,” Ms. Perez replies, and Yasaman laughs out loud.
“Likes good baked goods,” she says aloud, neatly printing the words on the next line.
“I thought you said this was a survey,” Ms. Perez says.
“It is!” Milla insists. “What about music? What kind of music do you listen to?”
Ms. Perez eyes her. “How does that have to do with your mom’s target demographic?”
“It just does. Everything does,” Milla says. “So …?”
Ms. Perez holds out her hands, as if waiting for the answer to drop down into them. She says, “Well, I listen to all kinds of music.”
“So does Mr. Emerson!” Milla exclaims. She quickly adds, “And so do I. I really do love all kinds of music. Write that down, Yaz.”
Yaz does, ducking her head to hide her smile. She wants to hug Milla, that’s how happy she is that Milla’s going along with her plan. Also, Yaz was right: Milla is far better at romantic-ish stuff than Yaz is. No wonder she’s the only one of the flower power girls to have a boyfriend.
Milla leans forward. “Moving on. Favorite animal?”
“To eat? Or to listen to music with?”
“What? Neither!” Milla says. And then, “Ohhhh. You were being funny! Ms. Perez is funny just like Mr. Emerson, Yaz. Did you know that?”
“I did,” Yasaman says. “She’s not as corny, though.” She lifts her eyebrows as a question of her own comes to mind. “What about corn? Do you like corn?”
“Does she like corn?” Milla says, giggling.
“That’s important for our survey!” Yaz protests. “It’s just as important as what her favorite animal is!”
“Mr. Emerson calls us ‘children of the corn’ sometimes,” Milla says.
“He does?” Ms. Perez says.
“There you guys are,” says Katie-Rose, barging into Ms. Perez’s room. She flattens her back against the wall and pants, as if to suggest she’s being chased. Yasaman highly doubts she is. “Milla, your mom’s waiting for you in the pickup lane. And whose favorite animal? Mine is a cougar, or maybe a jaguar, because they’re fast and they live in South America. And because they’re cats, and I just plain like cats. Yup, I’m a cat person.”
She pauses to breathe. She also waves at Ms. Perez. “Hi, Ms. Perez. Are you a cat person or a dog person?”
Ms. Perez takes the whirlwind that is Katie-Rose in stride, saying simply, “Hello, Katie-Rose. I like both cats and dogs.”
“That is so weird”, Milla says. She gets to her feet, the movement lifting strands of blond hair from her face. The strands sway as she shakes her head in amazement. “Mr. Emerson is a dog and a cat person, too! Write that down, Yaz. We’ll go over the results later. Bye!”
Milla leaves the room as Yaz writes it down:
“Strangest survey ever,” Ms. Perez murmurs.
“Survey? I love surveys,” Katie-Rose says, pushing off the wall and coming to stand by Yaz. “Ask me anything. Fire at will!”
“Definitely,” Yaz tells her. She stands. “But later, ’kay? My mom’s probably here by now, too.”
“What if you were a boy, and your name was ‘Will’?” Katie-Rose says.
“Huh?”
“What if your name was ‘Will,’ and there was a firing squad nearby, only you weren’t the one being shot,” Katie-Rose says, as if her train of thought is perfectly logical. “But then the commander-in-chief dude yelled, ‘Fire at will!’ Fire at Will. Get it?”
Ms. Perez groans and puts her hands over her face.
“Fire at Will,” Katie-Rose repeats. “That would suck!”
Yasaman is embarrassed. Katie-Rose shouldn’t say suck. “Why would there be a firing squad nearby?” she points out. “When is there ever a firing squad just randomly nearby, and why would—oh, never mind.”
Ms. Perez laughs. “You girls are too much.”
“Katie-Rose might be. I’m not,” Yasaman says.
“You have a point,” Ms. Perez replies, prompting Katie-Rose to say, “Heyyy!”
“Oh, Katie-Rose, I’m kidding,” Ms. Perez says. She pauses. “Actually, I’m not. But you know I love your spunkiness.” She pushes off her desk, her red wedge heels clacking against the floor. “And Yasaman, you might not be giving yourself enough credit. I think Katie-Rose’s spunk is rubbing off on you, hmm?”
“It is?” Yaz says.
“The trapeze class,” Ms. Perez says. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you stepping out of your comfort zone.”
Yaz knits her eyebrows. She secretly does want to step out of her comfort zone, that’s true. She wishes she could be bigger, better, more, just like she said in her Big Begonia post, just as she wishes she could go swooping through the sky, weightless as a feather.
But what in the world is Ms. Perez talking about? And why is Katie-Rose slinking in sneaky sideways steps toward the door? She freezes when Yasaman spots her. She plasters on a wide-eyed smile.
“Wh-what do you mean?” Yaz asks Ms. Perez.
Ms. Perez regards Yasaman fondly, as if Yaz is being silly, or modest. “I was surprised to see that you’d filled out an information slip, I admit it. But so proud, Yasaman.”
Specks of light dance around the periphery of Yasaman’s vision. She puts her hand on her desk to steady herself. It’s possible, she supposes, that it was the mention of trapeze lessons that nudged her flying daydream to the surface. But she did not actually sign up for trapeze lessons. That is utterly impossible.
“Yaz?” Ms. Perez says. “Maybe you should sit back down, sweetie. You look like you’re about to faint. And Katie-Rose, don’t leave yet, just in case.”
Yasaman turns back to Katie-Rose, who is now almost all the way to the door. Yaz, we have to sign up, she’d insisted when the forms were passed out. Okay? Okay. Good!
“Katie-Rose?” Yasaman says. Her mouth is dry. “Did you put my name on one of the sign-up sheets?”
Katie-Rose rocks back and forth. “Well, what you’ve got to understand, you see, is … um …”
“Did you—” Her throat closes. She tries again. “Did you put down my parents’ names? And my phone number?”
Ms. Perez’s hand is on Yasaman’s shoulder, guiding her back into her seat. “Yasaman, I’m going to get you some water. Stay put. Katie-Rose, stay with her.”
Ms. Perez must make a disapproving thing out of her mouth as she hurries out of the room, or maybe with her eyes, because Katie-Rose shrinks back.
Now it’s just the two of them. More memories float up, like the name of the girl teaching the class—Josie. And what she mentioned at the end of her speech about how she’d call the parents of everyone who signed up and tell them not to worry, she wouldn’t let anyone die. Once your parents give their permission, you’re good to go, she said. Cool?
Yasaman imagines Josie calling her house and asking to speak to her baba. She stares at her friend, who looks like a stranger, and whispers, “You did, didn’t you?”
“Fine, I did. Yes!” Katie-Rose confesses. “But it was an accident! I swear.”
Yasaman is light-headed. Everything’s foggy.
“Anyway, we can fix it,” Katie-Rose insists. She takes a step toward Yasaman, twisting her hands. “We’ll call Josie—I’ll call Josie—and tell her it was a misunderstanding. A mistake. Will you please quit looking at me like that?”
Except Yasaman doesn’t know how she’s looking at Katie-Rose, which makes it hard to stop.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Katie-Rose pleads. “It honestly was a mistake, and all I can say … all I can say is …” Her voice wobbles as she utters the words she really, really shouldn’t. “Oopsy daisy?”
name is Max’s mom, or, if the situation calls for formality, Mrs. Max’s Mom—said something about Katie-Rose. She said it out loud and into the air, and although Katie-Rose’s ear
wasn’t nearby at the time, Max’s ear was, and Max’s ear took in the comment and stored it in his brain. Later Max’s mouth spat the comment out in front of Katie-Rose’s ear, and it landed in Katie-Rose’s brain, where it continues to live to this day.
The gist of the comment was this: that Katie-Rose sometimes hides behind her beloved video camera, using it as a shield to protect her from facing the world head on.
Katie-Rose doesn’t think Max’s mom said it to be mean, and she doesn’t think Max repeated it to Katie-Rose to be mean, either. Because neither Max nor his mom is a mean type of person.
Anyhoodle, there might be a kernel of truth to what Max’s mom said, and that is why Katie-Rose brings her sunshine yellow Sony Cybershot to school on Wednesday. She brings it on purpose, with the specific intention of using it as a shield, and she tells herself that hiding behind her camera on purpose is different from hiding behind it accidentally.
This is an important distinction, because it means she’s not in denial. She’s just smart. She knows full well that Yasaman might still be upset with her, even though she did everything within her power to fix the trapeze lesson misunderstanding, just like she promised. She e-mailed Yaz last night and told her so, and then she called her, wanting to talk it out with voices rather than flat black computer words.
She didn’t get to, though. Instead, she reached the Tercans’ answering machine, so she sang a special and impromptu song in the hopes of melting Yasaman’s heart. She made up the lyrics on the spot, and she used the tune from a song her parents used to sing to her about how much they loved her.
Katie-Rose’s version went like this:
I love you Yas-a-man,
Oh yes, I do-ooo,
I don’t love anyone
Like I love you-oo-oo.
When you’re not wi-ith me,
I’m blue-OOO-ooo!
(dramatic pause, and also a quick chance to catch her breath)
Oh Yas-a-man,
I (beat) love (beat) you!
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