Girls in Charge (6 page)

I had a sneaky reason for wanting to come along on this particular visit, though. Weeks had passed since my period was supposed to come, according to the Period Predictor. We had taken the P. Predictor off the Pink Locker Society site—temporarily, I hoped. That stopped the complaints, but it didn't stop me from wondering why my plan had failed. Did everything about growing up have to be so confusing and hard to pin down?

What I hadn't counted on today, though, was that my mother's doctor would be a dude. There were a lot of female doctors at this particular office, but when you were having a baby, you saw whichever one was free for regular appointments. I wanted to get a doctor's advice, a doctor who was an expert in female parts and processes. I was very close to letting Dr. Adams walk out of the room, but I got a burst of courage and leaped up from my plastic chair.

“Um, Dr. Adams? Can I ask you a question—a puberty question?”

My mother looked surprised, but she didn't interrupt.

“My pediatrician told me that a girl gets her period about two years after she starts, you know, getting developed in the chest area. I'm confused because it's been more than two years for me and still no period.”

Dr. Adams stopped for a minute and said that sounded exactly right.

“So what's the deal, then?” I asked.

“I think the variable that's hard to pin down here is when exactly chest development occurs,” he said.

“Well, I've been wearing a bra for exactly two and a half years,” I said.

“There you go, then. When a girl wears a bra and when a girl
needs
to wear a bra because chest development has progressed to a certain point—those are two different things,” he said.

I stood there almost stunned by my mistake.

“Thank. You,” I said.

I had built the Period Predictor around that very question—when did the girl start wearing a bra? But that's just whenever, really. I started wearing a bra because all of my friends were and I didn't want to be the only one not wearing one. Now, when did I need to start wearing a bra? That I never really put on the calendar.

“Is everything all right, Jem?” Mom asked as we packed up and left the doctor's office.

Yes, I nodded. Fine. Based on what the doctor had said, I wasn't sure at all that I'd be able to fix the Period Predictor. It was good to know where I went wrong, but it's another thing altogether to know how to fix it.

 

Seventeen

Dear PLS,

OK, so thanks for answering my letter. But I can't thank you for helping me. The conceited, mean girl who's bothering me won't stop. I sometimes don't even want to get up in the morning, knowing I'll see her and she'll say something. And I can't/won't do the stuff you suggest—telling an adult and asking my friends to stick with me. I'm independent and I don't want to be a crybaby.

I can't tell my friends because I don't want them to know I'm flunking almost every class. I'm desperately afraid you-know-who will tell the whole school. I soooooooooo wish she hadn't found out in the first place. Our very good taste in backpacks is to blame. Both our bags are made of Italian leather—mine is cerulean blue and hers is sort of a sky blue and we got them mixed up. I took hers and found it filled with high-priced cosmetics and a flat iron. She took mine and apparently rifled through everything, including all the failing test papers crumpled in the bottom.

She's still mad at me for something that happened months ago. OMG, how she loves knowing this secret about me. Sometimes it's less about what she says and more about how she looks at me. Like when a teacher says, “Does anyone have any questions?” she looks right at me, like she's saying “Don't
you
have any questions?”

Until now, I'd hidden it perfectly. When test papers were returned, I usually just folded them in half really fast and plunged them into my backpack. There are more in there now than ever before because I have kind of stopped trying. Once the school told my parents that I'd have to repeat eighth grade, what was the point? I don't even know if I'll be allowed to go on the eighth-grade trip. It's supposed to be a celebration, right? And what do I have to celebrate?

I started telling people I'm going to a high school outside of our school district. It will buy me some time. Then I figure I can tell them I transferred back in. What I really hope is that somehow I can repeat eighth grade and be miraculously placed in tenth grade the next year. Or maybe there's some summer school solution no one's thought of. It could happen. Well, I'm hoping it can.

Signed,

Student F

It was a sign of how bad Taylor's situation was that even I felt sorry for her. If you had told me six months ago that I'd be trying hard to think of ways to help Taylor Mayweather, I would have told you that you were crazy.

“Just goes to show,” Kate said. “No matter how well you have people figured out, you never know what's going on in their real lives.”

“What a witch,” Piper said.

“Which one?” I said sarcastically.

“The bully, of course, Jem,” Kate said.

“I don't exactly love Taylor,” Piper said. “Not after what she did to the PLS. But you've got to feel bad for her.”

“Imagine what it would feel like to be flunking eighth grade,” Kate said. “But I was always a little angry that she didn't get punished for hacking into the PLS site.”

“I was really angry and still am, if I let myself think about it long enough,” I said.

“Exactement!”
Piper said.

“If that means ‘exactly' in French, I agree. Who else completely tears people apart and gets away with it?” I said.

Taylor had admitted hacking into our site and making rude comments. She said people who wrote in to us were losers—so mean!

“And now here she is asking us for help,” I said.

“Kind of ironic, don't you think?” Kate asked. “Taylor's famous for messing with other people and now someone is messing with her.”

“Is it karma, do you think?” Piper asked. “What goes around, comes around?”

 

Eighteen

Sometimes the answer is so obvious, you just whack yourself in the forehead with the back of your hand and say, OK—I get it! I give in. Fine. Whatever.

That's how I felt about Jake Austin. Jake had liked me for months—maybe longer. I was more and more sure he was the person who sent me that note-less pink carnation on Valentine's Day. And he always seemed to find ways to say hi or try and make me laugh. I felt a little like my mother when she tears around the house looking for her reading glasses only to find they are sitting on top of her silly head. Here I was wondering what it was like to have a real boyfriend, someone who truly liked me. I realized I could just say OK and be Jake's girlfriend.

My Forrest thoughts were truly fading, so I wasn't using Jake to get over him. I had gotten myself over Forrest and had been faithful to the goals I set for myself with the soda tab bracelet that was still on my wrist.

I had kept the promise I made to myself about not thinking about Forrest like I used to. It worked. I did other stuff. I had room for other thoughts. And with all the clutter cleared away, one of those thoughts was now about Jake Austin. Other girls liked him. He wasn't Mr. Most Popular, but he was Mr. Actually Pays Attention to Me. I didn't stay up nights writing about him in my journal. And I didn't stress about what I looked like when I bumped into him. He was my science lab partner and it was no big deal. He was smart and easy to be around.

So sort of like a science experiment, I started being nice back. I started acting a little more like Piper than myself. “Oh-ho, Jake,” I said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You are too funny.”

He suddenly stood up straighter. He was shocked. He blushed. Later, he texted me. Out of the blue with some concocted story that he needed something for our science homework about frog anatomy. I didn't buy it. And when I texted back, I used a winky emoticon.

That weekend, he liked every status update and photo I added to Facebook. It was almost too easy. I was making myself pretty sick, but I decided to keep on with it. If I could spend years liking Forrest, surely I could convince myself to like someone who actually liked me.

The next day, Jake came up to our lunch table, his empty tray in hand.

“Hey,” he said to the entire group.

He received heys in return and then he said, “Jemma, do you want to go outside?”

“Oh-la-la,”
Piper said.

“Um, sure,” I said, and stood up and pushed in my chair.

My heart was beating, but not like it did when I used to go on dates with Forrest. They weren't real dates, of course, because I was his pretend girlfriend. But still, we sat together at movies, held hands, and kissed in Clem Caritas's backyard. My heart pounded because I didn't know what I had gotten myself into. Outside, we sat on the wall by the basketball court. I kept my hands in my jeans pockets, even though it was late April, sunny and warm.

“You should come to the baseball game after school. Lots of people go,” Jake said.

“Um, sure. That would be fun. I could stop by after cross-country.”

I wondered what I was supposed to do. Cheer for him? Smile and wave? I hadn't ever been anyone's real girlfriend before.

“Can I ask you something, Jake?”

He nodded and I had to ask.

“Did you send me a carnation on Valentine's Day?”

“Do you think I did?” Jake said, giving me a smile.

“Yeah, I think you did.”

“Well, maybe I did,” he said.

And that, in my mind, was the end of that.

I went to the baseball game, dragging Kate along with me, even though that meant she had to wait around after dance practice for me to be done running. We walked down the big hill together. The sun was getting low on the horizon, but it was still warm, hinting at the summer to come. The team's uniforms blazed white against the green grass and the red dirt of the base paths. Someone was playing “before the game” music over the scratchy PA system. A wafty popcorn and hot dog smell floated through the air.

We took seats on the bleachers amid parents and other fans there to watch the boys. When Jake got up to bat, we did cheer: “C'mon, Austin!” and “Let's go, Patriots!” since we were the Margaret Simon Middle School Patriots.

I cheered for everyone equally so it wouldn't seem too obvious. When Forrest came up to bat, I didn't know what to do. But, to be consistent, I cheered for him, too. Kate joined in, being an equal opportunity cheerer anyway. “Let's go Forrest!” I yelled. And it was at that moment that Jake looked over from second base, which he had stolen. I wondered what Jake knew or assumed about me and Forrest. I could tell Jake how I didn't think of Forrest at all anymore. Well, hardly at all. But it seemed better just to ignore the whole matter.

I didn't plan to ask Jake about Francine DeBusey, the cute seventh-grader he had been going out with before Christmas. I wasn't even a tiny smidge jealous. It didn't seem like a great sign, but maybe Jake and I could be a couple in a new, super-mature way. I couldn't imagine Jake ever making me cry. Maybe we could just pass on the drama. We'd have no silly fights about who was supposed to text whom. We'd also skip the jealous moments just because he talked to a girl who happened to be a friend or vice versa for me with a guy friend. I had never seen it done before, but there was always a first time.

 

Nineteen

Jemma Colwin, please report to the office.

“Piper Pinsky, please report to the office.

“Kate Parker, please report to the office.”

Our heads popped up one by one from the Spanish quiz we were taking.

We looked around, nervous as kindergartners not knowing what to do next.

“Finish your quizzes,” Señora Parra said.

I sped through the verb conjugations, forgetting more than I knew before I heard that distressing call over the PA system. We handed in our quizzes and gathered our stuff.

“This can't be good,” I said.

“We already lost the class trip,” Piper said. “What else could happen?”

“Maybe it's not so bad,” Kate said.

“I think we're going to get in trouble because the PLS site is still up and running,” I said.

We walked briskly to the office, expecting to be hustled into Principal Finklestein's office. Instead, Mrs. Percy greeted us from across the big front desk.

“Hello, girls. Let's go in the conference room.”

Ms. Russo was already there. As we took our seats, Mrs. Percy told us that the principal was away at a conference.

“So it seemed like a good time to check in and check up,” she said.

“I was hoping you were going to say we could go on the class trip. Maybe Principal F. changed his mind?” Piper said.

“I wish we had that kind of news,” Ms. Russo said.

“What kind of news do you have?” Kate asked.

“We wanted to encourage you to keep the PLS Web site running, as you have been,” Mrs. Percy said. “Though things look dark now, we still have hope that the PLS can continue next year at Margaret Simon Middle School.”

“Yes, we need to appoint seventh-graders who can take over for you next year,” Ms. Russo said. “So let us know if you have any nominations.”

That was weird to think about. I wasn't ready to let go of the PLS yet, and I was nervous. I wanted to keep it running for the rest of the school year. (We didn't want to let all those girls down.) But we had to seriously cross our fingers that Principal F. would never actually go to www.pinklockersociety.org and see we had completely ignored his orders. Again.