Things Are Gonna Get Ugly (16 page)

My mom takes photos. I can feel her flash because it's so bright. Despite the urge, I do not duck.

Congrats!

Afterward, all of the kids I've ever avoided my whole life rush at me to congratulate me on my solo, but my mom gets to me first. Her arms circle me into a hug. “That was SO amazing,” she says. “You didn't miss a note and you remembered not to rush. There was SO much feeling. I am so proud, Little Love.”

The words penetrate and I feel like crying because I might be stuck like this forever and all of this encouragement is making me feel guilty for wanting Taffeta back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Winslow shuffle up to Sneed and help him put away his cello and he gives me a thumbs-up and I want to kill him. How dare he remind me of my stuck here-ness.

“That was SO good,” says Ninai, patting my arm.

I hear the jangle of Olivia's bracelets on her arm and she's smiling with her crooked teeth, her hennaed hair flowing in front of her face. “Magical,” she breathes.

As I put my violin away, I spot Justin picking up trash around the perimeter of the auditorium. He launches a Coke can into the garbage. “What is he doing that for and why did he come to an orchestra concert?” I ask Ninai, who's navigating her cello around a bunch of stands.

“He's officially on NP for egging a bunch of teachers' cars. But Mrs. Barnes is allowing him to do
something positive so he can go to the dance.”

“Something positive?” My heart goes staccato and then it's drumming allegro fast. Something positive. I can do that.

The Next Day in Mrs. Barnes's Office

“But you let Justin get off NP by doing something positive,” I say.

Mrs. Barnes fingers her blue pin ID which reads
PRINCIPAL.
“But Justin asked.”

“Okay, so now I'll ask.” I stare at her pleadingly. I smile and look remorseful. “How can I do something positive? Just tell me and I'm there.”

Pressing her palms together, Mrs. Barnes leans forward across the desk. “What could you do? I'll give you a clue.” She sits up straight in her chair. “Something meaningful. That's what you can do.”

“Sweep? Paint?”

“Ernestine, this is not a guessing game. Give it some time and when you have a real answer, get back to me.”

“But I don't have time. I have to go to Winterfest tomorrow. Not being able to go to the dance
is
a HUGE punishment,” I say.

“It's a taking away of rewards,” she explains like
she's memorized a textbook. “Not punishment. A punishment would be if I made you do fifty push-ups right now.” She turns up her lips into a tight smile. “Believe me, I'd actually prefer that you do something positive.”

“Then let me go to the dance tomorrow.” And then I think to myself,
If you wanted to do something positive, don't worry so much about your precious scores. Don't cheat. Worry about your students needs.
All
of your students.

Mrs. Barnes cups her chin. Is she actually considering letting me go? “I can't let you go to the dance ‘officially,'” she says, making quotations in the air. “But I do have an idea. How about if you go to the dance as a leadership helper?”

A helper to Petra and Caylin. She doesn't mean “helper.” She means “slave”!

Invisible to Invisibles

I stare at the sign posted outside the gym.
Actually, the new gym. Our school has two. This is the state-of-the art, funded-by-bond-money one, since, as Mom likes to point out, people like to pay money for buildings and not teachers. The gym only a couple of weeks ago felt like home, but now my stomach lurches thinking about stepping into it. Everything smells so new, even the plantings. I pull on some ornamental grass and snap off a twig from one of the trees, take a deep breath, and force my legs to plow forward. Then I reluctantly open the door and see Caylin holding court.

“Omigod,” says Caylin to her crowd and gives her best gummy smile. “I'm, like, so overwhelmed. Seriously. You guys are the best. I mean it. We're going to have so much fun this year. It's going to be amazing.” She claps her hands. Even Petra is looking at Caylin like the rah-rah stuff is going too far. “Anyway, to be”—she makes quotes in the air like her mom—“‘officially' a Santa's Little Helper, you have to work the dance for one hour either as a refreshment server, snowflake photo assistant, or clean-up elf.” Then, she pulls out a Santa's hat. “You get to wear this the day of the dance, and girls, guess what?—you get to keep it as a little thank-you for aaalllll your haaaaard work.”

The two dozen girls lining up in front of the stage
actually all jump up and down.

“So, who's in?” Caylin's overly enthusiastic, high-pitched voice rings through the crowd.

Every single hand in the gym goes up, including mine. As Caylin continues speaking about the fabulousness of what they're doing, Maggie the Mushroom goes around very importantly writing down everyone's name. Her invisible friend tails her every move with her oh-so-fabulous clipboard.

Then Petra, hand on hip, tosses her head, tinkling the bell on her Santa cap. Should I warn her about the Fresh Start that is heading her way? Make her believe me? If the tables were turned, I'd want her to do the same for me. I'd have to wait for an opportunity to say something but, the truth is, part of me would like to see her punished so she could understand what I'm going through.

“Listen up, girls,” goes Petra in her most booming, bossy voice. “This afternoon, we're going to make decorations. Isn't that the best? You're about to be my heroes.” She points to the different stations and, before I know it, everyone's either painting red stockings above a cardboard fireplace, or cutting out a sleigh, or taping giant yellow and pink snowflakes to black paper, which covers the walls of the gym. I
feel like a freak standing ALONE while everyone else is chatting madly away with someone, glitter glue pen in hand, making ugly, two-dimensional decorations.

New Strategy: Look for someone who's standing off by themselves.

Like Maggie the Mushroom's Invisible Friend

I sashay toward her, and then think,
If she only knew who was approaching her, she'd angst.
In all the time I've known her at La Cambia, I don't think I've EVER been the first one to start a convo. In fact, I don't think I've ever talked to her at all.

Well, here's your big chance, Invisible Girl.
“Hey,” I say, all friendly and enthusiastic-like. “I'm Ernestine.”

She turns around, pushing her drab brown hair out of her drab pale face. “I'm Meshell. Spelled like ‘me' and then the word ‘shell,' like the beach.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding like this is fascinating information. It's strange, but all of the times that she sat with Maggie Milner I had NO idea that she had a name. I mean, I knew she had a name but I could never remember it. Meshell is a little bit chunky. Her makeup is heavy. As Caylin passes by, she gives Meshell a smile but does not catch my eye.

Time to begin small talk. “It's freezing in this gym,” I say, jumping up and down.

“Uh-huh,” says Meshell-like-the-beach.

“Glad I remembered my jacket.”

“Know what you mean.” But her brown eyes are glazing over. She's looking beyond me for someone more “interesting” to speak with right now. Standing up on her heels, she peers at Caylin, who's demonstrating the technique for putting the maximum amount of glitter on decorations. And now, it seems,
I'm
the invisible one.

Believe Me

Sitting on a folding chair, Petra is bent over signing someone's cast with Wite-Out. And I get this other snapshot of her, when I had broken my collarbone. She and Caylin came over with a new iPod fully loaded with all of my favorite songs and a box of Trader Joe's organic truffles. She can be so motherly at times.

Then a Guy strolls into the gym. Sure, there are already a few boys helping out, the nice, forgettable types who are polite and somewhat athletic and are neither geeky nor cool but get their Brownie points by putting up posters for Leadership girls and lifting boxes. But
this
Guy is different. Big for eighth grade
with yellowish eyes that are fringed with dark lashes. Square jaw. A preppy white polo and baggy khakis. Then I notice he lumbers in this familiar way. A sort of shuffle of someone who is heavy or flat-footed. It's…I'm blinking now. It's…

“Winslow?”

“He's hot,” I heard a voice say.

“Where's the black T-shirts with the weird sayings? And that chain?”

“Where's the ponytail? And the duct-taped shoes?”

Lots of whispers. And my world is, once again, folding into itself. He's not glancing at me at all. I mean, I see his eyes literally sweep past me as if I'm standing in a black hole in another dimension. His eyes are locking with Petra and he is even checking out Mushroom Girl for a second. Suddenly, I picture a convo I would have with him as Taffeta. I'd stand right in front of him and just say, “Hey.” Just one word. No touching required and he'd register this look of shock and awe because he'd be blown away with gratitude.

Winslow grabs a stack of red-and-green posters for Winterfest, and leaves the way he came, back out the double doors. He's volunteering, helping out
with Leadership?

He cut off his ponytail.

He's wearing a polo and white canvas rubber-soled shoes, like he's a prep or something, like he actually cares about looking like he walked out of a catalog for boys who sail.

Why? Now I don't care about being subtle. My world
has
to stop changing.

NO!

I'm going to stop my world from changing NOW!

“PETRA!” I scream, picking up a megaphone. “I've got something to say to you!”

The Girls stop their stapling and taping and whispering. They whirl around to face me. “It's not worth getting out of it, Petra. Something REALLY bad will happen to you.”

“Something really bad will happen?” asks Caylin, squinting. “That's not good.”

“Yeah, I'll have to look at this loser's face,” says Petra.

Loser, ouch. That really hurts. I remember in sixth grade Petra wanted to start a winner's club. Just me, Caylin, and her. Each of us was a winner, she said. Me in swimming. I have three Far Western winning
times in freestyle and backstroke, and Caylin's won tons of singing competitions, and Petra's a volleyball diva. So she bought each of us a little bracelet with a trophy charm. She said to touch that trophy when you were feeling down, like maybe today things wouldn't go your way and you'd be a loser. Without thinking, I went to brush my wrist with my finger to feel for my bracelet. But the trophy charm was not there. Guess it never was now.

News alert: I seem to be stuck in loser mode.

Then EXTREME blurtation: “Look at me, Petra. Just look at me! Do you think I was always like this? I used to be just like you. My name used to be Taffeta Smith and I cheated and Dribble turned me into this. Ernestine. It's not me. You, Petra, used to be my best best friend and Caylin, too. But I kind of ruled. So I hope you're planning on really dancing with Winslow like you promised because if you don't you will really REALLY hurt his feelings.”

Caylin backs away. “You're really scaring me.” But then she gazes at me for a moment, a probing look as if she sees something she recognizes. I want to fling my arms around her but then I realize there's something on my face. I brush my cheek and a little
silver moon decoration flutters to the floor.

MIA

“Catch.” Ninai tosses me a paperback and I see that it has an actual freakin' unicorn on the cover.
The Last Unicorn
by Theodore Sturgeon. “Short stories,” says Ninai. “They're amazing, sort of mind-bending, twisted, full of horror and beautiful at the same time. You'll love it.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I could use a little escape.” And that's not a lie. There's already been some backlash to my outburst with Petra.

My undies are MIA.

It happened after gym class. I went to check my locker and found my shirt hanging on the hook, my jeans, and flip-flops, but no pair of light blue panties. Heading back to class felt like riding a sandpaper saddle. I had a permanent wedgie. On the way back, I'd stop every five feet or so, which means I got a good look at all of the posters for the dance in the hallway. The dance is tomorrow. Why do I feel SICK?

TPed

After school, Mom's up, pacing back and forth in the living room. “Yes, I'll hold,” she snaps, then covers
the receiver with her hand and says to me, “I can't believe this.”

“Believe what?”

Mom waves her hand for me to be quiet and gets back on to the phone. “Yes, but it's not. No. No. Yes.” As she steps over sesame sticks imbedded into the carpet, she whispers to me. “He's holding us responsible.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Langley, our apartment manager. Jerk. It's because whenever he comes here to fix anything the place is a mess. He never makes an appointment. He just shows up. And then I have to make an excuse. I've been working late with some photo gigs and haven't been in the house but he's eyeing everything. The dishes in the sink.” She starts to turn on the water and looks down. “Where's the sponge, Ernestine? Do you know where the sponge is?” She dashes around, looking for it on the kitchen table. The sofa. “I just need the sponge; then I could do the freaking dishes. That's all. Do you know where it is?”