Things Are Gonna Get Ugly (3 page)

The Man Plan

Caylin flops down next to me on the couch and pushes against me. “Greenland fourteen,” she squeals and we all start howling. It's this reference from sixth grade when fortune-telling boxes were the latest. You picked four boys you could marry, four places you could live, four numbers of kids you could have, and four types of houses, and from that your life was predicted. No doubt you'd always list the best, cutest boys like Tyler Hutchins and Justin Grodin and then, before you could stop them,
someone would write down Winslow Fromes, just to mess with you. Back then, Winslow didn't have a ponytail but he was tubby, with Pokemon T-shirts that were too tight and revealed the contours of his man-boobs. He'd race up to anyone, telling dumb space knock-knock jokes, and then, cracking up, his cheeks flushed like strawberries, his eyes practically shut into slits, would collapse onto the floor.

Anyway, once I got stuck in the game with “marrying Winslow, having fourteen kids, living in a tree house in Greenland.” And every time Winslow would pass by me, Petra would call out “Greenland fourteen,” and we'd all go crazy laughing. It became a thing I got tired of. I wanted to scream
STOP IT!
a thousand times, but I didn't. I just don't do things like that. Everyone expects me to be immune from normal, everyday annoyances like Winslow Fromes.

“She's a geek magnet,” proclaims Petra, smiling conspiratorially with me.

“I know,” says Caylin, “What's up with that? Why do the nerds like you so much?” For a moment, I fear they're reading my mind or something. It's like they know I used to spend my days splitting open rocks looking for crystals and rereading
Harriet the Spy
.

Caylin gets a big gummy smile on her face. “So who are you going with to the dance? Seriously.”

I can't handle this anymore so I toss out a complaint as a distraction. “Giving out
tests
during December is SO annoying,” I say, thinking of Mr. Dribble's dumb social studies test. As I clear my throat to tell them just how freaky Dribble truly is, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Something about the hand feels heavy, and adult.

I whirl around to face…

My Big-Mouth Mom

My mother. Yes, my mother, Phyllis Finelli Smith, toting a tripod and giant black cameras slung around her neck. When she said she was taking photography classes in the afternoons and evenings, I had no idea she would pop up at the house during daylight hours. She's not even wearing real pants. She's wearing flowery flannel PAJAMA bottoms that she bought at the thrift store in East Palo Alto. If my mom looked like Petra's mom, the Realtor Aldea Santora, who has a blond bob and was on ads for Coldwell Banker that said MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE, she might be able to pass in those pants.

Her mantra is: “It's just a pair of pants. Does it matter what label they slap on it?”

Yes.

“If they fit well, does it matter if they're meant for daywear or sleepwear?”

Yes.

“Does it matter that someone else wore it?”

Yes, when it is someone else you don't know, a stranger who could have some rare and contagious disease.

I remember when we first moved to California, before the divorce, when my parents were in luuuuuuv, Mom used to buy her mauve lip liner from the Laura Mercier counter at Nordstrom at the Stanford Shopping Center, and go to spinning class in tight leggings and a matching low-cut V-neck top. Now she's graduated to stretch pants with elastic waistbands and oversize tees.

It's as if she's given up. She could be that way again.

Mom blinks hard like there's something in her contact lens. Her breath smells like sesame sticks which no doubt she has been hoarding again. “When I was standing in the entranceway, I heard you mention something about a test.” At the very mention of the word, my heart goes all flip-floppy. “You had a test today, Taffeta?”

“Uh, yea-ah. I studied for it, Mom.” I am staring at the Whole Foods bag of sesame sticks she has hidden by the floor. It is all eaten. Of course, she didn't ask me or my friends if we would like some sesame sticks. Not that we would, but most likely, this is the last of the snack food since she hasn't been grocery shopping in a week. She claims with the move it doesn't make sense to shop so we have been eating all of these bizarre things in the pantry like canned pears and boxed curry rice with raisins.

“You studied? Really?” asks Mom, her eyebrows raised. “Okay, I'm going to trust you on this one.” Her voice rises. I hate when she gets all weird and parent-y on me.

“Mom, we're kinda in the middle of a Leadership meeting. But I'm surprised you're home at all.”

She sets her photography equipment down on a cardboard box marked knickknacks, and glances at me so that her eyebrows knit together into a unibrow. “You know, I'm not happy with your attitude lately, Taffeta. We're in the middle of a move here, and you're not exactly helping. Maybe there would have been a better place to meet.” Her eyes flick over to Petra and Caylin. “Like one of your friends' houses where they aren't in the middle of packing.” Her
green eyes go squinty and she clenches her jaw.

“As far as I knew, this was
still
our house,” I snap.

She glares at me, and for a moment I wait for a real punishment, but I know she won't do anything. She feels too guilty about leaving me alone all the time. She licks her dry lips that haven't seen lipstick in ages. She pinches her nose like she's got a headache. “Yes, of course, it's still your house. It's just that…I'm sorry but I'm just a little stressed. With the move and everything.” She nods at the wall of boxes labeled FM for family room and CL for closet. “Can you believe it, girls? We're really out of here.”

No, I cannot believe it. Please stop talking about it.
I am starting to regret bringing my friends over to my house for the very last time. I have told them over and over that this move to the Sierra Garden Apartments is only temporary. Until Mom finds us the perfect condo, and when Dad's movie deal comes through we'll move into a new house.

Mom suddenly smiles brightly, which makes me nervous. “I forgot to mention this, Taf. But the yearbook advisor asked me to help shoot Winterfest, which means I'll be able to take close-ups of you at the dance on your birthday. I thought since you guys are planning the dance you could give me some
insight on what kind of lighting I'll need. You have
such
good ideas.”

What's she talking about? My mother is actually going to be taking photos at the dance? I give a knowing look to Caylin before asking, “Are you serious about taking pictures at Winterfest? Please say you're not.”

“Could I be detecting a little embarrassment on your part?” She stomps over to her photography bag and throws it over her shoulder. “Don't worry,” she says, holding up her hand. “I won't think of talking to you. I'll just talk to Tosh.”

“You're taking Tosh to
my
dance?”

“Oh, forget it.” Mom snaps a piece of sugarless gum in her mouth. “You'll thank me when you're forty and you have those pictures.” She stuffs her dark, weedy hair into a ponytail holder. I remember when it used to look great. Whatever happened to her cutting her hair in layers? Caylin has assured me a thousand times that it is just a stage in the whole
I'm a divorced woman
saga. “When they're bummed out, they keep eating. Try to be supportive,” is her mantra.

I've tried. Really. Once I went out and bought her this really great French shampoo. From the looks of it, she hasn't been using it.

“Remember when I made that mermaid birthday video?” asks Mom. “Aren't you glad we have that? I think you were turning nine. It was called
Little Mermaid Ernestine
.”

My insides shrink and Mom freezes. When she glances at me, her face turns as white as the tips on Petra's French manicure.

I Am Not Ernestine

She used my real name. I can't believe it. The name that shall not be spoken. The one I was born with. How many times have I told her NEVER EVER use that name in public? She knows why. Usually my real name is like Bigfoot. It does not exist. But now Bigfoot is back from my Big-Mouth Mom.

Mom furrows her unplucked eyebrows. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “What's the matter with you today? What can I do?”

“Be invisible,” I hiss under my breath, thinking I will never just show up and blabber to my kid's friends at key bad moments with bushy hair and elastic waistband pajama bottoms.
But that is not what you do, is it, Mom? You are always opening your Big Mouth and I am constantly shutting it.

For a moment, she pauses, and for a moment,
I feel myself flinch at the pain in her face. “I get it,” she says, clutching her photography equipment and storming out of the family room. I can hear her muttering, “I'm definitely going to talk to Tosh about this.” Some people go to therapy, my mother goes to Tosh, Reiki healer, medium, and spiritual advisor. Okay, I feel a little bad, but not bad enough to run after her. Maybe if nobody else was in the house.

Maybe in a different life.

Uh-Oh

And that's when I think about how I didn't really have anyone. To go to the dance, that is, with everyone expecting me to make the BIG appearance in the limo on my birthday.

Sure, Tyler Hutchins had asked me, and I had put him off to play it cool—but not for long. I mean, the truth is, I've never had an actual boyfriend. Just guys, like Justin Grodin with too much saliva, that I've kissed at a party.

As I sit on the couch, The Girls crowd around. They want to hear about my next move. “Tomorrow's Tyler's lucky day,” I say, “since I'm going to talk to him at lunch.”

Condemned

Somehow, I make it through my morning classes and through most of lunch avoiding direct contact with Winslow Fromes. I take a breath and decide, yes, after gym, I'm going to talk to Tyler about Winterfest. Not that he's going to say no. It's just that I'm sick of everyone watching me all of the time. It's like I'm on stage and I'm not supposed to blow my lines.

At least being in gym always calms me and makes me feel confident because it's just a place I totally excel. Right now, I'm standing in front of the free throw line, ready to take a shot when suddenly there's a man hovering over me.

That Man is Mr. Dribble

“I need to speak with you, Ms. Smith.”

Whenever any teacher uses your last name, it's
definitely
not a good sign. We're not talking extra credit and a smiley face here. And it's most definitely even worse when that teacher shows up in the middle of your gym class—the only class I don't worry about because there are no tests.

Dribble knows. Dribble knows I cheated.
But he's never figured out anything before. How many times
have I texted all of the questions for Petra and he's NEVER once caught me?

In the bleachers reading a book, with another excuse to get out of gym, sits Olivia Marquez. Her long, straggly, hennaed hair shields her eyes, but I can still see that she's got this funny little smile on her face and looks absolutely, disgustingly happy, which is very strange because the girl is ALWAYS depressed. She told him. I can tell. That poet wench told him I copied off of Winslow Fromes.

Olivia bites down on her tongue, smiles, and begins to mutter something that sounds like “fodderus frot.” I bet it's some kind of ancient incantation. I feel a little chill.

She deserves what we did to her last year. All of it! A couple of months ago, she started speaking only in Old English. By the water fountain right outside the music room, I once found a poem that she wrote in iambic pentameter in curly calligraphy, saying how we were as dry and as superficial as Cheetos. Petra and I finally got her back. We wrote fake love e-mails to her from Tyler. She totally bought it because, the next day, Olivia taped milk-chocolate hearts and a poem about purple falcons to his locker. Last I checked falcons are NOT a big turn-on item for guys.

As Mr. Dribble glares at me, Olivia stands up, shaking her skinny arms so that her peasant blouse billows like it might fill up and carry her away like a hot-air balloon. I wish it would. She squints her medieval eyes at me and then smiles at her dorky, community-activist friend Ninai Levine, who's actually wearing her girl scout uniform—white shirt, khaki pants, and a sash. Does she understand this is eighth grade, which is practically high school, which is almost college?

I glower at Olivia as she grins and pushes all of her bracelets up her arm, jingling. Really, if I were cadaver-pale and wore tentlike peasant clothing, I don't think I'd wear jangly jewelry to call attention to myself!

Petra and Caylin give me looks of sympathy. Gracefully, I throw a basketball up in the air as a final punctuation mark to the moment. The ball spins in the net, rattles the hoop, and bounces out of the basket.
Blahh!
Outside one of the gym windows, I stare at the fields, which are permanently green, even in the summer, because of the extensive watering system donated by the very generous La Cambia Parents Club.

Dribble smiles so big you can, unfortunately, see
his yellow teeth, and his bushy mustache wriggles like a guinea pig. “I'm waiting, Ms. Smith. Collect your things and let's go back to the classroom.
Now
.” Patting down his comb-over, he folds his arms across his chest and taps his foot.

“I've heard he's kicked out five kids from school just this year,” says Petra under her breath.

“He's
such a meanster
,” Caylin whispers, then gives me a half smile. “Don't worry, we've got your back.”

A Fresh Start

Mr. Dribble bites into his sandwich and holds up two papers. One has my name on it. The other, Winslow's. “Can you explain this?”