Best Kept Secret (5 page)

“So I brought you this rose. Maybe some other time?” Trevor said, handing me the flower.

I took the rose without saying thanks and he walked away, a bit dejected. As I started gathering books from my locker, I heard him stop in his tracks a few paces down the hall. Then, he turned around and asked: “Hey Jemma, why did you call me Ax-man?”

“What?” I said, still whirling in my own thoughts.

“In the note,” he said. He cupped his hand to his mouth and stage-whispered, “The note you left on my pillow.”

After a long pause, I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders as if to say, “Heck if I know!”

Trevor, a guitar is sometimes called an ax—something I hope you never figure out.

I turned and grabbed my top locker shelf to steady myself.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,
I said to myself as I banged my head on an imaginary wall.

It all made sense now, just a little too late. Forrest's room looked a little young
because it wasn't Forrest's room.
I schemed and planned and got my courage up, all to profess my love to a sixth-grader!

“How many people has he told?” I asked Kate after I found her in the hall and explained the whole twisted tale.

“I don't know, but I guess it's a good sign that this is the first I've heard of it,” she said.

“Oh, my gosh!” I said as the worst of it hit me. “There is totally no chance he hasn't told Forrest.”

“I would like to say he hasn't,” Kate said, giving me one of her break-it-to-me-gently looks. “But wouldn't you tell
your
older brother if a cute eighth-grader invited you to the dance?”

I sighed into my armload of books, the bell rang, and I wondered what would happen next. Taylor Mayweather would happen next, that's what.

“Hey Jem,” she cooed. “How's your new little boyfriend?”

Twelve

That afternoon, I thanked God that Taylor no longer had her own MSTV show. Otherwise, her old show,
Gotcha!,
would have certainly featured me and my pip-squeak of a sixth-grade “boyfriend.” Thankfully, I was watching my appearance on
You Bet!
instead. Sitting there outside the school at sunset, my skin looked all rosy and healthy. Bet opened the segment with a snippet of what I said.

My last-period class—art with Ms. Russo—listened to her whole report (almost) without interrupting. (At one point, Gabe Greene did say “loser,” trying to make it sound like a cough, when his friend Vince was on camera.)

“Women are from Venus and men are from Mars. That's what an old book says, but is it true?” Bet asked the camera. “Are we so different that different rules should apply?”

She went on to interview Ms. Russo, who clarified her point about the Backward Dance.

“It's not that I want to cancel the dance, but I'm asking girls, and boys, to think about the terms. What are the rules that boys and girls follow, and do they make sense in the twenty-first century?”

I stole a look at Ms. R. as her segment played. She winked at me. What a funny teacher she was. She got in trouble once because she told us we could call her Jane. Later, she said not to do it in front of Principal Finklestein. She also had a sign in her room that said “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” I have to confess I didn't know what it meant. Did I need a boy to make me happy? Maybe one particular boy.

That sign on the wall also made me wonder if Ms. Russo had a boyfriend and how he felt about that saying. I heard rumors that she and Mr. Ford were spotted looking pretty cozy at the Tuscan Oven restaurant. That was just too weird to believe.

On camera, Jeff “Fitzy” Fitzgerald said he didn't know what to say about the dance. He was fine going with Tia, who had already asked him.

“People are saying the dance makes fun of girls or something, so I don't know if people are boycotting it or whatever.”

In a clever move, Bet then interviewed Tia. The video was obviously shot at the ice rink. Aside from being Taylor's best friend, she was a really good ice-skater.

“I want to go, but I feel silly now that I asked someone to it. I agree with Ms. Russo that we shouldn't make fun of girls as boy-crazy idiots. Fitzy is cool, though. I like to dance, and he can actually dance, which most boys can't.”

Bet went on to give a short history of courtship, which meant the formal process for girls and boys dating. Bet said, a long time ago, girls were considered their father's property until they became their husband's property. I laughed to myself thinking about Dad picking my husband. So scary to think who he'd pick—the nicest nerdball he could find, probably.

Then everyone laughed when Bet showed pictures from some of the original Sadie Hawkins dances at Margaret Simon Middle School. The girls were in pigtails and polka-dot tops. The boys tried to look all hillbilly, too. Some even blackened their front teeth to look more authentic.

Mrs. Percy, from the office, was known for being cranky, yet she was upbeat about the dance. She's worked at the school for twenty-five years and is what people call “a character.”

“It's good, clean fun, not a political statement,” she said. “God bless Jane, but she needs to relax.”

Again, I looked up at Ms. Russo. We all did. This time she pushed out her lips in annoyance, but only for a moment. She straightened up her expression when she noticed we were all looking.

The dance will go forward as planned, Principal F. said at the end of Bet's report. He encouraged everyone to come but also applauded the “rich dialogue” that resulted from the questions raised. Next year, a committee would be formed to re-examine the Backward Dance and consider different themes. Bet said she wanted to end her segment with someone “who seemed to want the maximum amount of happy people next Saturday night.” It was me.

Cool,
I thought.
Let's just hope I'm one of them.

Thirteen

A few hours before the dance, I was sizzling with nervous energy, so I decided to go for a run. At our gym teacher's suggestion, I had gone out for the track team this year. I first thought,
Oh, no-no, I don't like to run.
But then, this one time, I was running outside for gym and I got into this weird rhythm. I didn't want to stop even after we did the required warm-up laps. Endorphins was the reason, my father explained. He said they're chemicals that make you feel good. Your brain releases them in different circumstances, exercise included. Who knew?

If I had told Piper, she would have called them “endolphins,” and I would have imagined teeny-tiny dolphins swimming around in my bloodstream. She was always messing up words that way, and it always made me laugh. But then I had to remind myself that Piper and I were not speaking. Why would I want to be friends with the girl who stole Forrest from me not fifteen minutes after he was finally available?

I was still angry and definitely not looking forward to seeing the two of them at the Backward Dance. But each footfall was doing for me what I couldn't do very well for myself—calming me down. By the time my house was back in view, the sun had sunk low in the sky. November shade was cooling everything in sight—the grass, the pavement, the sweaty ponytail at the nape of my neck.

I took a quick shower and then got ready very carefully, making sure I looked so good that Forrest might notice me. I towel-dried my hair, combed through some straightening cream, and then blew my hair dry with a flat metal brush. It smoothed out my wavy hair and made the ends line up perfectly straight. Eyelashes were curled. Lip gloss was applied and then popped into my purse for reapplication at the dance. Every now and again, I imagined what Forrest and Piper were doing, and that they were doing it
together
. It was hard to take.

When Bet's parents arrived to drive us, my mom insisted on taking photos, but this was just another sad reminder that I was going to the dance alone. It made my stomach flip-flop. I snapped at my mom, who was, as usual, confused by the buttons and beeps of her digital camera. When she finally got off a few shots, I bolted out the door and down the sidewalk to Bet's car. Just like my run, Bet had a soothing effect on me. Once we were in the backseat, she started talking a mile a minute.

“Love your earrings!” she said.

I was wearing miniature cowboy boot earrings that my mother bought me.

“They match these,” I said, pointing to my boots.

Bet looked perfectly outfitted, as usual, in a red leather jacket and denim mini.

“Don't be a wallflower!” Bet's mom called to us from the open car window as they drove away, not to return until ten thirty.

Something about the word
wallflower
cracked us up. I had no idea what it meant until Bet told me that it meant a pretty girl who didn't get asked to dance but instead just stood there decorating the wall. We decided that we looked so good we would be wallflowers if we were standing against the wall, chair-flowers if we were sitting down, and even restroom-flowers if nature called and we needed to go.

There was a little bit of a line outside the main doors of the school, where a teacher was on ticket-taking duty. It was just long enough for me to take the deep breath I needed and steady myself for whatever was to come.

Fourteen

You know how, in a dream, sometimes things are familiar but also not exactly right? Like you're at home in your dream, but your backyard has turned into a zoo? This was the odd feeling I had as we made our way into the dance. The decorations committee had given the school lobby a makeover, so that everything looked kind of country.

Normally, the lobby is big and empty, but tonight three long rows of tables were set up right as you walked in the door. The other half of the lobby was now a dance floor. The room was almost completely dark, except for the long hallway that led to the gym. And music was
boom-boom-booming
from the far end, making me wonder if Forrest had already taken the stage.

Red-and-white-checked tablecloths covered the tables. Big hay bales were propped up against trophy cases and water fountains. This was in keeping with the old Sadie Hawkins theme of the dance. Remember Sadie, the cartoon girl whose father created a special day for her to catch a husband? Even though the format of the Backward Dance had changed, the decorations committee didn't have time to change direction. They already bought all the hay and had the tablecloths from last year.

“Look, I'm a punch-bowl-flower,” I yelled to Bet over the music. I held up my plastic cup to catch the stream of red juice flowing from the punch fountain.

But when I looked up to ask Bet if she wanted some, she didn't answer. I followed her eyes to the far end of the lobby, and saw what she had been staring at: Piper and Forrest were walking down the lighted corridor together.

It felt like they were traveling toward me in slow motion, the two of them looking casually glamorous. They were heading toward the DJ, stage, and dance floor. A gaggle of people trailed them, lugging drums, guitars, and a web of cords and black boxes. I noted the song playing at that moment. One of those happy, bouncy songs that I despised. Bubblegum music, my mother called it.

I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Hey, Jemma.”

It was Jake Austen.

“Oh, hi, Jake.”

Everyone kept telling me Jake liked me. He was smart and pretty cute, but on my crushometer, he set off not one spark.

“Did you want to get some punch?” he said, somehow not noticing the full, sixteen-ounce cup I was holding.

“Nope, I've got plenty,” I said, raising my cup to him in a sort of “Cheers” gesture.

“Oh, well. Okay,” Jake said, and stood there a moment too long before walking away.

“He
so
likes you,” Bet said.

“He's nice, I guess. But I don't feel sick to my stomach when he's around.”

“That's how you know you like someone?” Bet asked.

“So far, that's been the only true sign. If I saw Forrest right now, I'd probably barf up this red sparkle punch.”

“That would be attractive,” Bet said. “Then would you be a barf-flower?”

We laughed so hard I had to set down my drink, and we dropped into two folding chairs. When I looked up, I saw Kate and Brett two tables away. They were wearing matching checked shirts, and Kate had her hair in pigtails. Kate waved and yelled, “Come over here!” I nodded, but I didn't want to head over there anytime soon. Couples. They were everywhere.

Over at the stage, some background commotion was interrupting the song (a good one, this time).

“Check, check.”

It was Forrest at the microphone, guitar slung across his shoulder. Behind him someone was banging the drums, taking a test run. Piper was over to the side, wearing a perfect Backward Dance outfit. Her skirt appeared to be suede; her plaid shirt had short puffy sleeves and tied in a knot at belly-button level.

Next, Mr. Ford was at the microphone.

“If we could have some quiet, quiet … QUI-ET!”

The crowd started to hush and the DJ turned off the music. Mr. Ford looked oddly anxious at the mic. Weren't we the same people he stood in front of every day, just today he was introducing a band instead of introducing some geometric concept?

“Thank you. Welcome, all, to the Backward Dance. It promises to be a … a night everyone will remember.”

Mr. Ford trailed off and seemed to have forgotten what he was about to say. As he paused, he patted his pockets like he was looking for something. Then he scanned the crowd, looking for someone. He stroked his graying beard as he squinted over our heads.

“Jane? Er … Ms. Russo, are you out there somewhere?”

Bet and I looked at each other as if to say,
What the heck is going on here?
Ms. Russo was here, I'd seen her earlier. Bet had an appointment with her to do an on-the-scene interview about the Backward Dance. Sad as I still was about Forrest, I
was
having a good time and glad I didn't need a boy to be at the dance. I thought about how I'd feel if I had been home right then. I would have definitely felt much, much worse.