Imaginary Enemy (10 page)

Goals

“W
e should set some goals for the upcoming school year,” suggested Emma as she tore two sheets of paper from a notebook.

“Goals? Why?”

“It’ll give us something to shoot for.”

“I’ll just refine my talents as a slacker.” I yawned.

“No. You need to get over that and think of real goals.” Emma uncapped her pen. “Hmmm…”

“I’ve got one.” I grinned. “I’m going to get my first official kiss.”

Emma laughed. “That’s not what I meant, Jane. I was talking about stuff like ‘make straight As’ or ‘run for class president.’”

“Oh. Boring stuff. I like my goal way better.”

“But Jane, goals should be personal achievements.”

“A kiss is definitely personal.”

“But hardly an achievement.”

“It’s a matter of perspective,” I explained.

Emma sighed and printed “JANE” in all caps at the top of one sheet of paper. Beneath, in smaller letters, she wrote “Eighth Grade Goals.” Her script was tidy and precise. On the other sheet of paper she wrote “EMMA, Eighth Grade Goals.” Then “Make straight As.”

“Don’t put that on my list. It’ll never happen,” I said.

“It could.”

“Believe me, it won’t.” I grabbed the page labeled “JANE” and wrote “No Ds or Fs.” My penmanship was barely legible. “This might happen.
Might.
It’s at least within the realm of possibility.”

“Really reaching for the stars, huh, Jane?” asked Emma.

“Just being realistic.” “First kiss,” I penned beneath “No Ds or Fs.”

Emma snatched the pen. “Soccer team captain,” she wrote on the EMMA page.

“Paint my yucky purple bedroom,” I added to my list.

Emma sighed. “Jane, set some serious goals. Something that’s a challenge.”

“These are challenges. A kiss, passing grades, new paint.”

“Kisses and paint are superficial.”

“Then you don’t know much about kisses,” I retorted.

“Like you’re an expert.” She rolled her eyes and wrote “Learn to count in French, Russian, Mandarin, and Spanish” on her sheet.

“Boring. You really need to get a life,” I said.

“I happen to like my life,” she responded as she added “Raise money for Ronald McDonald House.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Collect soda can tabs. We can leave a jar in each classroom for kids to put tabs in. And advertise on the announcements. Make posters. You’ll help, won’t you?”

“I guess,” I said and wrote “$ for McD’s” at the bottom of my list.

She slid my page toward her. “Turn in every assignment,” she printed in bold letters. “Now sign it.” She handed me the paper.

“What?”

“Sign it.”

“Like a contract?”

“Yeah. Like a contract. You’ll never get into college if you don’t act more responsibly.”

For some insane reason, I scribbled my signature at the bottom of the page.

“I’m going to hold you to it,” Emma said. “At least the homework and grades and money for Ronald McDonald House.”

“Oh brother…sign yours, Miss Save the World.”

Emma proudly wrote her name in cursive letters beneath her clearly stated goals. Her first, middle, and last names. And I knew she took her commitments seriously, because that was how she was. I inhaled and reread my goals. And I made a secret promise to myself that I’d follow through and prove to Emma that I wasn’t a total loser.

I watched Carmella and Harmony playing in the backyard. They had layers of silky scarves draped over their bodies and flowers braided into their hair. They sang as they danced in a ring around the trunk of a towering pine tree. Then our dog, Banjo, bounded across the yard, and I laughed to see that he, too, was adorned with a wreath of flowers encircling his neck.

I envied the nine-year-olds the unselfconscious abandon of their games. They seemed so happy and innocent. I wondered whether, if Chord and Sharp had been girls, we’d have played the kinds of games Harmony and Carmella did.

“Hi, Carmella,” I called as I walked outside to the deck.

She and Harmony shrieked and ran into the bushes. “It’s a human!” they cried.

I sat on the steps. “What are you playing?”

“We’re sea nymphs,” explained Carmella, peeking out from behind an azalea. “A fisherman caught us in his net and took us to his hut. He believes we have the magic to grant him wealth and eternal life. We escaped, but we need to find our way back to the ocean. And we’re terrified of human beings.”

“Want to play?” asked Harmony.

“Yeah, play with us,” said Carmella.

“No thanks…. Well…sure!”

“We’ll get you dressed,” said Harmony. By the time Harmony and Carmella had wrapped me in silks and woven flowers into my hair, Peggy was calling them in to get ready for their dance class. I sat on the steps, still in costume, with Banjo sleeping at my feet.

“Interesting outfit.” I turned to see Chord standing at the fence. “Hey, guys, come here. You won’t believe your eyes.” Zander, Jazz, and Sharp appeared next to Chord.

I felt awfully silly but put on a good face. I stood up, bowed, and said, “I’m a sea nymph trapped on land and searching for the ocean. This is my sea horse.” I gestured toward the sleeping dog.

“You’re weird, Jane,” said Chord.

“Actually, she’s not. She’s as normal as they come, which is what makes this weird!” said Zander, shaking his head. Why did I feel he’d insulted me by calling me normal? Wasn’t normal good?

I scratched Banjo’s neck to hide my embarrassment.

In second period on the first day of eighth grade, Emma slipped into the seat next to mine. “How’s it going?”

“Okay. Chase was in my science class. He looks as good as ever. But we have assigned seats and I’m in the front row. He’s in the back. He didn’t even speak to me.”

“And you’re surprised? Jane, he’s a snob.” Emma opened her notebook and wrote the date neatly at the top of the page. Then she looked at me. “Don’t forget about your goals. Did you write down all your assignments? I’m accepting no excuses.”

I yanked my homework pad out of my backpack and slid it across my desk. “It’s the second class of the first day. I have no assignments.”

Glamour

S
omeone grabbed my arm as I scanned the school hallway looking for Emma. “Jane?”

I turned to see a tall girl whose hair was dyed so auburn it was nearly purple. I looked at her quizzically, saying nothing.

“Don’t you remember me? Second grade?” she asked.

“Um…I barely remember second grade,” I answered.

“I’m Jenny Danielson. Sat next to you. I’ll never forget the time you taped a ‘Kick me!’ sign to Mrs. Perkins’s back. She was furious. And you actually laughed. I though she was going to hit you.”

I studied the girl standing before me. “Jenny Danielson?” She was striking, even if it was mostly paint and dye and hair gel. Her makeup made her cheekbones look like they’d been sculpted by Michangelo, and her brown eyes were lined and shadowed like Cleopatra’s or those of some other exotic princess. Her hair was short and spiky and bold. “Didn’t you move away midyear?” I asked after sifting through my elementary school memories.

“Yeah. West Coast. L.A. and then San Diego. We’re back, though. My dad got transferred with his last promotion.”

“You look so different,” I said. “So stylish.”

“You haven’t change one bit. Even your hair is the same. I’d have recognized you anywhere.”

Self-consciously, I ran my fingers through my hair. “Never really thought about it,” I muttered.

“Jenny.” Chase McClusky slipped his arm around Jenny’s waist.

“See you around, Jane,” she said as she breezed away with Chase in tow. A few steps later, they both turned to glance back. I heard Jenny giggling. I blushed and walked in the opposite direction, choosing to take the long way to science class.

Dear Bubba,

Not another Barbie girl. Yuck! Even back in second grade Jenny Danielson acted like she was French pastry and I was moldy bread. And naturally, Chase McClusky is following her around like she’s a dog in heat. Barf!

Still the same,
Gabriel

I leafed through the photo album until I found my second-grade picture. My hair hung just past my shoulders, my freckles were scattered across my nose like pepper on a fried egg, my smile was just a little crooked. I stood in front of the mirror. Jenny was wrong. I
had
changed since second grade. My hair now fell down my back, and my adult teeth had filled in those gaping holes where my baby teeth had once been.

But I could be more stylish. Who couldn’t? I taped a photograph from
Vogue
to the mirror. Now, that’s chic, I thought, evaluating the model’s sleek makeup and flirty haircut. With a pair of scissors in my hand, I snipped at my hair and combed through it with my fingers. I snipped again, glancing at the picture. I wanted to look like that girl from the magazine. She was glamorous and mysterious. I cut some hair away from my face and pushed it back. It fell forward again. I slapped some gel into it and spiked it up. It wilted. I cut some of the length from the back. Now one side was longer than the other, just like in the picture. It looked fabulous on the model, but I simply looked bedraggled. It just needed to be evened up a bit. I hacked away.

The floor was littered with hair. My hair! And when I looked in the mirror, that pitiful girl staring back at me looked like a newly-hatched baby bird. I sat on the edge of the bathtub and wept.

“Jane?” I heard my father’s voice. I stuffed a washcloth into my mouth to muffle my sobs. “Janie? I’m coming in, okay?” The doorknob turned. “What happened?” he asked, astonished at my tearstained face and my tattered hair.

“Oh Daddy,” I cried, and threw my arms around his neck.

He held me there for a long time, stroking my back. Then he quietly said, “Want to go to the hairdresser?”

“People will see me,” I moaned.

“Hang on.” He came back with a ball cap, which he placed on my head. “Let’s go.”

The hairdresser did the best she could to fix the mess I’d made, and my new do actually looked rather flirty. It wasn’t what I’d had in mind, or what I truly wanted, but it was passable. I decided to fake it out. “It’s just the look I was after,” I announced at dinner, and Dad winked at me from across the table. He was truly my hero that day.

Dear Bubba,

Remember when I asked you to hook me up with some visibility cream? Well, forget that. I don’t need it anymore. Send vanishing cream instead. I really need to disappear.

Insincerely,
Harriet Hairdresser
(Alias Gabriel)

Sharp and Jazz were standing on the porch when I opened the door. “Hi, Jane,” said Sharp. He was looking quizzically at my hair but had the grace not to comment.

I wish I could say the same thing for Jazz.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Where’d your hair go?”

I resisted the urge to touch my head and chose not to respond. Instead, I smiled at Sharp. “How’s everything?”

“Why’d you cut your hair?” Jazz persisted. “It’s wild. Really wild.”

“Shut up, Jazz,” said Sharp. “Did Zander tell you that Peggy’s taking us to the courthouse Friday so we can see how the legal system works? Chord’s ditching his classes to go with us. Peggy said you can come, too, if it’s okay with your parents.”

Anything was better than a boring day at school, even joining the homeschool brigade. “Mom’s at the grocery store. I’ll let you know when she gets home.”

Jazz was still looking at me wide-eyed. “You look way different,” he said. “Way different.”

“Unfortunately for you, you look the same as always,” I snarled, and then I slammed the door.

“Peggy
needs
me to go to court with them Friday,” I told Mom, running my fingers through my very short hair. “Course, that means I’ll have to miss school,” I added in an offhand manner.

“Oh, how tragic!” said Mom. “We all know how you hate to miss school.”

“Can I go?”

“You’ll have to make up your assignments.”

“No problem,” I replied, aware that the odds of that happening were remote.