Imaginary Enemy (6 page)

Flags

I
was petrified the first day of middle school, but I didn’t tell anyone. Instead, I relied on bravado when I headed for the bus stop. I growled at Sharp when I passed his house, but I doubt he heard me, since he was probably still trapped in his “sleeping late, I’m not going to real school” dreams. Unreasonably, I was angry with him about the whole homeschooling thing, even though it was out of his control.

I was worried about how people at Kingston Middle would react to me. I wasn’t a brainiac. I knew that the teachers wouldn’t show much interest in or curiosity about my progress. I’d never found myself honored with the dubious title of teacher’s pet.

I wasn’t one of those glamour queens with great hair and a movie-star body. My freckles made me look like a little kid. Everyone called me a tomboy, since I’d always roamed the neighborhood with Sharp, Chord, Jazz, and Zander. I had never been very interested in dolls or playing house. I didn’t much like to wear dresses, either, especially frilly ones.

Sometimes, though, when no one was paying attention, I’d watch the girly girls and wish I was like them. Even in faded jeans and old T-shirts, they were beautiful and feminine. I wondered how to be like that—how to lose my clumsy mannerisms and exude graceful confidence. But I was afraid to try. Afraid people would laugh at me.

I survived the first day, the first week, and so on, until going to middle school seemed as normal as tying my shoe. Not that I was the toast of Kingston. There were times when I felt awkward trying to fit in, to find my place in that ocean of preadolescents. I learned to laugh at the appropriate times by mimicking the popular kids and hoped no one noticed if I was out of sync with the crowd. And of course, my time-tested recipe for survival served me well—a measure of slackerism, a dash of sarcasm, and a pinch of insolence. Stir well. Sprinkle in a little denial and irresponsibility. Serving size determined according to appetite.

I made friends easily, probably because I was spontaneous and average, which didn’t intimidate people. It’s the quiet ones kids are unsure about. I didn’t immediately latch on to one friend but ran with a group of people that shrank and grew as social dynamics changed.

The major difference between elementary and middle school was the social scene. It was much more important in sixth grade than it had been the previous year. How you dressed, the music you listened to, the kids you hung out with, the way you talked—all of those things defined you, and if you didn’t fit the mold you were labeled an outcast or a freak. It was all very competitive. Very fragile, too, and scary, because one simple lapse could leave you on the periphery.

“Mr. Freeman must be insane,” I said, referring to the principal of Kingston Middle.

“Well, everyone knows that,” agreed Samantha. “But what inspires today’s assessment of his mental capabilities?”

“He assigned Emma Graham and me to raise the flag every morning for the second grading period. He said he likes to give sixth graders responsibilities to make them feel like part of the ‘school community.’”

“He loves that phrase
school community.
He must have used it fifty times at orientation,” said Madison.

“Sixty-two. I counted,” said Samantha. We all laughed.

“I can see him choosing Emma…. She’s like…perfect. But me? He must have read someone else’s folder and thought it was mine. No one ever makes me responsible for anything.” Emma was striking, with Hershey’s chocolate skin and clear brown eyes with thick lashes. She was one of the smartest kids in our grade. Teachers read her book reports aloud as examples of high-quality work. She never came to class late or unprepared.

“It’d be hard to mess up raising the flag, wouldn’t it?” asked Madison.

“I could mess up anything. Seriously, I could.”

So the next morning I met Emma at the flagpole. She had already gone to the office to check out the flag. “Hi. I’m Emma. Emma Graham.”

“Yeah, I know. You did the book report on
Hoot
and the science project on prairie dogs. You’re famous around here.” I wondered if she caught the hint of sarcasm in my voice.

“And you’re Jane, the girl who yanked down Bryan Latham’s shorts in PE. That was hilarious. You’re so bold!”

“Hey, Coach warned the boys not to sag. Bryan had it coming.” Bryan was all-right looking but gross. He was obsessed with bodily functions and noises. He talked too much and too loudly.

Emma laughed. “Yeah. Who can play soccer in shorts that are three sizes too big?”

Suddenly, I decided maybe Emma wasn’t a snob like I’d thought, just quiet. Her smile seemed genuine, and she didn’t act put out to be stuck with me for the next nine weeks.

We finished raising the flag. “What’s your first class?” Emma asked.

“English. Yours?”

“Math. With Ms. Connors. Hey, Jane, can I sit with you at lunch?”

“Sure, Emma. See you later.”

“Middle school’s a piece of cake,” I told Sharp one afternoon. “It’s not for the chicken-hearted, homeschooled sort, though,” I added smugly. “Everyone is really cool and grown up. But you wouldn’t get that, would you, safe at home every day like a preschooler?”

He laughed. “We’re having fun. Going on outings and doing projects. You’d love what we’re doing now. Studying celestial navigation. Researching biographies of sailors and pirates. Learning to read nautical charts to map out famous voyages and the locations of shipwrecks. We’re even sewing our own jolly roger flags. Mine has the side view of a skull with cutlasses crossed behind it.”

“That will do nothing to prepare you for the future,” I argued.

“Since when do
you
care about the future?” Sharp asked.

“I’m very ambitious.”

“Yeah? So what do you plan to do with your life?”

I knew he had my number but wasn’t about to cave. I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “A doctor. I’m gonna be a doctor.”

“Right. Or maybe an astronaut? How about a race car driver?”

“You make me want to barf,” I said, stomping away.

“A movie star? An inventor?” he called after me. “President of the United States? God?”

I slammed the front door hard enough to rattle the windowpanes.

Dear Bubba,

A doctor? Right. Why do you plant these stupid remarks in my head? Do you enjoy embarrassing me? Get off when people laugh at me? I wish just once you’d clamp my big mouth shut.

Ever the pest,
Gabriel

As the weeks passed, Emma and I became close. Though we were outwardly very different, we got along well. There were things about her that reminded me of Sharp—her easygoing attitude, her curiosity, her high expectations, and her integrity. She had no trouble admitting her flaws.

That was probably what surprised me most about Emma—the fact that she actually
had
flaws. She was such a stellar student everyone expected perfection from her, but she had as many insecurities as I did. She worried about being liked. It bothered her that she was fanatically conscientious; she just couldn’t not be. That was why my slacker attitude fascinated her.

I think losing our flag-raising job liberated her a bit, even though, after the fact, she was deeply ashamed.

It never would have happened if Bryan Latham wasn’t so annoying. He always picked on people, embarrassing them with crude remarks. One day in the middle of their English class, he made a comment about Emma’s breasts. She was mortified. I found her crying in the bathroom between classes.

“Dry your tears,” I commanded. “Don’t waste your energy on him. No. What we’ll do is make him pay.”

“Jane, I can’t do that. I’d never say something rude in front of everyone.”

“There are other ways,” I said. “Leave it to me.”

Emma and I walked down the hall. “Wow, your room’s really purple,” she said, gaping in the doorway.

“Yeah. My little sister and I share a room. She chose the color,” I lied. I tossed my backpack onto my bed, causing dust flecks to float in the air above my comforter—another bad choice. It looked like a box of fluorescent crayons had exploded in a neon nuclear war.

“It’s pretty wild,” Emma said diplomatically.

“I’m repainting it soon. I haven’t yet decided what color. Got any suggestions?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Red.”

“That could be just as bad as purple,” she said, falling onto my bed.

“Well, tomorrow’s the big day,” I said, changing the subject.

“I’m not sure we should do it, Jane.”

“Emma, please. We agreed.” I spread an old sheet on the floor and placed a box of markers beside it. “Come on. You’re a better artist than I am.” So we started working, which set our plan into action.

The next day, we didn’t raise the flag. We raised a less-than-flattering portrait of Bryan Latham drawn in marker on that old sheet. In case anyone was uncertain as to who the portrait represented, his name was written on it in bold black letters.

Mr. Freeman fired us from our daily flag-raising duties, telling us we were lucky he was too tolerant to suspend us. He made us apologize to Bryan, which I did with my fingers crossed behind my back.

“It was worth it,” I told Emma. “We only had six more days of that job anyhow.”

“I dunno, Jane. My parents are so angry and humiliated.”

“They’ll get over it. Mine always do.”

“Why are you all sitting here on such a beautiful day when you could be out fishing?” Dad asked. It was the third day of spring break, and Luke, Zander, and I were zoned out in front of
Godzilla vs. Megalon.
We had a collection of monster movies and never tired of them.

“We’re having a Godzilla marathon today,” said Zander, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“No, you’re not. You’re all going fishing with me.”

“Fishing?” asked Luke.

“Yes, on my boat.”

Luke and Zander jumped up, totally blocking my view of Megalon, who was shooting a bolt of lightning at Godzilla from the single horn on his head. “You got a boat?” Luke exclaimed.

“The
Annika Elise.
When I introduced you to her, I said she’d one day be mine. Now she is.”