Seeing Cinderella (5 page)

“I looked for you, too,” Ellen said. But then the air shimmered and the screen appeared. Inside I saw an image of Ellen and Stacy laughing and eating sandwiches in the cafeteria. I blinked, confused. What did it mean when the screen showed images, instead of words? Did it mean Ellen and Stacy ate lunch together? Was I seeing one of Ellen’s memories?

Ellen introduced me to Stacy—Wanamaker—and explained they had four classes together, drama making it five. Then she turned to Stacy. “And this is Callie Anderson.”

“I’m Ellen’s best friend,” I added quickly.

Stacy’s grin faltered, but then she said in a bright voice, “Nice to meet you. I like your glasses, they’re way cute.”

The air shimmered again, and a screen appeared by Stacy. And my super freaky magic glasses showed me she was a total liar:
Should I tell her those glasses are
way
dorky?
The screen changed, and an image appeared of the pudgy girl with braces Stacy had been thinking about earlier. Was that someone she knew? I wondered. And what was I supposed to do with a pair of magic glasses, anyway?

I’d had enough middle school for one day. Reading
the blue screens and wondering what it all meant tired me out. I wanted answers, and only one person could give them to me.

I said good-bye to Ellen and Stacy and turned away, but Stacy stopped me. “Do you take the bus?”

“No, I just live a few tracts over, on Butterfly Way. But—”

“No way. I live close by too.” Stacy leaned forward, and I caught a whiff of overpowering vanilla body spray. “My mom could take you home—maybe you and Ellen could come over.”

“No,” I said, more forcefully than I intended. “Anyway, I’ll see you guys later.” I avoided looking at the screen hovering next to Stacy and sprinted home, my overstuffed backpack slamming against my back. Inside my house, I thumbed through the yellow pages, but Dr. Ingram wasn’t listed.

A note from Mom leaned against the phone, letting me know she would be late picking Sarah up from the baby sitter’s so could I put the casserole in the oven at 4:30? And could I unload the dishwasher and fold the towels? And for just once, clean my room because it was a total disaster?

Figuring I had plenty of time, I tossed the note aside,
kicked off my flip-flops, and headed upstairs to my room. Mrs. Dillard had given me a receipt for my order. Dr. Ingram’s phone number was probably on it.

I was right. “Callie, how are you?” Mrs. Dillard said. “Dr. Ingram said you might be calling.”

“I bet,” I mumbled.

“Good to hear from you,” Dr. Ingram said, coming on the line. “How are those glasses working out? Seen anything interesting?”

“You could say that,” I said, then paused. Should I tell him about my glasses’ super freakiness? I thought he knew they had magic powers. But what if he didn’t? What if he told my mom? Or worse, what if he thought I was a weirdo?

“I’ve seen lots of interesting things,” I said finally. When Dr. Ingram remained silent, I added, “And I was wondering if you could get my other glasses any faster? I don’t think I like the loaner pair.”

“Oh really? And why is that?”

Now I was silent.

“How was your first day of school? Do you like your classes?”

“I guess,” I answered. “Except I’m taking drama and I have to figure out how to avoid auditioning.”

“Auditioning for what?”

“For
Cinderella
. Our class is putting on a play in December.”

“Wait just a moment,” Dr. Ingram said. “You mean to tell me, you have the opportunity to be Cinderella, and you’re not going to take it? You’re not even going to try out?”

“Not if I can help it, and I’d never try out for the lead, anyway. And that’s not the point.”

“Yes. Yes, Calliope, that’s absolutely the point,” Dr. Ingram said. “Anyway, you wanted to know when your glasses will come in and the answer is I don’t know. I’m afraid this is going to take much longer than I originally thought.”

Dr. Ingram said good-bye and hung up. For now at least, I was stuck with the magic glasses. But what was I supposed to do with them? Even if I used the glasses wisely, wouldn’t that be spying on people’s thoughts? Was that even legal?

Outside my window I saw Ana walking down the sidewalk and carrying a stack of textbooks. I decided to perform one more experiment. I slipped my glasses out of the side pocket in my backpack and put them on. Then I jogged down the stairs and out the front door.

“¡Hola!”
I said, using the one Spanish word I knew (other than
taco
and
enchilada
) as I met Ana on the sidewalk.
The cement was hot on my bare feet, and I hopped from one foot to the other, before stepping back onto the grass.

“¡Hola!”
Ana answered, laughing. “Hello.”

“So . . .” I thought carefully before asking my question. “What did you think of drama?”

“It was good,” Ana said. The air shimmered and the screen launched up. Words scrolled across, but I couldn’t understand any of them—they were all in Spanish.

“How did you like Pacificview?” I asked, trying again.

“It was good,” Ana repeated. The screen changed, and what looked like a commercial began to play. A group of girls hanging out by a row of lockers laughed and pointed at Ana, who looked away and pretended not to notice.

Did that actually happen to Ana earlier? I wondered. Then I looked at Ana. Really looked. At her turquoise stretch pants and hot pink T-shirt. And I realized no one, not even someone as beautiful as Ana, could wear something like that to Pacificview and not catch grief.

Maybe the way I looked at her tipped her off, because Ana glanced at her clothing and said, “Is something wrong?”

“Well, it’s just that your clothes are really . . . colorful. A little on the funky side.”

“Funky? What does ‘funky’ mean?”

“Um, different?”

“And different is bad, yes?”

“No. Well, sometimes, I guess. Especially in middle school.”

“Ah, you are giving me—what did my English teacher call it? A good cultural tip.” Ana took a flyer out of her pocket. “My teacher also gave me this.” She held it up for me to see—it was the same flyer Ellen had pored over earlier in the day. “There are a few clubs she thought I might want to join.” Ana smiled widely and her eyes seemed to sparkle. “I’m going to show this to Tío tonight.”

“Cool,” I answered, trying to sound enthusiastic. Was I the only person in the entire seventh grade
not
excited about middle-school life? Everyone else at Pacificview seemed eager to join this club, or try out for that team. In gym class earlier I heard a couple of girls talking about soccer tryouts. One girl was just
dying
to be the goalie. But I didn’t get it. Diving in front of a ball that was kicked by a girl with calves the size of Colorado did
not
seem like fun.

The screen hovering beside Ana changed then, and Spanish words began to scroll across. “How was your day?” she asked, shifting her textbooks from one arm to the other. The tone of her voice made me think it was the second time she asked.

“My day? Oh, yeah, no—it was good too.” So far, my test wasn’t going that great. I still didn’t know how to use my glasses. I just knew Ana’s day had probably been harder than she let on.

“So, how come you wanted to come to America?” I asked, changing the subject.

“My mother always wanted me to learn English very well. So I studied a lot. Then
mi
tío
—my uncle—said I could come live with him to get an American education.

“Also.” Ana paused. She seemed to struggle with what to say next, but then squared her shoulders like she’d made some kind of decision. “My father is sick.”

“Sick?”

“
Sí
. Yes.”

Ana told me about her family. They lived in an apartment in Mexico City. One morning, her father couldn’t button his shirt—his hands were shaking too hard. Ana’s mother helped him with the shirt, and he continued his day, selling newspapers on a street corner. But as the weeks passed, his hands shook harder. Soon after, he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.

It became harder and harder for Ana’s father to work, and Ana’s mother, who earned money by taking in laundry and cleaning apartments in the city, tried to increase her
workload. Ana began missing school to sell newspapers, or to clean houses with her mother. When Mr. Garcia offered to let Ana come live with him, her parents thought it was an answer to their prayers. Ana had another relative in southern California—her aunt, Rosa. Aunt Rosa also offered to take Ana into her home, but Mr. Garcia insisted, saying he had a bigger house, and that it might be nice for Ana to get to know her younger cousins. He even offered to send Ana’s parents money.

At first Ana spoke haltingly, but once she got going, the story just sort of flowed out of her, like she’d wanted to talk to someone for a while. Ana’s English was good, and I gave up trying to understand the Spanish words scrolling on the screen next to her. If there was a word she didn’t know in English, we just kept talking until I figured out what she meant.

“
Mi madre
—my mother—asked Tío if there was anything they could do to say thank you,” Ana said.

“Was there?” I asked.

“
Sí
. He said maybe I could—what’s the word?—kidsit?”

“You mean, babysit?”

Ana nodded. “Babysit. Yes, he said maybe I could baby sit my cousins for him. I don’t mind, my cousins seem nice.”

While Ana spoke, the screen hovering near her changed. The Spanish words were replaced by an image of Ana trying to break up a fight between the two Garcia boys.

“Very nice,” Ana repeated.

Ha! I was pretty sure I’d learned my first lesson: Those mini-commercials playing on the screen probably
were
people’s memories; Ana just didn’t want to tell me what a pain her cousins were.

“I should go,” Ana said, pointing to her house.

“Okay,” I took my glasses off. “See you in drama tomorrow.”

I liked talking to Ana, I realized as I headed back to my house. It was the most real conversation I’d had with someone all day. About something that mattered, past the usual, “Hey, how are you?” Which, the glasses had showed me today, no one ever answered honestly.

Chapter 5

Super Freaky Glasses Rule #
₄

List of things your magic glasses can’t do: homework, chores, or fix parent problems.

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
, I
WAS IN THE DOGHOUSE
. I
FORGOT
to put the casserole in the oven so dinner was late. Afterward, Mom sent me upstairs to do homework and then my chores (which I’d also forgotten about) before bedtime.

I sat cuddled up on my window seat. My bulging backpack sat next to me, but instead of doing homework, I stared at the star stickers on my ceiling, the kind that glow in the dark when you turn the lights off. I loved my room. I even had a name for it—the Meadow, after my middle name.

When I turned ten, my dad took three days off work so we could transform my room. We painted the walls
yellow, and then painted a mural of a field of daisies on the wall across from my bed. We put in green carpeting and my dad bought me orange and brown throw pillows. I liked to scatter the pillows on the floor and pretend they were newly fallen leaves. Ellen thought the carpeting was, and I quote, “disgustingly hideous,” which was about what Mom said, but Dad said it was romantic.

I unzipped my backpack and groaned. But then I had the most wonderful thought. What if my glasses had other super freaky powers I hadn’t discovered yet? Like . . . what if they showed me the answers to my homework? Quickly, I pulled out my history worksheet, and looked for a question with an easy answer. Halfway down, I found one.

“In what year was William the Conqueror crowned king of England?”

I slipped on my glasses and stared hard at the question, willing a screen to appear. But after a few minutes I gave up. Apparently my super freaky magic glasses weren’t going to do my homework for me. Rats. That meant
I
actually had to do my homework. Double rats.

But it could wait. I packed away the worksheet and slid my journal out from under the
Cinderella
script Mr. Angelo had passed out earlier. I still wondered why Dr. Ingram
gave me a pair of magic glasses. So I did what I always do when I’m confused: I wrote a story.

Cinderella and the Stupid Prince

On the night of the grand ball, a fairy godmother visited Cinderella. Besides the killer dress and the pumpkin carriage, she gave Cinderella a pair of magic glasses that could read people’s thoughts. When Cinderella realized the Prince had fallen for her, she put them on and waited breathlessly, ready to see what royal thoughts would pour forth. But man was
she
disappointed. Because the Prince, other than thinking Cinderella was totally hot (and that her glasses were totally not), didn’t have a whole lot going on upstairs, if you know what I mean. Cinderella ditched him, leaving behind a glass slipper. When the Prince’s men came to her stepmother’s house, Cinderella locked herself in the attic so they couldn’t find her.