Seeing Cinderella (8 page)

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples again. “Mr. Angelo is counting on you because if Principal Reynolds doesn’t like the play he’ll cut drama’s budget next semester.”

When I opened my eyes, both Mom and Ellen were staring at me.

“How do you know that?” Ellen asked. “Did Mr. Angelo tell you that?”

“That seems like an odd thing for a teacher to share with a student,” Mom added.

“Um . . .” I trailed off, unsure what to say. Sometimes I really liked my glasses—like last week, when I read Stacy’s thoughts and discovered she was about to invite me to shopping with her after school. I liked to avoid malls the same way I liked to avoid snakebites and bee stings—so I’d hurried out of drama class before she could ask me.

Other times I hated the glasses—especially when I read people’s thoughts and discovered what they thought about
me
. More than one girl from my old elementary school thought I was stuck-up because I never talked to them. And I didn’t know how to explain that it was because I was shy, not stuck-up.

And other times—like right now—it was a real pain
knowing everyone’s thoughts but having to pretend like I didn’t. If I told Ellen I had read Mr. Angelo’s thoughts, Mom would have me seeing a doctor faster than you can say “crazy weirdo.”

“I guess I must have overheard them talking,” I said finally.

“Oh, okay,” Ellen said, and then continued with her story.

Mom took a bite of casserole and smiled at Ellen, but her thoughts were still on me:
The semester’s barely begun and she’s already having problems. I’ll have to get her a tutor—maybe Ellen can do it. Ellen has tutored her before.

“Ellen’s taking French this year!” I burst out, cutting off Ellen. Sarah giggled, but Mom and Ellen looked at me like I was a lunatic.

Mom didn’t realize I’d been reading her thoughts; she jumped to her own conclusion. “So Señora Geck told you about the progress report, then? You know you need a tutor? And if Ellen can’t do it then you’ve got to find someone else.”

“Okay.” I took a huge bite of casserole before I said something nasty. Why did Mom assume that Ellen was the answer to my problems? I couldn’t wait for this weekend. Dad was coming to take Sarah and me on
a “Daddy Date.” It would be nice to hang around a normal parent for a change.
He
wouldn’t care about my Spanish grade.

“What time is Dad coming tomorrow night?” I asked.

“About that . . .” Mom paused—but the screen hovering next to her said it all. Inside was an image of her yelling at someone over the phone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out my dad was probably on the other line.

“Your father can’t make it this weekend,” Mom said, looking down at her plate.

I grunted and took another bite of casserole. I wanted to tell Mom that if she’d stop screaming at Dad every time he called, maybe he wouldn’t be staying away so long. But I couldn’t. The thing was, I never told Ellen that Mom kicked Dad out. Not this last time—or any of the other times before. Sometimes I would want to tell her, but then I’d think about Ellen’s parents, and how she told me they still held hands and how it embarrassed her—and then I just couldn’t do it. So instead, I told her Dad was away because of work. Ellen always seemed to believe me, especially since Dad changed jobs so often.

“Are you okay?” Ellen asked me.
She looks upset,
read the white words scrolling across the blue screen hovering next to her.

“I’m fine,” I said, and took another bite.

There was a silence, broken occasionally by the sound of scraping forks. Finally, in an overly bright voice, Ellen said, “If you’re free then, want to go to the dance tomorrow night?”

“What dance?” I asked.

Ellen rolled her eyes. “Really, Callie, do you walk around school blindfolded? There are only a ton of posters all over campus. The Fall Dance. It’s tomorrow night.”

“Do you even have to ask? No way.”

“Come on, it could be a lot of fun,” Ellen said, but the screen next to her told me her thoughts were elsewhere:
Why are you even asking? You know she won’t go. She’s so selfish; she never does anything I want to do.

I’m selfish?
I’m
selfish? I wanted to shout. What about all the things I did for Ellen? Like always meeting her at her locker before school started. Ellen never came to my locker, even though mine was closer to Mrs. Faber’s class. Ellen always picked what we did. Like today—I wanted to stay after school with Mr. Angelo and the rest of the paint crew. But Ellen said we needed to practice our lines (translation:
her
lines) and couldn’t be bothered with something as ridiculous as painting.

And, oh yeah, what about letting Ellen have the part of Cinderella in the first place. I’m selfish? Yeah, right.

But I couldn’t say any of that. Instead I said, “I have absolutely no desire to go.”

That wasn’t exactly true. A small part of me really did want to go. The part that imagined me laughing and dancing in a big group of friends. But in my imagination I had frizz-free hair, a freckle-free face, and I knew how to make people laugh instead of worrying they were laughing at
me
.

In reality, if I went to the dance, I would stand awkwardly in a dark corner, drinking punch and trying not to look bored while one cute boy after another asked Ellen to dance.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Ellen asked. The words in the screen next to her changed then:
Maybe Stacy would go with me. She’d be fun to hang out with.

I hesitated. Imagining Ellen and Stacy laughing it up all night was almost enough to make me change my mind.

Almost.

“I’m positive. And anyways”—I glanced at Mom—“I have a lot of homework due on Monday.”

My words had the desired effect because Mom looked up and said, “Yes, Callie will need to stay in this weekend.”
No way is she leaving this house without putting some serious effort into her Spanish.

“See,” I said to Ellen. “I can’t go. Go ahead without me and have fun.”

But not too much fun,
I thought to myself. Not with that best-friend stealer Stacy Wanamaker.

After Ellen left, Mom went on and on about finding a Spanish tutor. Finally I told her I’d ask Ana. I looked down at my notebook paper as I rang the Garcia’s doorbell. Usually Mom paid someone to tutor me. But I knew we couldn’t afford that right now, so I’d ripped the story of “Cinderella and the Stupid Prince” out of my journal, hoping Ana would accept it as a gift.

Mom said since I was going over there anyway, would I ask Mr. Garcia if we could borrow a lightbulb? “The one in Sarah’s room is burned out. And I completely forgot to buy one at the store today,” she had said.

But I still had the glasses on, so I read her thoughts and knew she didn’t forget. She just didn’t have enough grocery money to buy one more thing—and she felt horrible for having to ask Mr. Garcia.

Mom got along with Mr. Garcia okay. Once he’d even helped her fix a flat tire on her car. I didn’t like him, though, and the way he seemed not to notice when his sons shredded all the roses off my mom’s bushes. But the day Sarah kicked a soccer ball and it accidentally bounced off his SUV, he lectured her about respecting other people’s property.

No one answered the door. Reluctantly, I rang it again, wishing I could just go home. Last week, Mom sent me over to borrow some bread. Mr. Garcia had told me—twice—how happy he was to help someone in need.

The lock turned, snapping me back to attention. The door opened and Anthony Garcia, Ana’s seven-year-old cousin, peered out at me.

“Hi, Anthony. Is Ana around?”

Anthony shrugged and walked back into the house. He left the door open so I followed him inside. He plunked down in front of the TV and hollered “Ana!” Next to him, Miguel, his four-year-old brother, played with Legos.

I heard keys jangling and turned to see Mr. Garcia walk into the hallway. Gray streaks peppered his dark hair, and lines etched his forehead. I remembered Mom telling me once that he’d married later in life—and then Dad adding that the reason Mrs. Garcia left was probably because she couldn’t “put up” with Mr. Garcia anymore.

“Hello, Calliope.” Mr. Garcia always called me by my full name. “How are you? I’m afraid we’re all out of bread today.”

“That’s not why I came,” I said, deciding I would use my allowance and buy the lightbulbs myself after school tomorrow.

Ana emerged from the kitchen then, wiping her hands on a blue apron she wore. Mr. Garcia said something to her in Spanish, which she answered by saying,
“No sé.”
I was proud of myself for knowing that meant “I don’t know” in English. Then both of them turned to stare at me.

Suddenly the already-crowded hallway seemed to shrink and I stepped backward, my hand closing around the doorknob. I wanted to fling the door open and run away from Mr. Garcia’s snobby stare. I didn’t want to tell him that—yet again—my family needed help from his.

But I forced myself to stay still while Mr. Garcia said, “I haven’t seen your father’s car in a while.”

“Yeah, he’s away,” I said, hanging my head. “He’s working.”

“Oh, well that explains why the lawn looks the way it does. I could recommend a good gardener to your mother.”

“That would be nice,” I said. I didn’t tell him there was no way we could afford a gardener right now. I turned to Ana. “So, I was wondering if you could help me learn Spanish. You don’t have to, it’s just that, my mom thinks I need help and I was wondering if you could tutor me.” My words came out fast, so fast I thought Ana didn’t understand me, because she said nothing. Instead she glanced uncertainly at Mr. Garcia.

“That’s okay, I understand if you can’t. See you at school.” I turned around, and fumbled with the doorknob. Behind me I heard Mr. Garcia whisper something in Spanish to Ana.

“No, wait,” Ana said. “You need help with Spanish?”

I turned back. “Yeah.”

“Okay.
Le ayudaré
.” Ana said, and smiled. “That means, ‘I will help you.’”

Mr. Garcia said good-bye to Anthony and Miguel and began talking to Ana in Spanish. While he spoke Ana nodded and said “
Sí
.” When he finished, he brushed past me and left.

“Where is he going?” I asked.

“He has to work, and he asked me to watch the boys.” Ana paused and then said, “What’s that in your hand?”

I looked down at the notebook paper clutched in my hand. I’d held it so tight it crumpled.

“It’s just a story I wrote. I thought you might like to read it. You don’t have to though,” I added quickly. “It’s probably not any good or anything.”

Normally, I didn’t show my stories to anyone except my dad. I was afraid Mom would get mad and take away my journal. And Ellen never understood why I spent so much time on something unrelated to school.

Ana looked touched as she took the notebook paper and carefully smoothed it out.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” I said, and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Ana walked me out to the porch. We decided she’d tutor me during lunch. As I was leaving, I said, “Did you ever join any of those clubs?”

“No,” Ana said quickly. “I decided I didn’t want to. See you tomorrow.” Then she said good-bye and shut the door.

As I walked home, I looked up at the stars. They looked like thousands of diamonds twinkling against black velvet. I wondered why Ana had decided not to join any clubs. She had seemed so excited—like middle-school life held endless opportunities for her. What made her change her mind?

Chapter 8

Super Freaky Glasses Rule #
₇

If you want to catch someone in a lie using your glasses, you’ll have to do it in person.

A
NA WAS A GREAT TUTOR
. W
E MET A FEW TIMES A WEEK
, and she never made fun of my Spanish pronunciation. And she didn’t think I was weird (or rude) when I told her that every time I said,
“Me llamo Callie,”
I imagined myself riding llamas. Instead Ana laughed and said she thought the English expression “easy as pie” was kind of dumb.

“I’ve made pies with my
abuelita
—my grandma,” she said. “Believe me, it’s not easy.”

One Friday before a big test, I asked Ana if she could help me study. Ana said she was spending the weekend at her Aunt Rosa’s, but she invited me over to spend the day
with her there. Ana and Aunt Rosa, a kind woman who reminded me a lot of Ana, took turns quizzing me on Spanish verbs.

My pronunciation improved, and soon Señora Geck stopped cringing when I spoke in class, and I stopped worrying Mom was going to ground me over my Spanish grade. Which was a good thing. Because I had more important things to worry about.

I thought not going to the Fall Dance was a wise move. That way all the things I worried would happen, wouldn’t. But I should’ve thought more about what would happen if I
didn’t
go.

Which was this: Ellen went with Stacy, and they spent the evening hanging out with a group of girls from their history class. Ellen called her parents from the dance, and asked them if she could spend the night at Stacy’s. According to Stacy, it was
way
fun. But she totally understood why I didn’t want to go—and thought it was a good idea that I stayed home.