The Reinvention of Bessica Lefter (2 page)

And that really surprised me. Because those drawings weren’t so hot. When Sylvie finally dropped the diary into the hole, the pages fluttered in the breeze like a bird trying to fly. Except it didn’t fly. The diary dropped like a rock. Lower and lower.
Bonk. Bonk. Bonk
. It smacked against the side of the hole as it tumbled. And then the sounds ended.

“Kiss it goodbye,” I said. “That thing is in China now.”

I walked away from that hole in the ground, feeling like I’d solved something important.

“We’re about to have the best year of our lives,” I said.

I hurried down the trail, back to the sidewalk. I pulled on Sylvie’s hand for her to follow me. Pine trees and sycamores climbed into the sky around us. I stepped out into the sun and took a deep, victorious breath.

“We need to sign up for everything,” I said. “Yearbook. Cheerleading. Math Club. Chorus. Book-of-the-Month Club.”

“Okay,” Sylvie said.

I turned around and grabbed Sylvie by the shoulders. “I feel so happy right now I could sing.” But I didn’t. I figured I could wait until chorus started. I also wanted to skip. All the way home. But I didn’t do that either. Once we got to my front door, I invited Sylvie in for cookies and
comic books. And she followed me. Sylvie always followed me.

Then we downed a few macaroons and laughed.

“So you don’t miss our diary at all yet?” Sylvie asked.

“No,” I said. And I was surprised she even brought it up. Because she still had her ten pages of ocean drawings. Then I pounded a macaroon flat as a pancake and tossed it outside for the birds to eat.

“Getting rid of that thing was the best move we ever made,” I said.

And when I said those words, I meant them. Even though they were completely wrong. The rest of that day I felt very good about my life and middle school and my new shoes. Grandma had bought them online, and the UPS man had delivered them yesterday. And they weren’t like regular shoes. These had detachable tongues. They were held in place with Velcro. And you could rip them out and put in different ones. You could also go without tongues. But that didn’t look so hot. The shoes came with twelve different colored tongues. Grandma said they would match any shirt I owned. She called them fashion forward.

And because I was eleven, and hadn’t experienced irreversible tragedy or bone-crushing disappointment, I thought I could graduate from elementary school and start middle school and remain a happy person who enjoyed life.

But that wasn’t how things happened. On that fateful day, when I politely asked Sylvie Potaski to dispose of our collaborative diary in a hole, unbeknownst to me, I, Bessica Lefter, had doomed myself. Now all the good things in my life were about to turn bad.

t was the day after the diary dump, and my mom and grandma and I were shopping for back-to-school supplies.

“I really wish Sylvie were here,” I said.

My mother looked over my list and then jerked free an empty cart from a long line of empty carts in front of the store. “Did you know that you need a pocket dictionary?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m very excited about the pocket dictionary,” I said. “I’m hoping to find a pink one.”

Grandma patted my shoulder. “If you can’t find a pink one, you can always decorate it with pink stickers.”

“That’s a creative idea,” I said. Then I smiled an
enormous smile. Because I realized that after shopping for school supplies, I might be able to talk my mom into taking me to Sticker Street, the best sticker store in Idaho!

As soon as we walked into Target, my stomach flipped with excitement. The aisles were packed with back-to-school shoppers. I looked around for people I knew. But I didn’t see anybody familiar. I just saw a bunch of kids I didn’t recognize with their moms. I followed my mother as she zoomed the cart toward the binder section.

As soon as we turned the corner, I knew I had to call Sylvie. There were two solid rows of binders to choose from. Fat ones. Red ones. Sparkly ones. Tiny ones. Binders with buckles. Binders with straps. Binders with Velcro. Binders with snaps.

“Mom!” I said, pulling her and the cart to a stop. “I need to call Sylvie.”

“Why?”

I grabbed her hands. “Because I need to know what kind of two-inch binder she bought so I can buy the same one.”

“That’s precious,” Grandma said.

I glanced at her and realized that she had her phone flipped open and was texting somebody, which meant that I couldn’t use it to call Sylvie. Because my mom made Grandma and me share a cell phone. Grandma’s thumbs tapped happily across her keypad. I let go of my mother.

“Are you texting Willy again?” I asked. “Doesn’t Willy
have a job? Doesn’t Willy do anything besides text and be texted?”

Ever since Grandma had joined an online dating service last year and met Willy, she seemed to be in contact with him a hundred times a day. It got on my nerves. Because she turned out to be a huge cell-phone hog. I regretted ever teaching her how to text.

“Leave your grandma alone,” my mother said. And then she started walking down the binder aisle again.

“One day I am going to need my own cell phone, and that day might be today,” I said.

“I’m almost finished,” Grandma said.

I watched her bump into a lady carrying a stack of empty plastic cartons.

“You are not the kind of person who should text and walk,” I said.

Grandma snapped her phone shut. “He is so special.”

I did not want to hear about how special she found Willy. “I don’t know. Don’t you watch television? What if Willy is a maniac?”

My mother turned around and wagged her finger at me. “We’ve met Willy four times. He’s not a maniac. You know that.”

“Sometimes people hide their maniac side,” I said, wagging my finger back at her.

The phone buzzed again. Grandma flipped it open and
smiled. Then she snapped it shut. “I’m ready,” she cheered. “Let’s shop till we pop.”

I was so glad that Willy lived in New Mexico and not Idaho.

“Can I use the phone now?” I asked. Grandma handed it to me and it was still warm from her texting.

“Don’t you want to get your own unique binder?” my mom asked. She held up one with a picture of a mare.

“No,” I said. “Sylvie and I should match. We enjoy that.” Normally, Sylvie matched what I bought. But because Sylvie and her mom had already gone shopping, we had to do it the other way around.

My mother picked up another binder. This one had a unicorn and a rainbow.

“Mom,” I said. “Sylvie and I hate unicorns!”

“What about rainbows?” Grandma asked. “Remember, we can cover up anything you don’t like with stickers.”

I shook my head and dialed Sylvie’s number.

“Talk with Sylvie,” my mom said. “I’ll be in the next aisle selecting pencils and erasers.”

She left the cart with me and Grandma, and I waited for Sylvie to answer her phone. Then I got straight to the reason I’d called.

“Sylvie! I’m at Target and there’s a mountain of binders and I’m stuck. There’s one with a dog that I like. What did you get?”

“I got the two-inch binder with the lighthouse,” Sylvie said.

I pawed through a pile at eye level.

“I see one with a fort,” I said.

“No. Mine has a lighthouse and a bird and the ocean. There isn’t a fort. Not even on the back. I’m looking at it right now.”

I couldn’t believe it. Had Sylvie bought the last one with a lighthouse? Neither one of us had ever been to a lighthouse. When did she start liking those?

“I don’t see it. I think I might get the one with the dog.”

“I remember that one,” Sylvie said. “It was cute.”

I inspected it a little bit more. I feared it was a little
too cute
. My mom came back carrying a large pack of mechanical pencils. And another mom and her daughter rounded the corner behind her.

“Oh my heck!” I whispered into the phone. “You’ll never guess who’s in the binder aisle with me.”

“You sound freaked out. Is it Noll Beck?” Sylvie asked.

That was a good guess. Noll Beck was my neighbor, and even though he was fifteen and I was only eleven, I was madly in love with him.

“No,” I said. I whispered so quietly I could hardly hear my own voice. “It’s Malory Mahoney the Big Plastic Phony.”

Sylvie gasped. “What’s she doing?”

“Picking out a binder,” I whispered.

“Which one?” Sylvie asked.

“That dog is very cute,” my mom said, pointing to the binder I was holding. “Good choice.”

I shook my head and set the binder back in the pile of other dog binders. “I’m still shopping,” I said.

“What’s Malory doing now?” Sylvie asked.

Sylvie and I couldn’t stand Malory. Because if you ever did anything wrong, even something small like chewing gum during class, she’d rat on you to the teacher, but then pretend like she hadn’t.

I gasped into the phone. “She’s got the binder with the lighthouse!”

Sylvie gasped too. “With a bird? And the ocean?”

I nodded.

“What’s wrong, Bessica?” my mom asked. “Why are you making that face?”

“Hi, Bessica,” Malory said, waving at me.

I dipped my chin down and said breathily into the phone, “Malory is talking to me.”

“I know!” Sylvie said. “I can hear her.”

“I gotta go,” I said. Then I flipped the phone shut and walked up to Malory.

“Cool binder,” I said. I pointed to the small bird flying over the water. “I didn’t know you liked ducks.” Because I knew she didn’t like ducks. In fourth grade we’d gone
on a field trip to Warm River and she’d sat in duck poop during our picnic lunch and then ended up getting attacked by a duck. It pecked her legs and arms and head.

“It’s not a duck. It’s a seagull,” she said.

“Really?” I asked, trying to plant some doubt.

I could feel my mother standing behind me. “I’m going to go track down your ruler. It says here that one side has to be in centimeters.”

I flashed my mom a quick smile. “Cool.” Then I turned my attention back to Malory. Her mom was looking at me now. She had thick pink blabber lips just like Malory. And she was chewing gum and tapping her foot like she was in a hurry to be somewhere else. Other shoppers passed by us.

“This is Bessica Lefter,” Malory said. “We go to school together.”

I waved politely.

“We need to get moving,” Malory’s mom said.

I was so sad watching Malory hold that binder. But I didn’t know what else to say.

“Is that the binder with the lighthouse on it that you were looking for?” Grandma asked. “Where did you find yours?”

Malory pointed to an empty area. I made a very sad face.

“Oh darn,” Grandma said. “Maybe we can try another store.”

I nodded a very sad nod.

“Were you looking for a binder with a lighthouse on it?” Malory’s mom asked.

“Her heart was set on it,” Grandma said.

Malory looked very annoyed. But I didn’t care.

“Maybe you should give it to Bessica,” Malory’s mom suggested.

This was a fantastic and surprising suggestion. My mom would never make me give up my favorite binder to somebody I didn’t like. Because my mom was loyal.

Malory slowly extended the binder to me and I snatched it right up. “Thank you so much!” And then I left that aisle as quickly as I could and headed toward the rulers and hoped that Grandma was following me.

She was.

“Congratulations,” Grandma said.

“Now I need to call Sylvie again,” I said, flipping open the phone.

“Is Malory still there?” Sylvie asked.

“We’re not in the same aisle anymore. Get this. Her mom made her give me the lighthouse binder.”

“No way!”

“Way!”

My mother appeared out of nowhere. “Let’s hustle. At this rate we’ll be here until tomorrow.”

I waved the lighthouse binder in the air. My mother gave
me a thumbs-up sign, which did not thrill me, because we were in public.

“We still need glue and Kleenex and five hundred sheets of lined writing paper and a container of antibacterial wipes.”

“What about my heavy-duty scissors?” I asked. Because I remembered those from my list.

“I’m sure we’ve got a pair at home,” my mom said, leading us toward the tissue section.