by P. G. Kain
“Hi, Mom,” I say in a quiet but friendly “what situation could you possibly be talking about” kind of way as I come out from behind the door. My mom says, “Let’s have a conversation in my office.”
I don’t know why she always calls these “conversations.” Conversations are what you have at parties or while you wait for class to begin. Conversations are not lectures about taking responsibility for your actions or learning to mature gracefully.
I take the seat across the desk from her. Her office is like a mini version of our apartment. She calls it organized chaos. I just call it a mess. There are books piled on top of books, piled on top of more books. The walls of the office are covered with my mom’s adventures in crafting. There is the paint-by-numbers landscape of a snow-covered mountain, the magenta macramé wall hanging that resembles a deranged owl, and my personal least favorite—a portrait of me made out of, wait for it, macaroni. The only good thing about seeing these objects here is that they are no longer in our apartment. My mom says that after dealing with numbers all day, crafting relaxes her. I keep telling her she should go to a spa or get a massage, but she refuses to listen to me.
My mother squeezes between the wall and the bookcase next to her desk to sit down at her chair. Usually I can ignore my mom’s size until something like this chair reminds me that she is on the chubby side. She always says her weight doesn’t bother her and that she is perfectly happy with her body. Her long brown-and-gray hair is in a braid, which she only undoes when she sleeps. If I had to cast my mother in a commercial, it would be for some weird organic vegan granola that was made without harming trees, birds, plants, or any other living thing. Of course, no such commercial exists, so the chances of seeing my mother on TV are slim to none.
My mom just looks at me for a minute before opening her mouth to speak. “Cassie, I am very disappointed in you. Your school called me to tell me that you didn’t hand in your science report on the periodic table for your Foundations of Science class.”
The very phrase “periodic table” makes me tense. It should be called the idiotic table. For crying out loud, it’s not even a table! When am I ever going to need this information in real life? Answer: never. Actually, never ever. I consider sharing this information with my mother in hopes that it will change her mind about the importance of this report. Instead I just stare blankly at her, since I know that there is almost nothing I can say to stop her when she is gearing up for a lecture.
“Then they tell me you told your teacher you couldn’t do the report because you had an audition for a juice drink commercial.” My mother says the word “audition” like it hurts her teeth to get the word out of her mouth. She has never understood that I’d rather go on auditions than spend my time after school at some silly soccer game or just IMing my friends. Never mind the fact that the juice drink commercial she is referring to was a national network spot that would have aired in over fifty markets. There is no way my dad would have not seen it.
“Cassie, this is one hundred percent unacceptable. I won’t have you putting your commercial auditions before your academic endeavors. Your science teacher told me that even if you ace the rest of your exams, you shouldn’t expect a grade higher than—”
“Mom, I know,” I say quickly, cutting her off. The last thing in the world I need is to hear my lousy grade out loud.
“Cassie, your schoolwork comes first, which is why I called your agent to let her know that you are grounded from any auditions until further notice. So you shouldn’t be expecting any calls from Honey.”
“What?” I jump out of my chair and shout. “That’s not fair!” How can she do this to me? She knows how important this is to me. She knows how hard I work to book stuff. She also knows that when I book, I make a substantial amount of money for my college fund. I try to use that to my advantage. “What about saving for college? What about being able to afford a good school?”
“Cassie, if your grades don’t improve, we don’t have to worry about paying for a good school, because chances are you won’t be getting into any.”
Ouch. I drop back down in my chair. Why doesn’t my mother believe in me more? If my dad were here instead of traveling around the country selling pharmaceutical products, he’d let me keep auditioning. In fact, he’d encourage it. He always calls me when he sees me on TV, or at least he tries to.
My mother knows that last bit stung. She comes around from her desk and sits in the chair next to me, putting her hands on mine.
“Look, baby, I know how much you like your go-sees and auditions and your friends there, but I want to make sure you have opportunities and options when you’re older.”
“But Mom, summer vacation is only a few weeks away. What am I supposed to do? Sit home and sweat?”
“Cassie, you aren’t on house arrest. There are other things to do in New York City during the summer than go out on auditions. You could see Shakespeare in the Park, go to the Museum of Modern Art . . .”
“Yeah, Mom, I know. . . .” At this point I am no longer listening to her. Somewhere deep inside me, I’m sure I’m angry about her unreasonable decision, but right now the only emotion that surfaces is sadness. My mom goes on and on about how many stimulating cultural and educational experiences there are to be had in the city, and I just blankly stare back at her. I wait until I hear a pause in her lecture and try to think of something to say that will change her mind.
“But Mom, what if I only went on a few go-sees a—”
“Cassie! Have you been listening to a word I said? I just listed any number of activities to keep any kid your age busy for three summers, and the only thing you have on your mind is going out on go-sees.”
“I was listening,” I say, even though we both know I’m not exactly telling the truth.
“Cassie, there are no more go-sees, auditions, callbacks, or bookings. You are too preoccupied with it all, so none of it until we can figure out how to improve your grades.”
I leave her office in a state of shock. I feel like someone has just punched me in the stomach or canceled a snow day. When I feel this terrible, there is only one thing to do. I walk directly to Solazzo’s Bakery.
CHAPTER 4
“Oh, no. Chocolate-covered cannoli. What happened?” Ginger says after opening the door and spotting the square box from Solazzo’s Bakery tied up with red-and-white-striped string. She knows I reserve these treats for only the absolute worst problems. “Let me get my jacket.” Ginger grabs her purple-and-lime-green hoodie from behind the door and we head out of the building. Just being in the elevator with her and the cannoli already makes me feel better.
Ginger has been my best friend since we met in first grade, when both of her parents came to work at NYU. I’ve known them almost my entire life, and both her parents are amazing. Her dad is an anthropology professor and has bright orange hair, a bushy orange beard, a booming laugh, and he knows everything there is to know about ancient Egypt. Her mom teaches creative writing, is a published poet, makes the best chicken soup in the world, and gets around using a purple wheelchair that she decorates for every major holiday. For Purim last year she strung all these brightly colored masks on the armrests and a drawing of Queen Vashti on each wheel. Ginger could not have been adopted by more awesome parents.
We live in the same faculty housing complex, but I live on the seventeenth floor of the Gould Building, and Ginger lives on the fifth floor of the Walsh Building. The courtyard of the building complex holds a small playground and park. All the kids from the building play in the courtyard, and Ginger and I basically lived in that playground when we were little. A year or so ago we decided we needed to spread our wings a bit, so now we also hang out sometimes in Washington Square Park, which is only a block away from where we live.
“Are you gonna make me wait until we get to The Bench to find out what happened?” Ginger asks as we walk across Third Street toward Washington Square. The Bench is a green wooden two-seater that is perfectly positioned between the
dog run, the fountain, and the arch. We pretend we put a charm on it so that it will be free whenever one of us really needs it. Today I really need it.
“We’re almost there, Ginger.”
As we turn into the park, I see The Bench is free, even though the park is packed full of people enjoying one of the first warm days of the year. Luckily, a group of kids are break-dancing next to the fountain, so most people are gathered around their performance. We sit on the bench and take out the chocolate-covered treats.
Ginger puts a huge bite in her mouth and barely swallows before bombarding me with questions. “So what happened? Did something happen at your auditions? Did you book something? Was Rory at your audition? Did he catch you picking your nose?”
“Ginger!” I say, slapping her arm lightly and giggling. “That’s disgusting.” Ginger can always make me laugh, even though I don’t think she’s always trying to be funny.
“Well, whatever happened, I’m sure it will all be forgotten by your next audition,” Ginger says. The crowd that has gathered around the break-dancers cheers as one of the dancers starts popping.
“That’s just it, Ginger. That’s the problem. There aren’t going to be any more auditions.”
“WHAT?” she shouts. Ginger totally gets me and knows how important my go-sees are to me. Having a best friend like Ginger is the one thing that makes reality bearable.
“My mother has basically grounded me for the rest of my life. She’s being totally unreasonable.”
“I hate to ask, but does this have anything to do with the periodic table?” Ginger asks shyly. She tried to get me to tell my mother about the whole mess in my Foundations of Science class, but I didn’t listen to her. And she’s the last person in the world to say, “I told you so,” but I know she must be thinking it.
“The school called my mother, and now she knows I’m not exactly at the top of the class in Foundations of Science. She said no more auditions until I can figure out how to improve my grades. What am I supposed to do all summer? I don’t know where she thinks we’re going to get the money for college,” I tell Ginger.
“You could always get a summer job,” Ginger suggests.
“Maybe,” I say. Of course, a summer job wouldn’t even come close to earning me the amount of money I could get from booking even one small local spot. Not to mention the fact that babysitting presents very few romantic opportunities and even fewer chances for my dad to see me flash across the television screen of some hotel lobby.
Still, I tease Ginger about the idea of working together. “What if we both got jobs doing something totally crazy?” I say. “Like handing out flyers for Macho Taco dressed as a burrito or something.”
Ginger laughs. “That would actually be fun. But you know I’ll spend the summer stuck in Chinese school.” Ginger was adopted from China, and her parents make her go to Chinese school each summer so she’ll always be able to speak the language from the country she was born in. Even though she complains about it, I know she secretly looks forward to it.
“Ginger, you know you can’t wait for Chinese school to begin this year so your crush on Ming-wei can start up again.” I have a Crush List, but Ginger is much more single-minded.
“You say that like I ever stopped crushing on him. Anyway, who wants to be stuck in summer school? It’s not like the grades from Chinese school even go on my transcript.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say, and lick a bit of chocolate off my finger.
Then Ginger shouts, “That’s it!” and slaps me on the arm. I almost swallow my finger.
“What’s it?” I ask her. “Oh, no, was there something gross in your treat, like that time we found a moth in your salad?”
“No, nothing like that, and remember you promised to never bring that up again.” Ginger shudders briefly. I look at her carefully. I can always tell when she is coming up with some elaborate plan. Her right eye twitches just a little bit, and at this moment her right eye looks like someone threw sand into it. Then she says, “Cassie, I think I’ve just come up with a solution to your problem.”
“Ginger, unless you’ve invented a time machine that will let me go back to the third marking period and hand in my report, I don’t think there’s anything you can do,” I tell her.
“Oh, a time machine! That’s a fantastic idea, but not the one I’m thinking of right now.”
“What are you thinking right now?” I ask, not sure I want the answer.
“Well, you might not like the sound of it at first, but you’ll have to admit it might just work. . . .”
I look at Ginger and her twitching right eye and prepare for the worst.
CHAPTER 5
Summer school. Talk about two words that do not go together. If someone told me even a month ago that I would be getting up at the crack of dawn to go to the school library to get the forms to sign up for summer school, I would have thought they were auditioning for a commercial for Crazy Town. Yet here I am, walking into the building an hour before classes even start just to get the brochures and registration materials for an encore presentation of Foundations of Science.
We ate another whole cannoli in the park before Ginger was able to convince me that signing up for Foundations of Science in summer school might actually persuade my mother to lift her ban on any and all auditions.
Of course, the library is deserted at this hour of the morning. Even Mrs. Birdsall, the librarian, is still in her office with a cup of coffee and not roaming around like she perpetually does during the school day. I plop my backpack on the table and head toward the back of the room, where the important school forms are kept. As I walk through the stacks, I hear, “Hello, fair maiden. What brings you to this humble reliquary at this hour o’ the morn?”
Only one person I know talks like they are a character from a lost chapter of The Lord of the Rings, and only one person I know would be in the library before school starts. Nevin Watson. I turn my head and sure enough, I see Nevin’s pasty face staring at me.
“Nevin,” I say, walking away from him, “don’t you ever get tired of doing homework?” Despite the fact that I make sure my tone reflects frustration and annoyance, Nevin takes this as an invitation to follow me around the library.
“Oh, milady, I’m not doing homework. I’m just doing some much-needed personal research related to—”
“That’s great, Nevin,” I cut him off, hoping to avoid having to hear some boring explanation of wind turbines or Middle-earth mythology or some other dork-infested topic that I have little interest in. I walk farther away from Nevin, and he continues to follow me.
Nevin has had a silly crush on me since forever. He was the first kid I met in our building, and even though he is two years younger than me, he is only one grade behind me because he skipped a year somewhere along the way. I would send Nevin out for any commercial castings that contained the words “nerd,” “dork,” or “geek.” I know that to nerds, dorks, and geeks there is a tremendous amount of difference between each group, but to me they are all the same, and Nevin is their king.
Nevin is actually quite harmless. In fact, when we were little kids, Nevin, Ginger, and I played in the courtyard all the time. When you’re little, you just play with whoever happens to be close by. But then I grew out of pretending the fountain was an enchanted castle and that the benches were elves trapped by a spell. I started going out on auditions, where the pretending was much more real. Nevin never quite got the message that I’ve moved on from childhood games.
After being followed halfway through the library, I finally turn to Nevin and say, “Look, I’m just trying to get some homework done. Can you go back to doing whatever you were doing and I’ll just see you around? K?” I try to sound as nice as possible. Nevin is not a bad kid. He’s just a bit of a pest.
“Ah, milady needs her private time,” Nevin says dramatically as he extends his arm and bows. At least in a few weeks he will be off at math camp or computer camp or whatever camp is the flavor of the month
for social misfits. “I cannot tarry myself, as I am here to sign up for summer school. Mr. Rossi said that if I take Foundations of Science this summer, I could take an honors seminar next—”
“What did you say?” I ask. “What did you just say?”
“Tarry?” Nevin asks with a smile. “‘Tarry’ is an old term. It means—”
“I know what ‘tarry’ means,” I say with an annoyed tone. The truth is, I’m not exactly sure what “tarry” means, but in this moment it could mean purple freaking elephants for all I care. “What did you say about summer school?”
“Just that I am taking it.”
“You’re taking Foundations of Science this summer?” Nevin just nods his head. He knows I’m in a foul mood, but he can’t figure out exactly what he did to put me in my foul mood. I can’t believe my luck—or lack thereof. It’s one thing to be stuck in summer school, but another to be stuck in summer school with Nevin. He’ll be on me like lip gloss on a prom queen. There’s no way I could go the whole summer in a class with Nevin without going absolutely insane. Ginger would never make me go through with her plan if she knew that it involved Nevin. On the other hand, Ginger has never understood why he annoys me so much. She finds him perfectly harmless, and at times humorous, which just goes to show you that even Ginger can be wrong.
