Twelve

by Lauren Myracle

  “Yeah, sure,” I said.

  “I’m Cinnamon,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Cinnamon,” she said. “I know it’s weird, but that’s my name.” Her expression—part martyred, part amused—said she’d been through this countless times before.

  “Your name is Cinnamon?” I said. “That is so cool.”

  “My parents are pretty hippie-dippy,” she explained. She waited, then said, “So . . . do you have a name?”

  I blushed. “Oh, right. I’m Winnie.”

  Coach Swinson clapped her hands. “Let’s do it,” she said. “I want you each to do as many sit-ups as you can in one minute. Then you’ll switch.”

  Cinnamon and I scrambled into position. She lay on her back with knees bent, and I anchored her feet with my weight. She clasped her hands behind her head.

  Coach Swinson blew her whistle. “Go!”

  Cinnamon huffed and puffed. Her body jerked beneath me. It was a very intimate thing, holding this newly met person’s feet. I focused my attention on counting.

  “Fifty-three,” I said at the end of the minute. I released Cinnamon’s feet, and she extended her legs. She panted, arms spread wide on the mat.

  “Time to switch,” Coach Swinson said. I lay back and put my hands behind my head, and Cinnamon got into place at my feet.

  “Ready, go!”

  I strained against her. My stomach muscles did the bulk of the work, but my legs were involved, too, bracing against her grip. Down there on the floor I felt very . . . exposed, and I hoped my shorts weren’t gaping at the leg. I also hoped desperately and fervently that there wouldn’t be a replay of my fart moment at Camp Winding Gap, because, exerting myself like this, it was entirely possible.

  “Fifty-eight, fifty-nine . . . sixty!” Cinnamon cried as Coach Swinson blasted her whistle. “Winnie, that’s awesome!”

  I grinned, breathing hard. Rather than flopping onto the mat, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself up. Was she mad that I’d done more than her? I didn’t think so.

  Next came laps around the gym, and Cinnamon fell in beside me even though I didn’t expect her to. We chatted as we jogged, and I learned that she was an alpha-omega, which meant she’d started Westminster in pre-K and would assumedly continue on through her senior year. At first I thought, She must know tons of people—so why’d she pick me? What was wrong with her that left her as partnerless as I was? Then, more charitably, I decided that maybe it was because she knew so many people that she did pick me. Because she was able to, sort of.

  I liked her kindness, but I didn’t want her pity, so I tried to be witty and entertaining. I told her about Sandra and her ratty BMW and how Dad wanted us to wear bike helmets, which made her laugh. She told me that her own dad had just gotten remarried, and that her new stepmom unfolded Cinnamon’s used-up tissues to see how many blows Cinnamon had gotten on them.

  “What?!” I said.

  “She pulls them out of the trash—I’m not kidding,” Cinnamon said. “She’s like, ‘You’re being wasteful by not using the entire Kleenex.’ I’m like, ‘You’re being disgusting by checking!’ ”

  “That’s nuts,” I said, imagining Cinnamon’s stepmom rooting through the garbage. In my mind she wore a velour sweatsuit, like Gail Grayson’s mom. Malena, Gail’s boob-friend, was in Cinnamon’s and my PE class, and she bounced along ahead of us in her green-and-white gym uniform.

  “Hey,” I said, jerking my chin in Malena’s direction. “Do you know that girl?”

  “Malena?” Cinnamon said. “She’s been here since pre-K, too. Not my favorite.”

  I was delighted to hear this, and my impression of Cinnamon went up. “Oh yeah? Why?”

  “She’s not very nice, that’s all,” Cinnamon said. “I mean—decide for yourself. But, like, she’s the kind of girl who makes you feel bad if you suck at field hockey, or whatever. She thinks she’s so much better than everyone.”

  “There’s a girl from my old school who’s like that,” I said, feeling daring. “She goes here now, too. Her name’s Gail.”

  “Great,” Cinnamon said. “Just what we need.”

  I laughed.

  In the locker room, I felt happy as I changed back into my normal clothes. I’d made a new friend—maybe—and she was cool. She was also older-acting than my elementary-school friends. And she wore thong underwear. I noticed as she slipped into her jeans.

  Still, the very first thing I did when I got home was to call Dinah and tell her she had to go to school the next day.

  “Because number one, I missed you,” I said, “and number two, you’re supposed to spend the night tomorrow night, and your dad won’t let you if you’re supposedly sick.” It was one of those rules that all grown-ups seemed to share: if you’re sick, you’re sick, and there should be nothing fun about it. Even though surely Mr. Devine knew that Dinah had spent all day playing Mario Kart on her GameCube.

  “But what if I see that girl again?” Dinah asked. “The one who . . . you know.”

  “Well, you probably will,” I said. “So you might as well go ahead and get it over with.”

  “I don’t want to,” Dinah said.

  “What other option do you have?” I said. “I mean, come on. Would you rather be homeschooled?”

  “Yes,” Dinah said.

  I switched tactics, because it was all beginning to sound too familiar. “Anyway, what about that dance-group thingie you told me about? The hip-hop club. Don’t you want to sign up?”

  Dinah was silent. I knew she did, though, because on the first day of school that was all she could talk about. At the time, I hadn’t encouraged her, because I wasn’t interested in the hip-hop club, and I doubted she’d join without me. But who knows? Maybe she would.

  “Plus there’s this girl I want you to meet,” I went on. “She’s in our PE class.”

  “Oh,” said Dinah.

  “She’s great,” I said. “You’ll like her, I promise.”

  And she did. I introduced the two of them the next day, and for just a second I felt worried. Or rather, I felt that old need to apologize for Dinah’s . . . Dinah-ness. For the way her gym shorts bunched up around her waist, for the paleness of her thighs.

  But Cinnamon smiled at Dinah and said, “Hey.” She complimented Dinah’s shoes, which had somehow become retro-cool even though they were still her plain old Keds. But if Cinnamon saw them as a statement, who was I to correct her?

  Then somehow during battle ball we started barking at one another, like dogs, and it was goofy and fun and made my heart lift. I was a little embarrassed in front of the other girls, especially Malena, because nobody was barking but us. It was a tiny bit elementary-schoolish. But then I was like, Okay, so we’re suddenly cocker spaniels. Is that so wrong? Anyway, Cinnamon started it—and she wears a thong.

  On the walk up the hill from the gym to the junior high building, we pledged that on Monday, we’d all wear our hair in doggy ears, just to be silly.

  “And we’ll quit wearing makeup,” Cinnamon said.

  “If we ever wore makeup in the first place, which I don’t,” I said.

  “Yeah -huh,” Dinah said. “You wear lip gloss.”

  “I wear lip balm,” I said. “Big difference.”

  Dinah turned to Cinnamon. “Do you wear makeup?” she said. It was the kind of question only Dinah would ask.

  “Sometimes,” Cinnamon said. She hitched her backpack higher on her shoulder. “Like, you know, powder on my nose, because it gets shiny. And sometimes sparkle dust on my cheeks.”

  “I like sparkle dust,” I said. I also liked the way she called it sparkle dust, when I’d always called it sparkly stuff or sparkles. “I put it on my shoulders.”

  “But I don’t want to be old and boring,” Cinnamon said. “I don’t want to care what I look like and worry about boys and all that crap.”

  I thought, Hmm. Maybe the thong was a fake-out. Or maybe she was worried about seventh grade, too, even though she’s been her
e all along.

  “Well, I’m all for that,” I said.

  “Me, too,” said Dinah.

  “Me, three,” said Cinnamon.

  We gave a triple high five, then laughed when Dinah said “Ow” and shook her fingers.

  Mr. Devine let Dinah spend the night since it was clear she was over her mysterious illness. We watched Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, which for some reason Dinah can’t get enough of, and scarfed down Jimmy Dean Sausage Biscuits fresh from the microwave. Ty matched us biscuit for biscuit. He also offered fascinating commentary on the movie, such as, “That girl is pretty. I will marry her, and we will live on the moon. Or maybe Atlanta. But not California, because I will not step foot in the Ring of Fire.”

  “What is he talking about?” Dinah said.

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  Around nine, I kissed Ty good night, and Dinah did, too. He wiped off our slobber, but not the kisses. Then we went upstairs for a little “us” time.

  “Ahhhh,” I said, falling spread-eagled on my bed. “Our hell week is over!”

  “Winnie!” Dinah said, shocked.

  I was a little shocked, too. And I immediately felt guilty, because hell was a bad word. But mainly I felt giddy, because it was such a relief to be away from junior high for a whole blessed weekend. Even the good parts, like Cinnamon.

  Dinah flopped down beside me. The mattress groaned. “It wasn’t all bad, though,” she said. “It wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. And next week, the hip-hop club starts! I’m so excited.”

  “You’ll have to teach me your cool moves,” I said. “Except I won’t be able to do them, because I’m such a klutz.”

  “I wish you would just sign up,” she said.

  “Nah,” I said. “I’m glad you did, though.” I sat up, because even though we’d pigged out on sausage biscuits, I was still hungry. Probably because I hadn’t eaten all week. “Hey, do you want a Polar Bar?”

  “Ooo, yeah,” Dinah said. We loved Polar Bars because of their commercials, which showed people opening their freezers and being blasted by arctic winds as they unwrapped their slabs of ice cream. “Enjoy the Polar Bar Experience,” the commercials urged.

  We padded downstairs and stood in front of the open freezer with our hair whipping about our faces. Only not really. We took a Polar Bar apiece and scurried back to my room, where we acted out the commercial by taking bites of our ice cream and fainting in chilly delight on the bed.

  “The Polar Bar Experience!” I cried, flinging myself backward.

  “The Polar Bar Experience!” Dinah echoed. She collapsed beside me with joyful abandon, and the bed crashed to the floor with a bang. We stared at each other in astonishment.

  “Mommy, I heard a noise!” Ty cried from his room. His footsteps sounded in the hall, and he burst into my room. “Winnie, why is your bed broken? Why are you and Dinah on the floor?”

  Mom and Dad materialized to see what was wrong. Dad’s face grew stormy.

  “I told you not to jump on the bed,” he said.

  “No, you didn’t,” I said in a teeny voice. “Not tonight.” When I saw that wasn’t working, I said, “Anyway, we weren’t jumping on it! We were just . . . lying on it, I promise!”

  “Why do you have ice cream?” Ty said, noticing our Polar Bars. “I want ice cream!”

  “You brought ice cream to your room?” Mom said. Food in our rooms was expressly forbidden, because of roaches that could smell out the least little nibblet of goodness.

  “Winnie,” Dad said. He didn’t often get mad, and for just that moment he reminded me of Mrs. Potter, the day she scolded Ansley about her missing pencil.

  “I’m so, so very sorry,” I said. “It was an accident.”

  “You accidentally brought ice cream up to your room, and you accidentally jumped on your bed and broke it?” Dad said.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. And then I couldn’t help it. I got the giggles.

  Dad’s expression darkened, and I knew I should hush and act serious. But tonight Dad’s anger didn’t have the usual effect. He was scary, there was no denying it, and I knew there’d be consequences galore. But I’d seen—and survived— much worse.

  October

  SAY THE WRONG NAME,” Louise whispered, leaning across the aisle and breathing into my ear.

  “What?”

  “When she calls roll. Pass it on.”

  I glanced at the front of the room. The “she” Louise was referring to was Ms. Braddy, who was subbing for our English teacher, Ms. Duncan, who had the flu. Ms. Braddy was large and smelled like Vaseline, and it was clear from the blinkiness of her eyes that she wasn’t the type of sub who knew how to hold her own. Plus, it was the week of Halloween—not a good week for the best of subs. Kids were trying on all sorts of fiendish behaviors, and it wasn’t pretty.

  Louise kicked my desk. “Pass it on.”

  I leaned forward and told Sydney, who told Malena, who told Ansley, who widened her eyes and nodded before starting it down the next row.

  “If I could only find—” Ms. Braddy said to herself. She shuffled again through the papers on the desk, then straightened up with a look of surprise. “Gracious, it’s been here all the time.” She peered at the attendance sheet. “Sydney LeBey?” she began.

  “Actually, I go by Cindy,” Sydney said. Malena snorted, and Sydney kicked her shin.

  “Cindy,” Ms. Braddy said. She made a mark on the sheet. “William Everett?”

  “Bill,” William said, who never went by “Bill” or even “Will.” From the class came a ripple of glee.

  “Bill,” Ms. Braddy repeated. She moved on down the list. “Malena Willingham?”

  “It’s Melanie,” Malena said.

  “But it says here—”

  “It’s a typo.”

  “Oh. My, I can’t get anything right, can I?”

  “Nope,” William said under his breath. “’Cause you’re a loser.” He stretched the word out the way guys do when they’re trying to be funny, and it worked. Everyone laughed. Ms. Braddy grew more flustered.

  “Louise Naylor?” she said.

  Louise cast her eyes around the room. “Lulu,” she said. “I prefer to go by Lulu.”

  Ms. Braddy did her blinking routine.

  “She does,” William said. “She goes by Lulu.”

  “Lulu,” Ms. Braddy said aloud. There were titters all around.

  By the time it was my turn, there was a faint sheen on Ms. Braddy’s wide forehead.

  “Winifred Perry?” she called.

  Louise looked at me, while to my left Malena smiled with her pink braces. It was the first time she’d ever smiled at me.

  “Winifred?” Ms. Braddy said again.

  “Uh, Wendy,” I blurted. “I go by Wendy.”

  A noise escaped from behind Sydney’s hand, which Ms. Braddy heard.

  “The name on the list is Winifred,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever—”

  “We call her Wendy,” Louise interrupted. “We always have.”

  My face burned. I really didn’t need Louise getting into it. “Well,” Ms. Braddy said. “Wendy.” Her hands shook as she put the attendance sheet away. “It says here that you’re to start off in your workbooks. Is that right?”

  “No,” Louise said. “Ms. Duncan lets us talk.”

  “I don’t think so,” Ms. Braddy said.

  “She does,” Louise said.

  “Workbooks,” Ms. Braddy said in a too-tight voice. “Begin, please.”

  By half past the hour, Ms. Braddy had regained her composure. She moved from desk to desk, commenting on “Melanie’s” neat penmanship and “Bill’s” excellent spelling. She had something nice to say to everyone, and I felt bad for how we’d treated her. She reminded me of my aunt Lucy. Aunt Lucy was a biggish sort of person, too, and at one point she’d been studying to be a teacher. But she’d dropped out of the program, which now I was glad of. Kids could be so mean.

  I made a point of raising my hand and answer
ing politely when Ms. Braddy quizzed us on our spelling words, and when she needed someone to come up with a sentence for unveil, I was her girl. Louise frowned at me like I was a suck-up, but I tried to ignore her.

  The end of the period rolled around, and I’d almost forgotten the class’s bad beginning. Or at least, I’d turned it into something not so bad in my brain. This was junior high. Kids were going to do stuff. Anyway, it was just a joke. Who couldn’t take a joke?

  “All right,” Ms. Braddy said. “Tidy up your desks, please, and Wendy, will you collect the spelling sheets?”

  I shoved my book into my desk along with the blue spiral notebook I used for spelling. Crinkles of paper were caught in the wire spiral, and I poked at them with my pencil.

  “Wendy?”

  William snickered, and I jerked up my head. “Huh?”

  Everyone cracked up. They thought I’d done it on purpose.

  Ms. Braddy blinked. Her lipstick was smeary around her lips, and she looked oddly like a little kid.

  “She wants you to collect the spelling sheets, Wendy,” William said.

  “Yeah, Wendy,” said Louise. “Pay attention.”

  “Way to go,” said Logan, smirking when I got to his desk. “You made her cry.”

  “I did not,” I whispered. My eyes flew to the front of the room, where Ms. Braddy sat with her hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes kept blinking and blinking.

  I snatched Logan’s sheet and shuffled the papers into a neat stack. I placed the stack on the corner of Ms. Duncan’s desk. “Um, here you go.”

  “Thank you,” Ms. Braddy said.

  “You want me to do anything else? Want me to erase the dry board?”

  Ms. Braddy opened her mouth to answer, but right then the bell rang, and we watched together as everyone scrambled out of their desks and pushed toward the door. She turned to me. “Go on. I’ll take care of it.”

  I shifted my weight. Malena was the last person out the door, and now it was just the two of us: me and Ms. Braddy.

  “Go on now,” she said again.

  I hesitated, then walked to the door. Part of me wanted to look back, but part of me didn’t.