Here is a girl using her imagination to magically turn each of the boys into a chicken patty with whole wheat bun and beat them about the head with seasoned green beans.
I focus on the sidewalk until I get around the corner of the parking lot, moving one foot at a time. Any moment now, I will see the back of Rama’s head. I will follow her until we reach Fargo Drive.
Easy.
Man, if I had Sandy Showalter’s phone number, I could put a stop to this right now. I could tell her how great Anibal is. Sandy, you could study Texas History together and Anibal would help you with your science project. He likes frozen yogurt, too. He has several younger brothers and sisters and is very good with them. He gets cool posters from the dollar store. Call him now before some other cheer squad girl gets him.
Yes, I could find her number, tell her these things, and we’d have a great laugh. She would thank me and then all this social experiment would be at an end. Even Rama would come to know the good side of Anibal.
And then, when this is all straightened out, I can figure out a way to make Mama happy. Happier. I can ask Anibal to bring food from the dollar store. They have milk there. Bread. Basic things. Even toilet paper and shoelaces. I can give him my Christmas money and he can bring little items a few at a time. It will be a small thing, but it will help out a lot until Dad comes home.
Perfect. Perfect plans.
The thing about making perfect plans in a fantasy world of your own mind is that when you reenter the real world, you may realize that you are lost.
And you realize that you are so stupid to flee like an animal because animals do not spend so much time thinking, do they? No, they probably just run to another part of the forest, find a shady spot to sit, and call it home.
Here is a girl experiencing nine shades of nefariousness.
Lost.
Lost in my own stupid town.
Okay, think, Mysti. You’ve ridden the bus for a year. You’ve got to figure this out. You’ve got to get home before Mama panics.
Mama.
She will suffer the most from my being lost. Or snatched? And Laura alone with Mama? That is a dreadful thought. Mama will never let Laura go back to school. They will both be forced to survive on tap water and turnips. They will wear those HAVE YOU SEEN ME? T-shirts until my iron-on photo fades away.
The first thing my non-animal brain does is some kind of mental blame equation that adds up all the reasons this is not my fault.
If Texas wasn’t so hot, the school AC would not have broken.
And then students wouldn’t have to go home early.
Making the buses really disorganized.
And if the buses weren’t disorganized, there wouldn’t be a long line of jerks with more insults than sense.
And insults make you walk away.
You wouldn’t have to walk if your mom drove or dear old Dad wasn’t sick.
And Dad wouldn’t be sick if not for the stupid dumb old tree.
I line up this equation in my mind. The common denominator of blazing heat and old tree is Mother Nature. And since nature is created by God, I look to the sky and begin to lay the ultimate blame heavenward. Right as I am deciding between saying a prayer or shouting an insult, I hear a voice call out to me:
“Mysti, you are not lost. You are just confused.”
chapter 24
It is not the voice of God I hear. It is the voice of a girl with a scarf, and a hand on her hip.
Here is a girl who knows that animals help each other in the wild.
“What are you talking about?” I say. “I know I’m not lost!”
“Well, don’t be a slowpoke. It’s hot out here.”
“What’s your phone number?” I ask Rama. All my panic could have easily vanished if I had her phone number. On the walk home, we exchange numbers. Then I try to memorize the way home. I discover that all the streets in my neighborhood are cleverly alphabetized. Atlanta. Boston. El Dorado. Fargo.
Fargo!
I kick an acorn as we walk. “Try not to let their stupidity bother you.”
“When I’m a famous doctor, I will not save them from cancer.”
“Agreed!”
As we turn down Fargo, I feel the aftershocks of being afraid and lost still rattling my bones. That’s the closest real danger I’ve ever experienced. My legs are filled with nervous energy. They want to rest and sprint at the same time.
“Where did you go?” Rama asks.
“What?”
“Your face. It looked like it went someplace far away.”
“Well, I’m back now.”
“Want to watch me needlepoint?”
“Needlepoint?”
“It’s practice for surgery.”
“So you’re going to be a surgeon and cure cancer?”
“You say that like it’s something strange.”
“No, not strange. It’s unusual. It rocks.”
Rama goes inside her house and I sit on her porch until she comes back outside with her mother.
Like Rama, Mrs. Khan wears a neat head scarf and an expression of concern.
“So you are staying out here?” her mother asks.
“For a while if that’s okay,” Rama answers. “This is Mysti.”
I say hi.
“Let me know if you get too hot,” Rama’s mother says. “Nice to meet you, Mysti. Rama, we leave for practice at four.”
She closes the door and I see Rama rolling her eyes. “Sorry I didn’t invite you in. She doesn’t want the ‘real world’ coming into our house and messing with our culture.”
“How would I mess with your culture?”
“Who knows, but apparently having a sleepover with someone could change my religion,” Rama says. “Hey, what is the Krusty Krab and why does it need so many managers?”
“What?”
“On Facebook. Everyone says they work as a fry cook at the Krusty Krab.”
“You’re on Facebook?” First, there is the shock of being lost. Second, there is the shock of Rama Khan on Facebook.
“Since I can’t have sleepovers and am forced to attend Saturday math tutoring and be a violin genius, I negotiated with my mother that I could look at it for two hours a week.”
I want to say, Wow, that is really weird, but I don’t. I’m someone who is constantly pretending I’m in Paris or making up horrible songs about my life, so who am I to judge.
“Rama, are you familiar with that classic show SpongeBob?”
“No.”
“It’s a cartoon, silly.” While Rama needlepoints a yellow flower into white cloth, I provide her with basic cartoon knowledge (Bikini Bottom) and what tbh means (to be honest) and my dad’s personal theory of why people post all about their life on Facebook (because they are not living one). She seems obsessed with understanding Facebook and the acronyms of boys. I try to tell her that Facebook isn’t cool anymore, but she won’t listen.
“They don’t even spell actual words correctly. Girl is with an i, not g-u-r-l.”
“Then don’t look at it.”
“So you’ll help me? And don’t make fun of me?”
“Who said I’d make fun of you?” Not to your face.
Rama’s intelligence has intimidated me from the first day I met her, so it’s nice to know she’s not perfect.
“RamaKhan!”
“RamaKhan!”
After a while, guess who walks past? Woman Who Goes Somewhere cruising on down Fargo Drive. Today she wears a yellow corduroy jacket, baggy jeans, and giant white-framed sunglasses.
“What do you think of her, Rama?”
“Well, she’s no hipster!”
We roll on the ground laughing.
Rama’s mother pokes her head out the front door again, so I take it as a sign to stop endangering her daughter’s culture. I get to the curb in front of 4520 Fargo Drive and regard our house. It looks extra brown and extra plain.
Inside, it’s so quiet and still and there is no one to talk to. No one to say, Hey, guess what,
I walked home. How about that? Mama’s door is big and closed so I tiptoe around so that she can sleep. I don’t even take a shower, which is what I really want to do.
I hide in the office and spend time researching how not to get lost in your own neighborhood.
Here is how you do that research.
You search online and gather maps and directions and study them like you’re having a test at school and the grade will count for the whole year. It’s pass or fail. That’s how hard you study. When you’re done, you know the distance it will take to travel to the places you need to go. You know how long it will take to get there. You tell yourself it won’t be as scary now that you’re more prepared. You feel a little better. Your bones and legs feel a little less shaky.
From our house to Beatty Middle School: 1.2 miles, twenty-five-minute walk.
From our house to Tom Thumb grocery store: 0.9 miles, twenty minutes.
And then you look up the map to your dream location even though there’s no possible way to walk there. Unless your dreams had feet.
From our house to Paris, France: 4,928 miles, forever.
Finally, you print out all this information, take it to your room, and slip it between the books propping up your bed. You hope the information will seep into your brain while you sleep.
chapter 25
Here is a girl texting the only person who wouldn’t mock her for being in middle school and preparing for a distant future.
Hey
Hey!
What r u doing?
Homework. U?
Same. Studying.
Have question.
?
I think u should forget about Gomez.
Why do you care?
U R my friend.
Still. Don’t care about him anymore. Even Wayne agrees
Wayne!!!!
Wayne. So forget him.
You should get to know him.
Maybe. I think u should like Wayne.
Wayne!!??
His FB status says he’s reading.
LOL. Of course it does!
What does to mack on someone mean? Sandy is doing this.
OMG!
Forget Gomez boy! Forget wannabe hipsters.
Good night!
Rama doesn’t understand about Anibal. Anibal doesn’t understand Rama. That is the truth. All the time, I hear Dad say that people are as different as apples and oranges. Anibal and Rama are the apples and oranges of my life.
Anibal is trying to change the best he knows how. Trying not to be last year’s Anibal, who was round and teased and tortured over his weight. The Anibal no one would really talk to. Except me. I’m still the same and still wanting to talk to him. But he’s gone and become something different. I am not so completely stupid that I agree with his methods. And Rama is trying to change and make herself better, too. They are both running toward change. They don’t consider it a scary monster.
Well, how long can a person truly stay the same? Isn’t the universe even designed to change with each season? Leaves morph from tiny green buds into beautiful hand-sized sheets and then on to reds and browns and golds. Girls who are frightened become girls who can walk a mile and a half. Mothers who paint keep painting over perfectly good walls and canvases because they want to picture something new.
We are all changing beings.
Now that I am in bed, safe under my soft and warm comforter, I do not want to ever leave. Here is a space where there are no problems. Only the crack in my ceiling. That is the only problem. A crack that widens because maybe the house wants to change, too. So there are no problems.
Except for the problems you carry in your mind. They creep into your safe space without an invitation. This problem is so stupid there is not even a name for it. Because what do you call that irritating feeling that tells you you’re going to have to change whether you want to or not? What do you call these invisible things that seem like they are marching toward you and you better get ready? What is that?
Larry rolls over, lets out a soft growl. I let my arm fall off the bed and pet him.
“I know, boy, I know. I just need a sign. If I have a sign, it will be enough of a push to keep moving. We can’t both be growlers.”
If I don’t do something about all this, I tell you I will become more like Mama, less like Dad. More like someone who stays home and paints the world. Less like a person who sees the world.
Right now, the thing to do is make a plan. Step one, make friends with Sandy by giving her the braided shoelace bracelet. Stick close to Rama and Wayne. And make sure that I eat enough at lunch so that my days as the Texas History Growler are behind me. Be like an animal and listen to my instincts, but don’t think so much that you get lost. And do as Rama suggested and avoid wannabe hipsters.
That’s all I have to do.
Here is a girl with the shaky sensation of having a foot on two boats. She must quickly decide which way to jump before the expanding water makes the decision for her and she falls into splashy doom.
chapter 26
Here is a girl convincing herself that everything will be okay if she avoids chicken-on-a-bun and wannabe hipsters.
You cannot avoid wannabe-hipster friends when your sinister Texas History teacher pairs you together for a project. Man, this class wants to kill my hope, one humiliation at a time.
Today, Ms. Overstreet enters from the back of the room.
Her boots click against the floor, making this sound as she walks: new-evil-plan-new-evil-plan-new-evil-plan.
“You are going to be excited about this next assignment on the Texas Revolution, which you will complete by working in groups of two,” she says. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to never forget the Alamo! In order to do this, you will create the Alamo!”
She arrives at her desk and smiles a conspiratorial half-smile. I know it’s not to conceal her teeth. She has perfect teeth the way most villains do. She scans the classroom and calls out names, pairing the two people least likely to want to work together on a project.
Evil.
She has to know poor non-Proactiv-affording, trombone-playing Wayne Kovok has a crush on Sandy Showalter.
“Sandy Showalter and… Wayne Kovok.”
And she goes on.
Ms. Overstreet prepares to pair another set of seventh graders with dire consequences. She announces, “How about Mysti Murphy and… Anibal Gomez.”
According to Ms. Overstreet, Anibal Gomez and I can work together to create a Texas Revolution project.
According to me, we cannot.
In the past, you would have seen me grin with excitement and consider all the great conversations we’d have while doing a project together. Not today.
“But Ms. Overstreet—” I say.
“No, I’m not assigning new partners, Mysti,” she says in a voice that suggests I’ve insulted her ability to teach just by partially raising my hand. I have my doubts as to whether Ms. Overstreet was ever a seventh-grade student. Her memory of what it takes to survive has vanished.
“Each project will be due in three weeks. You will present in pairs to the class. You are to identify the major heroes of the Texas Revolution and create a booklet or PowerPoint presentation of your results. You are to write an essay on the qualities of a hero. And, you’re to construct a replica of the Alamo. You’ll have the final fifteen minutes of each class period to work with your partner. Your time starts now.”
Of course, I’m the first to make a move toward Anibal Gomez.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
With this kind of epic conversation, what can go wrong?
A lot.
“You can pretty much do this,” Anibal says.
“No way.”
“It hurts my feelings to do the Alamo,” he says. “Those were my people.”
Even more reason you should help. For your people.”
“You get started and I’ll think about it.”
“Well, don’t inju
re yourself thinking.”
“What’s your problem?”
Ms. Overstreet passes by our desks and asks how we are doing.
“Fine,” Anibal says. “Buy me lunch tomorrow and I’ll work on it a little bit.”
“I’m not falling for that again.”
I fell for it again.
But if you knew my trick, you wouldn’t roll your eyes to China like Rama did. She didn’t know that I got back at Anibal in my own special way. I made him a one-of-a-kind sandwich.
“I’ll get your lunch, just go sit down.”
Right after I pay for his chicken-on-a-bun, I sink three pieces of Larry’s dog food deep into the patty and then replace the bun. It’s the last of my lunch money, but I don’t mind.
“Here’s your sandwich.”
“Here’s the list and some supplies my mom got at the dollar store.” Anibal hands me a list of the famous figures in the Texas Revolution and a jumbo package of Popsicle sticks, and tells me to go sit someplace else, his friends are coming. Three dollars and seventy-five cents of my lunch account went to a few supplies and a piece of paper I could’ve found on my own. And a menu selection called Larry’s Revenge.
I call that a bargain.
Here is a girl watching an oblivious boy eat dog chow.
Later, he walks by the Island and one of his stupid friends hits Wayne in the back of his head.
“Sorry, Dorkvok,” Anibal says.
I want to say that if you insist on being a jerk, you will be forced to eat a secret ingredient. But I don’t. I watched him eat every stupid crumb and then I told Rama about my trick. For once, the mention of Anibal Gomez puts a smile on her face.
“Come with me,” I say to her, because I need her help with the Sandy Showalter bracelet surprise.
We toss our trash and I head toward the mean girls’ restroom.
“Wait!” Rama says.
“If you don’t come inside with me, I’ll understand.”
“What is all this about?”
“It’s about ending something that never should have started.”
“Clearer, please,” Rama says. I consider telling her about Anibal’s crush on Sandy and how she’s the one missing hipster accessory he still doesn’t have. I consider spilling all the beans about the social experiment and how I’ve agreed to be publicly humiliated. Maybe she would consider it an exchange for more acronyms and Facebook knowledge. But just lining up the right words in my brain makes the whole thing sound as pathetic as it is. And I really hope she will like Anibal once this is all over and done with. So I just say, “I’m going to give Sandy Showalter this bracelet because I think she’ll like it.”
Courage for Beginners Page 9
