Ashley was wearing a light blue scoop neck with a strand of darker blue ribbon woven along the edges, the same color as the ribbon in her hair.
"Thanks," she said, picking at her chin.
I didn't know what she was picking at. Ashley Barnum has absolutely no zits.
"Okay," she said. "Ashley' ... Don't ear that third cupCake, you fat pig."
"Ashley," I said. "Have the third cupcake. It you really want it. There's nothing wrong with the third cupcake, just like there was nothing wrong with the first two. It's a delicious, frosted treat, not a cardinal sin."
"Isabelle!" Ashley started busting up.
I made her laugh. I made Ashley Barnum laugh.
"I don't even want the third cupcake anymore," she said, laughing. You could see the metal hands of her retainer. "Where are you when I need you? When I'm about to eat my five hundredth?"
Where am I when she needs me? Where am I when Ashley Barnum needs me?
Trish told us to switch, so we did. Now I got to be the mean one and Ashley got to he sweet as pie.
"Isabelle," I said, focusing on Ashley's chin. "You are disgusting. Stop stuffing your fat face."
"Isabelle," said Ashley softly, leaning forward and putting her hand on top of my hand. "You do not have a fat face."
I felt my cheeks get hot. "I don't?"
"No. You have great eyebrows."
"I do?"
Ashley leaned hack and squinted. "Uh-huh. Delicate. Like bird wings."
"I never thought about my eyebrows before."
"Well, you should. They're one of your hest features."
"Yeah, well." I didn't know where to look, so I looked at my feet.
"Okay," Ashley said. "Do another one."
This time I made eye contact. Ashley's eyelashes are so long, they look like they could get tangled up in themselves. "Face facts, Isabelle," I said. "Your thighs are gross."
"Your thighs are not gross," Ashley said, not even looking at my thighs. "Besides, did you hear that story on the news last week? About that girl? She had to have both legs cut off after a boating accident. She swam right into the propeller. You know? We could be her."
"She really doesn't have any legs?" I said.
"True story."
"Gross."
"Yeah. And sad too."
"Yeah," I said. "We are lucky not to be legless."
"I know it," said Ashley.
We sat for a minute, looking down at our legs and trying to feel lucky.
It's hard to feel lucky when your thighs are as disgusting as mine are. I hate sitting down because they squoosh out a mile wide. If I had Ashley's legs it would be a different story. Ashley's legs are long, thin, and tan. They look like they came from some supermodel mail-order catalog. I could feel the little hairs on my knees rubbing up against her smoothest of all possible legs.
I promised myself I would start shaving. Immediately. Who cares if my mother thinks thirteen is too young? She's not the one who has to sit leg-to-leg with Ashley Barnum.
"Hey," Ashley said. At first I thought she was referring to my hairy legs, but then I saw what she was looking at.
Over by the door, Rachel's voice sounded high and wheezy. "What are you talking about? You're a total stick!"
Trish was squatting next to Lila, her arm around the back of Lila's chair. "Rachel. Take a breath."
Rachel stood and kicked a table, sent a stack of magazines flying. "I'm breathing!" She picked her umbrella up off the floor and slung it over one shoulder like a hobo stick. "You're all a bunch of whack jobs anyway!"
Rachel tried to slam the door on her way out, but a piece of umbrella fabric got stuck in one of the hinges, and it took her a second to yank it out. Then she tucked the umbrella under one arm, like a machine gun, and turned to take aim at Trish. "You better not talk about me when I'm gone!"
Slain!
Trish just stood there against the wall, blowing air into her hangs, which were damp enough to stand up straight on their own. We helped her pick up the magazines and push the chairs back into a circle. Then Trish started to tell us about how Group is kind of like a family.
Sure, Trish. The kind of family you'd buy at the Salvation Army.
"Sometimes families fight," Trish said, arranging magazines into the shape of a half-moon. "Sometimes they hurt each other. Or disappoint each other. Or make each other furious. But, in the end . . ." Trish walked to the middle of the room. "If they choose to . . ." She interlaced her fingers, two at a time. "They can come hack together. Stronger than ever."
Try having my family for a day, Trish. Try going to bed with a dad and waking up without one. Try having a mother who's sad all the time but pretends she's not. Then we'll talk.
Over on the couch, Mathilde was sniffling. Dawn unzipped her backpack and took out a packet of minitissues. "Here," she said. "They're the soft kind."
When Mathilde blew her nose she sounded like a tuba.
"Thank You, Dawn," said Trish. "That was a really nice gesture."
Across the room, Ashley gave a little wave to get my attention. She formed her hands into two quacking duck mouths. I rolled my eyes in agreement.
We were so bonded.
Ashley got a ride home with The Brothers, but not before she slipped me a scrap of paper with her number on it. 562-3343. Five six two, three three four three. I had Ashley Barnum's phone number. Ashley Barnum wanted me to call her.
I was so happy right then, I decided to walk to the bus stop with Dawn and Mathilde. We were all going the same way, it seemed silly to walk separately.
Nobody said anything for the first three blocks. Mathilde was still blowing her nose. But when we got to the bench outside the post office, she dove into her backpack and came up with a fistful of candy bars. You guys want some chocolate' I've got Snickers, Reeses, Clark Bar ..
Dawn said, "Sure. Thanks, Mathilde." She took the peanut butter cups.
I started to say something about not snacking between meals, but I stopped myself I took a Snickers. What the hey. I had Ashley Barnum's phone number.
Mathilde ate her Clark Bar surprisingly slowly, in tiny bites, like a heaver. She unrolled the wrapper as she went.
Weird. I would have thought that because she's so fat, Mathilde would eat really fast. It turned out Dawn and I were the ones who swallowed our candy bars in two bites.
"Help yourselves," Mathilde said. "There's plenty."
Waiting for the bus, Dawn ate three more candy bars, and I ate four. Then, when the number seven finally pulled up, I'm not kidding, I grabbed another two for the road.
7
GEORGIE CALLED JUST AS I was finishing nay homework. If you're ever on the phone with Georgie on a school night, remember this: you'd better get off at eight o'clock on the nose or her mother will have a conniption. Sometimes she gets on the other line and says things like Georgine Clancy Miner, you're going to stunt your growth if you don't get ten hours of sleep. You'll lose brain cells. Mostly she rings a hell like Georgie is a cow and needs to get hack to pasture.
Nola called at 8:01, exactly. "Hey, Isabelle."
"Hey."
"Did you just get off with Georgie?"
"Uh-huh."
"Did her mom ring the bell?"
"Naturally."
"Did you do your math homework yet?"
"Uh-huh."
This is how our phone calls go, the sane conversation every time. I let my mind wander and pretended I was talking to Ashley Barnum, who I was too much of a chicken to call in real life even if she did give me her number. Hey, Ashley. It's me, Isabelle. If it was Ashley on the phone, we'd have all sorts of interesting things to talk about. We'd never want to hang up. Not like with Nola, who practically puts a person to sleep.
"So," she was saying. "Picture day tomor w. It feels like we just had picture day, doesn't it?"
"I don't know. I guess."
"I think I'll wear my blue button-down. What are you wearing, Isabelle?"
For some reason this irrit
ated me no end. I was perfectly happy daydreaming that I was talking with Ashley, and now Nola had to go ahead and bring up picture day, the one day where nothing I wear, short of a pillowcase over my head, will make an ounce of difference. I always turn out the same way, demented.
If you stand in the den and look at my school photos from over the years, you can see for yourself. Let's start with fifth grade: stitches on my chin, covered by a Band-Aid. Sixth grade: left eye closed. Seventh grade, the best ever: a piece of pancake stuck in my braces. Need I say more?
The den used to he my favorite room in the house. I used to love looking at all the photos. I remember this one of Mom and Daddy on their wedding day, all shining eyes and white teeth. And the one of Daddy and me at a football game when I was three, me on his shoulders holding a baton. And the four of us out on the porch in summer, April on Mom's lap and me on Daddy's, all making monkey faces. Best of all, the photo of Daddy in high school, wearing his baseball uniform, so handsome you can't believe you're related.
The problem with the den now is that lie's gone. There's not one frame with him in it, and that hurts. Besides that, I can't ask my mother what she did with the photos because if I do she'll have a total breakdown, and I will he left feeling even more terrible than I did to begin with, if that's possible.
The reason I hate picture day is it's fake. You can smile for the camera as if to say, Look! I'm so happy! But then you get them hack and you don't look that way at all. You just look pathetic.
"I'm wearing a burlap sack," I told Nola. "Belted. With my rainbow belt."
"Oh, Isabelle," said Nola.
She thought I was kidding?
"How about your green sweater, Isabelle? You look really good in green. It goes with your eyes."
If Trish was there she'd give Nola a gold star for her voice of positivity. But Trish was not there. "My eyes aren't green, Nola," I said. "They're brown. The color of poop."
8
PICTURE DAY, coming downstairs for breakfast. First thing my mother did was give me the Mom Look. "Such a pretty girl."
I said, "You're my mother. It's your job to say that."
"Well it also happens to he true." She snuck in a little cheek stroke, which I usually can't stand. But you see, she got up early to make breakfast for us. Most of the time she doesn't get out of bed until after we've left for school. It's only toast and cereal (Daddy would have made pancakes) but still. I didn't know whether to hug her or cry.
"Looks good, Mom," I said.
She began to glide around like an ice skater, pouring juice into coffee mugs. "Cheerios or Grape-Nuts!"
"Juice is fine. I have to get to school early."
Juice is not fine. She poured a whole hunch of GrapeNuts into a bowl for me. "You'll have some cereal, then you'll go."
My mother has this habit of sounding Jewish even though she's not. You'll have a matzo ball, some gefilte fish, then you'll go.
The reason I know about sounding Jewish is I used to go to a Jewish day camp every summer. Beth El Temple Center Day Camp. All the moms who worked there talked in this particular way. They used a lot of Yiddish, calling me their little maideleh, which means sweet girl, or their little holishkes, which means stuffed cabbage. They were always pinching my cheeks.
Sometimes I think she talks Jewish to bring Daddy back a little, to not miss him quite so much. She Would never admit it, not in a million years. I mean, we don't even celebrate Hanukkah anymore. But that's still what I think.
That's why I pretended to be excited about the GrapeNuts, which, if you ask me, look like constipated mouse turds. "These are good, Mom," I said. "Is there fruit? For on top?"
My mother gave me a big smile and handed me a banana.
Ape Face showed up to breakfast in purple overallshand-me-downs from me, only I looked like a giant grape in them and she looks cute. She knows it too.
Ape Face stood in the doorway and cleared her throat. When she had our attention she did a little supermodel spin for us. "Well?"
"The perfect picture day ensemble," said my mother.
"Belle?" said Ape Face, in her sweetest little sister voice. "You look really pretty."
What is it with the compliments in this house?
"Uh-huh," I said.
Ever since the Bathroom Incident, Ape Face has been trying to kiss up to me. Not only is she full of compliments, she is also full of peace offerings. The night before, I found a jumbo bag of peanut M&M's and a container of sparkle lip gloss outside my door. On purple paper with glitter glue she'd written:
The M&M's were a nice touch, but she's going to have to work a lot harder to undo what she did.
"So?" my mother said. "How are your Cheerios?" "Spectacular!" said Ape Face. There was milk running down her chin.
Mom reached over and smoothed her hair. "Thank you, sweetheart."
I choked down one last bite of mouse turds, the least I could get away with, and a few swallows of juice. "May I be excused? Please?"
My mother looked at my bowl. "You don't like the cereal?" she said. "You want something else:"'
Yeah, I thought. Pancakes. "I'm not that hungry," I said.
Mom sighed. "Clear your plate, please, Isabelle."
Then, as I was heading out the door to meet my doom, "Belle? Sweetie? Don't forget to smile!"
The girls' room, ten minutes before first hell: hair spray so thick you could taste it.
Everyone was there.
"How do I look?"
"Is this lip gloss too shiny?"
"Can you see my bra through this shirt!"
Ashley Barnum's fan club was hogging the mirror, as usual. No one else could get a primp in edgewise.
Not that I came here to primp. No. I came to use the stall as it was intended, to spy. This is what you can hear if you hang out long enough in a girls' room stall:
"Does my pad show in these pants, you guys? Be honest."
"I can't tell. Bend over."
"I'm not bending over."
"Well, walk then, Danielle. Let us see you from behind."
"Okay.... So, seriously you guys. Can you tell?"
"Ally, where'd you get those jeans?"
"Gap."
"They're so cute."
"Did you hear Rose Gowan went to second with Jason Perry?"
"That lucky!"
"Euww!"
"I would never let Jason Perry go to second. I wouldn't even let him get to first!"
I had been at my perch for half an hour. I'm not kidding when I say I was perching, just like a bird on a branch. My feet were starting to fall asleep.
I was waiting for everyone to leave so I could check my teeth. I didn't need a repeat performance of last year's breakfast braces.
Through a crack between stalls I could see Heather Jellerette and her si:e :ero jeans. I'd know Heather Jellerette just about anywhere. She is the second-prettiest girl in our grade next to Ashley. Plus, she's always wearing Guess? because her older sister works at the Guess? store in the mall.
As far as I could tell, she was the only one left. Heather was blotting her lip gloss with a paper towel. Blotting .. . blotting ... blotting ... leaving.
Was it safe to come out' Yes, it was safe.
Finally I could unfold myself, get some blood flow back to my legs. Except then I heard a sound coming from several stalls down, a sound that could only he one thing. Someone's breakfast coming up the same way it went down.
You had to feel had for the girl who thought no one could hear her.
The toilet flushed, and out we walked together. Me and Ashley Barnum. Ashley Barnum and me.
Ashley wiped her mouth on the hack of her hand. Her eyes were all red and watery. She saw me and just about died.
I didn't know what to say, Sc) I just walked over to the sink and started washing my hands.
Ashley did the same.
There were no paper towels left, so we wiped our hands on our jeans.
When we came out of our state of shock, Ashley asked if I h
ad any mints and I said, "Is Juicy Fruit okay?"
9
SOMETIMES THINGS HAPPEN in life that make no logical sense. Ape Face being nice. My mother getting out of bed before ten. And now, Ashley Barnum inviting me over to her house after school. I had no choice but to pretend it was really happening.
In a kitchen the size of Yankee Stadium, Ashley asked if I wanted to call my mom. "It's Friday," she said. "You can sleep over."
I found myself saying "Sure," as though I got invited to sleepovers all the time. The truth was, the only ones I ever went to were at Nola's, and those weren't all that exciting. Nola always falls asleep at nine o'clock, and Georgie ends up calling her mom to pick her up in the middle of the night because she can't fall asleep at all.
Ashley led me into a room with a lot of puffy green couches and leather chairs. Everything smelled like shoe polish and lemons. "Use this phone," she said, handing me a white cordless.
Ashley walked hack into the kitchen so I could have some privacy. Good thing, too. You never know which of my mothers is going to answer the phone. Tired Mom, who can barely carry on a conversation and you know you woke her up even though it's the middle of the day. Sad Mom, who tries to act like she hasn't just been crying for five hours straight and when you ask if she's okay she says she's just coming down with a little cold.
This time I got lucky: Excited Mom. I had to take the phone away from my ear so I wouldn't go deaf. "That's wonderful, sweetie! A slumber party!"
"Mom," I said. "It's not a party. It's just me and Ashley."
She wanted to know what Ashley's like.
Nice, I told her. Pretty and nice.
"What about her parents.' Have you met them'"
"Not yet. But I'm sure they're nice too."
"And they'll he around all night."'
"Mom, come on."
"Isabelle ..."
"I'm sure they'll he around all night. Either that, or Ashley's brothers."
"How old are her brothers?"
"High-school age. Old enough to drive."
"I don't want you getting in a car with Ashley's brothers."
"Mons.
"Isabelle."
"Okay. l won't."
After I gave her Ashley's address and phone number, she asked if I needed anything. Pj's? Toothbrush? Sleeping hag? Underwear? "Just give me the word, Isabelle," my mother said. "I can be right over."
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