My Year in the Middle

by Lila Quintero Weaver

  It’s no use. Sam’s more than an hour late. Is he even coming?

  Off in a corner, a Twister game’s in progress. Abigail and Conrad are among the few still dancing. His arms are wrapped around her waist, and hers are wrapped around his neck. If this were the movies, they’d be looking at each other all moon-eyed, but he’s actually watching the Twister board. Maybe Abigail likes him more than he likes her. I sure know how that feels.

  Phyllis turns the music down and announces a new game, Pass the Orange, which I can tell is going to be dumb. We line up, boy-girl-boy-girl, and here’s the weird part: you’ve got to pass an orange down the line without using your hands. You tuck it under your chin and pass it to the next kid, and the only way they can grab the orange from you is to cozy up to your neck.

  There’s lots of giggling as the orange makes its way down the line. Robbie passes it to me. I laugh because it’s so weird to be this close to Robbie. I pass it to Chad. There’s a bit of a tickle when the left side of my face mashes against his. The orange travels all the way down to Nick, who hurries back to the head of the line to start another round.

  Uh-oh. Mrs. Hartley is on the prowl with the Polaroid camera. It’s pointed wherever the orange goes. If Mamá sees pictures of me playing Pass the Orange with boys, I’ll be grounded for the rest of the century. I manage to duck before the flashbulb goes off.

  The game ends, and Abigail comes over to deliver some news. “I was upstairs just now when Sam’s mother called. She told Mr. Hartley that he’s got the stomach flu. I figured you should know.”

  Now I feel woozy and have to find a chair. This isn’t going right. At all. Maybe Marina can pick me up early.

  I go up to the kitchen to call home, but Mamá says Marina’s still at study group — in other words, I’m stuck here for who knows how long. No sooner do I hang up when Paige zips past me. “She’s about to open presents!”

  Here we go. It’s time to find out if the alligator purse will get me back into Phyllis’s good graces.

  We eat cake and watch the opening of gifts. When Phyllis looks at each one of the umpteen presents Connie brought and says nothing more than thanks, I feel downright sorry for Connie. Soon, I follow Phyllis’s every move as she rips the paper off my gift. She pulls the purse out of the box — that perfect, imitation-alligator-hide purse that Belinda talked me into buying and even loaned me money for — and I hold my breath. The girls all go ahh, but Phyllis just says, “Oh yeah, my cousin Caroline has one of these.” Then she dumps it on a growing mountain of record albums, jewelry, clothes, board games, and wall posters. That gift table reminds me of the bargain bins at Landon’s, except nothing’s scuffed up or from the wrong season. With this haul, Phyllis could start her own department store, and if she does, I’d like to buy that purse back from her. She’ll never use it.

  Soon, everybody’s excited about a game in the backyard. You earn points by going around on a blindfolded treasure hunt. Abigail and Conrad are first in line, and she squeezes his hand purple while Phyllis ties bandanas over their eyes. “Does everybody have a partner?” Phyllis says. I scan the crowd and see nothing but paired-up kids. Phyllis is with Nick, Missy is with Chad, Connie is with Tommy, and so on.

  “Lu, looks like you won’t get to play,” Phyllis says.

  “I don’t mind. I’ll just watch.”

  Missy says, “Too bad your boyfriend’s sick.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Isn’t Sam, son of a preacher man, your beau?”

  “Noooo.” If Missy thinks I’ll talk about Sam with her, she can forget it.

  Abigail peeks over the top of her bandana. “But you sure want him to be!” Now why did she have to go and say that?

  “Or maybe it’s Spider,” Nick says with a devilish grin. “I saw you talking with him in the hall the other day.”

  “So? Talking to somebody doesn’t make him my boyfriend!”

  “Yeah, we’re starting to wonder about you,” Connie says. “Right, Missy?”

  Phyllis interrupts. “Come on, y’all! Let’s please get back to the game.”

  Couples run off into the darkest part of the backyard. Somebody calls out, “Watch out for dog poo!” and everybody laughs like hyenas. Not me. What Connie said burns like fire. When did she turn so mean? Just a few weeks ago, she blended into the woodwork, hardly paying me any mind. Does she hate me for running fast? And now, Abigail has given everybody one more reason to call me a loser.

  In the patio lights, the pecan trees look eerie raising their big arms into the dark-blue sky. Moths go bing, bing against the lightbulbs. Abigail and Conrad stumble past with their bandanas over their eyes, laughing and bumping into each other. “I can’t see a blooming thing,” Abigail says.

  Jeez, I feel like that leftover sandwich, all sorry-looking, stuck on the platter by itself. Am I a loser? I win at running all the time, so that’s not it. But I might as well admit it: I’m not so hot in the gumption department. Not so hot at all.

  About then Jimbo steps outside. He gets a load of all the kids running here and yon, and of me, just standing around. “Uh-oh, looks like you got wallflower duty tonight,” he says. “So how about it? Ready for some air hockey?”

  Yes, I sure am.

  Jimbo and I head down to the basement and take the mostly empty platters off the table. He tosses the tablecloth over the back of a chair. Once he flips the air-hockey motor on, we’re in business. With each flick of our mallets, the puck glides over the table’s slick surface. The stereo’s turned down low enough that you can hear the sound of the puck going slap, slap, whoosh, slap. Man, I love that sound. This beats that silly blindfold game any day.

  A few kids come back inside. My eyes are on the game, but when somebody near me says, “Can we play next?” I recognize the voice as Nick’s.

  Soon, even more kids come in from the patio, and a small crowd gathers around us. I pay them no mind. It’s like I’ve got blinders on. I’m tuned to the same channel that plays in my head when I run: stay smooth, stay calm. Funny, I can practically hear our feet pounding the pavement, mine and Belinda’s. Even the sound of the puck ricocheting off the walls of the table keeps time with our feet. It’s like Belinda herself is right here, cheering me on. And when B. J. Thomas comes through the stereo speakers, singing “Hooked on a Feeling,” a thought floods me: I’m not going to be a scaredy-cat from now on. I’m done with that. No more Loser Lu. No more. This feels so real that goose bumps run up and down my arms and I get a wee bit lightheaded from happiness. Even when Jimbo’s the first to score and Nick lets out a big whoop, my happy feeling doesn’t budge.

  Hold it. Isn’t Nick supposed to be Phyllis’s partner in the blindfold game? What’s he doing in here, watching air hockey?

  Somebody starts a cheer. “Kill shot, kill shot, kill shot!” Jimbo’s got a big grin on his face. With my mallet, I maneuver the puck in a holding pattern. I watch Jimbo’s hands and time a hard lunge that zips right past him and into the pocket. Score! We trade off another volley of shots. The cheers grow louder.

  Suddenly, there’s a commotion. “Make them stop! They’re ruining my party!”

  Our game pauses while Jimbo yells back at Phyllis. “What’s it to you if we play?”

  “We had a game going outside, and now everybody’s in here watching y’all!” Her face is twisted just to the edge of tears.

  I tell her, “We didn’t mean to upset you,” but she’s not listening. Her eyes are on Jimbo. Mrs. Hartley goes into a tizzy, trying to smooth things over. She and Jimbo stick what’s left of the refreshments back on top of the hockey table, while Phyllis stands with hands on hips waiting for them to finish.

  “Why do some people have to be such show-offs?” she says. “Some people can’t stand not being the center of attention!”

  I’m thinking she means Jimbo, but then Missy chimes in. “I told you she was getting too big for her britches — I told you!” Now kids are gawking, turning their eyes from Phyllis to Missy, and t
hen to me. Me.

  Along the edge of the crowd is Abigail, with her arms locked around Conrad. Her eyes are extra round and afraid. I know she can read my mind: Abigail, help! But Conrad whispers in her ear, and they back away into the shadows, where they flop down into a beanbag chair.

  Wish I could slink off into the shadows, too, but there’s no way I can ignore what Missy and Phyllis are saying. I frown at Phyllis, who’s frowning at me. “When you say ‘some people,’ you’re talking about me?”

  Missy takes over. “If you want anybody to ever like you again, you’d better get off your high horse. Trying to be Miss Big, winning races. And hanging around with you-know-who.”

  When she says that, my head feels extra tight, like blood is rushing up there from every other part of my body. “You mean Belinda Gresham?”

  “Yeah. Her.”

  I think my eyes might be bugging out when I yell, “Why shouldn’t I hang around with her? She’s a lot nicer than most kids I know!”

  “Then maybe you should’ve gone to her party,” Connie says, her gaze flitting back toward Missy.

  “Good idea!” I answer. “Since that’s where my real friends are!” There’s a gasp, which I think comes from Paige.

  “So go where you’re wanted,” Missy says. “To their side of town.”

  For a few seconds, all I hear is the needle of the turntable dragging on and on, since after the last record ended, no one bothered to change it out. The silence goes deep inside and echoes through every part of me. My throat. My eyes. My lungs. My heart.

  Then in a voice like a saw blade, Phyllis hollers, “Somebody put a record on already!”

  I have no idea how much time passes, but centuries is what it feels like before Jimbo calls down the basement stairs to say my ride’s here. I don’t bother with good-byes. In the foyer, Mrs. Hartley tugs on my sleeve. “Wait a second, hon. I’ll get you a pamphlet for East Lake!” But I don’t wait. I tear off down the sidewalk toward the car, gulping down tears.

  The sound of another Shondells number floats up from the basement windows — it’s “Crimson and Clover.” No doubt Abigail and Conrad are under the strobe light, hanging all over each other. Romance happens at boy-girl parties. Anyway, that’s what Abigail believes.

  The next morning, I flip through the Red Grove phone book until I reach Sam’s number, right between McCauley and McDonald. I’ve never called a boy before. According to Mamá, it’s supposed to be a matter of life and death, and I’m pretty sure this qualifies.

  About the only sound in my house is the refrigerator humming. Ringo’s a tight furry thing curled up on the living room couch, Papá’s out on the porch reading the Sunday paper, and Mamá and Mrs. Sampredo are on their way to Saint Stanislaus. As for Marina, she’s out somewhere saving the world.

  SOS. Come home, Marina. Your sister, Lu, is in need of saving. Remember last night? Remember when I got in the car after the party, crying so hard that I couldn’t answer when you kept asking, “What’s wrong? What happened?” I’m still sad. I feel like a chewed-up piece of gum — stepped on, smashed, and scraped off in the gutter. But I’ve dried my tears now, and I’m ready to tell you the whole story.

  I wish I could tell somebody what happened. But without Marina, there’s not a soul I could possibly talk to except Sam, because Belinda can never know what happened last night. And Abigail? I’m pretty sure she doesn’t give a flip.

  My fingers hover over the dial. It’s 9:32 a.m. Have they left for church already? I dial the number super-fast, before anything can stop me. Riiiiing. Riiiing. Riiiing. Riiiing. Twelve times and there’s no answer. I picture an empty house with no Sam in it. A lonely feeling stabs me. It is a matter of life and death — my life.

  Papá comes in, drops the front-page section on the coffee table, and goes to the stereo. “How about some music to liven things up around here?” He starts the record before I can answer. I’m not in the mood for anything peppy, so I plug my ears. He offers me eggs and toast, but I shake my head no. When he says, “What’s the matter?” I shrug. He wouldn’t understand.

  Last night, I couldn’t wait to get home, pull the covers over my head, and hibernate like a chipmunk all through a long, icy winter. If only I could’ve stayed in that cozy blanket cave for ages and somehow woken up in a different place, in a new town full of nice kids — kids who like me for who I am and don’t care about skin color. But when the sun poked me in the eye this morning, I was still right here, in Red Grove, Alabama.

  Siiiiiigh.

  It’s 10:07. The clock pendulum goes click-click, click-click. Ringo sleeps on. I press my face into his soft, warm fur and feel the rumble of his purring go all through me. Then Papá walks through again with a plate of cinnamon toast. “Lu, if you need to talk, I’m here.” He looks worried.

  I don’t want to worry Papá, so I sit up. “I’ll be okay.” Anyway, I can act okay.

  He hands me the toast. “At the very least, eat some breakfast.”

  After two bites of toast, I take a deep breath and open my schoolbooks. Exams start this week. In the morning, I’ll have to drag myself into homeroom and see the faces of all my used-to-be friends. I don’t want to. All that gumption that came over me last night during the air hockey game is gone. Whoosh. It must’ve crawled into a hole and keeled over.

  Never mind all that for now. I get busy studying the periodic table. I diagram the atom six ways to Sunday and review the vocabulary list.

  In the other room, I hear the phone being dialed and Papá talking quietly into the receiver.

  Just as I’m putting all my school stuff away, Papá comes back to the living room. He folds his arms across his chest and says, “Lu, get up. Put on your sneakers. You’ve got five minutes.”

  “What for?”

  “We’re going to your school. I want to see you run.” Run? I almost fall over. He must really be worried about me.

  On the drive, Papá says, “Your sister is meeting us there.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  He smiles. “You’ll find out soon.”

  We drive through the quiet Sunday morning streets, past closed stores and empty sidewalks, past church parking lots crammed with cars. Something is stirring in me. I think it’s that ole blue blazes. If Papá wants to see me run, I’m coming all the way out of my cave — yes siree, you’d better believe it.

  “Ready to see this little speed demon in action?” Papá says to Marina.

  “You bet your sweet bippy.” She and I exchange grins. Papá is on my side! I think my head might go kaboom.

  “Here’s what we need to do,” Papá says, pulling a small notepad out of the glove compartment. “You said that the distance around the driveway is around four hundred and forty yards, which is close to one-quarter of a mile.”

  I nod. “And Tina Briggs runs twice that far.” On the ride over here, I told him all about Miss Third in the State and the calculations Mrs. Underwood made for Field Day.

  “In other words, this race will be two laps around the school,” he says. “Are you sure you can run twice your usual distance?”

  “Me and Belinda do it all the time, up and down the streets near the playground.”

  “You’ve been running on your own? Lu, you impress me!”

  I grin all over, like a puppy wagging its tail.

  “But do you know how to pace yourself?” he asks.

  “I know not to start off too fast.”

  “Smart girl,” Papá says. “I suppose Tina Briggs understands about pacing.”

  “Seems like it, or she wouldn’t be third in the state.”

  “Exactly. So your goal today is to learn how to pace yourself for a double lap. If you shoot for a three-minute finish, you’ll give Tina a run for her money. We’re going to do this the mathematical way, by timing you in splits, or fractions of the whole distance. That way, you’ll know how you’re doing as you go, and you can get a sense of whether to speed it up or slow it down.” Boy, it sure pays to read the sports pages front
to back, like Papá does every day.

  “Ready?” he says.

  Marina claps her hands. “Come on, Lu! You can do it!” Papá doesn’t need a metal whistle. He just sticks two fingers in his mouth and lets out a sharp, high wheeeee that near about busts your eardrums. I start off at my usual trot. Adios, pothole; so long, teachers’ lot. I’ll see y’all again on the second lap.

  Everything’s different today. There’s no Angie or Belinda or Connie to chase. Passing the front entrance of the school, all I hear is the rope slapping on the flagpole. No marching band practicing. No baseball bats or whiny sixth-graders. It’s just me and this driveway.

  When I’m back in view of the chalk line, Papá is waiting, peering at his watch so he can call out my half split before I start lap two. He trots alongside me for a short distance. “Too slow,” he finally says. “Can you pick it up?”

  Too slow. Oh dear. If this were Field Day, Tina would be pulling ahead — maybe too far ahead for me to catch her. I rev up my racing motor and take the second lap faster. At the end, Papá says I was still behind Tina’s finish by a good bit. Ugh.

  But he tells me not to worry. This time, he’s going to calculate everything down to quarter splits. This is where Marina’s help comes in. Her job is to stand at the curb in front of the school, near the flagpole. “On the first lap, Lu’s goal is to reach you in forty-five seconds. Let her know if she should speed up or slow down. On the second lap, her goal is two minutes and fifteen seconds. Start timing when you hear me whistle. Got that?”

  “Got it,” she says. Good thing my sister is a brain.

  Papá holds off whistling till we’re sure Marina has reached her spot. Then I start my third lap of the day. Those jillion hills that Belinda and I have been running? They’re paying off, because my legs feel up to the job, and my heart is working hard but nowhere near giving out.