Pretty in Punxsutawney

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  Despite the opportunity to regain circulation to his fingertips, he doesn’t pull away as he considers the drawings. “I think I can add some nice detail to these. Who’s getting the owl?”

  “I am,” True says. “Maybe you can girlie up the design. Make her pretty.”

  “And I’m going to need some more masculine roots on my tree,” says Zepher. “The branches already look pretty cool, though.”

  As the two of them excitedly discuss placement options that would hide the designs from their parents, I feel something close to happiness for them despite my current state of agony.

  They are clearly soul mates and were lucky enough to end up in the same social clique. But now I can’t stop wondering about all the other couples who are meant to be together.

  Those true loves who are star-crossed because of some stupid, arbitrary social barrier separating them. Like Czyre and Tammy, others may not even realize they’re going to the same school with their could-be one true love.

  Bridget has been standing down by my foot, confirming that Rodney is doing a good job by saying, “Oooh,” and, “Wow,” and nodding at me with wide eyes. I try to picture her with Motko or one of the other football players. I could be wrong, and my someone-for-everyone worldview proves I’ve clearly watched too many romantic movies, but doesn’t Bridget deserve to find out if her true love could be hiding in plain sight?

  Czyre is already drawing a detailed owl on an index card with his free hand, while Zepher holds the binder Czyre is leaning on and True holds the card still. The three of them are working so hard to support me right now, and I only just met them.

  I really wish Colton and his gang of friends could see this side of the goths. They are more alike than different.

  I let go of Czyre’s hand. “I’ve got this. Thanks.”

  Between flinches from needle pricks, I try to formulate a plan for knocking down the school’s social walls. I realize that despite my many journeys through the hallways of Punx High, I still don’t know all that much about the student groups beyond Colton and the cheerleaders. And now kind of the goths.

  I think back to the lunchroom and the carefully segregated tables. Picturing the day I sat with the brainiacs, I remember Tight Headband Girl and Petra talking about the yearbook committee meeting taking place after school in the library. Petra really wanted me to join them.

  I may not understand much about the ins and outs of the different social cliques, but that yearbook meeting could give me a decent overview. If tomorrow is the first day of school again—and I have no reason to believe it won’t be—I know exactly where I’m heading after final bell.

  When Rodney finally announces he’s finished with my tattoo, the group gathers around to admire my foot. It looks so cool that they actually break into applause.

  “You rocked that,” Bridget says. “I was such a wimp when I got mine, and the leg isn’t nearly as painful as the foot.”

  I feel so warm and delighted, I wonder for a moment if maybe this could be it. Maybe I am right where I belong.

  True and Zepher have their arms around each other and seem like the happiest two people with matching piercings and black lipstick I’ve ever seen. But when I look at Czyre now, all I can think of is how much he and Tammy should at least get a chance to know each other. I wish I could somehow make that happen.

  At the end of The Breakfast Club, the nerd, as played by Anthony Michael Hall, writes a missive to the teacher, Mr. Vernon, chastising him for the way he views the students—as cliques and clichés instead of unique individuals. The kids are sick of being reduced to basic terms like “princess,” “brain,” and “basket case.” AMH eloquently says it may be convenient for the teacher to lump kids into narrow categories, but he is not really seeing any of them for who they are.

  And I realize this is still happening with students today, and we’re doing it to ourselves. Judging each other based on appearances. Divided by assumptions. Blind to how desperate we all are just for a place to belong.

  I still may not know where I’m supposed to fit in, but maybe I’m the one in the right position to make everyone else see the truth. Even if it’s only for one day.

  chapter 12

  When I get home from the mall, my parents greet me at the door together. The way the two of them are holding hands makes it seem like they were just about to report me missing.

  “Are you guys okay?” I ask, and they look at each other.

  Finally, Dad says, “We’re worried about you, Andie.”

  I can’t help but laugh. Which makes Mom look even more horrified. “I don’t know what happened, sweetie,” she says. “Last night, the two of us were having fun trying on dresses, and then today you’re all . . .” She gestures to my goth outfit as if it confirms I’ve lost my mind.

  “I like what I’m wearing.” I shift weight off my throbbing foot. After walking around the mall in my flip-flops, I covered my new tattoo with the plastic wrap Rodney gave us and crammed it back into my combat boots. Now it wants to be set free.

  “Is this some sort of cry for help?” Dad asks.

  I hold in another laugh. “Guys, I can’t even get started on how much help I need. But don’t worry, I’m working things out.”

  “But we want to be here for you,” Mom says. “You don’t need to work things out on your own.”

  Dad says, “Andie, please let us in.”

  I envision sitting down and telling them everything that I’ve been through. Reliving the same day over and over. Learning to become a cheerleader and wear high heels and do a killer smoky eye. Kissing and subsequently kicking Colton. The trips to the mall, the tattoo, all of it. But as I take in the stress on both their faces, I can’t justify making them more upset right now.

  I’m probably going to reset in a few hours anyway. And if this was my last day looping, then I don’t want to kick off the rest of my life with a field trip to mandatory therapy.

  “I was trying out a new look,” I tell them. “Don’t worry, I just need to figure out where I fit in. Things at this school are a bit . . . different.”

  Mom says, “Well, I know you said you were copying Allison before her makeover in The Breakfast Club, so maybe tomorrow you could copy Andie from the movie last night. Now there was an outcast who had style.”

  Ugh. “Please, Mom. I do not want to talk about Pretty in Pink. That movie ruined my life.”

  Mom and Dad look at each other, and I turn and start running up the stairs.

  Dad calls after me, “Wait, Andie, I’d like to hear more about your life feeling ruined.”

  I ignore him, continuing with my escape, but can hear him say to my mom, “See? This is what you get for using movies as a parenting method.”

  When I get to my room, I immediately drop to the floor to take off my boot. I peel back the plastic wrap protecting my tattoo and see that the thick salve Rodney rubbed into my foot has given the tattoo a glossy sheen. The design is pink and irritated-looking around the edges—but it is beautiful.

  Impulsively, I dig out the black pumps I’ve trained in and pull them on. Expertly, I stride directly toward my full-length mirror, admiring the way the shoes perfectly frame the cool tattoo.

  I’ve nearly reached the mirror when my mom bursts into the room.

  “Don’t you ever knock?” I ask as I fall to a crouching position, trying to cover my foot from her view.

  “Andie!” she says. “When did you learn to walk in pumps that way?”

  I pretend to tip over, with my foot aimed strategically and painfully underneath me. “I’m just starting to learn, and thanks for making me fall.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “Your dad and I are just really worried about you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m worried about me too.” One hand covers my foot as I slide awkwardly toward my closet. I hide my foot under the pile of clothes that permanently occupy the floor there and I get a great idea to distract her. “What do you think of me wearing this to school tomorrow?” I h
old up the pink polka-dotted dress that I tossed in here when I took it off this morning. I may have given it a couple of kicks too.

  Mom grins. “Oh, Andie. I think that would be just perfect.”

  I try to look sheepish. “I just thought the heels would be a nice touch.”

  “I’ll leave you to practicing, sweetie.” Mom takes a few steps into my room and kisses me on top of my head. “Walking in heels is all about spending time practicing in them.”

  I try not to wince as I shift to cover my tattooed foot with the dress, scratching my tender skin with the edge of crinoline. “Thanks, Mom.”

  If only she knew just how much bleeping time I’ve had to practice.

  When I wake up the next morning on the pink couch with music playing, the first thing I do is fling the blanket off my foot.

  It’s completely blank.

  As cool as that tattoo looked, I have to admit I’m pretty relieved. The thought of having to hide my foot from my parents for the rest of my natural life comes with the image of me wearing tube socks to go swimming.

  Still, getting a tattoo was oddly empowering after feeling zero control over everything happening to me, and I decide to keep taking control. Today is not about permanent body art—today is about the yearbook club, and, most importantly, getting to know the ins and outs of the social groups at Punx High.

  Of course, Mom doesn’t remember my promise to wear the pink polka-dot dress, but she’s nearly as happy when I walk downstairs modeling a sleeveless yellow sweater with matching headband and pencil skirt.

  I ride to school with Colton, but immediately let him know I feel more comfortable making my way around the school alone. “Besides,” I tell him, “you don’t need me slowing you down.”

  “Are you sure?” He’s genuinely surprised, and I prefer this friendly, considerate version of Colton. I’ll just pretend I never got to know him any better.

  “I’ve got this,” I assure him with a grin. “And I’m thinking I should ride the bus home so I’m familiar with that too.”

  He pats my shoulder, and his handsomeness tries to suck me in. Of course, the image of me flex-kicking him in the groin still sits fresh in my mind, so I’m able to resist.

  I say, “I’ll see you around.” But I’m pretty sure I won’t.

  At lunch, Petra is as nice as ever, and I learn that the girl with the tight headband is named Katy. Even Anna is less aggressive toward me, probably because she no longer sees me as one of Colton’s castoffs.

  When Petra asks me about my interests and if I play bass, Anna doesn’t give a single eye roll.

  “I really enjoy photography,” I say.

  Petra grins. “You have to come to the library after school for the yearbook committee.”

  Katy tells me about the unflattering picture of Kaia eating again, and I say, “Listen. I got to know her a tiny bit, and I realize she may seem like pure evil in kitten heels from a distance, but the girl isn’t a bad person.”

  The table goes immediately silent. Apparently, sticking up for Kaia is not going to make me very popular with this crew.

  Finally, Katy adjusts her headband and says, “She used to bully me back in sixth grade.”

  Anna says, “It got so bad, the school psychologist had to get involved.”

  Petra leans closer and tells me, “Katy was so upset, she got a bald spot from pulling out strands of her own hair.”

  Katy looks down at the table and adjusts her headband.

  I glance over my shoulder at Kaia and Colton cozying up to each other. I picture her as a mean middle-schooler, then think of her in the bathroom, forcing herself to purge her own lunch. Turning back to the girls, I say, “Well, I’m sure she has her own burdens to carry.”

  “Good. She deserves them,” Anna says. She reaches over to rub Katy’s arm, and I realize that she’s just feeling protective of her friend. I can’t blame her for that.

  I ask, “So, where’s the library we’re meeting up in after school?”

  Of course I already know the answer—at this point, I could teach a master class on this building’s full layout—but it feels like a good time to change the subject.

  I’m the first one to arrive at the school library after class, and

  when Petra walks in she looks surprised to see me.

  “You came,” she says, her face opening into a wide smile.

  “Yeah, I told you I would.”

  “Well, lots of people say they’re going to join our club and get involved, but the follow-through isn’t always so great.”

  I feel a pang of guilt over blowing this meeting off the first time I was invited. “How big is this yearbook staff?”

  Petra shrugs. “We’ve been putting the word out, but I’m pretty sure it will just be our same little circle doing a ton of work again this year.”

  “Wouldn’t it make sense to have one representative from each social group on staff?” I ask. “That way, everyone could just submit the pictures they’re probably taking of themselves anyway.”

  Anna must’ve been standing behind us, because she chimes in, “Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? But you’re the first recruit we’ve gotten in two years.” She looks me up and down pointedly. “And I’m pretty sure you’re going to be hanging out with our friend group in the end.”

  I cross my arms. “I actually got to know a few of the goth kids, um, earlier, and that girl Bridget is pretty cool. You never know, she and I could become friends.”

  Petra and Anna look at each other and simultaneously break into laughter. Finally, Anna gets it together enough to tell me, “Good luck. Let us know how that works out for you.”

  “She’s nice!” I insist.

  “That girl is a preacher’s kid who is looking to get into as much trouble as possible,” Anna says.

  Petra whispers, “I hear she goes out drinking every night, and that her torso is completely covered in tattoos.”

  I think of Bridget and her tiny trinity symbol artfully inked on her leg. “I’m pretty sure she just has one little tattoo,” I say. “And I know for a fact that she doesn’t drink or do drugs. She doesn’t even really swear.”

  Anna dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “Believe what you want, but don’t expect the goths to teach you their secret handshake or anything. You’d have a better shot getting in with the cheerleaders or jocks.”

  I cross my arms. “The cheerleaders are nicer than you’d expect.” Anna and Petra don’t look convinced, so I add, “And I’ll have you know I spent some quality time hanging out with

  Colton Vogel this summer.”

  Anna’s face flushes. “What do you even know about him?”

  “He’s . . . Well, he’s kind of overly flirty, to be honest.”

  “Ya think?” Anna says sarcastically. When she turns away, Katy and Petra draw closer to me.

  Katy says, “A few years ago, Colton asked Anna to go with him to the Groundhog Day celebration at Gobbler’s Knob, and she started crushing on him so hard.”

  Petra says, “She bought a pure white coat and matching earmuffs and everything.”

  “She had weeks to prepare,” Katy says, “which only made everything worse once February second came around.”

  “He completely ditched her,” Petra says. “It turned out he may have been doing it to make some cheerleader jealous, because that’s who he hooked up with instead. Anna believes the whole thing was all a prank, especially when one of the cheerleader’s friends accidentally spilled red punch on her new white coat, but I think Colton is just a big flirt.”

  “Thanks, Petra,” Anna says. She’s apparently overheard everything. “Tell my pathetic story to the whole world, why don’t you.”

  “Sorry.” Petra shrugs. “It’s ancient history.” Maybe, but obviously Anna is still really bothered.

  Anna says, “Fine, so it felt like we shared a real connection, and I got stuck liking him even after he ditched me. It is humiliating enough without you making it sound like I was alread
y registered for our wedding gifts or something.”

  “You did practice writing your married name a few times,” Petra says, and gives a sing-song “An-na Vo-gel” as she mimes signing a signature.

  Anna releases an aggravated growl. “Can we please just let it go already? We should be working on a plan for getting more candid shots for the yearbook, not reliving my mortifying eighth-grade year.”

  As we make our way toward the bank of computer tables near the back of the library, Petra leans in to whisper to me, “And ninth-grade year.”

  “I heard that,” Anna says. But she doesn’t correct her. It sounds like I’m not the only girl to fall for Colton hard.

  But I bet I’m the only girl whose stupid, ill-fated crush somehow caused a fallout with the space-time continuum that has given new meaning to existential crisis.

  As two other students filter in, Anna opens a file of photos that run as a slideshow of candid shots of various students. At this point in my tenure here at Punxsutawney High, I recognize nearly every person onscreen, but Petra is helpfully telling me all the names as they appear.

  “There’s that boy who goes by the name Czyre, but I don’t think that’s his real name.” She pauses the slideshow and zooms in on him glaring at the camera through his eyeliner.

  “Czyre is probably just an alias so the cops can’t find him.” Anna pretends to shudder and the two of them laugh.

  I bite back the temptation to tell the two of them that he’s the anonymous artist who draws the clever make-you-think cartoons in out-of-the-way places around the school. They’d probably just consider it further evidence that Czyre is a straight-up criminal, which he isn’t. I mean, besides the technical vandalism. And, of course, the underage tattoo ring he’s privately overseeing.

  I say, “I talked to him today, and to be honest, he seems pretty nice.”

  “First Bridget, now him,” Anna says. “It sounds like you’ve interacted with the goths more in one day than I have in all my years of going to school with them.”

  I give a big smile. “Guess I’m just really friendly.”

  Anna looks at me a moment before unpausing the picture slideshow with a grunt. “Yeah, well, knock that off, would you? People will think you’re on drugs or something if you’re seen hanging out with the wrong classmates.”