But she ran into Casey Wolsowski—literally ran into her back since the girl came to a halt, right in front of Margalo.
“Hunhhph,” Margalo said. “Oh, Casey, hihowareyou?”
“Cool,” Casey answered, not looking up from the paperback book she was reading.
“What’s so good?” Margalo asked, expecting—she didn’t know, maybe Forever, maybe a Harry Potter.
Casey turned the book over to show her—Watership Down.
“My stepbrother’s reading that in high school,” Margalo said.
“Probably he has my dad for English. This is my second time. In fact,” she smiled, half-proud, half-ready to be made fun of, “I finished it yesterday afternoon and started it all over again right away.”
“I usually let an hour or two go by before restarting a book,” Margalo admitted, which was almost true. “I didn’t know you were so good in English,” she said to Casey.
“I’m not. I just read. You’re the one who’s good.”
“Not really. Grammar, spelling, you know. The easy stuff.”
“That’s not the easy stuff,” Casey said. They were moving together in the cafeteria line, not that Margalo was going to get anything, and not that Casey noticed. “Have you read this?”
“Howie doesn’t share.”
“I’ll loan it to you when I finish. What about Lord of the Rings, if you like fantasy? Do you like fantasy?”
“I like everything,” Margalo said, and that was true.
“Try Lord of the Rings” Casey said. “But start it on a Friday, or over vacation. Because you won’t want to be interrupted.” She put a filled plate on her tray.
Margalo didn’t tell Casey she’d read Tolkien’s trilogy for the first time this summer, and for the second time, too; she figured, if Casey felt like she’d introduced Margalo to something, she’d like Margalo better.
“How about The Thirteen Clocks?” Casey asked now, a book Margalo had never heard of. Casey added a bowl of fruit and two perfectly round cookies—sugar cookies? Nut cookies? Oatmeal cookies? “Aren’t you eating?”
Margalo held up her brown bag, a show-and-tell.
“That’s smart,” Casey remarked, and “See you around,” she said, walking off to join the other preppies at Heather McGinty’s table, turning back to observe, “You never said what books you like,” before turning away again.
Margalo thought she might mention Jane Eyre. If she understood Casey, that would be just the book to mention. Meanwhile, she drifted over toward where Tan sat. “Hey, whazzup?” she greeted them, and asked, “Can—?” waving her lunch bag gently in the air, not exactly asking so that they wouldn’t have to say exactly no. “Whazzup, Margalo?” Tan asked, indicating an empty seat. “Mikey sick?”
“Flu,” Margalo said. “She’ll miss practice. She doesn’t know about tomorrow.”
“She’ll be back as soon as she can,” Tan said, sure of it. She turned to the girl on her other side to explain, “Margalo and her friend Mikey are the ones who started that basketball petition.”
“Hey, whazzup?” the girl greeted Margalo now. “I thought that was Frannie.”
“Her, too,” Margalo said.
“Frannie’s a real good sport,” the girl said. “She a friend of yours?”
“Frannie’s a friend of everybody’s,” Margalo said.
“Margalo doesn’t play sports,” Tan said, grinning now at Margalo, remembering grade school.
“But I’m interested in watching,” Margalo answered. “I’m an interested audience. Like, I always wonder about plays. Basketball plays, especially. I always wondered, because you only see the plays in games.” (Well, she had watched one pro game with Mikey, on TV last year; that counted, didn’t it?) “I wondered if you practice the moves. Like dancers, rehearse them until you do them without thinking? Otherwise, how do people get so good at doing the right moves when they’re in the middle of a point, or a game?”
“A lot of practice,” Tan said, “and talent, too. It’s gotta be both, don’t you think, Ellie?” she asked her friend, who added, “Also, going with the flow,” which Tan thought was, “The same as practice and talent, just different words.”
They talked on happily, about scrimmages and whose game was really on, and about how Mikey made a lousy guard but was a natural shot, even though she was too short and chunky, really, for basketball. “But she makes up for it in competitiveness. I guess you’re not competitive,” Tan said to Margalo, sounding surprised, as if she’d never thought of this before.
Margalo shrugged. If that was what Tan thought, what would be the point of denying it?
“Maybe that’s how you and Mikey stay friends,” Tan said. “You are still friends, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Margalo said. Although, she had to admit and she didn’t mind admitting to herself, it felt kind of good to have Mikey be absent. It was like Margalo was the only person onstage, the star of the show, when Mikey was home sick; and it looked like she could do just fine, onstage alone.
But Tanisha had reminded her of her responsibility, so she went off to get the homework for Mikey’s morning classes, which meant having a reason to talk to even more people, and make her own impression on them.
* * *
Mikey was absent again on Tuesday, but, “Getting better. I better get better or we won’t have cookies for Friday and that’ll interfere with my plan,” she had said on the phone. “What do cookies have to do with making high honor roll?” Margalo had asked, and when Mikey said, “No, the California plan,” Margalo asked, “You aren’t really going to try to sell your cookies to the committee, are you?”
“Have some imagination,” Mikey had said, then, “I’ll call you tomorrow. After school.”
So Margalo went in on her own Tuesday morning, again. And she felt that morning like she was in charge of things. She had her connection into every group. Except the Barbies, she thought, taking a look at Rhonda Ransom standing in the hallway among her big-haired, small-waisted, high-heeled friends. But there had to be a way to get connected to a Barbie, because they were just seventh graders, after all. Taking a look, thinking, Margalo wondered if she could figure out what the way might be.
It was when she was banging her locker door shut that she thought to herself: But I don’t want to. And asked herself: So why should I? Just to prove I can?
She talked to Cassie about cappuccino and Rashomon, an old Japanese film she hadn’t seen, but which David, her film-fanatic stepbrother, maintained was the most perfect movie ever made. Margalo just said what David said, and they never doubted her, the arty-smarties.
She talked to Ronnie about the baby-sitting course at the library, because Ronnie had taken it in sixth grade. The most interesting thing about talking to Ronnie, with Annie Piers and Lacey hanging around, and Casey coming up to say, “Hihowareyou?” and, “Meet me at lunch,” was the way Heather McGinty looked nervously over from where she stood between another Heather and a Stacey. Heather kind of moved her mouth into a kind of smile, at Margalo—the friendliness you show to someone you don’t personally like, but everybody else might.
At lunch, Margalo sat with Casey, at the end of the preppies’ table, talking about books. Casey loaned her a copy of Watership Down. “My dad has extra copies, so it’s okay. I told him you look like someone who’ll take care of a book. You will, won’t you?”
“It depends on what you mean by ‘take care.’ Because especially a paperback, if you read it, it gets worn out,” Margalo pointed out.
“He means, like, leaving it outside, or dropping it in the tub.”
“It’s been years since I dropped a book in the tub,” Margalo said. “What about Jane Eyre? Have you read that? Because I bet you’d like it.”
“Have you?” Casey asked, and Margalo decided the truth would get her closer than a lie to what she wanted. “I haven’t read it yet. I’ve been waiting for the right time.”
“And you think seventh grade is the right time?”
“We could try,” Margalo said. “I can get to the library on Saturday. Does your father have a copy?”
“I think so. Hardbound, so it must be one he likes. I won’t start reading until Saturday night.”
“It’s not a race,” Margalo pointed out.
“I know, it’s just more fun if you’re both reading it at the same time.”
Margalo asked, “Do you want to say how many pages?”
“This could be fun,” Casey said. “We could be like a book club. Nobody else reads,” she complained, meaning—as Margalo knew—nobody else in her own group of friends.
“Yeah, but at least they think you’re smarter because you do,” Margalo pointed out.
“They tease me about it,” Casey confided.
When Margalo went over to Tanisha to ask about the math assignment, she was with her friend Lauren. “Lauren’s the best guard in seventh grade,” Tan said, introducing her. “No, you are,” Lauren argued, and they replayed a couple of points from yesterday’s practice. Margalo acted interested in that, acted impressed, acted like she cared.
There was a lot of acting that went into getting less unpopular. It got tiresome, doing all that acting. The trouble with Mikey being home sick was that she wasn’t there, in school, to admire Margalo’s success, and maybe even be a little jealous. Of course, Mikey jealous was no fun, as in No Fun At All. So maybe it was better not to have her around.
Maybe, but the thing about Mikey also was, she was more interesting than other people.
So okay, she hogged the spotlight. Big deal. Who wanted to fight over stage center, anyway? Not Margalo. Jumping Jehoshaphat! The last thing Margalo wanted was the spotlight always on her. That would just—
With Mikey hogging the spotlight, Margalo could move around in the shadow, doing whatever she wanted, knowing that all eyes were on Mikey.
So it was good news, wasn’t it? when Mikey said she was coming back on Wednesday, and she was going to hand in homework papers so perfect, they would just about guarantee her a place on high honor roll, and she’d been practicing free throws, now that she felt better again. “School is bad enough,” Mikey said, “but staying home is even worse.” She promised to remember to bring in the T-shirt Margalo had asked her for. Margalo wouldn’t tell her why, but Mikey already knew the answer. “It’s for one of your outfits,” she said. “I bet it is. I bet it’s that new sweater you were trying to bore me about.”
And that irritated Margalo, because she assumed that Mikey never paid any attention about clothes. She almost wished Mikey would stay out of school longer.
Except that Mikey was the only one who could figure Margalo out. Margalo could get other people to like her, but only Mikey knew her.
13
One (bad) Egg, Poached
Margalo rushed Mikey into the school building and into the girls’ bathroom the next morning, not even giving her a chance to off-load books into her locker. “Hey,” Mikey protested, “what’s with you?” resisting, “Jeepers creepers, Margalo! Take it easy, why don’t you?”
Margalo wore Aurora’s raincoat, a long, yellow slicker. She had it done up all the way to her neck.
“You expecting an indoor shower?” Mikey asked, sarcastic. She spelled it out, “H.A.H.A.,” since Margalo entirely missed the joke.
Margalo had no time for Mikey’s bad jokes. “Did you bring it?” She took the gray T-shirt and disappeared into one of the stalls.
Mikey waited, watching a couple of eighth-grade girls comb their hair, put on mascara, paint pouty pink mouths on. Yoicks! she thought. Not me, not ever. The smell of cigarette smoke rose out of one of the stalls, and, bending over, Mikey saw six feet in three pairs of Nikes, all pointing toward the base of the toilet. Crud! she thought. Thick perfume smells mixed in with the tobacco-y air, and Mikey stayed bent over—when they told you how to survive a fire, didn’t they say the most oxygen was nearest the floor?
While she was bent over like that, she checked out what Margalo was doing.
Knapsack and raincoat were on the floor, and on top of them some seaweedy brownish-grayish-greenish cloth, some old, used dust rag. Margalo was wearing those capri pants again, and a pair of the clunky black oxfords that were her winter shoes. Margalo’s hair came into view as she bent down, and Mikey straightened up fast.
Acting like she didn’t even know Mikey, Margalo stepped out of her cubicle and crossed briskly to an empty sink, with the long mirror above it. She reached into her knapsack and pulled out a long, golden tube. She was ignoring Mikey so completely that Mikey pushed her face right up to Margalo’s, so close that Margalo’s face had to share the mirror with Mikey’s.
“What are you doing?”
“Putting on mascara.”
“What did you do, steal some from Susannah?”
“As it happens, I borrowed this.”
“From who?”
“Her name’s Cassie. She’s in my math class.”
Mikey backed down, backed off. She watched Margalo run the tiny brush up along her upper eyelashes, once, twice, then once down, along the lashes at the bottom of each eye. “That looks dumb,” she said, and then, “Who showed you how to do that?”
Margalo didn’t answer. When she was done, she turned around and asked Mikey, “What do you think?”
“I think you’ve lost your mind.”
“I mean, what do you think of the sweater.”
Then Mikey noticed that Margalo was wearing a long sweater, with a wide gray belt at the waist and big gray buttons up the front. The sweater even had a collar.
The sweater was that dust rag. It really was a strange color, a really strange color, maybe the strangest color that Mikey had ever seen, and for sure the strangest color that West Junior High School had ever seen.
Margalo’s hair was the same straight brown, tucked behind her ears in the same way, parted off center like always; the way Aurora cut it. Her eyes were the same brown eyes. She was the same height and non-build as always, the same as last Friday. Nothing had changed about Margalo. But that sweater—the color of pea soup, with some ashes stirred into it, and maybe a few crushed dead leaves added for texture—that sweater made Margalo look like a stranger.
Or was it the mascara?
“Holy moley, Margalo,” Mikey said.
“Isn’t it great?”
“I don’t know why you needed my T-shirt.” There was only a tiny gray band of T-shirt showing.
Margalo stood up onto her toes and pulled the sweater down over her thighs. She pulled at the belt a little, moving it around a little, making everything perfect. “What do you think?”
Mikey didn’t know what she thought. “You look thirty.”
“No, I don’t. Maybe nineteen.”
“And French.”
“Italian. The label’s Italian. La Scala.”
“Like someone from Rome,” Mikey said, trying to name a place exotic enough to explain how Margalo looked. “Or Rio de Janeiro? Sardinia?”
“Zut, alors!” Margalo murmured, watching herself in the mirror. Her face had no expression, unless that was a bored-to-death expression on her face. She raised her eyebrows, just a little. “I look that good?”
“You don’t look like you go to West Junior High,” Mikey said. “What do you call that color, dog’s throw-up?”
“I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
“Well, you were right.”
“Because it’s so great-looking,” Margalo said. “Follow me. Watch. Listen. Learn.” At the door, she turned around and said to Mikey, “Bring my stuff, will you?” Then she pulled open the door to the bathroom and swept out into the hallway as if she were Queen Elizabeth I about to go sink the entire Spanish Armada single-handed.
Grumbling, like the dwarf who was the queen’s jester, Mikey picked up the extra knapsack, and the raincoat, and followed Margalo out the door.
Margalo swept on along, Queen Margalo, who knew that everybody was watching her, and wishing they were her. And everybody did look a
t her, as if she really was a queen, or at least popular.
Trailing along behind that long, narrow back with the wide belt snug around the waist, Mikey started to enjoy herself. She knew where Margalo shopped, and all of the attention Margalo was getting was pretty funny, when you thought of that. Most of these admiring people were happy to spend a hundred dollars of some parent’s money on the exact same sweater every one of them, practically, was wearing, and none of them had people turning to watch them parade down the hall.
So Mikey was pretty proud of Margalo, and pretty pleased to be part of the act. Margalo stopped in front of their lockers. That dog puke color actually did look good on her. How did she do it?
Although, Mikey wasn’t about to let Margalo get away with acting stuck up to her. “I’m not your dwarf,” she said, passing over the knapsack, and the raincoat. “And I don’t see why you had to have my T-shirt, anyway.”
Margalo unbuttoned the big top button, showing just a little more of the gray underneath, and looked even better. She grinned, in total victory.
Mikey grumbled, dumped her books around, pulled out homework papers.
“Rats on you, Mikey,” Margalo said. “If you’re going to be like that. Just because I—”
“What, because you what?” Mikey demanded.
“Look so good,” Margalo said.
“Just wash it before you bring it back,” Mikey answered.
In homeroom, too, Margalo had everyone’s attention. “You’re a real femme fatale,” Mikey leaned over to whisper to Margalo, who just nodded her head like somone who has absolutely aced a math test. “You and Jessica Rabbit.”
Margalo tried not to laugh, and failed. Mikey felt better.
When they met by their lockers at midmorning, Mikey noticed even Heather McGinty sidling up to take a look at Queen Margalo, who had Annie Piers and Casey Wolsowski hovering around her. “Tell, Margalo,” Annie was begging, and Casey was saying, “Don’t tell, Margalo. Nobody else would look good in it, anyway.”
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