I squeeze the chalk, face the board, and write: “R-H-O-M-B-O-I-D.”
The class laughs. Even Mr. Applebaum snickers. Don’t they instruct teachers about protecting our fragile egos and self-worth by not laughing when we make complete idiots of ourselves, which I happen to do more often than most people?
“Uh, Ms. Rothrock,” Mr. Applebaum says in a snide way, “maybe we could switch our brain from spelling mode to math mode.”
Uh, Mr. Applebaum, maybe we can stop being so snide and sarcastic, I say in my head.
I draw a rhomboid that looks like a lopsided triangle on steroids. The class’s continued laughter tells me three things.
Thing One: I have the artistic ability of a tree frog.
Thing Two: I did not draw a rhomboid.
Thing Three: The kids in this class are mean, except for Reginald, who is a god.
I look at Reginald to see how he’s reacting to my utter humiliation. I am horrified to see that he’s not reacting to anything I’m doing in front of the class. Reginald Trumball is leaning sideways toward my desk. More specifically, he’s looking at the sheet of paper lying exposed on my desk. And here’s the worst part: His lips are moving as though he’s—gasp!—reading.
Even though Mr. Applebaum hasn’t said I can, I march up the aisle to my seat and snatch the paper, crumple it, and shove it into my backpack. I face forward, absolutely certain I’m going to cry. The bell startles me. There is a God and She is good.
I wait until everyone else has left the classroom before I walk out. In the doorway, I see Reginald slam into Michael Dumas and I hear Reginald growl, “Watch where you’re going, Dumb Ass!”
Reginald has been teasing Michael since fifth grade. Before that, they used to be best friends. Then Michael got glasses and a wicked twitch in his left eyelid. Meanwhile, Reginald got…gorgeous. I should tell him to stop.
Michael pushes his glasses up. “It’s pronounced Doo-MAH, idiot! My name is Michael Doo-MAH!”
Go, Michael!
“Whatever, Dumb Ass!”
I cringe.
Mr. Martinez shakes his head at Reginald, and I watch Michael storm down the hallway. I feel the need to defend Reginald to Mr. Martinez, tell him Reginald’s not usually like that. Tell him that he’s cute and funny and that sometimes he winks at me.
I’m about to head toward the lunchroom to meet Emma, when Reginald moves closer to me. Is this God’s way of telling me I should say something to him about teasing Michael?
Mr. Martinez steps toward me.
I hold up a hand.
Nodding, Mr. Martinez backs up.
“So, Vanessa,” Reginald says, elbowing another boy in the ribs.
Is Reginald going to ask me out? My cheeks heat up. “Yes?”
“Vanessa,” Reginald says, his friend nudging up against him, but looking at me. To be more specific, his friend is ogling my chest. Even though there is nothing of note to ogle, I casually pull my backpack in front of my chest. Reginald continues, “So, uh, Vanessa, how do you think you did on the, um, language arts test?” He eyes Mr. Martinez nervously, and I remind myself to beg Mom again about not having to be trailed by a security guard at school. If it makes Reginald Trumball nervous, it can’t be a good thing.
What language arts test? “Um, okay, I think.” Then I remember to consider others. And it’s oh so easy to consider Reginald. I’m positive he’ll grow out of his picking-on-Michael phase. “How do you think you did on the, um, language arts test?”
Reginald elbows the boy next to him. “To tell you the truth, Vanessa”—he glances at Mr. Martinez, then whispers to me—“I think I did the pits. Get it? The pits.”
As Reginald and the boy walk down the hall, I don’t get it.
When they are far away, the other boy yells, “The pits!”
Then, suddenly…I get it!
I know Emma is waiting for me in the cafeteria, and I want to tell her that Reginald Trumball is a jerk, but I can’t. What he did is too embarrassing. Instead of going to lunch, I run into the girls’ bathroom and pick the stall farthest from the door. Mr. Martinez waits outside. I never get any privacy!
I wipe my eyes and nose with toilet paper. How could Reginald read my list AND share it with some numbskull boy I don’t even know? What is wrong with him? Doesn’t he realize how much I—
A sharp knock at the outer door. “You all right in there, Ms. Rothrock?”
OHMYGOD! “Fine.” I sniff. “Be right out.”
“No problem. I’m here if you need me.”
Mr. Martinez’s kindness makes me cry harder. Why can’t I cry in the bathroom stall during lunch like a normal girl? I check my nose in the mirror. Red like the cover of my Scrabble dictionary. How embarrassing! I go back into the stall and tell myself to breathe deeply. But it doesn’t smell so good, so breathing deeply isn’t the best idea. Did Reginald read my entire list? Oh God, please don’t let him have read number three! I should have told that boy he was a complete and total moron for making fun of Michael.
I take the crumpled list from my backpack and tear it into tiny pieces. I sprinkle the pieces into the toilet and flush twice to make sure they all go down. The last thing I need is the janitor reading my personal list of deficiencies, too.
When the bell rings, I decide I’m going to walk into class with my head held high, try not to trip, and get on with my day. That’ll show Reginald I don’t care a whit about him. And I was having such a good day, with winning the spelling bee and all. I rush out of the bathroom, past Mr. Martinez, and down the hall to language arts class. I hear Mr. Martinez’s footsteps behind me.
When I see Reginald in class, I gasp, and a few kids look at me. Do they know? Did Reginald share the items on my list with them, too? I take my seat and copy the assignment from the board—write a poem about something about which you feel strongly. Hmmm. I can think of one thing!
How could Reginald have done something like that to me? He’s never been mean to me before. I glance at the back of his head and shoot mental darts at it. I hope you are run over by a school bus today. Then I hope the driver realizes she forgot her double latte from Starbucks at school and drives the bus in reverse, running over you again. And one more time as she heads back out, her warm latte in hand.
This image makes me somewhat happier.
On the drive home, I spell words in my mind to relax. When we start up the driveway, though, my stomach seizes. Will Mom be here? If only I could remember where she is. I have so much to tell her. About winning the bee. About tripping at the bee. About what Evil Reginald did. Maybe I won’t tell Mom about that. Or about tripping.
“Mom!” I run into the kitchen. “Mom!”
No answer.
Something on the counter stops me. Usually there is a plate of Mrs. Perez’s lemon squares. Today, I stare at a huge bouquet of purple daisies. I inhale deeply but smell nothing and wonder stupidly if the flowers are an apology gift from Reginald. As if! I tear open the card.
Nessa,
You continue to make me proud. Congratulations on winning the school spelling bee.
Love and miss you,
Mom
I want to cry. Even though apology daisies from Reginald would have been nice, Mom scores definite points. I squeeze the card to my chest. Then I realize Mr. Adams probably ordered these the moment he left the bee today. He orders flowers or gift baskets for lots of people for Mom because she’s too busy to do that kind of stuff. Does Mom even know I won? And where is she?
I leave the daisies in the kitchen and trudge up to my bedroom. I know I should be happy about winning the bee, but the boy I’m madly in love with crushed my heart today. And frankly, I wish Mom were here.
The Florida Room usually cheers me up—it’s all windows and sun—but weekdays and Saturdays, I avoid it because it’s a part of the mansion that’s open to the public. As if I want to be sitting on the sofa looking out at the Manatee Sculpture Garden when some gawker comes in and takes my photo with his digital. I han
g out there only on Sundays, when the mansion is all ours…and the staff’s.
The thing I find funny about the Governor’s Mansion is that the rooms have names. There’s the Florida Room and the State Dining Room and the State Guest Room. Boring names, granted, but names nonetheless.
I didn’t want my bedroom to feel left out, so when Mom won reelection, I celebrated by naming my bedroom. I call it the Purple Palace. I know it’s totally weird to name one’s bedroom, but I feel rather attached to it. It’s full of my favorite color. And it’s got all my stuff. My bedroom deserves a name. And naming my bedroom’s not as strange as something I read once—that some guys name their weenies.
I drop my backpack on the Purple Palace’s light purple carpet and plop down, leaning against my bed. Even though the room is full of things that usually make me happy—my purple-flowered comforter, my fuzzy purple lamp, seven (count them, seven) dictionaries (including the one Dad gave me that had sticky notes with arrows pointing to the words “I” and “love” and “you”—corny, but sweet)—nothing cheers me up today.
I’m not a naturally depressive person. Sometimes I can be downright exuberant. (Exuberant. E-X-U-B-E-R-A-N-T. Exuberant.) But today I’m not. And that’s the fault of one mean and nasty boy—Reginald Trumball! Who does he think he is, reading my private, personal list of deficiencies? Just because I left it on my desk doesn’t mean he had to push my math book off and read it. That boy clearly emerged from the shallow end of the gene pool.
Since I’m hopelessly depressed, I decide to study vocabulary for my usual two-hour session to get ready for the County Bee. Then I remind myself I won the school spelling bee today and can take one measly (Measly. M-E-A-S-L-Y. Measly.) day off. Of course, it’s impossible to turn off my internal speller.
So, instead of pulling out my spelling notebooks, I grab a stack of letters from my desk. Fan letters. Like the kind famous people get, except they’re for me because I’m the governor’s daughter. I still can’t believe strangers write to me. But every week, Mr. Adams’s assistant delivers a stack she’d like me to answer. I’m supposed to read each letter, respond appropriately, and give the stack back. She reads my responses to make sure I don’t write anything stupid—I don’t—then mails them to the people who sent the letters.
The first letter is written in purple ink. My kind of kid.
Dear Vanessa,
I hurd you like purpul.
I cringe at the misspellings.
I think its so cool that you’re Mom past a law to save the Everglades. Now allagaters and stuff can keep liveing. It would be sad if they dide. You’re Mom must be a cool lady. You must be cool, to.
Sinsirely,
Todd Snider
P.S. My teachur made me rite this.
I reply:
Dear Todd Snider,
Thank you for your letter. I’m glad you’re happy about the new law to save the Everglades. The governor (a.k.a. my mom) worked very hard on that one. She’s proud of it. And I’m proud of her.
Sincerely,
Vanessa Rothrock
P.S. My mom did not make me write this.
After replying to all the letters, I remember I have homework. As if my hand isn’t already about to fall off from answering fan mail. I look at the blank space in my planner next to “Math” and can’t remember if we have homework because events during that class traumatized (Traumatized. T-R-A-U-M-A-T-I-Z-E-D. Traumatized.) me.
I wish Emma were in my math class so I could ask her about homework. I decide to take a break and call her anyway.
“Hi, Vanessa,” she says, breathless.
“Hi, Em, what’s up?” I bite the skin beside my thumbnail and think about whether or not I should tell her what Reginald did to me.
“I’m off to riding lessons,” she says. “Mom’s freaking out because I’m late. As usual. Can I call you later?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Talk to you soon. By the way, congrats on winning the bee.”
My heart sinks. “Look, Emma, I meant to tell you how sorry I am that—”
“Don’t worry, Vanessa. I’m so over it.” She sniffs a couple of times. “Allergies.”
“Yeah,” I say, “there’s a lot of pollen in the air.” There’s no pollen in the air. It’s January. “Look, Em, ‘wildebeest’ is a dumb word. They tricked you.”
“I know,” Emma says. “Darcy Clements got words like ‘pension’ and ‘trilogy’ and I got ‘wildebeest.’ It’s totally unfair.”
I consider telling Emma about the mean thing Reginald did to me today, thinking it might make her feel better about losing the bee, but I can’t make myself say the words. It’s too humiliating to tell anyone, even Emma. “No, it’s not fair. I wish there could be two winners from each school and you and I could go to the County Bee together.”
“That would be cool,” Emma says, “but I’m too busy with my riding. There’s a big competition coming up. Anyway, you’re the spelling champ at Lawndale, not me.”
“Am not,” I say, knowing that really I am. I spell words in my mind all the time. Sometimes even in my sleep!
“Yeah, you are. And this year, I have a feeling you’ll go all the way.”
I giggle. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it like that!”
“Ohmygod! Shut up!”
We both laugh, but then her mom yells for her to hurry and she hangs up.
Not knowing what else to do, I pull out a sheet of paper to work on my poem for language arts class. Mrs. Durlofsky said to write about strong feelings, so I think of writing about how Reginald made me feel today. But what Reginald did is entirely too personal to share with Mrs. Durlofsky. I consider writing about how I feel about Mom, but everyone already knows about her.
I come up with “Under the Microscope.” It’s not about science, though. It’s about what it’s like to be under public scrutiny (Scrutiny. S-C-R-U-T-I-N-Y. Scrutiny.) most of the time.
UNDER THE MICROSCOPE
By Vanessa Rothrock
I get letters, sometimes, from girls who say,
“I wish I were just like you.”
But they don’t really know what it’s like
To be me, UNDER THE MICROSCOPE.
When I have a case of bed head, they’re there
Snapping pictures for everyone to see.
When I trip or mess up, there is a microphone
Thrust in front of me.
No one would like that.
No one would want to be me…if they knew.
Even me. Sometimes.
I feel so out of place,
Like I’m such a disgrace
When I’m UNDER THE MICROSCOPE.
Someone knocks on my door. My heart leaps because I think it’s Mom. I shove my poem into my backpack and hold my breath.
The door eases open and Mrs. Perez peeks in.
I let out my breath. Although I’m not happy to see Mrs. Perez, she seems ecstatic (Ecstatic. E-C-S-T-A-T-I-C. Ecstatic.) to see me. She swings the door wide open, and I hope the Purple Palace doesn’t mind being so exposed.
“Vanessa,” she says, beaming, “I’m so proud of you. I heard the good news about the spelling wasp. You won today at la escuela’s spelling wasp. No?”
“Yes, yes. It’s called a spelling bee, though.” I take Mrs. Perez’s hand and it feels warm in mine. “That makes no sense, does it?”
Mrs. Perez shakes her head and laughs—a deep, hearty laugh. “Bee. Wasp. What’s the difference? I’m sure my good speller is hungry, no? Dinner is ready.” She turns to go, then whips back around. “Vanessa, did you see those beautiful flowers de tu madre?”
I nod less than enthusiastically.
“You no like them?”
“Oh, I like them.” They are purple. “It’s just that…”
“Ah,” she says, putting an arm over my shoulders. “You miss tu madre?”
Mrs. Perez’s warm body next to mine, her kind words…Instead of making me feel better, they make me feel like crying. But I
must have used up my day’s allotment (Allotment. A-L-L-O-T-M-E-N-T. Allotment.) in the girls’ bathroom this afternoon, because not a single tear squeezes out.
When I’m finished with dinner—field greens salad, butternut squash soup, and flounder—and back in the Purple Palace, I wish I could crawl under my comforter and sleep through, I don’t know, seventh grade. I don’t want to face Reginald tomorrow. What if he laughs at me? Or worse, what if he told the whole school and everyone laughs at me? I pull the comforter over my head, and in the stifling darkness I remember something wonderful.
I leap out of bed and fall flat on my face. The comforter caught my size 9½ feet. Luckily, no one other than Carter, my stuffed toy donkey, is there to witness the embarrassing incident. I rub my nose and make it to the TV without sustaining further bodily injury. I flip on Gilmore Girls just in time to see Rory, the main character, have a heart-to-heart with her mother, and suddenly I get choked up. I realize I haven’t heard from Mom at all today. I mean other than the cool purple daisies, which she may or may not have sent.
Right then, the phone rings. Mom and I are very in touch with each other, even when we’re in different states. I just wish she hadn’t called during our favorite show. Mom must be really busy not to realize what time it is.
I answer the phone. “Hey, Mom!”
“Excuse me?”
My mind races to place the voice that is making my heart slam against my chest. It’s obvious my heart knows exactly who’s on the other end of the phone, even if my brain doesn’t. Then suddenly it does. I know who’s on the phone. And I can’t breathe.
“R-R-Reginald?” Oh, great. Now I’m stuttering! Let me add that to my list of deficiencies.
“Hey, Vanessa.”
I hold the phone away from my ear like it’s infested with fire ants. What do I say to the boy who totally humiliated me today?
“Vanessa? You there?”
His voice sounds soft and nice, but I shake my head and think of what he did today. “What?” I snap.
As If Being 12 3/4 Isn't Bad Enough, My Mother Is Running for President! Page 2
