by Sarah Price
So, while the rest of eighth grade is totally in tune with the twenty-first century, my mom refuses to let me escape from the world of tin cans and string. In fact, I know what it feels like to have lived in the Dark Ages, you know … before color television. Jumble Bugs do not allow texting, only calls. Jumble Bugs do not connect to Twitter or Facebook. The one thing Jumble Bugs do have is a keypad. A large keypad. An almost blind ninety-year-old doesn’t need glasses to punch the glow-in-the-dark numbers on the Jumble Bug. In fact, I think the company advertises the phone in the back of magazines next to those electric chairs that float up the stairs and “specialty undergarments” for people who can’t hold it long enough to get to the bathroom.
Major humiliation. Thanks, Mom.
For the rest of the day, I feel like I’m living in a parallel world. I mean, it’s just another ordinary day. No one notices that, today, I’m special. Surely I must be glowing! After all, I’m officially thirteen. Not a baby tweenager, a label that I absolutely hate because adults always say it with a weird tone in their voice, but I’m now bona fide thirteen! Today is supposed to be one long party for me.
But, instead, here I sit in history, not so much as a smile from Mr. Kogar or anyone else. The thought crosses my mind to raise my hand and announce the big news. After all, the passage of life into a new year could be considered history, even if it is only my personal history. That, however, is not an option. Leslie Murphy sits behind me and she’d be all over that. I’d be a laughingstock by lunch.
I’m not certain why but she’s had it out for me since third grade. Before that, we were friends. I even went to her eighth birthday party. Maybe she didn’t like the gift Mom bought for her—a stationery set is probably not on the top of the list for an eight-year-old girl. After that summer, when we returned to school, she hung out with the popular girls, the ones with long blond hair and lots of money. It doesn’t matter that Leslie has mousy blond hair, because she has enough money to wear all the best brands. And she does everything she can to make my life miserable, which is the main reason I don’t really hang out with anyone from middle school besides Jamie.
“Psst!”
I glance over my shoulder. Paul Becker sits behind me. He’s a nice kid and all, but not worth getting a lunch detention over. I shake my head, hoping he gets the picture that I have nothing to say to him ... not now in the middle of Mr. Kogar’s social studies class. Mr. Kogar is what I consider an old-school teacher, not like the young ones fresh out of college. Old-school teachers are balding and wear sweater vests and never ever use technology. And old-school teachers give detentions, not warnings.
Paul, however, is persistent. This time, he reaches out and pokes my shoulder.
“Stop!” I whisper.
Something small and crumpled sails over my head, landing on my open textbook. A note.
Without even thinking, I quickly cover the note with my hand and, using the upmost stealth, nudge it slowly so that it falls onto my lap. Success. Mr. Kogar didn’t even notice.
I wait a few seconds before taking a chance and reading it. It’s in pen. That’s taboo. Only high school kids get to use pen! I squint, trying to read the lousy handwriting:
What’d ya get 4 ur bday?
N.
I sigh. Another painful reminder of my failed birthday. While the rest of the kids in my class are texting each other on their cell phones hidden underneath textbooks, I’ve been made to suffer the humiliation of a note. And it’s from none other than Nora Clemson.
Nora eats lunch with us sometimes. But she also hangs out with Leslie. Nora has porcelain skin and curly-Q blond ringlet hair that hangs down her back. She’s the envy of every girl in school, but she’s also a little standoffish. She doesn’t seem to really bond with any particular clique. Instead, Nora is what I call a periphery friend, otherwise known as a floater: her loyalty is a bit like Switzerland ... neutral at best, controversial at worst.
How she found out that it’s my birthday, I can only guess. I doubt Jamie would rat me out. Knowing how much Leslie and I hate each other, I suspect the source is sitting right behind me. I wouldn’t doubt if she keeps track of it, just to be a pain in my butt.
Mr. Kogar turns to face the whiteboard, writing something about social class, a topic I really don’t understand and, frankly, don’t see why it would matter to a thirteen-year-old. I take the opportunity to glance over my shoulder, making eye contact with Nora as I shrug my shoulders. Mom always says that honesty is the best policy. Since the word is out that today’s my birthday, I might as well admit that I didn’t get anything yet and move on.
Her eyes widen and I know that she feels my pain. I also know that the entire school is going to quickly learn that I, Cat Lansing, am the loser kid who didn’t get anything for her birthday. Of course, later tonight, there will be that one-hour thirteenth birthday celebration, which will surely be the amount of time everyone stays over for pizza, cake, and gifts. But that’s not the way it’s supposed to work on your birthday.
I brace myself for an entire day of torture from my peers. And once Leslie hears about this, she’ll be certain to find a way to torment me at lunchtime.
Great.
~~~
Just like I figured—it happens at lunchtime. Leslie Murphy saunters over to where I’m sitting with Jamie. I don’t have to turn around to see her approach us. Jamie glances up and the color drains from her face. That is the moment I know that Leslie is behind me.
She walks to the end of our table so that I can see her pinch her nose as she makes a face.
“It stinks in here. Like horse poop.”
I roll my eyes and try to ignore her.
“Oh, silly me. It’s just Cat Lansing!” She laughs and her little posse of friends giggle. “Heard it’s your birthday. What’d you get?”
More snickers from her band of lackeys.
Thanks, Nora, I think. Traitor.
“Leave me alone.” That’s the best I come up with on such short notice. What I’d really like to do is give her a piece of my mind. But my mom always says it’s better to leave hissing snakes alone. Someone else will deal with them. I sure hope she’s right because I don’t want to get bit by this snake on my birthday.
“Cowgirl Cat wants me to leave her alone!” Leslie looks at her friends as if this is the most hilarious statement ever. Of course, they laugh with her. Everyone laughs with Leslie.
The kids at the next table are watching, and I can feel the color rising to my cheeks. Why me? Why today?
I don’t understand why she’s so popular. She’s really not that pretty and she’s really not that funny. In fact, with her mousy blond hair and dark eyes that, in my opinion, are just a little too far apart, she’s kinda plain looking. And, clearly, she’s not very nice.
“Don’t you know that there aren’t any cowboys in New Jersey?”
I glare at her. “Well, there sure are a lot of cows, and I’m looking at one!”
Several people gasp from another table. Uh-oh.
Leslie’s mocking expression changes and her mouth opens just a little. “What did you call me?”
I try to wear my most casual expression, as if my heart isn’t pounding and my palms aren’t growing sweaty. “Seems to me that you just called yourself a cow, not me.”
More snickers from the surrounding tables. I gather some courage from that. People don’t usually stand up to Leslie. And I don’t usually stand up to anyone. It feels kinda good.
She leans over and lowers her voice. Her breath reeks of the egg salad sandwich she must have eaten for lunch. “Listen to me, Cowboy Cat,” she hisses, “I don’t care if it’s your birthday. Just because your stepfather owns that riding stable doesn’t mean you’re special. You don’t even have your own horse!” Then she walks away, her trio of friends trailing behind her.
That was below the belt. It’s been an ongoing issue between me and Marcus for two years now. With over sixty horses in the barn, I don’t have one that I can call my o
wn. That wouldn’t be so bad except every time I spend time working with a horse and bond with it, suddenly all of Marcus’s riding instructors start to use it and POOF! The other riders fall in love with it and I’m kicked to the curb like last year’s Christmas tree.
It didn’t help that last summer Olivia and Morgan’s parents bought each girl their own horse ... pedigreed warm bloods, to boot! Those two girls prance around the barn as if they’re the stars of the stable, their noses in the air. They even asked me to clean up the wash stall when one of their horses pooped there! The nerve.
Last summer, Leslie’s parents signed her up for Marcus’s summer camp. It was the worst two weeks of my life, except for when my mom had cancer. Not only did I have to see Leslie every day (and during summer!), but she bonded right away with Olivia and Morgan. The three of them did everything they could to make my life miserable. Fortunately, that was right around the time that their parents bought the two horses, and that left Leslie with low-horse-in-the-herd status. She stopped riding at the barn. Our barn, anyway. I suspect that she still rides at the snooty Star Stable located in the next town.
“Forget about her,” Jamie says, trying her best to comfort me. “She’s just jealous.”
Of what? I wonder. I’m definitely not popular like Leslie is, and my family doesn’t have money like Leslie does. And she’s right ... I don’t have a horse even though my stepfather owns the largest stable in the county.
“This is turning out to be the worstest birthday in the history of birthdays,” I mumble.
CHAPTER THREE
The Moment of Truth
“And one last gift,” my mom announces dramatically. Sometimes I think she should have been an actress instead of a writer.
I’m sitting at the head of the table, surrounded by my family, boxes of new clothing, and ripped purple wrapping paper. My brother is standing next to my grandparents, a smirk on his face as he watches me. I wish I knew what he was thinking. On the other hand, maybe it’s better that I don’t. Brooke hasn’t arrived yet. She called earlier to tell my mom that she was running late. Typical. At least Cassie and her mom are there.
Growing up, Cassie was almost always at our house. My mom refers to her as her half-daughter. One summer, when her parents were going through the big D, she literally lived here. That was the year I decided to label my dresser drawers in green permanent marker, something my mom didn’t find half as useful as I did. I even wrote Cassie’s Stuff on the bottom drawer. Yeah, Mom was really ticked off about that, especially when I wrote Bubbing Suits on another drawer. How was I supposed to know it was really bathing suits? I was only like seven or eight. Anyway, Cassie still keeps extra clothes in it, including a toothbrush and special hairbrush that I’m not allowed to use.
The empty boxes of pizza are on the counter and the half-eaten ice cream cake is back in the freezer. As soon as we finish with the cake, I’m finally allowed to open gifts: one dress, two T-shirts with cats on them, a pretty necklace (Marcus always gives nice jewelry), a headband with cat ears on them (thank you, Alex), funny cat slippers (from both Cassie and Jamie, who are clearly pandering to Marcus with the slippers), and a book about horses from Cassie’s mom (already have it but I feign a genuine “Thank you so much”).
“I think you’re forgetting one, Cat.”
I look around for another package since I thought I had opened everything.
Mom clears her throat. It’s her standard call for everyone to pay attention to her. Creative. That’s my mom. She loves to do things in a dramatic, fun way. Suddenly, I’m excited. If she’s making a big deal about giving the gift, there’s still a chance that it’s something really good.
Now everyone is looking at me. Even though it’s only my family, I feel nervous, especially with Cassie staring at me. Hope flickers inside of me. Can it be? Is it even possible?
Mom hands me a small envelope, which I take with a trembling hand. Is it just cash? Or is it something else? I open it and it’s just a card. But inside the card, she has written a poem:
Birthdays come but once a year
And turning thirteen is very dear.
To help you celebrate all year long,
Look behind the wireless song.
Wireless song? I look up at her and she gives me one of her funny smiles as she watches my reaction. What on earth is a wireless song? “Huh,” I say. “I’m stumped, Mom.”
Alex laughs and looks like he’s about to say something, but Nina gives him a stern look which silences him right away.
“How can you look behind a song, Mom?”
She shrugs.
Wireless. Wireless. Wireless song.
Suddenly, I figure it out. She must have hidden something behind Alexa, our wireless device that plays music. Mom always has something playing on it when she’s cooking.
Nervously, I get up and start to walk around the table to the cabinet where the black speaker is. I peek behind it and gasp. There it is: the all-too-familiar shaped box.
“Mom!” The word comes out breathless and I look at her, almost afraid to reach for the box. “Is this ...?”
She nods and smiles. “No more Jumble Bug!”
“It’s an ...?” I’m still scared to say it. What if I’m wrong? Oh, the disappointment would just kill me!
Cassie nudges me. “Just open it, Cat!”
Sure enough, it’s an iPhone. I gasp as I rip off the paper. “Oh, Mom!” I scramble into her arms and hug her. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”
“Way to go, Marty!” Alex says.
I wait the appropriate amount of time for everyone to ask to see the phone which, conveniently, Mom had fully charged before she wrapped it. Yay, Mom! She even included an adorable purple phone case with a rearing horse. After the excitement starts to wind down, I make certain to thank everyone before asking my mom for permission to go play with the iPhone. I don’t want to blow what’s turning into a great night by disappearing without permission.
As soon as my mom gives me the green light, Cassie and I run upstairs, making a fast escape before the adults start talking about politics or something boring like that. Nothing that I want to sit around listening to, not when I hold the device of all devices, the entrance into another world, the portal to real teenage joy … all right there in my eager hands.
Cassie shuts the door and I leap onto my bed, holding the iPhone carefully so it doesn’t even bounce. It fits perfectly into my hand. I can hardly stop staring at it. I think I’m in love!
She jumps onto the bed next to me and, far too eagerly for my taste, reaches for it. “Let me see.”
“Careful!” I move my shoulder so that she can’t snatch it from me. I mean I just got it, right? Let me hold it for a full ten minutes before snatching it from me! Besides, it would suck if it were to break before I even had a chance to use it.
She gives me a look. It’s the don’t-tell-me-what-to-do look. Birthday or no birthday, I’m treading on thin ice. Reluctantly, I hand it over to her.
“This is how you turn it on,” she says.
I roll my eyes at her. Seriously? How to turn it on? She is acting like I’m a moron, even though I’ve seen her using her own iPhone a thousand times. And I’m a whiz on the computer, a pro at making videos with iMovie. So I’m not certain why she thinks I’m clueless about how to do basic stuff on the iPhone. But, wanting to hear about the best apps to download, I simply nod my head rather than tell her I’m not a complete Neanderthal. In fact, if memory serves me well, I had a Facebook account almost six months before she did ... and I’m almost a whole year younger than her!
“This button here, the blue circle thing, that’s the App Store,” she explains.
Now we are entering uncharted territory. “Download something!”
She hesitates. “You need an account.”
I have a school email account, but I have a feeling that’s not what she’s talking about. “How do I do that?”
“You need a credit card.”
A cre
dit card? I groan. There’s no way my mom will give me carte blanche use of her credit card.
My moment of disappointment is interrupted by a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, the door opens and my older sister, Brooke, pokes her head into the room. A brilliant smile shows her perfectly straight and white teeth. “Hey, birthday girl! How do you like your iPhone?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Privacy!” Cassie says with a roll of her eyes.
Brooke ignores her and enters the room. As she saunters across the floor, I watch her and realize that, one day, I hope I will look like her. Her long brown hair hangs down her back in big, loose waves. She has bright blue eyes and naturally tanned skin. Despite being beautiful, she’s a genuinely nice person. She even took me to the local amusement park last summer when no one else would! Now that’s a cool sibling! Alex would never do that, even if he could drive.
“Let me help,” she says as she sprawls out on my bed. “You need to download all the cool social media apps.”
“She can’t. She doesn’t have an account,” Cassie says with a hint of attitude in her voice.
“And I need a credit card, which I don’t have!” I add dejectedly.
Brooke takes the phone and starts tapping rapidly at the screen. She pauses for a minute before tapping some more then, with a big smile, she hands it back to me. “There,” she says. “Happy birthday! You can use my account for now. Just don’t go downloading a bazillion apps on iTunes, okay?”
My eyes bulge as I stare at her. Did Brooke just do what I think she did? Did she type in her secret app account information, the one that requires a credit card? I take the phone back, still staring at her. It’s almost as if I can see a gold aura glowing from her head. If the pope wants to name a modern-day saint, my sister Brooke just got my vote.
She leans over and brushes back her hair so that it’s not in the way. “This is Twitter. You have to sign up for an account.” She looks up at me. “It’s best if you try to use the same name on all your social media accounts, okay?”
