The Bling Queen

by Allison Gutknecht

  Instead of laughing about this, like I expect her to, Ava looks at me blankly. “I really don’t think we can wear the same color,” she states.

  I think for a moment, trying to figure out if she’s kidding, but there’s not even a hint of a smile on her face. “Why not?” I ask. “You don’t think it’s an amazing coincidence that we bought the same color? We should just run with it.”

  Ava sighs, redistributing the plastic over the dress and placing it back in her closet. “Fine,” she says. “But we can’t look exactly the same, or that will be really weird. What jewelry are you wearing?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I say, unsure why Ava is being so serious about all of this. “But definitely my Tess necklace, and this locket from Mimi.”

  “Mimi gave that to you?” Ava asks in surprise. “Let me see.” She kneels next to me on the bed and peers intensely at the heart around my neck. “Why did she give it to you?”

  “Well, I lost this ring I liked, so she felt bad, and plus I’m entering this contest on Miscellaneous Moxie and she thought this would be good luck, so—”

  “So you lost something and she rewarded you?” Ava asks, and she sounds awfully mean about the whole thing, for someone who’s supposed to be my best cousin. “Typical.” She says this last part under her breath—but just loudly enough for me to hear.

  “What does that mean?” I ask. “Her grandmother gave it to her, and she thought I would like it.”

  “I’m her granddaughter too, you know,” Ava points out, and she begins brushing her hair, which is the same color as mine, only with blond highlights sprinkled throughout—the exact shade I want to have the moment eighth-grade graduation is over. “You don’t have to get everything.”

  “I don’t get everything,” I say.

  “You do,” Ava argues. “Especially since she moved in with you guys. It’s different. She spoils you, and I just don’t think it’s fair. That’s all.” She shrugs. And even though she says “That’s all,” I can tell it’s really “not all.”

  “I don’t know why you’re being so testy about this,” I say. “First the dress, and now the locket?”

  “Exactly,” Ava says, placing her brush back onto her bureau. “I’m the one who taught you about fashion stuff to begin with, but now you’re copying my outfits and getting Mimi’s jewelry, just because you’re right under her nose all the time.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I didn’t copy you—I didn’t know what color dress you were wearing. And about Mimi, you’re making a big deal out of nothing,” I tell her, but Ava picks up Mimi’s half-finished scarf and walks out before I can continue.

  “It’s a big deal to me,” she calls over her shoulder, leaving me alone in her room.

  First one best friend down, and now one best cousin.

  Chapter 10

  So Harper is Hayden’s maid of honor, right?” Mom is asking when I join the rest of my family in the kitchen. Ava has the scarf draped around Mimi’s neck, measuring the end with a floppy ruler and writing numbers down on a pad of paper.

  “I would assume so,” Aunt Rebecca answers. “And I guess these two will be each other’s maids of honor someday, huh?” She gestures between Ava and me. “They’re as good as sisters.”

  “Right,” Mom says. “Those will be some fun times. But don’t get any bright ideas, girls. We don’t need any weddings around here for another twenty years or so.”

  “Twenty! I’ll be almost thirty-three by then,” I protest.

  “Mmm, you’re right,” Mom says. “Twenty-five years, then.”

  I roll my eyes and then look over at Ava for support, but she’s facing down, silently counting stitches along the scarf, and ignoring all of us. I join Mom at the kitchen table and decide to sit silently until I am spoken to. That will show Ava that two can play her little silent-treatment game. After all, I’ve had about as much silent-treatment over the past two days as one person can take.

  The adults continue to drone on about the upcoming wedding, and Ava keeps fiddling with Mimi’s scarf. Since no one is paying attention to me anyway, I pull my phone out of my pocket and open MM’s website. I tap on the banner about the contest again and reread all of the rules and instructions. I can’t wait to get home and finalize my sketches. I’d like to submit mine by the end of the day tomorrow at the very latest.

  I close the site and type out a text to Bree: Now my cousin’s not speaking to me either. What is with this week?

  Maybe Mercury is in retrograde, Bree writes back.

  What does that mean?

  I don’t know, but it’s a thing, Bree replies. What did you do to Ava?

  That’s the problem—I don’t even know, I tell her. That’s what makes it so weird.

  She and Deirdre should be friends, Bree answers, which makes me smile.

  “What’s so funny over there?” Mimi asks, and I snap my head up from my phone.

  “Nothing,” I answer. “Are you almost finished? I have homework to do.” Mom looks at me curiously out of the corner of her eye.

  “Am I, Ava?” Mimi asks.

  “Yep,” Ava says. “I’m going to have to put some finishing touches on, but I should have it complete later this week.”

  “We’ll come by your house and drop it off, along with the jacket,” Aunt Rebecca says, and I stand up from the table, hoping that will signal Mom and Mimi that we should leave now.

  I say good-bye to Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Peter and kiss them on the cheeks. Then I walk over to Ava.

  “Bye,” I say, holding my hand out to do our wiggly finger salute.

  “Bye,” Ava says, placing her right cheek on mine and giving me an air kiss, keeping her hands wrapped up in the scarf the whole time. She turns away, heads down the hallway and back up the stairs, and disappears before I am even out the door.

  Later that afternoon, when my dangly nameplate earring sketches are as perfect as I think I can make them, I leave my room and head up two flights of stairs to Mimi’s. It’s still odd for me to see all of her stuff crammed inside these four walls. As much as I love Blingingham Palace, this was the room I lived in since the first day I came home from the hospital. It still feels like mine somehow, even if I am glad that Mimi can call it home.

  I tap my knuckles against the door gently, the rings on my hand brushing against the frame. This may be the first time I’ve ever knocked on this door, which is a strange feeling. I see Mimi perched on her vanity bench, rubbing moisturizer onto her forehead and cheeks. She turns at the sound of my tap. “Oh, Tessie,” she says. “Come in, of course.” I walk in and sit on top of the blanket chest, which is at the foot of Mimi’s bed. As much as this room still feels like mine sometimes, it now has Mimi written all over it. What was once my stuffed (if completely organized) closet is now a mishmash of the wild patterns of Mimi’s wardrobe. Her vanity overflows with makeup, and the entire surface of her dresser is covered with beads and gemstones and chains and all sorts of other jewels. I happen to know that two drawers of the dresser are jammed full of even more accessories, and that she keeps her most expensive pieces wrapped up in handkerchiefs on the highest shelf of the closet, or stuffed in old stockings under her mattress, or covered with tissues in the toes of her rain boots. Mimi’s things are everywhere, and the scent of her perfume, while faint anytime she enters a room, is overwhelming in here. I breathe in deeply, finding it comforting.

  “What’s that you have there?” Mimi’s back is to me, because she’s still facing the mirror, but her eyes in the reflection are focused on mine.

  “I wanted to show you my sketches,” I tell her.

  “Wonderful,” Mimi says. “Let me see.” I hold out the papers for Mimi to examine.

  “Tell me which design you like best,” I request.

  “Oh, these are so fun,” Mimi says. “What are you going to do with these?”

  “They’re for that contest. Re—” I stop myself from asking “Remember?” She doesn’t. Not right now anyway.

  “A fas
hion site I like is having a contest for who can design the best new accessory,” I explain again. “This is my idea.”

  “I love them,” Mimi says. “You should definitely win.”

  “Which is your favorite?”

  “Hmm.” Mimi considers each very carefully, nodding to herself while studying them. “I like them all, but I think this one is especially great.” The sketch she’s chosen features a small studded ball holding the earring in the earlobe, with each letter of the name dangling on top of one another underneath, connected by miniature versions of the same type of ball.

  “Good, I like that one too,” I tell her. “Thanks for your help. And for this.” I place the heart of the locket in my hand and squeeze it. “Can I ask you a question about it?”

  “Of course,” Mimi says.

  “Why did you give it to me?” I ask. “Why not Ava, or Hayden, or Harper? They’re all older than me.”

  “You are my only daughter’s daughter,” Mimi tells me seriously. “That gives you a very special position. But more important . . .” She trails off, and I can’t tell if she’s pausing for suspense or if she forgot what she was about to say.

  “Yes?” I prompt her. “But more important . . . what?”

  “You’re my favorite,” she finishes. “Of course you are.”

  Chapter 11

  I hold off on submitting my contest entry online until the next day, reexamining the sheet over and over before I do. Every time I think I may be finished, I end up adding some extra details, until I finally feel ready to scan the paper, upload it onto Miscellaneous Moxie’s contest site, and press Submit.

  When I stand up from my desk chair, my right foot has fallen asleep and the muscles between my shoulder blades are stiff from being hunched over for hours. I hobble around Blingingham Palace to pull my phone out of the cushions of my couch, which is where I hide it when I don’t want to be distracted. I close my eyes before looking at the screen, secretly hoping to see a text from Deirdre or Ava. When I glance down, I see a whole stream of messages waiting for me.

  All of them from Bree.

  I scan them quickly, but she is mostly babbling on about her audition tomorrow. I stuff my phone back into the couch without answering and head upstairs to my family, trying to keep the anticipation of hearing back from MM, along with all of my other worries, pushed out of my mind until tomorrow.

  When I arrive at our usual corner on Monday morning, I find Bree and her trusty flute waiting for me, but there is no sign of Deirdre. “This is getting ridiculous,” I say to Bree in greeting. “How long can this go on?”

  “Hey, it’s more important than ever that I bond with this thing—Frida, I’ve named her—because if I even have a chance of whooping those eighth graders’ butts, I really need to—”

  “I was talking about Deirdre.” I interrupt Bree’s rambling. “How can she still not be talking to us?”

  “Who said I’m not talking?” I hear a voice behind me, and I whip around to find Deirdre standing with one hand on her hip, glirking at me with amusement in her eyes.

  “Um, you,” I point out. “You’re the one who’s been silent for three days straight.”

  “I had a gymnastics meet,” Deirdre says. “And plus, you two were annoying.”

  “So we’re not annoying anymore?” Bree asks.

  “Well, now it’s time to pay your penance,” Deirdre says. “You say you don’t know Rocco. Fine. After today you will. He’s going to eat lunch with us.”

  “Today? Does it have to be today?” Bree asks. I shoot her a look out of the corner of my eye—we just got Deirdre back, and Bree already seems ready to make her mad again.

  “It’s not that he can never eat lunch with us,” Bree continues. “It’s just that, you know, the three of us have kind of a routine. And I really need to concentrate on my audition later, so I’d rather not have any of my routines disrupted today. So can’t Rocco eat lunch with us tomorrow instead, so we can talk just the three of us today?”

  “I can’t disinvite him,” Deirdre says matter-of-factly.

  “Maybe we could reschedule for tomorrow?” I ask. “Tell him something came up.”

  “I’m not doing that,” Deirdre says. “I’m eating lunch with Rocco today—you two can join us or not.” She shifts her bag onto her other shoulder and heads down the hall toward our set of lockers, leaving Bree and me behind.

  “What do we do now?” I turn to ask her, but Bree is kneeling on the floor of the hallway, her flute case open, with the largest middle piece in her hands. She looks under each key pad carefully, as if searching for a hidden treasure. “Now what are you doing?”

  “I forgot to do the dried-spit check this morning,” she explains. “If there’s any caught under Frida’s pads, the keys will be sticky.”

  “Ew. Never mind. I don’t really need the full explanation.”

  “Well, you asked,” Bree says. “Thanks for answering my texts yesterday, by the way. Rude.”

  “I thought I did answer,” I tell her. “Well, if I didn’t, I meant to answer.”

  “Yeah, you didn’t,” Bree says. “At least Frida was there to calm me down about the audition.”

  “Okay, you really can’t call that thing by a name,” I tell her. “You sound like a legitimate crazy person.”

  “Shh, don’t let Frida hear you talk that way!” Bree says, and I search her face for some clue that she’s kidding, but she looks completely serious.

  Scary serious.

  “I’ll let you two get back to bonding, then,” I say. Then I turn down the hall and make my way toward our lockers, waiting for Bree to come to her senses and join me. But she hangs back with her new best friend, Frida, and by the time I reach my locker, Deirdre is nowhere in sight.

  We aren’t even in homeroom yet, and already the happy anticipation that the Miscellaneous Moxie contest gave me over the weekend seems a lifetime away.

  For the first time that I can remember, I walk into the cafeteria alone, a firm sense of dread in the pit of my stomach. Bree is spending the lunch period in a band practice room, insisting that she needs the time to run through her scales in order to warm up her fingers. I look across the room to our usual spot, and I see Deirdre’s profile on the bench.

  With a boy’s profile—Rocco’s—in the place next to her. My place.

  I take a deep breath to calm myself. Be mature, be mature, be mature, I recite in my head as I begin to make my way across the room. It’s only for one period, I think. Just be nice, so that Deirdre goes back to acting normal.

  When I am barely halfway to our table, my thoughts are interrupted as a girl I’ve never seen before appears in front of me, so abruptly that I almost walk right into her.

  “Whoa, sorry,” I say, moving to the side to try to step around her.

  “It’s Tess, right?” the girl asks me. I look more closely at her face, trying to place it in my memory, but nothing about it looks familiar.

  “Yes?” I answer, confused.

  “Can you tell me where you got your bracelet?” the girl asks, pointing to my right wrist, where my watch, bangle, and beads stand stacked on top of one another. “Actually, all of your bracelets. I love all of them.”

  “Oh, these?” I ask, still flustered. “Um, most of them came from Threads—you know, the store on Twining Ridge Road?”

  The girl nods. “I’ve been there,” she says. “But I never know what to get.” She waves her hand to people behind my back, gesturing for them to approach us. In seconds, three more girls have gathered around me, none of whom look any more familiar than the first one.

  “Tess said the bracelets came from Threads,” this girl tells the others, and I feel all eight of their eyes on me, looking me up and down, like I’m a mannequin in a store window.

  Which is kind of a strange feeling, honestly.

  “Sorry,” I begin tentatively, not wanting to sound impolite, “but how do you know me?”

  “We don’t,” one of the other girls pipes u
p. “But you have the best clothes. No, not clothes— I mean, your clothes are good too. But you make them look amazing with all of your . . . bling and stuff.”

  “Really?” I say. “Thanks. That’s . . . that’s really nice, but, like, how do— What grade are you in?”

  “Sixth,” two of them answer at once. “You’re like our fashion icon.”

  I laugh out loud at this, believing she’s kidding, but she looks just as serious as Bree did about giving her flute a name. “That’s really flattering,” I tell them. “But really, I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

  “We’re not,” the first girl speaks for all of them. “We try to spot you in the hallways every single day, just to see what kind of outfit you’ve put together. Especially your accessories.”

  “Which I know sounds creepy, like we’re stalking you or something,” her friend adds. “But I promise we’re not.”

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you about your bracelets for weeks,” the first girl tells me. “But you’re always with your friends, and I didn’t want to interrupt, because, you know, lowly sixth grader and all.”

  “No, no, don’t think like that,” I tell them. “Trust me, I’m not cool. You could always just ask me whatever you want.”

  “Really? Because we have a lot of questions, actually,” one of the other girls states. “I mean, if we could pick your brain for a while, we could really use some help.”

  “Our first dance of the year is on Friday, and we have no clue what we’re supposed to wear,” another says. “Maybe you could give us some ideas.”

  “I mean, I’d be happy to, but I’m not sure how much help I can be,” I say, glancing at Deirdre’s profile again. She’s speaking to Rocco, her back facing the rest of the room. “Do you want to talk now?”

  “Really? Don’t you have to go to your friends?” the first girl asks.

  “They’re . . . otherwise occupied today,” I say. “It’s no problem. You’d actually be doing me a favor.” The sixth graders lead me to their table, and the second we’re seated, they launch in with a thousand questions about both my wardrobe and their own. The lunch period flies by so quickly with all of their chatter that we don’t even get a chance to talk about their upcoming dance.