She pursed her lips and reburied her head in her notebook while simultaneously shoveling down a big pile of tofu scramble. She’s terrified of failing math.
“Berger definitely has a thing for you,” Ben-o continued.
“Shut up,” I said. “He does not.”
“According to Adam he does.” He shrugged and took an enormous bite of his sandwich.
If Ryan Berger had a “thing” for me, he had a funny way of showing it. Not that the thought had ever crossed my mind.
“At least we’re partners,” I said aloud.
“Hmm?” said Ben-o.
“Oh—for Robotics, I mean. You and me.”
Ben-o nodded and gave a thumbs-up. His mouth was still full of sandwich—ham and provolone. Same as every Wednesday.
“We have a pretty good chance of getting to the finals this year. Not that we have too much competition,” I said, glaring at the back of Ryan Berger’s head.
Ben-o swallowed and scowled. “Stop obsessing over Berger.”
“I’m not obsessing. And you’re wrong. He’s not into me. Not like it would even matter if he was. I’m not into him.”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Ben-o.
If anyone was obsessing, it was Ben-o.
After school, at the club meeting, Mr. H was bouncing on his heels. He couldn’t wait to tell us about this year’s project. Ben-o and I grabbed our worktable from last year, the one by the window, before anyone else could get it. There were twelve members this year—three more than last year. There were six old-timers, including me and Ben-o. Then there was Ryan and Adam, of course, and a crop of new sixth-graders.
“Ladies and gents,” said Mr. H, snapping up the projector screen to reveal the secret written on the board, “start your engines!”
We old-timers let out a cheer. On the board were the two words we’d all been hoping for: RACE CARS!
“And where there are race cars, there’s an …?”
“OBSTACLE COURSE,” we all yelled.
Ben-o and I did a high-five. Instantly, we put our heads together and started whispering excitedly.
Mr. H cleared his throat. “Before we begin,” he said, “Feinstein, O’Connell, may I have a word with you outside?” He called all his favorites by our last names. I assumed he wanted to give us a pep talk, some words of wisdom about the district finals. We followed him into the hallway.
“I’m afraid I have some news for the two of you,” he said once the door closed. I smiled, not imagining what he was going to say next. “I’d like you two to split up this year.”
“What?” I cried.
“You two are my best. It would be unfair to team you up against the other kids. I thought you could each mentor a new club member.”
“Like who?” said Ben-o warily.
“Feinstein, I thought you could work with Ryan,” Mr. H said, turning to me.
“Seriously?”
“I’m afraid so, Feinstein.”
“He doesn’t know the first thing about robots,” I complained.
“Precisely where you come in. O’Connell, likewise, I want you to work with Adam.”
Talk about unfair advantages. Adam’s actually got half a brain, whereas Ryan Berger is a total zero.
I could tell Ben-o didn’t like it any better than I did, but he didn’t say anything to Mr. H. He just shrugged. When we went back into the lab, he started gathering up his stuff from our worktable.
“Where are you going?” I asked. “This table’s big enough for four.” I really didn’t want to be stranded with Ryan Berger.
“You and your new partner can have this table,” he said. “Adam and I will be over there.” He caught Adam’s eye and chin-pointed to the table in the opposite corner. Adam nodded and walked over.
“Don’t be mad,” I said. “This isn’t my fault.”
Ben-o shrugged and slouched away.
“Berger, over here, please,” said Mr. H, thumping his hand on my table.
Mr. H distributed a couple of handouts and gave a quick overview of the robotic parts available for our use. I tuned out when he started going over the sign-out process for borrowing electronic equipment, which I knew already.
I’d had a basic concept in mind, since watching the eighth-grade regionals last year, of what I would build if we ever got this project. But it was going to be hard without Ben-o. His design skills were the best, while I was better at actually building things. We needed each other.
Like the robot arm we made for our sixth-grade science fair—it was his idea, mainly. But it was my idea to modify his mom’s Roomba vacuum cleaner instead of starting from scratch like he wanted to. That was the only reason we got it done in time. We’re a great team like that.
We’d really wanted to get the RoboChat app—which lets you control the Roomba with text messages—and hack in some homegrown voice activation using open-source speech recognition. Only we didn’t have enough money for the wireless device it needed, so we scrapped that idea and made our own remote control, which was just okay. We rigged the arm using Ben-o’s Erector Set, a bike chain, a sponge gripper, and a couple of micro servomotors we lifted from Mr. H’s supply cabinet. It was kind of like the carnival game where you try to win a prize by lowering a motorized claw into a pile of cheap stuffed animals—only, those claws are designed to fail, while ours actually sort of worked. It could pick up objects of different sizes and weights without dropping or crushing them … most of the time. It worked great with an empty soda can, a tennis ball, and assorted stuffed animals. Really small things like pencils didn’t work. Or heavy things, like a two-liter bottle of soda. We had to adjust the tension like six times before it could pick up a balloon without popping it. There was also a mishap with a full jar of spaghetti sauce, but we didn’t mention that in our data.
We won second place in the whole science fair, ahead of the seventh- and eighth-graders. The perfect team. Which was why I had been counting on us being partners again.
Totally ignoring Ryan, I walked to the supply cabinet and grabbed two large sheets of graph paper and a mechanical pencil. When I got back to our table, I stared at the blank paper for a long moment, then closed my eyes and breathed in, summoning what little drawing talent I had. That was another thing Ben-o was really great at. Me? Not so much.
While I worked on my sketch, using more eraser than pencil, Ryan entertained himself by doing this stiff-jointed walk and saying “Take me to your leader,” as if he thought robots were some kind of zombie alien predators. I imagined how disappointed he was going to be when he figured out this was a science club, and not even one where he got to blow things up.
He was being totally annoying, but he knew better than to do anything that might actually get him kicked out of the club or he would be suspended for real, maybe even expelled. Now, there’s an idea, I thought.
After a while, he dropped the zombie routine and wandered over. “Whatcha doing?”
I crumpled up the paper and threw it away in frustration.
“Come on,” he said. He retrieved the paper from the floor and smoothed it out on our worktable. “Show me.”
“Okay.” I sighed. “I saw this cool thing at regionals last year, but I don’t know how to draw it.”
Ryan took up the pencil. “I’m listening.”
“Well,” I said, “it should be low to the ground, like a Lamborghini, but narrower, and with really big wheels in the back. Also kind of pointy in the front, like an airplane.”
Ryan drew a pretty decent race car, except he added a sort of tail-fin-looking thing. I almost felt bad telling him that wasn’t going to work.
“Like this?” he said.
“Even bigger wheels. But here’s the thing—there are definitely going to be some deep curves on the obstacle course, so I want to put in a split torso—approximately here.”
“A what?”
“That way, even if the back end flips over a hundred eighty degrees, it’ll still land on its wheels and keep driving. But that
means no tail fin, okay? No offense.”
It didn’t matter, though, because Ryan had already reached the limits of his technical comprehension, as well as his attention span. He tossed the pencil in the air a few times and didn’t even bother to pick it up off the floor when it fell. He pushed the paper away to rest his head on the table.
I picked up the pencil and got back to work on the drawing, erasing the tail fin and enlarging the wheels. Then Ryan seemed to think of something. He sat up and pulled the drawing back toward him, making me draw a jagged line across the page.
“Hey, look what you did!”
He knit his eyebrows together and scratched his head. “Umm … I have a question.”
“What?”
“Where’s the robot?”
“You’re kidding, right?” He wasn’t kidding. “The car is the robot.” I wanted to add, Duh, but instead I said, “Obviously.”
Ryan bit his lip in concentration. “Wait, then—who’s driving?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Go back to robot-walking.” That would at least get him out of my hair.
I really wanted to brainstorm with Ben-o. When I looked over at their table, he and Adam were already building something out of cardboard. I grabbed the smudged and wrinkled drawing and wandered over.
“What are you guys doing?” I asked, standing on tiptoe to see over the top.
“Securing the perimeter—” said Adam.
“Building a wall,” said Ben-o, sounding almost apologetic.
Was he really saying …?
“—so no one can spy on us,” Adam finished.
I stared at Ben-o as the insult began to sink in.
“You think I’d copy you guys?” I sputtered. “Please!” I mean, I’d never had to compete against Ben-o before, and I really didn’t want to go up against him in the finals, but this was insane. Assuming both our teams made it that far—a big if, with Ryan dragging me down.
For a brief moment, I thought about quitting. But I’d been looking forward to Robotics all summer, and I wasn’t going to let anyone mess it up for me. Not Ryan, not Adam, not even Ben-o.
“I already have my design figured out,” I lied, waving the crumpled paper. “Bet you don’t.”
“Want me to look at it?” asked Ben-o hopefully. Adam winked and nudged him, as if they were putting one over on me. Ben-o looked uncomfortable.
“No,” I said. “Forget it. Wouldn’t want to give away any trade secrets.”
I clomped back to my table, where Ryan was swinging a rotary belt at a row of nine-volt batteries. I glanced around the room. Ben-o and Adam were busy with duct tape and cardboard. Joe was showing a sixth-grader the supply closet. At the table next to mine, Deshaun and Marina were absorbed in a heated discussion about torque conversion. Trying to imagine me and Ryan having that same conversation made me snort-laugh.
“What?” said Ryan.
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Look, no offense, Ryan, but—why didn’t you just join the drama club or something?”
“I dunno,” he said, scratching his head. “This sounded more interesting.”
“Time,” Mr. H called out. “Everyone please start packing up. If you’re going to sign something out, do it now. Or put it back where you found it, please.”
Ryan whooped and headed for the door.
“Hey! Aren’t you forgetting something?” I yelled after him. Ryan stopped and turned around, clearly bewildered. “Um, the batteries? The rotary belt? Could you put them back?”
He just laughed and kept going. What a jerk! I gathered up his mess and put everything back in the closet.
“How’d it go today?” Mr. H asked.
“It was fine,” I lied. I didn’t have the energy to complain about Ryan Berger. I could see him out in the hallway with Ben-o and Adam. I brushed past all of them without stopping. I was going to walk home by myself, to teach Ben-o a lesson. I was halfway down the block when I heard him calling my name.
“Tara, wait up!”
I stopped, but I didn’t turn around. Ben-o pulled up next to me on his skateboard.
“The wall was Adam’s idea,” he said breathlessly. “I just thought it was funny. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t.”
“How was working with Berger?” He snickered.
“Now who’s obsessing?” I demanded crossly.
Ben-o stiffened. “Just asking.”
“Turns out, Ryan’s really great at drawing—almost as good as you,” I said. “I think we’re gonna make it to the finals, no problem.”
Ben-o’s face clouded, but then he tried to make light of it. “That’s lucky,” he joked. “You can’t draw to save your life.” Which was a little too true to be funny.
“I have to go,” I said. “Study date at Rebecca’s.”
Ben-o perked up. “For Social Studies? Mind if I join you? I didn’t understand that Middle East geography thing at all.”
“No, er—Honors English. I heard there’s going to be a pop quiz tomorrow.”
It was stupid to lie, but I just wanted to get away from him for a while, to punish him for whatever it was he was mad at me for. Which meant I had to walk the long way home; otherwise, he would know I was lying. I cursed myself silently as I left him at Eighty-Seventh Street and pretended to walk to Rebecca’s. I just wanted to go home.
ise and shine!” Mum sang, snapping open the window shades in my room on Saturday morning.
“What time is it?” I asked groggily.
“Nearly nine thirty.”
I groaned. Nine thirty on a Saturday morning? I jammed the pillow over my head to block out the light.
“No, no, no,” Mum said, snatching it away. “I told you. We are going dress shopping today. So put your happy game face on, as you kids say.”
I’ve never heard anyone say that.
“Like this?” I grinned and crossed my eyes.
“If that’s your happy game face, then yes. Now get dressed.”
I put on my typical weekend wear—purposely ripped black jeans held together with safety pins, black hoodie, neon pink socks. Ninja style. With a splash of color.
Over breakfast, she kept trying, and failing, to put a good spin on it. “Nothing too, too fancy. Something chic and fun. Something ‘kicky.’”
“Mum—kicky? I don’t even know what that means.”
“We’ll save the fancy dress for your own bas mitzvah,” she added, ignoring me. “Hopefully you’ll have grown a bit by then.”
I peered down my own shirt. “Nope.”
“Don’t be vulgar, Tara. And go put on a training bra.”
“For what?”
“You need to wear it to see how it fits under a dress.”
I buried my head in my hands. Pointless. “I don’t know where I put it,” I lied.
“It’s in your top drawer. No doubt with the tags still attached. Go.”
I stalked back to my room and fished the itchy, icky thing out of my dresser drawer. Why, why, why? It fit like an infant bikini top—completely pointless. I wriggled it on over my head and put my sweatshirt back on. It made no difference whatsoever.
“Where are you two ladies off to?” Daddy asked as we were leaving.
“Macy’s,” said Mum.
“My condolences,” he said.
“Thank you,” Mum and I both answered.
Mum was in a terrible mood from the start. She began criticizing my posture on the subway and even yelled at me at Macy’s for riding the escalator backward, which I always do. And the dresses—ugh.
“How about this?” she asked, pulling out a long-sleeved velvet number that was almost as tall as she was.
“Too long.”
“This one’s cute,” she said, trying again with a blue satin minidress.
“Too short.”
If she wouldn’t let me wear my normal clothes, then I’d rather do something vintage, maybe repurpose an old dress of hers or even Gran’s. Or one of Daddy’
s old suits cut down for me. That would be cool. Mum would probably die of embarrassment. Which would be part of the fun.
Mum could be so uptight about stuff like that. I guess in high school, when she lived with Meena Auntie, she only got to wear hand-me-downs because Meena couldn’t afford to buy her sister new clothes. That meant wearing Meena’s old-ladyish salwar kameezes instead of the designer jeans and sweatshirts everybody else was wearing.
I wasn’t clear on all the details, because Mum never liked talking about it. Meena Auntie was in law school at the time and became Mum’s legal guardian so she could bring her to the U.S. for high school. Mum never got over being the outsider, mocked for her clothes, her accent, and the strong-smelling curries Meena made her carry to school every day in a round steel tiffin box. One time, it leaked all over her school bag and her clothes and looked, Mum said, like diarrhea. I mean, I love Indian food, but I can’t imagine carrying it to school and having to eat it cold from a leaky, three-tiered tiffin. Mum was happier before she came to the U.S., but the catch is, now she couldn’t stand to live anywhere else. And somehow that was Meena’s fault, too. I guess that’s just something that happens between siblings. Not that I would know. But it did explain why the idea of vintage really freaked her out. Used clothing—on purpose? The horror!
“Stop scratching your chest, Tara. Here, you can’t object to this one,” she said, holding up a knee-length dress with purple and white stripes.
“Too Sheila Rosenberg,” I said.
Mum sighed. She can be fairly clueless sometimes. First of all, we wasted like an hour in the wrong department. Anything designed to be held up with a pair of boobs is obviously not going to work for me, training bra or no. And the girls’ department was even worse. I mean—really, Mum? Pink chiffon? Not with my complexion.
After two hours of bickering and no dresses, Mum heaved herself into a tall seat at the makeup counter, thrusting her jacket and purse at me. “Shanette, dear,” she said, reading the woman’s name tag, “I need a fresh-up.”
As Shanette prepared to apply new makeup over Mum’s old makeup, I played with the lipsticks and eyeliners on the counter, twisting them up and down, smelling them, trying to imagine why anyone would leave home with this sticky stuff on her face. I really didn’t get the attraction, even though lots of girls in my grade had started wearing eyeliner. I couldn’t even draw a straight line. Not that that stopped some people. Sometimes Rebecca and I gave each other crazy makeovers, but only in my room. I wondered if Mum was going to try to make me wear makeup for my bat mitzvah. Probably. I made a mental note not to wear mascara, after what had happened to Sheila Rosenberg. Not that I was planning to cry. But it might rain or something—better to be safe.
My Basmati Bat Mitzvah Page 4
