Things Are Gonna Get Ugly

by Hillary Homzie

  ONE More to Go!

  I look at his hand as Winslow scans each algebra problem during the break after orchestra. His hands are big, pretty much man-size, except without hair. He’s aware of my staring, and I feel exposed. He doesn’t look up at me, though. He goes back to his book, fascinated by something. Not by me. I guess.

  I’ve got to get his attention. I remember the silly, playful Winslow in the library and I want him back. As Ernestine, it’s MUCH harder to access that part of him. “Winslow, want to know how to find your celebrity name?” I ask impulsively.

  “My what?” he asks, fiddling with the IN DOG YEARS I’M DEAD button on his canvas backpack.

  “You heard me.”

  What’s in a Name?

  He leans closer to me and I can smell something musky. Deodorant? Aftershave? Yup, Winslow definitely shaved his chin because his little love patch has vanished. “Some people claim I’ve got extrasensory abilities,” he says in a pseudo deep voice.

  The first thing that pops into my head is that he’s got X-ray vision and can see right through my clothes. I place my forearm in front of my chest and ask, “Can you read my mind?”

  He taps his forehead. “Let’s see. Something about…” He stands up. “You’re thinking about the, um…let me see.” He scratches his head. “The celebrity name game.”

  “YES!” I yell. “You’re a bona fide, genuine, state-certified mind reader. Let’s take the act on the road!” I grab his hand and raise it into the air, champion-style. His fingers feel solid, and surprisingly un-slimy. I’d almost like to hold his hand longer but, suddenly, I can feel my hand—can it be? Yes, a little sweaty. Holding Winslow’s freaking hand is making me nervous. I find myself chewing extra hard on my piece of spearmint gum.

  He gazes into my eyes and I swear the room is spinning a little. “I’m in,” he says.

  “In on what?” I say.

  “You’re such a flake. In on the name thing.” He sighs. “I want to know my name.”

  “Your name? Winslow, you mean?”

  “As in my other name. Stage name. Celebrity name.”

  “OHHHH. That name.” Why do I feel shaky and so dumb? Calm thyself, da? Calm thyself, da?? Why am I thinking in old English and Russian? Olivia’s fault, no doubt. “Okay, take your first pet and the street you were born on and put them together and you have your celebrity star name. Mine’s Mittens Manley,” I say.

  “That does sound like a celebrity name. A very frisky one. I’m Fluffy Harrington,” he says. “More like a name for a big blond comedian.” Then he leans toward me with this serious look on his face. “Can you take the gum out of your mouth? It’s making me hungry.”

  “No. It’s a fresh piece,” I say.

  “Got anything on you, food wise?”

  I shake my head. “I think I’m starting to see a little drool.”

  “Right here?” he asks, tapping the left corner of his lip.

  “No. Lower.”

  He points to his chin.

  “No, higher,” I say. “Maybe we should tape up your mouth.”

  “Duct tape. It’s the answer for everything.”

  Lean and Green

  In science, I stare at Tyler’s head of hair. When I’m back to myself and we’re dancing at Winterfest, I will get to see his awesome hair up close. It’s so bright that I think it might glow in the dark.

  He turns around for a moment, to pick up a pen, and then I get a look at his teeth, which are just as bright as his hair but without the greenish glow. But before he can pick up his pen, Justin does it for him. Tyler’s like that. People just want to do things for him. The truth is I’ve never really heard Tyler talk that much. When he does, he seems cool. I’m sure whatever is inside will just come pouring out when we’re together.

  The only bad thing about me staring is that Olivia notices. Maybe because she’s been scoping Tyler too. She gestures over at the back of his head. “Soooooo?”

  “Yeeeeeeees?”

  “I saw you looking,” she says, not suppressing a smile. “Would thou like a spell to make someone all lovey-dovey?” She flicks her eyes at Tyler.

  “Me looking? What about you looking?”

  She shrugs. “He’s a bit hard to miss. But Winslow’s more my type. Since third grade I’ve known we’re going to end up together.” Olivia waves her arms so that they look rubbery. “See, I’ve been practicing on Winslow.” She raises her eyebrows. “Fiddle-dee, I’m thinking that, yes, I will be going to the Winterfest Dance because I’m feeling increasingly confident that Winslow will show up and maybe dance with me. He acknowledged my presence three times today.”

  “Cool,” I say, not knowing what to say because once again I’m starting to feel really bad. I’m trying to get Winslow to dance with me, too. Olivia is nicer than I thought. “About the spell. I’m okay for now, Olivia.” Another lie that I must tell. Another way I suck.

  When my science teacher tells me to get to work on writing up my lab, I just mumble, “Sure thing.” Still can’t remember his name. But I can tell you that he likes to wear big ugly silver rings with faces of tigers on them. Jewelry wise my mother and Mr. whatever-his-name-is would get along.

  Now Presenting

  Stuckley’s oral report is due in five days and I’m in full-court press.

  For the visual part of my oral presentation, I’ve used my mother’s camera to photograph dogs. Can you believe it? Me with a complicated camera with lots of gizmos and gadgets? I actually asked her to show me how it works and to let me play around on Photoshop. And you know what? It wasn’t horrible. Okay, it was kinda fun. The photos are to back up what I’m saying about the theme of Oliver Twist—that it’s all about perception. I took a photo of this adorable corgi at the pound. I wish I could adopt him, but we aren’t allowed to keep a dog at the stupid Sierra Garden Apartments. Another reason to loathe the place. And then I photographed a corgi dressed up in sweaters in front of a Spanish revival mansion in Atherton. I think it backs up my theme pretty well—similar dogs in different circumstances will be perceived differently.

  A Big Fat Noob

  On the board in social studies, I read something about Southern states wanting to retain their power, and the larger states wanting to have their power determined by popularity. No, population.

  Oh, it’s all the same.

  All during social studies, I watch Winslow blink, lick his lips, and glance down at his notebook. Today, he’s wearing a T-shirt with I KNOW I’M PSYCHIC ’CAUSE MY T-SHIRT SAYS MEDIUM. For some reason, Mr. Dribble actually makes him show his slogan to the class because he thinks it’s so hysterical. I guess he’s trying to show us that he has a sense of humor even while scaring us about the BIG TEST on Monday. But I’m not thinking test. I’m thinking Winslow.

  His shoulders are broad. I hadn’t noticed that before. And he’s got a nice jawline, really solid. And…okay, wait.

  Ew.

  Out for the Count

  Mr. Takashama taps his stick on his music stand. “Okeydokey. We don’t have much time today, people. Concert’s in four days, and if I catch anyone who’s not ready I’ll”—turning around, he reveals a pair of vampire teeth—“suck the blood, I mean music, right out of you.”

  The orchestra members roar appreciatively.

  I notice Mr. Takashama wears big, dark black glasses as if he just stepped right out of a Buddy Holly movie from the 1950s. His shiny black hair is floppy and looks very stylized. I’m almost jealous of its sheen. He turns toward me. “Ernestine, even if you’re not able to join us, I hope you can share with your fellow players how to play the Bach concerto,” he says, grinning. “Apparently, the members of our orchestra are unfamiliar with allegro.”

  Allegro? What language is he speaking? Portuguese? Spanish?

  A thought jets into my mind. “Allegro” means “brisk and lovely.” Oh, right. Ernestine’s brain at work. Okay, it’s one thing if part of me, the Ernestine part, understands what allegro is, but would my body actually know how to
play the violin? That’s not something I am willing to find out! Humiliation. Been there, done that.

  This Thought Makes It Hard to Think About Studying for the Social Studies Test

  For the first time, the silence of being alone in my house without cable TV or a DVR—Dad in L.A., Mom in one of her classes—doesn’t bother me. My brain feels like a noisy, crowded house, as I read about that hot, sticky summer in August when a bunch of irritated guys yelled at one another in Philadelphia.

  After spending all of Friday night studying about James Madison, Edmund Randolph, and the compromises and battles that eventually gave us the Constitution of the United States of America, I pull myself out of bed and onto the sticky floor. Welcome to my weekend! I studied so much I didn’t think of Winslow. Okay, I’m thinking of Winslow now. But I can easily go back to the Colonial ponytailed dudes, right?

  Hey, wait a minute, Winslow has a ponytail. But he’s not a Founding Father.

  Ahhhh!

  A Winning Attitude

  A glass of ancient apple juice and an opened, half-eaten apricot Fruit Roll-Up litter the floor. “This is disgusting!” Standing up, I kick the wall, stubbing my big toe.

  I look at the aqua light on my digital alarm clock. It’s already ten p.m. Soon enough it will be tomorrow. Monday. My social studies test.

  I know Mom’s back, watching television and folding clothes. She can’t stand to do chores unless she’s doing something entertaining at the same time.

  I pad out into the living room, where Mom is sprawled out on the couch watching a late-night Hallmark Hall of Fame weeper kind of thing. She’s got a bowl of sesame sticks on the coffee table, an open bag of Pirate’s Booty, and two glasses of natural soda. Unfolded T-shirts, giant panties and bras, and towels cover the floor.

  Plopping down on the couch, I pick up a towel and fold it. “Mom, I did it. I’m really prepared for the test.”

  Mom’s eyes are glued onto the TV, where a woman pleads with a state trooper to put out an APB on her missing child. She absently stuffs her mouth with Pirate’s Booty.

  “I’m going to get an A tomorrow,” I say. “I can feel it. On a test.” All by myself, I think.

  “That’s great, honey.”

  “I mean, I’m really, really ready.”

  My mom’s glazed look mirrors her inactiveness. I want to cancel out her inactivity with my activeness. I want to shake her, shake the TV and throw it, and I want her to celebrate this moment because I am feeling prepared academically in a whole new way. Right now I’m feeling wired like I can’t sleep, so I call Ninai and Olivia to ask if they are up for some late-night biking. Predictably, they both say no, so I go out for a ride by myself and the wind hitting my face feels good.

  Later, when I gather the clothes to fold in my room, Mom says good night without a thank-you. But I don’t need one. In the darkness, with only moonlight streaming through my window, I fold the towels and my underwear into neat little piles, using my hands as irons, pressing them into neat, organized bundles and color-coordinating them. Pinks in one pile. Yellows in another. My mom’s nightgowns, towels. I find all of the matches for socks. And in the moonlight, I gaze at the neat stacks of laundry on the rug and feel satisfied.

  Ready!

  The bell is about to ring to signal the start of first period. The sky looks like Elmer’s glue and the cold penetrates my bones. I’m almost glad to get to social studies.

  As I move down the outdoor hallway, I pause in front of the water fountain. Pressing down on the button, I take a sip and a tinny taste washes over my tongue.

  I shouldn’t take another sip. Water, threatening to overflow, pools up inside the well. But my lips are so salty from the tofu omelet I ate at breakfast that I lean over to take one more drink. A tsunami splashes onto me—water, bits of toilet paper, and gum hit my cotton pants.

  Naturally, at that moment, Caylin struts down the hallway, as the water drips down my nose. And there’s Tyler, too, his hands in his front pockets, looking as cool as ever, while I am looking bad as ever, like I might as well have on my pajamas and fuzzy pink princess slippers. Tyler keeps on strutting down the hall. I don’t even register with him but The Girls are peering at me and smirking in their I-have-a-secret way. My ugliness makes them feel prettier. I remember that feeling. I am not going to let them see me getting upset. It doesn’t matter. At least I am prepared for the dumb social studies test. My hands grip the colored index cards with my notes so tightly that they curl in my fist.

  I overhear some of their convo. Something about “the best…Winterfest…leadership…Limos…so so so the best thing…so so so…shopping…expensive…I accidentally bumped into a sixth grader Friday and he peed in his pants…. Hummer…blah blah…Tahoe.”

  I slink away, thinking about the Madison plan, and the slave compromise, and the Liberty Bell, and letting freedom ring.

  Duct Tape is Silver

  Like a star-crazed fan, I race up to Mr. Dribble’s desk and wave at him frantically. “It’s me. I want to tell you something. I’ve actually studied.”

  “Very in-er-resting,” he says, dropping the t. Then he leans over his desk and says under his breath, “Sometimes people fail and they’re stuck just as they are. But when others go through transitions, you can’t get in their way, no siree Bob. You wouldn’t believe who Principal Barnes used to be, or me. That’s another story.” He waves his hand. “Can’t go into it. Okay, if you really want to know. I didn’t try hard enough, missed some opportunities, and missed the deadline. Anyhoo, so now I’m a middle school social studies teacher just trying to do some good deeds.”

  “The deadline. There’s a deadline?”

  “Yuk. Yuk. Yuk, you’re funny. There’s ALWAYS a deadline, gal. You know that.”

  “So if I don’t get Winslow to dance with me at Winterfest then I’m forever…I mean…”

  “You’ve determined your own deadline.” He wriggles his mustache. “Don’t look at me.”

  “But…but…”

  “But nothing. As much as I’d like to chat, I’ve got a test to give out on this lovely sunny day. Tests. You’re familiar with them, right?” He fans out the stack of papers sitting on his desk. “Later,” he says, rubbing his spazzed-out mustache with one hand and waving good-bye to me with the other.

  Later? As Dribble turns his back and counts tests, Petra smiles at Winslow and sticks out her chest, while sucking in her breath. She’s standing in the back of the classroom vogueing for—Winslow? Why is she doing that? She can’t tolerate the idea of anything about him—his weird T-shirts—today a black one with a skull that says SILENCE IS GOLDEN. DUCT TAPE IS SILVER.

  Petra taps his shoulder and says, all palsy-walsy, “Hey, Wins, help me with Dribble’s dumb test. Will you, hon? With leadership, chairing the dance, volleyball, et cetera, I haven’t had one second. Seriously. And I so appreciate all of the algebra homework, so if you’d help me out. Just this once. It’d be, like, such a HUGE favor.”

  I’m gasping with recognition. I know those words. That was me. All of the homework was for Petra! The homework I had been doing for Winslow was because the boy was crushing hard on Petra Santora. That’s why I’ve seen them chatting and whispering. Hello. It’s all making sense now. Except for why he asked me to do the homework. I mean, he could have done it himself. I’m such an idiot.

  Winslow shifts around on one foot. He’s drooling at Petra, and I can tell that he thinks she’s just more beautiful than an elf queen. She’s taller than me but more filled out and has lashes that look fake because of all the mascara she globs there and is all shiny-lipped because of constant lip-gloss application. And her highlighted hair is never out of place because Petra is skilled with product. And she’s strong-looking. Like a female kickboxer who could rip your head off and then kiss you hard.

  Winslow springs out of his chair, hands Petra his study notes for the test, and puffs. “Have it. It’s yours. I’ve got a copy on my computer.” He clears his throat and raises his eyebrows. �
��Good talking online last night, oui, ma cherie? By the way, I found more top elf pickup lines. Ready?”

  No! Could anyone ever be ready for top elf pickup lines?

  Petra nods eagerly. Huh?

  Winslow rubs his hands together and gets on his knees, I suppose in his best imitation of an elf. He looks up at Petra all googly-eyed. “Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful knees?”

  Petra giggles.

  “I can get you off the naughty list.”

  Another giggle. NO!

  “I’ve got the keys to the sleigh tonight.”

  A burst of laughter.

  “I’m a magical being. Put on your bikini for me.”

  Petra tugs on her shirt like she’s going to lift it up. As if she actually has a bikini underneath her sweater. Puhlease. Talking online. Flirting in algebra. He. She. Could it be? The boy wears a chain, a ponytail, weird T-shirts, duct-taped shoes. He obviously doesn’t care what anyone thinks about him.

  Winslow takes a step toward Petra. “You meant what you said about le dance?” he says, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “I thought it was just, you know, le joke.”

  Petra leans forward, tapping his chin with her finger. “Wins, if you’ll help me out with the test, nothing’s a joke.”

  “You’ll do aneee-thing, won’t you?” says Winslow.

  Petra smiles at him big.

  NOOOOOOOOO! How could a normal, sane, adolescent boy be rendered powerless by his hormones when a certain kind of girl goes to work on him? It’s sick. Sick and way too familiar.

  I yank the sheet away. “Don’t, Winslow!”

  “You’re such a freak,” says Petra, squinting at me like I’m a blinding strobe light. She winks at Caylin and then cups her hand around her mouth and leans into Winslow. “Too late for study notes. I’m going to need some personal assistance.”

  The Arrangement

  “It would really mean a lot to me, Wins.” She glances at his T-shirt. “I love that on you. You’re getting SO cute these days. Seriously. Right, Cay?”