Things Are Gonna Get Ugly

by Hillary Homzie

  Caylin’s eyes graze over his face, resting on his Saturn eyes, which are definitely his best feature. “Totally.”

  I can feel my breath catching in my throat and want to scream. I’m also standing in the back of the classroom, far away from Dribble, whose back is still turned as he counts out his tests. But I’m paranoid that somehow he’ll hear me, even though it’s totally noisy and everyone is speaking at once. But still, I have to say something. My voice rises an octave as I glare at Petra and Caylin and whisper hoarsely, “You shouldn’t lie to Winslow like that.”

  Caylin bites her bottom lip. “Not me. Honestly. I think Wins is getting cute. Don’t get upset, Ernestine.” She sucks in her breath. “Petra’s in trouble. Big-time. She’s already gotten one detention. One more thing and she’s out of here. I’m serious. Her mom will pull her from La Cambia and lock her up in the Hillwood School.” She emphasizes the last part because everyone knows the Hillwood School is a place where you have to grow your own granola and eat it for lunch.

  “For real?” I ask. But I know that she’s serious. Caylin’s eyes give it away—they’re already a little puffy and reddish. I remember when Petra told her that her thighs were jiggly on the same day that Ms. Stuckley had given her a C-plus on a paper and her father had married the witch. It was a very bleary, red-eyed day.

  “I’d like to help you,” says Winslow, studying Petra. “I mean really like to help you, ma chérie.” He is one of the only eighth-grade guys who is actually Petra’s height. “But my seat’s a mile away from yours.” He points to Petra’s seat by the bank of windows, then his, which is near the front by the whiteboard. Dribble had moved him a couple of days ago so he could make sure that Winslow was paying attention and not reading one of his half-human books. “See, not possible,” he says in a bad French accent. “Unless we warp time and space, that is.” Squinting his eyes, he taps his chin. “Falling into a black hole. With you. Could be interesting.” He squints at her. “Nah, it’d ruin your hair.”

  Dribble suddenly stands up and clears his throat. “Please sit down in your seats, gals and guys. It’s showtime. I mean, test time!”

  Sliding his overloaded book bag down his broad hulking shoulders (Has he lost weight? Gotten taller?), Winslow gazes at me intently like he used to when I was Taffeta. “How about you, Ernestine? Are you in a helpful mood?”

  Me? “What?” I feel like jumping on Winslow’s head and making it one-dimensional. “That homework was for Petra.”

  He grins.

  “I thought it was for you.”

  “Me?” He guffaws. “I take Algebra Two at Menlo Atherton. Why would it be for me?” That’s right. Duh! Winslow leaves during gym to go the high school. How could I have forgotten?

  “Why don’t you do it yourself?” I hiss.

  “Why would I when you were so willing?”

  How could he do this to me? Do I have a choice? I grit my teeth so that I don’t throw my social studies book at him. Calm thoughts. Think about something soothing like clouds or Cherry Garcia ice cream. Don’t blow it. Keep the course. Okay, I can now manage a pretend smile at the complete jerk. My lips are chapped, though, and I can feel them sticking to my teeth.

  Petra gazes at me like I really exist. “So, it’s a yes?”

  Test Me!

  “Just a few answers,” I say.

  Petra holds up her hand, crossing her fingers. “I swear, I won’t bother you or any of your brainiac friends today.” She smiles at me like I’m a member of the Special Olympics. I can remember playing Marco Polo in her pool, and sneaking in to my first PG-13 movie to watch with her when we were eleven. She made me laugh so hard once I actually peed in my pants in the movie theater. Okay. Okay. What’s the big deal? Right? Karmically, after all of those times with Winslow, it’s only right that I let someone cheat off of me for once. Dribble is whistling and all happy, and I think he’d appreciate my generosity.

  “Okay, but don’t copy my essay,” I whisper jokingly to Petra, “because I’m writing about Dadaism and the duality of existence in the Constitutional Convention.”

  “Whatever, Ernie,” she says, slapping me on the back. “You’re a very nice brain.”

  Dribble carefully passes out the tests and lays them on our desks delicately like they’re snowflakes about to melt. He clucks his tongue. “Alrighty, you’ve got fifty minutes, folks. We’ve spent a lot of weeks studying the Constitution of the good U.S. of A. If you know what’s good for you, I’d suggest you show me that you’ve been paying attention.” He glances up at the clock. “You may start now.”

  The fill-in-the-blank sections are easy. No surprises there, but Petra keeps on kicking me under the desk so I can spread my paper over to the right corner and she can lean over and copy. She has really good eyesight, and seems to be able to read my answers without even straining forward. A definite talent.

  I can feel it in my gut. I’ve gotten everything—all of the answers—right. There isn’t one that I don’t know. Bubbles inside of bubbles. Patterns in patterns. I’m finding the function in dysfunction. Who would have thought it? Does that mean I am comfortable being dysfunctional or does it mean I am functioning back to my true self?

  When I start the essay section, Petra kicks me hard in the shin. But I won’t budge. No way will I do that for her.

  I’m almost the last one to turn in my paper, and Petra’s the first. When I hand Dribble my paper, he nods at me but doesn’t say anything. My heart pounds in my ears and in my throat. To my left, I can’t see Olivia’s face because of her hair hanging down, but I can hear the scratching of her calligraphy pen on paper. Ninai writes more slowly and carefully. Her eyes catch mine and she smiles. Wow, Ninai actually does look good in that Girl Scout getup.

  When the bell rings and I’m finished, I tell myself that everything’s going to be okay.

  I stroll down the hall, imagining the A-plus written in red ink at the top of my paper. What would my mom say? Of course, Ernestine was used to doing well all of the time academically. But Taffeta wasn’t. I grip my leg, pinching extra flesh that never used to be there. I squeeze hard. Is Tafettta even there at all?

  Suddenly, Winslow

  I mean, he’s really close and, as he sort of slam-dances into me, we make contact at the hip. “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say idiotically. He smells like pencil shavings and Cool Ranch tortilla chips.

  Walking backward, Winslow starts singing some old Rolling Stones song that my mom likes. “Hey, hey, you, you, get off of my cloud.” Is this code for go away? Because part of me wants to go away. Far away from Winslow. I backpedal a bit but he continues to sing, and steps right up to me so we’re practically nose to nose. “See you at the dance,” he singsongs. His chain clanks to the beat.

  I’m so surprised, I drop my pencil. He’s ACTUALLY going to be there. I remember that this is good news.

  “You’re going?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Surprised? I made a deal, right?”

  “Me. Petra. Who else do you have going?”

  “Ew, you sound jalouse.” He tugs on the end of his ponytail.

  “No. It’s just that you’ve selected another untouchable girl.”

  “Another? What are you talking about?”

  Can I say, First Taffeta and then Petra? No. That I’m detecting a pattern? No? “Stop nitpicking. I just mean Petra’s not seriously gonna give you a second look.”

  “I’ve got plans,” says Winslow.

  “Plans?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Like?”

  “Like you’ll just have to see,” says Winslow, smiling mysteriously. What could he possibly mean? What could Winslow Fromes possibly do to make himself more attractive to Petra?

  “Great. I’m so happy for you, Winslow.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You are?”

  “Yeeeeees, of course.”

  He shifts his weight on his duct-taped shoes. “See you there?”
>
  “Yeah,” I say calmly so I don’t seem desperate. I expected to be all tingly, screaming WAHOO at full amplification but, instead, I feel almost blank. What’s up with that?

  I want to say Petra has no intention of dancing with you. I want to tell him SOOO badly because I can’t stand how happy he is. But then he wouldn’t show up to the dance and Olivia would be bummed, and I’d be uber bummed. Because I’d be stuck as the un-me for the rest of my life.

  I miss Taffeta!

  Doing a Happy Dance

  Before English, Olivia strolls up to me, tucking her hair around her ears so that for the first time I see she has eyes. “How did you do on the test, my dear little Ernestineski?”

  “I did all right.” My throat constricts. It’s small now, so small that I’m sure a grain of rice can’t fit down it. I’m sure I’ll need Ensure, the pink vitamin stuff my grandfather had to drink. That’s how I feel when I think about cheating for Petra. I need life support.

  “All right?” She laughs and bends down to double-knot my shoelaces together. “I won’t unknot them until you tell me the truth.”

  “Okay, whatever,” I say, flagging my hand. “I did really well.”

  She hugs me. “Piffies, bonkies, and sassafras tea! I’m so happy for you.” Then Olivia smiles mysteriously, like she’s Mona Lisa with crooked teeth. “And I did something very well too. I have the most wonderful information,” says Olivia, who starts to hum for a moment. “I heard Winslow is definitely going to Winterfest this year. It’s because I’ve unleashed my woo-woo powers.” She waves her hands witchily. “We’re going to dance all night, which means you and Ninai must—and I’m not accepting any nos—must ignore reason and sanity and accompany me to Winterfest. Okay? Don’t say you won’t. Don’t even think it.”

  I sit there for a moment, moving my lips but no words are coming out. Then I manage to say, “Wow.” For a moment, I really want to tell Olivia EVERYTHING! That Winslow will be there because of Petra, that I’m already planning to go to Winterfest and dance with Winslow. But I can’t snatch her moment. I’ve been a thief all my life.

  I begin to cry. “Yes, I’ll go to Winterfest. Omigod. It’s what you always…wanted, Olivia. It’s like the universe is calling out to you and saying, Go for it! That’s wonderful,” I say, choking out the words.

  Olivia’s eyes water. “You are such a good friend. I’m so lucky.”

  I know I am happy for Olivia but I am crying for me. It feels so good to release. I continue to babble how proud I am of her as the warm tears streak down my big fat cheeks. My tongue tastes the saltiness. I feel like I’m letting the inside out. Not in control anymore. I’m being real. For once in my life, I’m being real.

  Liar, Liar on the Telephone Wire

  “Dad,” I gush into the phone. “My oral report in English. I have it so nailed. I’m, like, actually looking forward to tomorrow. And you know that guy I was telling you about? The one I might be, you know, hooking up at the dance with? Well, he said he’s going but—”

  “Ah, man, Ernestine. I knew he would. Otherwise, he’d be a total and complete idiot and I’d have to fly up and wail on the dude.”

  “Dad,” I groan into the receiver, about to explain everything but then I decide against it. I don’t tell him that he’s not going because of me but because of Petra and that I’m about to ruin my friendship with Olivia. And that I’m not myself. It’s waaaaaay too complicated.

  He pauses. “So is it formal or informal?”

  “Informal, Dad. But lots of girls, you know, find something kind of special for the day.”

  “I see,” he says.

  “I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

  “I’m sure,” he says. “I know it. All good stuff. How’s your mom?” I’m surprised. He doesn’t normally ask about her.

  “Busy. You know, with her photography and wearing pajamas twenty-four–seven.”

  “Well, good for her. Keeping busy. I’ve had some good conversations lately with some big fish about the screenplay.” I start to space out as he goes on about big agencies versus hands-on managers. Normally, I’m really good at listening to everything my dad has to say about Hollywood stuff, but my mind wanders and I make sure to say, “Uh-huh” at the appropriate places.

  Winslow will be at Winterfest. All I have to do now is get him to dance with me.

  The Day After

  Dribble stands in front of the class waving a stack of tests like a flag. “Anyhoo, I was very pleased, folks. But there were some of you I was NOT happy with at all.” Dribble never loses it and yells. He waggles his mustache and licks his dry, pale lips.

  I wait to be that very pleasing person.

  Dribble hands back the tests row by row and I see that Caylin has an A-minus. I did better. I know that. And Winslow gets an A. Big surprise. Tyler drums on his desk like he’s pleased with his C-plus.

  And I close my eyes as the paper drops onto my desk with a soft whosh. When I open them I see a big F and a “See me after class.” As Petra gets her paper, I hear her go, “Oh, man. He caught us.”

  Us, I thought. How about you, honey bunny?

  As Dribble goes through the test I can hardly breathe. I’d gotten every answer correct. Every single stupid one, but still he’d given me an F. So not fair. I didn’t do the cheating. I’d been cheaten upon. What’s up with that?

  Killer Choice

  When the bell chimes for the end of first period, I zip up to Dribble’s desk. “I got all the answers right.”

  “Yes, you did,” says Dribble, “and so did she.” He nods over at Petra who stands at the opposite side of the desk. She’s looking down at her mauve-covered nails.

  “But I wasn’t the one who cheated,” I blurt.

  “I’m sorry, Ernestine.” Cocking his mostly bald head side to side, he cups his ear. “But I heard you agree to let Petra there have a look-see.” He heard that? Freak. He eyes Petra. “Did you or did you not ask Ernestine if you could look at her work?” Patting the ends of his flyaway comb-over, he grimaces. “Ma’am. A simple question. Yes or no?”

  Petra puckers her nose. “No.”

  “No?” Dribble stares her down. His squirrely mustache quivers. “NO?”

  Slamming down her notebook onto the desk, Petra yells, “YES! OKAY. Okay.” I’m not used to seeing Petra so easily defeated but it figures she would be mad about it. She uses her temper as a way to control people.

  Even though my throat feels as blocked up as a La Cambia water fountain, I give a Taffeta smile, sliding my lips back over my teeth, and then remember I’m not that girl anymore. I don’t need to look happy.

  Dribble knocks his forehead with his fist as if he thought of something. “This incident means consequences, such as the NP, as in No Privileges, list.”

  The FREAKIN’ NP list. “This isn’t fair,” I say. “You’re punishing me for letting Petra cheat off me but you didn’t punish Winslow when he let me cheat off of him.”

  Petra stares at me, completely confused. “You, of all people, cheated?”

  I wave my hand in front of me. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Exactly, it’s hard to explain. Anyhoo. I’m the teacher and you’re the student. And I have my teacherly reasons for everything.” Scratching his chin, he peers at me. “If you prefer you can have a fresh start.” I can’t do this. There is NO WAY I’LL EVER take any more of Dribble’s so-called help. But I can’t go NP, either, for obvious reasons. Like I won’t have the right to go to Winterfest.

  Petra, suddenly, loses the sour look in her face. “Whatever it takes. Give me a fresh start. I’m so there.”

  No, Petra. Please. Don’t do it. But my lips don’t move. No words. She’ll think I’m insane, a mess, and she’d be right.

  Dribble stares at me, drumming his fingers on his desk.

  I swallow, but the knot in my throat doesn’t unravel. It’s a killer choice—if I take a fresh start, who will I become next? But if I get punished and on NP, it’s a lose-lose.


  No! Principal!

  Mom and I sit in scratchy green chairs, facing Mrs. Barnes and her frowny face. I’m not used to that. Normally, she’s all teeth and dimples. In fact, behind her desk are no less than three photographs of Caylin and her sister Phoebe all gummy-smiling. One from Squaw Valley, sitting on a ski lift, and a couple of soccer team photos, too. I know it’s crazy, but I feel like they’re mocking me.

  Mrs. Barnes straightens the papers on her desk that looked perfectly in place already. “I was very disappointed in you, Ernestine.” Then she sighs heavily and sits back against her chair. And I’ve been very disappointed in you, Mrs. Barnes. You’re planning on cheating this whole school, Mrs. Barnes, with your little testing plan. Wait until all of the ESL students are down visiting their families in Mexico and then test us so you can keep up appearances. I want to scream at her, but instead I’m listening to her go, “You’re now on No Privileges, which as I’m sure you know means no field trips or school dances.” Oh, God. Why did I choose NP?

  I want to good-girl nod politely, but this “NO!” bursts from my lips.

  Mom squeezes me on the shoulder. “It doesn’t seem so bad.”

  Further blurtation: “YOU CAN’T DO THIS!”

  For a moment, Mrs. Barnes closes her eyes like she can’t bear the sight of such an out-of-control child. She purses her lips at Mom, like I’m her fault. But Mom, as always, is oblivious. She smoothes her wild hair. “It will give you time to think about your actions. And it’s not like you were dying to go to school dances anyway.”

  Whatever

  Idiot Winterfest posters cover every imaginable wall, even in Dribble’s class.

  Experience Moonlight Magic

  at Winterfest

  Friday, December 19

  Dance the nite away

  in The Gym!

  3.00 at the door

  6:30-9:00 p.m.

  Pictures with Santa or Snow Scene—$1.00

  Brownies = $.50

  Chips= $1.00

  Drinks = $.75

  Sponsored by 8th-Grade Leadership

  If I could rip off every poster in this school, I would.

  I glare at the smiling little girl in a Santa hat riding a reindeer. It looks like a first-grade Christmas party. I’d LOVE to be able to tell Mr. Dribble about how this isn’t working out one little bit! I’d like to tell him how stupid his class is, his ugly mustache, his freaky self. But who cares? It doesn’t matter now. I stare at the poster of the dance, and then I claw it off the wall.