11 Before 12

by Lisa Greenwald

  I’m also sure it would have been awkward. What if Jason came up to my room and sat on my bed, and then I had to think about that when I went to sleep tonight?

  And I bet his socks smell bad, because boys always have smelly socks. I’d have to use Febreze. And what would we have talked about? I mean, I guess the watch convention . . . but it would be weird to be one-on-one, in my room and stuff.

  I’m too lazy to head upstairs to do homework. It’s been that kind of week. So instead, I decide to stay downstairs, snack on honey-mustard pretzels, and use my mom’s laptop.

  It’s slower than mine, but it’ll do. I sign into my email and check for any sales going on at Perry Boutique downtown, and then I log into Instagram. My phone’s out of battery and I’m too lazy to charge it. This is a new level of lazy and I’m not proud of it.

  Okay, so for some reason my mom’s computer is already signed into my Instagram account. But I’ve only been out of phone battery for, like, a day. This can only mean one thing.

  MY MOTHER HAS BEEN LOGGING INTO MY INSTAGRAM ACCOUNT!

  She’s spying on me again!

  My first instinct is to call Ari, but then I realize I can’t do that. So I do what any sensible girl would do—I change the password. Immediately.

  It’s now notformoms12, and I’ll change it again if I have to.

  I feel surprisingly good after this, like I’ve accomplished enough for the day. Unfortunately, I have about three hours of homework to do, and I haven’t even started it.

  Then I get another idea.

  I run up the stairs and knock on Ryan’s door. When he doesn’t answer, I start talking. “Ryan, you’re never gonna believe what Mom did.”

  Silence.

  “It’s seriously crazy,” I say.

  He pops his head out. His cheeks are red and splotchy and there’s a big tear droplet under his left eye. I peek my head around to see where Tyler is, but he’s not in there. Unless he’s hiding under the bed, which I seriously doubt.

  “What is it, Kaylan?” Ryan asks. But instead of sounding mean, the way he usually does lately, he sounds exasperated.

  “Um, nothing.” My voice turns quiet. “I was just gonna tell you something Mom did. But, um, it can wait.”

  I peek around again, really confused because Tyler is always here.

  “I’ll be down soon,” he replies. “Mom left me money, so we can order in those subs you like.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I half smile, happy about the subs, but wondering what happened with Tyler. They talked about him coming over and eating tacos together on the bus this morning. “Sounds good.”

  I traipse back downstairs to get my backpack and start my homework, but that Ryan interaction pulls at my brain like a loose thread in a sweater.

  He was crying, I think. But Ryan doesn’t cry. Never. I swear, I’ve maybe seen him cry like twice in my whole life. Once, when he was in second grade, when his Little League team lost the championship game, and once when our grandpa Frankie died. He was ten.

  Ryan didn’t even cry when our dad left. I think he was too angry to cry. Especially because they were supposed to go shoot hoops at the YMCA that weekend and go out for burgers and shakes after.

  I feel like now that I saw that tear, I’ll never unsee it. It makes my throat hurt.

  I try to focus on my homework, but there are too many distractions. My mind jumps back and forth from Ryan, to the list with Ari and how I’ll finish it, to the talent show, to Jason. And of course to Tyler. I’m always thinking about Tyler. Even when I’m thinking about other things, thoughts of Tyler and his perfectly curly hair are there.

  I keep putting my hair up, but it gives me a headache, so I take it down again. My neck feels itchy.

  My mind won’t slow down and my whole body is freaking out because of it.

  Middle school students shouldn’t have homework. Just making it through life these days feels like more than enough to handle.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I’M IN MRS. BELLINSKY’S ASTRONOMY elective, and Jason and I are passing notes.

  Why aren’t you trying out for the talent show? I pass the first note discreetly when Mrs. Bellinksy’s back is to us.

  I’m more of a behind-the-scenes guy. Maybe next year . . .

  So behind-the-scenes guy—help me with my act!

  We’re paying attention, but Mrs. Bellinsky always puts the lesson online, so it’s not as important for us to take notes in class. And also, it’s an elective, so no one takes it super-seriously.

  Then Jason writes: what about competitive clementine peeling? And I burst out laughing. I can’t contain myself.

  And then, in the middle of my laughing, Mrs. Bellinsky comes over, grabs the note off the desk, and tells us we have detention. No warning. Nothing. Just detention.

  And then I remember the list.

  9. Get detention.

  I’m accomplishing something on the list without even really trying! But then I remember Ari, and how we are supposed to do the list together. And I feel bummed again. How will we do our JHH ritual together? We won’t be able to.

  I guess this is one of those times when you really don’t want something to happen, but then you realize you kind of do want it to happen, even though it’s a bad thing.

  Jason and I arrange to meet outside of the detention classroom as soon as school ends. Neither of us want to walk in alone. Every day I grow more and more grateful for Jason. It may be because I don’t have Ari anymore, but I don’t tell him that. And truthfully, I’m not even sure that’s the reason.

  Jason’s a good person. He focuses on everything I say, like he’s really listening. He cares about people. Sometimes kindness is the only important thing in a friend. Probably all the time.

  By the time I get to detention, I’m exhausted from worrying. Worrying can make you really tired. I’m not sure if everyone knows that, but it’s true.

  “Thank God you’re here,” I say to Jason. He’s finishing a bag of pretzels.

  “You want the last one?”

  He’s giving me his last pretzel!

  I nod and take the bag. There is literally only one pretzel left, but I’m grateful for the sustenance.

  “I’m nervous,” I say.

  “Don’t be.” He shrugs. “We’ll say we’re sorry, do what they tell us, smile, say thank you, and go home.”

  I nod, unsure if that’s the right approach. I guess it is.

  “That’s all you need to do in life,” he tells me before we go in.

  “Really?”

  “Yup.” He nods. “My dad says the secret to being successful at work is going in, saying good morning, doing your work, and going home.”

  I’m not sure how that advice applies here, and I’m also not sure why Jason’s dad tells him this since he’s only in sixth grade. I decide to store it away in my brain for a later time. Maybe when I get my first job.

  We walk into the classroom, and there’s a teacher I don’t know or even recognize standing up in front and writing on the board.

  He writes the word DETENTION in big black letters. I guess in case we forgot where we were, or in case someone stumbled into the wrong classroom. Then he writes:

  1. Do homework

  2. Write apology letter to teacher

  3. Sit quietly

  4. No talking

  I’m not sure why he needed both number 3 and number 4. But one thing’s for sure: he likes lists as much as I do!

  Detention teacher sits back down at his desk, opens a paperback book with yellowing pages, and starts reading. He doesn’t even tell us his name.

  Jason and I look at each other and express our confusion with our eyes. Then I get to work. And when I’m sitting there, all still and quiet with my thoughts, that’s when the agita sets in. Super-extreme agita.

  It always starts with my thoughts spinning around and around like the roller ball thing on my computer. And my eyes don’t know what to focus on. Then my scalp tingles, and my whole body gets hot—even m
y earlobes, which are extra-hot. My throat itches like I’m sitting with seven cats on my lap.

  Putting detention on our list was a terrible idea. Everyone in here looks miserable, angry, exhausted. One kid is breaking pencils in half in his lap. Every time I hear the snap—my whole body jerks and my heart pounds a little faster.

  The detention teacher doesn’t even notice.

  I try to tune it all out and focus on my homework. I have an English essay and a history worksheet, some pages to complete in my math textbook, and I have to finish a science lab we started in class.

  I don’t understand it at all; maybe I’ll text Lizzie Lab Partner when I get home to see if she can help me with it.

  I’m knee-deep in my English essay on The Watsons Go to Birmingham when I see Ari walking in out of the corner of my eye. At first I think it’s a mirage. But then I look up, and then I realize that it is in fact her.

  Ari is here.

  In detention.

  With me.

  We could JHH! Right now!

  I’m consumed with the most insatiable need to find out what she did that got her here, but of course I can’t ask. I need to abide by the no-talking rule. God only knows what happens if you get in trouble while in detention. Then where do they send you—to the principal’s office for a whole week?

  Every few seconds, I feel the tiniest sense of relief that everything is going to be okay, and I’m almost done with this dreadful afternoon. Then I remember the saddest part of it: my mom.

  Every kid that gets detention gets a call home.

  The worst punishment of all lies in front of me, and I have no idea what it will be.

  Ari takes a seat in the row in front of me, but we don’t make eye contact. I’m not even sure she notices that Jason and I are here. She gets out her notebook and starts writing.

  The clock above the door ticks and ticks; the loudest clock tick I’ve ever heard. It’s the kind of sound that will stay in my brain even after I’ve left this room.

  I need to know why Ari is here. I need to tell her that we’re actually accomplishing something on the list together, and we didn’t even plan it that way. I need to tell her that at the end of this, we can do the JHH.

  The JHH works even when you’re in a fight, I think.

  Thinking about the list is magical. I went from super-extreme agita to dread about my mom’s punishment to elation that Ari is here, too.

  Detention is bringing us back together.

  Finally, an hour passes, and the detention teacher who never even told us his name alerts us that we can go and that detention is over.

  I wait for Jason and Ari outside the classroom.

  “Ari!” I yell, because she’s walking by, not even seeing me. “I mean, Arianna!”

  Shoot. I already messed up. I know she wants to be Arianna here, and I really do try and remember that, but I’ve been calling her Ari for two years and three weeks. It’s hard to change.

  She turns around, and for a second I think she’s going to run over and hug me, and all will be okay.

  “We gotta do the ritual,” I tell her.

  She doesn’t even smile.

  “The JHH,” I remind her.

  “I gotta run, Kaylan,” she says and keeps walking, like she has super-important places to be. My heart is a crumpled-up piece of paper.

  Thankfully Jason comes out, and we walk down the hallway together, to our lockers.

  “We survived,” I say.

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Now I just have to deal with the wrath of my mother,” I groan, getting some books from the top shelf.

  “It happens to the best of us,” he replies, trying to make me feel better.

  “Why do you think Ari got detention?” I ask him as we’re walking to the pickup circle.

  “You didn’t hear?” he asks me.

  I shake my head, and my heart pounds. Did she do something really terrible? Like vandalize the principal’s office? My mind starts spinning with crazy ideas.

  “She skipped math yesterday,” he tells me. “She was hanging out in the back section of the library, and Ms. Monte caught her.”

  “Really?” I shriek. “Ari loves math.”

  “Don’t know what to tell you,” he says. “That’s what happened.”

  “Who was she hanging out with?” I ask.

  He pauses, and squints like he’s trying to remember. “I guess that girl Sydney? Is she the one that’s BFF with Jules from the pool? Or is it Amirah? Or M.W.? What does that stand for?”

  I laugh a little. He has no idea who any of the girls are. And Jules from the pool sounds like some kind of alternative folk singer. “No, but seriously, who was she in the library with? You really don’t remember?”

  Jason zips his coat. “I don’t remember. Sorry.” He over-the-top frowns at me. “I gotta go, Kay. My mom is waiting.” He peers out the glass doors. “Your mom is out here, too. On time today!”

  “Yippee,” I reply.

  “Seriously, don’t discount the clementine thing. You’re kind of amazing at it, and I think it could be really funny,” he says as we walk outside. The cold air slaps our faces.

  “I’m not sure I can do funny.”

  “Oh, Kaylan! Are you kidding? You are so funny, and you don’t even realize it! Perk up, Terrel!”

  I laugh a little. The way he says it—Terrel—it just feels cool and relaxed, like we get each other.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I WALK AS SLOWLY AS I possibly can to my mom’s car, and I rehearse the speech over and over again. I’m just going to tell her that I totally messed up, and I don’t have any excuse for it.

  But when I get in the car, she has the windows rolled down (even though it’s forty degrees) and she’s listening to my music. Taylor Swift.

  She says, “Hey, sweetie,” which is definitely not the way she greets me when she’s mad. And then she says, “We’re going out for dinner tonight, just the two of us. Hibino?”

  Mom’s suggesting sushi? This is rare. We used to eat it all the time when my dad was still, ya know, living with us, but since he left, money’s been really tight, and I always feel bad asking to go out for sushi.

  “Sure,” I say. “Where’s Ryan?”

  “He’s eating at Tyler’s tonight. They’re finishing a history project.”

  “Oh.”

  “He seems off lately, doesn’t he?” Mom asks, making a right turn and not looking at me. “Just not himself. Ya know?”

  I nod. “Yeah. He’s such a jerk most of the time.”

  “I agree. I’m worried about him.” My mom clenches her face tight, the way she does when she’s trying to hold back tears. She probably doesn’t know that I know this. And if she knew I knew, she’d only try harder to stop doing it. So I won’t tell her.

  We get to Hibino and sit at the table right by the window, my favorite.

  We order our usual stuff—spicy tuna rolls and salmon avocado rolls and chicken pot stickers and edamame to start.

  My mind flops back and forth between calmness and anxiety. I keep remembering about the detention and then fretting about discussing it with my mom, and then forgetting about the detention and feeling okay, and then I go back to remembering again.

  I wish my brain could just settle on one thing.

  “Kaylan, I need to talk to you,” my mom says after she finishes a pot sticker.

  Uh-oh. The worst is yet to come. She was trying to soften the pain with sushi. I’m in trouble.

  I nod. “Okay . . .”

  “I’m worried about you, too,” she continues. “Not just Ryan. You don’t seem like yourself. And I wish you’d talk to me more. Open up. Tell me what’s going on.”

  This feels like a trap. Moms do that sometimes. They try to act all calm and kind and sweet and stuff, and then you open up and bam, you’re in trouble.

  “Oh, ya know,” I reply, dipping a pot sticker in the soy sauce. “Just middle school stuff. A lot of homework.”

  My mom sets down he
r chopsticks and glares. “Kay, come on.”

  “What?” My cheeks flash red. I can feel them burning.

  “You’re not going to tell me what happened after school today?”

  And there you have it. Classic mom trap.

  “I was going to tell you,” I defend. “But then we were having this wonderful dinner that you suggested, and I didn’t want to ruin it.” I half smile.

  “Kaylan.”

  “Mom.”

  “Come on,” she says, and I realize I don’t have much choice in the matter. I don’t even know how to explain this. I don’t really want to get into everything about Jason. She may think I like him or decide he’s a bad influence. And I don’t even know if I want to tell her about the talent show yet. I tell her one thing, and she asks a million questions. It happens every time.

  Our sushi arrives and we put wasabi in our soy sauce and separate our ginger.

  I’m stressing about telling her the detention saga when I have a literal epiphany. An amazing moment where even a bad thing turns into a good, helpful thing, and it makes me feel like life will actually make sense one day: this is the perfect opportunity to check another item off the list.

  Mom pops a piece of spicy tuna roll in her mouth, finishes chewing, and then says, “I’m waiting.”

  “Okay,” I say, resigned. “I’ll tell you what happened. I decided to sign up for the talent show.”

  “That’s so great,” she says between bites. “Amazing!”

  “That’s not the main point of the story,” I say. “Jason and I were passing notes to discuss my act for the show, and that’s when we got in trouble. Because of course I can’t ask Ari, because we’re not talking . . . but I don’t want to get into that. I mean, she said such mean things, like how I fixate on things.”

  “I’m sorry you’re not talking. We can discuss that if you’d like.” My mom dips another dumpling. “But what exactly do you fixate on?”

  I look away, pretending to be uber-focused on a waiter bringing over a sushi boat. “Oh, I don’t even know . . . like fashion trends, I guess.” I can’t believe I almost slipped about the Tyler crush and the 11 Before 12 List. Thankfully, I caught myself.