4. Help humanity. ✓
5. Highlight our hair. ✓
6. Do something we think we’ll hate. ✓
7. Fulfill lifelong dream to kayak at night to the little island across the lake. (First step, find a kayak.)
8. Kiss a boy.
9. Get detention. ✓
10. Have a mature discussion with our moms about their flaws. ✓
11. Sabotage Ryan. ✓
I wonder how many of the things Ari has done without me, and how she did them. If she made her own ritual to do after she’s completed them, or maybe she even made a ritual to do before she starts them. Ari’s thoughtful and careful, and I bet everything’s working out perfectly.
I overheard some of them—the TV thing, maybe even the first kiss with Noah.
I’m a good eavesdropper, but maybe I need to step up my game.
Or maybe I just need to get Ari back once and for all.
THIRTY
ALMOST A WHOLE WEEK PASSES, and I don’t make any progress winning Ari back. I don’t even really come up with a plan that make sense. All I’ve got is: sneak out of school, get Ari a strawberry milkshake, put it in her locker.
I try to sit more toward Ari’s side of the table at lunch, but it’s pointless. There isn’t always good eavesdropping material. No Noah mentions this week. But I did find out the day Marie’s getting her braces off. January 27.
Our birthdays are only three weeks away and we have the hugest stuff left to do. And my superstition is still in full effect—what will happen if we don’t complete the list?
Maybe, like, I won’t have my first kiss until I’m twenty-five, or I’ll develop a freaky mole on my arm . . . some kind of weird curse.
By the time I get to the talent show meeting after school, I have a million knots in my stomach. All the Tyler interactions I’ve ever had over the past few weeks are swirling around in my brain. I keep hearing his voice saying Baby Kaylan, and it makes my skin prickle.
It’s the end of the day, so my hair is greasy and I have a yogurt splotch on my shirt from lunch. It’s way too risky to be too close to Tyler, so I sit in the first row and take out my math homework. I figure this is good for two reasons: I’ll get it done, and I’ll look busy, so when people start to come in, I won’t look like I was just sitting around waiting.
I’m in the middle of a complicated algebra equation when I hear Tyler’s voice.
“Dude,” he says. I don’t know who he’s talking to. “She’s like, chill. Like, not like other girls. I don’t know, man.”
I have no idea who he is talking about, but my skin turns tingly. Oh, how I wish I had invisible powers. Please God, let me have invisible powers. Let me have invisible powers right now. I sink down into my seat so they don’t see me.
“Yeah?” the other kid asks. All I know is that it’s definitely not Ryan. Thank God.
“Yeah.”
I don’t know why I’m excited. He could be talking about any girl in the world. They walk around to the other side of the auditorium, and I can’t hear anything else they say to each other.
The best thing for me to do right now is to put that conversation out of my head entirely and focus on this talent show.
Mrs. Bellinsky, who’s my astronomy teacher and the teacher who oversees the drama department, the talent show—basically all things theatrical in the school—comes on to the stage.
“Hello, everyone,” she says.
A bunch of kids mumble back a tired hello and she says, “Oh, you can do better than that!” and then we yell out an exasperated hello, and everyone laughs.
“Okay, so I’m thrilled you’re all here!” She claps. “By now I hope that you’ve secured your acts and you’ve been practicing. I’d like each of you to come onto the stage today, tell us what you’ll be doing, maybe give us a brief preview.”
Brief preview? The knots in my stomach twist around themselves a hundred times and it feels like they’re reproducing and now there are billions and billions of knots.
I can’t do a brief preview. I don’t even have any clementines, and I haven’t decided on what songs I’m singing. I never should have listened to Jason. He’s not even here, he’s not even participating. What does he know about West Brookside Middle School’s talent shows, anyway? He’s new to the school, just like I am.
“We’ll go in alphabetical order,” Mrs. Bellinsky says, and then she starts calling people up.
I’m grateful to be a Terrel today. At least I have some time.
Tyler’s last name is Beasley, so he doesn’t have quite as long to wait. My knots turn into bubbles. I’m excited to see his act. Also, this is an occasion when it’s okay to stare at him, and no one will think that’s weird. It’s literally allowed, required, expected.
The A kids go and their acts are pretty boring, to be honest. A few singers, all of them doing Taylor Swift. Mrs. Bellinsky says she’s going to have to make some adjustments. “There’s such a thing as too much Taylor Swift,” she explains.
I’m not sure I agree with her.
There’s a bongo drummer. His name is Clive and he’s in eighth grade and he has long hair. His parents own the health food store near the train station. Then this girl Hara holds up her phone and takes duck-face selfies of herself while her friend Brianna gives commentary. It’s supposed to be funny, but something isn’t working. It just feels like they’re trying to hard.
Then it’s Tyler’s turn.
He walks up the few steps to the stage, takes the microphone, and says, “How many of you have heard of Weird Al?”
No one responds. The thing is, I know all about Weird Al because my dad was a huge fan. Come to think of it, Weird Al was probably the only thing my dad was a fan of. He learned about Weird Al when he went to summer camp. I guess he was happy then. He was always cranky as a dad—angry about work and bills and it always seemed like he wanted to be somewhere else.
“Okay, so none of you know who Weird Al is.” He laughs. “Basically, he makes up his own versions of famous songs, and they’re always funny. But I’m going to be better than Weird Al. I’m going to be funnier. I’m going to take what Weird Al did and make it my own. Weird Tyler. But Cool Weird. So think: Alternative Tyler.”
Alternative Tyler? Is he really standing up there insulting Weird Al?
Mrs. Bellinsky looks confused, but everyone is laughing.
“Here’s a brief preview: one of my songs will be called ‘Uptown Junk.’” He pauses. “Get it. Like ‘Uptown Funk’?”
Tyler tries to be funny. He is confident enough to go up there and do something completely different—something most people don’t even know about. And he’s not nervous at all. He just does it. Like he doesn’t care what people think at all. The thing is, his cuteness makes whatever he does seem okay. And maybe that’s not okay—cute people can’t just get away with doing whatever they want. They have to care about what they do and say, too.
It feels like three hours pass before it’s my turn, but then Mrs. Bellinsky says, “Kaylan Terrel,” and I start to sweat.
So I walk up to the stage, and I say, “Okay, now, I decided to go the funny route.” I wait for laughter or applause or anything, but the crowd is silent. Truthfully, they look half-asleep. We have been here a while, so I get it. “I’m the fastest clementine peeler in the world. Please time me as I peel. I won’t let you down.” I wait for laughter. A few chuckles here and there, but not as many as I’d hoped for. “But it’s not only that. I can peel them while singing classic songs.” I pause again. “I’ll probably peel about five on the night of the performance in under forty seconds. I’m not a good singer, just keep that in mind, okay? That’s part of the humor.”
I don’t know why I’m explaining my joke. I know that’s, like, the big no-no of comedy.
“But just go with it—”
Mrs. Bellinsky interrupts me. “Kaylan, let’s get started, okay?”
My throat prickles. I force myself to nod, and get started.
And then I remember I don’t have any clementines. “Anyone have a clementine? Sorry. I didn’t come prepared. I didn’t realize this was a run-through.”
A kid in the back row finds one and throws it to me. Thankfully, I catch it. It feels slimy, like his hands were sweaty, and I gag a little bit but I try not to make it noticeable.
I’m not sure it’s possible for this to go any worse than it’s going. I kind of want to drop this sweaty clementine and run right out of the auditorium. Maybe transfer to another school.
I stand up straight and think about the night on the Petey G show. I try to find that Kaylan.
“Here comes the sun,” I sing, and then start peeling. “Do-do-do-do.” And then people start laughing. Really laughing. They’re not even forcing it. “Here comes the sun.” At least it doesn’t seem like they’re forcing it. “And that’s it! Remember, I’ll have more clementines the night of the show.”
I hold up the peel. And take a bow.
“Eleven seconds,” one kid calls out. I give him a thumbs-up.
I look around for Tyler and try to see his reaction. He’s in the back, and he’s sort of paying attention but sort of talking to his friends. Did he think this was funny? I have no idea.
I kind of thought Jason would show, or hang in the doorway, or just check in to see part of it. But I guess I didn’t know we were doing the previews, so he couldn’t have known either.
Still, I wish he was here.
“Thank you, Kaylan,” Mrs. Bellinsky says. Her eyebrows are crinkly. “That was certainly unique.”
She calls up the next person, Dylan Thursber, and I sit in my seat and cover my cheeks with my hands, trying to hide the insane level of redness.
The boy with the crew cut and glasses sitting next to me whispers, “That was awesome.”
I smile. “Thanks. I think Mrs. Bellinsky was a little weirded out by it.”
“Whatever.” We both look over at her, and she notices us talking, so he whispers, “It was cool.”
He’s the last one to go, and his act is half break-dancing and half rapping, and I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be serious or funny.
“That was great,” I whisper when he’s done, because no matter what it was supposed to be, we can all use a compliment.
When the run-through is over, the boy says, “I’m Eric.”
“Kaylan.”
“Seventh grade kind of sucks,” he tells me, out of the blue, like he’s warning me about danger to come. As we’re walking to the late bus, I keep turning my head in search of Tyler. I want to look for him, but I don’t want it to seem like I’m looking for him. I hope to catch him in my peripheral vision, but so far, nothing. It’s like he disappeared.
“Sixth isn’t really the greatest time either,” I reply, laughing.
Eric is so nice, but right now feels like the time to find Tyler. My awesome act will be fresh in his mind. I can’t waste this moment. “I gotta go,” I say. “I forgot something in my locker. See you at the next rehearsal!”
“Oh, uh, okay. Bye!”
I run off in the other direction and feel like the meanest person in the entire world. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
It should be, like, some kind of unspoken rule that people with crushes can be forgiven for doing sometimes mean, and mostly strange, bizarre stuff.
The crushes mess with our minds somehow. But it’s not permanent.
At least I don’t think it is.
THIRTY-ONE
AFTER THE TALENT SHOW RUN-THROUGH, my fame keeps rising. It feels like everyone in the entire school heard about my clementine peeling. I like that. I guess it’s so unusual that it really stands out? But the thing is, it hasn’t changed everything.
Ari’s still not talking to me.
Tyler and I haven’t even had a real conversation yet.
Aside from my newfound fame, things aren’t that different.
I still haven’t totally figured out my Whole Me Makeover. I don’t know exactly who I want to be, or what difference I want to make. And the scariest part is—I don’t know what else I should be doing to get there.
On the walk home from school, I see Mrs. Etisof out on her front porch. She’s all bundled up in a heavy coat, painting at her easel.
“Mrs. Etisof!”
“My girl!” She puts a dab of paint in the corner. “Want to see my latest painting? They’ve commissioned me for a piece to hang in the Boat House on Arch Island!”
“Are you serious?” I ask. “That’s huge!”
“I know! Come see!” I move closer to her. She smells like flowery lotion and acrylic paint.
She’s painted Brookside Lake and Green River and trees all around, and then Arch Island with the Boat House, and the gazebo and people, and picnic blankets spread out.
“Amazing.” I sit down next to her on the floor. “I love it!”
“It’s not done yet,” she continues. “I want to add more color. . . .” She pauses and looks at me. “You always look like you’re in such a hurry lately,” she says. “Can you stay for a few minutes?”
I look at my phone even though I know what time it is. My first instinct is to say that I need to get home and do homework. But I really just want to get home and see if Tyler is there.
“I can stay for a few minutes,” I reply. “What’s new?”
“Wonderful,” she says. “Well, hmmm. What’s new? I think I can get out for one last paddle before it gets too cold. And the kayak racing competition we’re planning for next summer is going to be huge! But tell me what’s new in your world.”
“Well, I’m doing the fall talent show,” I start, and then I launch into a whole description of the clementine thing and realize halfway through that it sounds crazy. “And then of course, there’s boy drama.”
As I talk to Mrs. Etisof about all of this, I realize how starved I’ve been for a best friend. Without Ari, I don’t have anyone to talk to—I mean, really talk to—about what’s on my mind, and what I’m obsessing about. It’s like I’m trapped in my own head, stuck there, with the thoughts revolving around and around, but never really getting anywhere. And I know my obsessing is how we got into the fight in the first place, but a girl needs a best friend. It’s a fact of life.
I know Mrs. Etisof is seventy, but she’s a good listener.
“Hmmm” is all she says, and then I wonder if she is really a good listener. Maybe she was totally spaced out this entire time. “I’ve seen you with Jason,” she says, after a long pause. “He’s a nice boy.”
“He is, right?” I feel myself getting fired up.
She nods, and turns her painting every so slightly so I can see it again. “I love all the little boats on the river.”
“I might do an evening scene, too, of the same spot,” she says. “And add in lots of stars.”
“Very romantic,” I add.
I want to tell Jason about this painting and how good Mrs. Etisof is since his parents have so much art hanging around their house. I think he’d like it, and maybe they could commission Mrs. Etisof to paint something for them.
I’m really thinking about Jason a lot all of a sudden. I guess we are becoming real, true friends, not just texting friends.
“I better get home,” I tell Mrs. Etisof.
“Bye, dear,” she says. “I’m going to add some more magenta to the island part.”
As I walk home, I half pray that Tyler will be there and half pray that he won’t be. I guess it’s okay—this way I won’t be disappointed with either outcome.
I’m almost at the door when I look at my phone. A text from Jason and a text from Cami. I stop and sit down on my front steps.
Jason: Everyone is talking about your act!
Me: I don’t know why Mrs. B had us do the preview! It was supposed to be a surprise.
Jason: Bc last year some kids didn’t prep at all, and they came on stage and just started wrestling and it got intense.
Me: Really? Wrestling onstage?
Jason: Yup. Andre told me about it. His sister was in it.
Me: Ohhhhh. I gotta go inside. Talk later.
Jason: Later.
Cami: Harvey Deli has a new sandwich. It’s called the Blanche, named after a Golden Girls character. I’ll tell you all about it in school.
Me: Oh yay! So exciting. They only have new sandwiches like every few months.
Cami: I KNOW!
I get inside and my mom and Ryan are in the kitchen fighting about something.
This probably sounds mean, but I’m happy that Ryan’s the one fighting with her for once. I can just sneak by and go upstairs and focus on my own troubles, without having to deal with my mom.
Of course I leave my door open, so I can hear what they’re talking about.
“Mom, relax.” Ryan sounds like he’s forcing himself to speak calmly, like he has it all under control. “Everyone is going to this party. It’s totally fine.”
“I don’t know the person throwing the party,” my mom explains. “You need to tell me the person’s name, address, and give me all the details.”
“That’s psycho, Mom!” he yells.
“Ryan,” she warns. “I’m willing to work with you on this, but you’re not meeting me halfway.”
“I should’ve lied to you,” he says with force. “I should’ve just said I was going out with Tyler or something. Forget it. I’m skipping the party.”
He runs upstairs and slams the door to his room.
My mom huffs around the kitchen, taking out pans to cook dinner and making more noise than she usually does.
I’m tempted to knock on Ryan’s door and come up with some elaborate plan to get him to this party to make up for the whole jam-band thing. But I don’t think now’s the right time. He’s too angry.
I text Jason again and ask him if he knows anything about a party going on this weekend. A few minutes later, he replies. No clue. Let’s crash it.
I’m trying to think of a witty thing to write back when he says, Hang out tomorrow?
My heart pounds with excitement. What is happening?
I write back, Yes! But then I realize I have the dress rehearsal for the talent show. Actually talent show dress rehearsal tomorrow. Sorry! Hang this weekend?
11 Before 12 Page 17
