Miracle Girls: A Novel

by Anne Dayton

  Today is my last day in Key Club. I only came this one last time to tell Mrs. Galvin the bad news in person. I think she was hoping I’d run for an office next year since I’m one of the few organized people in the whole outfit. But last night, Mom sat me down to discuss focusing my transcript around a few “key differentiators” and weeding out some of the other activities. She had just read an article in the Times about over-scheduled kids and how what the Ivy League schools are really looking for now is kids with “passion.”

  Apparently if you have passion, you only have it for a few things. So we made a list of all my clubs and decided that I would eliminate Key Club (though theoretically a volunteering club, they never really do anything), French Club (not a “hot” language—Mandarin would have been one thing, but not French), and Future Business Leaders of America, which I only went to once anyway (I’m going to be a doctor, not a future business leader—duh). Mom thought I should really throw myself into Earth First (environmental issues are very “now”) and my church service activities (service is a perennial favorite). And she’s still trying to think of something that would be truly unique that I could start from the ground up.

  I take a deep breath to prepare myself for the sweetly pungent bathroom smell that seems to permeate every school restroom in the world, then push open the door. And gasp.

  There’s a head in the sink with red streaming off it.

  She’s been shot.

  Or maimed? Wait, maybe she hit her head? The figure turns her head to the side and peeks up at me.

  “Christine?!”

  “Hey.” She turns her face back down and uses her hands to push her hair under the water. Okay, I can see now that she’s not dying, but what is she doing?

  “Are you bleaching your hair?”

  “No, just washing that man right out of my hair.”

  “Huh?”

  She peeks up at me again. “It’s a joke. It’s an old song my mom used to listen to.”

  The bleach is filling the white sink with pink liquid and slowly her hair is turning white. Well, not white exactly. It’s more like a light orange, brown, yellow decaying color. Eventually, she shuts off the water, grabs a dark blue towel from her backpack, wraps her hair in a turban, and stands up.

  She takes a deep breath. “Mmmm . . . I love the smell of bleach in the afternoon. You hang out in bathrooms a lot too?”

  For a moment, I am so stunned, trying to figure out what is going on, that I forget why I came to the bathroom in the first place. “Oh, no. I mean, not more than anyone else I guess. Well, except you, apparently. But, yeah, I was just going to use the bathroom.”

  “Why are you still here?” she asks. The implication: School let out an hour ago. Anyone who has somewhere else to be is long gone.

  “Key Club.”

  “Woo.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Yeah, I actually quit today.” I suspect Christine will like this, and for some reason I want to tell her things she’ll think are cool. It’s weird, because I never do this with Zoe. “Why are you dyeing your hair in the school bathroom?”

  Christine turns the faucet on again and holds her hands under to rinse them.

  “If you’re hiding it from your parents—” Wait. Christine’s mom is . . . I can’t believe I just said that. My cheeks feel hot. “If you’re hiding it from your dad, he’s going to see it when you get home later.”

  “My dad’s not going to care if I dye my hair.” She opens her bag, and I see a bunch of tubes of paint tucked inside. She pulls out a little jar with blue goop in it. “I’m trying to avoid my dad’s bimbo girlfriend.”

  “Really?” I briefly try to picture exactly what would happen to me if I dyed my hair, but then stop myself. Too scary.

  “He won’t even notice, actually. I could bring an elephant home and then announce that I’ve joined the space program to be the first teen on the moon, and he wouldn’t even look up from his dinner. It’s pretty awesome. I can get away with anything. Unless The Bimbo is around. She’s always trying to butt in.”

  “Oh.” I try to pretend like I get it, but I don’t really. Why would her dad’s girlfriend be at her house at this hour? And didn’t her mom die this past summer? How could he have another girlfriend already? It’s only been a few months at best.

  “Here,” she says and puts the little jar of Manic Panic in my hand. “If you’re going to watch, make yourself useful.” She shoots me a smile to show me she’s kidding. “Once I get my hands covered in that stuff, I never know how to get the lid back on without making a huge mess.” She unwraps her towel turban and drapes it around her neck, revealing her very hideous hair. It’s the same color as chocolate and vanilla ice cream all melted together in a soupy pool.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I glance nervously at the door. Am I going to get in trouble for being an accomplice?

  “It looks like puke right now but when you’ve got dark hair, you’ve got to bleach it first if you want the new color to stick. And I’m sick of the pink. Too Barbie.”

  I try to picture her with blue hair. She bustles around, getting a few more things ready. The truth is she’ll probably look great with blue hair. I hadn’t noticed it until now, but Christine is really beautiful. She’s so slender that she might be wearing kids jeans. Even though her hair is a bit fried from all of the dyeing, it’s still very long and straight.

  “Okay, take the lid off,” Christine says. I take it off, and she slips on gloves and dips her hands into the deep blue gel, then begins to smear it into her scalp.

  “Whoa.”

  She studies herself in the mirror and works the goo in, section by section. “So you’re into that guy Tyler, right?”

  I nearly drop the jar of dye. “What?! Who told you that?”

  Christine shoots me a look. “No one told me. I didn’t need to be told. You stare at him in the halls. I thought you might actually start drooling on Wednesday.”

  I stare at a drop of blue on the tile floor. Okay, this is very dangerous. I barely know this girl. If I say yes, she might spread it all over school. Better deny everything. “I think I need glasses is all.”

  Christine digs another glob out of the jar in my hand. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I’m not like that. You already know my worst secret, thanks to that day in detention, so don’t sweat it.” She works the glob into a spot by her ear. “I was just going to offer to talk to him. He’s in the Art Club with me.”

  “He is?”

  “Nice guy, but he’s no Van Gogh.”

  My stomach turns over when she says he’s a nice guy. Her approval means a lot for some reason. “No, thanks.”

  Christine turns around and tries to inspect the back of her hair in the mirror. “Sure? I don’t mind. He doesn’t seem to be dating anyone.”

  Riley’s face flashes before my eyes. “He seems to have a thing for cheerleaders.”

  Christine shrugs. “The offer stands. Just say the word.” She turns to me. “How do I look? Is it even?”

  I inspect her work and suggest a few touch-ups. Then she throws her gloves in the trash while I put the lid back on the half-used jar of dye. Suddenly I remember that I came in here to pee.

  “I’ve got to hurry up and get back.” I think about what Zoe said about bringing Christine into our group. This is probably the best shot I’ll ever get. After all, I held a jar of dye for her. You don’t do that for just anybody. “But listen, you should join Zoe and me for lunch sometime. We always sit on that picnic table at the end of the courtyard.”

  Christine smiles. “Cool.”

  I’m not sure if that’s a yes or no or even a maybe. “Yeah, cool.”

  15

  Riley leans over and kisses a football player on the cheek and his friends cheer. Andy and Zach line up to pay for a kiss. I try to comfort myself with two thoughts: at least she’s not kissing Tyler, and she’ll probably get mono. Though at this point, I’d almost welcome her kissing Tyler because at least that would mean
that he was actually here. All of my snooping around at school and listening to Dave made it sound like Tyler was going to be at the Art & Pumpkin Festival, but I haven’t seen him all day. Riley kisses another guy on the cheek. Ashley is set up in an identical booth right next to Riley, but her line is much shorter.

  “Just when I think she can’t get any more obnoxious, she goes and does something like organize a kissing booth, and I realize how wrong I was,” Christine says.

  I laugh. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Cheerleader Girl, it’s that you can never underestimate her evil qualities.”

  “You guys!” Zoe says. Christine and I shut up about Riley for Zoe’s sake, but not before we exchange a look. Christine has been joining us for lunch at school this week, and the more I see of her dark humor, the more I like her. Zoe reaches into a small Doritos bag and bites into a chip. “I want to get her to hang with us too.”

  “Good luck.” Christine twirls a lock of hair around her finger and rolls her eyes.

  Ms. Moore walks toward us through the thick crowd. She weaves between men and women wearing giant berets that look like pumpkins and small children dressed as Harry Potter and princesses. The fall air is brisk and smells sweet from the cider and donut booths nearby. We are sitting at a folding card table behind a big sign that says, “Organic Pumpkin Bars. Save the earth and put a smile on your face!” So far business has been slow. There are a lot of pumpkin foods for sale and it’s hard to stand out among the pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, pumpkin ice cream, and even pumpkin macaroni and cheese, which sounds disgusting. Still, that stand has seen more action than we have.

  “How are my pumpkin-bar purveyors?” Ms. Moore plants her hands on her hips and grins. We mumble something. We’ve been sitting out here all morning and have only sold a few bars. Ms. Moore turns to see what we’re all staring at: the Key Club’s Kissing Booth. I swear, the moment I quit that club, they suddenly get organized enough to show up at an event and raise money.

  “Hmmm,” Ms. Moore says. “Watching a show, are we?”

  Christine nudges me. “We think she’s going get mono.”

  Ms. Moore shakes her head. “Look at the three of you, staring that poor girl down.”

  “Poor girl? Ms. Moore, you’ve got to be kidding me.” As if on cue, Riley leans in to kiss a senior guy but squirts him with a water gun instead. The senior grabs the gun from her hands and sprays her until she squeals in delight.

  “How well do you know Riley?” Ms. Moore asks me.

  “Well enough,” I say, and Christine chuckles. “Besides, she has the most popular booth here, so I’m not going to start pitying her.”

  Ms. Moore turns to the Key Club booth, where an all-out water war has started.

  “No wonder. I’d go over there too. You know why?” Ms. Moore shakes her head, and her dangly silver earrings gleam in the sunlight. She’s wearing jeans today, but not teacher jeans, skinny jeans. Extra-dark denim. “They’re actually having fun and they’re a spectacle. You know, something to see.”

  “She’s a spectacle, all right,” Christine says.

  Ms. Moore sighs. “That’s it. I’ve had it with you guys. You’re going to stop moping around and do something useful to drum up business for our pumpkin bars.”

  “How are we going to that?” I suppose we could make a sign that says, “Come stare at the girl with the blue hair.” Christine is probably the biggest attraction we’ve got.

  “I don’t want to kiss anyone,” Zoe says quietly. Zoe is funny. In front of adults, guys, or new people, she’s so shy. But I’ve discovered that when you get her in her element, she’ll chat your head off.

  “That’s not what I had in mind,” Ms. Moore says. “Do any of you know the meaning of the word busker?”

  I start to answer. “A busker is—”

  “Other than Ana?” Ms. Moore says. Man. She never lets me answer anything.

  Christine and Zoe shake their heads.

  “They’re people who entertain in the streets for money. They attract attention to themselves.”

  “You want us to beg for money?” Christine wrinkles her brow.

  “No, just perk up over here. Do something entertaining. Have some fun with this. You guys look like you’re being forced to sit here. If you were having half as much fun as Riley, you’d be surprised at how business would boom.” Ms. Moore glances at her watch. “You’ve got thirty minutes to come up with something.” She walks over to help some of the other Earth First members, who are unloading more bars from the back of a van, as if we need more.

  “That woman is off her gourd,” Christine says.

  Zoe picks up a small pumpkin sitting on our table for decoration. “Maybe we could sell her a new one?”

  We all bust out laughing, but eventually give way to staring at Riley and the other cool kids in the Key Club again. Ms. Moore may be right. Their charisma is the secret. They look like they’re having fun, and everyone wants to be with the people who are having fun. I start wracking my brain. What could we do to call attention to ourselves?

  ***

  The sun is just starting to slide behind the brown hills, bathing the gorgeous fall landscape in a luminous golden glow, when I get the bright idea to call my parents and see if I can stay at the festival a little later.

  This morning we arranged that Mom would pick me up in the parking lot at six so she could take me home before she and Papá go out tonight, but as the day wears on, I hear all about how awesome the festival gets after dark. For one thing, there’s a haunted house that’s supposed to be really spooky. Some girl fainted in it last year. And the corn maze is apparently much more fun after dark. And there’s a hayride.

  After Ms. Moore told us to come up with something to make our booth great this afternoon, Christine had a brainstorm. She thought we should give away a free face painting with every pumpkin bar purchase. Christine volunteered to the actual painting and Zoe called up Dreamy and Ed and asked them to buy every color of face paint they could find. I just, um, cheered them on. And it turns out that Christine is an incredible artist. Forget simple cat whiskers—she painted elaborate designs on people’s arms, ankles, and hands. She did this butterfly taking flight on a little girl’s cheek that should have been framed and put in a museum. Soon, we started charging top dollar for our face painting and just giving the bars away to the family members as they waited for their kids to be transformed by the stroke of Christine’s brush. An hour later our booth had a longer line than the kissing booth and I got so excited that I started acting like a real busker. I stood out in front and made rhymes to get people’s attention: “Make your face a piece of art. Save the earth and do your part. ” Even shy Zoe stood next to me with a sign.

  Now that it’s almost nightfall, we’re technically done, but we’ve decided that we want to stay later. Besides, there’s all kinds of stuff that needs to be done. Like cleaning up, and counting the money, and . . . well, all kinds of stuff. Zoe called her parents to ask permission to stay later. They had gone back home after dropping off the paint because they’ve attended more than pumpkin festivals over the years. They said yes immediately and even invited us over to spend the night. Christine left a message on her dad’s cell phone, since he’s in Sacramento again. He’s a politician, so he’s sometimes there for weeks at a time.

  Which leaves me. I guess I’m stupid, or maybe I’m just having so much fun that I forget for a moment who my parents are, but I really think they might say yes.

  I borrow Zoe’s cell phone, but when I get ahold of my mom, she’s already on her way to pick me up. I calmly tell her that I still have stuff to do, cringing a little at what could possibly be construed as a bit of an untruth, and that Zoe has invited us to spend the night.

  “You’re going home to Zoe’s house to spend the night?” Like a bomb-sniffing dog, Mom immediately knows that something is afoot. It’s like she can read my thoughts and knows that I want to stay because I’m hoping to bump into Tyler later.

&nb
sp; “We’re going home soon. Is it okay? Mrs. Fairchild said she’d drive me home in time for church tomorrow.” No need to alarm my mother with the fact that Zoe’s mom goes by her first name and that name just so happens to be Dreamy.

  “What do you mean, soon? What are you doing?”

  I bite my lip, watching Christine and Zoe laughing together over at the cotton candy shack. “We thought we might check out the festival some first.”

  “No,” my mother says immediately.

  “Why not?”

  “Are her parents there?”

  “They’re going to pick us up at nine o’ clock,” I say quietly. As I hear myself say it, I know that any hopes I had about tonight are gone.

  “I’m sorry, Ana, but you know the rules.” I hear the sounds of talk radio playing in the car in the background. “You’re too young to be off gallivanting around at night.” She huffs and puffs about how “children” shouldn’t be out at a town festival by themselves after dark.

  “But, Mom, there are tons of people here.” Okay, I know I sound a little whiny, but I can’t help it. I’m not five.

  “Ana, the answer is no,” she says.

  “But—“

  “No buts. I’ll see you in the parking lot in ten minutes.” Silence is ringing in my ear before I realize that she’s hung up the phone.

  I look toward Zoe and Christine and shake my head. In the dying light, I see a flash of blond hair in line for the hayride, and I turn away before anyone can see me cry.

  16

  I’m sitting on the couch, staring out the sliding glass door as they’re getting ready to leave. Mom has been fluttering around, looking for the iron and a clean pair of tights, but I’ve been watching the light disappear from the tops of the trees.

  “Be good, Ana.” She throws her silk wrap around her shoulders and kisses my head stiffly. She smells like L’Air du Temps. She’s said the same thing since I was three years old. I ignore her.