“Yes, Dad!” I said, feeling panicky. “Darcy’s mom, like, totally trusts her. It’ll be fine.”
“Sorry, honey,” Dad said.
Yikes!
“Dad,” I said, trying to sound calm and reasonable, “how about a compromise? We’ll only stay a few minutes.” Just long enough to launch my stealth bomb, then run for cover. “Can you take us there and let us hang out for just a few minutes?”
Dad looked suspicious. “A few minutes?”
“We’re not really going for the party,” I explained. “I just have to drop something off for Darcy. You’ll be right there waiting for us. Please, Dad?”
He didn’t look totally convinced, but finally he shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be waiting in the driveway.”
I kissed his cheek. “No prob.”
We headed out the door and piled into the car. Dusk had already fallen, and crickets were chirping. I clutched Darcy’s essay in my hand. No one else had seen it. Martin and Lani knew I had something up my sleeve, but the details were my little secret. No point in spoiling the fun.
When we pulled up to Darcy’s house, kids were milling around…some on the front lawn.
“What is her mother thinking?” Dad muttered.
“Please stay in the car,” I said. “Please, Dad. I’ll drop this off to Darcy and introduce her to Lani. Fifteen minutes, tops. Okay?”
Dad looked nervous but sighed and said, “Okay.”
Lani, Martin and I went to the open front door. We elbowed our way past some people coming out, then stood in Darcy’s living room, where more people were hanging out. Darcy spotted us and walked over.
“Elsa,” she said, managing a fake smile. She spoke into my ear. “You brought Martin?” she whispered fiercely. “Omigod!”
I cleared my throat nervously. “Right. Martin and my friend Lani. Lani, this is Darcy.”
Lani smiled and flashed a quick wave.
“Who’s that in the driveway?” Darcy asked, peering out the window.
“My dad,” I said apologetically. “He’s waiting for us. We can’t stay long.”
“Whatever. Hand over the essay.”
“Can’t we have a few chips and some punch first?”
Darcy rolled her eyes. “I think there’s a bowl of tortilla chips around here somewhere, but they’re kind of stale. Mom isn’t big on grocery shopping.”
Lani looked confused. “So…what do you do for meals?”
Darcy shrugged. “Mom’s usually out with her boyfriend. Sometimes she leaves me money for pizza. When I told her last night that I’d eaten cold leftover pizza for the third night in a row, she told me I needed to drop a few pounds anyhow.”
Lani looked shocked. “What about your dad?” she asked, as usual blurting out exactly what was on her mind.
Darcy looked puzzled. “What about him?”
Lani shrugged. “Does he cook? Does he take you out?”
Darcy curled her lip. “He doesn’t exactly have time to make like Betty Crocker,” she said with a snarl. “He lives in L.A., making movies. But one of my mom’s boyfriends owns a burger joint, and he lets me eat for free. Every once in a while, he even lets me go wild at the mall with his credit card.”
She suddenly seemed annoyed. “Like, why are we talking about my mother’s boyfriends?” she said.
“So you’re here by yourself when your mom goes out?” Lani persisted.
“Duh,” Darcy said. “Do I look like a baby? I think I was seven the last time Mom called a sitter. I can take care of myself.” Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open and held it to her ear.
“What, Mom?” she spat when she realized who was calling, then started to back down a hallway. She turned toward a wall and put a finger in her other ear. At first, her voice was hushed, but soon she was shouting.
“No, Mother!” she said angrily. “I went to see Dad two weeks ago. I am not going back on Father’s Day. Do you think I enjoy sitting in a waiting room for four hours just so I can get frisked by a prison guard and spend twenty minutes with my dad?”
Martin, Lani and I exchanged embarrassed glances. Prison? Darcy’s dad wasn’t a big-time Hollywood movie producer. He was in prison.
Just then, Darcy glanced up and caught my eye. Uh-oh….
Her face turned pale and she snapped her phone shut.
“What did you hear?” she asked in a shaky voice, walking toward me.
“Nothing,” I insisted.
Her eyes softened and she looked at me pleadingly. “Don’t rat me out, Elsa,” she said in barely a whisper.
“Of course I won’t,” I said, feeling a sudden urge to touch her arm.
Her eyes searched mine; then she abruptly tossed her hair back and tipped her nose skyward. “You’re toast if you do,” she growled. “Now, where’s my essay?”
“Right.” The essay. The one about Darcy the phony snob. The one that would finally put her in her place and embarrass her enough to shake up her perfect little world. Except now her world seemed anything but perfect.
“Um, Darcy…,” I said, knowing I couldn’t go through with it. But before I could finish my sentence, Darcy snatched the essay out of my hand and headed toward the center of the room.
She clapped her hands. “People!” she called out. “Everybody gather around. I’ve got to practice reading my essay out loud.”
I felt a thud in the pit of my stomach.
Lani pulled me aside as Darcy stepped onto a low stool and the crowd gathered around her.
“How sad!” she whispered to me.
“What?” I asked, though I already knew what she meant.
“Darcy’s life,” Lani said. “It’s really sad.”
“Yeah,” Martin agreed. “I didn’t know about her dad.”
“I don’t think she’s awful, Elsa,” Lani said. “I think she’s lonely. School is probably the only place she gets any attention.”
The thud in my stomach grew heavier. “Still,” I whispered defensively. “She’s a total snob. A total fake. You just don’t understand.”
But suddenly I felt maybe I was the one who didn’t understand.
Darcy was clearing her throat.
“Okay, here’s my essay,” she said, opening the folder with her French-manicured nails. “What I’ve Learned in Seventh Grade, by Darcy Dixon.” She smiled coyly. “That’s me.”
My great idea seemed like the worst idea in the whole world. Grandma’s voice rang in my head: “The old cliché is true: Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
Darcy started reading: “What I’ve learned in seventh grade is that nobody matters but me. You see, in the warped world of middle school, I have real power. I have beauty. I have charm. I couldn’t care less about other people’s feelings.”
I felt Lani’s and Martin’s eyes boring into me. I spun around to face them, then realized I couldn’t look them in the eye. They looked so disappointed in me.
“Do-over!”
Ten-second rewind.
“Okay, here’s my essay,” Darcy said, opening the folder. “What I’ve Learned in Seventh Grade, by Darcy Dixon.” She smiled coyly. “That’s me.”
I ran over and grabbed the folder out of her hand. “Darcy, no!”
Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Elsa! What are you doing?”
I clenched the folder tightly in my hand. “Darcy, I’m sorry,” I said, my mind racing as I tried to decide what to say next. “I can’t write your essay for you.”
She hopped off the stool and put her hand on her hip. “But you promised! The essays are due Monday! My cheerleading!” she wailed.
“Darcy,” I reasoned, “I tried to write it…really I did. But I don’t know what you’ve learned in seventh grade. I don’t know anything about you. I thought I did….”
“Well, we’ll just have to fake it then, won’t we!” she said through clenched teeth, trying to grab the essay from my fingers.
“No,” I said calmly. “I don’t want to fake it anymore.” I sighed
. “Darcy, you can work on your essay all day tomorrow. You can do it. You don’t need me to tell you about your own life. The only one who can write your essay is you. Otherwise, we’re both fakes, and neither of us deserves that laptop, or the extra-credit grade.”
Her eyes narrowed into slits. “Well, aren’t you Little Miss Goody-Goody!” she sputtered. “You can take your essay and you can, well, for starters, you can get out of my house!”
I looked her straight in the eye. “I’m sorry, Darcy,” I said.
I meant it.
TWENTY-THREE
ROUGH DRAFT #3
What I’ve Learned in Seventh Grade
By Elsa Alden
In Language Arts this year, we read a novel called To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s mostly about a couple of kids, but it’s also about their dad, who always tries to do the right thing and couldn’t care less whether anybody else likes it or not. His name is Atticus Finch. What I’ve learned in seventh grade is that Atticus Finch wouldn’t have fit in very well at Harbin Springs Middle School.
It seems like in middle school, all anybody cares about is what other people think. I learned that when you pay more attention to other people’s reactions than you do to your own actions, you make a lot of mistakes.
But it’s not that we’re all totally selfish. We’re just kind of trying to figure out who we really are. That’s the nice thing about Atticus. He already knows. When you don’t know, life becomes a trial-and-error process that leads to lots of mistakes. Those mistakes—gossiping, putting each other down, hurting feelings, building up our egos and trying to hide our flaws—aren’t very flattering, but they aren’t really as evil as they seem.
We look selfish and silly and shallow when we’re trying to fit in, but what we really feel is small and scared.
I’m not sure if I know myself any better now than I did at the beginning of seventh grade. But I have a better idea of who I want to be. I can’t truthfully say that I’ve stopped caring what other people think about me, but I’ve gotten better at deciding for myself whether their opinions are valid. I’ve also learned that having someone disapprove of me isn’t the end of the world…unless it’s someone I respect, in which case it definitely feels like the end of the world.
I wonder what Atticus was like in seventh grade…maybe no braver than my classmates and me. Maybe he had to learn how to be brave. Maybe he started learning that in middle school. It’s a really good place to practice being brave.
I guess what I learned in seventh grade is that I’m learning, just like Atticus was. I want to be brave. I’m working on it.
I reread what I’d typed. I smiled and clicked Save.
Do-Over Day Twenty-six
Martin was waiting for me at my locker Monday morning.
“So,” he said, “now will you tell me what happened Saturday night? Where was the big surprise?”
I grinned. “I told you, I changed my mind. As soon as I attain perfection, I’ll turn my attention back to Project Darcy. In the meantime, she’ll just have to fend for herself.”
Martin shook his head. “Girls are so weird,” he muttered. “So no more do-overs?”
I crinkled my brow. “Hmmmm…. Maybe I can make a quick exception.”
Martin smiled but looked skeptical. “What?” he asked.
“Ya ever kiss a girl?” I asked playfully, then laughed as he blushed a bright shade of red. “That’s what I thought.” I gazed down the hall. “That girl down there by her locker…isn’t her name Felicity?”
“Yeah…,” Martin said dreamily. “Foxy Felicity.”
“Go give her a kiss…nothing too mushy…just enough to get it over with and know what it’s like.”
“You. Are. Insane,” Martin said.
“I’ll do it over, and she’ll never know it happened. Go ahead, Martin. My gift to you.”
He shifted his weight. “I guess I could…. But you promise you’ll do it over?”
“I promise. Now, go!”
Martin walked over to Felicity, paused for a moment, then suddenly pressed his lips against hers, just for a nanosecond.
Felicity looked too stunned to react as Martin pulled away from her, then rushed back to me. “Do it over!” he said frantically.
I grinned. “Uh…changed my mind.”
“ELSA!”
“Okay, okay!”
I rubbed my locket and said “Do-over,” then watched the whole priceless moment become undone.
“Did I do it?” Martin asked breathlessly after he had rewound his steps back to me.
“Oh, you did it, all right.”
His eyes widened. “Did she slap me in the face?”
“No. Actually, she looked kinda…okay about the whole thing, in a weird kind of way.”
Martin’s face brightened. “Really?” He laughed, then bounced on his toes and said, “Can we do it again? This time, concentrate on my form.”
I poked him in the chest. “You’re on your own from now on, Romeo,” I said. “I’m done trying to choreograph the cosmos.”
We laughed as we watched Felicity walk down the hall, clueless that she had just given Martin his first kiss.
“Besides,” I continued, “my carriage turns back into a pumpkin on my birthday.”
“Are you sure, Elsa?” he asked. “Maybe your mom will let you keep your power, or maybe she’ll accidentally forget that she gave it to you, or—”
I held out my hand to stop him. “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, rubbing my locket. “I think I’m kinda getting the hang of things…you know?”
“Poor, delusional Elsa,” Martin teased. “Don’t you know that eighth grade is even worse than seventh? Next year will make this year seem like a piece of cake.”
I laughed. “Bring it on. And without supernatural powers, thank you very much.” My eyes brightened. “Hey, Martin, we both love to argue. Let’s join the debate club!”
“And the National Association of Nerds!” Martin chimed in playfully.
I punched his arm. “At least we’ll be in good company.”
Martin and I were walking down the hall toward Mr. Wright’s room when Carter came up to me.
“Hi, Elsa,” she said, pulling me aside and lowering her voice. “I didn’t get a chance to say hi to you at Darcy’s party.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I didn’t stay long.”
Carter looked at her feet, as if trying to decide what to say next. “When Darcy was on the phone talking to her mom…,” she finally said, “…I heard that, too.”
“You mean…?”
Carter nodded. “I had heard rumors about her dad being in jail, but I never believed them. She always had so many stories about visiting him in Hollywood. Now I wonder if anything Darcy says is true.”
“Yeah, well…I can see how she’d be tempted to stretch the truth about something like that,” I said. “I feel really bad for her.”
“Me too, but…” Carter’s voice trailed off. “I wonder how good a friend Darcy really is. She makes me feel so bad about myself sometimes, you know?”
I knew.
“When I heard her talk about her dad being in jail,” Carter said, “I wanted to tell everybody at the party, to get back at her. But you didn’t say anything.”
I blushed. “I’ve done some things I’m not very proud of,” I said quietly.
“Well, I think you’re a good friend.” Carter smiled at me.
I smiled back. “Let’s just say I’m getting better.”
Do-Over Day Thirty
Ow!
My pumps were killing me. At least I was sitting down, for now. And squished toes were a small price to pay to make Grandma happy. She’d asked me to wear a nice dress for Honors Day, which was the least I could do. As our class had filed into the auditorium, with the music teacher banging out our school song on the piano, I’d scanned the audience to find Dad and Grandma. Front row. Naturally.
The principal had already called out all the honors and awards, except one. My
skin tingled with excitement. True, it would be pretty excruciating to stand up in front of all these people and read my essay, especially in these pumps…but a laptop…
“The final award,” said the principal, “is for our annual essay contest.”
Darcy was glaring at me from a few seats over. I sank a little lower in my chair.
“This year’s theme is ‘What I’ve Learned in Seventh Grade,’” the principal continued. “Ladies and gentlemen, I tell you in all sincerity that this year’s contest was one of the most difficult to judge. Several of the entries were exceptional. Naturally, there can be only one winner.”
In my excitement, I accidentally kicked Martin with a pointy-toed pump.
“Ow,” he said.
“My bad.”
“And the winner of this year’s essay contest is…”
I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands.
“…Martin King!”
Martin King?
Martin King!
I did a double take. “Martin!” I squealed. “You won!” I felt almost as excited as if I’d won myself. Almost. (A new laptop…sigh.)
Martin walked to the microphone to accept a plaque. His essay was waiting on the podium.
“Martin, please read your essay,” the principal said.
Martin adjusted his tie and cleared his throat, looking nervous.
He leaned close to the microphone. “What I’ve—” he began, but he backed off when squeaky feedback blasted from the speakers.
“What I’ve Learned in Seventh Grade,” he began again.
“I started seventh grade thinking I was smarter than everybody else, maybe even the teachers,” he read with a slight tremble in his voice. “I thought my intelligence was the most important thing about me, maybe even the only thing that really mattered.
“It was easy to feel better than my classmates, most of whom were more worried about their hairstyles than their grades.” His voice sounded stronger, more confident now.
“I didn’t think I had anything in common with any of them. I was superior.”
Martin paused and his voice softened. “Except that I wasn’t. What I’ve learned in seventh grade is that I used my intelligence to keep people at a distance. If I concentrated on my intelligence, then I wouldn’t have to worry about being too shy to say hi to someone in the hall, or feel too embarrassed that I’m a washout on the baseball team.
Do-Over Page 12
