Chrissa

by Mary Casanova

  I shrugged.

  “Maybe it didn’t work out this weekend with Sonali. But have you tried to make friends with someone who needs a friend?”

  My throat felt hot. I couldn’t tell Nana that I had been in my room so much because I’d been crying. And I didn’t want to start up again. Warm-from-the-oven cookies deserved better.

  “Well?” she prodded.

  “Nana, I’ve tried! Everyone has a group already. Most kids are nice, but it’s not the same as being real friends, like with Amanda. And Sonali—well, she has other friends.”

  “Well, dear,” Nana said, “don’t give up.”

  Even Tyler tried to cheer me up. “Hey, Chrissa, we haven’t played Brain Scan for a long time. Come on!”

  Brain Scan is a game we made up. I joined him on the cushioned window seat in the living room. Keefer immediately hopped up and sprawled on his back between us for a belly scratch.

  “Ready?” Tyler asked. “You start. Think of a color.”

  I had a hard time clearing my mind, but I pictured one solid color—orange. To hold the image more clearly, I imagined a real orange, complete with its puckered, shiny peel. “Ready,” I told him.

  He closed his eyes. “Is it orange?”

  “You got it! Your first try!”

  Tyler opened his eyes and clasped his hands overhead in a victory cheer. “Okay,” he said, “my turn now.”

  This time I closed my eyes, trying to see the color in his mind, but all I could picture were the Mean Bees. I made a lame guess. “Um, yellow and black?”

  We’ve played this game ever since I can remember. It’s surprising how often we know exactly what the other one is thinking.

  “Nope,” he said.

  “Purple?”

  “Try again. You’re not concentrating, Chrissa.” Sometimes Tyler sounds just like Dad.

  I tried every color of the rainbow before we finally quit. “I give up.”

  “It’s pink,” he finally said. “I was trying to picture a happy color for you.”

  At school, I survived halfway through the week by becoming a turtle and pulling myself into an armored shell. Even the Bees couldn’t penetrate it.

  I was glad when we had art class. It was my only real break from being near Sonali and the others.

  “Class,” Ms. Rundell called out. She motioned toward the bowls on shelves. “Between Mr. Maxwell’s kiln and our kiln here at school, all the bowls are now fired. We lost only two, which is quite miraculous. The fund-raiser on Saturday should be a huge success because of your artistry and your willingness to help out. You’ve made a real contribution, and I’m proud of all of you!”

  Then she instructed us to get started on our next project, which involved going through boxes of magazines to clip out images that demonstrated an interest of ours.

  “Anything we want?” someone asked.

  “Whatever interests or delights you,” she answered. “Now, I have to go to the office for a minute, and when I return, I expect you’ll all have found some inspiration.”

  I focused on llamas. But after flipping through a few magazines, I hadn’t found a single image. Gwen didn’t seem to have the same problem. She immediately cut out an image of a woman playing a harp.

  “Do you play the harp?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I just like harps. I used to play the violin. I don’t have one anymore.”

  I wanted to ask her what happened to it, but she hunched down again in serious concentration. That’s when I came across an image of a girl with bangs whose eyes were as round and big and dark as Gwen’s. I inched it across the table right in front of her.

  “She looks like you,” I said. “But your eyes are even prettier.”

  With the back of her hand, she brushed her bangs away from her eyes. “Think so?”

  “Absolutely. I don’t lie,” I said a little loudly, hoping Sonali might hear. Then I whispered, “I have a bunch of barrettes you could borrow if you want to try clipping your hair back. It would show off your eyes more. They’d work great while you’re growing out your bangs.”

  “I’m not growing them out.” She sighed. “My mom just hasn’t had time to trim them. I keep asking her, but she’s always—” She glanced at my blunt safety scissors. “Hey, you could trim them.”

  “Me?”

  Her suggestion startled me, but then, with all the fabric I’ve cut to make doll clothes and crafts, I have a pretty steady hand. I studied her bangs. They were feathery but cut pretty much straight across. It couldn’t be that hard, and it would take only a few seconds.

  “Gwen,” I offered, “if you come over sometime after school—I mean, if you can—then I could try.”

  “You could trim them now,” she said.

  “Now? Here? That doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

  “Well, not here.”

  Ms. Rundell was still gone, so we slipped into the girls’ restroom. I wasn’t sure that trimming bangs at school was a good idea, but then, Gwen wasn’t planning on ever coming over to my house.

  We stood beside the sinks and mirrors.

  “Okay, just face me and close your eyes,” I said. Though I felt a little nervous, I was glad to do something helpful. I know what it’s like to have a mother who gets way too busy at times. When Mom did her residency as a doctor, she worked eighty-hour weeks. Some weeks I barely saw her. But that was a few years ago, and she’d had to learn everything then—even surgery. Compared to surgery, what was a little hair trimming?

  I picked up my scissors. “Ready?”

  Since I’m left-handed, I started at the left edge of her bangs.

  Snip. Snip. Snip. I watched as less than one-fourth of an inch of hair dropped to the floor in tiny flecks. I tried to be really careful. Any quick bump could turn a haircut into a disaster.

  Just then, the restroom door swung open. “Look! It’s a beauty salon,” Tara called.

  “Just keep going,” Gwen whispered.

  As Tara walked over to us, I stopped cutting and withdrew the scissors.

  “My mom owns three hair salons and spas,” Tara said. “I don’t mean to butt in, but I know something about hair.”

  Gwen’s eyes snapped open.

  Jadyn now stood near Tara, and Sonali hung back near the door, watching.

  I held the scissors behind my back. “Leave us alone,” I said, keeping my voice calm.

  “No, really,” Tara said, standing at my shoulder. “I’ve watched my mom, like, a hundred thousand times. To trim bangs right, you need to twist the ends like this—” She demonstrated by pulling her hair over her shoulder and twisting the ends. Then she made scissors motions with her fingers. “Snip lightly. That way you’ll get a more natural-looking cut. And it’s faster, too.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She whispered, “Otherwise it will look like you put a bowl over her head.”

  “Gwen,” I said, “close your eyes again.”

  At first she squinted suspiciously, and then she closed her eyes tight.

  I studied the results of my hair-dressing skills so far. Where I’d cut, the ends of Gwen’s bangs were blunt. They were so blunt that it looked as if I’d chalked a line and cut straight across—almost as if I really had put a bowl on her head and cut along its edge.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Tara said. “Let me show you.”

  She held out her open hand.

  I didn’t budge.

  “I don’t know…” I stammered. But if her mom owned salons, Tara definitely knew more than I did about trimming bangs. I mean, I’d never cut anybody’s hair before.

  Maybe I was making a big mistake, but with more than a little reluctance, I put my scissors into Tara’s outstretched hand.

  Without saying another word, Tara lifted Gwen’s bangs gently, twisted them just as she’d demonstrated, and snipped the ends lightly. Snip! She lowered them and looked at her work approvingly. I had to admit it; the bangs did look more natural. Then she lifted Gwen’s bangs agai
n, as if to touch them up, but instead used the scissors to hack off Gwen’s bangs—short and jagged—in one fast motion. Snip!

  As the scissors clattered to the floor, Gwen opened her eyes wide.

  “Nice job, Chrissa!” Tara exclaimed. “Gwen, you really do have pretty eyes.”

  Giggling, Tara and Jadyn fled. Sonali stared at us but then turned away, too, and slipped out the door.

  Gwen faced the mirror and brought her hand to her forehead. “Chrissa! How could you?” Her face crumpled into tears.

  “But I didn’t,” I started. “It was Tara!”

  Gwen’s bangs were jagged and terrible looking. I didn’t know what else I could do or say. It was too awful. And Gwen thought I’d done that? I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. Shaking, I reached down and picked up the scissors and a few snips of Gwen’s blonde hair from the floor…wishing there were some way to undo what had just happened.

  Heels clicked on the restroom floor. “What in the world—?” came Ms. Rundell’s voice. Hands on her hips, she looked pained as she took in the scene. Even though I knew I wasn’t fully guilty, somehow I’d allowed this to happen. I knew I should speak up and tell Ms. Rundell about Tara and her latest prank—but I couldn’t get a word out.

  “Chrissa Maxwell!” Ms. Rundell said. “What have you done?”

  As the hallways emptied and students caught their buses home, I waited with clammy palms outside the principal’s office for Dad and Mom. The door to Mrs. Ziminsky’s office was shut, and I sat in the waiting area along with the Mean Bees and their parents.

  Earlier, Gwen and her mom had met with Mrs. Ziminsky, Mr. Beck, and Ms. Rundell. From my classroom window, I’d seen Gwen leave school early.

  Tara’s mom’s hair was as feathery as a well-groomed show dog’s, and her bangs, I noticed, were cut perfectly. In a silky gray jacket and skirt, she crossed and uncrossed her legs, reapplying her red lipstick twice in the span of ten minutes. “Tara,” she whispered, “I know you didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t worry.”

  She patted Tara’s hand as if she were a toddler and then turned Tara’s hand in her own. “But honey, your cuticles are awful! As soon as we’re done here, I’ll get you in to see Anna to get you touched up.”

  Tara dipped her head, leaning into her mom’s shoulder—a picture of sweetness. But when her mother glanced the other way, Tara flashed me a confident and smug “I’m-not-worried” smile.

  Across the room, Sonali sat between her parents. Her father rested his folded hands over his striped tie (his nails would probably pass Tara’s mom’s inspection). Sonali’s mom adjusted the brightly colored wrap that she wore over her black turtleneck sweater and then opened her purse. Sonali looked my way as if to tell me something, but I couldn’t read her eyes. How could I when she was always switching sides?

  Near the door, Jadyn stood with her dad, a bald, thick-necked man in a denim shirt and jeans. I wondered if Jadyn had helped him lose all his hair. He wore an expression that said he didn’t have time for this.

  When Mom and Dad arrived, the woman behind the desk lifted the phone. “They’re all here now.”

  Then the door to Mrs. Ziminsky’s office opened. “Thank you all for coming in so quickly,” the principal said, and she pointed to a nearby conference room. “We’ll meet where there’s a little more room.” Once we were all settled at the long table, Mrs. Ziminsky pushed her glasses higher on her nose with her forefinger and then gazed around the room. “Something terrible happened to Gwen Thompson this afternoon, and girls, you all seem to have some involvement or knowledge of what happened. And it seems that you three girls—Tara, Jadyn, and Sonali—have gained a reputation for bullying other students. We need to get to the bottom of all of this and put an end to it. What happened to Gwen today is totally unacceptable.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Tara’s mom blurted. “My daughter is bright and hardworking, and she is not the kind of girl who goes about causing trouble.”

  Tara sat tall, with a look of bewilderment on her face. “I wouldn’t hurt anyone intentionally,” she said.

  Mrs. Ziminsky held up a note. I recognized it instantly. It was the valentine addressed to Gwen. “What about this?” the principal asked. “Who wrote it?”

  “Well,” Tara said, looking around to the other Mean Bees—and me. “We all did, really. In our cluster. It was just supposed to be funny, not meant to hurt anyone. A joke. We were, well…” She shook her head with false regret. “I guess we weren’t thinking.”

  The principal lowered the valentine, as if her evidence didn’t amount to much now. “Girls,” she said, “I want to know who cut Gwen Thompson’s hair in the restroom today.”

  “Chrissa,” she began. “You go first.”

  I glanced at Mom, who was still in green scrubs, and Dad, who’d come over so fast from his studio that flecks of clay still clung to the tops of his hands. They were watching me intently. I cleared my throat, sat on my trembling hands, and told the principal how everything had gone wrong and how Tara had been the one to cut Gwen’s bangs.

  Tara’s mom harrumphed. “Oh, I don’t believe a word of this! Who’s to say you’re not lying?” She glared at me.

  “I’m telling the truth,” I said, looking at Mom. “I want to be friends with Gwen. I wouldn’t do something mean like that.”

  “As if my daughter would?” Tara’s mom blurted out again. “Is that what you’re implying? Tara,” she said, “honey, you tell them what really happened.”

  Tara wore the innocent expression of someone who had been wrongly accused. She said that she had given me some tips on how to cut bangs and that I had just gone ahead and ignored her and hacked them off unbelievably short. “That wasn’t what I’d meant at all. But I realize that, well, the only place to get hair cut is at a salon, like one of my mom’s. We should have known better. I should have gone to get the teacher when Chrissa started to cut Gwen’s hair. But I thought I could help.”

  My mouth dropped open. How could someone be so good at lying? She could win an Academy Award for her performance, which Mrs. Ziminsky seemed to soak in. “Okay, thank you, Tara. Now Jadyn?” Mrs. Ziminsky said.

  Jadyn’s version of the story ended with, “All I know is that when I looked again, Gwen’s bangs were cut really short and, like, Chrissa was holding the scissors?”

  Jadyn’s dad clapped his large hands together. “Okay, good,” he said. He nodded at Jadyn.

  When the principal looked away, Jadyn flashed Tara a secret smile.

  So far, it was two against one. And since Gwen hadn’t spoken a word to me since the hair-trimming incident, I didn’t know what she thought had happened or what she’d told the principal. As far as I knew, she may have told Mrs. Ziminsky that I was the one who had cut her hair. And why wouldn’t she think that? I was the one she’d last seen holding the scissors.

  “Sonali?” Mrs. Ziminsky continued.

  If Sonali didn’t tell the truth, then I was doomed. I imagined myself hobbling away in a striped prison uniform, with shackles around my ankles.

  She looked straight at Mrs. Ziminsky. “Um, I don’t really know what happened. When I entered the girls’ room, it all happened so fast that I didn’t see.”

  “You didn’t see?” Mrs. Ziminsky prodded. “You’re sure?”

  Sonali nodded and then studied her lap.

  Mrs. Ziminsky’s glasses had slipped down again. She pushed them up with her forefinger, looked around the room, and then leaned forward on her elbows. “Bullying is a real issue,” she said, “and we’ve been too lenient about it in years past. What happened today is not acceptable and will be dealt with. For now, I thank you parents, especially, for taking the time to come and meet together this afternoon. I’ll keep you posted on where we go next with this incident and issue.”

  Tara’s mother redid her lipstick and said, “There’s no need for me to return with Tara. We all heard what went on. I’m finished here—and so is my daughter.” She stood up. “Come on, sweetie
.”

  The room cleared quickly, except for my parents, who had been so unbelievably quiet. Why weren’t they saying anything? It wasn’t until Mrs. Ziminsky stood that they spoke up.

  “Thank you,” Dad said, “for taking this kind of thing seriously. I remember all too well as a kid being taunted and teased. It’s not funny at all. We’re grateful that you’re looking into this. And we obviously have a lot to talk about at home.” He rested his hand heavily on my shoulder, as if he were the jailer ready to lead me away. My own dad didn’t believe me!

  When I stepped outside the school and walked toward the truck, I cried, “Dad! You acted like I’m guilty! How could you?”

  “I don’t know what to believe yet,” he said. “You know I love you no matter what. And I know you have a good heart. But, on the other hand, you’ve been acting different lately, so I don’t know…Someone wasn’t telling the truth in there, and parents who say their kids could never be guilty always seem suspicious to me.”

  Mom reached for my hand, but I pulled away. “Mom, you could have defended me! You and Dad didn’t say a word!”

  “Like Tara’s mom? Is that what you wanted?”

  Dad started the engine and I just stared out the window. I didn’t want my parents to pretend I was perfect. That wasn’t it. I’m not sure what I wanted from them. I supposed they would ground me for the weekend, but it wouldn’t matter. I had no friends. No one was going to invite me over anyway.

  The whole way home, I wanted to feel sorry for myself. But the person I couldn’t stop thinking about was Gwen. I felt terrible for her. There was no way she could hide what had happened. Every time she looked in the mirror, she would think of how someone had been mean to her. I couldn’t change what had happened. But no matter what she thought, I had to find a way to make it up to her—to make things right with her.

  The next morning, I still felt terrible. My head hurt from everything that had happened, and my stomach was in about a thousand zillion knots. I buried my head under my pillow, wishing away another school day.