The Real Us

by Tommy Greenwald

  “Check again tomorrow,” Ellie calls after her, and she and Ella laugh.

  “Stop being such jerks,” I say.

  Ellie scowls. “What? That was funny.”

  “I’m going to go change,” I say, “and I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Or ever.”

  Which is true. I don’t.

  I just want to go to gym and run around.

  Running around usually makes me feel better.

  We’re doing basketball in gym. I love basketball—after soccer, it’s my favorite sport.

  The girls play on one half of the gym, the boys on the other.

  We play a rotating tournament of three against three. On my team are this girl Jessica, who is really short and fast, and my friend Rachel from soccer, who is great at blocking shots. I’m a good shooter. (Again with the bragging! I’m sorry!) Together, we’re a pretty solid team. We make it to the finals of the tournament, where we end up playing against Calista, Ellie, and Ella. Ellie and Ella are terrible athletes and seem to enjoy being terrible, but Calista is one of the best basketball players I’ve ever seen. She doesn’t miss. And she doesn’t even like basketball that much, according to her.

  My team shakes hands with Calista’s team before the game. When I shake with Calista, I notice that her face and neck are really red. But she’s been sweating a lot, so maybe it’s just that.

  “Let’s do this,” she says.

  I nod. “Let’s.”

  “Just don’t hurt me, deal?” she adds. She’s referring back to soccer practice last night, but she’s smiling when she says it.

  “Depends on the score,” I answer, and we both laugh. It’s strange to laugh with her. It feels like a memory.

  The game starts, and right away I notice that Calista is wiping her face a lot. Then she starts scratching it. At first I think it’s just sweat that’s annoying her.

  “Callie, are you okay?” I ask her.

  “I’m fine,” she says, blowing past me for a lay-up.

  But she keeps wiping her face, and as the game goes on, her face starts changing colors. It goes from tan, to red, to deep red.

  And then I remember what Ellie said: Playing sports gives you pimples.

  Jeez, turns out she was right.

  At first, it feels like I have a mosquito bite, then like I have ten mosquito bites, then like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I get a hot, tingling sensation. And every time I try to scratch the itch, it gets worse.

  Finally, I stop running. I hunch over to catch my breath and feel Mr. Decker, the gym teacher, staring down at me.

  “Everything all right?”

  I look up at him and immediately his face changes.

  “Oh,” he says. But not the good kind of “oh.” The bad kind of “oh.”

  “You should probably … uh … go get that looked at, Calista.”

  By now, all the other girls are looking at me, and it feels like Ms. Harnick’s class all over again, only more embarrassing, because I know my face looks worse. I can’t see it, but I feel it.

  I run straight to the nurse’s office.

  Gym is my least favorite class.

  I’m actually pretty coordinated. I used to be a good hitter in little league, and because I’m tall, I’m definitely one of the better basketball players.

  But I stopped playing organized sports a while ago. It was just easier that way.

  I have to go to gym, though. I can’t get out of it. I tried. My parents talked to the school and everything. My doctor even wrote a note. Eventually we came to a compromise and the school said I had to go for half of gym class and then when it got too uncomfortable I could go to the nurse’s office and get changed. So after scoring twelve points in fifteen minutes (like I said, I’m tall), that’s exactly what I do.

  After changing into a new shirt, I sit down on one of the beds and start doing my homework. Nurse Kline leaves me alone, and it’s quiet, as usual. In all the time I’ve been coming to the nurse’s office, I’ve barely ever seen another person, unless you count Dave Eckert, who gets the flu practically every other week.

  Today, though, is different.

  I’m working on vocabulary—trying to memorize the definition of the word “enigma”—when the door opens and Calista Getz walks in.

  It takes me exactly two seconds to realize she’s crying.

  Nurse Kline, who is reading something on her computer, jerks her head up like she just heard a bomb go off.

  “Calista!” At first, I’m surprised she knows Calista’s name. But then I remember everyone knows Calista’s name.

  Calista doesn’t answer. Instead, she hops up on the other bed. She has a gym towel wrapped around her head.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Nurse Kline. She gently tries to remove the towel, and after a few seconds Calista lets her take it.

  She has a bad rash covering half her face.

  It’s red, and splotchy, and it’s the absolute last thing you would ever expect to see on a face as perfect as Calista Getz’s.

  “Oh, my,” says the nurse. “Looks like a nasty case of hives, or some sort of allergic reaction.”

  “I know!” Calista moans. “Can you do something? Can you help me?”

  “We can take care of that, don’t you worry. It will be gone in a day or two, at the most.” Nurse Kline goes off to look for what she needs. Calista sighs and sniffles, then looks over and notices me for the first time. She doesn’t look happy to see me. She probably wants to be alone. I wouldn’t blame her.

  But she smiles.

  “Hey,” she says. “Damian, right?”

  I almost fall off the bed.

  “Um, yes.”

  “Hi. Did you have a good summer? I saw you yesterday in the cafeteria.”

  Speaking is difficult, but I manage to say four words. “I saw you, too.”

  Nurse Kline returns with some cream that she starts spreading on Calista’s face. “Any idea how this might have happened?” she asks.

  Calista glances at me, then takes a deep breath. “I … um … I found a pimple on my nose this morning. And, and I didn’t know what to do. One of my friends told me to use some of my mom’s concealer to cover it up. And, um, maybe when I sweated in gym, it combined with that.”

  The nurse keeps wiping. “Lots of things can cause allergic reactions. In any case, the best advice for pimples is to leave them alone.”

  “Everyone keeps telling me that,” Calista whimpers.

  “That’s because it’s good advice.” Nurse Kline checks her watch. “We need to give the cream a little time to work. I have to run down to the principal’s office to pick up some paperwork. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

  Then she goes out.

  Which leaves just the two of us.

  Me and Calista.

  After thirty or forty uncomfortable seconds, I decide to break the silence. If I wait for Damian, the silence will never break.

  “Are you still drawing a lot?”

  Damian looks like he’s seen a ghost. “Huh?”

  “I remember when we first met,” I tell him. “You had like, a big drawing pad in your hands.”

  He blinks five times in two seconds. “I did?”

  “Yup. Last year, when you just moved here, Dr. Michener asked me to show you around. Do you remember?”

  Damian looks at me as if I’ve just asked the stupidest question in the world, which I suppose I have.

  “Yes. I remember. And, uh, yes, I still like to draw.”

  “Great. Well, it’s nice to see you again.”

  “What do you mean?” Damian asks. “You saw me at lunch yesterday.”

  “Right,” I say. “I just meant, it’s nice to talk to you again.”

  “Oh,” Damian says. “It’s nice to talk to you again, too.”

  Nurse Kline comes back. “Let’s take a look,” she says. I move my hand away from my face. “Ah. Much better.” She pats me encouragingly on the knee. “Go take a look!”

  I glance over at Damian,
who smiles. I walk over to the mirror and make myself look. The hives aren’t much better, if you ask me. I still look like an iguana.

  I look back at the nurse. “Now what?”

  “Now you go back to class,” she says gently. “I believe your grade is at lunch?”

  I hesitate.

  “You don’t look that bad,” Damian says. “I’ve seen worse rashes on other people.”

  “Not helpful!” I say, but Damian’s sweet honesty makes me feel a tiny bit better. I grab my backpack and head toward the door, but stop to ask Damian one last question. “I meant to ask you—why are you in the nurse’s office?”

  He shrugs. “Oh, you know—the usual.”

  I don’t know what that means, but before I can ask, he lies back down on the bed, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “Thank you, Nurse Kline,” I say, and head out the door.

  The lunch room is fifty feet away.

  I wish it were a thousand.

  The first thing I notice at lunch is that Patrick is talking to Ellie, which isn’t too surprising. But the second thing I notice is that Ellie is sitting in Calista’s usual seat, and that’s shocking. Even though Calista isn’t there, this is a big deal, because that’s like sitting on the queen’s throne. Calista decided she liked that seat last year, and that was that. No one ever questioned it, and no one else ever sat in it, until today.

  I guess Ellie thought Calista was spending the whole lunch period in the nurse’s office.

  Uh, she was wrong.

  Calista walks in, and all her friends look up, shocked. Patrick quickly hustles back to his table. When Calista notices Ellie in her seat, she stops in her tracks. After a few seconds, Ellie decides to get up. They all take their usual seats, including Calista.

  Everything seems back to normal, but it’s not.

  Something’s changed. I can tell.

  A few minutes after Calista leaves the nurse’s office, I put my jacket on and head down to the cafeteria, too. I notice Calista and almost say hi to her but don’t, because we’re not in the nurse’s office anymore. I can talk to her in the nurse’s office, but not anywhere else, really.

  I head to my table in the back, where Jeffrey is sitting alone.

  “Hey, Jeffrey.”

  “Hey, Damian.”

  I take out my lunch bag and my drawing pad. I tell myself not to look up at all during lunch. Especially not in Calista’s direction.

  Two minutes later, I look up.

  I’m still watching Calista and her friends when Rachel elbows me in the shoulder.

  “Why do you waste your time worrying about them?” she says. “It’s so not worth it.”

  I look at Rachel, wondering what to say. Rachel became my new best friend when Calista and I kind of went our separate ways, and I think she always worries a little bit that I would run back to Calista if I could. But otherwise, Rachel is the most cheerful person I know. She’s loud and big and doesn’t seem to care at all about who’s cool and who’s hot and who’s popular and stuff like that.

  I totally wish I were more like her.

  “Calista’s my friend,” I say.

  “Whatever you say, dear,” says Rachel. “Oh, and P.S., you’re staring.”

  This time I don’t answer. I know she’s right. But it doesn’t matter.

  I can still remember the minute my relationship with Calista changed. We were in fifth grade. Calista was over at my house after school one day, and we were having cereal in the kitchen when my brother Eddie came in. He was two years older than me and thought all my friends were losers. He thought Calista was a loser too, until that day.

  Eddie looked at Calista. “Hey, Callie. What are you guys up to?”

  I dropped my spoon in my bowl.

  Calista glanced at me before answering. “Uh, not much. We were going to maybe shoot baskets or something. Right, Laurasaurus?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Sounds fun,” Eddie said. “Maybe I’ll shoot some baskets with you.”

  That was when I knew.

  I don’t say anything to Patrick as he walks by. I guess I’m still getting over the shock of Ellie sitting in my seat. And also, I have a face full of hives, so there’s that. Once I sit down, though, the curiosity gets the better of me.

  “What were you guys talking about with Patrick?” I ask.

  Ellie and Ella look at each other.

  “Nothing,” says Ellie.

  “Seriously, nothing,” adds Ella.

  “Wow, Calista, you look so much better,” Camille says. “I can only see the rash, like, on half your face. In gym, it was covering the whole thing.”

  Did I say earlier that I appreciated Camille’s honesty? I take it back.

  “Gee, thanks.” Everything is fine, I think, trying to convince myself.

  I take a bite of my salad, as Ellie says something to Ella that I can’t hear. “No seriously, what were you guys talking about?” I ask again. They glance up at me.

  “Oh, hahaha, just stupid stuff,” Ellie says.

  “Totally dumb,” Ella says.

  I feel my rash start to tingle. “What stupid stuff?”

  Ellie turns her eyes in my direction and for the first time ever she looks irritated with me. “Just stupid dance stuff, that’s all.”

  “What about the dance?” I say, unable to stop myself.

  Everyone at the table stops talking, and it feels like the whole cafeteria is looking at me, even though I know they’re not.

  “Is Patrick still going to ask me?” I’m thinking it, so I may as well say it out loud and get it over with.

  Ellie tries to look shocked. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Uh, have you looked at me lately? I have a pimple on my nose and lizard skin all over my face.”

  “Jeez, Calista,” says Ella. “Do you really think Patrick is, like, that shallow?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “Why would you want to go with someone who might change their mind about you, just because of how you look?” asks Camille, from the other end of the table.

  Heads swivel in her direction.

  “Who asked you?” I say to Camille. It comes out mean, I know, but I can’t help it.

  “Patrick totally likes you for you,” Ellie reassures me.

  “Ha,” I say.

  “If you don’t think so, why don’t you go ask him?” Ella says.

  “Maybe I will.” I can barely stand listening to myself. Are we really talking about this?

  I stand up and walk over to Patrick’s table. He’s in the middle of looking at some dumb video on his phone with Will and Jason, another one of his friends. They see me coming before he does. They elbow him, and he looks up at me.

  “Oh, hey,” he says. “Uh, how’s your face?” I notice his eyes are looking past me, at someone else. He seems uncomfortable, and I think I know why.

  “It’s just fantastic,” I say. “Can’t you tell?”

  He laughs awkwardly.

  I can feel my heart pounding. “So, uh, did you have something you wanted to ask me?”

  I wait for what seems like three hours.

  “Calista, about the dance, I—” he finally says, but that’s as far as he gets before I cut him off.

  “No, I get it. You don’t have to explain.”

  But he explains anyway. “I’m just confused, I guess. I heard you weren’t going to the dance anyway—you know, with your rash and everything—”

  “Gee, I wonder where you heard that.” I glare back at Ellie and Ella, then turn back to Patrick. “Did you ask someone else?” I hate myself for sounding so pathetic.

  “No, of course not!” His eyes dart all over the place, anywhere but in my direction. “Uh, if you still want to go, I guess we could still go, you know, if you really want to.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Seriously, Patrick, it’s fine.” I look around, trying to find someone to talk to, somewhere to go that�
�s not back at my table. I spot Damian at the far end of the cafeteria, staring at me. When I look at him, he looks away, of course.

  “I, uh, need to go talk to my friend,” I say, and I find myself turning in Damian’s direction.

  Will Hanson grabs my arm. “Calista, hold up. I hope you’re not still mad at that dumb shaving joke.”

  “Actually,” I say, “I thought it was pretty funny.”

  I walk away and don’t look back.

  “Oh, man,” Jeffrey says.

  I try not to look up from my drawing. “What?”

  “Calista is looking at you, and she’s coming this way.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “No seriously, she is.”

  I drop my pencil and lift my head up. Jeffrey’s right. Calista is walking straight toward us.

  “Oh, man,” Jeffrey repeats. “Oh man oh man oh man oh man.”

  “Stop saying that,” I tell him. I feel my shirt start to dampen.

  “Oh, man,” he says again, anyway. “What is she doing? Maybe she likes you. Maybe she wants to talk to you some more. Maybe she wants to go to the dance with you. You should ask her.”

  “Please stop talking now, Jeffrey.”

  “Okay.”

  I think about Jeffrey’s annoying words. She was really friendly in the nurse’s office—she smiled at me even though she had a rash on her face. She remembered me.

  And she’s coming my way.

  I could never ask her to the dance. But I could talk to her, and that would be nice, and maybe we could be friends—

  Calista is almost at our table.

  I suddenly stand up. “Okay. I will talk to her.”

  “Hey!” Jeffrey says, pointing at my shirt. I look down—it’s drenched. It’s covered in sweat stains. Especially under the arms. “Put your jacket back on,” he suggests.

  “Good idea.”

  I lean down over my chair and try to pull my jacket on, but one of the sleeves is inside out. I try to fix it, but I’m in a rush and make it worse. Suddenly both arms are inside out and I’m trying to pull the jacket on over my head. My arms are flailing around and my head is stuck inside the jacket and I can’t see anything and I start to panic and I get one arm in and I’m still struggling with the other arm and I finally get it through and—