We Are Party People

by Leslie Margolis

  “Hi, my name is Sophie and I’m running for seventh grade class president.”

  Sometimes I wish I were a different kind of person. Someone who was bright and chipper like Sophie.

  I really haven’t met anyone else like her. Something about her personality reminds me of a hummingbird, if hummingbirds went to middle school and could partake in student council elections. Flitting around from flower to flower, always on the move, going wherever they please, and swooping in and talking to anyone.

  I should’ve kept saying hi to Blake. He and June broke up ages ago. Maybe he realized the truth about her. Maybe he’d be interested in someone nicer.

  I glance over at him and he seems to be looking at me, too. I suddenly have this crazy thought—like maybe he can read my mind. But I’m probably imagining things because just as quickly he turns away.

  I pick up my sandwich and take a bite and try not to even think about Blake because it’s silly to think that someone like him, someone who went out with cute and popular June Willoughby, could ever be interested in someone like me. I am the opposite of a hummingbird. I don’t flit around. Instead, I stay in one place, watching in silence and listening carefully.

  I observe as if I am wallpaper with eyes.

  And then, like the wallpaper, I do nothing.

  12

  They called it the cool-girl club, but I didn’t find that out until later. This was way back when we were all in first grade. Jenna started it, which was no surprise. Jenna started everything back then. To get into the cool-girl club you had to do one thing: stomp on my foot.

  It was recess and I was sitting quietly in the corner, looking at an Archie comic book. All I wanted to do back then was read comics. Veronica and Betty and Jughead, all those kids who lived in Riverdale, their lives seemed so glamorous compared to my own. I was so absorbed in the story, I didn’t even notice the other girls whispering and pointing at me, daring one another to go first. At least that’s how I imagine it started.

  When India stomped on my foot, I thought it was an accident. She made it look that way, just walking by casually. I glanced up. It didn’t hurt that much, but it surprised me and it made me lose my place in my comic. Later on I realized she wasn’t really into it because she mumbled an apology under her breath. It was so soft that I hardly heard, but I saw her mouth move and I figured that’s what she said.

  I went back to reading. But then it happened again—with June, this time. She giggled while she did it. Then ran back to Jenna.

  That’s when I noticed the whole group of them staring at me, and I knew something was up. Not that I did anything. I didn’t want a confrontation, didn’t want to deal. The only thing I wanted was to be left alone.

  Lola and I were already besties back then, but she was out sick a lot. This was before her parents and the doctors figured out she had celiac.

  I went back to my reading, wishing my best friend were in school and figuring if I didn’t react, the girls would leave me alone.

  Except I could tell, out of the corner of my eye, that they were still staring.

  I considered my options. I could stand up and walk away, but wouldn’t that be letting them win? I could cry, but that would definitely be letting them win. I could tell a teacher, but of course I wouldn’t do that. I knew better. I was no tattletale. Tattletales were kind of annoying and I didn’t want to be annoying. Ignoring them, acting like I didn’t even notice, that seemed like the best thing to do, the strong thing.

  So I tried. I went back to my comic as Ruby and then Olivia stomped on my foot.

  It hurt, though.

  It hurt me in every sense.

  And it was confusing, too, because just the week before Jenna had come to my house for a playdate and we’d played Uno and baked fresh baguettes with my mom. I didn’t know what had gone wrong, what had changed, why she was doing this, why we weren’t friends anymore.

  It’s not like I could ask, so I sat there reading my comic, not wanting to stand up for myself, not wanting to physically stand up.

  I thought it was the right thing to do, the strong thing. Take it and ignore them. They’d get bored and move on, is what I figured.

  And they did, eventually. But only after every single girl in their group stomped on my foot. No one else bothered to apologize, either. No one made it look like an accident. Each foot stomp seemed to be harder than the one before.

  I guess they all had to secure their positions in the cool-girl club.

  Maybe if I’d said something back then, things would be different now.

  But why should I have had to, when they were the problem?

  13

  Sophie catches up to me by my locker at the end of the day and I’m afraid she’s going to question me about the T-shirt. My lack of T-shirt wearing, I mean, but instead she goes, “What are you doing after school?”

  She seems completely happy and not at all angry. She hasn’t even mentioned the T-shirt since this morning. Could she have not noticed? Or maybe Lola told her about my irrational and out-of-control shyness. Or perhaps she figured it out on her own. In any case, I’m not doing anything after school. Not since I told my dad I didn’t want to go to his music-appreciation class.

  I’d been feeling bad for saying no because I hate being alone in an empty house. I know it’s babyish to be scared, but whenever it’s only me and my cat at home and I hear a creak or a squeak I can’t help but think: Ghost! Intruder! Mouse! Monster! Cockroach!

  I’m not sure which on the list would be the most troublesome, actually, but that’s where my mind always goes.

  Music class isn’t so awful, so I don’t even know why I was so insistent about not going. My dad used to be in a real band when he was younger, and when he performs in front of his class, I think deep down he’s pretending he’s headlining at the Greek Theatre, playing to a sold-out crowd.

  Usually he and my mom focus on the classics—the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, the Doors, and like I said before, a bunch of old Woodstock bands like Crosby, Stills & Nash and Santana. If my mom were around and things were normal I’d join them and help out, brush knots out of the wigs, pass out beaded necklaces and inflatable electric guitars and bongos, tambourines, and maracas, that sort of thing. But today I’m not in the mood.

  Not with the mermaid party looming in the too-near future.

  Not with my mom out of town for who knows how long.

  How I wish she were here as Janis Joplin, right now. I can almost hear her singing in my mind.

  “You okay?” Sophie asks, tilting her head to one side. “Do you already have plans or something?”

  I was planning on walking home alone and doing my homework and then moping around, but that’s not the kind of thing I’d admit to out loud.

  “Yeah,” I say, snapping to attention. “I mean no. Yes, I’m okay, but no, I don’t really have plans after school. How come?”

  “I need a new outfit for my campaign speech on Friday, so I’m going to the mall. Do you want to come?” she asks.

  “Oh, sure,” I say.

  After I figure out which books I need for my homework, we walk out to the parking lot. I stop at the U, where my dad dropped me off this morning and where everyone’s parents come to pick them up at the end of the day.

  “What are you doing?” Sophie asks.

  “Waiting for our ride,” I say. “Your dad is coming to get us, right?”

  Sophie shakes her head. “Nope. He’s got class until seven tonight.”

  “Your dad is in school?” I ask.

  “Well, technically, yes. He’s in a school this afternoon because he teaches architecture. One class, anyway, and it only meets one night a week. The rest of the time he is an architect. I was planning on taking the bus,” Sophie explains as she pulls her hair up into a ponytail.

  This confuses me for a moment. “Wait, you mean the city bus?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says as she twists her hair again and secures it into a bun. “I lo
ve that it’s called the big blue bus here. They’re much nicer than the buses where I used to live.”

  I nod even though I don’t know what the public buses are like here or in Seattle. I didn’t even realize ours is called the big blue bus. I mean, I guess I’d read it on the side of the bus, but it never occurred to me that it would be cool or not. It’s funny what newcomers notice. Things I’ve taken for granted; things that don’t seem like anything. But that’s not even the most surprising thing about what Sophie has said. “So you’re actually allowed to take the public bus by yourself?”

  After I ask the question I’m a little concerned that it makes me come across as babyish. But I can’t hide my shock. Sure, I’ve seen the public bus around town, but I’ve never actually ridden it anywhere. I don’t even know if I know anyone who has been on a public bus before—other than Sophie, I guess. It’s not a typical thing for seventh graders to do, at least around here.

  I don’t admit this to Sophie, but she seems to have figured it out.

  “Yeah, it’s easy. Are you allowed? Do you need to call and ask permission? Because you can borrow my cell phone if you do,” she says, patting the front pocket of her backpack, because I guess that’s where her cell phone is.

  Suddenly I have this aching wish that my mom were around. If she were, I’d call her and tell her what we were going to do and she’d probably duck out of work to pick up Sophie and me and take us to the mall herself.

  There’s no point in calling to ask permission, of course. She’s probably busy taking care of Grandma Joan. She wouldn’t answer at this hour, and if she did, she’d be too distracted to talk about anything real. And as for my dad? I’m not supposed to call him during class time unless there’s an emergency, and this doesn’t count. If I asked permission to take the bus to the mall, he’d be confused as to why I was asking.

  “No, it’s cool,” I say. “And I have a phone, too.”

  “Okay, great,” says Sophie.

  I nod again, agreeing. If Sophie can take the bus, I’m sure I can, too. It’s only a bus. All I have to do is follow her lead. I’m not even that nervous about it because Sophie knows what she’s doing. She seems older, somehow. More sure of herself and what she can do. And being with her makes me feel like I can do those things, too. Like I have permission. So I follow her.

  We walk to a bus stop that’s only two blocks from our school. It feels exciting and a little dangerous, too. This is uncharted territory, but I’m sure I can handle it. Then something occurs to me. “How much does the bus cost?” I ask.

  “It’s one dollar for local rides, and the mall is local,” says Sophie. “I have extra money if you need to borrow some.”

  “No, that’s okay. I still have my change left over from lunch.” I feel around to my backpack to make sure my wallet is in the small front pocket. Rubbing the thick square lump reassures me. “Um, do you need a bus pass or is cash okay?” I wonder.

  “Cash works, and it’s better if you have exact change,” Sophie explains.

  “I think I have a single,” I tell her.

  “Good,” Sophie says. “The bus has one of those dollar-feeder machines.”

  “Cool,” I say, and that’s when I notice the bus approaching from down the street. As it gets closer I feel a little nervous, which is silly. This isn’t a big deal, I tell myself. So stop stressing over nothing.

  When the bus pulls up we climb on board. The first thing that hits me is that it’s way different from a school bus. Larger and with an unfamiliar smell and obviously not filled with Beachwood Middle School kids. It’s filled with grownups.

  While the regular school bus smells like dirty feet and sweat, this bus smells like something else: sweat and something flowery. Not real flowers, though. More like an artificial air freshener that has a picture of a flower bouquet on it, very different from the real thing.

  There are some kids on the bus, but they are older than us, or at least they seem that way. One of them has a Beachwood Raiders shirt on. That’s the high school football team. He’s holding hands with a girl who has a ring in her nose and bright red streaks in her blond hair. They’re sitting in the middle of the bus, which is surprising because on the school bus the cool kids always sit in the back. I’ve noticed that both in teen movies and in real life and I always wonder, Which came first?

  Like, do kids watch teen movies and then learn, this is how the cool kids act? Or have cool kids always acted this way and teen movies simply reflect the reality?

  I’m not sure, but here on this real bus the dynamic is different. The back of the bus is filled with grownups. An older woman sits in the back middle seat. She’s got one of those clear plastic rain caps on her head, even though it’s not raining and hasn’t rained in months.

  I hand over my cash to the bus driver, but she tells me to put it in the machine. Oh yeah, I totally should’ve remembered that. I feed it in, faceup, like when you’re at the arcade and trying to get quarters for games. Except once the machine sucks up your money nothing comes out except a piece of paper.

  “That’s a transfer ticket,” says Sophie, turning around. “Except we don’t need it, so you can leave it there.”

  “Okay,” I say, following Sophie past the driver and down the aisle. We take a seat near the middle. She’s at the window and I’m on the aisle. I spread my legs out and wedge my backpack between them.

  We are cruising down Maple Street. I’ve taken this route before, but always in a car, and it feels different on the bus. We’re higher up, so we can look down into the windows of the cars we pass and the ones that pass us. I know where the mall is, but I’m worried about missing the stop. Like, what if the driver forgets to pull over and instead she veers off course into unknown territory? Like, what if we end up on the freeway, barreling toward towns I’ve never even heard of? How would I ever find my way back home? Sophie must’ve taken this trip before, but what if she hasn’t? Maybe she’s relying on me because I’m the one who has lived in Beachwood all my life.

  I want to ask her, but I’m too embarrassed to admit that I don’t know my way around town, so I keep my mouth shut.

  And luckily ten minutes later the bus actually pulls right up to the mall, at the Nordstrom’s entrance. There’s a whole bus shelter there that I had never noticed. We hop off the bus. Sophie thanks the driver and then I feel bad for forgetting to do that, so I yell, “Thanks,” too. But then I feel silly because it’s obviously an afterthought and in fact the doors are already shut.

  As we walk into the mall I’m feeling old and grownup. Sophisticated. I made it to the mall by myself. Maybe it’s not a big deal, is what I’m thinking. But deep down I know that it is. Or at least it feels pretty big.

  “So, what do you want to wear?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure,” says Sophie. “Do you think the other candidates will dress up?”

  I consider who else is running: Jenna Johnson, Mason Daniels, Gigi McGuire, Jason Hobie, and James McGough.

  In other words, the cool kids. Would they bother dressing up?

  “It’s hard to say. Jenna is a little fancier than everyone else, anyway. Like she almost always wears dresses or skirts. And someone told me she gets her nails done at an actual salon every single Saturday.”

  “Wow, that’s kind of crazy,” Sophie marvels.

  “Yeah, totally,” I say with a nod. “Gigi will probably make more of an effort than usual. Of course, she wears makeup every day anyway. But as for the guys? I don’t even know if I’ve ever seen them in anything other than shorts.”

  “Really?”

  I smile. “When we were in second grade, James always used to wear an opal ring on his thumb. At least until this older boy noticed and started making fun of him. After that afternoon on the playground, James never wore it again.”

  “That’s so sad,” says Sophie.

  I shrug. “I know. Kids are mean. Or at least, they can be.”

  “Well, I’m sure the right thing will come to me when I see it
. I think I should wear something in my campaign colors, so keep your eyes out for something cute in red or blue or gold or silver,” says Sophie. “I’m looking for something sophisticated that makes me look smart, but cool and not too trendy. I can’t look like I’m trying too hard. Like, I think a power suit would be too much. Don’t you think?”

  “Um, what’s a power suit?” I ask.

  “It’s like a suit, but for women. You know how lawyers and bankers and business guys on TV always wear navy blue or gray or black suits? And then women do as well, except sometimes they wear skirts on the bottom instead of pants?”

  “Yeah, sure. But I thought those were regular suits. Where does the power come from?”

  “Good question. I have no idea. I guess you feel powerful wearing them because they mean serious business,” Sophie says.

  I nod. “Of course, that makes sense. You do want to feel powerful.”

  We walk through the heavy glass double doors into Nordstrom’s and take the escalator upstairs to the juniors department. Classical music is playing.

  As soon as we get to the right floor, we’re walking through a forest of mannequins dressed in all sorts of clothes: dresses with slits up the sides, pencil skirts, leggings, harem pants, T-shirts, sweatshirts, and blouses. There are also tables with piles of T-shirts featuring cupcakes and unicorns and sparkles and rainbows.

  The juniors department is weird because it seems like it’s caught between the kids section and the adult section and it can’t make up its mind about what it wants to be. For example, Sophie and I are too old for a plaid jumper with tights displayed on our left. Except we are too young for the scoop-neck T-shirt right in front of us that looks like it was shredded with a razor blade. If you wore it, your bra would totally show, and that seems weird and wrong. I only just started wearing a bra last year. No way do I want to show it off to the whole world. Or at least everyone at school, which is essentially my whole world.

  This is what I’m thinking as I follow Sophie through the jeans section. We pass by skinny jeans and super-baggy jeans and capris and pairs that are tight on the top and flared at the bottom. Some of the jeans are so long they look as if they were designed to cover your shoes and drag on the ground. It’s confusing. One year everyone is wearing a new style of jeans and then everything changes and I wonder, Are you still allowed to wear the old kind? Suddenly you’re thrown out of fashion, but you haven’t done anything different. Who decides when that changes?