by Denise Vega
And I could never get to my own stuff because people were always asking me for help.
“We can do it,” I said to Tyler, knowing that no matter how long I stayed here, I’d still have to work at home tonight and tomorrow night to get it all finished.
The night of the grand performance of A Harvest to Remember, I was desperate for it to be over so I could copy the last of my files to the MBMS Intranet. I had been up until almost midnight the night before, adding the last of the faculty interviews and editing the web logs. With the disc safely tucked inside my backpack, I was ready to upload it to the server. I had trouble concentrating on the play and I thought I might spontaneously start boiling in my costume, melting into Erin soup before I could escape. But I stayed alert, breathing a sigh of relief after I said “I can’t heeaarr you” with my hand cupped to my ear. Now it was smooth sailing. I just had a few more songs to sing with the Vegetable Medley.
When the play was over, my parents hugged and congratulated me. Chris made corn jokes but said he liked it.
“Even Worthington was pretty good.”
“Yeah. She was.” It was true. She might be a snot, but she was a good actress. Almost as good as Jilly.
“Jilly was great,” he added, as if reading my mind. I kept quiet. Only Mom knew about our fight, but she hadn’t said anything since I’d had to explain my red and puffy eyes the morning after the BFB.
“Did you see Amanda?” I asked quietly. She had shown up with that same boy she was kissing outside the library.
Chris shrugged. “Old news.”
I scanned the gym for Jilly and her parents but couldn’t see them with everyone milling around. They were probably backstage taking pictures of the Star. She hadn’t made eye contact with me once during the play, which she’d done all through rehearsals. But I couldn’t worry about that now. After the cast party I had to upload my files and make some final adjustments. I had an Intranet to launch tomorrow.
As my family continued to talk about the play, I saw a pair of arms waving frantically across the gym. Tyler.
“Everything is basically ready,” Tyler said, out of breath as he hustled over. “We need your disc.”
I turned to my mom. “My backpack’s in my locker. I’ll meet you guys back in the drama room for the party.”
“I can get it,” Tyler said. “Go to the party.” I shook my head, which meant shaking the entire cob. I wasn’t about to give him my locker combination. I liked the poem, but who knew what other strange declaration of love he might put in there? Besides, I had to change anyway.
“I’ll get it,” I said. “It won’t take long.” We left the gymnasium and headed down the hall, Tyler several strides ahead of me. I made him turn his back while I dialed my combination, then pulled out my backpack. I reached in the front pocket and shoved the disc at Tyler. “I’ll come by after the party to make sure everything’s okay.”
“Okay. I’ll walk back partway with you.” As we shuffled back toward the drama room, I heard someone running behind us. Wham! I fell forward, my right arm pinned beneath me. Pain shot through my forearm and I cried out, feeling a little lightheaded.
“Watch where you’re going, Corn dog.” Serena’s voice seemed far away.
“You’re the one who bumped into her.” Tyler’s voice seemed equally far.
I tried to move but I was twisted inside my costume, my arm still pinned, the eyeholes now on the side of my head. “Corn dog?” Serena said. And then, “Erin?”
“My arm,” I said. “It really hurts.”
I could feel someone kneeling beside me.
“It might be broken,” Tyler said.
“Oh, God,” Serena said. The next thing I heard was footsteps running, running away until I couldn’t hear anything except my hot breath inside my costume.
“It looks like she has a slight fracture,” the doctor said as she stepped into the room, holding an X-ray. My parents stood by the examination table, and Chris sat in a chair flipping through Sports Illustrated. My brother was obviously deeply concerned about my injury.
“Great.” I looked down at my throbbing arm. “Serena just barreled right into me,” I told my parents. “Then she told me to watch where I was going.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Mom said, “she felt really bad about it. She called us here to check on you.”
“It doesn’t make me feel better,” I said. “She’s probably worried I’m going to sue her. She’s trying to butter us up.”
“Now, Erin.”
I glanced at her. “Did anyone else call?”
Mom shook her head. “No, honey. I’m afraid not.” She knew I meant Jilly.
I sighed and looked at the doctor. “Do I have to have a cast?” “Yes, you do, young lady,” the doctor said. “It’ll be on for a few weeks.” She turned to my parents. “You should keep her home tomorrow. It will probably still be painful and she should rest.”
“I can’t rest,” I said. “I have an Intranet to launch.”
“It’ll have to launch without you,” said the doctor. “You need to stay home.”
I looked to my parents for help, but they had turned into the Not Understanding Parents again. Funny, but this time I wanted to go to school.
“Sorry, Erin,” my dad said. “We know this was important to you.” “No, you don’t,” I practically shouted, then cringed as a sharp pain shot up my arm. “You have no idea how hard I worked on this. I’m the leader. I know the most of anybody. I designed the whole layout. It’s my Intranet.” I knew I sounded like a baby, but they couldn’t possibly understand how much it meant for me to be there. This was something I’d signed up for and done all by myself. Without Jilly. It was all mine. And now this doctor and my parents were going to take it away from me.
“I’m going to school tomorrow,” I said through clenched teeth. “It’s the last day before the Thanksgiving break. It’s launch day.”
The doctor exchanged a look with my parents. “Let’s get that cast on.”
I woke up the next morning with my arm still throbbing. For a drowsy moment I forgot what had happened and almost whacked myself in the head with my cast when I raised my arm. I shook my head as I caught sight of the alien Chris had drawn on the yellow gauze-like plaster. Its big black eyes stared back at me. “The Intranet was my thing,” I told the alien. “Most of the ideas were mine and Mark’s. I was supposed to be there to click PUBLISH.”
The alien didn’t say a word. I rolled my eyes at it and sat up in bed.
“You’re finally awake.” Mom came in carrying a glass of water and a pill. “I turned off all the ringers on the phones so they wouldn’t disturb you and I wouldn’t be tempted to answer and get distracted.”
“You turned off my alarm.” I looked at her accusingly as I took the pill and glass from her. I glanced at the clock. 11:00 A.M. They’d clicked PUBLISH at 9:00 A.M. The whole school had probably accessed a computer and seen all my hard work. And I wasn’t there.
“Actually it went off and you slept through it. Thank goodness. I should have checked it last night.” She brushed my hair off my forehead. “How’s your arm?”
“Still hurts,” I admitted. “Did you check messages?” I wondered if anyone had called to tell me about the launch. Rosie would have. And Tyler. Maybe even Mark. Not Jilly, of course. She could care less, I’m sure.
Mom shook her head. “I’ll bring the phone in and you can check them yourself.”
I nodded.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” She crossed over to my dresser and pulled a jewel case off the top. “I found this in a stack of books next to the computer this morning.” She smiled as she held it out. “I don’t think they can publish to your Intranet without this.”
I took the case from her. Erin’s stuff, I had printed neatly across the case. PRIVATE.
“I bet they postponed the entire thing, honey. Don’t you feel better now?”
“Thanks, Mom, but this is —” I stopped. Something on the disc, which I c
ould see through the smoked plastic cover, caught my eye. I grasped the edges of the case, my fingers trembling. Slowly, I lifted the lid.
MBMS Intranet was written clearly across the silver surface of the disc.
My heart stopped beating. I had put the discs in the wrong cases. I had given Tyler the wrong disc to upload to the server.
My personal, private, no-one-will-see-but-me web page had been published for the entire MBMS population.
chapter 22
OMIK (Open Mouth, Insert Keyboard)
OH. MY. GOD.
I spent the next half hour hyperventilating. I kept closing my eyes and opening them again, each time hoping the disc in my hands would say Erin’s Stuff — PRIVATE. I must have done this twenty times before the reality sunk in. This meant that Mark Sacks, the Cutest Boy in the Universe, had read in my private blog that I thought he was the cutest boy in the universe. That I wanted to kiss him, or maybe even his feet. And I’d called him a hot tamale. He knew everything about me. He must think I’m the stupidest girl in the world.
And I wrote about PILLOW KISSING.
OH. MY. GOD.
Wait a minute. Someone must have caught the mistake. They wouldn’t just publish it without checking my content. Or maybe they had decided to wait for me. My heart slowed down. Of course. I was getting freaked out for nothing. They were waiting for me or if not, the teachers checked. Everything would be all right. Right?
Wrong. Dead wrong. Twenty minutes later my hands stopped shaking long enough for me to check voice mail. There were fifty-seven messages. Fifty-seven. Fifty-seven people calling after my private thoughts were broadcast all over the school. Fifty-seven people I hadn’t known were calling because Mom had turned all the ringers off. I guess I was glad I found out about the disc switch before I checked our messages.
“To listen to your messages, press one.” The voice startled me. My finger hesitated over the 1, then I closed my eyes and pressed.
“This is Tyler. Or, as you like to call me, Geeky-Nerdy Tyler. I just want you to know that you’re really mean and I can’t believe I actually thought you were my friend.” Click.
“To delete this message, press six. To save it, press eight.” I pressed 8. From Serena: “You are the most hateful person in the entire universe. Everyone is asking me if they can come to the S.W. Hate-o-Rama. Guess what? I’m developing an Erin Swift Hate-o-Rama that’s going to be on the INTERNET, not just a stupid school Intranet. So the whole world will know what a horrible person you are.” Click. I pressed 8 again.
“Erin? This is Carla. Gosh, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I’m surprised by some of the things you said. But I feel bad for you, too. Um, I guess that’s all.” Click.
From Tyler again: “I can’t believe you typed that poem for the entire school to see. You are cruel and heartless. I feel very sorry for the person who wrote it, which by the way was NOT me, but I feel sorry for me, too, because since your stupid website says I wrote it, everyone thinks I did and is making fun of me. Thanks a lot.”
From Tyler a third time: “And even if I did write that poem and did NOT copy it but wrote it from scratch with NO help from anyone, don’t think any word of it was true. It was opposite day when I wrote it. So what it really says is ‘If you ever sped up fast enough to smell what is right behind you, you might be unsurprised to find out that foul stench is you.’” Click.
Tyler’s last call was brief: “And it’s signed, Your Enemy.”
Foul stench? How many twelve-year-olds knew those words? It was one of my favorite phrases. Ever since I’d heard it during the first Star Wars which was really the fourth, when Princess Leia says to Governor Tarkin on the Death Star, “I recognized your foul stench when I was brought onboard.”
Foul stench. I had loved it until someone used it against me. Tyler’s new version of his poem really hurt. It was so mean. Really mean. I knew the stuff I’d said had hurt him, but didn’t he realize it wasn’t meant for everyone to see? Didn’t anyone realize that? And didn’t he see that I’d said he had nice eyes? What about that?
And I said that Serena was right about Mark liking Jilly. Didn’t she read that part? True, I had an entire page devoted to the S.W. Hate-o-Rama and only one line on another page about her being right, but still. Why does everyone dwell on the negative?
I sank deeper under my covers as I listened. There were messages from people I didn’t even know. Some saying I was right about Serena, others saying I was the mean one. And still others keyed in on specific things I’d written.
“Am I a hot tamale?” one caller asked before laughing and hanging up.
“I might kiss you for six Mississippis … if you gave me a million dollars!” Click.
I was amazed at people’s brutal honesty. Didn’t they think about the possibility that my parents might pick up the messages first? Obviously not, because they all were letting loose with their own feelings.
“Right on about Serena. What a b----.”
“Jilly may be a little bossy but she’s nice, too. I can’t believe you’d say things about your best friend like that. My best friend, Caroline Crouse, has BO and sometimes really bad breath but you don’t see me broadcasting it all over the school.” No, just to my voice mail, I thought.
“Serena is not mean to everyone, you know.” Obviously from a Serena groupie.
One message was particularly surprising.
“Um, Erin? You don’t know me but I’m on your track and in one of your classes and um, well, Ikissmypillowtoo.” Click. She said the last part so fast I had to replay it to make sure I got it right. Someone else out there kissed her pillow. I found that comforting.
Several people called to tell me they had clicked YES, that they agreed with my predictions about Mark and Jilly. One boy even added a third option, “I clicked WHO CARES? because you girls are always crying about which boy doesn’t like you and it’s really stupid. Why do you care so much? You’re pathetic.” Obviously a boy whom NONE of the girls liked. A bitter boy.
I listened to message after hateful message, imagining each person in my mind as they spoke (except for the ones I didn’t know who appeared in my mind as faceless people with big hair). Then I listened to them again. And again. It was my penance for spilling my guts. It turned out that the fifty-seven messages weren’t from fifty-seven different people. Some had called more than once. Tyler had called four times. Serena six. I kept track in a notebook by my bed. The worst one had been from Jilly.
“You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted everyone to know how you felt about me. Well, you know what? I hate you, too.” There was a pause, and I heard something like someone sucking in their breath and sniffling. “But who cares? That stuff you wrote makes you look way more stupid than I do.” Click.
But there were a few rays of light in my dark, dark cave of despair. Like the pillow-kissing girl. And Ms. Moreno.
“There was a mix-up, Erin,” she said. “After Tyler uploaded your files, I thought Mr. Arnett was checking them and he thought I was and then we had a number of problems come up that needed everyone’s attention.” She sighed heavily on the other end of the phone. “I suggested we wait to launch until after Thanksgiving so you could be here, too, but everyone was so ready to go. We tried to call you but no one picked up.” Another pause. “I’m really sorry, Erin.”
The other shining message was from Rosie: “Don’t worry. It’ll work out. I’ll be over after school.” I saved that one, too. But I kept going back to the others, replaying them over and over until Mom came back.
“What are you doing?” She rushed across my bedroom and pried the phone away from my ear. I was like a robot, pressing 3 to replay the message, 8 to save, # to skip to the next message. Even when the phone was out of my hand, my fingers kept moving to press the buttons.
“Oh, Erin.”
I glanced up. The phone was pressed against her ear and Mom had tears in her eyes. I wondered vaguely which message she was listening to. She set the phone dow
n and rubbed her temples. “Did you listen to all of them?”
I shrugged. Then I told her everything. About Mark, about Jilly, about Rosie, about Mark and Jilly, about Mark and Rosie, about Tyler and Serena (separately, not like they were a couple). She said, “Oh, Erin” about fifty-seven times and I couldn’t tell if it was an I-can’t-believe-you-would-write-such-things “Oh, Erin” or an I-really-feel-for-you “Oh, Erin.”
“I’m Harriet in Harriet the Spy,” I wailed as Mom sat down on the end of my bed. In that book, Harriet had written nasty things about some of the kids she knew, including her two best friends. And they found her notebook and read all these horrible things about themselves. And then they hated her and wouldn’t talk to her.
“No, you’re not,” Mom said. We had read the book together when I was in fourth grade, then again in fifth. She loved it as much as I did. “First of all, you didn’t spy on anyone. Second, Harriet doesn’t tell her mom why she feels bad. Third, she goes and talks to the nice man with all the games —”
“The therapist,” I interrupted.
Mom looked startled. “Well, yes. That’s what he was. I didn’t think you knew that.”
“Carla’s mom is in therapy,” I said. When Mom looked puzzled I added, “She’s my locker partner and was the peas in the Vegetable Medley.”
Mom nodded. “Fourth, they finally found out Harriet was missing Ole Golly.” Reaching out, she squeezed my shoulder and attempted a smile. “You told us everything so you won’t have to go to therapy and we don’t have a housekeeper. So you see? You’re not Harriet at all.”
I looked up at her, then down at my cast. “I have to transfer to a different school.”
“Harriet went back to school,” Mom said. “Remember? And all of her friends forgave her in the end.”
