by C. C. Payne
Kids smiled at each other and at Mrs. Pritchett. Field trips made everybody happy, everybody except me.
As Mrs. Pritchett handed out forms for our parents to sign, she said, “I’d like for all of you to choose a bus buddy. That’s the person you’ll sit with on the bus.”
Kids paired off silently, either by exchanging looks and nods, pointing at one another, or urgently mouthing the words “You and me! You and me!”
I did none of these things. Instead, I stared into my lap, knowing that I’d end up being bus buddies with either Mrs. Pritchett or Alan West, both of whom I considered tuna when I really needed PB&J.
Sure enough, when asked, Alan said, “Lula Bell Bonner” and smiled at me.
I didn’t smile back. Instead, I closed my eyes and thought, Hopeless.
Somehow I made it through the day at school. It wasn’t easy. It was like trying to run in water that’s waist high, but still, I kept putting one foot in front of the other and pushing. Since I’d made it that far, I kept right on pushing. After school, I headed for the gym to audition for the fifth grade talent show that would take place on the last day of school.
As soon as I walked into the gym, I saw Kali Keele and her friends off near the bleachers, practicing dance moves. They saw me, too, and exchanged looks and giggles. I realized then that all the kids in the gym sat or stood in little groups. Everyone had at least one friend with them. No one had come alone. Except for me.
I started to wring my hands and fidget, but I caught myself. Stop it! Don’t be weird! I told myself. Act like the others! Of course, I had to look at the others a little more closely in order to know how to act like them. They all looked casual…and confident, I decided.
There was a long table set up near the stage, and when I walked over, thinking casual and confident, casual and confident over and over in my head, I found sign-up sheets and pens scattered on the table. Determined, I picked up a pen just as I overheard Kali say my name.
I turned around in time to see Kali demonstrating this strange sort of walk for her friends. Her back was straight but too stiff, and her arms didn’t swing, didn’t move at all. And even though Kali held her head high, her eyes cast around suspiciously and her mouth sort of grimaced.
When she finished her weird walk, Kali doubled over laughing. Her friends howled with laughter, too—all of them except for Emilou Meriweather, who’d been my friend last year. When Emilou saw me watching, she lowered her head, and her cheeks turned bright pink.
That’s when I knew Kali was imitating me, the way I’d walked over to the table, trying to look casual and confident.
I felt my own cheeks heat up as I tried to swallow the lump in my throat but couldn’t. Then I panicked, my thoughts spiraling out of control: I don’t want to be here. Nobody here likes me. Nobody wants to hear me sing. I don’t want to sing. I can’t do it. I can’t play and I can’t sing. Not for them. Even if I could, Kali and her friends would probably laugh me off the stage. After that, they’ll just have another reason to make fun of me, another little tidbit they can use to torment and humiliate me. I could just imagine Kali singing “Under the Boardwalk” on the bus. Every day. I could already hear the laughter that would follow. Every day. These images and sounds swirled in my brain until they became a single thought, a single word: GO!
My toes were already going wild inside my shoes and my feet were itching to run, but then I remembered what Alan had said about omega wolves and made myself stay put. I took a deep breath, laid the pen back down on the table as calmly as I could, considering my hand was trembling, and walked toward the door at what I hoped was a normal pace. But I didn’t quite make it. (Here’s a little tip for you: wiggling your toes while walking affects your balance. Apparently.)
When I was almost to the door, I stumbled and fell. Everybody laughed. Everybody, not just Kali and her crew. I forgot about wolves then, scrambled to my feet and out the door, the sound of laughter fading with every step, pushing me on, despite my throbbing knee.
Outside, I watched my bus pull away and turn onto the street—without me. Naturally. I thought about going back inside to call Mama from the office, but how could I? No, the fresh air tasted like freedom, and the sunshine felt warm and safe. So I started walking.
As I walked, the whole gym scene replayed over and over in my mind. At first, I was mad at myself for trying so hard to look casual and confident, for being so fidgety, for having such squirmy toes, and especially for falling. But that just made me feel worse. So then I tried being mad at Kali. I heard her say my name, saw her doing her weird walk, saw her doubled over laughing. I saw Kali’s friends laughing—I could still hear them, too—and I saw Emilou Meriweather lower her head in shame. It was easier, and much more satisfying, to be mad at Kali.
For the millionth time, I wondered why I’d ever been friends with her. See, in third grade, Kali Keele and I were BFFs—best friends forever—for two entire months. During those months, we’d been inseparable at school, and we’d spent time together outside of school, too—at my house. But the more time Kali spent with me, the less she seemed to like me, until finally, I guess she decided that she flatout hated me—and everyone related to me.
The last time Kali had been at my house had been on a Thursday. So Kali had been there with Grandma Bernice and me when we did all of our usual Thursday things. I remember feeling proud, because Kali really seemed to enjoy it all. She laughed right along with Grandma Bernice and me as we decided how we’d like to die that week and who was going to be really sorry. But after that, things sort of went downhill.
Grandma Bernice and her quilting bee had just finished making my quilt the week before, so the next thing I did, after our usual Thursday stuff, was show Kali the new quilt on my bed.
“That’s really pretty,” Kali said when I took her upstairs.
“Yeah, and I helped make it,” I bragged, even though I knew I was stretching the truth. The truth was that even though I’d gone to church and sat with Grandma Bernice and the other ladies in her quilting bee, no one ever let me so much as touch a needle. Mostly, they just let me help hold the quilt. So, basically, I’d been a holder. But when you’re only eight years old, “holder” is the same as “helper.”
“You’re lying,” Kali said. “You didn’t help make that.”
“I did too!” I said, hugely insulted.
“I’m going to ask your grandma,” Kali threatened.
“Go ahead,” I said.
Kali turned on her heel and headed for the stairs as I hurried after her.
“Grandma Bernice, Lula Bell says she helped make the quilt on her bed,” Kali tattled.
“She sure did,” Grandma said, smiling at Kali and giving me a quick wink as she ironed sheets in the living room.
Kali clapped her hands together, happy and excited all of a sudden. “I want to make a quilt, too! Can we do it now?”
Grandma’s smile wilted just a little, like she was looking ahead and spotting some flashing signs: WARNING! DANGER ZONE! “Oh…well…not now…but maybe some other time,” she tried.
Kali’s face flushed. “That’s not fair,” she mumbled.
Grandma pretended not to have heard and continued ironing.
Kali stomped an angry foot at Grandma. “That’s not fair!” she said again, louder. “It’s not fair that she gets to make a quilt and I don’t!”
The pleasant little smile dropped right off Grandma’s face as she set the iron down on the ironing board. “Well now…it wouldn’t be fair if Lula Bell was quilting while you were here and you weren’t allowed to quilt right along with her. But nobody here is quilting.”
“But it’s not fair that she has a quilt and I don’t!” Kali said in a shrieky voice.
Grandma’s forehead bunched up like she was trying to think what to say. Finally, she came up with, “Don’t you have some things at your house that Lula Bell doesn’t have?”
For a minute, Kali just glared at Grandma. Then suddenly she said, sort of und
er her breath but loud enough for Grandma Bernice to hear, “I hate you.”
Grandma’s nostrils flared just a teensy little bit. “Do you even know what that word means?” she asked.
Kali lifted her chin, narrowed her eyes, and screamed, “Yes, and I HATE YOU, GRANDMA BERNICE!”
Grandma Bernice gasped. Then, she came thundering out from behind that ironing board like an angry bull let loose at the rodeo.
But Kali held her ground. She didn’t move an inch. Not one inch.
When Grandma Bernice was standing right in front of Kali, she bent down, looked her in the eye, and quietly said, “We don’t use the word ‘hate’ in this house. ‘Hate’ is a terrible word.”
Kali just stared defiantly at Grandma, her face such a deep red that there were traces of purple.
“And anyway, you don’t mean that,” Grandma said.
“Yes, I do! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” Kali insisted with such fury that her body rocked back and forth with the words.
Grandma rose to every centimeter of her full height, stretching her back and neck upward and lifting her head high. Then, she looked down her nose at Kali and said, “I forgive you for saying that.”
Kali didn’t say a word.
Grandma continued, “But even so, you won’t be setting foot inside this house again ’til you apologize.”
Kali turned and headed for the front door, grumbling through clenched teeth, “I hate you. I hate your whole family!” Then she yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind her. The whole house shook.
Grandma’s shoulders sagged. “Well now, she’s certainly…colorful. I’d better go call her mama.”
I still hadn’t moved a muscle when Grandma came back from the kitchen.
“Lula Bell, you all right?” Grandma asked, checking my forehead for fever with the palm of her hand.
I blinked at her. “Um, did you say you forgive her?” I asked then, because out of everything that had just happened, that was the part I found hardest to believe.
I couldn’t understand it, and honestly, I was a little disappointed. I’d wanted Grandma Bernice to take a stand, to roar at Kali like a lion, and instead it seemed like she’d been a lamb, like she’d been weak when she should’ve been strong. I just couldn’t believe it!
Grandma shook her head and said, “Honey, I feel sorry for her—I think somebody gave her the bears.”
“Huh?” I said.
Grandma smiled as she dropped into her lazy-girl chair. “When you were about four years old, I took you grocery shopping with me. You wanted these little yogurt bears you’d seen on TV.”
“Oh yeah, Yoge-Bears,” I said, settling on the arm of the couch. “I remember those commercials.”
Grandma nodded. “Well, those little plastic bears filled with yogurt were expensive so I refused to buy ’em. But I offered to buy you the exact same kind of yogurt in a regular cup.”
“So I got the regular yogurt?”
“No, you flung yourself onto the dirty floor face down, flailing, crying, and kicking, right there in the refrigerated section.”
“Oh my gosh! I’m sorry, Grandma.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. It’s okay now, and it was okay then. I knelt down, patted you on the back while you cried, and just waited for you to wear yourself out. Then we went home.”
“That must’ve been embarrassing. I’m sorry,” I said again. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“You only did it once,” Grandma said, “because somebody took the time to teach you that throwing a hissy fit wouldn’t get you what you wanted in life—everybody has to learn that at some point.” Grandma stared at me like she was waiting for me to connect the dots.
It hit me like a bolt of lightning. “Oh,” I said, looking at Grandma with wide eyes.
Slowly, Grandma nodded her head, and at the same time, we both said, “Somebody gave Kali the bears.”
At school the next day, the day after Kali screamed at Grandma, Kali broadcasted to everyone at our lunch table what Thursdays were like at my house. It was the way Kali told it that made Grandma Bernice and me sound like freaks—like we wanted to die, like we couldn’t wait to die, like we lived for death. Suddenly, my favorite thing about Thursdays—the obituary game—no longer seemed funny.
The day after that, on the way to school, Kali started making fun of me on the bus. By the end of the day, it seemed like everybody was talking about me, pointing at me, and laughing at me. Even kids who didn’t know me. The more kids laughed at me, the more Kali tried to make them laugh at me—louder and longer, always wanting more—so of course, she began making fun of me on the bus on the way home, too. Within a week, everybody at school seemed to agree that I was a total freak—even my friends.
It’s not like I never had friends. I had a few until Kali started picking on me all the time. But after that, everybody sort of kept their distance. Kids pretended not to hear me or see me. Nobody looked me in the eye anymore. All of a sudden, my former friends seemed very…busy.
Why? I don’t know for sure—nobody’s ever explained. Maybe my friends believed the things Kali said about me, or maybe they just liked Kali better. Whatever the reason, after a while, I just stopped trying. Trying felt too pathetic, like chasing after a bus you know you’ll never catch. So I learned to move around the other kids instead of with them, like the moon orbiting the earth. I was part of their world but not really—not most of the time, anyway.
In fourth grade, when Emilou Meriweather’s best friend had moved away near the end of the school year, we’d started a friendship—I thought. We waited for each other during our bathroom break, ate lunch together, and sat together under the big sugar maple during recess. But Kali hadn’t been in our class last year. This year, when Emilou found herself in the same class with both Kali and me…well, what I saw most often was Emilou’s back as she hurried away from me.
A few of the other freaks and geeks tried to reel me in: Fred Farber once sat beside me at lunch, but he smelled so bad that my eyes watered the whole time, and I tried to discourage him from doing it again. Another time, Gretchen Wells talked to me all through recess, but her voice was so high and so nasal that after a while, it gave me a headache. And then there was Alan West.
The truth is I didn’t want to be one of them; I wanted to be one of the regular kids with regular friends. I was a regular kid with a regular voice, and I didn’t stink at all! (Here’s a little tip for you: if you are a borderline freak or geek and you start hanging around with the other freaks and geeks, I’m pretty sure that you aren’t borderline anymore. I’m pretty sure that your freakdom—or geekdom—has been confirmed.)
Well, anyway, Kali never talked to me again after that day in third grade. Oh sure, she talked at me and about me plenty, but she didn’t really talk to me, if you know what I mean.
Walking home, I tried to convince myself that school would be out for the summer soon and none of this would matter one bit—not Kali making fun of me, not the kids laughing, not the talent show. Only, I couldn’t quite believe it.
Think of something else, I told myself as I looked around, searching for some kind of distraction. The hot-pink azaleas caught my eye, then the pansies standing in little groups, holding their faces up to the sun. But then I thought, Even the pansies have friends.
As I turned onto my street, the wind kicked up, and cherry blossoms floated around me like little pink feathers. I hadn’t even noticed that the cherry trees lining both sides of my street had bloomed. And the blossoms were almost gone now. People come from miles around to drive down Cherry Tree Lane when it’s in bloom, and I lived right here, walked by these trees every day, and somehow didn’t even see them.
As I continued to look around, it seemed like everything had changed overnight: shades of brown and gray had given way to bright greens and reds and pinks and purples and yellows. The rocky, cold scent of winter had been replaced by a smell that was clean and sweet. Life hummed softly all around me—insects
and birds and squirrels—where before there had been silence. This almost made me feel better, hopeful-like.
But then I saw my house, remembered that Mama would be there waiting, and knew that as soon as I walked in the door, she’d want to hear all about my audition. This thought was like a swift kick in the stomach. So then my stomach—and my knee—hurt. Ugh!
What a Mess!
I was relieved to find Mama on the phone when I walked into the kitchen, because that meant she couldn’t ask me any questions—at least not right now. When she saw me, she held up her finger, as in, One minute. Please wait.
I nodded, noticing that our kitchen was a total wreck. There were three bags of groceries on the counter by the back door, waiting to be unpacked. In the kitchen sink, our breakfast dishes waited to be washed. On the other side of the sink was a cutting board, where potatoes waited to be cut. Near the stove sat a package of hamburger that had been defrosted in the microwave—I knew that because the edges had cooked and turned brown while defrosting—Mama hates that. On the other side of the stove, near the phone, the counter was loaded with stacks of bills and papers, Mama’s checkbook, and stamps. On the table was a half-full laundry basket next to a folded stack of clean clothes. Next to the table stood the ironing board, with the iron sitting on top of it, sizzling and spitting.
I looked at Mama. She didn’t look much better than our kitchen. She still had silver hair clips attached to her shirt, which was half tucked in and half hanging out. There were three pencils sticking out of her wild, messy hair—and Mama’s hair was never messy. She looked tired, I decided—not mad-tired but tired-tired.
I felt tired, too. I slipped out of my backpack and let it fall to the floor.
Mama turned at the sound, still holding the phone to her ear. Creases appeared between her eyebrows as she looked from my backpack to me and back to my backpack again.
I couldn’t believe that Mama thought my backpack was the problem here. It was as if she’d pointed out a single piece of trash as the problem at the city dump. How did our kitchen get like this? I wondered.
