One Tough Chick

by Leslie Margolis

  At least I thought that’s what they were thinking until suddenly Rachel and Emma jumped up and Rachel actually apologized. “Oh, sorry. We’re totally done so we’ll get out of your way.”

  “We didn’t know this was your space,” Emma added as she scrambled to pack up our picnic, putting all the trash in a trash bag and folding up our blanket.

  The two of them moved fast, like happy little soldiers, good little girls.

  The whole scene annoyed me. We were having fun, and our fun wasn’t over yet. So where were we supposed to hang out?

  And why did we have to leave? These boys didn’t own the soccer field. Our picnic spot wasn’t even an official soccer field, merely a large spot of open grass. In fact, it looked just like the large spot of open grass on the other side of the lake, which got me thinking …

  Before I even realized what I was doing, I heard myself ask, “Do you guys really have to play here? Like right here in this exact spot?”

  My friends froze, surprised. All the boys seemed shocked, too.

  “We always play here on Saturday afternoons,” said the one with the buzz cut. He spoke carefully, as if he were speaking to someone unfamiliar with the English language. “Ask anyone.”

  The only people around here were Emma and Rachel and me, plus all the guys, and obviously I already knew what they thought.

  He might have been right. Maybe they did always play soccer in this spot on Saturday afternoons, but we got here first.

  I couldn’t help but think that if we were older, or if we were boys, they never would’ve asked us to leave. Something about being a bunch of young girls made them think they could push us around.

  “Why can’t you play over there?” I asked, pointing to the other side of the lake. “It’s totally empty. And I think they just cut the grass, which means the surface will be better for soccer, right?”

  He started to protest, but his chubby friend interrupted. “The girl’s got a point.”

  “Okay, dude. Whatever.” The buzz-cut boy threw the ball and a bunch of his friends went after it, like dogs chasing after a really great chew toy.

  “You kids have fun,” he called before taking off after them in a slow, lumbering jog.

  The guy who’d stood up for me—the chubby one—had long hair and a diamond stud in his ear. “I’m impressed. You’re one tough chick,” he said, winking at me before running after his friends.

  As soon as he was out of earshot my friends collapsed in giggles. “Go, Annabelle!” Rachel said.

  Emma put out her hand for a high five. “I cannot believe you stood up to those guys.”

  “What?” I asked. “Just because they’re older and they’re boys, we’re supposed to end our picnic early?”

  “Obviously they didn’t know whom they were dealing with,” said Rachel.

  “Hey, that’s your talent,” said Emma.

  “So true.” She and Rachel fist-bumped.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Your talent is boy training,” said Rachel. “The way you handled yourself with those guys? How you talked to them like they were anyone? It was masterful.”

  I blushed. I couldn’t help myself. My friends were kind of right.

  When I first started at Birchwood Middle School back in September I used to get picked on by lots of boys. Then I got my dog, Pepper. I read this puppy-training manual and trained my dog and discovered something cool. Dog training and people training have a lot in common.

  I applied the dog-training lessons to the difficult boys in my life, and they worked.

  “Okay, maybe you’re right. But I don’t think it would go over so well if I tried to demonstrate boy training in front of an audience. It might come across as, I don’t know … offensive?”

  “Only if people are too sensitive,” said Emma. “I think you’ve made an important psychological discovery.”

  “And you can’t argue with the facts,” said Rachel. “Your methods work.”

  “Okay, but how would I even turn my techniques into a five-minute act?” I asked. “It’s kind of something that has to happen spontaneously.”

  “How about if you pick random boys from the audience and control them?” said Emma.

  “It’s not like I’m a hypnotist or a puppeteer. Boy training is a subtle game. It can’t be staged.”

  “Too true. Plus, people probably don’t want to admit that their sons and brothers and whatever are as easy to train as dogs,” said Rachel.

  “Even if it’s true?” asked Emma.

  “Even though it’s true, it’s only true in some contexts,” I said.

  “But you did train Pepper,” said Emma.

  “I did,” I said, as the full implications of her words slowly sank in. “And a puppy-training demonstration would be perfect for the talent show. Emma, you’re a genius!”

  I gave her a quick hug.

  “If we still had the cookie, it would definitely be yours,” said Rachel.

  “I cannot believe he stole the last cookie,” I said, crumpling up the napkin in the now empty tin.

  “That’s what put you over the edge, huh?” asked Emma.

  “Totally,” I said. “But I guess I didn’t work my magic fast enough.”

  “Well, there’s always next time,” said Rachel.

  “Hey, speaking of time. What time is it?” I asked.

  Emma checked her phone. “Four o’clock.”

  “Yikes!” I jumped up. “I should probably head home.”

  “Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” said Rachel. “You need to get ready for your big date.”

  “It’s not a date!” I said.

  “It’s totally a date,” said Emma.

  “I’m not sure,” I told her.

  “Well, you’ll find out soon enough,” said Rachel.

  Chapter Two

  Say Cheese—or is that Cheesy?

  I hopped on my bike.

  “Say hi to Oliver for us,” said Emma.

  Simply hearing Emma say Oliver’s name made me feel all nervous and jumpy. Which is exactly how I felt about Oliver himself.

  He’s in the sixth grade, too. We sit next to each other in science, and we’ve been friends for a while. Here’s what I know about him so far: He’s short and sweet and cute. He’s a good student, with excellent penmanship, and he loves to draw. Actually, Oliver loves all sorts of art. He takes private painting classes, and he and his parents go to museums for fun. Oliver’s mom is from Jamaica, and his dad is from England. He’s black and he’s got a slight Jamaican-sounding accent. Oliver, I mean. His dad is white. His mom is black. And they both have accents, too. Oliver plays cricket and calls dinnertime “tea” and goes to the West Indian Day parade downtown every single year and packs Jamaican patties in his lunch sometimes.

  I don’t remember the exact moment I fell for him. My crush didn’t come instantaneously, like how sometimes you’re stuck on one question on a test and then suddenly the answer pops into your brain—seemingly out of thin air.

  I’ve probably always liked him on some level, but it was more of a below-the-surface type of thing, always lurking, like dust bunnies under my bed. Not to compare Oliver to dust bunnies. He’s much cuter and he’s never made me sneeze.

  Anyway, I don’t know how long Oliver has liked me. Or if he even does like me as more than a friend and a lab partner.

  All I know is tonight is the night we are going out on our first official date.

  I think.

  I mean, I know we’re going out. I’m just not 100 percent positive it’s what I should call a date.

  Here is what I do know:

  1. Oliver and I are going out for pancakes.

  2. We are going out for pancakes because Oliver invited me out for pancakes.

  3. Oliver invited me in order to celebrate our team’s second-place win in Birchwood Middle School’s Sixth-Grade Science Fair.

  4. The second-place prize was gift certificates to the International House of Pancakes.
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  5. Oliver did not invite our third lab partner, Tobias, because he’s allergic to pancakes. That’s what Oliver told me, anyway. Which leads me to my final and most important point in regard to this matter.

  6. Tobias is NOT allergic to pancakes.

  I know this because I conducted an experiment last week. I sat down next to Tobias at lunch and asked if it was okay to eat a sandwich next to him.

  “What do you mean?” asked Tobias, glaring at me suspiciously. “Are you going to chew with your mouth open or drool or spit your food out like some old geezer with no teeth?”

  Tobias is kind of obnoxious, in case you can’t tell based on the above interaction.

  “Nope,” I said. “And I think what you just said is offensive to old geezers. My grandma is old and her table manners are impeccable. Plus, you’d never even know she wore dentures.”

  Tobias scowled (he’s very good at scowling) and brushed his dark brown bangs off his greasy, somewhat pimply forehead. “What’s your point, Spazabelle?”

  “Didn’t we decide you aren’t allowed to call me that anymore?” I asked, flicking his ear with my finger.

  “Ow!” said Tobias.

  “You totally deserved that,” I replied. “I have no remorse.”

  “Fine,” he grumbled, all sulky, frowning down at his lunch. “Now, why are you here again?”

  “I want to make sure I can sit here and eat bread next to you, that you’re not allergic to wheat.”

  “And why would I be allergic to wheat?” Tobias asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m just checking. Celiac disease—that’s what it’s called when you can’t eat wheat—is very big now.”

  “Well, I don’t have it.”

  “Good,” I said. “Are you allergic to anything else?”

  “Dust,” said Tobias, rubbing his nose subconsciously. “It makes me sneeze.”

  “Duh—everyone is allergic to dust,” I said. “I mean do you have any food allergies? Wheat, peanut butter, nuts, strawberries, pancakes—”

  “Pancakes?” asked Tobias. “Are you joking?”

  I shook my head no. “So you’re telling me you are not and have never been allergic to pancakes, correct?”

  “Are you trying to get me to fork over my gift certificate?” he asked. “Because it ain’t happening. I already went to IHOP with my dad last week, and it was awesome.”

  It took a lot to refrain from jumping up for joy. “So you already ate your pancakes?” I asked, needing confirmation.

  “Did you take a stupid pill this morning?” asked Tobias. “Because you really seem to be missing something.”

  I was so excited I almost kissed him. Except not really. That would be gross. And I should be careful about what I say because kissing has been on my mind a lot lately. Except not in reference to Tobias, of course.

  The thing is, out of my four best friends—Rachel, Emma, Claire, and Yumi—I’m the only one of us who hasn’t ever kissed a boy. And I want to—not just because my friends have kissed boys and I’m a follower. I’m not. And it’s not merely because I feel a little left out, although I sometimes do feel that way, especially when they talk about kissing, which isn’t that often, only sometimes, but enough. It’s just I finally found a boy I want to kiss: Oliver. And I hope he wants to kiss me, too.

  Anyway, instead of kissing Tobias (blech!), I gave him a goofy grin and said, “Thanks, dude.”

  As I was leaving, Tobias called after me, “I thought you wanted to eat your sandwich here.”

  “I changed my mind,” I said with a wave. “See you in science.”

  “Whatever.” Tobias turned back to his food and grumbled something about girls being weird.

  Just then I thought of another point: Even if Tobias were allergic to pancakes (and maybe embarrassed to admit it to me), I am sure he would be able to find something else to eat. IHOP sells fruit and lots of breakfast meats: sausage and bacon and even turkey bacon.

  As soon as I got home, I parked my bike in the garage, took off my helmet, and bounced inside, up to my room.

  I turned on the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds. My uncle gave it to me for Christmas. He’s always giving me music: Prince, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Velvet Underground, the Pixies, Patti Smith, and early Madonna. Most of it’s good. And it’s important to him that my iPod is eclectic and contains more than the usual Top 40 stuff and random ’80s hits my friends listen to. Not that there’s anything wrong with that stuff, either. I love it all.

  Anyway, I skipped ahead to my favorite song on the CD—“Hang on to Your Ego.” The entire song seemed perfect for this situation. It made me feel so very “I’m getting ready for a big night just like a real teenager from some movie would.”

  Then I turned to my closet, but before I even opened it my friend Claire called.

  “Great timing,” I said as soon as I picked up the phone. “Oliver will be here in less than an hour and I’ve got no idea what to wear.”

  Claire is a total fashion maven, so she’s the perfect person to help me with this matter. But the silence on the other end of the line reminded me that Claire also likes Oliver. At least, she used to like him. Claire and Oliver even went to the Valentine’s Day dance together last month. And it was at the dance that Claire realized Oliver liked her just as a friend.

  “I’m sorry, Claire. Was that super-insensitive and cruel of me to ask you for help getting ready for my date with Oliver?”

  “No no no!” said Claire. “I’m just trying to picture your closet.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I asked.

  “Totally,” said Claire. “I’m calling to wish you luck tonight. It’s going to be awesome, and there are no hard feelings. I promise. If I can’t go out with Oliver, I want you to.”

  “You’re the best,” I said.

  “I know,” said Claire. “Now, tell me what you’re thinking of.”

  I walked over to my closet and opened up the double doors. “I definitely don’t want to wear jeans and a T-shirt, because he sees me in that every day at school. But I don’t want to get dressed up, either, because then I’d look like I’m trying too hard.”

  “Why don’t you wear your black miniskirt with your charcoal leggings? The leggings say, ‘This is not a date,’ and the skirt says, ‘It’s the weekend and I want to look good for myself, not necessarily for anyone else.’”

  “Wow, I didn’t realize my clothes could say so much,” I said.

  “Don’t make fun—this is important!” said Claire.

  “Okay,” I said. “Hold on.” I put the phone down and tried on the skirt and leggings. Not bad. Then I put on a gray-and-black-striped shirt to go with it. After I got back on the phone, I said, “You’re right. This is perfect. I’m ready. Thanks.”

  “Wait!” Claire yelled. “What are you wearing on top?”

  “My gray-and-black-striped T-shirt,” I said. “It goes perfectly. You’d be proud.”

  “No, that’s no good. With all that black and gray you must look like the grim reaper. And who wants to date the grim reaper?”

  “Mr. Grim Reaper?” I said.

  “Exactly—and that is not Oliver. Try something brighter. How about red?”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yeah, what’s wrong with red?”

  “Hearts are red. Lips, too.”

  “Yeah, and this is your first date, so red makes perfect sense. Come on—it’ll be hot and you definitely want to be on fire.”

  “I do?” I asked. “I’m not even sure what that means, but hold on.”

  I searched through the laundry basket at the bottom of my closet. The clothes were all clean. My mom does my laundry but it’s my job to put my stuff away. And usually I don’t bother. Luckily, I found the shirt at the bottom of the pile. And Claire was right. It looked good.

  “Much better,” I told her when I got back on the phone. “But are you sure it’s not too dressy?”

  “Not at all,” said Claire. “If you were go
ing over to Rachel’s to watch Mean Girls for the hundred and thirteenth time, you still might wear a skirt if it happened to be a Saturday night because that’s the kind of girl you are.”

  “Good to know. Thanks,” I said. “I’d better go.”

  “Shoes!” Claire said. “Try on those knee-length patent-leather boots I made you get at the mall last weekend. They’ll be perfect! And have fun!”

  “Thanks!” I hung up, put on my boots, turned off the Beach Boys, and put on KT Tunstall’s “Suddenly I See.” Then I turned up the volume and bounced around my room as I brushed my hair.

  Next I took out my makeup case, unzipped it, and lined up everything on my dresser. Then I realized I really needed better light for makeup application, so I put everything back in its case and carried it into the bathroom, where I unpacked it again, feeling a little silly for this rookie mistake. The entire world of makeup is new to me. Also, I’m more of an occasional traveler and I don’t think I’ll ever be a full-time resident.

  Anyway, I have three different colors of lip gloss—pink, hot pink, and frosty pink with sparkles. My eye shadow case has twelve different shades of green, blue, violet, and gray. I also have blush, although my cheeks are fairly rosy, so I don’t actually need it. It came with the eye shadow, though. Oh, and nail polish, except I never wear it because I think it looks weird and smells icky.

  I brushed on some light-blue eye shadow and then applied the regular pink lip gloss, and just because I thought it would help, I used some blush. Staring at myself in the mirror, I realized three things.

  One: I did not look like myself.

  Two: I looked like a sunburned alien with fish lips.

  And three: That was certainly not the look I wanted to be sporting tonight.

  I wiped off all the makeup with a damp washcloth and looked at myself again. Now I looked human, although a little red from the face scrub.

  I stared at myself in the mirror from different angles. I put my hair up and let it fall down around my shoulders again. Then I practiced smiling.

  Big smile.

  Little smile.

  Littler smile.