by Amy Huntley
Kristen's trying to hug me, so the blowing thing's not working
too well. I've never really known before how important
balance is to successfully blowing the nose.
"Everything'will be fine. I'm sure it's just your imagination."
Gee, so much for comforting me. Big Sis. Telling me
I imagined all this? When I saw with my very own two
perfectly functional eyeballs that Gabe was walking along
with his arm around Dana's shoulders? Now tbere^s a way to
totally infuriate me. "I saw them, Kristen, and it was not my
imagination. 1 hey were walking along together and he had
his arm around her shoulders. There's no mistaking that. Or
what it means."
"Yes, there is, Maddy. You've always been especially
good at taking what's right in front of vou and drawing the
wrong conclusion from it. Remember that pregnant woman
at the store when you were little?"
Way unfair. Sisters aren't supposed to remind you of
things that happened when you were, like, four years old.
"Oh, come on . . . " I start to say, but it's already too late.
She's off and running with that memory.
"Remember? You saw this pregnant woman standing
in line, and you said, 'Look, Mommv. 1 hat woman has
a watermelon under her shirt." Then when Mom tried to
explain to you that the woman had a baby in her stomach,
14)
you wanted to know why anyone would want a baby watermelon
under her shirt." She's laughing so hard that I can't
help smiling a little myself.
But I resent it.
"That's when Mom decided to buy that funny book for
us that was all about how babies were made. A little late
for ine. But at least you stopped asking about watermelons
under women's shirts."
I remain unconvinced. She can tell. When she starts in
on her next memory, I wish I had just gone along with her
and said, "Sure, I'm an idiot. Gabe with his arm around
Dana is obviously no big deal." But since I didn't, I have
to sit through Kristen's next attempt to convince me that I
suck at drawing the right conclusions from circumstances.
"And then there's that time you stole a candy bar from
Walgreens . As soon as we got out to the van, some police
car went by with its sirens and lights going. You thought
he wns coming for you, so you threw yourself at Mom and
surrendered the candy bar while begging her not to let the
police take you away to jail."
"This isn't the same thing at all. I'm not five anymore."
"I've got bad news for you: Seventeen and in love isn't
any smarter."
This from someone who's been happily married for all of
a year. Could she be any more condescending? I'm about to
tell her that, but my cell phone starts playing "Fiir Elise."
H4
swear, what you saw didn't mean anything. Dana just got
accepted to an acting program that she's been trying to get
into for two years. It means she'll get to go to Europe this
summer. I was just congratulating her."
This is supposed to make me feel better? I swear Dana
is evil. She has it in for me, has ever since I started going
out with Gabe. She's definitely still in love with him. And
she does all these little things to get back at me. Every
time I walk down the hall with Sandra and pass her and
her friends, this nasty laughter breaks out. She also drew
a disgusting caricature of me (how unfair can it he that
she has all this artistic talent she uses to hurt people?) and
hung it on my locker. It was a totally disgusting drawing. I
blush every time I even think about the way she drew my
legs wide open. I ripped the picture off my locker, but there
Dana was, standing just a few lockers down, smugly smiling
at me. On top of that, I've been getting these strange prank
phone calls. They must be coming from her. No one else
hates me enough to call and then hang up on me. Thank
God she only has my home phone number and can't do the
same thing to me on my cell.
So why, exactly, shou Id I be happy that Dana the Demon
can get my boyfriend to physically congratulate her? And
exactly why should I be reassured that she's becoming an
even better actress? It's hard enough to get Gabe to understand
how awful she treats me at school. She puts on a
U6
"Aren't you going to get that?" Kristen asks when—
duh—it becomes obvious that I'm not. What if it's Gabe? I
just can't talk to him right now.
The phone keeps beeping out Beethoven. Then stops.
Then starts again.
"For God's sake, Maddy. Answer it."
"No."
She digs around in my purse and pulls it out. "It's Gabe.
Answer it."
Hello?! Who does she think I'm trying to ovoid right
now—Santa Claus? Kristen's managed to tick me off so
much in the last few minutes that I'm not crying anymore.
She rolls her eyes at me—as if I'm the one being unreasonable
here?—and answers the phone herself. I can onlv
hear half the conversation, but Kristen's not dumb. She figures
out how to let me in on the other half:
"Sandra told you you're in trouble? . . . You really are . . .
Yeah, she saw you with your arm around—what's her name?
Dana?... I know you're crazy about my sister and she's being
an ass . . . Of course she's jumping to conclusions...."
Enough is enough. I grab the phone from Kristen,
who—I hate it when she does this—grins at me knowingly.
She walks away to give us some privacy as I say into the
phone, "Okay, I'm here."
Gabe jumps straight to the explanation. Smart guy. He's
got seconds before I hang up on him. "Maddy, chill out. I
14S
completely different persona around him. She becomes
gee-I'm-such-a-sweet-girl-who's-dealing-so-well-withour-breakup-let's-continue-to-be-best-friends-forever.
And he believes her. Well, mostly. He says he knows she
can be mean sometimes, but he also claims that underneath
all that she's a nice girl.
Right.
Rottweiler nice.
I can't even tell Gabe how I feel about Dana, because
he just doesn't get it. I guess that makes me feel even worse
about the whole thing, because I think that's the only thing
about my feelings that he doesn't understand.
So how, exactly, am I supposed to react to this hey-isn't-itgreat-that-you've-just-misinterpreted-the-whole-situation
news?
Stymied, I opt for silence.
"Maddy?"
Still opting for silence.
"Maddy?"
My throat is killing me now. I'm going to start crying. I
don't want Gabe to know it, so I flip my phone closed.
Ten seconds later, "Fiir Elise" starts up again. I let the
song run for a second, and then I just can't bear the pain I
know I'm causing Gabe, so I open it.
"Why'd you do that?" he asks. He sounds hurt, not
angry.
Ul
"I was going to cry. Still am. Didn't want you to know."
And then, ther
e it is . . . all those mortifying tears.
"Madison, c'mon. I love you. We've been going out now
for a year. In all that time, I've never once thought about
going back to Dana. If I had, you'd know it. I'd be with her.
Bui I'm not, am I? I'm with you. And that's where I want to
stay."
Ohmygod. Now there's a torrent of tears. Somehow I'm
feeling both better and worse. Better because I know he's
right. Worse because I've been stupid.
"Where are you, Maddy? I want to come be with you."
"I'm . . . at . . . the . . . p-park . . . near . . . m-my
house."
"Stay put. I'll be there in ten minutes."
"No," I say. "Let's m e e t . . . at Kristen's house." I know
she'll give us whatever privacy we need,
"All right," he agrees.
I flip the phone closed again, then walk off toward the
merry-go-round, where Kristen is waiting for me.
MB
wrong. I don't have anything against peas, actually. When
I was little, I'd roll them around on my plate, playing a fun
game of tag. I don't even mind the taste of them.
But school peas? Those are an entirely different thing.
They're always overcooked and mushy, and if that's not bad
enough, they taste like a metal can that's been boiled.
So there's no way Sandra and I are going to resist the
urge to smoosh them. We're immediately in a mad scramble
to stomp on my peas. It's sort of like playing a video
game . . . see it, stomp i t . . . see it, stomp i t . . . see it—
Are there any adults watching? Nope? Then stomp
some more.
We both aim for the same pea, and my foot lands on top
of hers. "Ouch!" I say.
Which is funny, because I'm the one who stomped on
her. Isn't she the one who's supposed to have the hurt foot?
We crack up and then start shushing each other.
Which makes me laugh even harder, because she accidentally
spits on me when she's making the shb sound.
"Disgywring," I say, pulling away from her and knocking
my chocolate milk off the table.
Which is hilarious, because now Sandra has a poop-colored
splash on her shirtsleeve. She's trying to say something,
but she's laughing so hard she can't get any words out.
Which is the funniest thing vet because . . . well,
because
UNCORRECTED E-PROOf—NOT FOB SALE
school peas
age II
Sandra stands up too suddenly. Her coat sleeve is under my
tray, and as she tries to pull it out, the whole tray starts to
. My plate slides across the tray, hitting the raised lip
and coming to an abrupt stop.
The peas on top of it, though, continue their journey.
They roll right off the plate and onto the table. Some travel
as far as the table edge and then take a suicidal plunge to
the floor.
Who can resist squashing underfoot one of the most
despicable foods known to humankind? Don't get me
about having Sandra as my best friend. My stomach hurts,
my cheeks ache, I think I'm going to pee my pants, and
there's nothing I want to do more than keep killing myself
with laughter this way.
Uh-oh. We've shown up on the GPS of one of the lunch
supervisors: TROUBLE AT TABLE 4. She's on her wayover
here.
Still giggline, Sandra starts mopping up chocolate milk
with a napkin. I launch myself under the table and start trying
to herd in the peas.
I hit my head on the table.
Which is funnv, because . . . gosh, who even knows?
"What are you two doing?" the lunch supervisor
demands.
"Uh . . . cleaning up?" Sandra says.
"You'd better be. It's a mess over here."
"We are," I assure her through my laughter.
"And stop giggling. You'll just make more of a mess."
She glares at us as she moves off.
"Gee," I say after she's out of earshot, "who put the
lemon juice in her Cheerios this morning?"
Now we're almost choking on our giggles.
Until I see Tammv Havers looking over at us . . . wistfully.
She's sitting at another table with some other girls.
But the look she gives me makes me feel guilty. I can tell
Tammy misses eating lunch with me this year.
lie isi
I have nothing against her, I just want to sit with Sandra.
It's really our onlv chance to have best-friend time together.
We wouldn't be able to laugh together this way if there were
other people around.
But I know that Tammv feels shut out. And I know that
I should invite her to eat lunch with Sandra and me more
often.
"Do you have all the peas picked up?" Sandra asks me.
"Let's go play basketball until class starts."
"All except the ones that are squashed. And I'm not picking
those up."
"Really, Madison," Sandra says in her best Als. Mathison
voice. Als. Mathison is our math teacher, and she doesn't like
me. I don't know why. But Sandra figured out on the third
day of school how to imitate Ms. Mathison's voice. She's
good at it. "And who will clean up after you? Do you think
others were put on this Earth to clean up your messes?"
"No, Ms. Mathison," I say. "But I'm still not picking
them up. They're disgusting. Give me detention if you
want," I fire over my shoulder as I head toward the gym. I
can feel Tammy watching me as I go.
\l
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT fOR SALE
HarpgrCplJins fti&MteOpain's
greater pIan
age II
"And I can put this here," I say to myself, unzipping the
center pocket of my backpack and placing my new school
planner inside. I'm going to be so organized this year. I've
already pui my whole class schedule into the grid at the
front of the book. And if I ever need co know whether I'm
supposed to be using the word affect or effect, I can just flip
to the back of the planner and . . . there it will be.
Next, I unzip the front pocket and toss in my magnetized
locker mirror. Getting ready for the first day of school
is . . . nerve-racking,
Ii4
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
ttatpfa&^BnsfiABilsn
is
THIS STUPID PINKCONE . . .
I'm frustrated enough to imagine myself smashing it
into pieces.
But it still doesn't take me anywhere.
isa
My stomach is in knots. Middle school is a whole new
thing. Will I like it? Will I get lost in this new, bigger building?
How much more homework are the teachers going to
give us? Will I be able to keep up with it all?
I don't actually want to go to middle school. I liked fifth
grade. I knew everyone. I knew where everything was. I got
good grades. I'm supposed to be excited to be moving up to
a bigger s c h o o l . , , dances and school sports, all that.
No, thanks.
At least I've got a planner to help me stay organized,
right? At least I will if I manage
not to lose it—the way I
seem to lose everything,
I'd better check, just to make sure it's where I think it
is . . . but—
It. Isn't. There. Where is it? Where? Where? Where?!
I frantically start unzipping pockets. Not there. Not in
this one. I swear I put it in this pocket. Really. I swear.
"Alommmm!" I'm yelling. "Come here! I need you!"
I hear her charging up the stairs, and then she's standing
in the doorway. "What is it?" she asks.
"I can't find my new planner."
She laughs. "And here I thought you actually needed
something."
I hate it when she does that. Gets sarcastic, I mean. And
I hate it even more when she acts like things that are really,
really important don't matter at all.
IH
"I already put the names and numbers of all my friends
in it," I tell her, and then I burst into tears.
"Oh, honey," Mom says. She comes into the room and
sits on my bed, sighing. "Where did you see it last?"
"I thought I put it in my backpack. Just a few minutes
ago. And now it's gone." I wipe at tears rolling onto my
cheek. I can't stand the way my face feels all tight if I let
tears dry on it.
"Maddy," Mom says, "I don't think you're truly crying
over that planner."
"I am? I insist, sniffling. I suddenly wish I hadn't asked
Mom for help. I can tell from the look on her face that she's
about to tell me how she thinks I'm actually feeling.
As if she would know.
"It's always been hard for you to make changes, sweetie,
and this is a pretty big change. All-new building. New people
from other elementary schools. Teachers you've never
seen before."
"I don't have trouble making changes," I protest. At least
I won't if I have a planner.
Mom makes some kind of noise that sounds suspiciously
like a . . . snort.
"Cut it out. Are you going to help me or what?"
She changes the subject. "All that sadness you're feeling
right now, and all that fear you have about whether everything
is going to be okay . . . all that is good, Maddy. You
m
"No. What's ecstasy?" I ask.
Now she's laughing. As if any of this is funny?
"it means extreme happiness. Giddy happiness. The best
happiness in the world. She's saying that for every moment
of wonder and excitement, you have to pav with an equal
amount of pain."
Somehow, this doesn't seem fair. I don't understand why
God would make you pay for your happiness with pain.
