My mom dusted some bread crumbs off the table.
“Your first day without Sylvie had to have been tough,” she said.
I drank more of my milk and didn’t say anything. Just because I hated motor homes didn’t mean I was missing Sylvie. Which I was. “I’ve got homework.”
“Do you need any help?”
I shook my head. “I need solitude. And pencils. And my backpack.”
As I got all my stuff together, I considered telling my mom about the psycho-bullies and my difficult locker and all the other bummer things about my day. But she looked so tired. And she’d tried so hard to make me feel better. She’d even gotten off work early just to be here when I got home. I couldn’t ruin her day just because mine had been terrible.
I sat on my bed and pulled out my English book because Mr. Val wanted us to preview a unit on future-tense verbs. As I previewed it I could tell that it was not going to be my favorite unit. Also, I had to read a poem and respond to it. It was by Emily Dickinson, and it didn’t even have a title. And I usually found titles to be very helpful. I read the poem to myself four times. Then I read it out loud. And I didn’t whisper it. I belted it right out. Because I thought that might help me understand it.
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog.
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
Then I heard my mom call to me. “You are too somebody! You’re Bessica Lefter!”
And I thought maybe I should tell my mom that I was doing my permanent homework, which happened to be a poem without a title, but I explained it in a shorter way. “I didn’t write that!” Then I wrote my paragraph. Mr. Val said there were no wrong answers. So I took him at his word and wrote from the heart.
If you are a nobody and you are part of a pair, then you aren’t a nobody anymore. I used to be part of a pair. I liked it. Because I never felt alone. I felt like I had a friend who understood everything about me, what made me happy, what bummed me out. And she was a good listener. And now she’s one hundred percent out of my life. Because her mom is an evil eyelash painter who doesn’t understand the concept of friendship. But maybe I don’t totally understand the concept of friendship either. Because I made my friend throw away our diary when she didn’t want to. And I also made her get a drastic haircut.
When I looked over my paragraph, I was surprised by how long it was. Also, I was surprised by its honesty. Because usually when I wrote things for school, I tried to write what I thought the teacher wanted to read. And in this case I hadn’t done that; I’d written what was on my mind.
When I finished English, I broke out my math worksheets. I had to solve eight problems and they all looked terrible. And then I opened my nutrition notebook and reviewed the fat grams in various nuts. And then I decided I could do the rest of my homework while lying down. But that didn’t turn out so good. Because the next thing I knew, it was dark outside and I could smell baking tuna fish.
I climbed off my bed and walked into the kitchen, and the table was set and my dad was all ready to eat.
“Hey there, sunshine,” he said. “How was school?”
“Fine,” I lied. Because I was still very groggy and didn’t feel like getting into the horrible details also known as my day.
“Let’s eat!” Mom said.
And I sat down pretty quickly. Because even though I’d eaten a turkey sandwich, I still felt like I could use more nourishment.
“Bessica has been in her room working on homework,” my mom said.
My dad whistled. “Are they piling it on already?”
I nodded.
“I have permanent homework in English,” I said. “And it’s hard.”
My dad whistled again.
“It will get easier once you get a rhythm down,” my mom said.
I looked at her like she was crazy. That didn’t even make sense.
“Did you see Blake today?” my dad asked.
“I sure did,” I said. “He got stuffed into a trash can by my locker.”
My mom set down a bowl of mashed potatoes on the table and gasped. “That’s awful!”
I nodded. “But he got out okay.”
“Did you help him?” my mom asked.
“He didn’t want my help. He’s a loner. I think that’s part of why he got stuffed,” I said.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” my dad said. “That kid is sort of a dweeb.”
My mom frowned when my dad said that. “Buck, we shouldn’t judge socially awkward children.”
My dad spooned up some potatoes and said, “You’re right.”
“Do you want one or two scoops of peas?” my mom asked me.
“One,” I said, because if I had a choice, I wanted to take the smallest amount of peas possible.
My mom finished dishing everything out and she sat down. Then I realized that I was looking at a pork chop but I still smelled baking tuna fish.
“Why do I smell tuna?” I asked.
My mom smiled. “Because I’m making a casserole for one of the patients.”
This was something she did on a regular basis. My mom was not the kind of receptionist who could write down people’s information and file it away. She was the kind of person who wrote down their information and then baked things to make them feel better.
“I want more details, Bessica. What was the first thing you thought when I dropped you off today?”
I blinked. And ate some peas. And swallowed them. “I thought, I would be enjoying my day a lot more if Sylvie were here.”
My mother sighed. “Mrs. Potaski will come around. Give her time.”
I shook my head. “No. Grandma explained it to me. Sylvie’s mom is a bull chasing me through a field. And I have to wait until she gets bored and forgets about me. Or she’ll gore out my guts. It could take years.”
“Your grandma said that?” my dad asked.
I nodded.
“I’m sure those weren’t her exact words,” my mother said.
“It’s still a very interesting comparison to make with Mrs. Potaski. You know that bulls are male, right?” my dad asked me.
I threw my hands up and accidentally knocked over my glass of milk. “Of course I know that.”
My mother brought me a dishrag. “Here you go. And watch the wild arm moves.”
I cleaned up the milk while my mom and dad ate their pork chops and peas. I couldn’t believe that this conversation made them want to eat. I’d almost lost my entire appetite, because all I wanted to do was improve my life.
After I cleaned up the milk, I put the dishrag in the sink and I stared at my pork chop.
“So which is your favorite class?” my dad asked. “You’re taking geology, right?”
I shook my head. “Geography.”
“What did you talk about in geography?” he asked.
My mother took a shockingly big bite of her chop.
“Polar stuff,” I said.
“About bears?” he asked.
I shook my head again. “Bears are fun and interesting,” I said. “We’re not studying anything fun or interesting.”
“Well, I’ve got something you can tell your class,” my father said. “Ask them if they know why polar bears never eat penguins.”
“That’s a gross thing to ask a room of strangers,” I said.
“She’s right,” my mother said. “Don’t ask them that.”
“It’s because penguins and polar bears live at opposite ends of the earth. Polar bears live near the North Pole and penguins live near the South Pole.”
I did not find that very interesting. “Oh,” I said.
“Did you know that bunnies live in polar regions?” my father asked. “Arctic hares. They have a keen sense of smell. I bet we can find some on the Internet after
dinner.”
“Wouldn’t you rather watch TV?” I asked. I knew I would.
And that was what dinner was like. My mom and dad tried to cheer me up and distract me from my Sylvie-less life. And sometimes it worked. But then I would remember that I was Sylvie-less. And it was hard to stay cheered up after I remembered that.
“Bessica,” my mother said, after she cleared the table, “don’t you want to read Grandma’s postcard?”
She handed it to me. On the front was a picture of the four stone faces of Mount Rushmore. Underneath the picture, in big cursive letters, was Greetings from South Dakota. I flipped it over. Grandma had written in very clear and small letters:
And then she signed it, Love, your favorite grandma.
“Pretty neat postcard,” my mom said.
“Yeah,” I said. But I would rather have had Grandma in the kitchen. A postcard was just a flat piece of almost nothing. It reminded me of that stupid collaborative diary that Sylvie had tossed into the hole. That was just a bunch of flat pieces of nothing too. Why did people think those things mattered? I put the postcard in the trash.
“Bessica!” my mother said. “You can’t throw out your grandma’s postcard.”
“I just did.”
She plucked it out of the trash and frowned at me. “You should save these. Grandma won’t be around forever. One day you’re going to be glad that you have some mementos.”
This was the saddest thing anybody had said to me in a long time. She handed me the card and I took it. And stared at it. And realized that one day Grandma Lefter was going to be as gone as Grandpa Lefter.
“I want Grandma to come home,” I said.
“She will,” my mom said. “In about six weeks.”
I dragged myself to my room and stuck the card next to my bed. Maybe tomorrow would be better, I thought. Maybe Sylvie would call. Maybe all the psycho-bullies would get expelled. Maybe I’d become great friends with Annabelle Deeter’s network. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
ylvie did not call. No psycho-bullies were expelled. And I did not become friends with Annabelle Deeter’s network. In nutrition we watched a video about how digestion works, and it made me afraid of my own stomach acid. Then in English the flute music was so loud that I missed some of what Mr. Val was saying.
The smiley dimpled girl in math was absent. And that was a bummer. But I did learn her name, because the teacher called it three times to make sure she wasn’t there. “Raya Papas? Raya Papas? Raya Papas?” Then I helped him by saying, “She can’t answer you. She’s absent.” While everyone else around me solved word problems involving sales tax, I decided to solve a different problem. I needed a lunch group. I only knew Annabelle Deeter, Dolan the Puker, three psycho-bullies, the odor girl, and an out-of-control hall monitor. Obviously, I needed to eat lunch with Annabelle and join her network.
On the way to the cafeteria to locate Annabelle, I passed a poster that said the first meeting of the Yearbook Club was happening right then. I stopped in my tracks. This was something I wanted to join. Maybe even more than Annabelle Deeter’s network. I had to make a choice: Annabelle Deeter or Yearbook? Unofficial group or official group?
It was a no-brainer. I bought some cookies and headed straight for the Yearbook Club. Annabelle Deeter and her network would also be around tomorrow. But the first meeting of Yearbook Club was happening today.
It started off with the advisor asking the group questions that I thought were weird. “Do you want to document the social interactions of your peers? Are you good at writing snappy captions? Do you naturally think in terms of spatial layout? How many of you feel the graphic novel is an undervalued art form?”
If Sylvie had been there we would have rolled our eyes a lot and made fun of this advisor, because Yearbook shouldn’t be lame. Yearbook should be about sneaking around and taking pictures of unsuspecting people looking goofy or coming out of the bathroom. But this advisor couldn’t see that. I didn’t even write my name down on the sign-up sheet after his lecture. I didn’t want to spend another lunch like this, let alone a year. Plus, Cameron Bon Qui Qui was there. And while she might have been a decent hall monitor, she was not a fun person.
After lunch, in geography, we learned about the ideal temperature for penguins to incubate their eggs. We also watched a short film about penguins incubating their eggs, and that was pretty entertaining. But then some of the eggs were duds and no babies hatched and the film ended and I had to go to public speaking. Mrs. Moppett spent most of the class talking about proper posture.
She kept calling kids up to the front and then asking them to exhibit improper posture techniques: slouching, head-forward position, rounded shoulders. Then she would adjust their bodies and demonstrate proper physique. I was terrified that I was going to be called to the front of the class. Thankfully that didn’t happen. Redge Marzo had to demonstrate belly breathing versus diaphragmatic breathing. And I took notes, but both of those techniques looked like very weird ways to breathe.
When I got to PE, I had gym clothes with me. My stretch pants were black, not purple. Lots of kids didn’t have purple pants, so it wasn’t a huge problem. But then Ms. Penrod lectured us a little bit about the importance of proper athletic gear and team spirit:
“Victory starts with impeccable clothes. I could tell you a story about a chance for the world record and a disastrously placed grass stain that would break your hearts.
“I’ll give you one week to have the proper attire. Trust me,” she said, pointing her toned arm at us, “clothes matter. They can mean the difference between winning and losing.” Then she blew her whistle and told us that we needed to run around the gym. Then she blew her whistle again and told us to stop because she’d forgotten to tell us something. I was so tired that I did whatever she said.
“When it comes to physical fitness, variety is the most powerful motivator,” she said. “Do you believe me?”
And we all nodded. But I don’t think any of us believed her.
“Every Friday we will have a special guest teach us a new fitness skill. Alice Potgeiser has agreed to come in next week and teach us basic and intermediate tumbling.”
This was good news. Because I would need some basic and intermediate tumbling skills in order to try out for cheerleading. Now I wouldn’t have to find a cable program to learn this stuff. I could just come to PE. When I glanced around, not everybody looked as thrilled as I was about tumbling with Alice Potgeiser. One girl next to me made gagging sounds and said, “Alice is so stuck-up.” And the girl next to her said, “Totally.”
“Make sure you eat a light lunch that day,” Ms. Penrod said. “We’ll be tumbling on mats for the entire class.”
Then she blew her whistle again and we all started running around the gym. Twenty-seven times. And when I was done and got on the bus, I sort of wanted to drop out of school.
When my mom came home from work, she had some important news. And I immediately thought this news was going to be about me. But it wasn’t.
“Foot surgery can really sideline a person,” my mom said as she secured plastic wrap over the top of the tuna fish casserole. “I want to go and visit Betty and drop this off, and I want you to come too.”
“Why?” I asked. My mom did nice things for people all the time, but I wasn’t usually dragged along.
“I need you to hold the casserole.” She grabbed her purse.
I thought about objecting in a strenuous way, but I was too tired to do that. Middle school was a real energy zapper. As we drove along, I watched the world fly past me. And I got an idea.
“Can we drive by Sylvie’s house?” I asked.
“Isn’t she at school?” my mom asked.
“Probably.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to stalk her block,” my mom said.
But I didn’t really have a problem with that. I looked down at the casserole. And I realized that my mom could have set this on the floor or in the backseat and driven to this lady’s house without
me.
“I understand why you want to give this toe-surgery lady a tuna fish casserole,” I said. “But I don’t understand why you wanted me to come. You could have put this on the backseat.”
“Her name is Betty. Do not call her the toe-surgery lady.”
As we drove to Betty’s house, I got curious as to what exactly had been wrong with her toes.
“Was it fungus?” I asked. That was probably a serious and common toe problem for the elderly.
“It wasn’t fungus. It was structural. She suffered from severe mallet toe.”
The casserole didn’t stink like fish at all. It smelled like cheese and bacon. I lifted the plastic wrap off of a corner of the dish so the smell could escape more easily. I really liked that smell. It reminded me of pizza. Sort of.
“Do you know what mallet toe is?” my mother asked.
“A terrible deformity that makes it impossible to wear sandals?”
My mother stopped at a red light and frowned at me. “You shouldn’t make fun of people with toe deformities.”
“I was being serious,” I said.
“Mallet toe is a condition where a toe curls due to a bend in the top of the toe joint.”
“Did the doctor have to break her toe to fix it?” I asked.
“Not quite,” she said. “Do you really want to hear the details? Her toe was quite rigid, so fixing it required some invasive action.”
“I’ll use my imagination,” I said.
When we pulled up to Betty’s house, I noticed a brown dog out front. It looked small, but I could see its teeth. “Will that dog attack me if I’m carrying a casserole that has a bacon scent?” I asked.
“Let me carry the casserole,” my mom said.
So we walked up Betty’s driveway and the toothy brown dog didn’t bother us at all. In fact, it ran around to the backyard like a total coward. We got to the front door and my mom didn’t even knock. She pushed Betty’s big red door right open. And that surprised me. So I tugged on my mom’s shirt a little bit in disapproval.
Bessica 1 - The Reinvention of Bessica Lefter Page 9
