Everybody Bugs Out

by Leslie Margolis

  I thought back to our talk on the lawn. Oliver might have been asking me if I wanted to go with him. But if that were true, why didn’t he ask me again? Because he was shy? Or because he thought I wasn’t interested? Maybe he just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.…

  What if Oliver really did say yes to Claire to be nice? What would’ve happened if I’d asked him to the dance? Would he have shrugged and said fine? Or would he have seemed happier?

  And what’s wrong with me for thinking this?

  “You’re forgetting the most important point,” said Rachel. “He said yes, and that means you get to go to the dance with a really cute boy—and not only that but the boy you like—instead of being stuck with your second choice.”

  Emma nodded. “She’s got a point there.”

  “So what are you going to wear?” asked Yumi.

  “Major dilemma,” said Claire, sitting up straighter. “I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, but I do need to look my best. And I’d like to wear something unique, but not wacky. There’s such a fine line.”

  Claire seemed excited, like she’d already gotten over Oliver’s shrug, and for some reason this annoyed me.

  “Are you going to make something?” asked Rachel.

  “Or borrow your sister’s clothes?” asked Emma.

  “Is your hair too short to wear up?” Yumi wondered. “Because if you do wear it up, you should totally wear dangly earrings.”

  As my friends asked Claire a million and three questions, I stared at my peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, my handprints visible in the bread where I’d squeezed it too tightly.

  I took a small bite and tried to focus on chewing but my mind wandered to the upcoming dance. It was taking place in the auditorium, this I knew. I imagined they’d transform the entire room. It would be dark and romantic, with twinkling lights and soft music.

  Claire would look beautiful—even more beautiful than usual, that is. I imagined her in a long, flowing white dress, her hair pulled up in a loose bun, with tendrils brushing her bare collarbone.

  I don’t actually know what tendrils are, but last summer my friend Sophia brought this steamy romance novel to camp and she read it aloud to our entire bunk after lights-out. Whenever the heroine in the story went to a ball, she swept her hair up into a loose bun, with tendrils brushing her bare collarbone. So I knew that whatever it was, it had something to do with being grown-up and romantic.

  Oliver would be all dressed up, too. Maybe with tendrils but probably that’s just a girl thing, not a dance thing. I pictured him in a nice pair of jeans with his T-shirt tucked in. They’d enter the room arm in arm and everyone would look their way. They’d be the most stunning couple there. Maybe they’d even sparkle. Not because of body glitter but because of some magical, sparkly properties that they and they alone possessed due to their total spectacularness.

  Then I imagined Oliver scanning the room, not to admire the decor but because he was searching for someone.

  As in, someone other than his date.

  Meanwhile I’d be standing in the corner by myself, leaning against the wall, like the decorating committee had run out of tape and had hired me to hold up the giant cardboard cupid.

  I’d look up suddenly and our eyes would meet. Oliver would smile and tilt his head and I’d smile back, coyly. (Another thing I read about in that romance novel.) I’d offer a fluttery fingertip wave and then he’d approach.

  Claire would be confused at first and maybe even upset. But once she saw that the feelings we had for each other were true and strong and mutual, not to mention electric in their intensity, she’d relent, knowing that she and Oliver just weren’t meant to be.

  Oliver would approach and ask, “May I have this dance?”

  And I’d say, “What about the cardboard cupid cutout?”

  And he’d say, “Forget about the cardboard cupid cutout. Let it fall.”

  Then my favorite slow song would come on but not coincidentally—Oliver would’ve requested it.

  I’d back away from the wall. Cupid would fall. And then we’d dance.

  Meanwhile, Claire would meet the love of her life—a tall and handsome transfer student who’d just moved to town from somewhere really romantic. Like Paris or Rome or maybe both.

  She’d forget about Oliver, move on. This part was essential because I wanted the best for Claire. I truly did! I just knew that what was best for Claire did not involve Oliver in any way. It couldn’t! Not when he paused and shrugged, which I now realized was clear evidence that he liked someone else—probably me.

  “So what do you think?”

  Someone poked me in the shoulder.

  “Hello? Earth to Annabelle?”

  I looked up with a start. “Huh?”

  “You okay?” Claire stared at me with genuine concern. And that’s when the guilt crept in.

  What could I say? “Oh, I’m fine. I was just busy fantasizing about stealing your date.” I don’t think so.

  But I had to say something because now everyone else stared, too. “Sorry,” I said. “Um, what?”

  “We need your input,” Claire explained. “My sister offered to lend me her favorite skirt, but is that like wearing something used? She wore it to school once, so what if Oliver notices and thinks it’s weird? Like, I only get hand-me-downs because my moms can’t afford to get me new clothes, which is not true at all. They’re just really into recycling.”

  “I don’t think Oliver thinks that way. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. And anyway, boys don’t notice stuff like that.”

  Claire popped two grapes in her mouth, contemplating as she chewed. “So maybe I should spring for something new. I’ve been saving my allowance for a few months now.”

  Oh, who cares? That was my first thought—one so rude, I barely recognized myself. I knew I was being unfair. Mean, even, when all Claire had ever been was kind and generous and funny and sweet.

  I was a lousy friend for having these thoughts.

  No, I was a lousy person. And I needed to make it up to her. That’s why I said, “Hey, want some help? I could come over one day after school and we can go through your closet.”

  Claire smiled. “That sounds fun!”

  And that’s how—a few days later—I found myself at Claire’s house, helping her find an outfit so she could steal my crush.

  chapter fourteen

  the anti-fashion show

  Normally anything related to Claire and clothes is tons of fun. But when we got to her house after school on Thursday, all I felt was dread.

  Claire—completely oblivious to my misery—opened up her closet and began pulling out clothes. Here’s what ended up on the floor within the first thirty seconds:

  silver leggings

  purple miniskirt

  ballet flats with red rhinestones

  black puffy vest with a faux-fur collar.

  At least I assumed it was faux fur, since I couldn’t imagine Claire—or any of my friends—ever wearing the real thing.

  “I found it,” Claire yelled, putting on a blue wrap dress with a purple sash. “What do you think?” She turned around and did her best imitation of a runway model, kicking her clothes aside as she strutted across the room, with one hand on her hip.

  “I like it,” I said.

  “Think it would look better with boots or ballet flats?”

  Did it really matter? I wanted to ask her, but I stopped myself because of course it mattered. She was going to the dance with Oliver. Everything mattered. But if I said that I’d reveal too much so I simply replied, “Either way.”

  Claire sighed. “My favorite boots have heels but that would make me so much taller than him.”

  “You’re already taller than him,” I couldn’t help but point out.

  “Right. So why make myself more so? That’s the problem with sixth grade boys!”

  “They’re not all short.” I took a deep breath. “But if Oliver’s height bothers you, then maybe you
should go with someone else. Like what about Sanjay? He’s tall. Cute, too.”

  Claire wrinkled her nose. “He’s one of those guys who drums on his desk with his fingers.”

  “Because he plays the drums.”

  Claire shrugged. “Still annoying.” She took off the dress and continued tearing through her closet.

  I sat down on her bed right in time for her to throw a beaded jean jacket on me, without even noticing. I pulled it off my head. “Um, Claire?”

  She spun around. “Oops, sorry!”

  I held up the jacket. “This is cute. How come you never wear it?”

  “I wore it all the time last year and I got sick of it. Want to take it?”

  “Really?” I slipped into the jacket and admired myself in front of Claire’s full-length mirror. The jacket was faded and perfectly broken in, with a hand-embroidered row of ladybugs marching out of one pocket.

  “Not to keep, but you can borrow it for a while.”

  “Thanks. It’s perfect. I’ll wear it tomorrow and Oliver is going to love it.”

  Claire looked up suddenly. “What?”

  “Nothing!” I said. “It’s just fitting, since our science fair project involves bugs and last week the gardener released a whole slew of ladybugs in his backyard in order to save the rosebushes from aphids. Apparently ladybugs eat them. So we were overrun. It was hilarious and we considered focusing on just ladybugs but—”

  Claire interrupted me. “Oliver has rosebushes? Maybe I should ask him to make me a corsage for the dance.”

  I shook my head. “Rachel said corsages are a high school thing.”

  “Oh.” Claire twisted up her hair and then let it fall. “Hey, think I should wear skinny jeans with boots and a sparkly top?” she asked, trying on that exact outfit.

  “Looks great,” I said.

  She walked over to the mirror and turned from left to right. Then she checked herself out from behind. Annoyingly, she looked amazing from every angle.

  “Did you know that Oliver’s mom used to model in Europe?” said Claire. “That’s how she met his dad.”

  I didn’t know this. And it bothered me that Claire did.

  “He ran an advertising company and she was the face of one of his campaigns,” she went on, like she was some Oliver expert. “They met at a party in Italy and fell in love.”

  “How do you even know that?” I asked.

  “My mom told me. She and Oliver’s mom do yoga together and sometimes they go out for coffee after.”

  I wished my mom did yoga. Then maybe she’d be friends with Oliver’s mom, too.

  Claire paused and looked at me thoughtfully. Eyes narrowed slightly, staring like she saw through me to the core of my inner lousy-friend being.

  I was about to open my mouth to confess and apologize when she said, “Know what would look really cute with that jacket? My striped boatneck shirt.”

  She strode across the room to her overflowing dresser and opened up the bottom drawer. “I could’ve sworn it was here somewhere. Ha! I almost forgot about this.” Instead of the shirt, she held up a yellow and red striped, sequined miniskirt. “Olivia took me vintage clothes shopping for my birthday last year, and we both decided to buy the craziest, most outrageous outfits we could find, and then we wore them to the mall and split up and kept track of how many weird looks we got.”

  “Who won?” I asked.

  “We kind of tied.” Claire tossed me the skirt and said, “Try it on.”

  I held it up with two fingers. “This thing looks like a disco ball vomited on a Hot-Dog-on-a-Stick uniform.”

  “And you say that like it’s a bad thing!” said Claire.

  I shrugged and slipped the skirt on over my leggings.

  Then Claire handed me an orange stretchy top.

  “I think this clashes,” I said.

  “That’s the point.” Claire wrapped herself in a flowery ruffled apron. Then she stepped into a pair of kelly green platform heels. “I’m sick of looking for something perfect to wear. Let’s focus on being anti-fashion for a while. And we need music, too.” She hurried over to her Mac and selected one of her famous ’80s playlists.

  As Madonna blasted from the computer, Claire handed me a purple feathered boa and wrapped a pink one around her own neck.

  Then we both strutted around the room like we were models on a catwalk or something.

  When I tripped over one of Claire’s stray boots she laughed, which gave me the giggles.

  Then we tried on some more outrageous outfits until Claire decided something was missing. “Makeup!” she declared out of nowhere, sitting down at her sister’s dressing table and opening the top drawer. It was filled with lipsticks and eye shadows and mascaras, plus mysterious tubs and brushes of all sizes. Also, a metal device that looked like it could be used for torture. “What’s this?” I asked, holding it up.

  “Eyelash curler. Want to try it?”

  “Nope.” I put it away quickly. “You’re sure Olivia won’t mind us using her stuff?”

  Claire puckered her lips at her mirror image and applied some bright purple lipstick. Then she spun around, grinned, and batted her eyelashes. “Olivia won’t mind at all. Especially since she’ll never know. She’s at softball practice for another hour. Come on. Your turn.”

  She sat me down in the little chair and brushed on some purple eye shadow.

  “Isn’t that kind of thick?” I asked.

  “It only feels that way because you never wear makeup.” She put it away and grabbed some blush, eyeliner, and lipstick. And five minutes later, she turned me around so I could see myself in the mirror. “Voilà!”

  I blinked at myself. “I look like a clown.”

  Claire tilted her head at our reflections. “Know what we need?”

  “A washcloth?” I guessed.

  “Sparkle!” She added some body glitter to her cheeks and then mine. Then she pulled out her digital camera and snapped some shots. I posed with my hip jutted out, my lower lip thrust, and my arms crossed.

  “Work it!” said Claire.

  Two minutes later I asked to see the shots. Claire passed over the camera and said, “You look amazing!”

  Flipping through the images, I shook my head. “This is so not me!”

  “It is you, and you look fabulous!”

  “Your turn!” I aimed the camera at Claire.

  She vamped it up for a while and then we turned on the self-timer, balancing the camera on the bookshelf so we could get some glam shots together.

  We were having so much fun that I completely forgot I was helping Claire get ready for a date with my secret crush. At least until the phone rang.

  “Claire!” her mom yelled from downstairs. “It’s for you.”

  Claire turned off the music and rushed to the phone. “Hello? Oh, hey Rach. What’s up?”

  I went back to the mirror and made funny faces at myself, not eavesdropping, exactly, but since we were in the same room I couldn’t help but overhear her end of the conversation.

  “He said yes? That’s awesome! So we’re all set. Great. I can’t wait. Omigosh, I have nothing to wear!” She glanced at the pile of clothes on her floor, then turned to me and smiled. “Annabelle will help. Yeah. Great. Okay, see you.”

  “Help with what?” I asked after she hung up.

  “Help me figure out what to wear on my first date.”

  Of course. How could I forget? “I thought we were already doing that.”

  “That’s for the dance. I’m talking about Saturday night. Oliver and I are going bowling with Rachel and Caleb.”

  “Oh, cool,” I replied, thinking this news was anything but. I just hoped my “surprised and horrified” expression would be mistaken for an “I’m so excited for you” face.

  But Claire didn’t even glance my way as she fixed her bangs in the mirror. “I’ve never had this much trouble figuring out what to wear.”

  I sank down to the edge of her bed, hardly believing that Claire was g
oing bowling with Oliver.

  I took another tissue and tried to wipe off the glitter, but instead it spread. “I can’t get this stupid stuff off!”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Claire, finally noticing I was still there.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and coughed. “Nothing. Bowling sounds casual so you need to wear jeans.”

  “How about a vintage bowling shirt?” she asked. “Or would that look like I was trying too hard?”

  “Trying too hard to do what?”

  “Okay, good point. Now the problem is, my baggy jeans look better with the vintage shirt but my skinny jeans are way more flattering. But if I wear them on Saturday I can’t wear them again to the dance unless we have at least two dates in between outfits and there’s hardly enough time for—”

  Suddenly Claire turned to me and smiled. “Hey you should come,” she said.

  “Really?” For a quick second I thought that I was overreacting. Maybe I misheard Claire and she and Oliver weren’t planning a date. Maybe it was just, like, an outing. Something all my friends could go to—as a big group. Totally innocent. It made sense. I mean, bowling? What’s romantic about bowling? Nothing. In that romance novel, no one went bowling, ever. “I guess I could probably make it,” I said.

  “Perfect! So, who are you going to ask?”

  “Ask?”

  “Yeah—as your date. I mean if it weren’t just me and Oliver and Rachel and Caleb, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But I don’t want you to feel like the fifth wheel. You should find someone, anyway. You know, for the dance.”

  “Right!” I swallowed hard. “Of course I’d need to find a date.” I took another tissue from the box and pretended to wipe off the eye shadow. Except really I just needed an excuse to hide my eyes, which were tearing up like crazy.

  “You okay?” asked Claire. “It almost looks like you’re—”

  “I’m not crying.” I shook my head and sniffed. “I think I’m just allergic. You know, to all the makeup.”

  “Oh no! Let me get my mom’s cold cream. I’ll be right back.”

  Claire rushed from the room, returning moments later with a blue bottle and some cotton balls. “Even better—I found actual eye-makeup remover and it’s for sensitive skin.”