• • •
It’s strange to go to school and not have Maria there. She has a pretty clean attendance record, and I usually see her hang out with her friends by the flagpole before school starts. I see tight shorts, slicked hair, eyeliner, red lips, large earrings … her chonga friends are there without her. At least she isn’t here to tempt me with food, because that’s something I’m starting to hate about her. It seems malicious to try to get me to eat when I’m being so good. I’m really on a roll with this fasting thing.
“It sucks that Maria is suspended,” Lisa says.
“I know.”
Shakira walks by us, her gait jaunty and unaffected by the glares she’s receiving. People are staring daggers at her, because we’re all on Team Maria. Team Shakira has no members.
“I’m going to get her,” Lisa whispers to me.
“How?” I ask.
“I’ll figure something out.”
The idea of revenge sounds good to me, but revenge seems vindictive when it’s actually acted out. In middle school, this boy named Daniel called me fat and pulled my hair. He ruined my day, because I was bummed out for hours. People felt sorry for me, but I felt that I had to save face by getting revenge. So I sabotaged his science project, some heap of electronics that he said took forever to build. I snuck in the science lab early in the morning when Mr. Engels went to the faculty lounge to get his mail. Daniel’s robotic orange-juice maker was found that morning all broken and torn, with wires pulled out, and his face looked so crestfallen. He asked to go to the office to call his mother and she came over, embarrassing him by yelling at the science teacher. “I want to know who did this and what kind of teacher are you that this can happen in your classroom!” She went on and on and on. I jumped every time she raised her voice, and Daniel looked so ashamed. First his science project was destroyed, and then the whole class learned that his mother was loud and rude.
I didn’t want vengeance at such a high magnitude. My goal had been to make him upset, not to ruin his life. So ever since then, revenge hasn’t been my thing. I worry about what Lisa will do. Shakira is mean, but she’s all talk, no action. Her words hurt, but it isn’t like she’s out to destroy us. It seems like she’s crude and socially inept. Anyway, she’s so beautiful that I don’t think she cares too much about what other people are doing. Beautiful girls seem to live in their own bubble, unconcerned about the goings-on in other people’s lives. She jabs at us, but it doesn’t seem to be in a methodical, calculated manner. It’s like she’s one of those criminals who wakes up in the morning not planning to steal anything, but if she sees a purse lying in someone’s car, she’ll smash the window and take it. She sees our weaknesses and uses them against us when the opportunities are there. She saw that Maria made a mistake in wearing open-toed shoes, and she sees that I’m insecure about my looks. She also sees other things about me, things that I’m trying to hide from my classmates.
Between classes I wait for Lisa to come out of the bathroom so that we can walk together to our next class. I don’t realize it, but while I wait I’m totally staring at Peter. He’s at his locker and he bends down to pick up a book he dropped. He runs a hand through his thick, bouncy hair. Perfect.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” someone says in my ear.
I think that the voice is my imagination, but then I notice Shakira standing next to me. She’s so close to me that the filmy fabric of her sleeve brushes against the top of my shoulder.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I saw you staring,” she says.
“Staring at what?”
“Don’t play stupid. It’s obvious you’re in love with him.”
“With who?”
“Peter,” she says, narrowing her eyes.
Is this turning into a catfight? I’ve never been in a catfight before. I’ve seen episodes of clawing and hair pulling—which look fun as a bystander—and Shakira has been in her own tiff recently. Maybe Shakira is attracted to trouble. I wonder if I could take her on. She’s taller than me, but her arms look so thin and wimpy. I squeeze my arm, wondering if I’m stronger than her and could take her down. But that would be silly, because I’m an honor-roll student and honor-roll students don’t get into fights. That’s like a law.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stonily say.
“Okay, we’ll see.” She shrugs and walks toward Peter. She whispers something in his ear. Her proximity to him makes me angry. I should whoop her butt, but I don’t have Maria’s street confidence or muscle, and my parents would ground me for life.
Peter laughs and she giggles. Maybe they’re talking about me. Peter thinks it’s funny that I like him. Who am I, with my frizzy hair and glasses? And I’m not popular, either. Shakira isn’t popular with the girls, but she is with the boys, and she’s so enchanting that she’d be a better fit for Peter. Not me. Not Almira, boyfriendless girl that she is.
No, no, no—I can’t think so negatively. Just because Shakira is flirtatious with him doesn’t mean there’s dead space between me and Peter. I don’t imagine it when he squeezes my hand or arm, or sits too close to me when he has a question about a science lab … maybe he sees me as a friend, but the moments we have together are precious and electric to me. There might not be explosive fireworks between me and Peter yet, but with time they may develop. I can’t give up on that idea. Maybe my desires will become a reality some day and I just have to wait. I have to step things up if I’m going to compete with Shakira and Lisa. I have to find a way …
• • •
“Good afternoon,” Mr. Gregory says. Lisa ignores him and I give him a weak smile. He escorted Maria to the principal’s office. I know why he did that—because he’s an adult and an authority figure—but Lisa doesn’t want to forgive him.
“Girls, can I talk with you for a minute?” he says.
Lisa groans. She hates it when adults lecture to her. She rolls her eyes and frowns, whereas I space out and don’t pay attention. We all rebel in different ways.
We stand in the hallway as students walk past us to get inside the lab. “Do I detect an attitude over what happened yesterday?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Lisa says.
It’s just like Lisa to be more brutally honest than me, whereas I hate being confrontational.
“Maria’s our friend, Mr. Gregory,” I say. “I know you were just doing your job—”
“She didn’t deserve to be suspended,” Lisa interrupts.
“Actually, she did,” Mr. Gregory says in an even tone. “She laid her hands on someone and that’s something that should never be done, even during a volatile argument. How would you like it if someone pushed you?”
“I don’t say things that make anyone want to push me,” Lisa says, crossing her arms under her chest.
“Oh, really? You haven’t said or done anything offensive to anyone, ever?”
Lisa silently fumes, because she can’t agree to that. We all do something offensive every once in a while, whether we mean to or not. But the problem with Shakira is that she always acts with disregard to people’s feelings.
“We’ll get over it,” I say.
“I hope so,” Mr. Gregory says.
“I’m sure he’s acted in softie Lifetime movies,” Lisa whispers to me when we head toward our seats.
We giggle, thinking about Mr. Gregory’s pre-teacher life as a struggling actor. Peter’s sketching and, as usual, closes his sketchpad when he sees us come in. He gives us quizzical looks when he sees us laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. I look at him and wonder if Shakira has said anything to him about my feelings, which she guessed about correctly. Peter looks at me like he normally does. There’s no mischievous glint in his eyes, and
he doesn’t act or talk like he has a hidden agenda to play games with me. He seems good-natured and even switches my dirty stool, which has a piece of dried gum on it, with a cleaner one. He’s the perfect gentleman.
I touch the richly textured cardboard cover of his closed sketchpad, wondering what’s inside of it, who he’s drawing, and why he always closes the pad when we walk in. He takes the pad and places it in his bookbag, away from my prying eyes. He has good instincts, because I’m the type of person who goes through other people’s medicine cabinets. I can’t help it. I know which of my friends’ parents has a bacterial infection and who’s on birth control.
Our lab assignment for the day is to look at slides of various animal and plant tissues and identify their cell structures. Peter stands up to get our microscope, but Lisa says, “No, sit down, I’ll get it.”
She grabs her purse and goes to the back room where Mr. Gregory keeps books and lab supplies. Shakira is closer to the back room than Lisa is, but Lisa speeds ahead of her so that Shakira falls right behind Lisa in the line. One student after another goes inside to get a microscope. I watch Lisa come back to us with a microscope, one hand grasping the arm and her other hand supporting the base. She plugs it in and the light source at the bottom beams up toward the stage. I love working with microscopes and can’t wait to get my hands on it. Mr. Gregory walks around the room giving each group a small box of slides to work with.
I take a slide that’s labeled “fern” and adjust the focus controls until I see discernible green blobs. Peter leans toward me. “It’s still blurry,” I say.
“Let me see,” he says.
Our heads gently collide and I look into his eyes. We smile at each other, and today I’m able to smile. The swelling in my face has gone down, so I don’t look too freakish. I’m chipmunk-cheeked, but cutely so, I hope.
A burst of laughter erupts from the back of the room. All of us turn around. Shakira has a black eye.
“Who punched her?” a girl next to me asks loudly.
“Maria! Maria! Maria!”
“What! Maria’s in the room?”
There’s confusion. We all think Maria or one of Maria’s friends gave Shakira the black eye. People are yelling, wanting to believe that there had been a brawl while we were all busy with our microscope work. Shakira touches her eye. She takes a mirror out of her purse and her eyes widen as she looks at her reflection. I want to know who punched her when none of us saw anything.
Mr. Gregory holds his hands up and we quiet down. He inspects Shakira’s eye and the microscope she was using. “Her microscope is dirty,” he says. After he runs a finger around the lens, it comes back with some black, charcoal-type substance on it. “It’s probably dust or someone spilled soil on it. I have plants back there.”
“May I go to the bathroom, Mr. Gregory?” Shakira asks in a muted voice.
He hands her a pass and she leaves. Shakira won’t look at anyone and I can swear that her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.
“That was rough,” Peter says. “Mr. Gregory should clean his things better.”
“Absolutely,” Lisa says. “I bumped into a shelf back there and my skirt got covered in dust.”
“Yeah, that room’s pretty grungy,” I agree.
Peter goes back to looking at a slide. As I admire his good looks, Lisa grabs my arm.
“What?” I ask, turning to her.
“Didn’t that feel great?” she whispers in my ear.
I stand back and look at her. Then she opens her purse and takes out an eyeliner pencil that’s worn down to a nub. My jaw drops.
Peter puts his hand on my shoulder and I turn around. “You have to look at this,” he says. He adjusts the microscope, so now I can see everything clearly. The cells look exactly as they do in the illustrations from the textbook, but I don’t care. My mind is reeling from what Lisa did. Shakira looked so upset. We want her to feel that way, but now that she’s visibly shaken, I feel bad. Lisa, on the other hand, has a smirk stuck on her face.
“So I’ll see you tonight,” Peter says.
“Sure,” I say. The fact that he looks happy that we’re all meeting up again for Parent Night doesn’t appease me. Usually any morsel of his attention shoots my spirits straight to the sky, but not this time.
“Mom, I’m going out with some friends after Parent Night is over,” I say.
“Where are you going?” Mom asks.
“A pizza place.”
“That’s fine.”
“Who’s going to be there?” Grandpa asks.
“Lisa, Jennifer, Jillian, Erica, Peter—”
“Peter!”
“Yes, he’s in our classes.”
Grandpa sits in our living room, frowning. Grandma sits next to him watching Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil is yelling at someone to get her life straight. I’m so glad that I don’t have a Dr. Phil in my life. All day with someone telling me what to do? It’s bad enough that my parents and grandparents constrict the goings-on in my life. Dr. Phil seems much worse.
“Why is this Peter coming?” Grandpa asks.
“She already told you that he’s a boy in her class,” Mom says.
“Well, I don’t think she should be going out with any boys,” Grandpa says, the old country seeping out of his voice.
“He’s Lisa’s date,” I say. She asked him out and she wants to claim him, even though it hurts my heart to think that he’s going out with another girl.
“Oh, okay,” Grandpa says, dropping the subject.
Mom has already straightened my hair with a ceramic iron. She makes it look so easy, but whenever I use the iron by myself, my hair looks crunchy and slightly wavy. I stare at my reflection, running my hands through my straight, tangle-free, shiny hair. Amazing.
I really don’t want to wear my glasses. My fickle eyes reject contacts most of the time, but I want to see how they react toward Parent Night. I slip in my contact lenses, blinking at the sensation of foreign objects on my irises. They’re comfortable enough. So it’s a good eye day for me. I toss some eye drops in my purse just in case.
I shimmy into my purple dress and swish around the full-length mirror attached to my closet. My high heels feel tight, but I’ll get used to them. I put the thinnest amount of eyeliner on my eyes, the pencil reminding me of Lisa’s dastardly deed. So wrong. Next comes blush and mascara, and I’m done with applying makeup since I don’t want to put on too much with Grandpa still in the house. I touch my tender cheeks. The makeup will distract people from the puffiness in my face.
I want to leave early, but Mom is taking forever to dress. Dad and I are watching the news in the living room when I remember something: I never found a knight and maiden picture for Peter. If I find one for him, then he’ll know that I think about him and care for him without coming on too strong. (I don’t have enough experience in the love department to know if boys like it when girls throw themselves at them.)
I tell Dad I need more hair spray, and instead of heading to the bathroom I go to my computer. I look through Google. I watch the clock nervously as I skim through pages of images. I want the best picture that exists of a knight and maiden. Then I find one. The knight is handsome. The maiden is wearing a billowing dress that flows around her like an upside-down flower. The colors are very lively, as if the painting was restored or enhanced by computer imaging. There are horses and a stream in the background. There’s no time to daydream about the knight and maiden being me and Peter (I can daydream about that before I go to bed tonight or during school tomorrow). I hurriedly stick photo paper in my printer and print it out. But when will it dry? I slip the picture in a small envelope and hope it won’t smear too much by the time I see Peter. I save the picture on my desktop in case I need it again.
My grandparents leave and Dad drives us to school. Mom is looking smoking hot as usual with a tight
brown dress, and Dad wears a navy suit. The front of the school is packed with cars, so we have to park on the lawn. I watch people step out of cars. Parent Night is such a major affair. Everyone is dressed so nice, as if they’re going to a fancy dinner rather than to a get-together with teachers. Opulent Parent Nights are the norm in my school; it’s more important than freshman orientation, although far less fancy than prom. My friends at other schools say that their Parent Nights are nothing special, but Coral Gables Preparatory makes theirs seem like a big deal. It’s exhilarating to see my grungy-looking classmates, who wear shorts and T-shirts during the day, come to Parent Night dressed glamorously. I don’t recognize my classmates in their designer ensembles, with their hair done and faces made up. Boys who look average during the daytime are handsome in their suits and ties.
I find Lisa and we screech at each other. Lisa has bouncy curls swept into a loose ponytail, heavy makeup, and a little black dress. I give her a hug. Mom and Dad look at each other as if I’m crazy. They don’t get the meaning of this night for us—we get to look like grownups and we’ll eat dinner with Peter at the end of the evening.
Lisa and I share almost every class, so we’re following each other. “She needs to revise her writing before turning in assignments,” Ms. Odige tells my parents. Oh, I didn’t expect anything negative to be said about me, but teachers are honest on these nights, unleashing the hard truth on our parents. “I have to separate her and Lisa sometimes,” my history teacher says.
Bestest. Ramadan. Ever. Page 9
