So Not Okay

by Nancy Rue

  The more I thought about it, the worse my ideas were. I told Ophelia about some of them on the phone Saturday night, and she went all drama queen on me. She did that sometimes, probably because her whole family was into acting. She always wanted to try out for parts in the movies my dad consulted on.

  “If we get up there and start talking about boys’ Adam’s apples and stuff, we might as well plan to change schools right after,” she said in her theater voice.

  “I didn’t say we should—”

  “And do you know where your appendix is”?

  “It’s down—”

  “I’m not gonna point to that in front of those boy creatures, are you?”

  “No—”

  “And your grandmother’s skin? What were you thinking?”

  “Do you have any ideas?” I said.

  I didn’t usually get all prickly with Phee, but jeepers.

  “I’m not the idea person.” I could almost see her lower lip folding out like a sofa. “I’m the presentation person.”

  “Well, we gotta think of something to present.”

  The fuzzy sound of Ophelia sighing came through the phone. “Sorry, Tor. I don’t know why I’m all freaked out about this.”

  “I am too,” I said. “And I don’t know why either.”

  So that made two questions nagging at me when I sat in church the next day. (A) What were we going to do for this stupid project? and (B) Why was I sifting every idea through what the Pack and the BBAs were going to say filter? A week ago that wouldn’t even have crossed my mind.

  Granna slid into the pew beside me, tucking me between her and Dad. Of course she kissed me on top of my head and of course she was ten minutes late. Our pastor, who we all called Jake because he didn’t want to be called anything else, was already starting the sermon.

  “In today’s Gospel,” he said.

  Granna gave me one of her elbow jabs. “What was the Gospel? I missed it.”

  I could smell why. She had pancake syrup on her breath. They always served a big breakfast at the Bret Harte on Sunday mornings.

  “We all know the story of the Good Samaritan . . .”

  “Got it.” Granna’s eyes twinkled at me. “This is one of those ‘You tell ’em, Jesus’ stories. I like these.”

  Mom leaned forward on the other side of Dad and gave me a look. Like I was the one talking barely below a street voice in church. I looked at Granna and put a finger to my lips. She nodded like she got it. She usually did. Except when she thought a story about the Spider Dance lady would help me with the Wolf Pack.

  Dad nudged me. Was I wearing a sign that said, Hey, poke me!?

  “See the girl in the third row? Dark hair?” he whispered.

  I saw the back of a bunch of curls. “Uh-huh,” I whispered back.

  “That’s Lydia.”

  “Who’s Lydia?”

  “My assistant.”

  “She goes to church here?”

  “Looks that way.”

  Mom shoved her shoulder into Dad’s. At least I wasn’t the only one getting bruised up.

  “Shh,” Dad said to me.

  Really? Really?

  It didn’t surprise me actually. My parents didn’t talk a lot about God at home except for us saying the blessing at the table and Mom telling a friend on the phone that she’d pray for her. But we went to church most Sundays and I was expected to show respect for God by being quiet like a lady and paying attention to what was going on.

  Nobody was making it easy that day. Besides all the nudging and poking and jabbing and shushing, Granna kept grunting at whatever Jake was saying. I tried to pay attention, but I got all hung up on whether the Samaritan guy was an actual doctor.

  When the service was over, Granna said to me, “Victoria, my pet, I hope you were listening because that was the perfect story for your situation.”

  I thought Lola Montez was supposed to be my perfect solution. But I said, “Yeah, Granna.”

  I was relieved that she moved on to where we were going for lunch.

  It was just as hard to concentrate on coming up with a science project at school as it was at home. That was because the Pack went from acting like Ginger was carrying the H1N1 virus to turning on her like she was their next meal and they were out to take her down. Ophelia and Winnie and I watched it all from our place—where Wolf radar couldn’t detect us.

  Every morning I’d see them in their den, heads all bent together, going over the day’s battle plan. I knew that’s what they were up to even though I couldn’t hear what they were saying as I hurried up the steps. Maybe I didn’t want to.

  But I sure saw what they came up with. Everybody did.

  Except the teachers.

  Izzy and Shelby grabbed Ginger’s backpack while she was opening her locker and dumped it into the trash can on top of somebody’s rotten banana. Where was Mr. Zabriski with some yelling about ’tudes?

  Between classes Ginger ended up with gum in her hair at least three times. Once she had to go to the nurse and came back to fifth period with a small chunk cut out of her already pretty sad do. Mrs. Fickus didn’t appear to notice—this the woman who could spot a wrong comma from fifty paces.

  The Pack must have had a bunch of inside jokes about Ginger because in science when we were supposed to be working in our groups, Kylie and the rest of them would go wild laughing whenever Ginger looked their way. And Mr. V would say, “I’m glad you’re enjoying your project so much, but let’s try to keep it down to a roar.” Like the rest of the teachers, he just wasn’t seeing it.

  And it didn’t stop even in the cafeteria. Ginger would go by the Pack, and they would all imitate the way she walked—sort of like a bulldozer—and the way she yelled everything. Then when she turned around they would “forget” to stop doing it and laugh. Only it didn’t sound like laughing to me, or even howling. It was more like the sixth-grade version of neener-neener-neener we used to do on the playground in first grade.

  Thursday at lunch Ginger really lost it.

  “Stop it!” she screamed at them.

  “Stop what?” Heidi said.

  “That! Making fun of me. It hurts my feelings!”

  Kylie did an eye roll so dramatic it made Ophelia look like an amateur. “We were just kidding,” she said. “People don’t tease you unless they like you.”

  Ginger’s face brightened up. “You like me?”

  “No,” Kylie said. And then they all turned away from her at exactly the same second in exactly the same way and neenered until I thought they were all going to pass out.

  I wished they would.

  When I looked back to see how Ginger was taking it, she was gone.

  “That was horrible,” Ophelia whispered.

  Winnie’s eyes were already leaking. “I’m so glad they’re not picking on me anymore. I couldn’t handle that.”

  Ophelia put both hands on Winnie’s. “They wouldn’t. Because you don’t bring it on yourself.”

  I stared at her.

  “Ginger kind of does,” Ophelia said. “I’m not saying what Kylie and those girls are doing is okay, but it wouldn’t be happening if Ginger wasn’t so . . . I don’t know.”

  The bell rang, and Ophelia and Winnie gathered up their trash. I just sat there.

  “You coming, Tori?” Winnie said.

  “Go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute,” I said.

  Ophelia gave my neck a quick squeeze. “Don’t be late or Mrs. Fickus’ll give you lunch detention.”

  I didn’t answer, but I was thinking I’d rather have detention than have to eat watching something like that again. My stomach was doing one belly flop after another.

  I pulled my English notebook out of my backpack and tore out a sheet of paper. My pen hovered over it until Mr. Jett called from the doorway, “Let’s go, Tori. The bell’s about to ring.” I scribbled, “Don’t pay attention to anything they say,” and folded the paper. And then I had no idea what to do with it, so I stuck it into my notebook an
d took off for fifth period.

  My ’tude needed some major adjusting when I got home from school that afternoon. A cup of hot chocolate should take care of that. I was allowed to make it myself as long as I used the microwave.

  “It’s way better when you heat up the milk on the stove,” I told Nestlé as he trailed me down the hall and through the living room and dining room, his toenails clicking on the hardwood parts between the rugs. “Maybe when I’m in seventh grade, Mom will let me—”

  Both my mouth and my feet stopped in the kitchen doorway. Nestlé pushed past me and wagged his way over to the curly-haired person who was standing at the counter in front of the coffeepot. I didn’t wag. I stared.

  She looked at me just over the top of Nestlé’s head and said, “I’m Lydia. Your dad’s research assistant. You must be Tori.”

  No, I must be somebody else. Somebody whose dad wouldn’t tell her that his assistant was the size of Ophelia’s six-year-old sister Bianca and had short arms and legs and a head that seemed to be too big for the rest of her. My father would have prepared me so I didn’t just stand there with my chin hitting my chest.

  “Nice to meet you too,” she said. Her tone was dry. Her voice itself . . . I expected her to start singing about the Yellow Brick Road.

  “Sorry,” I blurted out. “My dad didn’t tell me you were a . . . midget.”

  “That’s because I’m not. Technically I’m a dwarf, but we prefer to be called ‘little people.’ ”

  That’s all she could say at the moment because Nestlé was leaning against her and squishing her against the cabinet. He pushed so hard she ended up sitting down on a step stool I hadn’t seen since I could finally reach the sink in the bathroom. I guess she’d need that to get to the coffeepot.

  “You think you could get him off me?” Lydia said.

  “Sorry,” I said again. I snapped my fingers at Nestlé.

  He looked at me, then back at her, like he was trying to make a decision.

  “Really? He’s crushing me.”

  “Sorry.” Had I said it at least forty times already?

  I grabbed Nestlé’s collar and dragged him away from her. Lydia stood up and climbed to the top of the step stool.

  “I like dogs,” she said. “I just don’t like to be smushed by them.”

  “Sorry.”

  Okay. It was official. I had lost my entire vocabulary except for that one word. Too bad, because now that the initial shock was over, there were about eighty questions I wanted to ask this “little person.” Maybe I would have asked at least one if she hadn’t said, “In about thirty seconds, I’m going to be walking through here with two cups of hot coffee. I think it would be a good idea if you got Bruiser out of the room first.”

  Of course I said, “Sorry. And his name’s not Bruiser. It’s Nestlé.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Clever.”

  And then I stood there and watched as she filled two mugs that were bigger than her hands. She turned to me and lowered her chin.

  “So, dog? Out?”

  I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t say the apology word again and dragged Nestlé to the back door and shoved him out. By the time I turned around, Lydia had already rounded the corner into the dining room.

  My dad was toast.

  Chapter Five

  But I forgot to talk to Dad about Lydia—or even to tell Phee—because the next day, Friday, was not a good day.

  First of all, the Pack versus Ginger thing was really getting to me. As in, it was hard to concentrate with all that going on.

  Izzy or Shelby or Heidi kept calling her by her nickname, which they’d decided was “Gingerbread,” until her face turned as red as her hair, and she whirled around and said, “What?”

  Then they went after her.

  “You must eat a lot of gingerbread, right?”

  “So what did you do with the money your mom gave you for shampoo?”

  Or the worst: “Why are you looking at us? You’re a freak.”

  I tried not to observe any more, but I couldn’t help watching because I couldn’t believe it was happening. And from that, one thing struck me as strange.

  It was almost never Kylie who actually said that stuff to Ginger. I saw her whisper to Riannon, who whispered to one of the other three and that person would deliver the message into Ginger’s face. Kylie only smiled like she’d just been elected president.

  Ginger’s skin wasn’t getting any thicker.

  But I had a problem of my own. Our group still hadn’t thought of a question for the project in science, even though we had fifteen minutes out of fourth period every day to work together.

  All the other groups had theirs, and Kylie’s Pack had already presented their proposal to Mr. V. He had the groups do those back in the lab, not in front of the whole class, but it was hard not to overhear the Pack’s since they did it as a cheer. Complete with pom-poms.

  And their question? Why are some people more beautiful than others?

  “Do you believe Mr. V is letting them use that?” Ophelia whispered to our group while the Pack was still going rah-rah-rah.

  “Yes,” Mitch said. The word came out like a grunt. “He just thinks everybody’s wonderful.”

  Mr. V wasn’t going to think we were so wonderful if we didn’t come up with a question. “I got an idea,” Mitch said.

  “You do?” I thought Winnie was going to hug her. That’s how desperate we were because . . . you just didn’t hug Mitch.

  “ ‘Why can’t girls play football?’ ”

  “Because they’re girls,” Ophelia said.

  “I think that’s her suggestion for a question,” I said.

  “A-a-a-nd I don’t think that’s going to work.”

  We all looked up at Mr. V. I was ready to hug him. I did not want to spend the next three weeks thinking about boys in gigantic shoulder pads and helmets that made them look like extraterrestrials.

  Mr. V half sat on an empty desktop. “I think you’re making it too hard on yourselves.”

  I didn’t point out that we weren’t the ones making it hard. It was his assignment.

  Jeepers, I was even getting prickly with Mr. V.

  “Look around you. Notice what bothers you, what you can’t wrap your mind around.”

  When he left us to deal with something involving armpits in the BBA group, Ophelia whispered, “What was he even talking about?”

  Winnie started to cry. I was getting close to that myself. And I hardly ever cried.

  So, talk about your ’tudes—mine was not good when we got to sixth period. Spanish was my worst subject anyway and I really needed to pay attention, but instead of my mind wrapping around it, whatever that actually meant, it kept wandering off into the land of What if we never think of anything and we get an F? What if I get taken out of the smart section? What if—

  “Señorita Tori!”

  I did some kind of spasm and knocked my notebook off my desk. Mrs. Bernstein picked it up and handed it to me. I didn’t look at her face. Didn’t have to. I knew her velvet black eyebrows were in upside-down Vs and her eyes were drilling into me over her really sharp cheekbones.

  “Por qué (la something) . . . Señorita (el something) . . . trabajar ahora?”

  I couldn’t remember the word for what so I said, “Cómo?”

  “ ‘How’?” Mrs. Bernstein said. Her lips wobbled like she couldn’t keep from laughing. At me.

  All I could do was shrug.

  She shrugged back.

  She was imitating me? In front of the class?

  She wasn’t the only one. In the row next to me, Kylie was doing exactly the same thing. Mrs. Bernstein looked down at her, ponytail flopping as she turned her head. “Do you know what that means, Kylie?” she said, doing another really big version of my shrug. Like, up to her gold hoop earrings.

  “No, ma’am,” Kylie said.“I was trying to figure it out.”

  “When you do, let me know.” Mrs. Bernstein pressed a brown finger on my open
Spanish book. “We’re on number sixteen in case you want to catch up.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Lo siento.” Mrs. Bernstein’s sarcastic voice was as pointy as her cheekbones. “That makes everything okay. It’s right up there with, ‘It’s all good.’ ”

  Kylie laughed. Not her Leader of the Pack laugh. It was the kind of laugh one grown-up shares with another when they know something the little kids don’t know.

  All I knew was that it wasn’t “all good.”

  I opened my notebook—while I was waiting for my face to return to its normal temperature—and I was surprised that I couldn’t exactly see the homework I’d done there. My eyes were all blurry. I blinked the way Riannon did when she was announcing to the world that she had something in her contact lens. I was so not going to cry.

  I turned the page to find number sixteen. The note I’d written to Ginger was folded there.

  Mrs. Bernstein had gone back to the front of the room and was hiking herself up onto the front edge of her desk so that the sandals she even wore in winter could flop around. Good. She was too far away to see that I had a note. Her reading it out loud to the class—not what I needed right then.

  But as I tucked the note farther back in my notebook, I realized I knew something I didn’t know before sixth period started. I knew why Ginger didn’t just “get a thicker skin.”

  Over the weekend, I wanted to talk to Mom about everything that was going on, but with Valentine’s Day only a week away, she was at her shop from way early in the morning until I was ready to go to bed. By then, all she could do was give me a hug and say, “Hang in there, Tor. This’ll be over soon.” And remind me to wear something besides my unladylike—but favorite—Einstein sweatshirt.

  Ophelia and her family had gone to Lake Tahoe. Not to ski, but to see two Shakespeare plays. She was excited because all six of the kids and their mom and dad were dressing in Renaissance costumes. They would probably have better ones than the actors, thanks to their mom. I knew Phee would come back to school Monday saying stuff like “alas” and “forsooth.” It wasn’t my thing, but I kind of loved that about her. She definitely dared to be different—but only with Winnie and me.