So Not Okay

by Nancy Rue

  And when did she become the boss of me?

  “I’ll call my mom at lunch,” I said, “but A—she always wants me to bring friends home. And B—we could have a whole party in our house and my dad wouldn’t know it because he gets all focused and stuff.”

  “I like the way you talk,” Ginger said, smiling at me. Her teeth were about the color of butter, but she looked almost happy for the first time since she got to Gold Country Middle School. “You know, with A and B. It sounds like a real scientist.”

  “She’s the smartest one in the class,” Winnie said.

  Any other time I would’ve felt pretty good about that. But when fourth period ended and everybody tore out of there for lunch, Ophelia grabbed me and dragged me to the back corner of the room.

  “You invited her to your house?” she said. I wasn’t sure she was ever going to get her teeth unstuck again. “You promised we didn’t have to hang out with her except for the project!”

  “This is for the project.”

  “You’re just trying to ruin our lives!”

  “That’s a hyperbole,” I said. Too bad Mrs. Fickus wasn’t there to hear that.

  “I’m not being a drama queen.” Ophelia flipped her braid over her shoulder. Nobody could say that wasn’t dramatic. “If Kylie and the Pack find out we’re all going to your house with Ginger, we’ll all be in a worse place than Ginger is now.”

  “Why would they find out? It’s not like we’re announcing it to the whole class.”

  “They’ll know. They know everybody’s business.”

  I forced myself not to roll my eyes. “It’s just ’til the project’s over, and then you won’t ever have to even look at her again.”

  “You’re making it sound like I’m the one who’s mean.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I shrugged.

  “We used to talk about everything before,” she said. “Are we even still best friends?”

  “Yes!” I said. “Why are you even asking me that?”

  “I have to make sure. I wouldn’t do this for somebody that wasn’t my best friend.”

  “All we’re doing is a science project,” I said.

  “Do you promise?” Her eyes were filling up with big dewy tears.

  Which was why I said, “I promise.”

  She threw her arms around me and squealed, “I love you!”

  Jeepers.

  Chapter Eight

  Snow was falling again in big fat flakes that stuck like cat paw prints to my kitchen bay window as our group got around the table after school. With the five cups of hot chocolate I made in the microwave and the package of Oreos Mom told me on the phone we could have (once I promised we wouldn’t disturb Dad or leave our chocolate-dried-up-in-the-bottom mugs all over the place) and the outside all sparkly with frost, it could’ve been like one of those winter afternoons you read about in books.

  All we needed was a fire in the fireplace—except who has a fireplace in their kitchen?—and a smile on somebody’s face—except everybody looked like they had a hair ball they couldn’t cough up.

  Maybe not Ginger. She seemed kind of excited. Her eyes, which I noticed for the first time were like a pair of blueberries, got all round, and she kept looking at me and giving me the butter yellow smile.

  “What are you so happy about?” Mitch said to her as I was putting the last mug of cocoa on the table in front of Ophelia.

  “I haven’t been invited to anybody’s house since I moved here,” she said.

  Ophelia ignored the hot chocolate. “This isn’t exactly a party.”

  Mitch pulled up the corner of her Valentine place mat. “Sort of looks like a party.”

  “My mom does this stuff for every holiday,” I said.

  “The ones shaped like four-leaf clovers are my favorites,” Winnie said.

  “Could we just get started?” Ophelia glanced at her wrist like she was wearing a watch, which she wasn’t. “I don’t have that much time.”

  I knew for a fact that Ophelia didn’t have to be home until six and that since it was snowing her dad would be picking her up so she didn’t even have to walk the exactly five minutes it took to get from my house to hers.

  But she kept staring at me, bug-eyed, so I pulled out the paper Mr. V had given us to fill in for our proposal. The only thing I had written on it was our question.

  “Step two,” I read.

  That was as far as I got. Nestlé, who had finally finished sniffing everybody and putting his slobbery ball into each person’s lap trying to convince somebody it was their job to play with him, jumped from his rug and bounded across the kitchen. I didn’t have to hear the coffee cups clicking together to know Lydia had arrived.

  Winnie withered like she’d just seen a troll, and Ophelia stared with her chin practically hitting her chest. Even Mitch didn’t move for a minute.

  “Tori!” Ginger said. “You have a dwarf!”

  “No, she did not just say that,” Ophelia muttered to me.

  She did. Which seemed to give Mitch permission to open up too.

  “Why does she limp?” she said.

  “So!” I said, in a voice that made Ginger’s sound like a whisper. “How are we supposed to prove or not prove that there’s a part of the brain that makes a person mean?”

  “I can help you with that.”

  Lydia left the mugs on the counter and came over to the table, and Mitch was right. She did have sort of a limp that made her rock from side to side when she walked. With only a glare, she lowered Nestlé back to his rug and then stood at the table with her chin barely clearing the top so that all I could see was her wide face and her gigantic mop of dark curls. Even tiny Winnie had to look down at her.

  “How can you help?” Mitch said. “Are you mean?”

  I bit my lip so I wouldn’t say, “Well, kind of.”

  “I bet people have been mean to you!” That came from Ophelia who seemed to have forgotten she’d taken a vow of silence. Her brown eyes were all bright and interested.

  Lydia opened her mouth to answer, but Ginger cut her right off. “I don’t see how you can help us unless you’re a brain scientist.”

  It was sort of a relief to know I wasn’t the only one who turned into a babbler when Lydia was around.

  But Lydia looked at Ginger the way she’d never looked at me. As in, like Ginger might be an intelligent human being.

  “I’m not a brain scientist,” she said, “but I’m a professional researcher. I know how to put a research project together.”

  “Why would you help us?” Mitch said.

  Ophelia raised her hand. Lydia did sort of make you want to wait your turn before you talked.

  “Yes . . . ?” Lydia said.

  “Who—”

  “Name?”

  “Oh, sorry. Ophelia.”

  “Go on.”

  Ophelia fiddled with the end of her braid. “So, not to be rude or anything, but, um, who are you?”

  “She’s my dad’s assistant,” I said.

  “And my name”—long, pointy look at me—“is Lydia.”

  Mom would’ve been getting on me about not making introductions, but jeepers.

  Ginger waved her arm. “I’m Ginger.”

  Everyone told Lydia their names. Winnie squeaked hers. Ginger continued to wave her arm the whole time, but Lydia didn’t even look like she wanted to roll her eyes. Instead, she turned to me and jerked her head toward the empty chair.

  “Do you mind?”

  “No!” Ginger said. “Do you need a pillow to sit on or something?”

  She was already halfway out of her seat, probably planning to grab one of Mom’s heart-shaped cushions from the living room, which practically had “These are just to look at!” written all over them. But Lydia was pulling The Second Gold Rush by Nathan Taylor, PhD, from the snack bar where Dad had left it. I couldn’t believe she was actually going to use it for a booster seat, but she did, and I sure wasn’t going to tell her she couldn’t.


  How could somebody that small seem so . . . powerful?

  When she was finally settled, she folded her hands on the table in a way that made me think of the word tidy and nodded at the sheet in front of me. She nodded a lot.

  “So you want to find out whether being mean is nature or nurture,” she said.

  “We do?” Ginger said.

  Ophelia’s already big eyes got bigger. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means is there something wrong with mean people’s brains or were they brought up that way?” Mitch grunted. “I already told you what I think.”

  “Which is?” Lydia said. “Oh, and that was impressive by the way. It takes guys with doctoral degrees entire books just to get the question right. You said it all in seventeen words.”

  I counted. She was right.

  “I think some people come out mean.”

  Ginger cocked her head at Mitch. “Have you ever seen a mean baby?”

  A sound bubbled out of Lydia that sounded like a little kid gurgling. Maybe a grown-up little kid.

  “I like it,” Lydia said. “You’re going to get some lively debate going while you’re working on this.”

  “Fighting with each other is good?” Winnie wasn’t squeaking now but that could change at any minute. She was half hidden behind Ophelia’s right shoulder.

  “Debating’s not fighting. It’s healthy banter. Here’s what I suggest to get you started.” Lydia was still looking at Mr. V’s proposal sheet. “Are you meeting here tomorrow?”

  “Monday,” I said. “Tomorrow’s kind of like Valentine’s Day, only it isn’t—it’s really Saturday, but my dad and I always—never mind. We’re meeting Monday.”

  Lydia didn’t act like I’d just done the kindergarten babbling thing. She just said, “And would you like my help?”

  “Hello, yes!” Ginger said. Well, bellowed.

  Nestlé looked at me like, “Why does she have to do that? I’m trying to sleep here.”

  Mitch gave her approval grunt, and Winnie nodded and actually came out from behind Ophelia. Even Ophelia herself said, “Yes. Because if you don’t, this is gonna be a total disaster and we’re all gonna get Fs and that isn’t even gonna be the worst part.”

  “Do I want to know what the worst part is?” Lydia said.

  “No,” I said.

  Ginger obviously thought Lydia was the best thing ever. Winnie wasn’t doing her mouse imitation. Ophelia was getting that “you fascinate me” thing going on. Now I was the only who was ready to kick somebody under the table.

  I wasn’t sure making Lydia the leader of our group was a good idea at all. How was I supposed to work for thirteen days with somebody who didn’t like me?

  And then Ophelia swiveled herself toward me while everybody else was offering Lydia Oreos and she said, right into my ear, “Wouldn’t this be perfect if it wasn’t for . . . you know.”

  How was I supposed to work for thirteen days with somebody who didn’t like me, again? I should just ask Ginger.

  “Okay,” I said. “Where do you want us to start?”

  “I suggest that each of you come back Monday with a situation where someone has been mean to you. The kind of mean you’re studying here.”

  Ginger went with the hand waving again. “I can tell you mine right now.”

  “Monday’s good,” Lydia said.

  “That’s our last time to work on this before we have to turn in the proposal,” Mitch said.

  Lydia glanced at the sheet. “I see that. Guess we’ll have to get right to work Monday then.”

  She climbed down from her chair and picked up the book.

  “I’ll do that for you,” Ginger said, and she tripped over Nestlé trying to get to Lydia.

  “Thank you,” Lydia said to her. “But just so you know, I can do most things for myself and I prefer to. I think we all do.”

  She smiled at Ginger, something I had never seen her do before.

  At least somebody liked Ginger.

  Which was good because Ophelia’s not liking Ginger was out of control. As soon as Mitch and Ginger piled into Winnie’s mom’s car to go home, Ophelia hauled me to my bedroom and closed the door, leaving Nestlé whining in the hall. After Ophelia started in, I didn’t even hear him anymore.

  “I think it’s really cool and everything that Linda is gonna help us,” she said.

  “Lydia,” I said.

  “Whatever! It’ll probably keep us from getting an F. But, Tori, what are we gonna do about her?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who I mean!”

  Ophelia sat down on my bed so hard all the cushions and throw pillows tumbled over on themselves.

  “We can’t put her up in front of the class with us. Did you see her today?” She did an exaggerated imitation of Ginger waving her arms. “She’s gonna do that, and she’s gonna interrupt everybody and—” Phee shuddered. “It is going to be horrible.”

  “So we don’t give her a presentation part. I won’t be up there either.”

  Ophelia flung herself back on the bed and crossed her arms over her face. I would have told her she had just gone beyond drama queen if she hadn’t started crying.

  “You don’t get it!” she said. “This is awful, and it’s just going to go on and on and on way after this stupid project is over.”

  “Come on, Phee,” I said. “It doesn’t have to be that bad.”

  She let a few sobs go before she suddenly sat up and looked at me really hard. “You’re right,” she said. “It doesn’t.”

  She let that hang in the air like I was supposed to know what she was going to say next. I didn’t. I wasn’t even sure who I was talking to.

  “You have to be the one who stands up in front of the Pack and the BBAs and tell them what makes them mean.”

  “That’s not how we always do it—”

  “Nothing is like how we always do it anymore.”

  I had to give her that.

  She was crying again. “If you do the presentation part by yourself, maybe it’ll be okay. And you owe it to us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” She folded her arms hard. “You got us into this.”

  She looked toward the window. The lights of a car flashed across the frosty glass.

  “My dad’s here,” she said. “Do you promise?”

  “I already promised we would just include Ginger for the project.”

  “I know, but you have to promise this too. You can’t make Winnie stand up there, and for sure not Ginger and not me. You and Mitch maybe—only it isn’t Mitch’s fault . . .”

  “Jeepers, Phee, come on!”

  “Promise, Tori. You already made things bad enough. You can’t make it worse. If you’re really my friend and Winnie’s and not Ginger’s like you said, then you’ll do this.”

  I didn’t say anything, not until I heard her dad blow the car horn. By then, the tears had stopped rolling down Ophelia’s cheeks. Her big round eyes were squinted into long dashes, and for a minute, my best friend looked almost like a wolf.

  “I hate standing up in front of people,” I said.

  “I know. But if you want—”

  “Okay,” I said and shrugged.

  And only because I didn’t want her to finish that sentence.

  The horn blew again, and Ophelia hugged me while I stood there all stiff and then she left.

  Nestlé hurried into the room and gave my hand a do-you-still-love-me nudge.

  “I thought I was gonna have a hard time thinking of something for Lydia’s assignment,” I said to him, “because nobody was ever really mean to me.” My voice broke in half as I whispered, “Until just now.”

  Chapter Nine

  The next day was Friday the thirteenth.

  I was probably the only person in the sixth grade at Gold Country Middle School who thought of it that way because everybody else saw it as Valentine’s Day. The actual Valentine’s Day was the day after that, but what was the fun o
f that if you weren’t at school?

  Of course, it wasn’t as much fun as it was in elementary school. Back then, everybody got a Valentine from everybody else, and even though they weren’t supposed to have parties in the classroom, the teachers and the mothers always figured out a way to have one, like taking us on a field trip to the Empire Mine that day and then serving us cupcakes or candy from the Lazy Dog.

  But Valentine’s Day was completely different in middle school. We didn’t have those individual mailboxes we spent a week making out of shoe boxes and paper lace thingies and too much glue. Anybody who wanted to give somebody a Valentine had to pass it to them in the hall or stick it in through the vent slot in their locker. Or text them.

  Ophelia and Winnie and I all gave each other homemade cards. Mine from Ophelia said on the inside: “Thanks for promising. I love you.” It kind of made me not want to eat the cupcake she gave me at lunch. I choked it down because (A) she was sitting right there and (B) her mom never skimped on the Red Hots.

  What I really didn’t expect was the pile of envelopes that fell out of my locker when I opened it after lunch. It was like a landslide of pink and red. I didn’t have time to see who they were from because the bell was about to ring and we were headed for Mrs. No-Tolerance-for-Tardies class, so I unzipped my backpack to stuff them in. There were about five more already in there. Jeepers. Winnie and Ophelia went all out.

  But when I found a stack of them on my desk in English, my radar went into effect. Even my BFF wouldn’t go this all out.

  I looked around for Mrs. Fickus, but she was still standing outside the door. I shoved all the envelopes but one into my pack. There was just enough time to read it before the bell rang, so I pulled out the card, which had been made on a computer. On the front was a picture of a heart with a crack down the middle of it. I opened it.

  Big mistake.

  “You’re breaking everybody’s heart by even showing up at school,” it said. “You reek like moldy gingerbread.”

  My mouth suddenly tasted bitter. Like after you eat kale.

  I wasn’t going to be opening any more of those.

  For about seven seconds, I wondered if it did come from Phee. It wasn’t a logical assumption, but (A) she was at least fifty percent less happy with me than usual and (B) everything was changing so . . .