I stared at the center of my fake meat loaf. It was very, very gray.
“Your homework pile looks huge tonight,” my dad said.
“It was that big Friday night,” I said. “I have a feeling it’s always going to be that big. Maybe bigger.” I poked my meat loaf again. I guess I sort of expected it to react.
“How was geography?” my dad asked. “Are you studying bears yet?”
I shook my head.
“What did you learn?” he asked.
I thought very hard. I didn’t take a lot of notes in geography today, on account of the fact that I was completely freaked out about living in loner town and people having read my diary. Also, I was eating my lunch cookies. “I learned that some days in the Arctic during the winter, the sun never rises and during the summer, the sun never sets.”
My dad whistled. Which is something he did when he heard an interesting fact or statistic. Then he stabbed his meat loaf again. “I need more ketchup.”
I passed him the bottle. It was almost empty. Whap. Whap. Whap.
Then there was a lot of silence while we chewed. And I wasn’t sure what we should talk about. I was a little distracted, because I kept playing the conversation that I wanted to have with Sylvie in my head.
“When you showed people our diary, did they have to come to your house or did you let them take it home? Did anybody photocopy it? Why do you want to destroy my life, Sylvie? And when did you become such an awful person?”
Then my dad asked me another question, and I stopped thinking about how miserable I was over what Sylvie had done and started thinking about how miserably things had gone for me at lunch today.
“You’ll never guess who I bumped into at my last stop,” my dad said. “Principal Tidge’s husband.”
I swallowed hard and looked at my mom.
“What?” my dad asked. “Why are you both making that face? You don’t like Mr. Tidge?”
Then my mom started talking, and I felt pretty bummed out, because it was obvious that she was going to tell him all about the vending-machine incident.
“I should probably tell you that the principal’s office called today to notify me that Bessica was involved in a vending-machine incident.”
My father took a big swallow of milk.
“Did the machine rip you off?” my dad asked. “Sometimes they do that. If that happens, you need to go to the secretary and ask for a refund.”
“Oh, I got my refund,” I said.
“Aren’t you concerned that our daughter is eating out of the vending machines?” my mother asked. “Talk about carcinogenic additives. Those things shouldn’t even be allowed in schools.”
“Maybe Bessica was eating something nutritious,” my dad said. “Like an organic granola bar. Or an apple.”
He looked at me.
“I purchased oatmeal-raisin cookies,” I said. “Sugar is the second ingredient.”
My father sighed. “Tell me about the vending-machine incident.”
“At first, the principal told me that Bessica had vandalized the machine and broken the glass,” my mother said.
My father’s eyes got big. “What?”
“But then the principal called again because another girl admitted that Bessica hadn’t done any such thing,” my mom said.
“A girl broke the glass?” my dad asked. “Did she use a heavy object?”
I nodded. “Her boot. She kicked it seven times. My cookies wouldn’t drop.”
“And what did you do?” my father asked.
I shrugged. “I waited for my cookies to drop.”
My father did not look pleased with this answer.
“You didn’t get a teacher?” he asked.
“That’s not always the best answer,” I said.
“Everything sorted itself out,” my mother said.
“Sounds like North Teton Middle School has a tough crowd,” my dad said.
“Nadia is totally tough.”
“Nadia sounds like trouble,” my dad said.
“Yeah,” I said. “But she’s suspended. Also, she wears a dog collar and she spends all her time in loner town. We’re not friends.” And I didn’t bother going into how I didn’t have any other friends yet, and would be stuck in loner town for three years unless I became a cheerleader.
“The school system has changed a lot since I was a sixth grader,” he said.
“I know,” my mother said. “The PE teacher at Bessica’s school is a former Olympian. She threw the shot put.”
My dad whistled again.
“How did you know that?” I asked.
“Your schedule is on the refrigerator,” my mom said.
“But how did you know Ms. Penrod is a former Olympian? Is she famous?” I liked the idea of having a famous teacher. Even if she was determined to kick my butt.
“There was an article about her in the paper. Do you want to read it?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Has she had you throw the shot yet?” my dad asked. “It can weigh as much as sixteen pounds.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t even seen a shot. We jog a lot. It’s her favorite. Also, for variety, we’re learning basic and intermediate tumbling tomorrow.”
My dad looked thrilled. “Variety,” he said. “It’s the spice of life.”
“Whatever,” I said. “I’m finished.” Even though I still had a lot of loaf left.
“Should we go for a walk?” asked my mom.
On Mondays, after dinner, we used to walk with Grandma around our block so we could monitor hedgehog destruction. I looked at Grandma’s empty chair. It was a very sad-looking empty chair. She’d left her cushion on it. I wondered if she knew she’d left that.
“No,” I said. “I’ve got things to do.” I wondered if it made sense to write a letter to Kettle, even though I didn’t know where he lived, and deny that I’d ever liked him. Maybe I should send a copy of this letter to the fluffy-haired girl. When it came to my new problem, I wasn’t sure of the best solution.
“If you need any help with your homework, just ask,” my dad said.
“I will,” I said. Even though the truth was I planned to attempt to do splits and then call Sylvie and yell at her. And none of that was really a school assignment. I could do my homework after that. And maybe do more cheerleader bending.
I went to my room and waited for Sylvie to get home from school. She had no idea what she had coming.
aybe Sylvie did have an idea of what she had coming, because I called her three times and she never answered her phone. I bet my name came up on her caller ID. That was when I realized that she was probably screening her phone calls and that I needed to come up with a better plan.
But before I could do that, my mom knocked on my bedroom door.
“What?” I said. “I’m busy.” I wasn’t trying to sound rude, but it was important that my mother understood that I wasn’t always available to talk to her when she knocked.
“Your backpack is in the living room,” my mom said. “Didn’t you say you had homework?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I need that.”
When my mom opened my door and brought me my backpack, she looked worried. “Why are you just sitting in here on the floor with your phone?”
She sat down next to me and put her arm around me. “I want you to know that you can tell me anything.”
“Okay,” I said.
My mother rubbed my back. “It’s about Nadia, isn’t it? Sometimes older and insecure kids don’t treat people the way they should,” my mom said. “They take out their frustrations on other people.”
“That’s true,” I said. But I had no idea where my mom was going with this.
“I need you to tell me the truth, Bessica.” She sighed very heavily and rubbed my back more. “Is Nadia bullying you? Because if she is, I need to report her.”
I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”
“The way you described her makes her sound very intimidating
. I imagine you might be afraid to speak up about her. But Bessica, if you’re in danger, you should speak up now.”
I couldn’t believe that my mother was insane. I’d thought it was just Sylvie’s mother who had mental problems. “I’m not in danger. I don’t even know Nadia.”
My mother stopped rubbing my back and started picking up my dirty socks. There were a lot of them. “So you just happened to run into her at the vending machine and she kicked the tar out of the machine for no reason?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “That’s what happened.”
“But that doesn’t make sense, Bessica,” my mom said.
“She wears a dog collar, Mom. And her boots have tape all over them. She’s not a very logical person.”
My mom stood up and I watched her deposit a wad of my socks in the hamper. “If this turns into something more, I want you to come to me,” she said. “I want you to know that you have a safe place.”
I did not know what to say in response to that. I felt like I was trapped inside a soap opera. My mother had never been this dramatic before.
“That’s cool,” I said.
She walked to my door. “I’m going to pack your lunch tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “Will it have cookies in it?”
“It will have grapes,” my mother said. “They have a lot of antioxidants.”
And as soon as she shut the door, I felt very relieved. But then I realized it was almost time for me to go to bed, and I hadn’t talked to Sylvie yet or practiced any cheerleader moves beyond almost-splits, and I felt anxious again. I knew what I needed to do. I needed to take my cell phone and sneak outside and call Sylvie so that when I yelled, my parents didn’t hear me. Then I needed to yell at Sylvie and dump out all my anger. And after I was finished doing that, I needed to come back inside my house, do some homework, attempt to kick myself out of a back bend, and sleep.
I cracked open my bedroom door. My parents were watching the news. And it wasn’t even the local news. It was one of those stations that broadcasts the news twenty-four hours a day. All the time. Earthquakes. Puppies flushed down toilets. Hostage situations. That station was such a bummer.
I opened the door as quietly as I could and sneaked outside. At first I thought I would call Sylvie from my garage. But then I worried about the echo. So I went into my backyard. But then things felt spooky. It was totally dark and a little windy and I could hear an owl. Plus, it was cold. I walked around my backyard to try to warm up. Then I was hit by a good idea. Sometimes Noll left his Mustang unlocked. I could go sit in there and call Sylvie. I hurried to the car.
When I got to the Mustang it was looking very shiny, even in the pitch-black darkness. I climbed inside and sat there for a minute to make sure that I wasn’t going to get caught right away. Apparently, I was in the clear. So I called Sylvie. As her phone rang I became very nervous. I didn’t want her mom to answer. I wanted Sylvie to answer. But the thought of talking to Sylvie made me nervous too, which was weird. Because before her mother put us on a friendship break, I used to talk to Sylvie several times a day.
“Hello?” a voice said.
I couldn’t believe it. It was Sylvie. But instead of wanting to yell at her, I wanted to talk to her.
“Sylvie!” I said. “It’s me! Bessica!”
“Bessica! How are you? What are you doing?”
“I’m sitting in Noll Beck’s car,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s cool,” I said. “I just got spooked by the darkness and the wind and an owl. All that hooting. So I needed to sit inside something.”
“Why didn’t you call me from your house?” she asked.
And I thought about telling her that I needed to be someplace where I could yell, but I worried that might sound rude. So I changed the topic.
“Sylvie, how are things going at South? What do you think about PE and your dress code?” I wondered if she had to wear green pants. I wondered if her PE class was pukier than mine.
“I’m not taking PE,” Sylvie said.
And I got a little bit excited. Because I wanted to hear her excuse. Maybe I could use it and get out of my class. “Cool! What’s your excuse?”
“I don’t have one. I’m taking dance. It counts for PE.”
This seemed totally unfair. “Dance?” I asked. My school didn’t even offer that. “Do you jog in there?”
Sylvie laughed. “No. We dance.”
“Like, the cha-cha, or the rumba, or what?” I asked.
Sylvie and I had watched a dance show on TV before. It was thrilling for ten minutes. Then it appeared to be the same thing happening over and over. But Sylvie had really liked it. That’s how we ended up in our tap-dance clinic.
“I have to identify and execute axial and locomotor steps,” Sylvie said.
“Bummer,” I said. Hearing this made me feel a little bit better. Because, while it might not have been as bad as jogging, that sounded like a rotten way to spend fifty-four minutes.
“I love it,” Sylvie said. “In a couple of weeks we’re going to practice using different kinds of energetic movement, like swing, collapse, suspend, and explode.”
That did sound like fun. Especially the suspend and explode part. “I’m jogging all the time.”
“I bet you’re in great shape!” Sylvie said.
But I didn’t really care about my shape. Because then Sylvie started talking about her other classes. And it sounded like she really liked them. I had expected to hear that things were going terrible and that she missed me and was considering going on a hunger strike. But that was not the direction this conversation took.
“I love every single thing about South,” she said. “How’s North?”
“Wait,” I said. “I think we have a bad connection. Because I thought I just heard you say that you loved every single thing about South.” That was so rude. Because I wasn’t at South. Did she love that part too?
“Uh-huh,” Sylvie said. “I love everything. So what’s North like? Who are you hanging out with?”
I could not believe that Sylvie was enjoying middle school. That wasn’t fair. She should have been suffering as much as I was. Maybe more.
“I hang out with my friends,” I lied. I did not mention loner town.
“You’ll never guess who I’m spending a lot of time with,” Sylvie said. “Malory Mahoney.”
“Malory Mahoney the Big Plastic Phony?” I asked. Because Sylvie and I couldn’t stand her. She was superfake and was a huge blabbermouth!
“Yeah,” Sylvie said. “She’s actually really nice.”
“What about the fact that she told on Dee Washington for hiding the chalk that day? Or Maven Hollis for freeing the class gerbil into the wild? She’s awful!”
“Don’t say that,” Sylvie said. “Malory’s my friend. We all make mistakes.”
“Are you being serious?” I asked. I hoped she was making a really lame joke.
“I thought you said that the cool thing about middle school was being able to start brand new. Shouldn’t that be true for Malory too?” Sylvie asked.
When Sylvie asked me this, I started to gag.
“Are you okay?” Sylvie asked.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m not. I need to talk to you about something very, very important.”
“Okay,” Sylvie said. “But get to it, because if my mom finds me talking to you I’ll be in big trouble. She’s still enforcing the friendship break.”
I rolled my eyes. Wasn’t I important to Sylvie at all?
“It’s about the diary,” I said. “I need to know exactly what those ten pages have written on them besides your ocean pictures. And I also need to know the names of everybody you’ve shown those pages to. And I also need to know the names of everybody who you lent our collaborative diary to before you ripped out those pages and threw our collaborative diary away. Also, I need to know if you let these people make photocopies.”
There was a pause. “Besides my mom, nobody
has seen the ten pages,” Sylvie said. “And I never lent the diary to anybody.”
When I heard this, I started to feel myself getting a little mad.
“You need to be honest with me,” I said. “My whole reputation is on the line.” Because while she might have been dancing around South and being pals with Malory Mahoney, my existence at North was a whole lot tougher.
“I am being honest with you,” Sylvie said. “I never let anybody see it. Ever. My mom accidentally found those pages.”
Then I started getting very worried that Malory Mahoney the Big Plastic Phony had turned my friend into a big phony too. Because there was no way this could be the truth. I took a deep breath.
“Sylvie, if you tell me the names of all the people right now, I promise I won’t yell at you. And I might even forgive you.” But I didn’t know if that was true. Because I really, really wanted to yell at Sylvie and be mad at her forever.
“I told you,” Sylvie said. “I didn’t show it to anybody!”
I was breathing so hard that I was fogging up the windows in Noll’s Mustang.
“Sylvie,” I said. “I don’t like calling you a liar.”
“Then don’t.”
“I bumped into a girl today who told me that she’d read the diary from cover to cover. She said that you’d lent it to her. So did you lend her the ten pages or the whole thing?” I never should have let Sylvie keep those stupid ten pages.
“What?” Sylvie asked. “She’s lying.”
“No,” I said. “I think she’s seen everything! Because she knows about everything! Our toe prints. Your fart-bubble drawings. Even Kettle Harris!” I was stretching the truth. But it was almost all the way true. And I really wanted to pressure Sylvie into coming clean.
“That’s impossible. She’s lying!” Sylvie said. “What’s this girl’s name?”
That was when I realized that I didn’t even know her name.
“Let’s just call her fluffy-ponytail girl. And let’s just say that I trust her.”
“Well, you shouldn’t! Because I’m telling you the truth! Maybe she went inside the hole and got it.”
“Sylvie, that hole has farm equipment parked on it now. And she said that you lent it to her.”
I didn’t enjoy lying. But it was necessary.
The Reinvention of Bessica Lefter Page 12
