Falling in Like #11

by Melissa J Morgan

  She even tried to jazz up Flowers at Dawn. After her talk with Mr. Prescott, she understood what was wrong with it. He was right. She had tried to play it safe by creating something no one could possibly object to. So instead of expressing herself, of showing the world a part of Alyssa, she had . . . painted some pretty flowers.

  So she gave up on it.

  By Sunday night, she had come up with no new contest submission. She quickly did the rest of her homework, and then she logged on to check her e-mail one last time.

  To: Alyssa

  From: Marianne LaTour

  Subject: Ode to a Woman!

  Beautiful Alyssa,

  I see the picture, I hear your story of courage. I salute you! I am French girl, I think you are so brave! Keep the fight! And such good the artiste!

  T’A! (In France, we say “t’amie,” your friend!)

  Marianne

  Alyssa opened the attachment of a girl around her own age holding a print of Ode to a Woman and a banner that said FREE ALYSSA!

  Now I’ve had emails from several of these United States and a couple of continents. I’m internationally famous, Alyssa thought, writing a quick thank-you and shutting down. But I’m still no closer to being published in Works.

  It was Sunday night, and Priya was exhausted. The weekend was a blur. The only time she had not worked on the science fair project was when she 1) did homework for her other classes; 2) helped her mom at Smoothie Town (which was cool, because that was when she got to talk to Riley); or 3) waited on Sam and tried to cheer him up.

  She didn’t think she had actually slept.

  But it’s all good, she thought, yawning as she sat at her PC and checked her e-mail one last time. Because I have a science fair project and I’m in total crush mode!

  She wanted so badly to tell someone. She just wasn’t sure who. In the old days, pre-science fair, Jordan would have been the first to know. But Jordan and she weren’t speaking.

  It felt horrible and weird, especially when Priya found out that he had come over to see Sam on Saturday when she was at the mall.

  “Did Jordan even mention my name?” she asked Sam as she handed him the remote control. He had a habit of kicking it off the side of his bed.

  “Um . . . not really, we mostly just talked about athlete’s foot and earwax,” Sam answered, snickering.

  Priya wondered if Ms. Romero had actually approved his lame-o topic for the science fair.

  Then an e-mail arrived in her inbox.

  Maybe it’s from Jordan, she thought. Apologizing to me.

  To: Priya

  From: LGraff

  Subject: Lunch tomorrow

  Hi, Priya,

  I think we had a good start on our project this weekend, but we’ve got a lot more to do. So let’s get together at lunch tomorrow and get back to work, okay? If you bring a lunch instead of buying, we can save time.

  —Leslie

  Priya moaned. She thought about typing back, Give me a break! Please! But she held back. Leslie was kind of her last chance.

  To: LGraff

  From: Priya

  Subject: Re: Lunch tomorrow

  Dear Leslie,

  I’ll be there.

  —Priya

  P.S.: I’m sorry, but I didn’t understand that section on polarized light that you asked me to read. :( Maybe we can talk about it at lunch?

  Another message came in. Leslie must’ve been online.

  To: Priya

  From: LGraff

  Subject: Polarization

  Dear Priya,

  What didn’t you get? It’s pretty straightforward stuff. Maybe take another look before bed? I’d like to move on with other stuff at lunch if poss.

  —Leslie

  “Oh, argh!” Priya cried as she finished reading the message. “Give me a serious break!”

  She powered down her computer and climbed into bed. Then she remembered that Riley would be at school tomorrow, and she smiled a little. What would it be like at school between them? He was into being an eighth grader—would he treat her differently at school? Act one way at the food court, but when they were around their friends and classmates, act another way?

  She thought about getting up and posting about it on her Camp Lakeview blog, but then she realized that Brynn would read it and she would probably tell Jordan. Priya kind of wanted him to know, but also kind of didn’t.

  She sighed and rolled over, determined to get some sleep. After all, she was going to have a very busy day tomorrow.

  In the morning, Alyssa got ready for school, bundling up for a blustery November day. Beckah and Rose knocked on the door, and Alyssa stepped out onto the porch. The sky was gray and it looked as if it might snow.

  “Hi, guys,” she said.

  Beckah and Rose grinned at each other, and then each put a hand on one hip and moved her right shoulder forward, posing like a fashion model. Wrapped around the right sleeves of their heavy winter coats were black bands with FREE ALYSSA! written in white letters.

  Alyssa giggled. “You know we’re not supposed to wear slogans and stuff to school. You’d better take them off before we get there.”

  “No way! We’re protesting,” Beckah said. “My mom told me that when she was young, people held all kinds of political protests at their schools.”

  “Like in the civil rights movement,” Rose added.

  “Well, this is just about an entry for a contest,” Alyssa reminded them.

  “Not just,” Beckah countered. “You have rights, too!”

  Alyssa didn’t know what to say to that. It was kind of thrilling to realize that people were standing up for her. It made her feel that they were taking her work seriously.

  As they turned right and headed down the last block, the three-story brick building that was West Hills Middle School came into view. In front of the school, about thirty students were standing in a clump, chanting something in unison. Some of them were carrying signs that said FREE ALYSSA NOW!

  “Beckah! Rose! What’s going on?” Alyssa cried.

  “Listen to what they’re saying,” Beckah said.

  “Free Alyssa now! Free Alyssa now!” the students were yelling.

  Alyssa swallowed hard. “I can’t believe how this all caught on,” she said.

  “You’re like the censorship poster child,” Beckah responded.

  The yelling turned to cheers as the three friends stepped onto the crosswalk. Then someone pointed at Alyssa and shouted, “There she is!”

  The chanting got louder: “Free Alyssa now!”

  Then Alyssa said to Beckah and Rose, “Uh-oh. There he is.”

  Mr. Prescott was standing at the top of the stairs that led to the school with his arms folded across his chest. There was a satchel slung over his shoulder in place of his usual tower o’ stuff. He was scowling at Alyssa.

  The double doors to the school opened and Ms. Caya, the school principal, appeared beside Mr. Prescott. She was scowling at Alyssa, too. As Alyssa, Beckah, and Rose drew near the bottom of the stairs, Rose clasped her mittened hand over her sleeve to hide her armband. But Beckah defiantly let hers show.

  Once the protesting students realized that the principal had arrived, the cheers died down and eventually stopped. Everybody looked at one another nervously.

  Ms. Caya said in a loud voice, “It’s time for first period to begin. I will see no more signs, and anyone wearing slogans of any kind will be suspended for the rest of the week.”

  While Ms. Caya descended the stairs, Beckah and Rose quickly unpinned their armbands and slipped them into their pockets. Mr. Prescott came down one step behind Ms. Caya, and there was a wave of freakout throughout the assembled students.

  Ms. Caya’s face was pinched with anger as she stopped in front of Alyssa. Mr. Prescott stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her, looking just as angry.

  “Alyssa, in my office, please, now,” Ms. Caya said. Both she and Mr. Prescott turned and started back up the stairs, obviously expecting Alyssa to
follow.

  Taking a deep breath, Alyssa looked one last time at her friends. Rose crossed her fingers and Beckah gave her a thumbs-up. She tried to smile her thanks but she was too nervous.

  She went up the stairs, into the school, and down the hall toward the principal’s office. Some of the other students glanced at her with raised eyebrows, as if they were trying to figure out what she was in trouble for. A boy with brown hair gave her a little wave and said, “Free Alyssa!”

  Neither Ms. Caya nor Mr. Prescott appeared to have heard him, and she was relieved. Now was not the time, and her middle school was definitely not the place!

  Alyssa hadn’t been in the principal’s office since, well, ever. It was smaller than she would have expected. The walls were covered with photographs of students, including a pretty girl in a maroon graduation cap and gown who looked like Ms. Caya. Alyssa wondered if she was Ms. Caya’s daughter.

  Ms. Caya swept behind her broad oak desk and sat down in her chair. Mr. Prescott stood to one side, in front of a bookcase. The books had titles like Challenges of Managing Youth and Redirecting Delinquent Behavior.

  Gulp!

  “Have a seat, please,” Ms. Caya said to Alyssa.

  Alyssa took off her backpack and set it on the floor. Then she sat down, folded her hands in her lap, and wondered what was going to happen next.

  “Alyssa,” the principal began, “Mr. Prescott explained to me that you tried to submit an inappropriate piece of art for the arts quarterly.”

  Yikes! That sounded so harsh!

  Alyssa swallowed hard. “I didn’t know it was inappropriate,” she blurted. Then she took a deep breath and added, “I still don’t understand what’s wrong with it, to be honest.”

  “Be that as it may,” Ms. Caya said, “what did you hope to accomplish by organizing a disruptive protest? Did you think it would make a difference?”

  “I didn’t organize it! Honest!” Alyssa replied. “I didn’t know it was happening. I didn’t ask anyone to do anything!”

  “How do you explain this?” Mr. Prescott asked. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a black FREE ALYSSA T-shirt. “This was on my desk. And there was scribbling about free speech all over the whiteboard in the art room.”

  “I just got to school,” Alyssa said. “I didn’t put that on your desk, Mr. Prescott. I have a friend in California who made a T-shirt like that at a mall, and she sent me a jpeg. And I sent it to a few of my friends and . . .”

  She trailed off, listening to how that sounded. She felt guilty, even though she hadn’t actually done anything.

  “I didn’t know people were making more T-shirts, or signs, or anything.” She had trouble looking at Mr. Prescott as she added, “And I didn’t write anything on the whiteboard.”

  “We did just see her arriving at school,” Mr. Prescott said, folding the T-shirt and putting it back in his satchel. “I’m willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.”

  Maybe that should have made Alyssa feel better, but it didn’t. Because it sounded to her like Mr. Prescott still wasn’t entirely convinced that she was innocent.

  “All right,” Ms. Caya said. “But I want you to explain to your friends that they may not do any more protesting. No T-shirts, armbands, or signs will be tolerated. No graffiti. Am I clear?”

  “Yes. Very,” Alyssa assured her.

  The first bell rang. Mr. Prescott glanced at his watch and said, “I have a class.”

  “Me too,” Alyssa added hopefully, wanting like anything to get out of the principal’s office and back to her normal life. She couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to be in trouble for real. Awful!

  “Please go on ahead, Mr. Prescott,” Ms. Caya continued. “Alyssa, I’d like you to stay a moment. I’ll write you a hall pass.”

  Alyssa’s stomach twisted as she remained seated. Mr. Prescott brushed past her chair, and she cringed, wondering how on earth she was going to handle being in art today. She was so upset. After Mr. Prescott had left, Alyssa looked anxiously at the principal. “I didn’t know this was going to happen,” she said again.

  “I believe you,” Ms. Caya replied, and Alyssa slumped with relief. “However,” the principal continued, “what happens next is up to you. It’s too bad that Mr. Prescott felt your artwork wasn’t suitable for the contest, but—”

  In her eagerness to ask her question, Alyssa interrupted, saying, “Have you seen it? Do you think it’s unsuitable?”

  Ms. Caya gazed steadily at her. “What I think doesn’t matter,” she said. “Mr. Prescott is the Works advisor.”

  “But . . . you’re the principal,” Alyssa ventured.

  “Yes. I am. And I support Mr. Prescott’s right to make this decision. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes,” Alyssa said.

  “Why don’t you try submitting a different piece?” Ms. Caya asked.

  “I already have,” Alyssa murmured. “I don’t have anything as good.”

  “Well, you have until Friday to come up with something else.” The principal smiled gently and reached for a pad of pink forms. “You’re a talented girl, Alyssa.”

  “Th-thanks,” Alyssa said, startled and pleased by the praise.

  “Here’s your hall pass,” Ms. Caya said, checking off a couple of boxes and scribbling her signature at the bottom. She ripped the piece of paper off the pad and handed it to Alyssa. “Go on to class.”

  “Thank you,” Alyssa said. She held onto the pass with one hand while she hoisted up her backpack with the other. Then she turned and left the room, entering the hall, where a few stragglers were still running to get to their classes.

  She started walking. And then it dawned on her to wonder how Principal Caya knew she was a good artist. Had Mr. Prescott shown her some of her other work? Had she seen Ode to a Woman?

  Probably not. Mr. Prescott had rejected it when Alyssa had shown it to him, and Alyssa had taken it directly home.

  Maybe Ms. Caya had just said those nice things to cheer Alyssa up.

  Well, it had worked. A little. Alyssa was still freaked out, but it was nice to hear an adult praise her artistic ability. She just wished she would have the chance to share Ode with the rest of the school.

  And she wished she wasn’t dreading seeing Mr. Prescott again. Whatever the case, she sure wasn’t going to submit anything to an art contest ever again in her entire life!

  chapter SEVEN

  It was lunchtime on Monday, and Tori and Kallista were eating falafel from Trader Joe’s. Well, Kallista was eating it and Tori was rolling one of the little falafel balls back and forth in her tahini sauce, then making designs with it on her black plastic plate.

  Michael had IMed Tori three times over the weekend. And each time, she had pretended that she wasn’t online. She had sat at her computer trying to figure out if it was okay if she talked with him. After all, she talked to lots of people online.

  But she knew her dad wouldn’t like it. So she hadn’t replied. And she was bummed.

  “Here comes Michael,” Kallista told her.

  “Is he smiling or frowning?” Tori asked her.

  Kallista shielded her eyes with her hand. “I can’t tell. The sun is blocking my view.”

  “Kallista, please! Don’t be so obvious,” Tori begged her under her breath.

  “Hi,” Michael said as he approached. He looked down at their lunch. “Yum. Falafel. I should have eaten with you guys instead of in the caf.” He smiled broadly at Tori, who dropped her gaze to her plate. She hoped he wouldn’t notice that most of the designs she had made looked suspiciously like MS, Michael’s initials.

  “Um, yeah,” Kallista said. “The caf is a total bummer. That’s why we always bring our lunch.”

  “You do? What are you having tomorrow?” Michael asked, slinging his thumbs into his jeans pockets. He looked directly at Tori.

  Tori glanced at Kallista for help. She had no idea what to say. Kallista stared back at her, looking stuck, so Tori blurted, “Actually, I’m not h
aving lunch tomorrow. I-I’m fasting. We fast once a month.” She looked at Kallista.

  “Right.” Kallista shifted awkwardly. “Juice fast.”

  “Oh.” He nodded. “But you still come out here for lunch.”

  “Yeah, but now we have to go to our lockers,” Tori said. “Because we forgot our math books.”

  Michael cocked his head. He had a kind of strained half-smile on his face. “Both of you?”

  Tori nodded. “We do everything together. Share lunch, forget our books . . .”

  Then she made herself stand up, sling her purse over her shoulder, and pick up her tray.

  “See you later,” she said.

  “Okay.” He brightened. “You busy after school?”

  “Tennis lesson,” Tori said. But she wanted to say, I am not busy when it comes to you, Michael.

  “No, today’s Monday, Tor. We have tennis tomor . . . oh, yeah, that darn new schedule,” Kallista said quickly, as Tori threw her a look. She laughed the fakest laugh Tori had ever heard. It was a good thing Kallista had no interest in becoming an actress.

  “Okay,” Michael said slowly. He didn’t follow after them as the two girls walked away.

  “He’s looking at you,” Kallista informed Tori. “He looks upset.”

  “He looks how I feel,” Tori murmured. What was she going to do?

  “Hi, Priya,” Riley said Monday at lunchtime as she shut her locker.

  Whoa. He is at my locker. At lunchtime! That means serious like!

  Doesn’t it?

  He looked really good in a black sweater and black jeans. Priya was amazed that she hadn’t noticed the little stud in his left ear. She had stared at, er, seen him for several hours on Saturday and Sunday, when she had helped her mom.

  And now . . . she knew he had an earring. That is so cool!

  “Um, do you buy your lunch?” he asked her. “I’m buying today.”

  She winced inwardly. This cannot be happening to me. “I brought it. And I, um, have to work on the science fair project with Leslie. We’re going over a few things.”