“What do they say?” Piper said.
“They say it’s not working, okay? I know, it’s my fault.”
“Relaxez-vous,” Piper said. “I just wanted to know what you guys were talking about. I was worried it was more Principal F. nonsense.”
“Well, this doesn’t help,” I said. “It’s one thing to say we’re providing this great service, but if people are complaining now…”
“Just a few are,” Piper said. “Can’t you fix it?”
“I guess I can try,” I said.
“What’s going on with the Blue Locker Society? Any more meetings with you-know-who?” Piper said with a sly glance.
“No. We just met one time.”
“Don’t you guys think we better take charge of the whole Blue Locker Society situation?” Kate said. “No offense, but Luke didn’t know anything about it. Apparently, Forrest is the only member of the Blue Locker Society.”
“Perfect, they have no members, no place to meet, no Web site, and no plan,” Piper said.
“I guess I can talk to him,” I said.
Both of them looked at me as if I was about to jump in the ocean without a life preserver.
“If you think I should, I mean,” I said, trying to seem casual about it.
Fourteen
It would have been better if Forrest had started our conversation with a topic other than Taylor. But whatever. I kept my game face on as we met for meeting two in our usual spot on the gym bleachers. The sixth-graders were in full promenade.
“Is there a way to, you know, move her up your list, or whatever?”
I looked at him blankly. I couldn’t fathom the thought that Taylor, in her perfect blondness, could ever need something from me.
“She was crying, you know, a few weeks ago.”
That I remembered. Forrest comforting her at his locker.
He said, “She was crying at my locker again today. Clem’s being a real, well, you know.”
“Clem?”
“Yes, that’s who’s messing with her. She won’t stop. I told her to write you guys.”
“Taylor?”
“Yeah, she said she did. Wrote in about her problem.”
Whoa. Taylor is Student F.
“I kind of promised that you’d help her. I said I could make it happen,” Forrest said.
I told him how we sent our typical encouraging letter about being bullied. “We told her to tell an adult, have her friends stick by her, the usual,” I said.
“Well, that’s good. But she was still crying today.”
“Maybe she’s just trying to make you feel bad for her.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I’m not into her anymore. You know that,” he said.
I was tempted to ask who he was into these days, but instead I stared down at my soda tab bracelet and got back on track.
“I thought we were supposed to be talking about the Blue Locker Society. This conference is coming up and we have exactly nothing to say. No PowerPoint. No nothing.”
“I’m getting it together,” Forrest said. “No sweat.”
“Are you going to get any more members, or a place to meet?”
“Other guys, yeah. I do have a meeting place. Want to see it?”
And that’s how I ended up on the roof of the school in the chilled March air with Forrest McCann. First, he led me to the second floor of our school, then to an alcove off the library, then to a closet in the alcove. Inside the closet was an iron ladder affixed to the wall, like we were in a submarine instead of a middle school.
“I thought you were supposed to use the football coach’s office,” I said.
“C’mon,” he said.
Up the rungs we climbed, until we were at ceiling level and he pushed on a panel. It flipped open and let in a blast of daylight and the entire blue sky. He held his hand out as I took that first step, setting my first foot on the roof. I waved him off, but soon wished I had taken his hand. The surface was loose and pebbly so you never felt like you had your footing.
It turns out there’s a tiny greenhouse up there, where our cooking teacher grows herbs. And a single chair, unexplained. Roofs are romantic places. I think it has something to do with the quiet up there. The view seems to want to whisper something to you. And nobody knows where you are. But I stuck to business.
We moved over to the greenhouse, where I could lean against a table and jot down notes. This was a fine enough place to meet, I told him, provided it wasn’t snowing and the panel door didn’t get frozen shut. Or locked? He had no information about the long-term access issues affecting the rooftop meeting place.
Forrest needed members now, I told him. And they needed to meet at least once a week, and most importantly, they needed to find a way to get questions from boys.
“If you can’t do a Web site, then just have them write down questions in a notebook or something,” I said.
“Guys aren’t going to do that,” he said.
“Well, how are you going to help boys if no one will say anything to anyone?”
“I think it’s just the idea that a guy could ask something if he wanted to,” Forrest said.
I shook my head and had to laugh. Would I ever understand boys? Oh sure, that would happen approximately never.
“Here’s the thing, though, Forrest,” I said. “What are we going to say at Tomorrow’s Leaders Today?”
“I’ll figure it out. We have time.”
Then I told him about the whole Principal Finklestein fiasco and how the New York City trip itself was in possible jeopardy for me.
“You have to go. I can’t go without you.”
For a moment, I locked eyes with him, wondering what he meant.
“I mean, I can’t give a whole talk about the Pink and Blue Locker Societies. What do I know about girls?”
Fifteen
Life can surprise you, my mother is famous for saying. She’s right, of course. But it’s not always in a good way. A week to the day that we had our big meeting with the principal, he called us down to his office again. No Ms. Russo or Mrs. Percy this time.
We stood nervously like a trio of prisoners waiting for the bad news.
“I could suspend you but that would hurt your chances of getting into the best high school. And that’s not fair to Margaret Simon, which has a reputation for turning out scholars.”
“Thank you. Jemma and I are applying to Charter,” Kate said, her eyes brightening.
“I am, however, forbidding you from attending the school field trip.”
Stomachs lurched. Tears sprang to our eyes. But Principal F. hustled us out of his office before we could collect ourselves and make further arguments. We were whisked back into the hallway and pointed toward the eighth-grade hall.
Stunned, we walked back to class, slow as elephants.
“What about the Tomorrow’s Leaders Today conference?” Piper said.
“I think we can forget about that,” I said.
“This so stinks,” Piper said. “I have been doing research about French restaurants, French boutiques, and even a French movie theater we can go to in New York.”
“We’ll have to find something fun to do together while everyone else is in New York. A sleepover?” Kate said.
No one had the heart to say how lame that sounded in comparison to staying with your friends in a big city.
After school, I couldn’t bring myself to tell my parents. I knew I would have to eventually. But right now, it hurt too much. I tried to keep to myself, but my mother had news of her own. She pulled me out of my room and into the kitchen.
“Have a snack,” she said, pointing me toward some fruit salad on the counter. Glumly, I plucked out a green slice of kiwi and nibbled at it.
“Jemma,” she said, “I went to the doctor today…”
“Is everything okay?” I asked, gulping the rest of the kiwi.
“Oh my, yes. I’m doubly sure of that.” She wore a big smile and seemed a little out of breath.
“What then, did you finally find out if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“No, we’re still holding firm on that.”
“What then?”
“It turns out we’re going to have … twins!”
She waited for my reaction, which was delayed, maybe because of the rough day I had. But I couldn’t not react to this. This was huge and I was happy in a holy-moley-what-will-happen-next-in-my-life sort of way.
Within moments, I posted the news on my Facebook page and the comments came flying in. I got some LOLs when I explained that the doctors called it a “hidden twin.” You wouldn’t think that there’d be room in the uterus to hide, but there you go. My friends were pretty quick to start suggesting names. Eddie and Betty, Jilly and Milly, Jack and Jill, and my personal favorite, Stop and Go. Bet chimed in with Jaidee for a girl and Jai for a boy. She also added: Call me. Which I did.
Kate had told her about our confrontation with Principal F. and she wanted to know more.
“This kind of involves me, too,” Bet said. “Because I have a never-before-seen You Bet! broadcast about the Pink Locker Society.”
We had posted her video on the PLS Web site, but it wasn’t the same as showing it to the whole school over MSTV. I heavily doubted Principal F. was about to change his mind about letting her show that report.
* * *
“I think you can forget about that, Bet,” I told her as we sat outside Lucky’s Coffee Shop. The April sun was strong and it warmed you in an almost-summery way. I lifted my sunglasses from my face and positioned them as a headband. I told her, in a quiet voice, about how we’d been banned from the New York City trip.
“That is such complete nonsense,” Bet said. “We have to do something.”
“But what?” I said.
“Sometimes you just have to make a fuss. Then you figure it out.”
We drained our cups of Earl Grey tea and talked about the babies. Everyone wanted to talk about the babies.
My parents were adjusting to the news and buying two of everything. I was still happy to become a big sister. But if I was wary of one new baby in the house, imagine how I felt knowing that there would be two of them. I wanted to be helpful to my parents, but I sort of wondered whether my social life was about to take a serious nosedive. I would obviously be needed as a babysitter. Were my weekends about to be awash in diapers and bottles?
More and more of me didn’t mind, though. When I’d see a cute baby at the library or the store, I would just light up inside. I tried to smile at every baby I met, testing my charm on the toothless and adorably bald. I had a pretty good record. Much better than I did with cute boys. But then again, I didn’t make funny faces at the boys or tickle their toes.
* * *
We left Lucky’s and went across to the park that has a gazebo in the middle. We sat inside because it’s a great spot to talk. It’s also a great spot for people watching. Boys played football in view of the gazebo and everybody included the park on their bike rides through the neighborhood.
“I just cannot wait until the babies are born,” Bet said. “I will help you babysit anytime.”
Just as I was about to accept, a football landed inside the gazebo and bounced off the table we were sitting at. Luke Zubin appeared, grabbed the football, then plunked himself down at our table.
“Jake’s here, too,” Luke said, gesturing over his shoulder. I looked over and saw Jake standing there. When he saw me, he gave me an awkward wave.
“What are we talking about, ladies?” Luke said.
Never shy, he spread his elbows out, exactly like my mother said you’re not supposed to. We laughed because we were surprised to see him and also because he called us “ladies.” That was grandpa speak.
“We were just talking about Jemma’s twins.”
“Jemma’s having twins?”
“Luuuuuuke,” I said.
“Oh yeah, I know. It’s your mom. Did you tell her how I suggested Stop and Go?”
“I did, but she’s not accepting traffic signals as baby names,” I said.
“Did you hear about Taylor?” Luke asked.
“What is it?” Bet said.
“She’s moving schools,” Luke said. “She said she’s going to West Fallows High School next year.”
“Why would she go there?” Bet said. “It’s ten miles from here. And it’s not her district.”
“Dunno,” Luke said. “She probably has a boyfriend there or something.”
“Taylor has a boyfriend?” I asked hopefully.
“Probably,” he said. “Great seeing you ladies.”
Again with the “ladies.” Bet turned to me and said, “Taylor Mayweather. Didn’t she used to go out with…”
“Yes, she did. And no, I don’t like him anymore.”
Sixteen
The next time my mom had a doctor appointment, I offered to go. These were pretty basic visits usually, and I liked knowing how big the babies were getting. My mom was getting pretty big, too, but she continued to eat a healthy diet. I never caught her with her spoon in the ice cream in the middle of the night, but I did catch her eating more than one grapefruit at a time.
The doctor saved the best part of the appointment for last. He held his stethoscope to Mom’s belly and the fast whoosh-whoosh of their heartbeats filled the exam room. Hearing their hearts made the whole thing seem more real: My mom was really having twins—and soon. Her due date was in June, a little over two months away.
I had a sneaky reason for wanting to come along on this particular visit, though. Weeks had passed since my period was supposed to come, according to the Period Predictor. We had taken the P. Predictor off the Pink Locker Society site—temporarily, I hoped. That stopped the complaints, but it didn’t stop me from wondering why my plan had failed. Did everything about growing up have to be so confusing and hard to pin down?
What I hadn’t counted on today, though, was that my mother’s doctor would be a dude. There were a lot of female doctors at this particular office, but when you were having a baby, you saw whichever one was free for regular appointments. I wanted to get a doctor’s advice, a doctor who was an expert in female parts and processes. I was very close to letting Dr. Adams walk out of the room, but I got a burst of courage and leaped up from my plastic chair.
“Um, Dr. Adams? Can I ask you a question—a puberty question?”
My mother looked surprised, but she didn’t interrupt.
“My pediatrician told me that a girl gets her period about two years after she starts, you know, getting developed in the chest area. I’m confused because it’s been more than two years for me and still no period.”
Dr. Adams stopped for a minute and said that sounded exactly right.
“So what’s the deal, then?” I asked.
“I think the variable that’s hard to pin down here is when exactly chest development occurs,” he said.
“Well, I’ve been wearing a bra for exactly two and a half years,” I said.
“There you go, then. When a girl wears a bra and when a girl needs to wear a bra because chest development has progressed to a certain point—those are two different things,” he said.
I stood there almost stunned by my mistake.
“Thank. You,” I said.
I had built the Period Predictor around that very question—when did the girl start wearing a bra? But that’s just whenever, really. I started wearing a bra because all of my friends were and I didn’t want to be the only one not wearing one. Now, when did I need to start wearing a bra? That I never really put on the calendar.
“Is everything all right, Jem?” Mom asked as we packed up and left the doctor’s office.
Yes, I nodded. Fine. Based on what the doctor had said, I wasn’t sure at all that I’d be able to fix the Period Predictor. It was good to know where I went wrong, but it’s another thing altogether to know how to fix it.
Seventeen
Dear PLS,
OK, so thanks for answering m
y letter. But I can’t thank you for helping me. The conceited, mean girl who’s bothering me won’t stop. I sometimes don’t even want to get up in the morning, knowing I’ll see her and she’ll say something. And I can’t/won’t do the stuff you suggest—telling an adult and asking my friends to stick with me. I’m independent and I don’t want to be a crybaby.
I can’t tell my friends because I don’t want them to know I’m flunking almost every class. I’m desperately afraid you-know-who will tell the whole school. I soooooooooo wish she hadn’t found out in the first place. Our very good taste in backpacks is to blame. Both our bags are made of Italian leather—mine is cerulean blue and hers is sort of a sky blue and we got them mixed up. I took hers and found it filled with high-priced cosmetics and a flat iron. She took mine and apparently rifled through everything, including all the failing test papers crumpled in the bottom.
She’s still mad at me for something that happened months ago. OMG, how she loves knowing this secret about me. Sometimes it’s less about what she says and more about how she looks at me. Like when a teacher says, “Does anyone have any questions?” she looks right at me, like she’s saying “Don’t you have any questions?”
Until now, I’d hidden it perfectly. When test papers were returned, I usually just folded them in half really fast and plunged them into my backpack. There are more in there now than ever before because I have kind of stopped trying. Once the school told my parents that I’d have to repeat eighth grade, what was the point? I don’t even know if I’ll be allowed to go on the eighth-grade trip. It’s supposed to be a celebration, right? And what do I have to celebrate?
I started telling people I’m going to a high school outside of our school district. It will buy me some time. Then I figure I can tell them I transferred back in. What I really hope is that somehow I can repeat eighth grade and be miraculously placed in tenth grade the next year. Or maybe there’s some summer school solution no one’s thought of. It could happen. Well, I’m hoping it can.
Signed,
Student F
It was a sign of how bad Taylor’s situation was that even I felt sorry for her. If you had told me six months ago that I’d be trying hard to think of ways to help Taylor Mayweather, I would have told you that you were crazy.
Girls in Charge Page 4
