I grab Toby’s balloon away. So that was why Milton P. thought I loved LEGOs. He wasn’t just making it up. He thought Toby was me. I stomp on the balloon so it pops in one loud burst.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” screams Toby as though he’s the one who was popped.
“What’s going on up there?” asks Mom.
“Nothing!” I shout. This is not something I want her to know about.
“You popped my balloon,” Toby says in a small voice.
“How could you?”
He looks at me, his eyes big and watery. “Because I wanted to be just like you.”
Like me? What? Why would he want to be like . . . and then I catch my breath and look at him with his dirty toes, staring at the pieces of red balloon on his floor. “I’m sorry,” I apologize. I give Toby a hug before he scampers out.
I pace around the room. I have to tell Milton P. that it’s not me. It explains everything, of course. Milton P.’s comments about LEGOs that made absolutely no sense at all.
I’d tell him the truth. That it was my seven-year-old brother.
And then a funny thought occurs to me. I’m not even going to look in that sock drawer for my phone, even if a part of me really, really wants to do it.
My Stats:
1 oral history photography project
1 quadruplet hug
1 camera in a sock drawer waiting to be found
1 little brother who wants to be just like me
Mood: Like a roller coaster, up and down
24
FRIDAY, MARCH 23: DAY 20 UNLIKED
Where’s Milton P.?
On the day of the Spirit Rally, I bring my camera to school and take photos.
I snap shots of Bailey singing and Megan sharing gum and Ella sketching (she gives me a weird look) and Milton P. playing with LEGOs and anything else cool. I also take photos of some rose bushes all pruned back outside the front office with the light all lovely and filtered in the background, and the cracked cement with a dandelion growing out of it.
I seek out Milton P. “Is this Milton P.’s locker?” I ask a girl with one long braid.
“Unfortunately,” she says, twirling her combination. I wait until Milton P. arrives.
“I have something to tell you, Milton P.,” I say. “It’s about the texts I’ve been sending you. There is something you need to know.”
Milton P.’s grin stretches across his face so wide it looks like his skin might pop. His freckles are almost dancing on his nose. “I like texting you. I think you are the only person in the seventh grade who knows almost as much as me about LEGOs.”
Then it hits me. That text the morning after my phone was taken away, when my phone was stuffed in the dresser: It was Milton P.
“We’ve been texting a while, huh?” I say. “For a few weeks?”
“Sounds right.” Then he smiles a gummy smile and his outer-space eyes twinkle. “That’s so weird you have something to tell me. Because I have something to tell you. Well, show you. Close your eyes and count. Now say Star Wars three times.”
I sigh and the girl twirling her combination shrugs her shoulders and sashays down the crowded hallway. Kids begin to crowd the hallway as first break is almost ending. “Stars Wars Star Wars Star Wars,” I chant.
“Okay,” says Milton P. “Now open your eyes.”
I open them and Milton P. whips his hands into his shoe box and then pulls out something that flashes. It’s shaped like a giant cell phone but it’s made mostly from LEGOs. “I heard yours got taken away so I made this for you.”
It’s got a panel of buttons and a little screen, and I can’t help it—I gasp. “This is a-mazing, Milton P.”
“That’s not all. Touch it.”
My fingers graze the buttons.
“No, really punch it.”
A light flashes. “How did you do this?”
“Special parts. I had to order it off this site I found out about and . . .”
I lean forward and hug, actually hug, Milton P. Daniels. This is about the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, ever.
Ella strolls toward us with Bailey and the Bees. They’re only about twenty feet away. Ella stares at me. She stares at Milton P. Everyone’s mouths drop open. I expect Megan to say, “This can’t be happening, right?”
I expect Bailey and Janel to shake their heads and turn their backs.
I expect Ella to race away from us as if we are standing at the center of a nuclear contamination site. But nobody is doing any of that.
Instead Ella is clapping. “Way to go, Milton P.!”
Not “Snollygoster.” Not “Thing.”
Just at that moment Auggie waltzes by and whistles. “Looks like Milton P. has it going on. I’m jealous.” And then there is a chorus of ewws. Auggie takes a photo of us. “I’m posting this to Snappypic!”
But I don’t look up. I don’t care. I’m just staring at the LEGO phone. “It’s awesome, really.”
Milton P. peers at me through his darkened glasses. “And what was it that you wanted to tell me? About the text messages. I mean, they were a little weird. Sometimes you sounded like a little kid. I thought you might have been sneaking your phone and didn’t have enough time to type.
“Oh, the messages. Right. I want to tell you that . . . I meant everything I said to you. That you’re an amazing LEGO builder and don’t ever stop building. Ever!”
The Rally
In the gym after fifth period everyone sits on the bleachers with their grades. Lots of boys and a few girls have painted their faces half blue and half orange. It’s a sea of colors.
I sit in the bleachers by myself in the back. Bailey and the Bees and Ella sit in the front of the seventh-grade section. Across the way, the eighth graders sit. The sixth graders all congregate in a group to our left but on the same side of the gym. Lots of kids wear school T-shirts. There’s a yellow shirt with a dolphin that says PROUD TO BE A MERTON DOLPHIN. Milton P. sits in the second row with his friends. He turns around and waves at me. I wave back.
Mrs. Grayson gets up to speak and talks about how wonderful this week is and starts reading quotes about Spirit Week. “We asked the question, What does Spirit Week mean to you? Here are some of the responses.” Mrs. Grayson clears her throat. “Lexi Granger wrote, ‘Spirit Week means middle-school spirit.’ So true!”
Well, obviously, since this is a middle school and not an elementary school or high school or nursery school.
Everyone claps for the quote. Lexi Granger blushes and waves her hands at everyone like she’s a princess at a parade.
“Jordan Garcia says ‘It’s a whole week of fun!’ I certainly agree!” adds Mrs. Grayson.
Fun for some people.
The more I think about fun, the more I look at the clock.
Two twenty. Ten more minutes. Then I can walk home with my camera, taking more pictures.
“The purpose of Spirit Week is to get everyone enthused and supportive of our school.” Mrs. Grayson gazes at the bleachers and shields her eyes like the sun is in them. Only it’s inside a gym and it’s drizzling outside. “Who’s got spirit? Can’t hear you, Dolphins. Who’s got spirit?”
“We do!” shout some kids.
Mrs. Grayson lifts her arms like a conductor. “Can’t hear you!”
“We do!” Everyone screams in a deafening roar. And that’s when Janel hops down onto the gym floor and cues the seventh grade to do their dance move. A hop and a wiggle. Only half the class does it.
Ten more minutes. The clock is slowing down. Or maybe there has been a power outage because I’m sure that five minutes have gone by and not just one minute. “Now some words from Merton’s principal, Mrs. Wallace.” Mrs. Grayson steps away from the mic.
“This week serves to get people involved, working cooperatively and united in a common goal of promoting our school,” says Mrs. Wallace. “And this is when one of the grades will win the Spirit Stick!”
I glance toward Bailey and watch her hug Ella, and Ella hu
gs her back and they’re all eagerly waiting. I am too.
As if she can read my mind, Mrs. Wallace says, “We’ll find out who wins the Spirit Stick in a moment, but first let’s have our fall sports teams down here.”
I’m back to looking at the clock as the football team and the tennis team and the volleyball team and the cross-country team make it to the gym floor.
Everyone hollers.
And then Mrs. Wallace says, “Let’s hear it, sixth grade.” She holds up something that looks like a stake wrapped in blue-and-orange tape.
The sixth grade cheers and bangs their feet on the bleachers.
“Not bad,” shouts Mrs. Wallace at the top of her lungs into the microphone. “Can you outdo that, seventh grade?”
The seventh grade holds up even more signs, and shouts and pounds on the bleachers so its sounds like thunder.
“Pretty good. Eighth grade, can you top that?” She points the Spirit Stick at the eighth grade. Auggie has a horn and it’s so loud that it hurts my ears, but there’s not as much clapping. Still Mrs. Wallace goes, “I think the eighth graders might have it.” The sixth graders and the seventh graders boo. Lily Pommard turns to Auggie and starts high-fiving him.
The eighth graders have once again won the Spirit Stick. No. Please. No.
“However, I can’t be sure,” says Mrs. Wallace. “Let’s do it one more time. But all at once.”
So because of the thunderous stomping feet and screams and whistles, there’s no way to really tell who’s making the most noise, but Mrs. Wallace keeps on pointing. She goes from the seventh to the eighth grade and then points at the sixth and then back to the eighth, where Auggie is yelling through his megaphone.
“Okay.” Mrs. Wallace motions for us to keep quiet.
She takes the Spirit Stick and points not at the eighth grade, not to the seventh grade . . . but at the sixth grade.
What? This is a snapshot in my mind I do not want to take. The sixth graders are going crazy. They are running on the gym floor. Gina, the sixth-grade leader, is throwing candy. The kids are jumping up and down. Some are even doing handstands and shouting, “Pizza! Ice cream! Pizza! Ice cream!”
Meanwhile, the seventh graders around me gasp and moan. Janel, Bailey, Megan, and Ella all console each other with a giant hug. Across the gym, the eighth graders whisper to each other furiously. Some shake their heads or put their arms in front of their chests in a we-were-robbed posture. Lily Pommard looks like she’s crying.
I know exactly how she feels.
Clapping, Mrs. Wallace says, “First I want to commend all the grades for their participation. And a special recognition to Auggie Elson for personally collecting three hundred and thirty-two cans for the food bank. And I also want to especially thank the seventh grade for sponsoring the dance this year. Together, all of you have contributed to an outstanding Spirit Week!”
In the front row, the Bees give each other a significant look. Really. Sixth graders!
“It’s never happened before,” says a boy in front of me with a crew cut. I think his name is Charlie.
“I can’t believe it,” says his friend.
“It’s because of that exchange student. He won the hot dog–eating contest by a long shot and he happens to be a sixth grader. Even though, technically, I think the guy should be an eighth grader.”
All kinds of comments surround me. We lost. But the eighth grade lost too. Suddenly, from across the gym, I feel Auggie’s stare. He mouths, “Too bad,” and shrugs.
I mouth back, “I know.” Ella turns around and our eyes meet. She sees me looking at Auggie and Auggie looking at me. And now I’m making a face at him.
And he’s making a face at me. And we’re both sort of laughing.
I thought he would be superangry at losing, but he doesn’t look that mad. And neither am I.
Auggie throws his cardboard megaphone into the air.
Sometimes life is stranger than any book or movie or TV show.
Even Stranger
The amazing thing is that right after school, Dad lets me go to the drugstore and make a disc of all my photos and download them onto his laptop. Then I make some photo posters.
Later I’m nibbling on some pumpkin seeds when Toby dramatically flops on the couch in the family room. “What’s the matter?” I ask.
He moans. “Bryce is sick. He was supposed to come over today. It’s not fair.” He slumps down further on the couch. “Nothing in my life is going the right way.” I know the feeling, but I don’t say this out loud.
“C’mon. We’re going to the park. We’ll take Lucky for a walk.” At the mention of his name, Lucky pops out of his dog bed.
Toby’s forehead crinkles. “We are?” He peers outside. “It’s raining.”
“So? When has that ever stopped us?”
I grab our raincoats and snap on Lucky’s leash. We bike to the park with Lucky and I put down my hood, tucking my camera on the inside of my coat. Fat raindrops slide down my cheek and slip down my neck.
Taking out my camera, I stand under a shelter. Toby jumps in even more puddles. It’s just a light drizzle now. I play with distance. I put the soccer ball down and focus on him, messing with the depth of field. That’s moving around the aperture, which is the opening and closing of the lens. The background is blurry and only the soccer ball is in focus. Then I adjust the aperture some more. Each time I snap, the background becomes sharper and sharper. On the next nondrizzle day, I want to take a photo of the moon as it rises over Mount Hood. I’d make the moon clear and the snow-capped mountain dreamlike in the background.
“What are you doing?” asks Toby.
“Nothing.”
“I want to do nothing,”
“I’ve got an idea.” I direct Toby to jump and take photos of him. Playing around again with the depth of field, I decide I like it best when I can focus on Toby and everything in the background goes blurry. I focus on what’s important, what’s right in front of me.
What’s Farther Away?
On the way back I spot Ella riding her bike on the path by the grove of trees inside the park. From across the street I see that she’s got on her backpack and she’s riding toward the school. I tell Toby to go home with Lucky and that I will be back soon. I suddenly, urgently need to talk to Ella. On my bike, I race back to the park to catch up.
The sun stretches through the clouds even though it’s misting.
It’s so beautiful I want to take a photo.
But I don’t have time.
There’s a dad kicking a soccer ball to his kid and an older lady walking her yappy little dogs. They bark at a jogger as she passes by.
“No, Fifi,” the lady says in a tiny little voice, like she’s talking to a little kid.
I see Ella. Yes, I beat her. I figure she has to hop off her bike and walk around the puddles. But she stays on her bike as she passes the little dogs that look like stuffed animals but think they are wolves.
Fifi lunges for Ella’s tire.
“No, Fifi,” says the lady in her small voice.
She’s so busy saying no to Fifi that the other dog, who she calls Muffin, is growling at Ella.
“Hey!” I call out, but it’s too late.
Ella’s bike swerves, skidding on a rock. She puts her feet down just in time. “I almost ran over your dog,” she says, out of breath.
The lady steps daintily down the path and picks up her dog. It’s still barking and growling. “You should go slower.”
“They need to go to obedience school or something,” snaps Ella. She glances over at me but doesn’t wave.
“We’re working on that.” The lady murmurs something like “Bad Muffin” to her dog, and then strides away with the two dogs yanking on their leashes, desperate to attack Ella.
Ella pedals away hard but her bike is turned funny. She’s got her head down and her bike gets stuck in a puddle. She flies off the bike. It slaps on top of her. Her backpack flips upside down. Colored pens and art things tumbl
e into the mud.
I pedal up to Ella. “Are you okay?” I hop off my bike and lift hers off of her. “Those dogs should be registered lethal weapons.”
Ella winces as she tries to stands up, and immediately falls back down.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“My ankle. I can’t put any weight on it.”
“Maybe you sprained it.” I collect all her drawing pads, wipe them off as best I can, and stick them inside her backpack.
She glances at her bike. The gears are off the chains and she’s rubbing her ankle. “It really hurts.” She grimaces.
“It could be broken. Here, lean on me and we can hop to my house.”
Ella shakes her head. “I can’t. I’m supposed to be decorating the gym. Right now. I’m seven minutes late.” She looks down toward her pocket. “Where’s my phone?”
Then her eyes travel two feet ahead. And my eyes travel two feet ahead. And there is her phone, or at least what was her phone. The screen is so shattered it looks like a spiderweb. “I can’t believe this! My mom’s going to kill me.”
“Maybe just the screen’s broken.” I pick it up and push on the button. Miraculously, her phone turns on. “See, it’s fine.”
But Ella’s not smiling. She’s sort of sniffling as she points to something across from the rock. It’s a mud puddle, and inside of it sit all of the stars and moons that Ella has made. They are normal-looking, just like I suggested. Rolls of yellow streamers, out of their plastic bags, are also sopping wet.
“Oh no!” she cries.
“Maybe they can dry,” I say.
Ella blinks back tears. “The dance starts in three hours. We started decorating yesterday afternoon, but these are the finishing touches. Everything is ruined.”
Ella hobbles toward the decorations, grimacing. “Oh my gosh. I can’t believe this!”
“Let’s make sure you’re okay first and then worry about the decorations,” I say. The rain hisses and fat drops splash onto my cheek. “We should call your parents.”
Tears flow out of Ella’s eyes. “We can’t. My dad’s away on a trip. He’s in Phoenix. And my mom is at the gym. So she won’t even pick up.” Ella’s face is streaked with mud and rain and tears. She sniffles and wipes her eyes on her sleeve. She’s wearing a nice dress for the dance. Or, it was nice.
Queen of Likes Page 13
