Finsecker rubs his chin some more. “After two detentions, a third offense is a suspension.”
WHAT? He can’t do that. Suspension is a serious punishment for bad kids.
I’m not a bad kid. “Please, don’t,” I beg. “It’s almost the last week of school. I’ll make up the work. I promise. I’m sorry. Please.”
Mr. Finsecker turns around and starts erasing the board. I can hear my heart pounding. I stuff my books and papers back into my bag, zip it, and sling it over my shoulder. I will not cry. That’s what he wants. Head held high, I walk slowly out of the room, partly because my knee is killing me, partly to show I don’t care.
But I do. Everyone will talk about me behind my back after I leave. I can already feel the glances and whispers. Silent Amy turns all the way around in her seat to watch me go. A couple of the nicer kids whisper, “Sorry, Abby,” as I pass their desks. I don’t open my mouth to say thanks, because my lower lip is starting to tremble.
When I get to the girls’ bathroom, I lock myself in a stall, kick the toilet-seat cover down, and sit. My shoulders slump, giving way to big, heaving sobs. I cover my face, trying to hold my tears in, but they come out anyway. My fingers get all wet.
I’ve been lying to my parents about my English grades for months. Now I might flunk and get suspended.
What am I going to do?
My mother thinks she’s always right.
I know this because she says “I’m always right” approximately fifty times a day. She’s saying it to me now. “I’m always right. I knew your Aunt Roz wouldn’t come to your brother’s bar mitzvah.” She rips open another RSVP envelope right here on the sidewalk in front of our mailbox, too bar mitzvah–crazed to go inside and open them in the kitchen like a normal person.
I’m right about a lot too, like the fact that she’s on a need-to-know basis about my English grades and possible suspension. So far Finsecker hasn’t called, but I’m worried he might, so I have a plan to get my parents to a loud restaurant tonight where they’ll never hear their phones. Then maybe Finsecker will come to his senses and forget the whole thing.
Mom slides another RSVP card back in its envelope. “I bet you Roz is still swollen from her facelift. That’s why she’s not coming to see her nephew become a man.”
I dribble my basketball on the driveway. My knee is turning blue-black where I hit it against my desk in class, but it’s not swollen. “I don’t understand how reading the Bible in Hebrew turns Drew into a man.”
Mom shrugs. “Ask the rabbi.”
“Drew is only thirteen. How is that a man? He still collects Star Wars figures. He drinks Juicy Juice.”
“So do you, so I wouldn’t talk,” I hear Drew say as the garage door opens. He comes out, aiming his precious video camera at me. Drew films everything. He even filmed Mom waving my pill at me when I got home from school. (We’re going back to Post-its. I didn’t fight it.)
I dribble, spin, and shoot. Swoosh! It goes in perfectly. I glance at Mom to see if she saw it. She didn’t.
Mom adjusts the strap of her new sparkly tank top. Yesterday, when I saw it in the shopping bag on her bed, I thought it was for me. Wrong. “Abby, want to come to the mall with me this weekend? You need a dress for the bar mitzvah.”
“I already picked a dress, remember?” I dribble backward.
Mom jumps out of the way. “Twelve-year-olds do not wear backless dresses. It’s inappropriate.”
“Mom, did you watch the Teen Choice Awards? They do too!”
“Don’t raise your voice to me, please.”
“Sorry. Bad day.” Epic understatement of the year. As far as inappropriateness, that’s ridiculous coming from her. Mom has been wearing HIGHLY inappropriate halter tops and miniskirts purchased from Macy’s Juniors department since her fiftieth birthday last month. Hello Irony, meet Hypocrisy. She won’t even let me dye a streak of my hair blue. What’s the ish? I already have blue braces and blue glitter fingernail polish.
“Thanks for not getting me something at Forever 21, by the way.” I shoot the ball over her head, making her duck.
“I looked, but I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”
“I like jeans.” I balance the ball on my finger like a Harlem Globetrotter. “They have to be the right shade of blue—not too light, not too dark.”
“I like you better in skirts,” Mom says. I don’t answer her, busy with my ball. “Why don’t you come with me and we’ll pick out some skirts together? Or jeans. We’ll make a fun day of it.”
Mom has clearly forgotten that we always argue in stores, because she never lets me get what I want. “No thanks.” Mom’s face falls. I don’t know why. She doesn’t need me to shop.
Swoosh. Another perfect shot. This time Mom sees it and smiles. I wait for her to say “nice shot” or “way to go.” Instead, she says, “Drew, did you get that on film? We need fun family scenes to send to the videographer for your bar mitzvah video.”
The garage phone rings.
Finsecker!!! No!
“I’LL GET IT!” I scream. I drop my ball, race past Drew, trip over my ball, bump into Mom, who drops her mail, and land on my butt.
“Abby!” Mom shouts. “Watch where you’re going!”
I scramble back up, sprint to the phone, and yank it off the wall. “Hello?”
“Hello, this is Mr. Fartstinker calling to suspend you,” says a fake deep voice.
I can’t believe Caitlin. Why didn’t she call me on my cell? She never calls our landline. “Yes?” I say, annoyed.
“I just saw Brett and his friends at Smoothie Hut, totally checking out Silent Amy. She was there with her mom. She looked really pretty. But you’re prettier. I don’t care what people say.”
“You have the wrong number.” I hang up. I know Amy is prettier than me. I don’t need Caitlin to remind me. All the boys, including Brett, drool over Amy. They don’t care that she’s so basic all she does on the bus ride home is scroll through cat photos on her phone, not talking to anybody. What matters is that she has boobs, shimmery skin, the hottest clothes, and hair like Taylor Swift’s. Then there’s me, stick skinny with freckles and mosquito bites and dirty sneakers and the occasional chalk streak of blue hair. (Mom and Dad don’t know about that last thing—they would go fully bonkers.)
Caitlin has been my best friend since third grade, but things aren’t the same with us this year. She’s been copying me a lot, and even though Mom says it’s flattering when someone copies you, it feels competitive in a bad way. Caitlin tried out for Camp Star Lake because I did. As soon as I said I had a crush on Brett, she said she did too. She even started painting her fingernails the same color as mine, and everyone knows blue glitter nail polish is my thing.
Worse, she’s been giving me compliments that are really put-downs. It started when Brett picked me for our duet acting project. Then when I got into Camp Star Lake, she said, “It’s a lottery. Your audition has nothing to do with it.” A total lie. She’s also into punching me all of a sudden. I’ve told her to stop, but she keeps “forgetting.”
The worst thing happened last week, when an avalanche of books and papers fell out of my locker. “Omigosh, Abby, you’re such a hoarder!” she announced. Then Davis pointed and yelled, “HOARDER!” Not that I should care what Davis thinks. Yesterday he read, “The bride’s face is covered with a veal,” for his oral report. Still, even a weirdo calling you a hoarder isn’t a good feeling.
Sometimes I don’t even know why I’m still friends with Caitlin.
Actually, I do know why.
I don’t have anyone else.
The truth is, I want to branch out from her and try hanging around with the kids from drama, or maybe the girls who were on my soccer team. But what if they don’t want me? People already have their BFs and cliques. It’s one thing to joke around in class or on the field with someone; it’s another to make weekend plans with them.
The thing is, there’s security in having a best friend. It’s always been Ca
itlin and Abby, a unit. Caitlin says she’s the only friend who will stick with me, because I talk too much, blurt out rude things, and cause chaos.
Maybe she’s right. I don’t know. What I do know is that people seem to like me once they get to know me. I always get picked first for teams in PE. But it’s true that I talk and blurt and cause chaos, so she could be right.
Which is a downer, because I can’t help being me.
Secretly, I’m glad Caitlin only made the alternate list for Star Lake. I’m looking forward to seeing what life will be like when I’m not one half of the Caitlin/Abby combo.
Mom interrupts my thoughts. “Grandma called. We’re having dinner with her and Grandpa tonight.”
“Ooh, are we eating at their condo?” Drew asks. He loves eating there because Grandma serves Jell-O as a side dish. I love eating there for three reasons: (1) Grandpa laughs like a maniac whenever I joke around, (2) he usually slips me some cash when it’s time to leave, especially if I’ve scratched his back, and (3) Mom doesn’t get on my case about every little thing I say or do because she’s busy talking to Grandma. She even lets me eat the Jell-O side dish. I’m not allowed sugar at home, but I sneak it at every opportunity. I’m only human.
“Casa Lupita,” Mom says. “Grandma has an early-bird coupon or something, I don’t know.”
“What’s the occasion?” Drew asks, walking backward, pointing his camera at her.
“No occasion,” she says.
Actually, the occasion is that I called Grandma and tipped her off about the coupon, which I saw in the Clip N Save, then reminded her I’m leaving soon for camp. Grandma said she misses me already and insisted on using the coupon. So now if Finsecker calls, we won’t be home, which was my plan.
I am a genius. Earlier in the day I was an idiot. That’s how it is with me.
I dribble the ball near Mom so I’m on camera too. “Is it no occasion that your favorite daughter will be away from the family nest for the first time? It’s not all about Drew’s bore mitzvah, you know.”
“Stop calling it a bore mitzvah,” Drew says. “My party will be awesome.” He’s talking about the dress-up banquet after his service. I’ve been to a few. The kids take off their shoes and rule the dance floor until the old ladies take over with a conga line. The whole shebang ends when the party favors come out, usually T-shirts printed with phrases like ELI’S HIP HOP BAR MITZVAH WAS THE SHIZZLE!
“Mike and Beth are coming tonight too,” Mom adds.
Ugh. My other brother and his wife. Drew and I exchange disgusted glances. He turns the camera on himself and makes barfing motions. I drop the ball, grab my neck, and pretend to strangle myself.
Mom waves at Mrs. Kopecki walking her dog.
Drew aims the camera back at me. I fall on the driveway, spread-eagle, continue strangling myself until I gasp for air, choke, gurgle, and sputter, then add a few seconds of trembling and twitching for fake seizure purposes, until, finally, I roll my eyes upward, stick out my tongue, and die.
Mom steps over me and goes into the house.
At the restaurant, Grandma and Grandpa give me their standard greeting: “Hello, gorgeous!” Then they start arguing, also standard. “I don’t like this place,” Grandma says. “I never come here with my friends. It’s so dark in here.”
“So bring a flashlight,” Grandpa shoots back.
“The service is terrible. Every time I come here it’s terrible.”
“I thought you said you never come here.”
“We should have gone to Little Italy,” Grandma says.
“Did you bring the coupon?”
“What do you think? Of course I brought the coupon. It’s early, so you can still get a free drink at the bar.”
That’s all Grandpa needs to hear. He leaves the table and comes back two minutes later sipping a Manhattan. Mom recites the ingredients and Weight Watchers points of every salad on the menu. Dad shows me game scores on his phone, and Grandma suggests to the waiter that they turn the air-conditioning up.
Drew and I help ourselves to chips and salsa. He uses his spoon to catapult a chip into my mouth. It lands next to my eye. Drew dips another chip into the salsa so it’s dripping. “Let’s do that again. This time it’ll look like you’re bleeding. Ready?” He points the camera at me. “Action.”
Dad yanks the chip out of his hand. “For Pete’s sake, we’re in a restaurant.” “For Pete’s sake” is Dad’s favorite expression. Who is Pete, and why does Dad say things for his sake? I have no idea, but Dad likes to say it, or yell it when he’s watching a football game, as in, “FOR PETE’S SAKE, WHAT KIND OF PLAY WAS THAT, YOU MORON?”
When I was in third grade, there was an article in a local magazine about how Dad left his career as “the most feared prosecutor in the state attorney’s office” to follow his dream: owning a sporting-goods store. Mom and Dad always point out how his risky career choice paid off, because Dad makes way more money now than before.
“For Pete’s sake, Mike and Beth are always late!” Dad half shouts to nobody in particular. Then he switches gears to cheerful mode, leaning in toward Drew with a grin. “So, how’s my bar mitzvah boy?” Drew shrugs. He never has much to say to Dad.
“He’s fabulous!” Mom answers for him. “He reads Hebrew like a rabbi. Oh, and I have to show you the RSVPs we got. Roz isn’t coming.”
Dad takes a corn chip and dips it in salsa. Mom shakes her head at him. She’s been trying to get Dad to do Weight Watchers with her so he’ll look good for the bar mitzvah, but his idea of dieting is going to the McDonald’s drive-through and polishing off a Big Mac combo meal in his car, then throwing away the bag so Mom won’t know about it.
“What about you, buddy?” Dad asks me, chewing. “How’s school?”
I’m close to flunking English, there’s a chance I’ll get suspended, and I’m scared to death you’ll get a phone call from my teacher tonight. “Outstanding.” I kiss my fingers. “Simply fantastic, superb, and thank you so much for asking.”
Dad pats his bald head with his napkin. The spicy salsa always makes him sweat. “Learn anything interesting?”
“We saw a movie in science today about face transplants,” Drew offers.
“Gross,” I say. “Do they take off the old face before they put the new one on? Or do they smoosh the new one over the old one? How does a person talk if they don’t have their own lips?”
“Well, first they numb the guy’s head, and—”
“So he’s a numbskull,” I interrupt.
“Can you let me talk for once?” Drew asks me.
I bow my head. “By all means. Please elaborate.”
“Hey, now!” a deep voice booms out. My brother Mike.
Hooray.
Mom lights up like an arcade game. To her, Mike is Moses, all four Beatles, and Matt Damon rolled into one. To Drew and me, Mike is that red swollen thing on a baboon’s butt. “Speaking of numbskulls,” I whisper to Drew.
Mike’s wife, Beth, is behind him, flicking her black hair with one hand, texting with the other. They look like celebrities, with their shiny suits and sunglasses perched on their heads. Beth is a vegetarian and works out a lot, and her rear end is on the larger side. She’s glamorous, like a Kardashian, or maybe a broadcaster for Telemundo.
Mike works his way around the table, kissing Mom and Grandma. He turns to me next. “Hey, sis, when are you gonna fill out? Just kiddin’. Looking good.” When he gets to Drew, he rubs his hand in Drew’s hair, messing it up. “Duuuuude, wassup? Got a girlfriend yet?” He laughs and points at Drew’s I SPACED OUT AT REUBEN’S NASA BAR MITZVAH shirt. “Time for some new clothes, bro.”
Drew fiddles with a button on his camera.
“So what was the giveaway for your bar mitzvah, huh, Mike?” I ask him. “An I Think I’m Too Cool for This Shirt shirt?”
That takes the smirk off Mike’s face. “I didn’t give out party favors at mine.” Figures. He only thinks of himself. Mike starts bragging about how he and Beth j
oined the country club and went shopping for a Lexus. Grandma goes, “Ooh, a Lexus,” and moves her penciled-on eyebrows up and down.
Dad listens to Mike, nodding along, and Mom is so riveted it’s like he’s the only person in the room. Mom tells him how proud she is that he and Beth are doing so well with the real-estate agency they just bought. Mike and Beth sell mansions to rich people. Who cares?
Mike was Mom and Dad’s only child for thirteen years before Drew came along, and he is everything Drew and I aren’t. When Mike was in middle school, he was on the lacrosse team and got straight As. In high school he worked, and then he got a full scholarship to college. Mr. Perfect Son. It’s amazing Drew and I don’t reflexively vomit at the sight of him.
The waiter comes, and we order. When it’s Beth’s turn, we all expect her to order one of her vegetarian usuals, like an all-veggie fajita. A ripple of shock goes around the table when she orders chicken tacos, same as me. “What, can’t a person try something new?” she asks in this shaky voice.
Then, in one of those bizarre moments that usually only happen in movies, the whole restaurant quiets down, as if everyone in the room somehow knows a Big Announcement is coming.
Mom sucks in her breath. “Are you…expecting?”
Beth’s usually rigid shoulders relax. “Yes, I’m twelve weeks along.”
“Mazel tov!” Grandma shouts as Grandpa holds up his glass and whoops. My parents get up and hug and kiss Beth. They keep saying “Congratulations!” over and over. Then Mom and Dad kiss Mike, and then they kiss each other, for some reason.
A baby. Drew and I get up to kiss Beth on the cheek like everyone else is doing. After we go back to our seats, some ladies from another table come over to congratulate Beth. (Random strangers get personal all the time in Poco. Last week at Costco a woman pointed at the toilet paper in Mom’s shopping cart and told her to switch to an unscented brand. They ended up discussing it for ten minutes.)
The restaurant is noisy again. Mom and Dad ask Beth a million questions about when did she know and were they trying (ew).
This Is Not the Abby Show Page 2
