“Yeah.” He doesn’t look at me, just opens his laptop. This guy is as pleasant as a cramp.
“All right, listen up,” Tony says. “We’re all going to be spending a lot of time together, so I think we should get to know each other.” Tony starts handing out papers. “Interview the person sitting opposite you using these questions.” Great. I get Max, Mr. Personality. “This questionnaire isn’t for a grade, but you’ll be turning it in.”
Papers swish and conversations buzz as people start interviewing each other. I fumble in my backpack for a pencil. I sharpened five the other night but can’t find a single one. Typical. Max drums his fingers on his desk, waiting.
Trina and Amy have already started. “What do you hope to achieve in this class?” Trina reads. Amy whispers something back. Trina puts her hand over her ear. “What?” Amy tries again. Trina sits back in her seat. “This isn’t going to work. Why don’t we answer these questions through interpretive dance?” She weaves her arms in and out. I join in, waving my arms. Trina and I get into it, cracking each other up. Amy laughs too, but no sound comes out. Max sits back and observes us like we’re germs under his microscope.
“Hey, what’s going on over there?” asks Tony.
We stop with the arm dancing.
I go back to hunting for a pencil. Amy is probably criticizing me in her head for being so disorganized, but then she surprises me, handing me a brand-new sharpened pencil. It’s pink and sparkly. “Here,” she whispers.
“Thank you,” I say. Instead of responding, “You’re welcome,” she just gives me a blank smile and blinks. Bizarre. I appreciate the pretty pencil, though. I hope I don’t lose it.
Now is my chance to win Max over. “Finsecker was excruciatingly boring, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” He reads from the paper. “How do you plan to achieve your academic goals?”
“By paying attention. I just paid attention to how the word tingly is in the word excrutiatingly.”
Max writes that down as if it’s a real answer. Not even a hint of a smile. “Are you available for children’s parties?” I ask. “Because you’re a barrel of laughs.”
“As a matter of fact, I am available for children’s parties.” He says this solemnly, the way a rabbi would say “I am available for funerals.”
“What would you do at children’s parties?”
“Magic shows.”
“Oh.”
“Question three. What are you good at, besides losing your pencils?”
“Losing my mind?” Trina and Amy overhear and giggle.
Max stares at me for a second, then says, “Making people laugh.” He writes that down.
We’re almost having a nice moment. “You should try laughing more, Max.”
“What’s there to laugh about? We’re in summer school.”
“Good point, but I’d rather laugh than be miserable,” I tell him. “So relax and stop with the cold-fish act.”
“It’s not an act.”
“You’re a cold fish?” I ask. “Because I find you to be more of an anemone. Are you a friend or an anemone?”
Max shakes his head and sticks his long legs out to the side of the table.
“Wow, you have hairy legs!” I blurt out. “It’s like you’re wearing furry khaki pants.” His head snaps back. Trina and Amy laugh, then stop when they see his stung expression. “Sorry, was that mean?” I ask.
He stares at me. I don’t know what he’s thinking. “You can’t tell when you’re being mean?”
“Not always, no.”
He scans my face, probably to see if I’m messing with him. “Well, yeah, that was a little mean.”
“Then I’m sorry.”
His face softens. He looks down at my legs. “Why do you have so many bruises? Do you have a disease?”
A big belly laugh bursts out of me. “The only disease I have is tripping or banging into things. Look.” I stand up and point to the bruise on my knee. “I call this one the Finsecker, because it was his fault. What continent do you think it looks like?”
All three of them stare at it. Finally, Amy whispers, “Australia?”
“Right!” I sit down. “Max, tell her what she’s won!”
“Abby, please stay in your seat,” Tony says from his desk.
Max is sort of half smiling. I feel like he’s finally warming a little. “Listen, you’re not mad at me anymore, right?” I ask him. “Because, like I told you in my note, I said that stuff yesterday because I was bored. No big deal.”
The half smile disappears. “No big deal? You made fun of me in front of the whole class on the first day at a new school. You said I look like Clifford. You made fun of, like, the way I blush. Just now, you said I was a cold fish. News flash: All of that is mean. It’s also obnoxious.”
I hate that word. Only people with no sense of humor use it. As if reading my mind, Trina goes, “Abby’s not obnoxious, Max. You’ve got to learn to take a joke.”
“Yeah,” Amy murmurs.
“One more minute, guys,” Tony announces. Max and I have barely done anything. Neither have Trina and Amy. I’m not the only one with time-management problems around here.
“If I sit with you,” Max says to me, “how will I know you won’t embarrass me again?”
I put my hand over my heart. “I keep my promises, and I promise I won’t make fun of you in public.”
“What about making fun of me in private?”
“I might make jokes to your face. Or about your face. You’ll just have to accept it.”
Max squints at the ceiling as if there’s an answer there. “Okay, I accept your apology.”
I hold up my hand for a high five. “Good talk.” Max slaps it. Trina and Amy do too; then they slap Max, and then each other. We’re Team Palm Middle.
I feel better about things.
“Let’s celebrate our reunion with more interpretive dance!” I sway my arms side to side. Trina bends her elbows, Egyptian style. Even Amy moves a little bit. I didn’t think she had it in her to loosen up.
Max looks away, pretending not to see us.
While Tony collects the questionnaires, I get to thinking. My biggest fear was not making a friend this summer. I look at Max, Trina, and Amy. I wonder if they had the same fear. We have nothing in common. But that’s okay.
At least we have each other to talk to.
I want to unzip my skin and jump through a portal to anywhere. GET ME OUT OF HERE.
It’s Friday, almost time to go. This morning I woke up at the crack of dawn, starving, so I had breakfast and took my meds much earlier than usual.
Big mistake.
I waggle my pencil, chip off my nail polish, twirl my hair into knots. I’m not the only one twitching. Max is practicing a trick, hiding coins between his fingers. Sofia, the leader of the ponytail girls, is texting behind a stack of books on her desk. Trina is busy doodling centaurs, and Kelvin is peeling Miami Heat stickers off his notebook.
It’s going to be a long summer.
I wonder what Caitlin is doing right now.
Focus, Abby. Pay attention.
Tony rubs his hands together. “Today you all get your first creative-writing project. Free choice. It can be a review, letter, article, or poem.”
A chorus of groans and eye rolls is our class’s response, with a sarcastic “wahoo!” from Kelvin. Tony raises his voice over ours. “The best part is, you don’t have to write about Shakespeare!”
“I FEEL SO ALIVE!” I yell.
Tony doesn’t get angry at Kelvin or me for Being Disruptive. “Okay, guys, settle down. Every quad will have a different topic, but each student will do the assignment on his or her own. Anyone have a subject they’d like to propose? It can be anything.”
“Magic,” Max says.
“The Dalai Lama,” Trina suggests.
I’m not good at creative writing. Maybe he’ll assign me something else. I raise my hand. Tony points at me. “Just out of curiosity, is the Dalai Lama an actual llama? Or a d
olly?” I ask. “I mean, what is a llama? I’ve never been clear on that.”
“Look it up, Abby,” Tony says dryly. “Okay, more topics, people.”
“Movies!” I shout.
“Madden NFL,” says Kelvin.
“Surfing!”
“UFOs!”
“Funny movies!” I put in. I could write about that. Probably.
“Guatemala,” Sofia says.
“Sí, Guatemala,” repeats one of her friends.
Silent Amy jots it all down as if we’re getting tested.
“Transcendental meditation,” says Trina. “Yoga. Art forms.”
Tony pauses. “Art forms. Now, that has interesting possibilities.”
I wish Tony had said my suggestion was interesting. “Comedies!” I shout again, dying for him to choose mine. “Movies and TV shows!”
“I heard you, Abby,” Tony says. I wonder how long his niceness will last before he turns into the same kind of non-smiling teacher who put us all here. The enemy. He points at our quad. “You four will each choose an art form and write about it.” Who cares about art, besides Trina? Everybody loves movies. The other quads get Guatemala, UFOs, and surfing.
“Are funny movies considered an art form?” I call out.
“Yes,” Tony says. That’s a relief. I’ll do a movie review. “Give facts and opinions. Your thoughts are important to me.”
“We don’t have any thoughts,” I say. “That’s why we’re in summer school.”
Tony waits for the snickers and hooting to stop. “Abby, see me at dismissal.” I knew his niceness wouldn’t last. “Okay, people, finish act one of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
After class I go up to Tony’s desk. He leans back, puts his hands behind his head. “I bet you think I’ve called you here to tell you to stop calling out, give you a warning, maybe some threats…right?” I nod. “Well, I didn’t call you up here for that.”
“Okay.”
“What do you think would help you to control yourself during my lesson? Do you want to sit next to me? You’re very verbal, so maybe I should move you to a different quad.”
“NO!”
Tony’s shoulders jump.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry,” I say. “Please don’t do that. I can do better. This time of day is bad, that’s all. PLEASE don’t move my seat.”
“Okay, I won’t. But you have to stop talking and get your work done if you want to stay. For smaller assignments, you can stay where you are, but for tests, let’s move you to an extra table in back and see how it goes. There will be no distractions back there. Afterward, you can sit with your quad.”
I dig my fingernails into my palms. “You won’t put me in the hall, will you? I had a teacher who did that once.” Mrs. Purcell, fifth grade. Kids and teachers stared at me on their way to the restroom. I couldn’t focus at all. I felt like I had stupid written on my face.
“I would never put you in the hall,” Tony assures me.
Phew. I feel tears building up. Tony understands. A lot of teachers don’t. I swallow my pre-crying throat lump.
Tony waves his hand and leans back in his chair. “One more thing. Your questionnaire says you’re good at making people laugh, and I agree. Have you ever thought of doing stand-up comedy?” he asks.
“What? No, I’ve never done anything like that.” On YouTube there are videos of comedians getting verbally abused by audiences. People throw drinks at the stage. No thanks. “Why?”
“Because you do stand-up comedy every day, in my class. You simply do it from your seat, not a stage.”
I’ve always thought of myself as a comedic actress, or possibly a TV personality/talk-show-host type. I’m not a stand-up comic. I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Listen, Abby, I want all my students to make the most of their talents. So how about if I make you a deal? If you stop calling out and interrupting while I’m teaching, I’ll pick a Friday and allot a few minutes at the end of the day, and you can come to the front of the room and showcase your talents. Tell stories, do characters, jokes, whatever. What do you think?”
What do I think? I think for once, a teacher is rewarding me for my big mouth instead of punishing me for it. “It’s a deal. Thank you.” I can’t stop smiling. “Thank you,” I repeat idiotically.
“You’re welcome.”
“In Shakespeare’s day,” Tony says, “two of the best-known stand-up comics were Lucretia the Tumbler and Jane the Fool.”
“There were stand-up comics in old-timey England?”
“Yes, famous ones. They were called fools, but ‘fool’ wasn’t an insult then. Being a fool was a profession, and some were women. The good ones became famous and performed for royalty. If they could do it then, you can do it now.”
Can I? Maybe. Why haven’t I tried stand-up comedy before?
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Apology
Hi Abby,
Thanks for your email. It was very grown-up of you to write and apologize. I know you didn’t mean to hurt my feelings. Sometimes we all say things we shouldn’t. It’s okay.
I want to share a secret with you. Besides my parents, only Mike and my best friend know this, and now you. When I was your age, I was so overweight, my parents sent me to a diet camp. I had to go every summer until I got my weight under control. Growing up, I couldn’t wear the clothes other girls wore, and I never felt like going anywhere because I didn’t like the way I looked or felt.
That’s why I work out so much and watch what I eat. It’s become a big part of my life, making sure I don’t gain back the weight. So knowing I’m about to get fat all over again scares me and makes me sad, even though it’s for the best reason in the whole world. That’s why I cried so much at the restaurant. When you said you couldn’t wait to see me get fat, it triggered something inside me from my past, and I cried. I hope you understand. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad.
I know sometimes it’s hard for you to keep quiet, but this time, I know you’ll keep my secret. It’s a big one. I trust you. I also know you’ll make a great aunt.
Thanks again.
Love,
Beth
PS I’ll tell Mike not to make that comment to you anymore about filling out. Sometimes he says things he shouldn’t, just like you.
PPS I like your baby-name suggestions. Mike and I will definitely add Brett and Sabrina to the list of options we’re researching.
I read Beth’s email five times. I have no idea why she trusts me, “Blabby Abby,” with keeping her secret, but I won’t tell, not for a million dollars. A grown-up has never apologized to me. Never.
Mom’s fork is poised in midair as she watches me stare at my dinner. “You’re miles away.”
“Huh? Oh, nothing.” I push my chicken around.
Dad makes a face at the mystery mound on his plate. “For Pete’s sake, Rachel, what is this, dirt?”
“It’s quinoa,” Mom answers. “Five Weight Watchers points.”
Dad cocks his head toward Drew and me enjoying our mashed potatoes. “How come they don’t have to eat this?”
“They need calories. We don’t.” She forks quinoa into her mouth. “Eat your chicken, Abby. How’s summer school?”
“Exhilarating. A dream come true. I love it. Thank you so much.”
“What about day camp?” Dad asks Drew.
“Film camp,” Drew corrects him. “Today we made blood from corn syrup and food coloring. We’re shooting the stabbing scene tomorrow.”
“How delightful,” Mom says. “Make any new friends?”
“Yes,” he answers. I know it’s not true.
Drew and I never cough up friend info. Which details do Mom and Dad want? That the bully who called Drew and his friend Sameer “midget” and “armrest” last semester tossed their backpacks in the trash? That my supposed best friend calls me names and punches me? Or that I put up with it because I don’t have another clo
se friend? Parents always think they want details, but they’re better off not knowing. That’s the truth.
“I’ve been thinking,” Dad says. Oy. Whenever Dad says he’s been thinking, he comes up with a terrible idea. “How about a football theme for Drew’s bar mitzvah reception? Every table could be a different team.”
“What are you talking about?” Mom asks, her voice rising. “I’ve already ordered centerpieces and T-shirts. The theme is movies!”
“Calm down, for Pete’s sake. It was just a suggestion.”
“I hate football,” Drew says quietly. Or maybe he just seems quiet compared to my parents.
“Maybe you wouldn’t hate it if you tried it,” Dad says. “The next time Abby and I are tossing a football, you should—”
“Drew has hundreds of followers on YouTube for his short films,” I butt in.
“Steven Spielberg got started with short films,” Mom says. “So there you go.”
“And I know for a fact he never played football,” I declare with authority. I have no idea if Steven Spielberg played football or not.
Drew shoots me a grateful look. “My party theme was supposed to be horror movies, but forget about what I want for my own bar mitzvah.”
“Andrew,” Mom says, “I cannot have the rabbi and his wife sitting at the Texas Chainsaw Massacre table. They’re sitting with us at the Star Wars table.”
“Lame,” I say. “I’d much rather sit at the Texas Chainsaw Massacre table.” I pick up my knife and wave it around like an electric saw. “Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, rrrrrrrr, rrrrrrrrrrr. Aaaahhh, aaahhh!”
Mom rubs her temple. “Abby, we’re at the dinner table.” Wait for it….Wait for it….“This is not the Abby show.” There it is. “Please put your leg down.” I take my foot off my chair. I always forget I’m doing that.
“Did you come up with a system to help you remember to take your pill every morning?” Mom asks. “Like we talked about with Dr. C?”
“Yup,” I answer. “I wrote TAKE YOUR MEDS on my bathroom mirror in lipstick. So I can’t miss it when I’m brushing my teeth. Good idea, right?” Personally, I think it’s brilliant.
Mom puts her fork down. “You used my lipstick? Without asking? Please tell me it wasn’t the Chanel one. Was it the Chanel one?”
This Is Not the Abby Show Page 6
