Alice in Charge

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  HOW MUCH SLEEP DO YOU GET A NIGHT? (STUDENTS)

  —Josh Logan, roving reporter, senior

  Courtney Brookings: “Six, usually. Five, if there’s an exam.”

  Sherry Hines: “You’ve got to be kidding. Four to five hours, if I’m lucky.”

  Todd Gambi: “Depends who I’m sleeping with.”

  Emma Herringer: “Last night I was up until two.”

  Lei Song: “Five hours. Weekends, I sleep all day.”

  HOW MUCH SLEEP DO YOU GET A NIGHT? (TEACHERS)

  —Amy Sheldon, roving reporter, junior

  Oscar Evans (history): “The eleven o’clock news is my cutoff time.”

  Luis Cardello (Spanish): “Four to five hours, don’t ask me how.”

  Dennis Granger (sub): “I never go to bed till I’ve watched The Tonight Show.”

  Jennifer Smythe (biology): “From midnight on.”

  Roy Peters (phys ed): “Sleep? What’s that?”

  “Amy, you did a great job!” I told her. “How did you get such short answers?”

  “I told them there wasn’t a lot of space,” Amy said, obviously thrilled at seeing her name on copy. “I remembered how it looked before.”

  Now that she’d been seen around school wearing a badge, saw that her name was in the paper, she’d be more accepted, I told myself.

  “Should we tell her she can keep the job?” I asked Phil.

  “Try her a few more times—see how it goes,” he said.

  Gwen, Pamela, Liz, and I sat in Starbucks Sunday afternoon discussing life, or “getting a life,” as Pamela put it.

  “I’ve never had so much homework!” she complained. “I thought senior year was supposed to be a breeze. If I go to a theater arts school, what does any of this matter? Grades, I mean.”

  “They show you can think—that you can complete an assignment, you’re not a quitter,” said Gwen.

  “What if you got a part in a historical play and didn’t know anything about England? Or about how it was during the Depression?” asked Liz.

  “Ugh,” said Pamela, skimming the whipped cream off her latte and eating it with a spoon. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “What did you have in mind?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. TV. Sitcoms. I haven’t decided yet. I still think about design sometimes. Or advertising. I’m all over the map.”

  “So be a travel agent!” Liz joked. “You’ll travel the world and see exotic places. Meanwhile, who’s going to the Homecoming Dance? Why don’t we all go together?”

  “Aren’t you inviting Keeno?” asked Gwen. “I’m bringing Austin.”

  “I did, and he said he could get his mom’s SUV for the evening if he pays for the gas. Can pack in eight people.”

  “Make it seven,” I said. “I’m not going with anyone.”

  “Make it six,” said Pamela. “I’m not either.”

  Gwen looked us over. “What’s wrong with you guys?”

  “I just want it to be fun and easy,” said Pamela. “If I meet someone at the dance, fine, but I’m not looking right now.”

  Gwen turned to me.

  “Ditto,” I said. “Patrick told me not to give up dances and stuff just because he’s not here. Fine. I’m not giving up the Homecoming Dance. I’m just not inviting another guy, that’s all.”

  “And we’re wearing … ?” asked Gwen.

  “The tightest jeans we’ve got,” said Pamela.

  4

  AN UNEXPECTED INVITATION

  Monday: Beach Day; Tuesday: Twin Day; Wednesday: Garage Band Day; Thursday: Tacky Day; Friday: Time-Warp Day.

  Our school did it up big this year. Each class was assigned a hallway to decorate for Spirit Week with some particular theme: Between the four classes, we chose Arabian Nights, Disney World, Chicago Mobsters, and the Cosmos. It felt sort of schizoid to walk past Mickey Mouse at one corner and then find yourself on Mars.

  I liked Tacky Day best—liked going to the Gay/Straight Alliance meeting after school in an old green polyester sweater with pill balls all over it and a red, white, and blue scarf around my neck. Waist down, I wore baggy brown sweatpants and some gold ballerina slippers with pink butterfly buckles.

  The guy I sat next to just had his shirt on inside out.

  “That’s tacky?” I teased, but he looked a little embarrassed, and I was sorry because he was new to the group. A junior, I think.

  “I’m Alice McKinley,” I said. “I only look this bad part of the time.”

  He gave me a little smile. “Curtis Butler,” he said. And then, glancing around the group, “How many members?”

  “It varies,” I said. “A dozen. Sometimes more.”

  “Just wanted to see what it’s all about,” he said.

  “Tolerance and acceptance—that whatever you are, you’re welcome here,” I told him.

  Lori and Leslie arrived in camouflage-type jackets, plaid pants, and purple socks rolled down around their ankles. Each person who came in seemed to look more tacky than the one before, and we especially cheered and clapped when Mr. Morrison, our faculty sponsor, showed up in striped pants that rode up as far as his rib cage and a sweater vest over a yellowed nylon shirt.

  Some of the members rehearsed the crazy skit they’d be doing at the pep assembly the next day, and we laughed and applauded as three guys, dressed as girls in hockey uniforms, and three girls, wearing football uniforms, came face-to-face on a practice field and didn’t know what to make of each other. After circling uncertainly, the football girls tackled the hockey boys, who swung at them with their sticks, and they all ended up in a heap on the floor, where everybody disentangled, hugged, and sang a syrupy rendition of “People” to hoots of laughter.

  I’m not sure what kind of impression we made on Curtis, except that we have a good time at our meetings.

  The fall sports pep rally was probably the best ever, and I was glad that Phil was going to do the write-up on it because I just wanted to enjoy it without taking notes. It’s mostly run by students. The junior and senior class presidents acted as hosts, introducing the various sports and dance teams, and the clubs on campus that performed the skits. The senior girls did their traditional dance, and I did okay, even though I’d missed a few of the six a.m. rehearsals. But the skit by the GSA got a huge laugh and loud applause, and I felt even better about that.

  For the first time the principal didn’t come onstage to announce our annual blood drive. Instead, the Health Occupations Students of America Club performed a mock operation with an IV full of bright red “blood,” to remind people of the current shortage, and told the audience how we could go about giving blood on a scheduled day.

  The rally ended with bleacher mania, led by the cheerleaders—a competition to see which class cheered the loudest. Liz and I had put coins and rice in plastic bottles for noisemakers, and Pamela brought a whistle. Justin Collier brought a cowbell. Our ears were ringing when we left the gym, but every person was smiling.

  The game that night was something to celebrate because it was the first time in three years that we won our first home game. The bleachers went nuts. None of my best friends had gone out for cheerleading—Pamela thought about it once—but we knew the cheers and started a few of our own when we got the chance.

  The best part, though, was the old senior tradition of streakers at half time. All week long the school had buzzed with speculation about which guys were going to do it, and just after the marching band had strutted its stuff, two seniors dropped their clothes and went racing across the field as we shrieked and cheered them on.

  But it was the next day that really got to me. Dad let me have the afternoon off at the Melody Inn so I could watch the homecoming parade. It was the music, I guess, that reminded me of how much I was missing Patrick. It was nothing we shared—I can’t even sing. But each year when there was a band concert or a game, Patrick was there, playing the drums. When the school put on its spring musical, Patrick was there in the orchestra, d
oing percussion.

  The way he held his back so straight. The way his feet moved, absolutely in step. The way he held the sticks. The way the chin strap on his hat creased his jaw. The little smile he’d give me as he marched past, letting me know he saw me, even though his eyes didn’t move left or right.

  Now, watching the band go by, there were parts in the marches where the drummer played solo for a couple of measures, and I wanted it to be Patrick playing those parts, not the short guy out there in the street, and I could feel tears welling up momentarily.

  Justin and Jill—surprise! surprise!—had been elected homecoming king and queen, and they rode the float along with the full homecoming court. It was a gorgeous October day. Everyone in Maryland, it seemed, was outside in the red-orange of this autumn afternoon, taking photos as the band passed, including Sam, our Edge photographer. I knew I’d treasure the next issue of the newspaper because this would be my last homecoming parade in Silver Spring. My last Homecoming Dance. Senior year: the last of everything.

  “Wow!” Sylvia said, rolling her eyes as I ate a little supper at the kitchen counter. “Can you sit down in those pants?”

  I laughed and swallowed a last bite of cheese. “They’re brand-new, but I should have them broken in by the end of the evening. You like?”

  “They’re terrific! Too bad that Patrick—” She stopped suddenly, but I picked up where she’d left off.

  “… isn’t here to take me to the dance, right? I know. But a lot of kids are going solo. Having a carful helps.”

  Keeno phoned to say he was running late—his mom just got home with the SUV—so as soon as I heard him pull up in front, I grabbed my jacket and ran out.

  Music was playing inside the car, and I slid in beside Gwen and Austin, the guy with the dreadlocks and the linebacker shoulders. Liz was up front with Keeno, and Pamela was in the very back. The inside of the car smelled great—Pantene shampoo and Abecrombie’s Fierce. I was glad to see Gwen in heels, because I wasn’t sure of the footwear.

  The people who weren’t at the dance were as obvious as the ones who were. Mark. Patrick … Patrick on an October night in Chicago. Roaming the campus alone? Sitting on a bench by Botany Pond, thinking of me?

  I have to say we seniors looked great. Hot. Finally our faces were almost blemish-free. Maybe a spot or two on the forehead or a makeup-covered zit on the chin. But looking around at all the other girls in their slim pants and sparkly tees, we looked rather magnificent. We all had breasts; we all had waists. Had learned to wear eyeliner expertly, abandoning the old raccoon look.

  And the guys! How had they grown so tall in just one summer? The guy who used to be called Mr. Zits now had beard shadow all over his face, like some movie star. We were top of the heap, king of the hill. This was our time, and we immediately began to dance.

  The sophomore Student Council members had decorated the gym with streamers intertwined to form a canopy over the dance floor, and there were balloons everywhere. One of the football team’s blockers served as DJ. I was glad to see Amy Sheldon happily tagging along with two other girls, and she waved to me as they circled the gym.

  “Best turnout yet!” said Phil as he came over to dance with me. “Sam says he’s got some great photos. We’ll try to get them in the next issue.”

  “We’re going to be working our butts off to get a paper out every week, Phil,” I said, thinking of Sam and all he had to do.

  “Well, we’ll see how it goes,” he said. “Ames is really pleased at the reviews we got last year. Some of the graduates even want their parents to send the paper to them at college.”

  I danced with Darien, too, and then I ran into Pamela and Gwen, who were teaching Daniel Bul Dau to dance.

  It was a riot, the way he towered over them, but he seemed to be enjoying himself, taking his mistakes with good humor.

  “To dance by myself, I do very fine. When I dance with you, we have four feet to get in the way of each other,” he explained, laughing, when Pamela tried to teach him the basics of slow dancing.

  He held her so far away from his body that I could have walked between them. But Daniel so wanted to fit in. By the end of the evening he’d perfected the box step and had managed to dance with three of us. His smile made him look as though he’d conquered the world.

  “What kind of dances do you do in Sudan?” Austin asked him when we gathered at the refreshment table.

  Daniel laughed again. “Not very much like this one. And not with girls.”

  “Really?” said Pamela. “Who do you dance with?”

  “All of the men dance together, but they are not touching like this. They dance, and the women watch them.”

  “Aha!” said Gwen.

  “But I never danced because I was too young. My brother is twenty-three, and he did not dance either. We were small when we had to leave our village.”

  “Well, you’re doing great,” Pamela told him. “We’ll even give your brother a lesson if he wants one.”

  For me, it was a sort of bittersweet evening—the first year of school since we’d moved to Silver Spring that I wasn’t in a class with either Patrick or Mark. Like life was going to go on same as before—it was interesting and happy—except that there was a big hole in it, and a lot of the time I felt I was just watching other people live their lives. Every so often I’d feel that rush of loneliness—sort of a panicky, sinking feeling—and wondered if Amy Sheldon felt this way a lot. It wasn’t that I was here without a boyfriend necessarily; I had fun with my female friends. It was just that somebody important in my life was missing. This was my senior year! I wanted Patrick now, I wanted him here, and I felt envious of Jill and Justin.

  “What in the world are you thinking about?” Liz asked when she found me standing in a doorway holding a cup of Sprite. “You look like the Girl Without a Country.”

  “A violin without a string,” I said. “A pebble without a beach. A nest without an egg. A—”

  “Omigod,” said Liz. “A pity party if I ever heard one.”

  And then it was over, and I felt better.

  I went to church with Dad and Sylvia the next morning. The senior high group meets over in Chalice House during the second service, and it’s usually like a discussion group, focusing on some general problem in society or with ourselves. If anyone’s home from college, he knows this is a place to catch up with friends and trade news and gossip, and sometimes we head for the Tastee Diner afterward for waffles.

  I didn’t see any of the kids who had left for college, but I did recognize one of the girls from “Our Whole Lives”—a series of classes Dad signed me up for in my sophomore year. I’d met Emily at the first awkward session of that group, and she was the one who had suggested we might just crawl out the window and escape.

  “Hey, how are you?” Emily asked. “Haven’t seen you for a long time.”

  “Just catching up on life,” I said. She goes to a different school, and we compared teachers and classes.

  Bert Soams, one of the instructors of “Our Whole Lives,” was leading senior discussions now, and he’d written a single sentence on the board. Eventually the conversation drifted to that:

  at the moment of your conception, four hundred million spermatozoa were racing for the egg, but only one of them fertilized it, and that one became you.

  It was pretty awesome when you thought about it, and it didn’t take long to start a discussion. If any one of those other sperm had got there first, we’d all have been different people. Maybe the opposite sex. I mean, think of the odds. What a gamble! What a coincidence! What a miracle! All of us sitting in that room were miracles.

  I told Dad and Sylvia afterward that I was going to the diner and that someone else would drive me home. And then six of us squeezed into a booth and ordered a communal platter of waffles, sausage, and eggs.

  A tall guy in a Redskins cap held up a bite of scrambled egg and studied it. “The hen who laid the egg was a miracle,” he said in mock reverence.


  It didn’t lessen the miraculous feeling that just being alive at all was so hugely special.

  I was so not caught up with homework. Printouts of college campuses, along with notes and phone numbers, were in a heap on one side of my desk. I had to spend the rest of Sunday afternoon and most of the evening on a physics assignment I didn’t understand and an essay for English on the twentieth-century novel. Sylvia said they were going to have a tray supper in the family room watching 60 Minutes—did I want to eat with them? I opted for dinner in my room, knowing I couldn’t afford the distraction. I promised myself that I could call Patrick at ten, but only if I finished both assignments.

  It was about nine when my cell phone rang, and I reached for it eagerly.

  There was nothing in my promise that said I couldn’t talk with Patrick if he called first. But it wasn’t a number I recognized.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Good evening,” said a voice.

  “Hello?” I said again, questioning.

  “I am calling to speak with Alice,” came the voice, and then I recognized Daniel Bul Dau. “Am I speaking with Alice?”

  “Daniel! Hi!” I said. “How are you? It was great to see you at the Homecoming Dance.”

  “It was a good evening,” he said, each word enunciated with perfection. “I am telling my brother about the game and the dance, and he is doing same thing at the George Washington.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “The university,” he explained. “Geri is a student there at the George Washington’s University. That is how we get to America with my mother. We are all of us refugees, but he is also a scholarship there. We are very, very lucky.”

  “Well, we’re lucky to have you at our school,” I told him. “And I’m really looking forward to the article you’re going to write for The Edge. You have a lot to tell us.”