I was just about to tell him to shut up when Amir, who sat in front of me, suddenly pushed his math book off his desk. It landed on the floor with a huge thud, and he turned to stare hard at Ken before bending down to pick it up. “What are you looking at, Amir-a-med?” Ken asked, pronouncing his name like it was all one word. But thankfully the noise of the book hitting the floor had caused Mr. Tannen to look up.
“Everything all right over there, Amir?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Tannen,” Amir answered. And Ken walked back to his desk.
At lunch, I wandered dejectedly into the yard. Andrew, Mike, and Amir were at basketball tryouts, which meant I had nobody to sit with, and I wasn’t about to face the cafeteria alone. At least it was still warm enough to be outside, where people were less likely to see me. I picked a tree, slid CosmoGirl out of my backpack, and sat down.
I’d been reading for about half an hour and was just flipping through the “Must-Have Fall Accessories” article when I heard a voice. “Is that CosmoGirl?” A second later, Em slid down beside me, stretching out her legs. I noticed she was wearing Diesel shoes. I wasn’t surprised. Besides having good fashion sense, people from New York also have a lot of money. I crossed my legs and tucked my feet underneath my thighs to hide my Payless Converse knockoffs, then quickly readjusted my T-shirt to make sure it was hiding the butterfly belt.
“Yeah,” I said. She just kind of nodded, leaving me wondering if she thought CosmoGirl was kind of cool, or really lame.
“That was so funny in English class,” she said. Well, at least that made it official. Everyone was enjoying my misery. “Did you get in trouble?”
“No,” I said. “She basically told me to say fish sticks next time.”
“And you didn’t tell her it was my idea to play dirty hangman, right?”
“No,” I said. I might have been weird and loserish and have had bad hair but I wasn’t a tattletale.
“Good. So then?” Em slapped my arm. “What are you so mopey about?”
“I’m not mopey.”
“You look mopey.”
“Okay then. First of all, everyone is making fun of me. And second, would you look happy if this was your head?” I pointed to my poodle face.
“I see your point,” she said. “Want me to fix it?”
“It’s un-fixable.” I pulled at my bangs.
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Where? At modeling school?” It came out sarcastic, and I felt bad the instant it left my mouth. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I didn’t mean that. So, it’s true? I mean, you actually model?”
“Yes!” she said, clearly offended. “Not in this kind of magazine,” she said, fluttering the pages of my CosmoGirl. “My agent mostly gets me cast for commercial modeling jobs, like clothing stores, toothpaste. Stuff like that. I once did this billboard shoot for Chuck E. Cheese’s when I was little. I had to hug a guy in a stinky mouse costume for, like, two hours.”
“That’s really cool,” I said. “Not the stinky costume but, you know, modeling.”
“Yeah.” She shrugged like it was no big deal. “So?” She paused. “Do you want me to do your hair or not?”
“I guess,” I said. What did I have to lose? She pulled a brush out of her backpack, motioned for me to turn around, and took out my bobby pins.
There was something I’d been dying to ask ever since the first time I’d seen her, but I glanced around first to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear. “Quit moving your head,” Em said.
“Sorry,” I answered. “Hey, you know that thing? That stupid thing we were at? When we met?”
“Yeah?” she said.
“Did somebody make you go?” I remembered how she’d shouted at the woman in the hall. How the goat lady had opened the door and peered out cautiously. “Or did you want to be there?” I added, so it wouldn’t sound like I already knew the answer.
“Why would anybody want to be there?”
“What were you doing there, then?” I asked.
“What were you doing there?” she answered. I hesitated. Em was new. She didn’t know anybody. More important, she didn’t know me, and she didn’t know the glazed ham story. And, sure, she’d probably find out one of these days, but that didn’t mean it had to be today. She yanked the brush through my hair, hard. I yelped.
“Sorry,” she said, but she didn’t sound very apologetic.
“I was there because my mom made me go.”
“Me too,” she said.
And then, since neither of us wanted to talk about it, I changed the subject.
“So, what part of New York did you live in?” I asked, trying not to wince as she brushed, no more gently than before. “The east part, or the west part, or the middle? Which would be Central Park, of course,” I added.
“Brooklyn,” she said, brushing my bangs straight back and holding them down with one hand.
“Oh. That’s a nice place,” I said, in a tone that made it sound like Brooklyn and I went way back. The second I’d said it, though, I started to have doubts. Was Brooklyn the part of New York where everyone got mugged? You know, the projects? Or was that Harlem? I’d never been very good at geography. “I mean, I’ve heard it’s nice,” I confessed. “I’ve never been there personally. Did you like it?”
“It was pretty great,” she said.
“Then why did you move?”
She didn’t answer for a few seconds. “We just needed a change. Our lifestyle was really hectic there.” Her parents were probably high-powered stockbrokers, I figured. Pretty much everyone in New York was.
“So, where’s your new house?” I asked.
“Lakeshore.” Just like I’d thought, she was rich. The front lawns there are so huge you practically need one of those ride-on mowers just to cut the grass. “It’s near the water. The one with the turrets.”
“I love that house!” I almost screamed. You’ve got to understand, though, I love that house. Ever since I was little, I’ve wanted to live there. Obviously, I needed to know. “Is your bedroom in one of the turrets?”
“Yeah,” she said, like it was nothing.
And then I went off on this big embarrassing thing about how it must be really challenging to decorate a round room when practically all furniture is designed for square or rectangular spaces. “I don’t think you should get discouraged, though,” I finished breathlessly. “A combination of custom pieces, window seating, and a round area rug would work.…” I finally trailed off, realizing I’d talked for almost five minutes straight without asking her any questions or bothering to check if she was actually listening.
“You know a lot,” she said, but I couldn’t tell if she meant it in a good way. “You’re done.” She handed me a compact out of her bag.
“Put some of the dark brown shadow on your bad eyebrow. It’ll look better. You can keep that.” The bell rang, and she stood up to go. She was already halfway across the yard before I’d managed to put my stuff away and push myself to my feet to follow. I flipped open the compact and looked at my reflection.
I actually smiled.
Using only a brush, her fingers, and a silk scarf that had been tied around her wrist, Emily Warner from New York had performed the greatest hair miracle of the twenty-first century. She’d done better than make me look human again. I pretty much knew right then that I’d do whatever it took—I needed to be her friend.
9
Old Friends Are the Best Friends
I MANAGED TO GET THROUGH the rest of the afternoon without embarrassing myself. Unless you counted gym class, where we started our basketball unit and I accidentally threw the ball to someone on the other team. (The girl was on the yellow team, but she was wearing red shorts so it was very confusing.) Or French class, where Mr. Patachou asked me if I was a good student, and I said something like, “Oui, je suis enceinte,” which I thought meant, “Yes, I’m a saint,” but actually meant “Yes, I’m pregnant.” But compared to the events of the morning, that was nothing.
I was halfway down Manning Avenue, psyching myself up for babysitting duty, when I felt something hit my heel. I looked down and saw a pop can skidding away. “Hey!” Andrew was running toward me. He picked up the can and slam-dunked it into a recycling bin. “I’ve been calling your name since you left school. You didn’t hear me, so I had to resort to kicking stuff at you.”
“Thanks!” I said sarcastically. “I needed that.”
“I know.” There was real sympathy in his voice. “Bad day, right? Amir told me you got sent to Vandanhoover’s office this morning. What happened?”
“I just said something I shouldn’t have,” I answered.
“You? Say something you shouldn’t have?” He faked surprise. I hit him hard, and he started laughing. “Remember that time you told my mom her cornmeal muffins tasted like sawdust?”
“I only said they had a texture like sawdust,” I corrected him.
“Or the time you told Erika not to worry because having such big feet made her ankles look smaller.”
“Okay, you’re twisting my words.” I tried to defend myself again. “I was making her feel better after she said her feet were like boats. And they are like boats…but I didn’t tell her that, did I?”
“But you just told me that,” he said, grinning. “Yeah, but your feet are like bigger boats.” I motioned to his Nikes, which were at least size ten. “So you understand.”
“What?! My feet are big?” He pretended to start crying, and I whacked him again. We walked in silence for a while, except for the quiet sound of him still laughing at me.
“This time was different,” I explained. “It was worse. I was playing dirty hangman and I yelled a swear word. Really loud. Mrs. Collins hates my guts, plus everyone else thinks I’m an idiot.”
“No they don’t,” Andrew tried to reassure me. “At least the people who matter don’t. They probably just think you have a really colorful vocabulary.”
He wasn’t making me feel much better.
“How’s Erika, anyway?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Busy,” I muttered. “Making lots of new friends.”
“Tell her hi for me next time you talk to her, okay?”
“If I talk to her,” I replied. He let that one go. He’s known Erika and me long enough to know it’s best not to get involved in our fights. They usually don’t last long anyway. But now something had changed. She was at a new school, with new friends, and she hadn’t even returned my phone call.
“What’s with the new look?” Andrew asked, changing the subject yet again and pointing to the scarf in my hair.
“Just something I’m trying.”
“I like it,” he said, then he touched my arm and left his hand there for a second. I stared at it like it was a strange butterfly that had landed on my jacket, and he moved it away. We both glanced down at the sidewalk for a second while we waited for the weirdness to pass. The whole rest of the way down Manning, all I could think about was that e-mail signed XXO, and I couldn’t come up with a single normal thing to say to him.
Because here’s the thing: you know how I said that Andrew’s not my boyfriend, he’s just my boy friend? Well, it’s true. But it’s also maybe not. It depends how you look at it. Just before school ended last year, and Andrew left for Barbados, we were watching movies at his house with Erika, Mike, and Amir. It was dark in the room, and while he was reaching for his pop on the shelf behind the couch, his arm ended up resting on my shoulder, just for a second. I guess I liked it. Or maybe I was just curious. Because after he moved it away, I kind of started moving closer to him on the couch, very slowly, until our shoulders were touching, just to see what would happen. And this is what happened: inch by inch, he kind of moved his hand over until it was partly touching my leg, and then I moved my hand over, to meet his…and we sat there like that, with our hands touching, for the whole movie. But that’s all that happened. And we never talked about it or did it again. Even Erika doesn’t know. If she did, she’d freak out.
I mean, Andrew’s great. He’s one of my best friends. But he’s not the kind of guy you’re supposed to have a crush on. And anyway, what if I did like him? Wouldn’t it just mess up our friendship? And what about Gorgeous George? Hadn’t anybody thought of him in all this? I hadn’t wasted the past three years obsessing over his shiny hair just to give up on him that quickly, had I? Especially when I was finally in his class again?
“You around for lunch tomorrow?” Andrew asked when we reached the corner. There was a hint of nervousness in his voice.
“I dunno,” I said cautiously. “Maybe.” It wasn’t that I didn’t want to eat with him, but what exactly did he mean.…
“Well, if you are, meet us beside the basketball court, okay? Amir’s bringing his Nintendo DS. He just got War of the Druids, Strike Three.” I breathed a small sigh of relief. Druids at war with Amir and Mike. I couldn’t think of a single thing less romantic.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll try to come, unless I end up with another detention.”
“Yeah, well. I won’t count on it, then.” He grabbed my waist to tickle me, jumped back before I could retaliate, then started running, turning and waving when he was safely out of reach.
I smiled as I watched him go. The weird arm touch had been nothing. Everything was normal with Andrew. Plus, I thought to myself as I walked along, Em seemed like she might turn out to be a friend. Of course I missed Erika so much I could hardly stand it, but I would get through it, wouldn’t I? It was like Grandma Betty said: we persevere. Because what other choice was there? Nachos would never taste as good, Charmed and Dazed would never be as dramatic, drinking coffee with nobody to make faces with would be totally pointless…but I had to carry on.
I dug my hands deep into the pockets of the Parasuco jeans, bent my head against the wind, and shuffled through some fallen leaves. And that was when I felt the paper. At first I hoped it might be money, but when I pulled it out, I saw it was a piece of loose leaf folded into a little square. I knew it wasn’t mine, but I unfolded it anyway. I’m nosy like that. It was dated September 1, Labor Day.
Dear Margot,
I know you’re reading this note you found in my pocket, because you’re nosy like that!
My mother is heartless and as cold-blooded as a tarantula, lizard, or other ectothermic tetrapod. I hate her for making me go to Sacred Heart. I am going to miss you every second. And for the record, I don’t agree with her that you’re a bad influence. You’re one of the best people I know. No matter what, we’ll always be best friends. Promise?
Meet me at the gates of the cemetery right after school. We can go to your house, and you can tell me everything about Manning. I’ll call my mom and say I’m doing a project for school. She’s organizing our closets anyway (she put it on her schedule!!), so she’ll be too busy to care.
Your Best Friend,
Erika
I read the note twice as I walked, my steps getting faster and faster. I could just picture Erika standing alone at the cemetery gates, pulling her sleeves over her hands and glancing back nervously in case any dead people suddenly popped out of their graves. Since first grade she’d been my best friend, and then on the worst day of her life I’d accidentally ditched her…at a cemetery…and then written her the meanest e-mail on earth.
But maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe I didn’t have to picture my life without Erika. I broke into a run.
“Grandma,” I said, bursting into the kitchen. “It’s a friendship emergency. Can you stay ten more minutes? I have to talk to Erika.”
She looked up from the counter where she was chopping apple slices and smiled. “Of course. Take all the time you need, sweetheart.”
I ran to my room, shut the door, turned on the computer, then wrote Erika a long e-mail, explaining the whole thing about how I didn’t find the note until just then, and how I called her house and her mom said she was out with a new friend, and I got jealous because I’m a moron that way, and that I wished I�
��d never written the e-mail I’d sent that morning, and I didn’t mean the thing about the moldy tangerine, and what was an ectothermic tetrapod? Then I begged and pleaded for her forgiveness by saying that I was so so so so so so so so so sorry. And then I hit SEND and checked my instant messenger. She was online, of course.
Margot12: So? Do you still hate me?
EriKa: My mom was mad at me for not coming home to help organize the closets. She never even told me you called!!! I cried all night, and I was miserable all day.
Margot12: You think I wasn’t??! I thought you didn’t want to be my friend anymore!!
EriKa: I thought that too.
There was a long pause while we both tried to think what to say.
Margot12: We’re both kind of stupid, eh?
EriKa: We’re totally dumb. Still friends?
Margot12: Are you kidding!??
A few seconds later, the phone rang. Or at least it half rang, because that’s how quickly I picked it up. “So?” Erika said. I gave her almost the full list of everyone in my class, saving Gorgeous George until very last. She screamed. “You haven’t been in his class since fourth grade! That’s the greatest news! What was he wearing?”
“Which day?” I asked.
“Both.”
I felt so relieved. I literally couldn’t imagine my life without Erika.
Eventually, after we’d analyzed George’s wardrobe, we moved on to discussing my hair-and-eyebrow disaster and the Sarah J. encounter.
“I can’t believe she actually asked if you burned them off!” Erika said.
“How’s it going at Sacred Heart?” I asked.
“Okay, I guess.” She sounded sad. “Everyone’s been there since kindergarten, so they’ve already got their groups of friends. But this one girl let me borrow her hole-punch.”
Mission (Un)Popular Page 9
