“Oh,” I said, feeling horrible for her.
“Yeah, I know,” she added miserably.
Then I heard her mother in the background saying something about homework. I hadn’t even had a chance to tell her about Em, but I decided it could wait until next time. It might just make her feel worse about not having met anyone.
“Gotta go,” she said. “Say hi to Andrew for me, okay? I have an orthodontist appointment tomorrow, and then we’re leaving right after school on Friday to go to Toronto again. The fall stuff’s on sale. But meet me at the cemetery gates at 3:30 on Monday, okay? I can help you babysit. And actually show up this time!”
I swore on the Parasuco jeans that I would.
10
I Stare at the Wrong Person’s Butt…
WHEN YOU’RE almost thirteen, there’s nothing more important than your friends. Not TV, not money, not clothes, not your family, not food, not water, not air…Okay, maybe air, but friends are a really close second.
So, with Erika back in my life, lunch plans with Andrew, and Em as a possible new friend, I woke up the next morning feeling great.
It took me an extra twenty minutes to re-create Em’s scarf/ hair-band styling technique and to fill in my brow gap with eyeshadow, but I still made it to Mrs. Collins’s class with a millionth of a second to spare. “Pleased to see you, Margot,” she said, giving me a big red phony smile as I slid into my seat. “I trust you’ll be treating us to some more appropriate vocabulary words today.” I hated her more every instant.
“Overall,” she said, “your presentations yesterday were very well done. And now that we’ve explored a poem in detail, it’s time we experienced one. Collect your books, go to your lockers, and come back with your jackets on.” Mrs. Collins looked so excited I thought she might explode. “Come on,” she said, “hop to it.”
At my locker, I put my books on the top shelf, checked my hair in my magnetic mirror, and glanced at the only locker decoration I had up so far: a photo of Erika and me dressed as pears for Halloween last year. Her dad had thought up the idea. “A pair of pears!” We thought it was so hilarious.
“Sweet fruit costumes,” Em said sarcastically. I jumped. I hadn’t even heard her coming up behind me. “Who’s your friend?” I caught a glimpse of myself grinning stupidly in my locker mirror and quickly tried to settle my face into a cooler, calmer expression. I was just so glad that Em had come over to talk to me.
“Oh, that’s Erika.” I grabbed my coat and closed my locker before Em could get a closer look at the picture. Erika and I had made the pear costumes ourselves by putting inflatable pool rings around our waists and stretching size XXL green sweaters over them. Then her mom sewed stems on to the tops of green toques. Girls in New York probably wore hot costumes, like French maids or sexy kittens. A pair of pears? It was still funny, but maybe more dorky-funny than hilarious-funny, now that I thought of it.
By the time we got back to the classroom, Mrs. Collins had put a clipboard on everyone’s desk with a piece of paper attached. She held up her hand for silence. “What do you think of when I say the words poetry in motion?” Everyone stared at her blankly. “What about the idea that poetry should be experienced? You should smell poetry. Touch it. Taste it. Walk through poetry and come out the other side changed by it.” She was pacing back and forth in front of the blackboard. “Today we’ll be going out to Manning Avenue and walking up and down—carefully, quietly, and respectfully—looking for poetry. When you spot something that could become a poem, you’ll write down some notes about it on your clipboard. Your assignment tonight will be to write the poem you’ve experienced.”
I rolled my eyes with everyone else, even though it sounded kind of cool. I’d been thinking about the quote that Mrs. Collins had put on the board the day before: about how poetry makes you remember what you didn’t know you knew. I think the guy who said that was right, because my grandpa Button used to read me this poem called “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” He’d pull up a chair and lean forward, talking with his hands, while I sat, spellbound, on the carpet. I’ve never been to the Yukon like the characters in the poem, but I swear, by the time he was finished, I was always chilled right through.
Dressed in our coats and fully prepared to experience poetry (or at least to make fun of it and waste time), we shuffled up the stairs, blinking in the light. People broke off into their regular groups. Sarah J. led the way with her followers/worshippers, Maggie and Joyce, who were both wearing exactly identical pairs of black Pumas. George and Ken walked behind Laura and Tiffany, the two quietest girls in the class, pretending to pinch their butts. Amir had made friends with Erik Frallen the math genius and Simon, and Cameron Ruling and Stuart Smythe—these two really smart guys who codesigned and programmed the entire Web site for our old school, including this crazy animation of the school mascot that cheered when you clicked on its face. They were laughing over some un-understandable gigabytes joke. As for me, I was behaving like a more-or-less normal person on the outside, but inside I was doing the happy dance of joy about the fact that Em had decided to walk beside me.
We went slowly down Manning Avenue, kicking leaves. When I closed my eyes for just a second, I could swear they made the same sound a campfire does when it crackles, hisses, and pops. I started writing a poem in my head:
The fiery leaves glow warm in the sun.
Walk softly, they smolder,
To hear them burn, run.
“Found any poetry yet?” Em asked sarcastically. She was holding her clipboard under her arm and picking at her nail polish in a bored way. I didn’t think she’d care about the sound of autumn leaves.
“Nope,” I answered.
We’d already reached the end of the street, so we turned and walked back. In the parking lot, Gorgeous George was pretending to club Ken over the head with his clipboard. His shiny brown hair reflected the sunlight as he tossed his head. Bethany and Michelle, the girls from the volleyball team, were walking alongside Sarah J. and her friends, laughing just a little too loudly at their jokes. And while Mrs. Collins was busy talking to Tiffany and Laura—the only two people in the class who actually seemed to be doing the assignment—Amir and his friends had ducked behind a hedge on someone’s front lawn to chuck acorns at each other.
“Okay. Dude. I just experienced a poem,” Ken said as Em and I passed the parking lot. “Wait for it.” He paused dramatically.
“My buddy, George,
He beat up my head.
My buddy, George,
He made me brain-dead.”
Sarah J. came up behind them and said something that made them laugh even more. Her outfit, as usual, was perfect—a cute, tailored plaid jacket with a wide belt, paired with supertight dark-wash jeans. The back pockets had this cool swirl stitching done in light blue thread, plus just a sprinkling of tiny rhinestones, like the Parasuco jeans, only better because they fit her so perfectly you’d think the denim was painted on and the rhinestones had been individually bedazzled to her butt cheeks. Unluckily for me, she turned her head at just the wrong second and noticed me noticing.
“Take a picture, Hamburglar,” she said as they passed us. “It’ll last longer”—like that wasn’t the most unoriginal insult ever. I guess she realized how dumb it was too, because she turned and added: “Oh my God, Margot. Were you just checking out George’s butt?” He looked around at the sound of his name. “Or were you checking out mine?” She threw me a disgusted look. “No offense, but even if I was a lesbian, which is gross to even think about, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Excuse me?” Em said, her mouth dropping open in disbelief. “Was that a homophobic comment you just made?”
“Oh please,” Sarah countered lamely.
“Because if it was”—she glared at Sarah—“that’s harassment.” I pretended to be brushing away some imaginary fluff that had landed on my clipboard.
“Okay.” Sarah got right in her face. “It’s not my fault if Margot was looking at my butt
.” She turned to walk away like she considered the conversation over.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Em raised her eyebrows. “Margot wasn’t looking at your butt. She happens to be straight. But the point is, you can’t go around saying lesbians are gross. It’s discrimination.”
Even though it was not smart of her to be talking to Sarah like that, I had to admit, Em definitely had a good point.
“I get it,” Sarah said, fixing Em with a stare. “You’re a lesbian too. Is that why you’re so offended? I don’t know what they do in New York”—she made the name sound all lah-di-dah—“but here, we think it’s pretty perverted to stare at people’s butts, okay?”
Gorgeous George and Ken were both laughing uncomfortably. And things would have probably gotten way uglier if Mrs. Collins hadn’t called us all to come inside just then. Em shot Sarah a look of death, but didn’t say anything else.
“Do people actually like that girl?” Em asked as we walked toward the doors.
“She’s been the most popular girl in school since third grade.” I didn’t want to scare Em, so I didn’t mention that now that she’d seriously crossed Sarah, she was going to pay for it. The stuff she did to me was nothing compared to what she’d put some kids through. In fourth grade, April Morgan had called Sarah a name behind her back. The next thing April knew, everyone was talking about how her family ate bone marrow and blew their noses into their hands. Since Sarah was the one who’d started the rumor, nobody was brave enough to be April’s friend after that, and a bunch of kids even refused to hold her hand during the pass-the-peanut game on Fun Run Day. Eventually she just changed schools.
When we got inside, Em dragged me along with her to the bathroom. “Why does she call you Hamburglar?” she asked from inside her stall.
I should have known the question would come sooner or later, but still, it caught me unprepared. All the same, based on the way she’d just taken on Sarah J. for me, I figured I could trust Em. I told her a short version of the glazed ham story. “I don’t even know why I did it,” I finished, as she fixed her hair in the mirror beside me. “It was just one of those dumb things.” Em made an understanding noise. We headed for the door.
“I ate dog food once,” she said, out of nowhere. I looked at her to see if she was serious.
“Wet or dry?” I asked.
“Dry,” she said.
“Why?” It was the obvious question.
“Just one of those dumb things,” she answered. “I guess I wanted to see what it tasted like.”
“And?”
“Don’t try it.”
As we walked down the hall to our lockers, I couldn’t help but smile. After all, you didn’t admit to just anyone that you’d eaten dog food. It was really happening. I had a new friend. And not just any new friend. A cool friend from New York who knew how to make my hair look awesome and who stood up for me…as unwise as that might be.
I met Em at her locker after math that day, hoping, now that we were officially friends, she’d sit with Andrew, Mike, Amir, and me at lunch, but she glanced at her watch.
“I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” she said. “I have to take care of something.”
“What is it?” I asked. “I can help.”
“Thanks, but no,” she said. “It’s a personal thing.”
“Sure.” I nodded, not wanting to seem desperate or clingy, or to let on, just yet, how nosy I could be.
I watched her walk down the hall, then went out to the yard to find the guys. They were near the fence, crowded around the tiny Nintendo DS screen, watching Andrew’s druid beat up a bunch of evil mythical woodland animals.
“You’ve got the magic dart,” Mike said, “and the force field. Plus the golden arrow.”
“So?” Andrew asked, his shoulder swaying as he dodged gnomes.
“So! Use one of them! Now!” Amir shouted, but it was too late. Amir and Mike threw up their hands. “Oh, man. He smashed your brains out.”
“Shoulda used your weapons,” Mike put in.
“I was saving them.”
“For what? A gift for your granny?”
Andrew shoved Amir’s shoulder, then smiled at me. “Hey, Margot.”
“Hey.” I sank down on the bench beside him, hugging my knees to my chest. Andrew handed the Nintendo off to Mike, then sat down beside me and pulled some ketchup chips from his backpack, breathing in deeply as he broke the airtight seal. “Oh, yeah. That’s the stuff,” he said, savoring the stench. “Want one?” He held out the bag.
“It’s tempting.” I leaned away from the smell.
Amir sat down on the other side of me and reached across my lap into the bag, grabbing a handful. He put one in his mouth and crunched. “You have English this afternoon?” he asked Andrew, when he’d finished chewing.
“Yeah. Fourth period.”
“If she makes you do the poetry walk, there’s tons of acorns at the big brick house with the huge tree. Me, Erik, Simon, and Stuart played torpedoes with them.” He reached across for another handful of chips, leaving a trail of fine red dust on my white coat sleeve. I brushed it off. “Sorry, Margot,” he said. “Here, want to switch?” We traded seats, and I think Andrew shot Amir the smallest annoyed look—like, Hey man, I wanted her to sit there. But maybe it was just my imagination. All the same, to make him feel better, I reached across Amir and grabbed a ketchup chip from the open bag. “Not bad, actually,” I said, crunching it. Andrew grinned.
“Do you like her?” Amir asked. For a split second I thought he was asking Andrew about me, and I nearly choked.
“No way,” Andrew answered. “She’s evil. She’s going to assign homework every day this week.”
“Plus, she looks like this—” Mike, who was sitting on the other side of Andrew, suddenly sat up perfectly straight, made his lips into a pinched line, and turned his head stiffly from side to side, like a constipated owl. Everyone burst out laughing. Mike didn’t talk that often, but when he did, he usually said something unexpected, funny, or just worth listening to.
“Collins totally has it in for Margot, too,” Amir added. “Since the first second of the first day.”
I sighed heavily. Weirdly, though, the fact that Amir had noticed made me feel a lot better about how much my English teacher hated my guts. At least I wasn’t imagining it.
“Want me to kick her butt?” Andrew offered.
“I could actually kick it for you too, if you want,” Amir put in.
“We’ll triple kick it, evil-wood-nymph style,” Mike pledged seriously, without looking up from the DS.
I reached for another chip, smiling. Obviously, nobody was going to be kicking any English teacher butt. But somehow, hearing them say it made me feel like I had the magic dart and the golden arrow and the force field of friendship on my side. I had Em and her quick comebacks and Erika-with-a-K’s total devotion and Andrew, Amir, and Mike’s goofy, boy-style loyalty—which meant that Sarah J., her friends, and even Mrs. Collins could try what they wanted. None of it would kill me.
11
I Make an Extremely Unwise Bet
EXCEPT, YOU KNOW THAT whole thing about anything that doesn’t kill you making you stronger? Turns out it’s a complete lie. It’s just a thing people say to keep you from giving up on life completely, barricading yourself in your room, and refusing to come out except to use the bathroom. The warm fuzzy feeling I had on Thursday didn’t last long, and the next day, instead of making me stronger, the things that didn’t kill me definitely made me wish I were dead. That morning, energized by the respectable outfit I’d picked out (a new pair of Levi’s skinny jeans my mom had bought me from Walmart, and a stretchy plaid shirt I’d rediscovered under a pile of books), and excited about the good friends who were waiting for me, I actually got to school early. I walked with a pep in my step past the old gym, where the girls’ volleyball team was gathered, reading some kind of pink sign. “Hey, Michelle.
Hi, Bethany, Brayden, and Claire,” I called out.
“Simon! How are you?” I asked, careful not to use a single S in my sentence, except for the one in his name, which couldn’t really be avoided. He turned, seeming surprised that I’d spoken to him, and shoved a pink piece of paper into his locker. What were these posters? Maybe there was a dance? Or some kind of student body election I hadn’t heard about yet?
I spotted Em down the hall at her locker. “Hey, Em.” I smiled widely as I approached. She turned, a cold look on her face. “What’s wrong?” I asked, but she didn’t answer. Instead she just ripped a pink poster off her locker and shoved it at me. Sarah J. (or one of her evil followers) had obviously gotten creative overnight. NEW YORK LESBO, read the sign, in big block letters.
Em walked over to my locker and ripped down a second. NEW YORK LESBO’S INDIAN LOVER. I gulped. Obviously, Hamburglar wasn’t the worst nickname ever, after all.
“This is not cool,” Em said, clenching her fists. “So not cool.” She walked a few steps, turned on her heels, and walked back like a tiger pacing.
From where I was standing, I could see pink signs all the way down the hall. I grabbed one. EM + MARGOT = LESBIAN LOVE. Another, with little hearts all over it, said MARGOT & EM, TOGETHER 4EVER. A third one read: MARGOT & EM FOR PROM DRAG QUEENS.
“Come on,” I said, starting down the hall, ripping off posters as I went. “Help me with this, okay?” All I wanted was to get rid of them before anyone else (especially Gorgeous George) saw them. “Then we’ll go straight to Vandanhoover’s office and tell her.”
“Right,” Em said. “Because that’s going to do us any good.”
“Well, what else are we supposed to do?” I asked.
She didn’t answer, but went to the opposite side of the hallway and started ripping down the pink sheets too.
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