“Why do you call her Debbie?” I asked.
She shrugged. “She hates the word mom. It makes her feel frumpy.” We walked a few steps in silence. “You have a really nice house,” I said, for something to say.
“I can’t believe you just moved there in August and you already have it decorated. When we moved we had boxes everywhere for like, a year.”
“We hired people,” Em said.
“I wish we had a bigger house,” I said miserably. “I wish we hired people. You should try getting a turn in the bathroom at my house. Or finding a sandwich container with a lid that fits.”
“I like your house,” Em said. “It’s cozy and interesting.”
I shrugged. That was easy for her to say. I was sure Em would change her mind about how cozy and interesting my house was if she spent even a single day living there, tripping over sticky toys and searching for two shoes that matched in the shoe pile.
We walked along in silence again. “I forgot to have breakfast,” she said suddenly. “I’d kill for a swamp water Slurpee, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “What is it?” It didn’t exactly sound like a breakfast food. But then again—I glanced at my watch—it was already 11:40, so it wasn’t exactly breakfast.
“Take me to the 7-Eleven,” she commanded, and so we stopped walking in whatever direction we’d been walking and went in a different direction (possibly north, but really, who knows?) toward the 7-Eleven near the high school.
When we got there, Em picked out the biggest possible Slurpee cup, which I swear was the size of the garbage can in my bedroom.
“It’s important to layer.” She walked back and forth past all the Slurpee spouts, stopping at each one. The cup was see-through, and at first it looked like a messy rainbow, but then the colors started to melt together, and it looked, well, brown and disgusting…like snow and mud and purple food coloring mixed together.
I picked up a cup and followed along behind. “This looks so gross,” I said. “Are we actually going to drink it?”
“Oh, you’re going to drink it,” Em said. “And you’re going to love it.”
I made a mini gagging noise, and the 7-Eleven guy shot us a suspicious look.
“Somebody needs to chill out.” Em glanced at him. She stuck her hand in her coat pocket. “Crap,” she said. “Forgot my wallet. Can you pay?”
“Sure,” I said, but a split second later I realized I hadn’t brought any money either. Em must have seen the look of panic cross my face. I’d heard stories about people who went to restaurants and couldn’t pay. They ended up washing dishes for a week. What if 7-Eleven guy made us scrape gum off the sidewalk or pick up garbage with pointy sticks in the parking lot, where everybody would see us?
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Wait here. I’m going to go make friends.”
I watched as Em approached the cashier and did what she did so well. “Hi,” she said, plunking the giant Slurpee on the counter with complete confidence. “How’s it going?”
“You want me to ring that in for you?” he asked.
“Ummm…not yet.” She cocked her head to one side and studied the candy display. “I’m looking for a really good chocolate bar. Something sweet, but not too sweet. You know. Crunchy, but with a soft center.”
“There’s Mr. Goodbar.”
“Oh yeah?” she said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “You like that one?”
“It’s pretty good. Lots of peanuts. Or an Oh Henry! bar. It’s really fudgy. Or Mars.”
“Huh. That’s a lot to think about. Come here, Margot. This guy is good. He’s like a chocolate-bar genius.” She said it so sincerely that if you didn’t know her you could have easily missed the fact that she was making fun of him. “Plus,” she whispered loudly, “he’s kind of cute.” I had to concentrate to keep my mouth from dropping open. 7-Eleven guy was at least fifteen. Maybe sixteen. But more important, he wasn’t cute. He was oily-looking and nervous, like a gerbil with acne.
She tilted her head to read his name tag. “Hi, Jason,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you. And thanks a ton for the chocolate-bar advice. I’m Em. This is Margot.”
I waved weakly.
And then she just started talking to him about things. Like, asking him if he was on the football team (he wasn’t), and if he had a girlfriend (he didn’t), and saying she bet a lot of girls came in just to talk to him. He didn’t say much. Just kind of nodded.
“Anyway,” she finished, “I’ll give you my number.” She looked down at her shoes, then glanced up quickly, like she was shy. “We’re having this party next Saturday. Maybe you want to come? Bring some of your friends? It’s going to be really awesome.”
He pulled a cell out of his back pocket and handed it to her. She added her name and number to his contacts list. “I might be around,” he said. “I’ll text you if I’m free.”
“Great.” Em smiled, then she snatched up her Slurpee and started to pull me toward the door. She kept hold of my arm and said in a hushed, measured voice. “Look back and wave, okay?”
When we’d gotten far enough away, I almost screamed. “Okay. What was that? He’s in high school! If he texts you, are you actually going to text him back?”
“Of course I’m not going to text him back,” she answered, making a face. “I was getting us free Slurpees, stupid.” She pulled her hand out of her pocket. “And an Oh Henry! bar. They’re really fudgy, you know.”
I looked down at the cup in my hand and felt a chill go through me. “I can’t believe you made me shoplift!” Visions of glazed hams were dancing in my head.
“That wasn’t shoplifting.” She sucked on her straw thoughtfully. “He wanted to give them to us.”
“He did not.” I started walking really quickly. Em didn’t try to keep pace. “And anyway,” I said over my shoulder, “what if his boss finds out and makes him pay for the stuff we took? He probably only makes minimum wage.” I plopped onto a park bench with my illegally acquired beverage.
“Relax. Slurpees only cost a dollar thirty-three. If we’d asked, he probably would have bought them for us.” Em sat down on the next bench. “Plus, it’s not like we didn’t pay anything for them. Jason’s going to spend the rest of the month walking around thinking he’s some kind of superstar because two girls wanted his number.”
“But you’re not actually going to text him, right?”
“I already said I’m not,” she answered. “So?” She motioned toward my Slurpee.
“It’s really good,” I admitted. We sat in silence, slurping for a while. “I can’t believe it’s already Saturday afternoon,” I said finally.
“Are you kidding?” Em answered. “I can’t wait for Monday.” She smiled, showing all her teeth. They were covered in brown sludge.
I shivered again. The sun had disappeared behind dark clouds, and I stared down Park Street in the direction of Erika’s house, wondering if she was home. Not that I could stop by to hang out even if it did start pouring rain. I was the last person she’d want to see. “Anyway, we should probably go home before we get soaked.” I glanced up at the darkening sky. “Plus, my mom will get all paranoid if I’m not back soon.” Untrue. At that very second she was probably making a toast to the joys of family around the disgusting roast pig and wasn’t giving me the slightest thought.
“All right,” Em said. “Get lots of rest. And keep practicing your kissing on that poster boy. I have a feeling it’s going to be a big week.”
I smiled as if to say that I doubted it, then waved as we walked off in separate directions. Even though I wasn’t halfway finished, I put my shoplifted Slurpee into the first garbage can I passed, pushing it underneath an old newspaper, just to be safe.
It was 10:32 p.m. when I finally heard the garage door open. I sat up in bed and switched on the light, waiting for my mom to come check on me…or to show me her new Finkleman T-shirt and, you know, maybe say good night, but she didn’t.
Nobody d
id.
I could hear Bryan and my mom tiptoeing around and talking in low voices. Then, a few minutes later, their bedroom door closed.
Nice, I thought. For all my mother knew, I could have been out drinking wine with a bunch of railway hoboes; sitting on a street corner sniffing heroin; or balancing along a guardrail, recklessly juggling knives.
She used to read my horoscope to me every morning, and tuck me in with a kiss every night before the triplets and Bald Boring Bryan took over her life. She volunteered in my Brownie unit even though she couldn’t use a glue gun to save her life, and she worried obsessively that I didn’t eat enough veggies. And now she didn’t even have time to say a simple good night.
The next morning, my mom acted like nothing was wrong. “Morning, Margot,” she said cheerfully as I dragged myself into the kitchen for some Organic Oaty-O’s.
“Cheerio,” Bryan added, holding up a spoonful of OatyO’s and winking, so I’d know he was making the lamest joke on earth. I ignored him. He was only being nice to me to impress my mom anyway. I started rummaging in the sink to find a spoon to wash. “Did you have a good day to yourself yesterday?”
“It was fine,” I muttered, and turned to take my cereal back to my room.
“I’m making buckwheat pancakes for a special weekend treat,” my mom said to my back. “You want some, sweetie?”
“No,” I answered. Because, first of all, “sweetie”? And also, leave it to my mom to put buckwheat in pancakes and then call them a treat.
“Girls, look!” she shouted suddenly, pointing out the window with her spatula. “The bus!” The triplets broke into squeals of toddler ecstasy as Mrs. Troubleman, a Colonel Darling Elementary bus driver, pulled her school bus up in front of our kitchen window and parked it there.
“Da bus! Da bus! Da bus!” the triplets chanted, running circles around the kitchen. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a two-year-old near a school bus, but it’s like an addiction. They can’t get enough. Sometimes I think I should warn my sisters that one day that yellow bus—and everything it stands for—will be the cause of all their misery, but I know they wouldn’t get it.
“Hurray. The bus!” Bryan rejoiced, picking the girls up one at a time and swinging them around. That made it official. I lived in a house full of crazy people.
“Oh, Margot,” sighed my mom. “You have to stay and join us for breakfast now. How often is the school bus parked right outside our window?” She had a point. Mrs. Troubleman usually parked her bus one block over. How could I think of missing this golden opportunity? Aleene was tugging excitedly at my hand, though, so I gave in, sinking down into a kitchen chair and taking a pancake off the stack.
Big mistake. Once they had me captive, my mom and Bryan spent the whole breakfast telling me about the mini quiche they ate at the Finkleman reunion, going on and on about how flaky the crust was. “And Uncle Eddy did the most amazing magic trick with a quarter and a box, Margot,” Mom added. “I wish you’d seen it.” Honestly, could they have rubbed it in any more?
As soon as she’d finished eating, my mom jumped up and started washing dishes, not even bothering to ask for details about what I’d done or to bug me about finishing my homework. Instead, she and Bryan talked loudly over the triplets’ chatter: could they really afford winter tires and dental cleanings for themselves this year? Did Aleene’s latest bowel movement seem soft? Were the girls getting enough social interaction with peers, and what about the woman down the street with a two-year-old? A possible playdate? Should they confront Grandma Betty about how she secretly fed the girls Fudgee-O’s? I picked at my pancake and tried to tune them out.
I was almost relieved when breakfast was over, and my mom, Bryan, and the triplets all went outside to drool over the bus. It meant the house was quiet and I could go back to my room and work on my essay for Mr. Learner.
How I Would Organize a Society Without Adults An Essay by Margot Button
To start, let me say that I don’t think living on a preteen-filled desert island would be much fun (or one big pork party). Without adults, we wouldn’t have the rules and regulations we’re used to—not that adults, in my experience, are always so on top of things.
If I was in charge, the first thing we’d do would be to take care of the basics, like finding fresh water and nutritious food, as well as firewood for heat. We’d also want to set up some shelters. There could be dangerous animals or disgusting insects that could come out at night, and we would want protection from those.
Next, I would get everyone together to start a system of government for making decisions. But the leaders wouldn’t be picked because they’re prettiest, or most athletic, or because they know how to make especially realistic farting noises with their armpits. I think, more than anything, a leader should be a nice person, and a fair person, and should be able to see past how others look. And also, they should be able to recognize what people are good at and concentrate on that instead of trying to make everyone the same.
For example, my former best friend, Erika, knows everything about wildlife and science, so she could be the island’s animal expert. My friend Em is a fast thinker, which would make her good at setting traps or leading hunting expeditions. And I like decorating shows and poetry, so I could be the island’s interior decorator/poet. (Okay, maybe not the most useful talents in a desert island situation, but it’s something, right? And everyone’s contribution should count.)
After that, the main thing we should do is try to get rescued. We could either build a boat out of fallen logs or make a signal fire and hope that somebody in a passing ship sees us. But really, what are the odds of that? More realistically, we could hope somebody has a cell phone with them and that the island is in satellite range.
In conclusion, if we made sure to take care of basic needs like food, water, and shelter; if we worked together instead of against each other; and if we used each other’s strengths, we would have an excellent chance of making it through the year alive (despite how bad my hair would look without access to an outlet for a blow-dryer, but that is probably not relevant to this essay).
Not that it was going to win any Nobel prizes, but I was pretty proud of my paper. It at least beat the pork party for an intelligent way to organize a society.
And that was when I had a brilliant idea.
18
The Art of Accessorizing
I RAN MY IDEA BY EM THE next morning in English class. “Okay, so what if we call it the Anti-Pork Party?”
She smiled. “I like it.” I basked in the glow of her approval. “Okay. So we’ve got the name. And I was thinking, my rec room can probably fit about fifty people, but it would be crowded. So let’s make it really exclusive.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “Only the people we really like.” We both looked across the room at Sarah J. and shook our heads.
She was too busy examining her reflection in her compact mirror to notice anyway.
“Matt’s taking me to see In the Name of Love on Saturday,” she was saying to Maggie and Joyce while she smoothed expensive-looking face cream onto her cheeks and forehead.
“Awwwwww,” Maggie and Joyce cooed on cue.
“That movie looks barfarific,” Ken put in, as he came down the aisle and threw his bag on his desk.
“Sorry, Ken, but you don’t know the first thing about romance,” Maggie answered, rolling her eyes.
“True,” he answered, popping a gummi candy into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “But being a dude, I do know how dudes think. If he’s taking you to that movie, Sarah, he’s got motives, if you know what I mean.…” He raised his eyebrows in this dirty way. Maggie just smacked him.
“He’s right,” Em spoke up. The Group girls turned to stare at her as if they were scandalized by her nerve. She just stared back. “If you don’t want people joining your conversations, don’t talk so loud.” She paused. “I mean, come on. Did you see the preview? No guy in his right mind would waste his time otherwise. Jake Cassidy usual
ly has great taste in roles. But his wife left him for the guy who played Butch in that biker movie and took all his money. He must really need the cash.” She leaned forward on her desk and squinted her eyes with the intensity of it all. “‘If I could be anywhere, baby…’” she quoted the scene in the preview where the girl and the guy meet on a bridge in the rain.
I couldn’t let her do it alone. “‘…I’d be right here in your arms,’” I finished, making the same pained, swooning expression as the actor.
Ken started laughing. “What?” he said, turning to Sarah as she shot him a withering look. “They kind of nailed it.”
Amir and Simon walked in then, looking at some kind of weird electronic radio antennae thing. “Okay. Let’s ask for a second opinion from a real man,” Ken suggested. “Hey, Amir! Would you go see In the Name of Love for the fun of it?”
Amir handed the antennae thing off to Simon, who shoved it into his bag. “No,” he said, shooting me a quick nervous look as he passed by my desk. “I’m not interested in that movie.”
“Okay, what if Margot wanted to go and you knew you’d get some action? You two are into each other, right?”
Amir pulled out his chair, ignoring the question. I stared straight ahead. “Yo, Amir, man. I’m talking to you,” Ken pressed. “You and Margot. Dark theater. Would you do it?”
“Shut up, Ken,” I said, turning to face him. “Amir’s not a sleaze like you. And for your information, we’re not into each other.” It wasn’t the first time someone had made a joke about it, though…just because we ate lunch together…just because we both had the same skin color.
“Ooooh,” Ken said, like I’d just burned him, which I guess I sort of had. “What’s the matter, Margot? I guess you’re a model now, right? Amir-a-med’s not man enough for you anymore?” He walked over and picked up Amir’s arm where his bicep would be if he had one, squeezing it. I wanted to kill him. I really did.
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