Amir just shook him off and started to take out his notebooks. “Do you want to take your seat, please?” he said firmly.
“Take my seat, please? Wow, them’s fighting words.…”
Throughout all of this, Em had been watching silently. Then she just turned to face the front. I didn’t get it. She always had the perfect comeback. And now, when we needed one more than ever, she had nothing to say? After all, if we owed anybody, it was Amir. He was the only person in our class who’d been on my side since school started…the only one who interfered when Ken teased me. He, Andrew, and Mike were the only ones who’d helped to take down the lesbian posters. I looked across the aisle at Em urgently, but she pretended to be watching the door like she was waiting for someone. Thankfully, George walked in, distracting Ken by holding up the latest issue of SportsCar Weekly, and Mr. Learner followed close behind, putting his paperback down on his desk and clearing his throat for our attention. Before I turned to face the front, I glanced back, hoping to catch Amir’s eye, but he was looking down, studying his notebook like his life depended on it.
“Okay,” Em said, as we headed in the direction of her house that day after school. “I’ve been thinking about this…” I had a rare afternoon off from babysitting because my mom and Bryan had decided the triplets needed to socialize outside the family setting—even if it meant my mom did fewer tarot readings. They were at a playdate down the street with a little boy named Dante, who was always chucking Matchbox cars, screaming, and biting people. Meanwhile, Em and I were using the time to put together the guest list for the Anti-Pork Party. “…and I’ve decided,” she went on as she balanced along the curb, “Ken’s a definite yes.”
“What?” I dropped back and balanced along behind her. I was still seething about the whole thing with Amir that morning, even though when I’d seen him at lunch, he’d acted like it was no big deal. “Haven’t you noticed he’s the biggest jerk alive?”
“Oh, I noticed,” she answered. “But he happens to be a big popular jerk. And anyway, he’s kind of funny.” I hoped she wasn’t talking about what he’d done to Amir, because, personally, I couldn’t think of anything less funny. “You know, like the way he made all those stupid pig jokes when Mr. Learner was talking about Lord of the Flies.”
Okay, so I wasn’t a fan of pig jokes in general (having had enough of them directed at me last June to last a lifetime), but it had been pretty hilarious when Mr. Learner asked why the characters called Ralph and Piggy joined Jack’s feast, and Ken had answered, “to pig out,” and then later he’d made this other comment about Jack being “pigheaded,” and then he’d raised his hand and pretended to have forgotten he was in English class and started his question with the word “pork-quoi,” and basically just kept mentioning pigs so much that, eventually, Mr. Learner banned him from participating.
“I don’t know…” I said.
“So, Ken. And your floppy hair guy, obviously,” Em went on, ignoring my hesitation. “Michelle, Bethany, and the rest of the volleyball team. That girl in eighth grade who tried on my shoes after Michelle, plus her friends. And Charlie Baker’s okay. Also his girlfriend. She seems cool.”
“Andrew, Mike, and Amir,” I added. Em stopped abruptly, and I walked right into her, knocking us both off the curb. She got back on.
“Sorry.” For a second I thought she was apologizing for making us fall, but then she went on. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Margot, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“How can I put this nicely?” she said, starting to balance again. She turned, looking back over her shoulder. “They’re kind of like that belt.”
“Huh?”
“That butterfly belt you’re always wearing.” I looked down. The two bottom wings of the clasp were sticking out slightly, and I tugged my shirt down over them. “It’s like: even if you do everything else right…right jeans, right attitude, good posture, decent hair…but you add just one wrong accessory—or, say, one wrong friend—everyone can tell you’re not the real thing.”
She must have noticed the sadness in my silence. “They’re nice guys, Margot. I’m not saying they aren’t. You can be friends with them if you want.…It’s not like I’d stop you. But they’re just not the people I want to hang out with. And they don’t belong at this kind of party. They’d be out of place. That’s all I’m saying.”
I stepped off the curb and dug my hands into my pockets as Em walked on a few steps ahead. She didn’t stumble when the sidewalk curved, even though she was wearing heels again. I hated to admit it, but maybe she was right. Andrew, Mike, and Amir didn’t like hanging out with tons of people or listening to loud music. They didn’t dance at all—unless you counted their funky chicken routine on the basketball court. They’d probably just feel completely awkward at a party like the one Em and I were planning. Maybe it was for the best. I mean, I’d still hang out with them, obviously, just not on that one night.
“Oh, and speaking of belts,” Em said, as we neared her house, “I have some clothes for you if you want. Mostly some old clothes of mine in size four. They’re kind of last season in New York—but still better than what you’ve got here. I think they’ll fit.” She unlocked the door and called into the big echoey hallway. “Hi, Debbie. I’m home. I brought Margot. Remember? You met her before.”
“Just a second,” Debbie’s voice came back. Em showed me where to hang my coat and leave my shoes, and a minute later her mom’s bare feet appeared on the thickly carpeted stairs. She was dressed head to toe in some kind of gold-and-green-spandex yoga wear, her long blond hair tied up in a bouncy ponytail. A few seconds later, a blond man followed behind her, also in bare feet and spandex. He towered over Em’s mom, with shoulders at least three times as wide. My mouth dropped open. It was like a Viking had entered the room. A yoga Viking. “Emily, you remember Conrad, my personal trainer. We’re just doing some Pilates in the back room.” The man touched her gently on the small of her back and she looked up at him and smiled. “Margaret, hello.” I didn’t bother correcting her, and neither did Em. “I guess you have homework to do,” she said, seeming in a hurry to get rid of us. “Conrad and I will leave you to it.” Em pushed past them on the stairs, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I followed.
I’d always wondered what the upstairs of the turret house was like, and I was more than a little excited to get the chance to see. Em’s room was at the end of the hall, and it wasn’t anything like I’d expected. I guess I’d always thought a girl’s bedroom in a turret would have a canopy bed and matching pink curtains—like Erika’s room did. The curtains were nice, but just plain white. The walls were mossy green. There wasn’t a single babyish thing in the room.
“Here,” Em said. She started pulling things out of the closet and throwing them on the bed. My heart leaped up as I saw the labels fly past. Calvin Klein, TNA, Mexx. A lot of them had the sales tags still on. “This will probably fit.” She picked up a shimmery gray top. “Take whatever you want.” I picked up the gray top and walked to the mirror, holding it against my chest. It matched the gray in the hair scarf Em had given me exactly. “Oh, and you need some more of these.” Em pulled a few extra scarves out of the closet and handed them to me. “It’s going to take a few more months for your bangs to grow out, and you can’t wear the same one every day. This might be good for you, too.” She grabbed a bottle off the dresser and threw it onto the bed. The label on the front said Flounce Frizz Control Serum. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, already dreaming of the magical powers it might hold. “And this.” She took a wide brown braided leather belt out of the closet and passed it to me, then held out her hand like she was waiting for a tip. “The butterfly,” she prompted. I undid the clasp, pulled it out of the belt loops, and handed it over. She dropped it into her trash can.
“Thanks,” I said, gulping a little. Then I sat on the white down comforter to look around the room. “Did you and your mom do this yourselves
?” I asked.
“Paint the walls and stuff?” Em asked. “Are you serious? Debbie doesn’t do home renovations. She’s too busy with other things, like her personal trainer.”
“Is he…?” I paused, not sure how to say it. “I mean…are they? Doesn’t your dad mind?”
“What?” Em turned, looking confused. I’d obviously done it again. Me and my giant mouth. “Oh, you mean…” she said, getting it. She put on a shocked and serious expression. “No. Conrad is just her personal trainer. Are you kidding?”
I nodded, even though I was thinking of the way the yoga Viking had touched her back. It was the same way Bryan touched my mom’s back absentmindedly while standing behind her, waiting to get a fork from the cutlery drawer, or while she stood in line to step onto the escalator at Walmart.
“Anyway,” Em said, bouncing onto the bed beside me, “are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“Ready to find out why our party is going to be the party of the century. It’s all confirmed.” I pushed myself closer to the edge of the bed, waiting for it. I don’t know what I was expecting—a live DJ her dad had paid for, maybe, or some posters autographed by SubSonic. What she came out with was way, way cooler.
“Our party is going to be the world premier of the newest SubSonic single—‘Velocity.’ My dad’s getting us an exclusive advance copy.” I must have seemed stunned. “You know. ‘Velocity.’ Off the new album—SubZero. You know about it, right?”
“Oh, totally,” I said. She could tell I was lying.
“Seriously, Margot.” She stood up and went to her desk, where she flipped open her laptop and pulled up a band blog. “‘The December release of SubSonic’s new album, SubZero, is being hailed as the music event of the season. Preorders for the CD are already starting to pour in, and DC Records, the band’s label, expects unprecedented digital sales,’” she read, then added, “It’s a big, big deal that my dad is letting us hear it first.”
It was. And for some reason, it made me sad. I was envious—I guess. What must it be like to have a dad who loved you that much? Not to mention a parent who actually understood how much your social life mattered and who was willing to do something so big to help you improve it? Based on what Em had just told me, our party was about to make Sarah J.’s legendary poolside bashes seem totally lame. “A really big deal,” I agreed.
“Exactly. Now”—Em grabbed a notebook and flipped it open—“let’s keep working on that guest list.”
After we finalized who we’d invite, we spent the next hour planning the food (chips, salsa, jelly beans, full-size chocolate bars), the playlist that would lead up to the single (starting out kind of mellow and building in intensity), and the decorations (none, because decorations are lame, but the lights would be low). It wasn’t until Em’s mom knocked on the door that I even noticed how late it had gotten.
“Hello.” She stuck her head into the room and looked around in this calm way that was entirely different from Bald Boring Bryan’s post-yogic peacefulness—less zen, more zoned out. “I brought you a snack.” She pushed the door open and held out two plastic takeout cups. “Conrad went out to the juice place for smoothies.” Em stood up and grabbed them, handing one to me. She took a long sip. “Thanks,” she said, when her mom kept standing there watching us. I tried some too. It tasted amazing—like it was squeezed from mountain-fresh elderberries, or something.
“Mmm,” I said, taking an even bigger sip. Then, worried that my frantic drinking was making me look like a starving, disadvantaged kid, I slowed down. “Thanks,” I added, taking the straw out of my mouth. “This is good.”
“Hear that?” Em’s mother said. “Somebody likes my cooking.” She laughed a little too loudly at her own joke. Em stared off at the corner like she couldn’t bear to make eye contact with her embarrassing mother. I couldn’t say I felt sorry for her. Debbie was stylish and sophisticated. After finishing my homework the night before, I’d watched an old clip of Chicago Dreams online. In the episode, Debbie’s character had just been in a car accident, and even when she was in a coma, she looked put together. Plus, she actually made the time to check in on Em, which was more than I could say for my own mother lately.
“Are you staying for dinner, Margaret?” Debbie asked me. “I’m ordering Thai for Emily.”
That was when I glanced at the clock. It was already 6:45. “Oh, no, thanks,” I said, already making a grab for my backpack and shoving the clothes, belt, and frizz control serum into it. “I forgot. I’m supposed to be home.” Even if I ran the whole way, it would be past 7:00 by the time I got there. My mother was definitely going to kill me.
When I speed-walked into the kitchen, practically panting, my mom, Bryan, and the triplets were already sitting around the table over steaming cardboard containers of VTV Thai tofu with some sort of floppy green vegetable.
“Where have you been?” Mom twirled a noodle tightly around her fork. Somehow, I was willing to bet that whatever food Em’s mom was ordering—probably crispy spring rolls and mango salad from Bangkok Gardens—would be more appetizing.
Bryan tilted his head like he had a right to be mad too, but I just gave him a look. He turned back to his dinner, trying to pick up a green thing that flopped off his fork back into the container.
“You told me you’d be home in time for dinner.”
“And I am,” I answered, hanging my backpack over my chair and sitting down.
“Margot, if you’re going to be late, you call. You know that.”
“I know,” I muttered. Obviously, I knew. “I just lost track of time. I thought you were going to be at a playdate anyway.”
“I was. But when we got home, and you were nowhere in sight, I started to worry.” She wound up another noodle. Meanwhile, Aleene started squishing soft tofu chunks in her palm, watching as they came through the cracks between her fingers like worms.
“Sorry,” I said again, poking my fork into the cardboard box.
“Well, just try to keep better track of time from now on, okay, Margot?”
“Food snakes,” Aleene squealed. “Look!!” Everybody, unwisely, ignored her. “Look, look,” she cried, and when we still didn’t pay attention, she lobbed the tofu mush directly at my mother’s chest.
“Aleene,” Mom exclaimed, standing up, “in our family we don’t throw things.” She went to the sink, where she started blotting at her shirt with a dishcloth.
While my mom’s back was turned, Bryan speared the green thing again, sniffed it, then put it back down. He caught me watching and gave a little shrug of defeat. I had to agree with him on that one point. VTV had definitely outdone themselves tonight in the disgusting and unidentifiable categories. I watched as he reached for the special notebook we were supposed to use to record our observations about the food. Vegetables overcooked, he scribbled underneath the heading Thai Tofu. He slid it across to me. Slimy, I added. Mysterious. He read my entry and nodded gravely.
“Didn’t I tell you?” my mom said to Bryan. She was still standing at the sink, working on the stain. “Dante was throwing toys the whole time we were over. His mother doesn’t step in. And here you see the influence he’s had.”
“Mom?” I interrupted. I knew it was a bad time, but then, it was always a bad time in our house. “Can I sleep over at Em’s house next Saturday?”
She blotted at the stain again. “I don’t know, Margot, give me a second here.”
“They have this really great rec room,” I said. “Perfect for sleepover parties.” It was true. Em had taken me down there to see it. They had the hugest plasma TV I’d ever seen—probably the one K’wack.ed had given them.
“Well.” Mom dropped the dishcloth back in the sink and sighed. “I suppose you can. I don’t see why not.”
I bit into a chunk of tofu, washed it down with a huge gulp of soy milk, dumped the rest of my dinner into the garbage while my mom was busy washing Aleene’s hands, then went to my room.
When I got there, I check
ed my e-mail—like I’d been doing night after night—hoping against hope that there might be an answer from Erika. And when there wasn’t, I knew it was time to face the facts. Em was right. Things were changing for us at school, and maybe that meant it was time to let go of the past. After all, I couldn’t force Erika to forgive me.…So, taking a deep breath, I looked around the room, then grabbed a big Walmart bag off my dresser and started to gather things up. First the fun-fur headbands she’d bought me in fifth grade, then some magazines she gave me in the summer, and a bracelet from this time we were obsessed with making bracelets with embroidery string. I even took down the Eternal Crush poster from the back of the door, and the babyish Winnie-the-Pooh nameplate while I was at it. I added in the bobble-head turtle, the magical horse books, kissed Ian Donahue’s lips good-bye, and finally, choking back tears, dropped the BEFRI necklace into the bag. When I was done, I tied up the top, shoved some junk aside in the closet to make space, and buried it under some old sweaters.
I sat down on my bed and looked around. With Erika’s stuff gone, the room looked different. Emptier—even though it was still messy. And plainer—like the person who lived here had no story. But more grown-up, too. I knew it would never compare to Em’s room, with her mossy green walls and gleaming hardwood floors, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t try. “Mom!” I yelled into the living room. “Do we have any empty moving boxes left?”
“In the garage,” she shouted back. “Near the outdoor stuff and the bikes.”
I went to the garage and pulled the stuff aside, took three flattened boxes, and got to work.
19
Fuchsia Is the New Black
I CLEANED AND SORTED AND rearranged until after eleven o’clock that night. When I was done, the result wasn’t exactly minimalist, but it wasn’t a pigsty either. And for a budget of zero dollars, I hadn’t done that badly.
The Ian Donahue lips poster over my bed had been replaced by this cool gold-and-black Japanese wrapping paper I’d found in the closet, and the butterfly quilt had been turned upside down to the plain white side—only slightly stained. I’d swapped my heavy blue curtains for some gauzy black fabric I’d used once for a cape at Halloween, tying it in the middle with a gold ribbon I’d found attached to a crumpled gift bag. My fake wood dresser looked almost respectable with its top draped in a black-and-white polka-dot scarf; plus, I’d expanded the space visually by pushing my computer desk against the far wall and shoving a bunch of floor junk under the bed. The Decorating by Design theme-song lady would have been proud.
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