I passed her the pen.
“Start with ten names, narrow it down to five, and then come back to us with your top three.”
Beanpole took the pen and paper and crossed the garage to come up with a name. I knew she was disappointed about not being able to saw, but I also knew she realized I was probably right. Bruises were one thing; missing body parts were something else all together.
I walked back over to Q just as she squeezed the trigger of the drill to test it out.
“So what’s your dad do?” I asked. The drill made a louder veeezz-veeezz sound.
“What’d you say?” She hadn’t heard me over the noise.
“Ouch! I poked myself with the pen,” came a cry from across the room. There was a pause. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m okay, I’m okay.”
Q and I shook our heads and laughed.
“Your dad,” I repeated. “What’s he do?”
The expression on Q’s face suddenly changed to a blank, pale stare.
“Q?” I said. “Your father? What’s he do?” I repeated.
Yeesh, just when I thought this girl might actually be starting to flash signs of normalcy, out came ol’ wacko again.
Q turned her head and stared off into nothingness. Suddenly she began to wheeze.
“Q?” I said.
She didn’t answer.
“Q?” I said again. “You okay?”
And then, just like last time, she began to seriously hyperventilate. I couldn’t believe how quickly things had gone from really calm to really intense.
Q wheezed and sucked and gasped for air like she was a person on the moon who wasn’t wearing a space suit. A moment later she dropped to her knees and started doing that weird rhythm breathing stuff again.
In and out and in and out.
I stood over her, unsure of what to do.
In and out and in and out.
“Q?”
She didn’t reply.
“Q, are you...”
“I need to…” she gasped. “Go for a walk.”
“A walk?” I asked. “You need to go for a walk right now?”
She stood up.
“Walking…it helps calm me down,” she said between desperate breaths. “Gotta go walk.”
She left the drill where it was, she left the dog where it was, she left me where I was. No explanation. No good-bye. No anything. She just grabbed her backpack and went for a walk.
I stood there stunned. What in the world? A minute later Beanpole came over.
“So whaddya think of the name ... drumroll please ... Poochy?”
I didn’t answer. I just stared in dumb silence.
“What, you don’t like it?” she asked. “I think it’s kinda good. Hey, where’s Alice?”
“She, uh…left,” I said. “Had to go for a walk.”
“A walk?” said Beanpole with a puzzled look on her face.
“Yeah. Said she needed to calm herself down.”
“What’d you say to her?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Beanpole rolled her eyes and gave me an I-totally-don’tbelieve-you look.
“I swear, nothing,” I repeated. “I didn’t say anything. And stop looking at me like that. I can be nice, you know, you klutz-face dork-o-rama!”
I put down the bolts I was holding and looked at the robotic dog. Marty had been working on the brain on his own time in his room, and while I had turned a few screws and twisted a few parts, Q was the one who had really assembled most of our project. And made a bunch of improvements, too. Without her, I don’t know where we would have been.
I bent down and began to put all the various things away.
“Come on, Beanpole, let’s clean this stuff up.”
Beanpole bent down to help.
“Ouch! I bumped my head. Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m okay.”
I took a deep breath.
“Lord help the insurance company that covers you,” I said, reaching for the bag where all the stuff went.
“Insurance company? Why?” said Beanpole. “Ouch! I smashed my hand. Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m okay.”
“Try not to break the dog, Beanpole,” I said. “You, I’m not so worried about. But the dog, it’s all we got.”
“You mean Poochy.” Beanpole smiled big and proud.
“Yeah, Poochy,” I said. “Just be careful.”
Of course, the next day at school Q showed up with her detoxified, desalinated, deflavorized lunch and didn’t say a stinking word about the previous day. She just acted like always, as if nothing had happened. She simply ate her peeled tomato skin, tree bark, and tofu salad as if life was as normal as ever.
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.
“Tell me,” I said. “Why do you need that tank again?”
“I take medicine.”
“And you take medicine because…”
“Because I am sick,” she answered.
“And you are sick with an illness that…”
“Needs medicine,” she replied.
“Which is why you slurp off a tank,” I said, completing her sentence.
“Exactly,” she answered. “You got it.”
“Oh good, I got it,” I said. “I don’t understand anything, but I got it.”
What a freak-a-zoid, I thought.
I would have said something more. I really was going to, but I had bigger problems that day. Mr. Piddles, in all his social studies wisdom, had teamed every member in his second period class with a partner to do a “Justice Project.”
And I got teamed with Logan Meyers. Of all people.
“So what’s the problem?” asked Beanpole when I told her of my dilemma. Lunch today for her was homemade lasagna shaped in the form of a Baroque cathedral. “We know you like him.”
My heart dropped.
“I do not,” I said, acting casual.
“Do too,” answered Beanpole, smiling and happy she had some inside scoop on me. “It’s like so obvious, Maureen.”
“I do not,” I said again, working as hard as I could to remain calm.
I looked at Q. She sucked on the scuba tank.
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.
But I could tell by the way she slurped, she was sending me a message that said, yeah, she knew too.
“I do not!” I insisted.
“Do too.”
“Do not!”
“Do too.”
The three of us looked across the courtyard. Logan was standing on a chair, balancing on one foot and pretending to sniff his armpits.
I tried not to drool. He was just, like, soooooooooooo hot.
“I wonder if he’s a good kisser?” asked Q.
“What?” I said, spinning around.
“A good kisser,” she repeated. “I mean, just because he’s good-looking doesn’t mean he’s a good kisser, you know.”
“Make sure you tell us when you tongue him, Maureen,” said Beanpole.
“When I do what?” I said. My jaw practically dropped to the floor. Q laughed.
“I heard he tongued Kiki Masters,” said Beanpole. “Twice.” My eyes narrowed, and I shot her a fierce look. “Just warnin’ ya,” she added.
“Well, I heard Kiki Masters tongued Justin Barnes,” added Q. “And Mitchell Welton, too.”
I rolled my eyes.
“By the time she graduates, who won’t Kiki have tongued?” I snipped. “Every boy in Grover Park Middle School will probably have had a spit sample off the girl.”
We laughed and then turned to look over at the ThreePees, who were, of course, practicing their amazing routine for all the world to see.
We watched for a minute. Holy macaroni they were good.
Just then, as the ThreePees were razzle-dazzling, Sofes O’Reilly turned left when she was supposed to turn right, and threw the whole routine off.
Kiki stopped mid-dance. Just stopped. Then she shot Sofes a furious glare. I could feel the heat of her anger from across the courtyard.<
br />
“Um, hello?” snapped Kiki. She stormed to their table and shut off the music. “Like, do you know your left from your right?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Sofes.
“Prove it,” said Kiki.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, ‘Prove it,’’’ snapped Kiki as she put her hand on her hip and gave Sofes a mean glare. “Prove to me right now that you know your left from your right.”
A bunch of people stared.
“Like, um, you’re embarrassing me, Keeks,” Sofes said softly.
“Like, it’s, um, embarrassing that you can’t do one simple turn on an eight count,” answered Kiki in a mean, sarcastic tone.
“Geez, I just made a mistake,” said Sofes, more to Brittany-Brattany than anyone else.
Brittany-Brattany, always the courageous one, stood up for Sofes by lowering her eyes and not saying a word.
Kiki walked back over to the music player.
“Well, maybe it was a mistake to bring you on the team,” said Kiki, getting ready to take it from the top once again. “Maybe we shouldda left you in Loserville.”
“Like, um, harsh,” said Sofes.
“Like, um, true,” answered Kiki.
Brittany-Brattany remained silent.
“Oh my gawd,” said Beanpole, back over at our table. “Like I just have absolutely no idea what boys see in her at all. Not at all.”
Just then, Kiki took off her sweatshirt. Underneath her loose-fitting hoodie she wore a skintight, lycra, low-cut tank top that revealed more curves than any road in the city.
“They see those,” said Q. “Both of ’em.”
Q raised the scuba tank to her lips and took a big suck. Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.
Then the three of us laughed so loud, everyone in the courtyard looked over to see what was funny. I just covered my mouth and giggled some more.
Wow, Q made a funny.
“Who’s ready for some snacky-wackies?” said Department Store Mom as she carried a tray of freshly baked scones into Beanpole’s bedroom. “I’ve got Academy Awards today. Organic, of course.”
I looked at the scones, and sure enough they had been crafted into little gold Oscar statuettes, just like the kind they give to all the movie people when they win an Academy Award. Department Store Mom’s theme today was Show Business Victory. She was trying to make sure we stayed inspired for the big competition next week.
“Mmm, these are delicious, Mrs. Tanner,” said Q after taking a bite. “Thank you.” No need to worry about dental hygiene products being placed in your food in this house. Department Store Mom was a great cook, and once she’d learned about all of Q’s special dietary needs, she’d taken it as a personal baking challenge to make one hundred percent nonallergenic after-school treats for us that were one hundred percent tasty and delicious. And I have to say, the stuff she was coming up with was amazing. The woman could have opened a bakery.
“Great job, Mommy,” said Beanpole, biting the head off a statuette. “And the sweaters, I saw them downstairs. They look awesome!”
“Oh, you did?” said Department Store Mom with a whole bunch of perkiness. Like it was really hard to tell where Beanpole got all her zing. “I was going to bring them up for sizing if you girls were ready today.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Sure,” I said, but the words sweaters and sizing together made me feel instantly uncomfortable. I knew this day would come, though. Had known it for a while now.
“Great. I’ll be back with more tea and the outfits for the big show in a jiff.” Department Store Mom backed out of the room and disappeared down the hall, not a thread of carpet disturbed by any step the woman ever took.
Totally weird.
Actually, I was kinda feeling the good vibes in Beanpole’s house as of late, and Department Store Mom’s Department Store Mom-ness wasn’t really getting on my nerves so much anymore. After all, she had knitted matching sweaters for the three of us —plus one for Poochy, the robotic dog—and every time we came over she was just so ridiculously nice it was hard to hate her.
I tried, though, I have to admit. But I just couldn’t.
“Hey, sporto, how’s the talent practice going?” said Department Store Dad, coming in to give his daughter a peck on her cheek. He was another one I wanted to not like, but couldn’t. Just too nice and friendly.
“Hi, girls,” he said, giving Q and me a white, smiley, glow-bright flash of teeth.
“Hi, Mr. Tanner,” said Q.
“Nice sweater,” I commented.
“Oh, you like?” he answered. “I was in the mood for checkers today.”
“Looks sharp on you,” I said. “Not everyone can get away with wearing those, you know.”
“Well, thank you, Maureen,” he answered. “Oh, sporto,” Department Store Dad added, “don’t forget about the family portrait we’re gonna take the night before the show. I wanna make sure we have a professional photographer get a good shot of us. You know, for the mantel.”
So that’s where those photos came from when you bought picture frames at a department store. Beanpole’s family posed for them.
“Got it, Daddy,” she said.
“You’re the best, princess. Bye, girls.”
“Bye,” we said, and with another white smile, Department Store Dad left to go trim a hedge or something.
“Don’t you want a scone, Mo?” asked Beanpole.
“Um, no thanks,” I answered softly, lowering my eyes. My face kinda flushed.
Beanpole and Q looked up, wondering what was wrong. Usually I was good for at least half a plate of baked treats washed down by three cups of tea with extra sugar.
“I’m sort of trying to, you know, watch what I eat,” I added.
The room got quiet. Real quiet. I expected them to laugh at me. My whole life people had laughed at me about my weight.
But the laughter never came.
“Good for you,” said Beanpole, full of perk. “I mean, I think you’re pretty just the way you are, but it’s important to feel good about yourself.”
“You have nice skin,” said Q.
“What?” I said.
“Your skin,” she answered. “It’s nice. I have pimples and acne and stuff, but you…you have nice skin.”
“Oh,” I said. I’d never really thought about my skin. I guess it was kinda clear compared to some other kids. “Um, thanks.”
“Sure,” said Q.
Just then, Department Store Mom burst back into the room with an arm full of pink sweaters. “Guess whose sweaty-whetties are here,” she said, unable to contain her excitement. “This one’s for Alice.” She handed Q a sweater. “This one’s for Maureen,” she said, passing me mine. “And this one is for Barbara. Go ahead, try them on. Let’s see how they look.”
Department Store Mom put her hands on her hips and waited to see how her master works would fit us.
The three of us froze.
Try them on?
Gulp.
“Is something wrong?” asked Department Store Mom, like totally not getting it. Or maybe she had forgotten what it was like to be our age. I mean, did she really want us to take off our shirts in front of one another? That would involve breasts!
Suddenly, the lightbulb went off in Department Store Mom’s head. “Oh,” she said. “Of course.” Her tone was warm and understanding. “There’s a bathroom right down the hall. How about if you go in one at a time and change?”
We breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“You know, I used to face this all the time when I managed the department store. Young girls can be sensitive about their bodies, but don’t worry about it. One at a time is just fine.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, interrupting. “You used to work at a department store?”
“Oh yeah,” Beanpole’s mom answered. “For years. I tell you,” she said with a fond smile, “once that job gets in your blood, it’s hard to get it out.”
She laughed as she took a quick strol
l down memory lane.
Weird, I thought. Totally weird.
We went to the bathroom, one at a time. Beanpole was first. Her sweater was tight and showed everything. Or everything that wasn’t there. I mean, they didn’t call her Beanpole for nothing. But the sweater fit well and looked sharp, that was for sure.
“Feels great, Mom.”
“You were easy,” said Department Store Mom. “Alice…you’re next.”
I’m not sure how how Department Store Mom had done it, but when Alice put on that sweater, it fit perfectly. I mean, perfectly. It’s like the Department Store Mom had a sixth sense about sizing or something. Like, she had never even measured us.
“This tone really brings out your color well,” said Department Store Mom to Allergy Alice as she tugged at the sides of the sweater to make sure that it fit properly. “And the V-neck is a good cut for you,” she added.
“You think so?” said Q.
“Oh yeah,” said Department Store Mom. “Makes you look tall and proud.”
“I don’t really wear V-necks,” said Q. “You know, ’cause of the scar.”
Q pulled the sweater about an inch to the right and revealed a bubbly, craggly, long, deep, really-painful-to-get type of scar.
“I usually hide it by wearing tops with high necks and stuff,” she said. We could tell she was embarrassed.
Beanpole and I looked at one another. It was the first time we had seen or heard about any scar, but Department Store Mom just rolled right with it as if it were no big deal at all.
“Now, let’s see,” said Department Store Mom, staring at Q while contemplating a way to work some magic. “We have a couple of options.” She paused for a moment. “I got it. How about if I get everyone some tank tops for underneath the sweaters? That way it would still leave a low neckline but would keep this part covered for each of you, kind of like a little optical illusion.”
Q looked over at me and Beanpole with hopeful eyes as Department Store Mom sized up the type of tank tops to get.
“Could you, Mommy?” said Beanpole. “I mean, I’d wear one,” she added. They all looked at me.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Of course. Sure, I’ll wear it,” I said. “And since you’re creating optical illusions, can you do anything to, you know, make me look like less of a baked potato?”
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