by Meg Cabot
I thought it might help if, while I was improving Cara's looks, I tried to improve her mind. Just a little. So she'd have something to talk with people about. Besides her diet, that is.
Plenty of mousse, a spritz of hair spray for volume, a general toning down of the whole eyeliner thing, and a lot of covering up what she used to let all hang out later, and Cara was transformed. She'd gone from why me? to look at me! in just a couple of hours. By the time I finally got through with her, Mr. Schlosburg had gotten home from work So I had him and Mrs. Schlosburg sit in the living room, then "presented" the new and—in my opinion, anyway—improved Cara to them.
The completely stunned expressions on their faces were all the proof I needed that I had done a good job, Mrs. Schlosburg even took photos.
I accepted the Schlosburgs' invitation to take me to dinner at Clayton Inn, Clayton, Indiana's fanciest restaurant (the place where the Spring Fling would be held). I figured it would be a good opportunity to give Cara her next lesson . . . that it was healthier to fill up on a rib eye and baked potato at dinner than it was to nibble a dinky salad with no dressing, only to scarf down seven hundred Little Debbie snack cakes later in the evening. From now on, I instructed Cara, she was to eat three full—but healthy—meals a day. No more plates of iceberg in the caf, please.
Where, I informed her, she'd be sitting at my table from now on . . . a statement which caused her eyes to go very wide.
By the time Mr. and Mrs. Schlosburg dropped me off at home, they were both gushing with appreciation over my having taken their daughter under my wing. I have to admit that made me a little uncomfortable. Oh, not that they were so deeply touched or anything. But the fact was, I ought to have stepped in and taken Cara under my wing long before I finally had. I'd let her flounder around by herself for far, far too long.
But, I told myself, as I got ready for bed, all that was changing. Cara wasn't the only one undergoing a transformation.
Buh-bye, nice little Jenny Greenley, everybody's best friend. Hello, Jen, effector of social change.
And anybody who hadn't realized it by noon the next day certainly knew it by the end of lunch. That's when Cara and I made our entrance to the caf.
She had, I was satisfied to see, forgone the blow-drying that morning. Her newly darkened hair sprung in naturally curly waves all around her face, framing it beautifully. What little makeup she had on enhanced instead of smothered. And there appeared to be a new spring in her step that I couldn't remember ever having seen before.
Standing outside the cafeteria doors, where we'd agreed to meet, Cara tugged on her split-sleeved blouse and made sure the hem of her knee-length—no more minis: some things a girl should keep a mystery—rayon skirt was even. I reached up and adjusted an auburn curl so that it lay across one shoulder.
"Ready?" I asked her.
Cara nodded nervously. Then she said, "Can I ask you something first though, Jen?"
"Shoot," I said.
Cara's gaze was steady. "Why . . . why are you doing this for me?"
I had to think about that one for a second. I couldn't say anything about Culver, because I didn't want her to know that her mother had been talking to mine about her. And of course I couldn't say anything about how Luke had told me that it was the job of people like me to help people like her.
Except that, when I really thought about it, I realized that neither of those were the reason why I'd helped Cara. I'd helped Cara because . . .
"Because I like you, Cara."
Maybe I'd realized it a little late But it was still true.
So that's what I said, with a shrug.
Except maybe I should have kept that information to myself, because Cara's eyes filled up with tears, jeopardizing her mascara. . . .
"Oh my God!" I cried. "Stop it'"
"I can't help it," Cara said, starting to sniffle. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me—"
I couldn't get those cafeteria doors open fast enough.
"In!" I commanded, pointing imperiously.
The din hit us with as much force as the scent of today's special—turkey chili. I felt Cara take a step backward, jolted by the roar.
But retreat was not an option. I reached behind me, found a clammy hand, and pulled.
We were inside. And heading down the catwalk.
Don't hesitate—, I'd advised Cara the night before. If you hesitate—if you show so much as an instant of indecision—they'll attack. Remember, I'll be right there with you. Keep your gaze straight ahead. Don't slouch. Don't shuffle.
And for the love of God, don't make eye contact.
I was trying to play it casual, so I didn't look at Cara. I had no idea whether or not she was following my instructions.
But I could tell by the slowly decreasing decibel level in the room that something was happening. People were pausing mid-conversation. Soon, you couldn't even hear a fork scrape. Silence—for the first time in the history of Clayton High School—reigned in the cafeteria. The only sound I could hear were those of my own footfalls . . . and the click-clack of Cara's platform sandals.
I risked a glance at Cara then. Her cheeks were turning as pink as her blouse.
But to my relief, she didn't waver.
She didn't hesitate.
And she didn't make eye contact.
I stooped and picked up two trays I handed one to her. We made our way down the concession line. I took a bowl of turkey chili, a tossed salad—with the dressing on it—some cornbread, a diet soda, and an apple. Cara did the same. The lunch ladies eyed us, but not because of our food choices.
They eyed us because they, like me, had never heard the place so quiet.
Only they, unlike me, could not figure out why no one was speaking.
We moved toward the cashier. We paid. We picked up our trays. And we started for our seats.
If anything was going to happen, I knew, it was going to happen then, right at that moment Cara's transformation from wannabe to I'm Just Me was remarkable, but a dye job and makeup—even a full-length top—would not make a lick of difference to a bully determined to keep Cara under his—or her—heel. They'd had time to recover from the shock now The taunts—if there were to be any—would come now.
Four feet Ten feet Twenty Made it. We had successfully placed our trays on the table and were pulling back our chairs when it happened.
A moo.
Cara froze. The moo had come from behind us. I had drilled into her the night before the instruction that if anyone mooed at her, ever again, she was not to react. She was not to burst into tears. She was not to run from the room. She was to go on as if she hadn't heard it. She was not to so much as turn her head.
But would she? Had all my coaching fallen on deaf ears? I watched apprehensively as Cara's fingers tightened on her chair back . . . tightened until her knuckles went white.
Then she pulled the chair out, sat down in it, and began calmly to eat her chili.
Relief coursed through my body like ice water on a hot day. I almost felt giddy. Yes! The spell was broken! Cara would never be mooed at again.
Until I heard it again. Mooooo.
Scott Bennett, the only one at our table who'd gone on eating as if nothing was happening the whole time Cara and I had been approaching the table, paused with a forkful of what looked to me like chicken enchilada halfway to his lips. He glanced in the direction of the moo, which seemed to have come from Kurt Schraeder's table I, too, looked in that direction. I saw Kurt looking right back at me, a devious little smile on his face.
"Do you," I inquired acidly, my voice—because it was the only one in the caf—carrying easily the thirty feet to Kurt's table, "have a problem, Kurt?"
"Yeah," Kurt started to say.
But then he broke off when Courtney Deckard elbowed him hard in the ribs.
I looked at Courtney. Courtney looked at me.
I'll tell you the truth. I don't know if it was the fact that at the end of the week, I was going to be going to
the Clayton High School Spring Fling with Luke Striker, and Courtney knew it, or if Luke's special sauce theory really had some merit.
All I know is, right after that, Courtney picked up her diet soda and said something to the girl next to her. The girl next to her responded. Then everyone at their table started eating and chatting again, as if nothing had happened. Soon the entire population of the cafeteria was doing the same.
Including, I was pleased to see as I sat down, Cara Schlosburg, who was politely asking Kwang if he had happened to watch Buffy, and if so, did he, or did he not, think that show jumped the shark after Angel had left it.
My heart swelled. There was not another single moo.
Cara Cow, I saw, was dead. Long live Cara Schlosburg.
Yes, I thought to myself, as I dug into my chili, suddenly starving. Yes!
Ask Annie
Ask Annie your most complex interpersonal relationship questions.
Go on, we dare you!
All letters to Annie are subject to publication in the Clayton High School Register.
Names and e-mail addresses of correspondents guaranteed confidential.
Dear Annie,
Although I turned sixteen last week, my parents won’t let me go out with boys, even on group dates. Recently a boy asked me to go to the movies with him AND his parents, and my parents still said no.
Now my female friends don’t want to hang out with me, because they know I’m not allowed to do anything where boys will be around. I’m dying of loneliness. What can I do?
Isolated in Indiana
Dear Isolated,
Tell your parents that you love them, and you know they are trying to be protective, but they’ve gone too far. By preventing you from having a normal social life, they are not allowing you to learn to make decisions for yourself and develop healthy relationships, which will have a negative impact not just on your future ability to find a spouse, but to function in a career and the world in general.
If they still refuse to listen, ask your pastor or a trusted teacher or other adult friend to intercede as an advocate. Good luck, and remember, as long as there’s Annie, you’ll never be alone.
Annie
TWELVE
Okay, I'll admit it. After the Cara thing, I kind of started to think maybe Luke had been right about me.
Because it worked. It totally worked.
And, yeah, maybe it worked because you could still see clips of me on Access Hollywood every night, going, "No, really, Luke and I are just friends."
But whatever. It had worked. People stopped mooing at Cara.
And, sure, a lot of people went around going—including, I heard through the grapevine, my ex-best friend Trina—"What's with Jen? Why is she being so nice to Cara Cow?"
But never within earshot of Cara, so I didn't care.
Especially when my mother reported to me that after school that first day—the day she walked down the catwalk without being mooed at—Cara informed Mrs. Schlosburg that she'd signed up to join next year's student council.
So it didn't look as if she'd be heading off to Culver anytime soon.
It was just too bad that while I'd managed to influence Cara's life so positively, I was still my best friend's least favorite person Trina continued to refuse to talk to me, and, I'll admit, it was taking its toll I missed her. Without Trina to chat with online, doing my Latin homework wasn't half as much fun. I didn't regret saying what I'd said to her, and I still didn't think my agreeing to go to the Spring Fling with Luke Striker was the huge betrayal she evidently thought it was.
But I wish I had handled the situation a little better Because being on the outs with Trina was affecting my life in a pretty negative wav especially during Troubadour rehearsals.
The day of the big show choir invitational was fast approaching. Our dresses—the hundred and eighty dollar ones—arrived, in all their red, sequined glory. They were truly the most hideous garments I had ever seen—the kind of dress that, if I'd found something similar in Cara's closet, would have gone straight in the Goodwill pile.
And probably even Goodwill wouldn't have wanted it.
But Mr. Hall loved them. When we stood on the risers for our first dress rehearsal, daring class on Tuesday, he actually got teary eyed. He said that, at last, we looked like a choir.
I don't know what he'd thought we'd looked like before But apparently not a choir.
The dresses came in the nick of time. At the crack of dawn on Friday—the day before the Spring Fling—the Clayton High Troubadours (along with Mr. Hall and select members of the Clayton High orchestra, who were accompanying us during our performance) were to board a specially hired bus. We would then travel to Bishop Luers High School, where we would face off with a dozen other show choirs. Each choir had fifteen minutes to dazzle the panel of highly prestigious judges—one was a former Miss Kentucky—with their vocal blend and balance, intonation, rhythmic precision, interpretation, tone quality, poise, appearance, pace of show, choreography, and overall performance skills.
I know. Could anything be more lame? I mean, a former Miss Kentucky? Hello, they at least could have gotten Andrew Lloyd Webber or somebody.
But you wouldn't believe how nervous everyone was about it, despite the lame quotient. Well, Mr. Hall and the sopranos were nervous, anyway I have to confess, the altos seemed way more interested in seeing how many tiny pieces of paper we could make stick in Karen Sue Walters's curly hair as she stood on the riser beneath us.
Karen Sue accused of us throwing spit wads at her. Can you believe it? And Mr. Hall blew the whole thing way out of proportion, if you ask me. They weren't spit wads at all, just little pieces of Bored Liz's trig homework.
Anyway, in the last week before we were to leave for Bishop Luers, Mr. Hall rehearsed us until "All that Jazz" seemed to play permanently in my head. We didn't have any problems with our vocal blend and balance, intonation, diction, or tone quality.
But according to Mr. Hall, some of us had a lot of problems with our rhythmic precision. And some of us—okay, well, one of us, anyway—had some major problems with the choreography.
My only defense is that when I'd auditioned, no one had ever said anything about dancing. Seriously. The part about singing I'd understood. But dancing? No one had said a word.
Ordinarily, of course, I'd have asked Trina to come over after school and help me out with the whole choreography thing. And ordinarily, she would have been happy to do so.
But Trina and I weren't speaking. Or rather, I was speaking to Trina.
The problem was, Trina wasn't speaking back.
This got old pretty fast. By Tuesday, I already thought it had gone on long enough.
And by Wednesday, I was way sick of it.
I was also sick of getting yelled at by Mr. Hall for screwing up the choreography. Which, if you think about it, was all Trina's fault, anyway. I mean, she was the one who'd been all, "Oh, it'll look good on your transcript."
Yeah, but what good was a nice-looking transcript if I happened to be DEAD? Because that's what I feared was going to happen if I didn't get Mr. Hall off my back about the stupid choreography. I was just going to fall down DEAD.
I was okay during "As Long as He Needs Me" (I'll Klingon Steadfastly) because it was a slow song. And since all we had to do for "Day by Day" was stand there in our stupid dresses and gaze into a spotlight—"You're looking into a beautiful sunset," Mr. Hall told us. "You're gazing at a rainbow, dazzled by the Lord's love!"—I was okay on that one, too.
But "All that Jazz." Oh, how I dreaded "All that Jazz." I could handle the step-ball-change during "I bought some aspirin down at United Drug." I could even handle the whole jazz hands things during "Start the car, I know a whoopee spot."
But when it came to getting Trina her freaking hat for the freaking kick line, I kept totally blowing it.
I'm just going to come right out and say that this, too, was Trina's fault. The week before, back when we'd still been speaking, I'd been thro
wing her the hat, and she'd been catching it and getting it on in time to get in place for the cancan.
But for some reason, even though I was throwing the hat in the exact same way,Trina kept missing it. I don't want to say on purpose. But . . .
All right. She was missing it on purpose.
The first couple of times this happened, Mr. Hall didn't notice, because the hat fell on the floor and Trina just scooped it up and put it on.
But during Wednesday's rehearsal—a particularly fractious one, because one of the tenors forgot his cummerbund, and I'd thought Mr. Hall was going to have an aneurism, he was so mad—Trina's hat flew out of my hand and landed, as luck would have it, inside Jake Mancini's tuba.
She could have caught it. She could have reached up and plucked it out of the air.
But she didn't. So it landed in the tuba.
Which was actually very funny, if you ask me. I mean, what were the chances? If it had happened during Luers, I was willing to bet Miss Kentucky would think we'd done it on purpose and given us extra points for aim and creativity.
It was no big deal. At least, I didn't think so. Jake removed the hat from his horn, handed it gallantly to Trina, and she put it on and got into the kick line without missing a single step.
Tough Brenda, who'd seen the whole thing, was laughing so hard—or so she told me later—she almost wet her tap pants (they came with the dress, on account of it having a very full skirt).
But Mr. Hall, who also saw the whole thing, did not seem to find it very amusing at all. His head whipped around, and he pinned me with a goggle-eyed look of pure, unadulterated rage. His face went as red as—well, as my dress.
When "All that Jazz" came to its rousing finish, and we were all standing there, our jazz hands stretched out, trying to exude as much poise and rhythmic precision as we were able, Mr. Hall threw down his baton and hissed, "Sit."
