And it gets worse. I sit on the floor in almost all my classes. Even though I didn’t fail my math quiz, like I thought I did, Ms. Hayward is very concerned by my A and makes me stay after class. When I’m done, there is a picture of me and my beard glued to my locker.
It starts to rain. I have gym outside. JFK’s obnoxious gym teacher makes you participate no matter what. Rain? Cramps? Broken leg? Doesn’t matter—yesterday I even saw London in her gym clothes. We play softball, since April is softball month. I drop the ball repeatedly and get very wet.
Since I have no one to go out to lunch with, I eat alone in the library.
I don’t see Raf all day.
I spend Friday night alone, definitely not at one of Mick Lloyd’s legendary A-list-only parties. (I’m so far off the A-list I’m practically Z-list.) On Saturday, I wake up with a miserable cold with no fever, which means, unfortunately, I don’t even get to have mono. Since I have no friends, I do nothing but work on assignments and stare at my picture on the freak Web site. I change the screen whenever my mom or Miri is around. Letting them see what a loser I am is just too humiliating. And Miri is in too good a mood for me to upset her. Because of some chemical in our gym floor, the cows cannot be used for beef production. So Miri called SALA, the Saving Animals’ Lives Association, and they raised money to have the cows moved to a refuge in Alabama. Guess they were safer in the gym after all. They will now be able to live long and happy lives. Yay, them. I wish I were a cow.
On Monday, the lock on my locker doesn’t work. Someone had my lock clipped and put on a new one. I have to get the janitor to snap it open.
No matter how hard I look, I don’t see Raf all day.
On Tuesday, I find a caricature of me and my beard in the first-, second-, and third-floor bathrooms, drawn right onto the backs of the stall doors, alongside the graffiti. And I’m not saying this because I’m oversensitive, but it so looks more like a caricature of a caveman than one of me. If it weren’t accompanied by the slogan “Rachel Weinstein is a man,” I wouldn’t even have known it was supposed to be me. I attempt to wipe one off with the cheapo school soap, but it won’t budge. The janitor, my new best friend, promises to take care of them over the weekend.
I see Raf only once, in the distance, but he doesn’t see me.
On Wednesday, my clothes are stolen. Since we no longer have access to the gym lockers, I leave my jeans, sweater, and shoes in a bag by the bleachers while I’m playing third base. Unfortunately, by the end of the period, the bag, along with my clothes and my (sob) new shoes, is gone. So I have to wear my smelly gym shoes, a long green T-shirt, and my green gym sweatpants for the rest of the day. And the pants are giving me a wedgie, which I constantly have to stealthily adjust. Okay, fine, pick. Of course, once I’m in my gym clothes, I see Raf every four seconds. In the hall, on the stairs, at the water fountain. I can feel him watching me too, staring. Once, he opens his mouth as if to say something, but I quickly duck out of view. I don’t need him making fun of me too.
On Thursday, as I walk through the senior hallway on my way to second period, I hear hysterical laughter. And I see a large crowd of students circling London, who is dressed in another all-white outfit. Her arms are shuddering above her head. Her hips are bumping from side to side. Her one good leg is quaking. What’s wrong with her?
“You look just like her,” one of her lackeys shrieks. “You’re nailing it!”
London’s nasal voice pierces my eardrums. “I call it the Electric Rachel.”
Oh, no. Ah, jeez. I knew it looked like I was being electrocuted when I danced. I knew it! Miri always told me I wasn’t that bad, but this proves it. Keep your head down, and speed up, I tell myself.
“There she is!” one of the other lackeys cries as I pass them.
Don’t look up, don’t look—
“Rochelle! Why don’t you show us how it’s done?” London cackles.
Ignore them. Just ignore them. Pretend they don’t exist.
“Rochelle!” I hear her hollering as I turn the corner, away from them.
By the end of the day, patches of kids all over school are doing the “Electric Rachel.” In the hallways. In the classrooms. In the library. It’s become more popular than the Macarena was.
By last period, I can’t take it anymore, and I hide in the bathroom. Tears spill over my cheeks as I stare at my bearded self. Okay, I know I deserve some karmic punishment for all the awful things I did last month . . . but come on. I have no friends except an absentee best friend (mono now confirmed), the love of my life hates me, and now the entire school is mimicking me? This is too much.
And if London can name a dance after me, how come she can never remember my name? Huh? Huh?
When I get home, I am beyond depressed. Mom is working late, so I am free to wallow. I lie facedown across my floor, letting the pink carpet absorb my frustrated tears. Tigger chooses this moment to sit on my back.
The phone rings and rings and rings, and I know it’s Tammy calling to check on me, but I can’t bear to get up.
When Miri gets home from Tae Kwon Do, she picks up Tigger and sits beside me.
“Howdy,” she says. “Why are you lying on the floor?”
“I . . . they . . .” Though I promised myself I wouldn’t, I break down and tell her the whole story, except for the freak Web site. That was too humiliating. “And I wouldn’t even care so much, but the fact that Raf doesn’t like me anymore is the worst part.”
My sister looks horrified. Like Tigger just got run over. “What a you-know-what. I hate her. What can I do to make you feel better?”
I turn over and face the ceiling. “Zap them into cats.” Although they’d probably circle me and scratch me to death. “Don’t bother. What’s the point? There’s no point to anything.”
“I know what will cheer you up!” Miri says, eyes brightening. “Let’s do something from the Save the World list we made on vacation.”
“Why not?” At least I’ll have something to do. And I knew she would ask me to help her with the list eventually. Too bad I kind of fell asleep while she was making it.
She runs into her room and then returns, waving an article from the New York Times. “I’ve done some research on number one, helping the homeless. This article is all about the malnutrition of the people living on the streets in Manhattan. I was thinking we could zap up some food to hand out.”
“All right,” I say lifelessly. They can have my dinner. I’m not even hungry. I didn’t have lunch today. The library was packed, so I hid in the bathroom and talked to my caricature.
Miri peers at me strangely. “Why don’t you relax? Take a bath. Watch TV. You look stressed. We’ll work on this over the weekend.” She skips back to her room.
Instead of watching TV, I pull myself off the floor and turn on my computer. And it’s just as I feared. There’s a new picture of me right beside the beard one. I’m in my gym clothes, picking the wedgie in my butt. It’s so pathetic looking that I start to laugh. I’ve officially hit rock bottom. And on the bottom I have a wedgie.
“What’s so funny?” Miri asks, and before I can switch the screen, she sees it. A younger sister just shouldn’t see her big sister looking so humiliated. It’s like seeing your dad cry or your favorite actress without makeup. I expect her to start sobbing, but instead her face turns red, and her clenched fists pound against my desk. “London did that?”
“Don’t worry. It’s a joke.”
“Don’t say that! You’re making me really mad!”
“I’m a loser, all right? Your big sister is a social failure!”
I cry through dinner. I cry while I take a bath. By the time I climb into bed, my eyes are swollen and I look like a raccoon. Hope London brings a camera tomorrow. The shot should be a real winner.
I fall into a dreamless sleep. At about three in the morning, I wake to a shadow looming over me.
“What are you doing, Mir?”
“I’m not Miri; I’m the tooth fairy,” the
shadow says. “You’re dreaming.”
Weird dream, I think as I fall back asleep. When the alarm beeps me awake, I rub the crusted tears from my eyes. I’m not going back to school. I’ll just hide. I pull the pillow out from under my head and cover my face with it. I lie on something scratchy. Something that smells . . . like a boy? Raf’s gray wool glove? Why is his glove under my head? I don’t remember taking it out of my T-shirt drawer to cuddle with. I squeeze it. And then I look up . . . and see Miri in the doorway.
“I came up with a few plans to make you feel better,” she says sheepishly.
Sweet scratchy glove. I look back at Miri. Then back at the glove. Does this . . . does this mean what I think it means? “Tooth fairy my butt! Did you do the love spell?”
She gives me a shy smile. “I did.”
Yes! Raf is going to like me again! And once he likes me again, he’ll always like me—even when the spell wears off. At least, I hope so. “But I thought you were afraid of doing love spells.”
“I was. But I couldn’t stand seeing you so sad. So I got over it. Got to get back on the broom, right?”
How sweet is she? The cloud over my head dances away. Boogies away. Electric Rachels away. “I love you!” I say, and rub the glove against my cheek. Okay, it’s itchy, but who cares? Raf is going to love me again! We could be frenching by lunchtime!
“Now, remember, emotion spells are temporary. And a love spell only lasts like three to four weeks. And it takes a day or two to kick in.”
Drat. “Another lunch in the bathroom for me.”
She smiles again and holds up what looks like a homemade tennis ball, except it’s made of rubber bands, glue, and aluminum foil. “Not necessarily. But you have to bounce this against London Zeal.”
“What?”
“Throw it at her, let it bounce, and I promise your day will get better.”
I feel a flush of excitement. “What did you do?”
She tosses me the ball and winks. “You’ll see.”
6
Bounce, Baby, Bounce
I don’t see Raf or London all morning. Unfortunately, I do see the drawings of me still on the stall doors.
I finally cross paths with Raf when I’m on my way outside for softball, in full gym attire. He hesitates but then gives me a half smile and walks away. A half smile! Wahoo! Does that mean the spell is working?
After gym, I spot London hobbling down the hall alone, looking like an icicle. White baggy pants, white hoodie, white fedora. She must have invested in an entirely new leg-cast-appropriate colorless wardrobe. “Nice outfit,” she snarls at me. “It really suits you.”
Now’s my chance. I’ve been carrying the gluey ball around with me all day, gripping it in my hand, which didn’t improve my note-taking or softball skills one bit. I throw it at her leg.
“What are you doing, you freak?” she demands as it hits her in the good ankle, bounces twice, and then rolls down the hall.
I lunge. Got it!
“You are such a weirdo,” she says. Nothing happens. Too bad. I was kind of hoping she’d turn into a frog.
“Have a good day,” I say, and run toward the stairs. It’s not like she’s going to run after me. She’s not very mobile these days. I sprint to my locker (where I left my clothes for safekeeping) and try to remember my new combination. Doesn’t work. Oh, no. Did she change my lock again?
The thing is . . . this lock looks a lot like my old lock. My original lock. I try the combination: 27, 12, 33 . . . It works! My old lock is back! How did that happen?
I open my locker and find my clothes. And not only the clothes I was wearing today but the clothes I was wearing on Wednesday. As well as my—gasp!—pink shoes. Abracatastic!
Miri’s spell must have something to do with all this. I grab an outfit and run to a bathroom stall to change. And on the door where the beard drawing was? There’s a picture of a girl inserting a wad of Kleenex into her bra. It’s a rough drawing in black marker, but I know it’s of London. How do I know this? Because on the picture are the words “London Zeal stuffs.”
“You have to tell me what that fantastic spell was,” I say, throwing myself onto Miri’s bed. I haven’t stopped smiling all day.
She swivels in her chair. “With this rubber and glue, your actions will bounce right back to you. It’s temporary but still a goody.”
I laugh. “It was awesome. You have no idea. When I got to computer class, everyone was on the freaks site, and it was filled with weird pictures of London. London bleaching her mustache. London before her nose job. London drooling on her pillow. All of my photos were replaced with shots of her! She was furious and yelling at her entire posse, because apparently they’re the only ones who know the password to get on the site. And then, when I walked down the hall, everyone was doing this weird dance-shuffle thing. And you know what they were calling it? The Hobbling London Limp! Ha! By the end of the day, she was practically Z-list!” Okay, fine, maybe just B-list, but still, she had undergone a definite demotion. Her own posse was avoiding her! “But do you want to know the best part of the day? Her clothes went missing! She had to wear her gym clothes all day.” At least they’re all green, so she didn’t have to break her one-color rule.
Miri giggles. “And what happened with Raf?”
Sigh. “Not much.”
“I thought so. I warned you it might take a while.”
“I know, I know. I’m just so excited! It was the best day ever!”
“You know,” she says coyly. “Being happy is really the best revenge. And one way to be happy is to help others. So will you help me with the feeding-the-homeless spell tomorrow?”
“Absolutely,” I promise. “Your wish is my command. And I owe you big time.”
I’m still hopping about at dinner.
“Girls,” my mom says, dishing us mashed-potato-and-broccoli stew. Ew. “Remember Adam from the tour?”
“Um, yeah,” I say. “The Yankees hottie.”
My mom laughs, her arm jiggles, and the gravy she’s holding splashes on her shirt. “Oops. Yeah, him. He left a message asking me out.”
“Go, Mom, go!” I shriek. Score! “I knew my plan would work. See? I told you. Now do you promise to listen to me whenever I have suggestions?”
“Yes, Rachel, you were right. I promise to take your dating advice.”
I pass her a napkin. “So when are you going?”
She scrapes the spill and shakes her head. “Going? I’m not. I already have a date with Lex.”
I don’t believe this. “Hello? Don’t be crazy, Mom. You can date more than one man.”
“Rachel, that’s not fair to them,” she says.
Snort. “Mom, until there’s a ring on your finger, you can date a hundred men. A thousand.” Although I don’t know how she’d remember all their names. Sometimes she has difficulty remembering mine. I guess it comes with the territory when you’re over thirty. Anyway, she’d definitely need some sort of dating filing system.
“I don’t know, honey. I don’t have that much free time.”
“Mom, what are your plans for tonight? Read a romance novel? Tomorrow a murder mystery? You’ll find the time.”
She chews a piece of broccoli, looking thoughtful. “Maybe I’ll see how it goes with Lex first and then set up a date with Adam.”
I throw my spoon down in disgust. “Mom, Adam called today. You’re not seeing Lex for two weeks. Adam is a hot commodity. In two weeks he could be engaged.” She obviously doesn’t read Cosmo. “This is what you’re going to do,” I say authoritatively. “You are going to call Adam back. You are going to tell him that you will go out with him this weekend.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I know Miri and I are in town. Big deal. We’re practically grown-up. We don’t need to be babysat.”
She looks doubtful. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!” I scream, and kick Miri under the table. Backup?
“Yes,” she adds reluctantly.
&nb
sp; My mom takes a sip of her zucchini juice, sets down her glass, and then says, “Okay, I’ll call him back.”
“When?” I ask.
“Tomorrow?”
Zap! Wrong answer. “Call him now before you chicken out.” I reach over and pick up the phone. “What’s the number?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t talk to him with you two watching.”
“We’ll go to the other room.” I drag Miri out by her arm.
Once we’re safely on the other side of the closed kitchen door, Miri smacks my hand away. “She’s not ready.”
“She’s ready. And she’s dialing, so let her do her thing.”
“What do you know?” Miri grumbles. “You’ve been on, like, one date.”
I shush her with a wave of my hand. “How did you know how to make a broom fly? Some things are innate.”
“You’re innate,” she counters.
“That didn’t even make sense. Can you shut up now?” I press my ear against the door.
“Hi, Adam? . . . Yes, it’s Carol. . . . Good, thanks, how are you? . . . Saturday night? That’s tomorrow. Well . . . I . . .”
Normally I would never recommend that a woman accept a date the day before. But this is a special case. I push my way back into the kitchen and nod vigorously.
She shrugs at me and says, “Okay, sure. Why not?”
Wahoo to the power of two! My mom has a date!
“Does he have any sons?” I mouth to her, but she doesn’t get it. Oh well. I need her to hurry up the call anyway, to keep the line free for Raf’s declaration of love.
“I can’t go,” my mom cries, blond hair dripping down her shoulders, fluffy pink towel wrapped around her skinny body. “I have nothing to wear.”
That’s true. And trust me, I’ve attempted to raid her closet on many occasions. “Try on what I put on your bed,” I say.
Luckily for her, while she was in the shower (for an entire hour, I might add; I hope she took the time to shave her legs for the special occasion), I set out the outfit I felt was her most date appropriate. Her sexy (sexiest, anyway; she seriously needs to do some shopping) black pants, a lime green low-cut sweater, her highest black heels, and her heart-shaped silver necklace that she bought years ago and never wears. I asked Miri if she agreed with my choices, but she wasn’t the least bit interested. Not that she’d be any fashion help. She thinks polka dots and stripes match. Anyway, she’s too busy finishing up her homework. Yes, English essays on a Saturday night. Real winner, huh? Not that I have anything wild and crazy on deck. No A-list parties to go to. No plans except helping Miri with her Save the World spells.
Frogs & French Kisses Page 6
