Secret Admirer

by Melody Carlson

  “Seriously, Amy, do you really want to dance with some smelly boy?” asked Morgan.

  “Not all boys are smelly,” argued Amy.

  “How many boys have you actually smelled?” teased Emily.

  “Which boys aren’t smelly?” asked Morgan.

  “Yeah, are you thinking of some boy in particular?” asked Carlie with a little too much interest. “Anyone we know?”

  Amy wished that Chelsea would hurry up and get here. That would help to balance out this discussion. Because Amy knew for a fact that Chelsea planned to go to the dance. In fact, Chelsea probably already had a new outfit all picked out for it — probably something very cool and expensive. And even though Chelsea had given up on Jeff Sanders (since he obviously liked Emily), she hadn’t given up on boys in general. In fact, she had already started flirting with that hottie Wade Ketwig. He was an eighth grader and, in Amy’s opinion, he was a little out of their league.

  But at least Chelsea got it. She understood Amy’s desire to go to dances … to be around boys … to be liked by boys. Chelsea thought that was just normal. And it was something that she and Amy had in common. Not like Morgan, Carlie, and Emily. They still acted like all boys had cooties, which in Amy’s opinion was just so juvenile.

  At times like this, Amy found it hard to believe that she was actually the youngest girl in their club. In some ways, she felt she was more mature than most of her friends. Of course, they would never see it that way, and if she even hinted at the possibility, they were quick to remind her of her age. As well as the fact that, although she’d skipped a grade, she was still a whole year younger. They loved to point out that while the rest of them were thirteen (or in Carlie’s case, almost thirteen), Amy was still just twelve.

  So what if they were “teenagers.” Really, what was the big deal? It was just a number. But as a result of being younger, they often treated Amy like she was the baby of the group. Sometimes they would tease her or call her a child. Now how ridiculous was that? Not to mention aggravating. Of course, it wasn’t much different within her own family. Being the youngest by far of three older siblings, all in their twenties and living in their own house, Amy sometimes felt as if the entire world saw her as the baby.

  “Hey!” Chelsea greeted them as she burst into the bus. She shook her head, sending droplets of water flying out of her auburn curls. “Did you guys notice that it’s raining cats and dogs out there?”

  “Any Chihuahuas?” asked Carlie. “I’ve been begging my mom for one.”

  “What? So you can carry it around in a purse like Paris Hilton?” teased Amy.

  “No,” said Carlie quickly. “But I would get a little doggy carryall bag.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Chelsea, as she peeled off her soggy Tommy Hilfiger hoody and hung it over the bus’s steering wheel to dry. “But my mom just had to stop by the bakery on the way over here. And it took her like forever to order some stupid cake for the dinner party they’re having tonight.”

  “What kind of cake?” asked Amy.

  “Something dark chocolate with no flour. Sounded pretty weird, if you ask me.” Chelsea looked around the bus. “So, what’s up?”

  “Amy’s freaking over the Valentine’s Day dance,” said Morgan.

  “Huh?” Chelsea peered at Amy.

  “I’m so relieved you’re here,” said Amy. “I simply asked if anyone was going to the Valentine’s Day dance, and they all acted like I’d totally lost my mind.”

  “Is that all?” Chelsea slid into the seat by the table, across from Amy. “Of course we’re all going to the dance,” she announced with confidence.

  “Says who?” challenged Morgan. She adjusted her glasses then care fully strung a bright blue glass bead over the needle and onto the growing strand of colorful beads.

  “Says Honor Society,” declared Chelsea.

  “Huh?” Emily looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, as you guys know, we all made good enough grades to make the honor roll,” pointed out Chelsea.

  “Barely,” said Carlie.

  “You and me both,” admitted Chelsea. “But the point is that we made the first cut.”

  “First cut?” Morgan frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that making the honor roll is the first step, but if we want to make it into Honor Society, we have to continue keeping our grades up, and besides that we need to show some genuine interest.”

  “What kind of genuine interest?” asked Emily.

  “And what can that possibly have to do with the Valentine’s Day dance?” asked Carlie.

  “I get it,” said Amy suddenly. “Honor Society sponsors the Valentine’s Day dance, right?”

  “Exacto-mundo,” said Chelsea as she took a chip and dipped it into the salsa then popped it into her mouth. “Umm, this is good. Homemade?”

  “My mom,” said Carlie.

  “She should sell this.”

  Carlie shrugged.

  “Back to the dance,” said Amy with even more impatience.

  “Right,” said Chelsea. “So Vanessa Price, she’s an eighth grader — you know who I mean?”

  “We know,” said Morgan in a slightly bored tone.

  “Everyone knows who Vanessa is,” said Carlie.

  “Vanessa Price, the most popular girl in eighth grade,” said Emily as if reciting the words. “Cheerleader, president of Student Council, editor of the newspaper, pretty brunette with perfectly straight teeth.”

  “And she’s nice,” added Amy.

  “Yes,” said Chelsea. “She actually is nice. And she told me that if we want to make it into Honor Society, it would help if we volunteered for the Valentine’s Day dance.”

  “You mean they want us to volunteer to dance?” said Morgan. “I can do that.” Then she got up and started to do some dance step that Amy had never seen before, but had to admit was impressive.

  “I call it the Electric Porcupine,” said Morgan.

  They all clapped, and she bowed then sat back down and returned to her beading.

  “Where did you learn that?” asked Emily.

  “I made it up.”

  “I learned a fun dance from High School Musical,” said Chelsea.

  “Can you teach us?” asked Morgan.

  “Wait a minute — wait a minute.” Amy banged her fist on the table so hard that the bowl of chips jumped. “First things first — we need to finish discussing the Valentine’s Day dance.”

  “What’s to discuss?” asked Carlie.

  “Well, like Chelsea said,” persisted Amy, “if it will increase our chances of making it into Honor Society, we should participate, don’t you think?”

  “I think you don’t need any help getting into Honor Society,” pointed out Carlie. “You always make straight A’s, Amy.”

  Amy nodded, trying not to appear too smug. This was true. Her grade point average was always perfect. She would settle for nothing less. “But what about you, Carlie? And you, Chelsea?”

  “My point exactly,” said Chelsea.

  “But what’s the big deal about being in Honor Society anyway?” asked Morgan. “I mean, who really cares?”

  “Who cares?” asked Amy. She was stunned. “How can you not care?”

  Morgan shrugged and reached for another bead.

  “I actually do care,” admitted Emily. “I plan to keep my grades up throughout high school. I hope to get an academic scholarship. I want to go to a good journalism school.”

  “And my dad hopes that I’ll be the first one in his family to go to college,” said Carlie.

  “And that’s all just fine,” said Chelsea. “But I’m talking about the present, the here and now. I’m talking about the Honor Society perks.”

  “Perks?” inquired Amy.

  “Yeah,” said Chelsea. “Vanessa told me they have this really great overnight, all-expenses-paid trip every spring where they go someplace really fun. Last year they went to Portland where, besides other thi
ngs, they went ice-skating and to the theater and stayed in a really swanky downtown hotel — and they got to miss two full days of school too.”

  “Cool,” said Carlie.

  “So,” continued Chelsea. “We all need to volunteer to help with the Valentine’s Day dance to make some Brownie points.”

  Amy nodded. “And if we help with the dance, it seems only appropriate that we should attend the same dance.”

  “Right,” agreed Chelsea. “Of course.”

  Amy grinned. She’d known that Chelsea would support her on this. Chelsea got it.

  “So what will we volunteer to do for the dance?” asked Carlie. She held up her arm, still in a cast from her snowboarding mishap. “I get this removed next week, so I should be able to do something.”

  “Decorations,” proclaimed Chelsea. “Vanessa said that no one ever wants to do decorations. And she is heading up the committee and suggested that I should volunteer.”

  “Why does no one like to do decorations?” asked Carlie. “I think it sounds kinda fun.”

  “She said it’s because you have to do all the decorating right before the dance, and that last hour is crazy because you have to get everything up in the cafeteria, and it’s a zoo. Vanessa said you end up all sweaty and messy. Apparently none of the eighth grade girls ever want to do it, so it’s kind of an initiation to get the seventh graders to help out.”

  Amy frowned now. “So we have to go to the dance all sweaty and messy?”

  “Talk about those smelly boys,” teased Carlie. “Wait until they get a whiff of us.”

  “I have a plan,” said Chelsea. “We’ll just bring our dressy clothes and shoes and stuff in bags. And then, after we’re done decorating, we’ll do a quick clean up and be all ready for the big dance.”

  “Perfect,” said Amy. She smiled hopefully at her friends.

  “So, are you guys all in to help decorate?” asked Chelsea.

  “I am,” said Emily.

  “Okay,” agreed Morgan.

  “I guess so,” added Carlie. “Although I’m not so sure I can keep my grades high enough to stay on the honor roll, so it might be a waste of time for me.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Morgan.

  Carlie looked a little embarrassed. “I’m having a hard time in Algebra One right now. I just don’t get it.”

  “I can help you,” offered Amy. Math just happened to be one of her best subjects, and she was actually taking Algebra Two this year, the only seventh grader in the class. Not that she needed to brag. Everyone was pretty much aware of her academic skills.

  Carlie brightened. “Hey, that’d be great.”

  “And, speaking of grades, I’m kind of floundering in Spanish just now,” admitted Chelsea. “It’s like I’m language impaired or something.”

  “Hey, I can help with that,” said Carlie proudly.

  “Would you?” asked Chelsea eagerly.

  “Sí, amiga. No problema.” Carlie laughed.

  “I have an idea,” said Morgan suddenly. “Why don’t we have at least one homework meeting each week — you know, where we help each other with various subjects. I mean, it’s like we all have these different strengths and stuff.”

  “Like Emily is a fantastic writer,” said Chelsea.

  “And Morgan is Mr. Hilliard’s favorite in social studies class,” pointed out Emily. “She always knows everything about everything in there.”

  “So we can schedule a weekly time to meet here and help each other out,” continued Morgan with enthusiasm. “That way we’ll all keep our grades up and we can all stay on the honor —”

  “Great idea,” said Amy, “But before we get all distracted, I want to take a vote.”

  “A vote for what?” asked Emily.

  “For the dance,” said Amy impatiently.

  “I thought we already agreed,” said Chelsea.

  “We agreed to decorate,” explained Amy. “But I want us to agree that we’ll all go to the dance.”

  Morgan rolled her eyes and groaned. “What if we don’t want to dance?”

  “But you like to dance,” protested Amy. “We just saw you.”

  “But that’s different,” said Morgan. “It’s just you guys.”

  “Is it because of your church?” asked Chelsea suddenly.

  “I mean, I had this friend back in California, and her church said that it was a sin to dance.”

  “A sin to dance?” Morgan looked shocked. “No, of course it’s not a sin to dance — at least not in my church anyway. Sometimes we even dance during worship service.”

  “You dance at church?” Amy tried not to look too shocked.

  “Well, not like couples dance,” Morgan told her. “I mean, we dance as a form of worship. Like you’re so happy to be singing to God that you can’t keep your feet from moving too.”

  “Yeah,” said Emily. “It’s really fun.”

  “Dancing at a dance is fun too,” said Chelsea.

  “Anyway, let’s get this nailed down, okay?” Amy held up a hand. “I motion that we take a vote, President Morgan.”

  “I second the motion,” said Chelsea.

  “Fine,” said Morgan with a lack of enthusiasm. “Who is in favor of attending the Valentine’s Day dance?”

  To Amy’s relief, they all raised their hands. To be honest, other than Chelsea, the others still seemed fairly reluctant, but at least it was agreed upon now. They had given their word, and they would all go to the dance. Amy couldn’t wait!

  chapter two

  On Sunday afternoon, Amy began to make a plan. She would spend the upcoming week doing whatever she could to catch a certain guy’s eye. Her goal was to make him like her before the big dance. Okay, she knew she couldn’t actually make him like her. But perhaps she could at least make some kind of connection. Because, more than anything, Amy wanted Brett Woods to invite her onto the dance floor at the Valentine’s Day dance. Nothing would make her happier than for her friends to stand on the sidelines with their mouths hanging open as she and Brett actually danced. Now the big question was — what could she do to get Brett to notice her?

  Amy stood in front of the mirror and frowned as she studied her image. It wasn’t easy being small for her age. Some people even assumed she was still in grade school. Just last week, a teacher’s aide had asked if she was in the wrong school or needed directions. Amy looked at the outfit she had worn to church that morning. It was pretty much her typical wardrobe, but it did nothing to make her look older. Even her sleek black hair, cut in a bob which was now reaching to her shoulders, looked sort of juvenile. Somehow she had to change her image.

  As a result, a couple of hours later, Amy’s previously orderly room looked like her closet had exploded. A variety of shirts, pants, skirts, jeans, and shoes were splayed all over her bed, dresser, and floor. She’d already tried on about a hundred outfits, but everything she owned seemed totally childish — like things a grade school girl would wear. She wanted to look older, more sophisticated. But how?

  She considered calling Chelsea, but she knew that Chelsea and her mom had driven up the coast to go to the outlet mall to do some shopping and probably weren’t even home yet. Why couldn’t Amy have a mom like Chelsea’s? Amy’s mom was hopelessly old-fashioned, could care less about style, and thought that fashion was a big waste of money. Her mother had worn the exact same clothes for years. In fact, Amy couldn’t remember her mother ever buying anything new. Not even shoes. “These are good for work,” her mother would protest when her daughters gave her a bad time about her boring selection of ugly white athletic shoes.

  Seriously, Amy sometimes felt that the only thing her mother ever thought about was the restaurant. Although, to be fair, Amy also knew that it was only because of her mother’s fierce work ethic that the family business managed to support them all like it did. And Amy knew she should be thankful. Still, she sometimes secretly wished there was no such thing as Asian Garden.

  Finally, feeling completely hopeless, she dialed
An’s cell phone number. An was, in Amy’s opinion, the good sister. Not only was she much kinder than her oldest sister Ly, she had a good sense of style as well.

  “Hey, Amy,” said An cheerfully. “What’s up?”

  “I need some fashion help,” moaned Amy.

  An laughed, but not in a mean way. “What kind of help are you looking for?”

  So Amy explained her problem. “All my clothes are so babyish, An. And all my friends are older than me. And I hate looking like the baby all the time.”

  “Uh-huh …”

  Amy could hear the background noise at the restaurant, and she knew An was probably busy, but she also knew that she was desperate. “I really, really need your help, An,” she begged.

  “So, what can we do?” asked An. “I mean, you know that the restaurant doesn’t close until nine, and there’s no place to shop around here at that time of night.”

  “I know …” Amy let out a sad little sigh.

  “How about tomorrow?” said An brightly. “I could pick you up after school, and we could do a little shopping together. Would you like that?”

  “That’d be fantastic!” Then Amy thanked her and hung up. Okay, that didn’t exactly solve tomorrow’s outfit, but Amy decided she’d just have to make do for the time being.

  On Monday morning, Amy walked to school with Carlie, Morgan, and Emily. They were chattering away, just like usual, but all Amy could think about was Brett Woods. She knew it was kind of silly, and she knew her friends would probably tease her if they knew, but she just couldn’t help herself. With his sandy blond hair and expressive brown eyes, Brett was by far the cutest guy in seventh grade. Also, he was smart and athletic. And, although Amy suspected that lots of girls had crushes on him, he did not have a girlfriend. Yet.

  Amy had two classes with Brett — English and social studies — and she daydreamed about him more than she would ever admit. Her favorite daydream, the one she was having as they walked to school, was the one where they were at the dance together. She was wearing a pretty print skirt and embroidered top that she’d seen in one of Chelsea’s fashion magazines. And Brett had on a neat white shirt and chinos. In her fantasy, he shyly approached her, asked her to dance and, while her friends were gawking, he took her by the hand and led her to the center of the dance floor where they danced, not just one dance, but until the last song of the dance.