by Beth Ain
“Aha!” she says. “You can’t even pretend to be nice for one second, Jules Bloom, so just spit it out already. What do you want?”
“Do you have any orange-flavored lip gloss?” I ask.
Charlotte narrows her eyes at me. “I might,” she says.
“Charlotte, do you or don’t you?” I ask.
“I do. But what do you, the anti-lip-gloss-queen-of-the-worms, want with it?” she asks.
This is where I would normally end this conversation. But today, like it or not, I need Charlotte. “I need to practice trying it on and not throwing up.”
“Mmm,” Charlotte says. “It is a pretty pukey flavor.” She puts her hand into her desk and pulls out the lip gloss, but stops short of handing it to me. “So, why do you need to get used to orange-flavored anything?”
“Will you give it to me if I don’t tell you?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I finally have something you want and you’re finally talking to me, so no, I will not give it to you until you tell me more.”
I am finally talking to her?
“Because she’s auditioning for a big-time mouthwash commercial on Friday and the flavor of the mouthwash is orange and she once threw up in a taxi after eating orange sherbert and she’s afraid she’ll do it again.”
“Teddy!” I am definitely going to be mad at my mom when I get home.
“What?” he says. “I’m trying to help you solve your problem, even though the real problem is that the company thinks any kid would want orange mouthwash.”
“Forget that. How did you get an audition?” Charlotte asks, turning to me.
“Some lady came up to us at the diner the other night and asked my parents if I could do it,” I say.
“Yes, I guess that’s how people who aren’t connected to Hollywood get auditions,” she says.
“I’m connected to Hollywood,” I say. “My grandma Gilda lives there.” Charlotte snorts at this.
“Not Hollywood, Florida, Jules!” Then she starts laughing and laughing and laughing. “Hollywood, California! Where all the big movies are made and where all the movie stars live and where you can put your knees right inside where Shirley Temple put her knees.”
“Why would you do that?” Teddy asks.
“To see if you will be world famous, too,” Charlotte says.
“Who says?” Teddy asks.
“I say!” Charlotte says. “Anyway, the point is, Jules doesn’t know what Hollywood is!”
I feel my face get hot because everyone is laughing and it makes the room spin all around me.
“Well, I didn’t know there were two Hollywoods in this country,” Elinor says.
“You’re new here, Elinor,” Charlotte says. “Jules has lived here all her life.”
“So, maybe Jules will get so famous, she’ll make the other Hollywood world famous, too!” Elinor says.
This is where I would like to be the kind of person who gets all loud and says “Yeah, what do you think about that, Stinkytown? Huh?” But I am not. Even if I do get that commercial and do become a mouthwash-selling superstar, I will not be that person, or the scrambled-eggs-and-chocolate-milk person, or the tall-icy-drink person. I will still be the person who had the wrong Hollywood in the first place.
“Well, all I can say is that it’s a good thing you told me about this, Jules. You need my help, don’t you?” Charlotte asks.
I close my eyes and picture a person who does not need any help at all, and I see Colby Kingston. I am no Colby Kingston. I open my eyes, half hoping that the new Charlotte has gone away with a poof! and that the old Charlotte is standing before me, ready to play nice. But, no. The new, hands-on-her-hips Charlotte is still standing there waiting for me to answer. “Yes,” I say.
“Okay, let’s get to work. Today at recess. You, me, and a tube of orange lip gloss,” she says.
“Okay,” I say. “See ya.”
“This is where you say ‘Thank you, Charlotte,’ ” Charlotte says.
“Don’t thank her yet,” Teddy says. “Let’s see if she can stop the puke first.”
Charlotte glares at Teddy, and I sit down. Ms. Leon has cleared her throat and all I can think about now is that I forgot to say thank you to Elinor for sticking up for me. I pull out a piece of paper and scribble:
Dear Elinor,
Thank you for sticking up for me, even though I bet you did know that there were two hollywoods.
Jules
P.S. want to come over after school on Thursday?
I fold up my note into a teeny tiny square and when Ms. Leon turns around to write on the board, I pass it to Elinor.
She opens it right away, smiles big, and mouths yes. Thank goodness for Elinor, I think.
At recess, I meet Charlotte by the swing set, and so do Teddy and Elinor and the rest of the ABC’s.
“Here.” Charlotte thrusts the orange lip gloss in front of my nose and I feel my knees start to shake. There are only two times when my knees do this: when I think I might throw up and when I have to go up in front of the whole class to do a math problem or give a report or even if I only have to walk up and hand in something to Ms. Leon. Now that I think of it, this might be a good reason not to try and get famous, since most famous people have to stand in front of people a lot.
“Okay,” Charlotte says. “Close your eyes and relax. We are going to do a for-real acting lesson. Take some deep breaths. Think of summertime and swing sets.” When Charlotte says this it reminds me that she knows a lot about me.
I close my eyes and smell that smell that comes when winter is melting right off the swing set and into the ground. It smells like dirt and I start to picture myself digging for worms and then hoisting the fattest earthworm you ever saw into the air, then sending it flying off the high-dive and into the worm swimming pool Teddy and I have built, and it all just seems so wonderful until I am rattled back to reality by new-Charlotte ’s yelling voice.
Old-Charlotte only yelled things like “Tag! You’re it!”
“Good!” Charlotte is saying. “Now focus, Jules. Focus on what I am saying. Pretend the lip gloss smells like your favorite food in the world.” Even when she is cheerful, she still sounds so bossy.
“Meatballs?” I ask, squinting my eyes open.
Charlotte rolls her eyes at me.
“How about your favorite candy?”
“Black licorice?” I say.
“Why is it impossible for you to like anything normal?” Charlotte asks, throwing her hands in the air. I have to admit, she does seem like more of an actress than me.
“Well, then, you choose,” I say.
“How about strawberries?” she asks.
“They give me a rash,” I say.
“Peaches?”
“They make my lips swell up,” I say.
“You know what?” Charlotte says. “I think you are kidding and that you are not at all allergic to those things. I think you just don’t really want my help and what I think is that you are never going to get that commercial, Jules Bloom, and it serves you right, anyway, for dumping a superstar best friend like me in the first place.”
“I did not dump you, Charlotte!” I say louder than I usually speak. “You dumped me when you and the ABC’s started whispering to each other about fancy towels at fancy hotels, which is exactly when you started liking lip gloss more than swing sets!”
“Well, why didn’t you just say that in the first place?!? And maybe you’re the one who likes swing sets more than lip gloss, and who says that’s better anyway?!” Charlotte shouts back. Then she stomps away, and Brynn and Abby follow.
I stare at her for a long time after she walks away, and even though she said a lot of things, I can only think about the part she said about me not getting the commercial.
“She’s probably right,” I say.
“About what?” Elinor asks.
“I won’t get the commercial,” I say.
“No way,” Teddy says. “There has to be a scientific solut
ion to this problem. I’ll work on it and get back to you tomorrow.”
“We’ll figure it out, Jules,” Elinor says. “I’m just excited that I’ve only lived in New York for a week and I already know an actress!”
“Who?” I ask. “Me or Charlotte?” At this, Teddy and Elinor crack up and we spend the rest of recess digging for worms that never come to the surface.
not-so-helpful science
experiments, earth-rattling knees,
and free-roaming relatives
Wednesday is a disaster so far.
List of Things That Have NOT Solved My Orange Problem:
1. Charlotte’s for-real acting lesson.
2. Teddy’s de-scents-itizing project. I don’t exactly know what this means, but my mom called it this on our way home and I think it might be a clever mom joke, so I am using it on this list because I am too upset to think of a clever Jules way of describing Teddy’s experiment. (even though Teddy ThOUGhT it would be a good idea to spray orange-scented air spray all over the classroom, it was very much nOT a good idea since it made me think I was going to throw up in front of the whole class, which is a combination of the two things that make my knees shake the most, and therefore I had to run on wobbly legs to the nurse’s office, where she had to call my mom just to calm me down, and now I am at home, feeling even more worried about my audition, which is the day after tomorrow.)
“Okay,” my mom says. We are on the roof of our apartment building getting some fresh air. I feel like I can’t get the smell of orange out of my nose, so my mom thinks this will help. “Let’s figure this out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out,” I say. “If I have to put that orange stuff in my mouth, it isn’t going to be pretty. I guess this won’t be my big break.”
“Do you want it to be your big break?” my mom asks. “I didn’t know you wanted to be an actress.”
“Well, I kind of do,” I say. “I love making up songs and performing them, I love pretending I’m someone else, and I love when people think I do a good job at those things. Like when you all clap and stand up and I get to take bows.” I stop for a second. “There is one problem, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I only like doing those things in front of you and Daddy, and Big Henry.”
“I see,” she says.
“And actors are supposed to be loud and not afraid of people and not afraid of anything. Like Charlotte,” I say.
“I think that’s not really true,” my mom says. “I think that’s what people believe, but most actors are pretty shy, and the reason they like acting is because it’s easier to be someone else in front of a crowd than it is to be themselves.”
Sometimes my mom says things that confuse me and make me feel better at the exact same time. “Well, anyway,” I say, “maybe we should call Colby Kingston and cancel.”
“Hmmm,” my mom says. “I think we should try one more thing.”
She picks up her phone and dials. I can tell by all the numbers who she is calling. “Grandma Gilda!” I shout.
“Hi, Mom,” my mom says into the phone. “Yes, mmm-hmmm, okay —” My grandma Gilda does a lot of talking right away and my mom does a lot of trying to talk. “Well, Jules has an audition on Friday and she’s afraid of orange-flavored mouthwash —” She stops because she has been interrupted. I laugh and my mom holds out the phone while my grandma yells at her for not telling her sooner. She is yelling so loud I can hear her from where I am sitting!
“Put Jules on,” I hear through the phone.
“Grandma?” I say.
“Julesie,” she says, “I am on my way.” Click.
My mom looks at me. “She’s on her way,” I say. Then we both laugh. Only Grandma Gilda would say she’s on her way when she lives all the way in Florida.
I have a list of things you need to know about Grandma Gilda.
1. She is the best thing since sliced cheese.
2. She’s the one who taught me that expression, and she’s also the one who taught me the word expression.
3. She lives on a street called kokomo key Lane, which sounds very much more special than west 91st Street, which is why I spend a lot of time asking my parents why we can’t move in with her.
4. She treats airplanes like buses and hops on the one that flies between Florida and new York City once a month.
5. She always tells me I have talent. (and I think she does not mean talent the way my parents mean it when they say I have a talent for pushing back bedtime in creative ways, like the Great Toothbrush Challenge between Big henry and me, which I am currently winning, but which is getting seriously harder ever since my little brother started getting the hang of keeping the foaming toothpaste in his mouth longer and longer without dripping. Previously, this was something only I was very good at.) Grandma Gilda has said for a very long time that my mom ought to put me on television, as if a Tv is something you can just put someone on.
Anyway, I suspect that Grandma Gilda is packing her bags right this very second, as my mom and I sit way up high over the city, her soaking up the rooftop sun and me trying to blow that orange smell right out of my nose and onto 91st Street.
“At least one good thing is going to happen tomorrow,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“Elinor of London is coming over!”
“Maybe she’ll have a fresh idea for Daddy’s restaurant,” my mom says.
“Maybe she will,” I say.
“FRESH!” my mom yells and runs over to the staircase door. She is going to paint this on the wall, I think. I run after her.
Thursday at school, everyone is super nice to me instead of being super horrible to me about running out of the classroom with a green face and wobbly knees the day before.
“Sorry, Jules,” Teddy says when he sees me.
“I was going to call you,” Elinor says, “but I didn’t have your information.” I love that she calls my phone number my information. In my head, I add it to my Elinor list.
“I sure hope that isn’t how you are planning to audition — by running out of the room with your hand over your mouth!” That is, everyone except Charlotte is super nice to me.
“We’ll think of something this afternoon,” Elinor says.
“It’s useless,” I say.
“Nope,” Elinor says. “I promise you it isn’t useless. I’m bringing my astrology book with me. My mom says you can figure out just about anything from the stars.” I get butterflies when she says this. I remind myself that Elinor is the one who made worms with weirdos sound like a nice thing to say. Maybe there will be a solution after all.
promising playdates,
spaghetti with peanut butter,
and other distractions
My dad and Big Henry pick us up from school today and we decide to walk the whole way home since it is so nice outside.
“Mr. Bloom,” I say, raising my hand.
“Yes, Jules,” my dad says in his best teacher voice, “what can I do for you?”
“How come it has been so sunny and warm and nice out, but there are no flowers and no worms yet?” I am frustrated that I haven’t had my victory moment of hoisting up that big, fat earthworm and throwing him into our worm swimming pool.
“Well, what’s the missing ingredient here?” he asks. My mom always says my dad could have been a scientist if he wasn’t a chef. My dad says they are really the same thing.
“Is this a quiz?” I ask. I hate quizzes. They make me nervous.
“Rain,” Elinor says.
“Ding, ding, ding!” my dad says.
“I told you she was smart,” I say. “And she’s got her astrology book with her today so we can get some answers from the stars.”
“Astronomy,” my dad says.
“Nope, astrology,” I say.
“What’s asthrology?” Big Henry asks.
“It’s a bunch of hooey,” my dad says.
“Hooey!” Big Henry says, flinging his head back from way
up high on my dad’s shoulders.
“Astronomy is the study of the planets and stars. Astrology is the study of how the planets and stars affect people’s moods. One is science, the other is . . . Big Henry?”
“Hooey!” Big Henry says again.
“My mom says astrology can tell you a lot about yourself,” Elinor says.
“And her mom is a professor,” I tell my dad.
“Of what?” he says.
“Poetry,” Elinor says. My dad just nods at this. I get the feeling he thinks astrology and poetry go together.
I feel a little nervous for the rest of the walk home because even though I usually love every little thing my dad says, I wish that maybe just this once he had not said that thing about astrology being hooey, since Elinor is my new best friend and I need her to keep being my new best friend since, when I really think about it, there is only one letter in between her and the ABC’s.
At home, Elinor and I race into my mom’s studio so we won’t be interrupted by Big Henry.
“Okay, Jules, what’s your sign?” Elinor asks.
“I don’t even know.”
“When were you born?”
“July fifth,” I say.
“Well, then you are a Cancer.”
I gasp.
“You don’t have cancer,” Elinor says. “You are a Cancer — that means that your sign is Cancer — and it says here that you are creative, and my mom always says that we should go with what we know, so there’s your answer.”
“What’s the answer?” I ask.
“You need to be creative,” Elinor says. “Like when you said your name was Elinor and I said my name was Jules and we just went with it.”
I love this idea. I don’t know what it has to do with my audition and not throwing up, but I like that Elinor thinks I am the kind of person who can just go with it — whatever it is.
