by Barbara Dee
“Not if you joust with greasy fingers.”
“Hey, I never said I was anti-napkin.”
All of a sudden someone barks, “Yo, Bananas, move over.” And takes over the empty space next to me before I can say, Don’t call me Bananas or There isn’t any room, Brody. Ethan sits down too, across from Brody, who shoves his tray in the middle of the table, like he owns it.
Then he gobbles a giant bite of cheeseburger and grins so you can see smears of ketchup on his teeth.
“Okay, that’s it,” Layla announces. “I have just now officially become a vegan.”
“Actually, I don’t think they had vegans in the Middle Ages,” I say.
Everyone looks at me.
“Hey, Bananas speaks,” Brody says. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Awesome.”
“Of course she speaks, you salivating carnivore,” Layla says. “She’s a poet.”
“Yeah? Cool. Then let’s hear a poem.”
“Brody,” Ethan says. “Shut up.”
“Why? I like poems.”
“No, you don’t. And she’s new here; give her a break.”
Right then is the first time I take a good look at Ethan. He’s never sat semi across from me before, so I’ve never noticed his dark eyelashes, or the golden freckles on his cheeks. Dark eyelashes, dark eyes, and golden freckles. Whew, what a combination. Plus he’s standing up to Brody, which means he’s smart and not a follower and amazingly on my side.
Okay, so now I have to talk to Emma.
“I don’t mean sucky poems,” Brody is arguing. “I mean the good kind. You know. There once was a monkey from Spain—”
“Much smarter than Brody’s dumb brain,” Layla finishes. She takes another ziti and wiggles it in front of Brody’s nose. “And here it is,” she says, grinning. “Your brain.”
“Get that out of my face.”
“No.”
“Get it out, Layla.”
Wiggle, wiggle. “First apologize to Marigold.”
“Layla, it’s fine,” I say.
“No, it isn’t. He’s been acting like such a pig to you.”
“Hey, I’m serious,” Brody says, trying to grab Layla’s arm.
She stands, laughing, and switches hands, still dangling the ziti. “So am I, pig. Stop the monkey jokes—”
“Layla,” Quinn says.
“Or face me in a joust. I’m warning you, pig.”
I’m about to protest again when boom, it hits me: Layla and Brody are actually enjoying this. They’re not fighting, they’re flirting.
Oh.
All of a sudden, Brody reaches up and bats the ziti out of his face. It goes flying across the lunchroom and lands smack on Jada’s table.
“Great,” Brody mutters. He looks at Layla like, Now are you happy?
She blinks at him, too surprised even to laugh.
Somebody yells, “Ewwwww.”
Somebody else yells, “What was THAT?”
Ashley and Megan whip their heads around. As soon as they notice Layla standing, they poke Jada and start whispering. Then Jada gets up, and with the whole seventh grade staring at her, she marches in our direction.
She’s holding the ziti between her thumb and index finger, like it’s a bloody severed pinky. “Did you throw this at me?” she asks Layla in a supersweet voice.
“No,” Layla answers, looking Jada right in the eye.
“Yes, you did. Of course it was you. Don’t lie.”
Layla snorts. “You know what, Jada? If I threw it at you, I’d say so.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Jada says nicely, smiling through her no-braces teeth. “Because that would be admitting you did something gross and immature and trashy, and we all know how you like to pretend you’re sooo cool.”
Layla opens her mouth. You can hear everybody in the whole grade suck in lunchroom air, and then let it out slowly like, Ooooh, this is gonna be gooood.
But what’s incredibly bizarre is that Layla doesn’t make a sound. I mean, literally nothing comes out of her mouth, not a single word, not even one of her snorts. She just stands there, her cheeks getting redder and redder, clashing weirdly with the bright orange streak in her hair. Finally she plonks down on the bench, scowling at Brody, who refuses to make eye contact.
Jada flips her perfect no-split-ends hair over one shoulder and glances at Ethan, who’s concentrating hard on his bowl of chili. Then she leans over the table and drops the ziti into Quinn’s Tupperware. “I think this is yours,” she says.
“Sorry,” Quinn murmurs. “It was an accident.”
“Did you say something? I can’t hear you.”
“I said it was an accident.”
“What?” Jada says distractedly, like Quinn is whispering from a distant galaxy.
Ethan puts down his spoon. “You heard her fine, Jada. She said it was an ac—”
“Oh, right, I’m sure.” Jada rolls her eyes. Then all of a sudden she notices I’m there. “Marigold,” she exclaims. “I told you I’d save a seat at my table. What are you doing with these total zeroes?”
“Eating a sandwich,” I answer. “It’s not bad, actually.”
She stares at me.
“Turkey,” I explain, and take a big bite.
Marshmallows
The second Jada starts walking away, Layla glares at Brody. “I hate you,” she hisses.
“Why?” he says, like he’s shocked. “What did I do?”
“Totally nothing. You just sat there. Quinn said something. Even Marigold got in her face.”
“No, I didn’t,” I say quickly.
Layla ignores me. “You know what, Brody? Don’t talk to me anymore.”
Then she gets up and bangs out of the lunchroom.
After lunch she cuts science, which is a stupid thing to do, because, of course, Mr. Hubley is the homeroom teacher, so he knows she isn’t absent. She shows up sixth period for math, but she spends the whole class with her head on her desk, not looking at Brody, who keeps trying to tell her obnoxious jokes, not talking to anybody, not even Quinn. All afternoon long, I can tell Ashley and Megan are buzzing around repeating everything that happened at lunch, as if the whole grade wasn’t there and anybody needed an instant replay. But at least the day passes without any more drama. And as soon as the bell rings for dismissal, I grab my jacket and race out of the building.
But I don’t get very far. Because the first thing I see when I step out the door is Beezer, whose leash is tied to the flagpole.
Immediately he starts barking at me like his tail is on fire. I run over, stroke his bristly fur, repeat his name a million times, but nothing works. He’s barking louder now, and I’m starting to panic. How long has he been here? Why is he here? And where exactly is Mom?
Then I notice a yellow index card duct-taped to the flagpole:
Hi, my name is Beezer. I’m a
friendly beagle, with a fascinating
story about how I lost my ear.
I’ll tell it to you sometime,
if you ask politely.
I’m here with Becca Bailey, mom
of Marigold (7th grade). Becca’s
inside, chatting with Mr. Shamsky.
She’ll be out in a few minutes,
but if I seem unhappy, please
bring me into his office.
Thanks. You’re a pal.
Wags.
Okay, I decide. Mom is certifiable. This clinches it.
So of course I untie him. He gives me a dopey I love you look and starts slobbering all over my knee. A bus pulls up to the front of the school and kids are starting to trickle out of the building now, so I rip the index card off the flagpole, flip it over, and write, HI MOM, TOOK BEEZER, M. I duct-tape it back to the pole, yank Beezer’s leash, and we’re off.
I’m about a block from school when I hear someone yelling, “Marigold! Hey, wait up.”
I turn around: It’s Ethan. He isn’t with Brody and he’s actually running toward me.
I sneak a pat-down of my hair, just to make sure I don’t have zombie-static again, and do a casual smile, like, Fancy meeting you here. Then I realize the word “fancy” sounds too much like Kennedy’s prairie-talk, so I stop smiling and put on an Oh hi, it’s you sort of expression.
As soon as he catches up to me, he says, “Nice dog,” and pets Beezer’s head with a snowy glove.
“He isn’t mine,” I blurt out.
“Oh, yeah?”
“We’re just . . . friends.” But of course that sounds idiotic, and it doesn’t explain where Beezer was all day, or how he showed up at dismissal with his leash. So I confess about Mom’s note, how I have no idea what’s going on. Ethan listens and nods like, Yeah, people’s moms tie one-eared dogs they don’t own to school flagpoles all the time around here. Then we watch Beezer pee on a tree trunk.
“So,” he says, once we start walking again. “What do you think about Crampton?”
“It’s . . . interesting,” I say carefully.
“It’s weird. It wasn’t always weird. Just this year.”
I yank on Beezer, who’s sniffing someone’s mailbox. “What’s so special about seventh grade?”
“I don’t know. Everyone’s crazy all the time. Fighting over the stupidest things.” I watch him pack a perfect snowball. “Like at lunch today.”
He tosses the snowball into the street, a far throw that just misses a dented-up minivan.
“Um,” I say. “Speaking of lunch. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why was Jada so mad? I mean, it wasn’t even a food fight. It was just one piece of ziti. And it didn’t even hit her.”
“Yeah, well.” He packs another snowball, which he lobs in front of Beezer. “Jada’s kind of paranoid lately. She’s always been, like, Boss Girl around here, and she thinks somebody turned on her.”
“You mean Quinn?”
He looks at me. “Who told you that?”
“Jada, actually. Before morning homeroom.” Ethan raises his eyebrows, and for some strange reason, even though I’ve been avoiding information all day, I decide to keep going. “So what happened?”
“Hey, this is girl stuff. I don’t know all the details.”
We’re at a crosswalk and cars are coming, so he stops to scratch Beezer’s one ear. Then suddenly he says, “All I heard was that Jada’s parents were fighting really bad. Not like, call-the-police bad, but totally screaming at each other. And Jada freaked out, so she called Quinn—”
“Why would she?”
“Why wouldn’t she? They’ve known each other since preschool. We all do, basically. You know, small town.”
I nod. Because I know all about small towns.
“And she made Quinn swear not to tell anyone. Jada’s mom is PTA head, and Jada didn’t want any gossip. But Quinn was upset, I guess, and her mom forced it out of her.”
I keep nodding.
“Yeah,” Ethan says. “And then Quinn’s mom told Brody’s mom, who, you know.” He kicks some ice. “I mean, she’s a nice lady and everything, but she talks a lot. So pretty soon . . . well, you get the picture, right?”
“Right,” I say. I stop nodding, though, because I’m afraid my head will fall off.
“Anyway, Jada’s furious. She feels like her whole family’s been outed, and it’s all Quinn’s fault.”
I process this. It’s funny to think I kind of understand Jada, but with everything I’ve been through lately, I have to admit I do.
I also process the fact that it’s starting to snow again, big wet lazy flakes that are probably sticking to my head. I swipe them away, hoping my hair doesn’t go all zombified. “But why is she mad at Layla?”
“Who knows. Layla’s really warped this year. Nobody likes her except Quinn, anyway.”
“And Brody.”
“Hey, don’t ask me to explain that.”
“I’m not.”
Ethan shrugs. “Anyway. That was pretty cool how you stood up to Jada at lunch.”
“What? No, I didn’t.”
“She thinks you did.”
“But all I said was—”
“You didn’t follow her back to her table. She expects that.” He’s looking at me with warm brown eyes. Cocoa-warm. And he has snowflakes on his lashes, which look like teeny-tiny marshmallows. And maybe his golden freckles are like dots of cinnamon—
Uh-oh, next thing you know, I’ll be slobbering like Beezer. “So you think Jada’s mad at me?”
“Well, sure,” Ethan says, smiling a little. “You showed her up in public. And you were sitting with her archenemies. And also . . .” Now he’s blushing. At least I think he is; it could just be frostbite.
“Also what?”
He kicks more ice. “Well, there was this stupid Valentine’s Day dance-thing at school a couple of weeks ago. We were taking the same bus, and she asked me if I wanted to go with her, and I basically said no way.”
“Oh.” Now it’s me who’s blushing.
“It’s probably not that big a deal, but you never know.”
We walk a little bit more, and I can tell he’s finished with the topic of Jada. Which is a relief, because the truth is, if I hear any more, I’ll start feeling sorry for her. He turned her down on the bus? That’s almost as humiliating as your mom having a “public meltdown.”
Okay, not really. I guess on the Scale of Humiliations, nothing even comes close to Nu-Trisha.
Finally he stops in front of a small white house with a wooden porch all cluttered with snow shovels and beat-up-looking sleds and boots. “So here’s where I live.”
“Bye,” I say quickly. “Thanks for . . . the walk.”
“Yeah, you too.” He reaches down and gives Beezer one last pet on the head. Then he looks up at me. “See you tomorrow, Marigold,” he says softly, blinking the mini-marshmallows off his eyelashes.
Swish, Swish
Beezer and I run the rest of the way home. That conversation with Ethan has my brain swirling like a snow globe, and I know that the only way to settle the snowflakes is by chatting online with Emma. As soon as humanly possible.
The second I kick off my boots at the door, Kennedy informs me that Gram’s cookies arrived, and also my new bag of scraps, and that there’s a note from Mom on the fridge. So I turn on my computer, go to the kitchenette, grab two giant oatmeal cookies from a shoebox Gram lined with aluminum foil, and toss the bigger one to Beezer. Then I read:
Beloved daughters,
I’m meeting Mari’s principal,
afterward straight to theater
workshop. Don’t worry, I’ve got
Beezer. Call my cell if you need
me. See you at dinner (fish).
Kisses,
Mom
P.S. Save some cookies
for me!!!
“Why is Mom meeting your principal?” Kennedy is asking, her eyes popping behind her glasses. “Are you in trouble?”
“Not with him.”
She makes a fish-mouth. “So then why is she—?”
“Kennie,” I say. “You’re asking me?”
I take another cookie and go off to IM Emma, but she isn’t logged on, probably because she’s at soccer or that Anime Club or something. So I open Gram’s mailer. I don’t know how she comes up with all this fabric, but this time it’s a bunch of pastel-plaid flannel squares, skinny strips of fruit-colored silk, and curvy shapes of iridescent green, like mutant mermaid’s fins. They’re fantastically weird and random, really perfect for my Thing, but right now I’m so jumpy that if I try to sew, I’ll probably just prick my fingers. So to kill time I start my homework, every ten minutes or so checking to see if Emma’s online. But she never is.
At seven thirty Mom bursts in the door with an extra-large box of pizza.
“Hurry, girls, supper!” she shouts. “Big exciting news.”
“Beezer’s fine,” I answer. “In case you were wondering. He’s in his crate.”
She puts the pizza box on the table
and tosses her jacket and her rainbow Sherpa hat on the sofa. “Thanks, Mari, I saw your note on the flagpole. Although you could have just brought him into Bob’s office.”
“Whose office?”
“Bob’s. Mr. Shamsky’s. Ack, what an endless workshop. All my students were just so tight. I think it’s the weather.”
I look at Kennedy, who shrugs back. We both know that there’s no point trying to force anything out of Mom; she’ll tell us her “big exciting news” at the perfect dramatic moment. So I don’t even ask anything the whole time we’re setting the table, and choosing our slices, and Mom is blotting her pizza grease with a napkin.
Finally she takes a huge messy bite and fans her hand in front of her mouth, miming hot. “Yum,” she says. “Extra-cheesy. So tell me everything. Did you return those horrible clothes to the nurse, Mari? Did she say anything about the material?”
“Nope.”
“Well, good. I told you walking off the soap would help.”
“Uh-huh.” Then I just lose it. “Mom, will you please tell us what’s going on?”
She looks at me like, You’ve been my daughter for thirteen years now, Marigold. Do you really not understand how I work? But I think she can tell I’m not in the mood for a performance, so she takes another extra-cheesy bite, puts down her slice, and wipes her mouth.
“All right, fine,” she says. “It all started this morning, Mari, when we were talking about Emma. Afterward I did some good hard thinking, and here’s what I realized: The reason we didn’t stand a chance in Aldentown was that Trisha Hartley was part of the community and I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were,” Kennedy says loyally. “You taught classes—”
“No, angel, I stood apart from people. As an Artist. I guess I thought it kept me pure.” She looks at her hands, stretches her fingers, and sighs. “And what happened was, when I performed Nu-Trisha, people had no idea what I was about. I mean, they knew who I was, they had a basic idea of what I did, but they didn’t know me as a person. But they knew Emma’s mom, so when she went all over town bad-mouthing me, calling me a terrible mother and whatever other nasty lie she could think of, everyone naturally took her side.”
