I’m going out of business!
Everything Everybody must go! Instead of slashing prices, I’m slashing names!
Madison Done with her.
Sophie SO done with her.
Harry Done with me.
Jasmine Done for.
Izzy …
My pen hovers over the page. I don’t want to slash Izzy. She’s the only person I’d make an exception for, the only one I don’t want to let down. And it’s not because I’m lonely and I want her to like me (okay, it’s not just because I’m lonely and I want her to like me). It’s because I honestly like her. And I’m pretty sure she likes me, too. Yesterday as we walked to the bus, she decided my nickname should be “Champ,” and everytime she saw me today, no matter who she was with, she yelled, “What’s up, Champ!”
Anyway, I think I can afford this one exception. Izzy and I operate outside school hours, so Schellestede won’t find out, and our deal only lasts for two more days.
Izzy stays.
Is that really the end of my list? Usually it’s longer, but there’s been no new business this past week. I made myself so scarce, people could hardly find me to ask for favors. Taye’s been dogging my every move for two days and he still hasn’t caught me. Maybe now that Schellestede has shut me down, and I officially can’t say yes to anybody’s requests, I can start eating lunch in the cafeteria again. Too bad nobody there wants to eat with me. Not even Harry.
My phone chimes with a text from Mabey: need ur help cover 4 me
I want to laugh at the timing. Just as I’m shutting down Glad’s Help Desk, Mabey asks for help.
Another few texts come in:
Im gonna b a little late tonight
Tell Dad Nomi’s car died
Waiting 4 tow truck or sumthing
I hit her back:
Then I erase the conversation.
It’s a good thing Mabey texted when she did, because I hear Dad come through the door and yell hello to Baxter and Agnes. I take a minute before I go downstairs to greet him, so I can imagine the scene I’m about to set. I need to be able to picture it: Mabey and Nomi in Nomi’s car (but Nomi doesn’t have her license), on their way back from some innocent outing (like what?), when the car sputters and dies (in the middle of the road, or were they able to pull over?).
Mabey didn’t give me a lot to work with here.
I leave my room and go downstairs to the kitchen, where Dad has unloaded tonight’s takeout: rotisserie chicken with broccoli and mashed potatoes on the side. Agnes is trying to convince Baxter to stay for dinner—“We can play more dominoes!” she enthuses—while Baxter insists he couldn’t possibly—“Sorry, I’ve just got so much, uh, work to catch up on.”
“Hey, BunBun,” Dad says. He corrals me and kisses my head.
I crack the top off the plastic tub of mashed potatoes and lick the underside. “Hey, DadDad.”
“Use a spoon and a plate!” he admonishes, so I take a plate from the cupboard and a spoon from the drawer. It’s always rules, rules, rules with Dad.
Agnes hugs one of Baxter’s sequoia-tree legs in an effort to make him stay, but he manages to struggle free, say his goodbyes, and make his exit.
“See you tomorrow, Bax,” says Dad. He leans into the hall and calls upstairs: “Mabes Babes! Dinner!”
Okay, that’s my cue. Time for me to shine. I say, as casually as I can, “Oh, Mabey called and said she’s gonna be late. Nomi’s car broke down.”
Apparently I did not say it casually enough. Dad stops hacking at the chicken with a greasy knife and looks at me skeptically. “What? Why is she driving around with Nomi? Why didn’t she call me instead of calling you?”
Seriously! And why didn’t she think of a better story? I put my best spin on it. “Nomi’s mom was driving them to look at prom dresses. And she didn’t call me, she called the home phone. I guess she thought you would be home by now.”
Bingo. Dad gets a guilty look on his face. He knows he should have been home an hour ago. We hate it when he works late, and we tell him that all the time. Plus, the mention of prom dresses reminds him that Mabey needs a mom-type person to do mom-type things with, and our mom isn’t here. Dad wouldn’t want Mabey to be deprived of some maternal dress shopping, would he?
It’s almost a shame I’m retiring.
When Mabey comes home about a half hour later, Dad and I are watching TV in the living room. “Sorry I’m late.” She sighs. “I called and talked to Glad, did she tell you?”
“She did.” Dad says. “Thanks. How was dress shopping? Did you see anything you liked for prom?”
Mabey picks up on this cue like the experienced faker she is. “Everything was ugly. And expensive. It’s just junior prom, anyway. I’m probably not even going to go.” She starts up the stairs toward her room.
“You sure?” asks Dad. “We could go shopping this weekend—”
“UUUUUUGGGHHHH.” The sound of her groan trails off as she climbs.
Dad’s expression deflates. “Well,” he says. “I tried.”
“You want me to talk to Mabes?” I offer.
Dad gives me a sad smile. “You’re such a good kid, BunBun.” Not an answer to my question, but okay. “You’re always trying to help out.”
The way I glowed all those years ago, when Mom told me about my amazing imagination—that’s how I glow from Dad’s praise. I’m not as smart as Agnes, but I’m a great helper. I picture Dad walking next to Gloria Nelson at the mall, saying, Gladdy’s such a good kid. She’s always trying to help out.
Do you hear that, Ms. Schellestede?
28
Thursday Morning
Izzy’s a no-show this morning.
She’s supposed to show up by 7:45 a.m. I text her at 7:50 a.m. to see where she is, but she doesn’t text back. I text her a few more times with rising impatience while Dad, Agnes, and Mabey all get ready and leave for the day. I wait for Izzy to show up until the very last minute, but then I have to run for the bus. Izzy’s not there at the stop, and she doesn’t get on at the stop near her house.
We’re pulling up to school when I finally get a text from her: mm at dugout EMERGENCY.
It takes two minutes for me to trot over past the bleachers to the dugout. Hiding in a corner is Princess Izzy, wearing a peach blouse, a pink skirt, and a frozen grimace of horror. She doesn’t even have her cloak to shield her.
“What happened?”
Izzy can barely talk, she’s so traumatized. “My grandma drove me to school today. She’s leaving on Saturday, so she wants to use every second to tell me how to live my life. I couldn’t even text you back, she was in my face the whole time. I tricked her into dropping me off out here, so I don’t think anybody saw me, but…” She indicates her outfit. “What am I gonna do?”
I’m thinking the same thing: What am I going to do? I can’t run to Izzy’s locker and get her clothes and come back—once you’re in those doors, you don’t get to leave until 2:45 p.m. And I can’t trade clothes with her—she’s two inches taller and more mature than me. Looks like she might have to spend the day hiding in the dugout like a delinquent.
Then I notice the first-aid kit on the wall.
“We’re going to have to work with what we’ve got,” I say as I open the kit. “But that means ruining these clothes.”
Izzy nods. “Let’s do it.”
“You’re going to get in trouble,” I warn her.
“Oh, yeah,” she agrees. “But whatever. My grandma’s going to have to deal with it sooner or later. I’m done hiding how I look.”
“Okay. Let’s start with these puffy sleeves.” I take the scissors from the kit and start chopping the sleeves off her blouse. It feels like I’m committing a crime, destroying a perfectly good shirt—I have this crazy, reckless feeling that makes me giggle maniacally. Izzy starts giggling, too, but I make her stop so I don’t cut either of us accidentally.
I stand back to judge my work. The blouse is still peach, but it’s sleeveless and ragged
at the edges, so that’s an improvement.
“Now the skirt.” I kneel before her and cut a six-inch slit up the front, then I do the same to the back. “Adhesive tape,” I command, and she hands it to me like a nurse in the operating room. I tape the former skirt to form “shorts,” then I bind it to her body with tape and Ace bandages. She looks like a wrestler who couldn’t afford real spandex.
“What about the shoes?” she asks. I look down at a pair of pink flats with bows on them. Impossible to fix; must be neutralized.
“What size are you?”
“Five.”
“Trade.” I take off my sneakers and put on her flats. They clash with my green socks, but whatever, they fit.
“How is it?” Izzy asks. “Still girly? It’s the orange shirt, isn’t it. Maybe if I rub dirt on it … or…” She looks around frantically, and her eyes land on the scissors I left on the bench. “I’m going to catch hell for ruining my clothes. Might as well go all the way.”
Izzy grabs the scissors and a handful of her hair and hacks off a big chunk right in the front. My mouth falls open.
She grins, swinging one leg over the bench to seat herself. “Here,” she says, handing me the scissors. “Take over.”
We don’t have much time. I start chopping as fast as I can, but these are not hair-cutting scissors. “All the way,” she instructs me. “Short as possible.”
I give it a few snips, and then we really have to go inside. The last thing I want is for Schellestede to see me coming in late with Izzy.
“Now how do I look?” she asks.
Izzy stands before me in a ripped, sleeveless blouse, some bizarre fabric-and-tape garment on her legs, and my sneakers. She looks like she got her head stuck in a fan. “Honestly? Really bad.”
“Good.”
Heads turn and conversations cease as we walk toward school, but Izzy holds her partially shorn head high. “See ya second period,” she says, then peels off to greet her soccer friends, who are pointing and gasping with laughter. “Hey, jackweeds, what’s so funny?”
Izzy’s outfit keeps them laughing all morning. The teachers are baffled. According to the dress code, her blouse isn’t too low-cut, there are no drug or sex references on her garments, and no stomach or underwear is visible. But even after she throws on her soccer shorts (the adhesive tape was failing), she’s definitely breaking the “no clothes that are distracting to other students” rule. And she’s loving it.
You’d think Schellestede would send a note to Izzy’s homeroom and give her a lecture. But Schellestede is not heard from at all. Even as the herd mass-migrates toward the lunchroom, there’s no sign of her. Her office door stays closed.
I’m about to skip lunch and go hide somewhere when Izzy grabs me and pulls me into the cafeteria with her. “Glad!” she hoots. “Hey, Champ! Everybody wants an outfit like mine! You gotta come sit with us!”
She starts steering me toward her table, where Taye and Jackson and Liz Kotlinski are assembling. Meanwhile, Sophie’s waving at me from her table, wearing a sunny smile. The only clue that everything’s not totally fine and normal is the deep crease between her eyebrows. It’s like that one part of her face is thirty years older than the rest of her.
Over in the corner, Harry’s sitting alone with his sardines. The eighth-grade sharks are circling, and Schellestede’s not here to provide even a thin layer of protection.
“I’m gonna sit with Harry,” I decide. Even if he doesn’t want me to.
“Okay,” Izzy says easily, changing direction to stick with me. She yells toward her table, “See you, jackweeds!”
I’m aware of being the center of attention as we head to Harry’s table. Izzy’s used to it, but I’m not—people turning and looking and whispering to one another. I like to be the observer, not the observed. Meanwhile, Izzy’s so happy, I think she might start dressing like this every day.
“Hey,” I say, sitting down in the chair across from Harry. Izzy sits next to me.
Harry wants to stay mad at me, but nobody can look at Izzy and be anything but wildly entertained. “Why…?” he begins. Too many questions occur to him at once. “Just why?”
“You don’t like it?” Izzy pretends to be wounded. “Glad’s the one who did my hair.”
Harry cracks an involuntary smile. “It’s … unique.”
“Hey, you’re, like, a science person,” Izzy realizes. “Do you know about spontaneous combustion? I picked it as my report topic, but I haven’t started yet.”
“Well, I know it’s not real, according to researchers. People don’t just blow up while walking down the street…”
The three of us go on to have a delightful conversation about arson, tire fires, and how the fat in a human body produces a “candle effect” when burned. People keep coming up to talk to Izzy, and she keeps shooing them away, entranced by Harry’s description of what happens when you get hit by lightning. “So, wait, your shoes literally get blown apart from the steam of your body? And your watch gets superheated and melts into your arm?”
“Basically, anything metal on your body…”
I notice that Declan the burnout keeps walking by our table, waiting for us to leave so he can harass Harry. When he circles back for a third pass, Izzy stands up and blocks his path. Her ragged spikes of hair and the expression on her face make her look like a postapocalyptic warrior queen. “What do you want, jackweed?”
“Nothing,” says Declan, moving on.
“That’s right.” Izzy sits down again and picks up the conversation with Harry. “Anyway, so anything metal on your body is going to melt?”
“Yep. Even the rivets on your jeans.”
Izzy’s jaw hangs open. “They actually, like, super-melt through your skin?”
Speaking of super-melt, I feel two sizzling spots on my back. When I turn around, Schellestede is standing there, arms folded. She looks at Izzy, noting the hacked-off hair and the ripped, dirty blouse. Then she turns to me, noting the incredibly busted look on my face. Obviously, there’s something fishy going on here. Obviously, I am involved.
“So, ladies.” Schellestede gives us her iciest smile and pins us both with the Stare. “Why don’t the two of you come to my office and explain what’s going on here.”
29
Thursday After School
I am walking toward my doom.
Actually, I’m walking toward my bus. But since the bus will bring me home, and Dad texted to say that he’ll be there to discuss the call he received from Ms. Schellestede today, it’s basically the same thing.
In working on my own case, I’ve come up with several key points I want to emphasize:
1. I didn’t do anything wrong.
2. None of this was my idea.
3. People asked me to help them.
4. Didn’t Dad tell me last night that I’m a good kid for trying to help people?
5. All I did was text one girl and cut another girl’s hair!
6. What’s so terrible about that?
7. It’s not like anybody got hurt! Everything is fine!
8. Why is everybody making such a big deal out of this?
9. Yes, Dad, I do understand the epic lecture you’ve just given me about rules, laws, and the social contract between all citizens. In the future, I will consider the consequences of my actions and will refrain from violating any more stupid, nonexistent school rules about I don’t even know what, because …
10. I didn’t do anything wrong!
This should go well.
Strangely, when I pass by Madison and her friends, she looks nervous. No victorious smirk today, even though she must know that I was just in Schellestede’s office, for the second day in a row, where I was sentenced to detention for a week. Madison won, I lost. You’d think she’d be jumping for joy.
Then I remembered what Izzy said: They’re scared of you. No wonder Madison looks terrified. She knows it was a bad move to tell on me. Now that I’m
out of the fixing game, I don’t need to keep people’s secrets. There’s no more “I know nothing, I remember nothing, and I delete everything” guarantee. I could go up to her friends right now and tell them the true story of James the Dead Canadian Boyfriend.
Actually … I do have a minute before I need to board the bus. I change course and veer toward their cluster. Now I’m the one with the victorious smirk.
Madison’s two closest friends, Violet and Vanessa, have their backs to me, so they don’t see me approach. “We knew he was fake the whole time,” Violet is saying to Madison.
Vanessa laughs. “I mean, do you think we’re that stupid, that we would believe you? That’s hilarious.” She and Violet shake their heads, incredulous.
Violet puts on a concerned voice. “You know, you need professional help. It’s not funny anymore. You’re seriously warped.”
Vanessa just sounds disgusted. “Like, at least get meds or something.”
Madison stares at the ground like she’s shutting everything out. She seems to have plenty of practice at it. I never paid that much attention to their little group, but now that I think about it, Violet and Vanessa do kind of kick Madison around a lot. Sometimes at lunch I’ll see Madison sitting alone, in exile from their table; then the next day, they’re all sitting together again. I would rather have no friends than friends like that.
No wonder Madison wants to live in a fantasy world.
I didn’t used to have an opinion on Violet and Vanessa, but from right now until forever I HATE THEM. I was supposed to be the one making Madison feel like crap, but they got there first. And now they’re actually making me feel sympathy for Madison. Madison! Who got me in trouble! On purpose! It is so unfair that I am feeling sorry for her at this moment, and it’s all their fault.
I turn away without interrupting them, grumbling the whole time. Too late, I see Sophie in pursuit.
Let Me Fix That for You Page 11
