Class Favorite (2 page)

When the bell rang, Arlene bulldozed over people to get to my desk.

“Do you think it's flowers?” she shrieked, her blue eyes staring down at the pink office slip.

“I don't know,” I said. I watched over her shoulder as beautiful, gorgeous, lovely Jason left. “I have no idea who would have sent them.”

“Well, come on. Let's find out.” Arlene pushed her way through the crowded halls, dragging me through the herd of students like a little sister being marched to Mom for punishment. “'Scuse us,” she said, pulling at my wrist as we came to
the main hall, filled with trophy display cases and the 1989 Ball that won us our one and only state basketball championship. “Sorry, excuse me. Hi, Lindsay. Watch it, Shiner! Jerk! Excuse us, please. Oh, hey, Gerald.”

I could smell the roses before we had even rounded the corner to the office. The front office literally looked like a florist's shop—it was absolutely stuffed with red and pink roses, and one lone bouquet of white roses with red tips.

“Oh, my God, look at all these.” Arlene gasped.

“Dang. Think they're all from your mom's shop?” I asked as we pushed through the glass door.

“They sure don't look like they're from Kroger's,” she said.

I quickly scanned the office, trying to pick out which bouquet might be mine. I tried real hard not to let myself think for even a second that they might be from some guy besides my dad—tried, but failed. I had a quick, unbelievable thought that this was Jason's way of telling me he's loved me since that day in third-grade recess when I accidentally stepped on his fingers on the jungle gym. After that, I knew I was only in for disappointment. What could top declaration-of-love flowers from Jason Andersen?

As Arlene scrambled around me to get a whiff, Mrs. Nicholson looked around her monitor, her chin jiggling in rhythm to the chains on her half-moon eyeglasses.

“Yes, girls?”

“She got a note,” Arlene said, jerking her thumb in my direction.

Mrs. Nicholson, totally unimpressed, pointed her pen to the white flowers with red tips behind us. “Take the card, leave the flowers. You can pick them up after school.”

“Oh, my God, you're so lucky!” Arlene sighed. “Look at these! They're so pretty. Who do you think they're from? Quick, here's the card.” She plucked the little white, blank envelope from the baby's breath and quickly reached inside for the card.

“Here, give it to me.” I snatched it away from her.

“Who's it from?” Arlene panted. I turned away as I pulled out the tiny card, because I had this really strong feeling that whatever was written there was going to change my little world. I rarely spoke to guys—I was hardly a master of seduction—but now I was getting a dozen white roses with gorgeous red tips. How could that not be something big?

When I turned my back to Arlene, I noticed someone sitting in the chair by the door, just across from my roses. She had ink-black hair set in a high ponytail, like a geyser of oil bursting out of the rubber band; she sat up straight, her hands gripping the sides of her chair and her crossed leg swinging nervously. I didn't know every kid at school, but I at least recognized them all; we rarely get any new kids in Ladel, and not in the middle of the school year, especially on a Friday, so I automatically wondered what her story was.

“Well?” Arlene shook my arm. She looked like she was about to bounce out of her well-worn Reeboks. “What does it say?”

The girl looked at me, and a soft smile spread across her shiny peach-colored lips. “Doesn't it feel good to be noticed?”

Arlene gave her a little, “Uh,” her mouth dropping open. Arlene packs a lot into her one-syllable responses, and I knew this one meant,
Do you mind? We're in the middle of something important and totally private
. Besides, I wasn't so sure I agreed with the girl. I definitely hadn't wanted to be noticed that day last week when I slipped down the stairs on my way to class, landing so hard on my tailbone, I was afraid I'd broken it. I had wanted to rub my bum, but I bounced right back up, scooped up my books, and hollered to no one in particular, “See y'all next fall!”

I looked back at the card. As I read the few words, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks—and not in that girly, excited sort of way.

“So?” Arlene begged. “Who's it from?”

I shoved the card into the front pocket of my jeans, my hands already sweating as my mind raced on how to make this go away and wondering why,
why
, was this happening to me. Right then it absolutely did
not
feel good to be noticed. Nu-uh. Not at all.

“Nobody,” I stumbled, “just . . . somebody.” I glanced up at Mrs. Nicholson, and I swore she was looking at me funny—a bit of a smirk on her face. God, I thought. The envelope hadn't been sealed. She read it . . .
she knows
.

“What does that mean?” Arlene demanded as she followed me out of the office.

“Did you have to be rude to that girl?” I asked, wondering if I could transfer schools this late in the year.

“That's such crap, Sara. Why won't you tell me? I swear I won't tell
anyone
.”

“Right,” I said, twisting the combination on my locker. “Kind of like how you swore you wouldn't tell my sister what happened during basketball tryouts?” I had tried to go big by chucking the ball from the three-point line. I ended up decking Coach Swathmore in the face, breaking her nose. I was asked to leave the gym as quickly as her blood spilled to the court.

“Please! It was
funny
, and she would have found out, anyway. Elisabeth knows all the coaches here, and you said she talks to Coach Eckels, like, weekly. I saw her stop by just last week.”

It was true. Coach Eckels had coached Elisabeth in cross-country when she was here at Bowie—he was the junior high's head coach and took a big interest in running. Since Elisabeth was such a star, he had given her extra coaching when she was here two years ago.

“Like I wanted everyone to know about that, much less
her
,” I continued, trying to push the horror of the tiny card out of my mind. “Besides, I don't have to tell you everything, you know.”

Lately, I'd been getting agitated with Arlene. We've been
best friends since elementary school, but even though I still considered her
my
best friend, sometimes I wondered if I was still
her
best friend. To keep us connected after she started playing softball, we started a Golden Raspberry–movie tradition because we both secretly love movies that get horrible reviews, so we decided to embrace them. The Razzies are like the anti-Oscars—they're awards that movies and actors get for being the absolute worst. We watch them the first Saturday night of every month, except for that time in October that Arlene's softball team had some big team-bonding sleepover. I was mad about it, but I never told her. I didn't want to seem like a crybaby, but she had sacrificed
our
friendship bonding for her teammates. That stung.

I slapped my locker shut and started down the hall, trying to act normal when really I was dying of anger and embarrassment.

“You know, I could just ask my mom who sent them. I'm sure they came from her shop,” Arlene called out in a halfhearted threat.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound casual as I rounded the corner. “But you won't.”

I really, truly, sincerely hoped I was right.

 

I always thought that getting my period would herald my arrival as a woman. Along with the inconvenience of that monthly visitor, I'd also be rewarded with the perks:
My boobs and hips would suddenly fill out, my hair would be shinier, my voice would have a coquettish lilt, and all the guys would want me.

I was patient for this day to arrive—at first. When Becca Miller got her period in fifth grade, some girls teased her about it even though we were completely curious about what it felt like. In sixth grade I looked enviously at girls wearing kitten heels and showing off new belly button piercings—signs of womanhood, in my mind, not to mention things my mother would never let me wear. When Arlene discreetly got her period that year, I felt betrayed. Until then, we had done everything together—shaving our legs for the first time and flirting with boys at the same party (different guys!). I found out three months later, when she casually said, “I have
the worst
cramps.” When I asked why she hadn't told me, she said, “Gross, Sara. It's not the kind of thing you discuss,” even though she just had.

Suddenly we were entering junior high, where the girls wore makeup, shorter skirts, and kissed boys. Then there was me. I wasn't allowed to wear makeup yet, my legs were too scrawny to wear short skirts, I'd never had a boyfriend,
plus
I hadn't gotten my period yet. I felt like a fraud. It was not the image I had of starting junior high. Then, in October of our seventh-grade year, everyone had a date to the Fall Ball—including Arlene, even though we had sworn we'd turn
up our noses at the event to stay home and watch Razzies. When some random guy from the baseball team asked her to go, she acted all giddy about it, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting home alone watching
From Justin to Kelly
with no one to make sarcastic comments to.

It wasn't until this year, in eighth grade, that I finally got my period. Call it an early Valentine's gift. There was no joy in the big moment, only a feeling of
God, it's about freaking time
. I realized I looked no different from the day before, but I did feel different—as in yuckier.

 

“I can't believe you still won't tell me. What's the big secret?”

Arlene started in on me when we met outside the cafeteria. All the girls were talking excitedly about who had gotten flowers, who had sent them, and the bigger scandal of who
hadn't
received any. (Word was that Kayla Cane, who normally made sure she had a boyfriend around Valentine's Day, hadn't received any.) I had come up with a brilliant plan to handle the situation: I would ignore it and hope that it went away.

At the front of the lunch line, I pulled a five-dollar bill from my front pocket and felt the soft bits of the now-torn card. I had peeked at it in second period, just to make sure I had read it correctly.

YOU'VE FINALLY ENTERED WOMANHOOD,
AND I COULDN'T BE PROUDER.
CONGRATULATIONS . . . PERIOD!
LOVE, MOM

 

It was written in another woman's handwriting—Arlene's mom? She owned It's About Bloomin' Time, the one florist in Ladel, Texas. It proved that someone else, other than myself and my mother, knew about the flowers and my period.

This was all my sister's fault—she was the one who had told on me. Just as we were running out the door that morning, late already, Elisabeth had said, right in front of Mom, “Sara, did you tell Mom you finally got your period?”

“Elisabeth!”

“What? God, grow up already,” she said, like it was no big deal after all.

Mom had inhaled a little gasp and flashed a proud smile. “Sara, honey!” she said. “You finally got it!”

I grabbed a carton of nonfat milk at the front of the lunch line, took the change for my cheese enchilada lunch from Lunchlady Campbell, who, sorry, looks like a linebacker, and walked with Arlene to a table. Sometimes we sat by ourselves, and sometimes a few of her softball friends joined us. When they sat with us, all they talked about softball: the teams they were playing, who was hitting what average that season—in
other words, boring stuff. When they tried to include me in the conversation, it was, “Are you going to try out next season?” They were just making conversation, but it stunk because, as I had thoroughly demonstrated at more than one tryout, I had zero athletic coordination.

Arlene and I sat down, alone for now, thank God, until . . .

“Sara! I just saw my roses in the office and saw your name on the white ones. Who sent them? They're awesome.” Ellen Spitz had barely said a word to me until now. She plopped her beige lunch tray on our table and sat down across from me. She was the shortstop on Arlene's team, a member of FFA—the Future Farmers of America—and wore extra-heinous boots, jeans, and Garth Brooks–esque shirts. Every single day. That day, it was green Rocky Mountain jeans with purple Justin Ropers. I kid you not. And I thought my Old Navy clothes made me fashionably challenged.

I lifted my fork to my mouth, cheese and grease dripping from it, and delicately blew on the enchilada. My stomach was all cramped up—I couldn't tell if it was from period misery or the massive dread of my flower secret being revealed.

“She won't even tell
me
,” Arlene assured Ellen. “What's the big deal?” she asked, turning on me. “Why won't you tell us?”

“Hey, Sara,” said Shiner. He stood in the aisle next to our table, carrying two Cokes on his enchilada tray. He wore a Dallas Cowboys puffy jacket with shorts and a coral choker
he got in Tampa three summers ago and hadn't taken off since. “Nice flowers,
mamacita
.” He laughed his squawking laugh.
“Ha-ha-haaa!”

I fumed at Shiner for getting a thrill out of my pain
and
for mentioning anything mother related. To think that I had actually worried that it was just a “Hi! Miss you and love you” gift from the road from my dad. I wondered if he'd call to wish me a happy Valentine's Day.

Shiner got his nickname from the sixth-grade baseball guys. He had taken a baseball to his left eye three times throughout the season, leaving him with a black eye for two months. Nobody called him Jimmy—his real name—except the teachers, and I didn't even like looking at him since that night at the Fall Ball earlier this year.