Class Favorite (5 page)

I felt that, with each passing softball game, Arlene racked up more new friends. “Really, I can just talk to you tomorrow.”

“That's a red light!” Arlene called. “Oh, my God,” she said to me. “Betsy totally almost went through a red light. You're going to get us all killed!”

“Look, I have to ask you a really important question.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“You didn't tell anyone what I told you earlier, did you?”

“Tell anyone what?”

“You know,
what I told you
,” I emphasized.

“What, about your mom?”

“God, Arlene! Not in front of those girls.”

“Oh, they don't know what I'm talking about.” I heard one of the girls call, “What
are
you talking about?” Arlene hollered, “Nothing,” and they all started laughing again.

“You're sure? Because word got out, and you're the only one I told.” I knew there was an accusatory tone in my voice, but I was getting anxious, and she wasn't listening.

“By the way,” she began. “I had to head off a major rumor for you today.”

“Perfect,” I grumbled. “I don't need rumors. I already have gossip.”

“Ellen heard from someone that Shiner sent you those roses. Can you imagine? I knew you'd just die if anyone thought that for a moment, so I totally cleared it up.”

“Cleared it up? What does that mean?”

“She thought
Shiner
sent you the roses,” she repeated. The voices in the car were getting louder as the girls sang along to the radio.

“I heard you, Arlene. Who did you tell
what
?”

“Look, I can barely hear you, Sar. I'm sorry—I'll call you later, 'kay? Hello?”

I sat silently. I didn't expect Arlene to drop everything for me, but I wanted her to tell me that
heck no
she didn't tell anyone about the roses, and that she was sorry that Valentine's Day had turned out so rotten for me. To be honest, hearing her carefree laughter with a bunch of girls who weren't my friends made me jealous—jealous at her for having a fun day, jealous because she had more friends than me, and jealous that she had something to do on a Friday night that didn't involve me. I started to wonder about friendship, and how friends were supposed to comfort each other, be there for each other. I didn't feel like Arlene was doing that at all. She wasn't even thinking about how I felt. And the frightening truth was, she was the only person who knew why I got those roses. I rubbed my swollen eyes, holding back tears.

“Sara, you still there? I think I lost her,” she said to her friends, and then she hung up the phone.

4

Are you open to new friendships?

A new girl arrives in your civics class and asks you if she can sit with you at lunch. You:

a) ask her what type of clique she hung out in at her last school so you can fairly decide if she's a fit for your clique.

b) tell her of course she can sit with you, and you'll meet her at her locker and escort her to the cafeteria just to make sure she doesn't get lost.

c) tell her, “No habla English.” Why is that stranger talking to you?!

 

Like I said, Arlene and I have this ritual of watching Golden Raspberry movies every month where we get together, eat junk food, and watch the worst-of-the-worst movies, like
Battlefield Earth
and
Gigli
. We love cringing at the bad acting, dialogue, and general heinousness of these movies. They are
the type of movies that no one except your best friend would watch with you, and we both love it.

The Razzie “winners” of the year are announced the night before the Academy Awards. I always go to Arlene's house and we look up the winners online and immediately put the best of the worst at the top of our must-see list. The best/saddest is when one actor or actress is dishonored year after year. For example, Haden Prescott is a repeat offender—she's been dishonored three times in four years. At the rate she was going, reality game shows couldn't be far behind. But this year, something phenomenal happened. Haden Prescott was nominated for a Razzie
and
an Academy Award in the same year. It was unprecedented.

When I arrived at Arlene's on Saturday night, I felt uneasy about what Kirstie had told me, and even worse about calling Arlene to question her on how word got out about the roses. But when she told me the pizza was on its way, her computer was rolling (the ceremony only showed online), and her family was under explicit instructions not to bother us, I told myself not to worry or even think about what had happened at school yesterday. The worst was already over, and the rest would turn out to be nothing.

“What happened yesterday?” Arlene asked as soon as we were in her room. “We were talking and the next thing I knew, you were gone.”

“Oh,” I said. “I think your phone cut me off.” I hated lying to her, but I didn't want to relive the whole thing either. I wished I could travel back in time, like in Haden Prescott's movie
Not Again!
where she keeps living the same day over and over again (like
Groundhog Day
, but not funny). I would go to It's About Bloomin' Time and make sure the flowers were to be sent home and not to school. Then my life would be its usual, boring self.

“Did you hear me tell you that Ellen heard a rumor that Shiner sent you those flowers?”

“Yeah, I heard. Hey, you want to make bets on if Haden wins the Razzie? I'll give you odds,” I said, even though I had no idea what that meant—I'd just heard it from movies.

“With a title like
Demon's Lover
, I'd say she's got a pretty good chance.” In the comedy, Haden played the spawn of Satan who falls in love with a pastry chef and tries to save mankind.

“I know! We have to rent it immediately,” I said, happy that I had so easily turned the conversation away from the flowers.

“We'll get it before our next party, for sure,” Arlene said.

As we settled in for the evening—Arlene picked off half her pepperonis and I ate them, just like we always did—I almost did forget about the flowers and the fact that somehow word had gotten out. Even though she was the only person who knew why I got them, I told myself that if she had slipped and told someone, she would have told me. I shouldn't doubt
her. I shouldn't even question her—that would be borderline insulting, like I was questioning her friendship. Sure, she hadn't always been the greatest at keeping secrets, but with a juicy one this big, she wouldn't betray me.

When Haden Prescott won the worst actress Razzie, Arlene said, “Next stop, reality TV!”

I fell asleep that night thinking about Haden and wondering if she would win the Academy Award. She was a long shot—the other actresses she was up against had all been nominated before. But maybe, I thought, drifting off, maybe she would surprise us all.

The next day we about burned our eyes out watching all the preshow stuff. E! did a whole thing on the nominees, where they had started, the TV shows they'd done, the movies they'd made. Although they mentioned Haden's Razzie-nominated movies, they never once said the words
Golden Raspberry Award
.

“How could they not mention that?” I asked.

Arlene popped a cherry sour ball in her mouth and said, “'Cause.
These
awards are about respect. They wouldn't give the Razzies the satisfaction of mentioning them in the same breath as the Academy Awards.”

As pictures of Haden flashed on the screen, the voice-over said,
“She's struggled in Hollywood for years for the chance to be taken seriously as an actress, but with bit roles and question
a
ble movies, her
journey has been an uphill battle. But Haden has endured and, with
The Silent Widow,
has proven herself as worthy an actress as the other women in her category.”

The entertainment-news guy said to the camera: “Yes, we're certainly rooting for her to win, but the truth is, Haden Prescott is already a winner, just by being nominated. She's already landed roles in films from such directors as Nicolas Capicaccio and Stephen Allman. It seems that, as an actress, Ms. Prescott has finally come into her own.”

When the awards finally began, I rooted for Haden. She looked beautiful in her golden sequined gown, all poised and elegant. Nothing of the Satan-spawned hottie remained in the woman who sat in the plush red velvet seats of the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood.

“I can't believe she went from the D-list to an Academy Award nominee just like that.” I snapped my fingers for emphasis.

“I know,” Arlene said. “It just goes to show that any loser can turn it around. She went from reject to royalty in just a couple of months.”

Even though Haden didn't win, I still felt that what Arlene said was true: Anyone can turn it around. Just like that. Maybe even me.

 

As I walked through Bowie's front doors on Monday morning, I felt sick to my stomach, and it wasn't because of cramps,
which had mostly passed, thank goodness. I hoped with all hope that everyone would have forgotten about the flowers. I wasn't sure that I had the energy to keep dodging comments about who sent them or if I needed more feminine products. I tried to remember how I'd felt hanging out with Arlene all weekend—how tight our friendship was, and how what Kirstie heard didn't make sense.

Before first period, Kirstie appeared next to my locker as I spun the combination. “Why didn't you call me back?”

I put my messenger bag in my locker and took out my English book and notebook. With everyone who passed me—the halls were full of students—I hoped no one would say anything about Friday. Mom had assured me that morning over Apple Jacks that everyone would have forgotten the whole thing by today.

“Oh, hey. I was at Arlene's house. Remember? For the Academy Awards,” I said. There had been a message from Kirstie on my pillow when I got home late from Arlene's. I was surprised when I saw that she had called. I figured she'd have forgotten about me over the weekend. I felt like a little social butterfly, even, getting messages from one person while I was out with another. Sad, right?

“I remember. But you were there all night? Saturday and Sunday?” She squeezed her notebook to her chest, and the way her eyes pierced me made me nervous—like I was being questioned by the principal.

“No,” I said, wondering why she was questioning me like I'd done something wrong. “I just got home late. The awards ended at, like, eleven thirty.”

“Oh,” she said. “That's cool. Hey!” she said, brightening. “Can we meet before lunch? Friday I roamed the halls because I was afraid to go in and sit alone.”

“You did? Of course I'll meet you. Arlene and I usually meet in courtyard just outside the caf. Meet us there and we'll all go in together.”

As my morning classes went on, I had to think that maybe Mom had been right. Maybe everyone did forget about the roses. Still, I was on alert in case anyone tried any other pranks on me like Kirstie said she'd overheard. I couldn't help but think she was wrong about that. I don't think she was lying or anything, but she was brand-new here—how would she know who anyone was talking about? By lunch, I started to relax.

I introduced Kirstie to Arlene, and we went inside the caf and got in line. While Arlene was getting her food, Kirstie nudged me and said, “She looks familiar.” I didn't know what that meant or what to tell her, so I just shrugged my shoulders.

As I paid for the lasagna and “green” beans, Lunchlady Campbell smiled and said, “Oh, Sara! I saw your beautiful white roses in the office on Friday. You must have done something special to get such gorgeous flowers.”

At the day's first mention of the roses, I felt my shoulders sink. I looked straight through her thick glasses, circa before I was born, and said, “Yeah. I got my period.”

She gawked for a moment, gave a shifty smile, and handed me my change.