Confessions of a So-called Middle Child (16 page)

The Moment You're Never Going to Believe

When that final bell rang at two forty-five, the entire school poured into the upper yard and then into the room where Marta and Trixie were set to square off. But there was no Marta. A rumor was going around that she was just coming in for the competition, but I still had a bad feeling that something had gone wrong.

I opened the door and
man!
Talk about the need to reapply! It stank like a butcher shop on a hot day. Every seat was taken, of course; everyone was there for one reason: Marta's humiliation. Trix had spread the word. They were out for blood. That's what they did to me too—the whole school came to watch me get kicked out.

 

 

It all gave me a horrible bout of post-traumatic stress disorder, with a touch of nausea. I nearly sprained my ankle just trying to run over all those legs I saw. Bobby saw me coming. His mouth was full of Cheetos. Man, I loved Cheetos. “Marta's gonna lose. You know that, right?”

But I didn't care. “Have you seen her? Please tell me she came late—”

Bobby shook his head and stuck his orange fingers in his orange mouth. “Nope, haven't smelled her all day.”

“And that's a good thing,” his buddy Sam said, “because, no matter what she does, it ain't gonna be pretty.”

I looked at them, wondering how everyone just kept going along with the way things were when the way things were
sucked
. “And you think that's okay?”

Bobby shrugged. “It's just the way it is. Yo, Sam, you comin'? This is gonna be hys-ter-i-cal.” And they disappeared, laughing their heads off, into the overcrowded sweat hall.

I screamed after them, “Go, you dumb lambs!” The door closed, I watched from outside through the little square glass. I was so focused on searching for Marta, on willing her to arrive, that I didn't even notice when Trixie suddenly popped up at my side.

“That Roxy!” She shook her head slowly. “She is sooooo mad at you still, my goodness!” And then she rolled those baby blues like I'd seen her do way too many times. “I tried to tell her that you'd changed, that you were, well, normal, but Roxy would not have it.”

“Thanks,” I said, but I wanted to slap her.

She looked at me with suspicion. “What are you doing out here, Charlie?”

“Watching you win, of course!” I threw my hands in the air like a lame cheerleader. “Yeah!”

“Really?” She folded her arms. “'Cause to me it looks like you're waiting for Farta, which I can't imagine, because if you were a real friend, you wouldn't even be thinking of her. You'd be thinking of me.”

“Which I am.” I pointed to the door. “By making absolutely sure that Marta doesn't turn up, I
am
thinking of you, don't you see?”

“You know what?” Her face got all scrunched up like she was about to attack, but then the door flew open and Lillian grabbed Trixie's hand.

She was bouncing up and down. “Marta's missed her slot! You're up now,” Lillian said, beaming, “so don't blow it.”

I watched from outside as Trixie hopped out of her sparkly white-and-silver tracksuit. I spotted Felix in the crowd, but not Pen. I wondered where she was, why she wasn't at the school's biggest day of the year. Trixie stood on the mat, raised her hands high in the air, and then, like a bullet, took off running. It was the same routine she'd been practicing every day; and she'd gotten it down to a science, no mistakes, but she kinda looked like a possessed robot. Even I knew that no matter how hard she wanted it, she didn't have what it took to be great. The dumb crowd roared anyway. Did they even know the difference? Did they care? Nah.

Lillian came out, picked up the microphone, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, a nearly perfect routine. She already looks like part of the team. And so cute too, don't you think?”

The crowd chanted, “Trixie! Trixie!” And Trixie soaked it up like a dry sponge.

I wanted to cry. The injustice just pissed me off so much, you have no idea. Dang it, Marta! Where the heck were you?! What could have kept you from this? I ran to the parking lot, looking down the street toward the lower yard. Nowhere. I ran back just in time to see Lillian on the microphone again (boy, did she love that microphone). I ran inside the gym.

“Well, the clocks are ticking. We've got about fifteen more minutes”—she batted her silver lashes, letting the room fill with whistles and cheers—“before we can announce our winner.” She glanced at Trixie. They shared a smile.

When Trixie saw me, she came running over. “Did you see, did you see me?”

“You were great,” I said, and then I realized that Babs was gone. In fact, Babs had been gone for a while. “Where's Babs?”

Trixie hugged me with her little, twisted bird arms and put her lips up against my ear. “We took care of it.”

I froze. “What do you mean?”

“It's done,” she said. “As the French say, a fait accompli.”

“Where is she, Trixie?” I asked with a deadly calm.

She shrugged, looking up at the classrooms that lined the upper yard. “It's so easy to get lost here, in this place”—she smiled—“when you're not from here.”

I took off running.

“Where are you going?” She laughed at me, but I did not care. I was at a serious disadvantage; I did not know this place at all. I ran upstairs to the third floor, where there were only two classrooms open. I'd heard Mr. Lawson say they locked this floor half the time—if I were hiding something, I'd hide it here. The halls were dark, and super creepy without kids. “Marta!” I screamed into one room, then another. In the bathroom, the hall closet, the cleaning closet:

“Marta!

“Marta!

“Marta!”

I hopped the stairs to one level down and crossed the bridge into the high school area of the campus, another great place to stash someone. I hit the top floor and ran, screaming “Marta!” up and down the empty hallways. I yanked doors open, calling her name each time. I was running out of breath and out of time. Soon Trixie would just ease in and take her spot.

I dropped down a floor and checked each and every room, listening for strange noises. “Marta!” I yelled, and then stopped to listen closely. “Where are you?!” I grabbed my hair, wishing I could yank it all off, about ready to give up, when a door opened, and I saw Pen. My Pen. “Pen!”

She came over quickly. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Marta.” I tried to catch my breath. “I think they did something with her, put her somewhere—”

Pen looked horrified. “You really think Trixie would do that?”

“The stakes are high,” I said. “Too high. We're talking real-world stuff.”

Pen looked around, paced in a tight circle. I could tell that her brain was working, and when her brain was working, she almost always got the right answer.

“Well, there's a giant art room that only the teachers know about, and me, because I'm spearheading an art program for kids with anger problems. You should try it—”

“Stop, all right!” I shook my head. “There's no way they're gonna stash her in the—”

“You're not listening to me.” Pen shook my shoulders. “In the
always
empty unused parking lot?”

“What?” And then it hit me. The commotion earlier, and the look on Trixie's face. Could Babs have been pointing at Marta coming up the road from the bus stop? Did they get her to go into the art room somehow and then just lock the door on her?

Pen nodded as though reading my mind. “Soundproof, far away, and you can lock it.”

What a perfect place to stash a screamer. I hugged her. “You're brilliant!”

I was about to take off when Pen ran back inside and opened her teacher's desk. “We'll need these.”

A huge ring of stolen keys, yes! “Keys! Fantastic!” We ran down the stairs and into the high school art room. Pen banged on the heavy metal door. “Marta!” I screamed. “You in here?”

Mumbling.

“Marta?” More mumbling. I looked at Pen. “She's here! She's in here!”

Pen put a key in and opened the door, and there she was, Marta, slumped against the wall, makeup streaked, snot all over the place, super ugly tracksuit covered in—on second thought, I didn't want to know. “Oh my God, Marta, are you okay?”

Marta glared at me, wild-eyed, and asked about the only thing she really ever cared about. “Is there still time?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I grabbed a paper towel and put water on it. Marta strained to get out like a boxer strains to get across the ring to kick some serious butt, and I couldn't wait to see her kick. “Wash your face,” I said calmly. “You have to look beautiful, remember.” I finger-combed her hair, slapped her cheeks for color. Slapped them again just for the fun of it. Pen handed me some lip gloss and mascara that she kept in her purse, and voilà! Marta didn't even look like a hostage anymore.

“You're going to win, Marta,” Pen said, all maturelike, “because it is right that you win.”

I pushed open the door. “Make your mama proud!”

The Moment of Truth

I peeked through the glass and saw Marta walking onto the center mat, in the new red-and-white leotard she'd bought before her mom died—all elastic intact, not a single nipple showing! Hallelujah! Even from outside, I could tell that everyone's mouth was
wide open
. You
could
have heard a pin drop.
No joke
. Even with the mascara streaked, the red and puffy eyes, Marta walked in like she was a new person, and the whole world watched. Confident. Graceful. Beautiful. And one heck of a bob, courtesy of yours truly.

Pen came up beside me. “Wow.”

“Just look at her, will ya!” I squealed.

 

 

“Like Cinderella.” Pen couldn't stop smiling. She pulled open the door, and we slid in behind the standing crowds.

Marta stood before the judges' table a totally different person. I heard her say sweetly, which you may recall was so unlike her, “I'm sorry I'm late. May I please start?”

When Lillian laid eyes on her, she could hardly keep her mouth closed, she was that shocked. “Oh my God, you're so, so pretty—”

Pen was watching Trixie. “She really put her in there?”

You could see it from where we stood. Daggers were shooting out of those ice-blue eyes straight at yours truly. What she had planned for me I could only guess. “Yep.”

The teammates, aka mean girls, had gathered into a group, with Coach in the middle. They were talking, then arguing, until Coach slammed down his palm. There was a shocked silence. Coach won that round. He emerged from the group looking like a Russian bear, pointing at her. “Now, Marta.”

The energy in the room was insane; the tension, the excitement, the disbelief. And yet, standing here, I felt like I already knew the ending. Marta would not fail.

“Watch this,” I mumbled to my sister as Marta stretched her long arms across her chest. “Her mother was an Olympic gymnast from Romania; she trained with the greats.”

My heart beat hard as I watched Marta walk to the end of the mat and point her arms up. And then, like a bolt, she ran faster, stronger, better than anyone had ever seen before. She looked like an engine, her body transformed into something so sharp, so perfect, so fast, it was like a whirling blade as she floored it to the springboard. When she bounced, she flew so high, all necks snapped backward so as not to miss an instant. In seconds she completed a series of flips and jackknives that were so fast, they blurred. Next it was the uneven bars, Trixie's area of expertise, and Marta was swinging from them, slapping against them, flipping between them like she lived on them. The room held its breath as she readied her dismount; you could feel the expectation as she revved up for it, built to it, and then dismounted into a backflip that was so gravity defying, that when she landed on both feet, and her arms shot up, the silence was deafening.

“What!” Pen stopped blinking. “Is that even physically possible?”

“I know, it's crazy,” I said. “And she can do it all, floor, rings, uneven, vault, all of it.”

And then, like a slow wave along the packed bleachers, everyone got up. The room exploded. Coach jumped out of his seat and saluted her. Lillian got up. Everyone clapped so hard, their hands must have bled. But they didn't stop clapping.

The crowd had all but forgotten that, just that morning, Marta had been nothing more than despicable Marta the Farta. They went wild, chanting, “Marta! Marta!”

The coach marched over to her, his eyes red and swollen with tears, his giant potato of a nose leaking. “You will take us to the Nationals, Marta Urloff, and you will go all the way to the Olympics. Mark my words!” My ears were picking up bits and pieces of conversation like:

“Man, Farta's not that bad.”

“Dude, she's kinda hot.”

“I know, right!”

Marta turned and scanned the crowd. I knew she was looking for me, and I was proud. I threw up my hand, and she picked me out, hidden behind a row of people. She looked right at me and nodded her head so slightly, you'd never know. But I knew.

Pen hit me on the shoulder. “You did good, kid.”

I was just about to say thanks, to tell her how good it felt, when I saw Trixie walking calmly through the cheering crowd, her head bowed, with one single tear of black mascara dribbling down her silver cheek. Babette was right behind her, repeating, “It's gonna be okay, Trix, you'll make it next year.” Trix pushed through the door.

Pen shook her head. “There's gonna be hell to pay.”

I knew exactly what she meant, but I could not run from it. I went outside to find Trixie waiting for me. She had an eerie, calm look to her like that super creepy girl in that
Orphan
movie who looked like a ninety-nine-year-old lady who loved killing people. “It was you, wasn't it?”

Inside, people were still cheering, yelling, all in shock over Marta's total change.

Trixie looked up. “It was you, you did that hair, that face, those teeth, it was you, all you.”

I nodded. “Yeah, it was me.”

She nodded. “She looks beautiful.”

Say what? I stared. Where was the rant? Where was the anger, hatred, retribution?

Bobby and his small gang of followers came bouncing over, full of adrenaline. He leaned into me. “Marta was awesome; she even looked not half bad. You saw it all along too. Way to go, Charlie.”

“Yep,” Trixie said, looking at Bobby, “did she ever.”

Babs watched Bobby, shaking her head. “But didn't you see Trixie? She was amazing; she totally deserved it.”

“Yeah, right!” Bobby laughed and walked off.

“Jerk!” Babs screamed after him.

But Trixie put up her hand. “Stop, stop, Babs. She deserves it, all right.”

 

 

I rubbed her shoulder. “You're taking this incredibly well.”

“I thought I was super clear with you earlier.” She pulled her shoulder away, picked up her gym bag, and narrowed her eyes.

“You were,” I said.

She nodded. “So you know what's going to happen to you?”

“Oh, there are lots of possibilities,” I said, and was just about to tell her it had been so worth it when people began pouring out of the gym. Lillian and her teammates came first; then Coach and Marta followed behind. Coach was going on and on, his accent so thick it was hard to understand a single word, when suddenly he grabbed his heart like he was having a heart attack.

“That's it!” His sausage finger was in Marta's face, his shiny Windbreaker heaving with his enormous stomach. “It's been bothering me all week, I couldn't make sense of it before, but now I know who it is you remind me of.” He took a breath as though sad. “Olga Cochenko.”

Trixie's whole head spun around. “Who? What?”

Oh no! Oh no! I tried to get her attention, but she was gone before I could stop her. “Trix, wait up!” I called after her, but she'd joined the ever-growing circle listening to Coach.

“She was the greatest of her time!” he yelled out like he was announcing it to the world. “She was powerful, beautiful, and angry”—and then he pointed—“like you, Marta.”

I noticed Marta's eyes getting all misty. Trixie must have noticed it too.

“When I saw you the first time, it was like a ghost walked across my heart. I got this sensation that I knew you, your moves, your spirit, your drive. You're identical, do you know that?” He leaned into her like a father leans into his daughter. “Have you been told that before?”

Erica looked over at Lillian. “Didn't she get, like, two silvers and a bronze?”

“She was incredible. Her floor routine was the best since—” Lillian closed her eyes.

Without thinking, Marta finished her sentence. “Since Comăneci.”

“Uh, excuse me.” Trixie dropped her bag; her voice rose above all the chatter. “But didn't Olga Cochenko
die
last year?”

“Uh, I don't watch TV.” Marta looked like she was about to jump right out of her candy-apple-red leotard. “My mom is waiting for me. I gotta go.”

Trixie walked right up to her face, so they were chin to chin. Before my eyes, I saw her confidence returning with force. “Your mom isn't really waiting for you, is she, Marta?”

And Marta's confidence disappeared with equal force. Her face grew twisted; she panicked. “I gotta go.”

“Go, go.” Trixie nodded like a patronizing nurse. “I'm sure she'll be so happy for you.” And then she added, just to show us that she would never let this go. “She'll be at all the meets too, right?”

“Yeah.” Marta couldn't get out of there fast enough. “Thanks, Coach, team, see you on Monday.”

I was just about to ask her to come over to my house when Pickler came running up out of nowhere. We all thought it was to congratulate Marta, but we were wrong.

 

 

“Trixie Chalice,” he announced into the courtyard, and everybody turned. “Your parents are waiting for you in my office.”

“Why, sir?” She looked at him like he was nuts. “I didn't do anything.”

With his hands on his small hips, he narrowed his little eyes and said, “I don't call locking your classmate in the art room so that you can win nothing. To my office
now
!” He pointed to his door, but she wasn't budging.

I saw Pen in the background. Oh God, Pen, what did you do?

Lillian and Erica stepped away from Trixie like she was suddenly carrying some gross disease.

“What?” Trixie stared them down. “What are you whispering about, huh? Huh?”

Babs threw up her hand. “It was me, it was me!”

But Pickler wasn't biting. “Now, Ms. Chalice.”

Pickler winked at Marta. “You were stupendous. Good job, ladies. Coach, we're going to the Nationals, am I right?” He pulled Trixie's sleeve. “Young lady, my office, now.”

I gulped. Marta was speechless. The girls watched Trixie being led away and Babs following, pleading, “But really it was me, it was me, take me!” she cried, and followed them all into the office.

“Poor girl,” I said.

“She deserves it,” Pen shot back, about to launch into her version of the I Have a Dream speech when I cut her off.

“I was talking about Babs,” I said.

Coach looked at his watch. “It's late, Marta. We'll talk next week.” He nodded at his future team. “Good night.”

Lillian and Erica came up to Marta. They were both so much taller than Marta that they kind of stood over her. “Is your mother Cochenko?”

I was about to step in with some fantastic lie when Marta's eyes grew steely and cold. “She was my aunt. My mother, also a gymnast, was her sister.”

Lillian and Erica looked at each other and shrugged. “Why didn't you say that, then?” They threw their arms around each other and walked out of the courtyard, most probably to one of their houses, where their parents had dinner waiting for the “team.” They did not invite her.

“Good one,” I said as we watched them go, but Marta didn't answer. She just stood there with the saddest look on her face.

“They'll never accept me,” she said. “No matter what I look like, how great a gymnast I become.” She dropped her head. “Never.”

I thought of my man, Houdini, and knew that there were many times in his life when he must have thought the same thing. He even married a woman whose parents hated him, but he didn't let that stop him. He let nothing stop him. Marta needed a little Houdini in her life. “Hey, want to come over to my house? We can celebrate.”

She looked taken aback. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. It's a little loud, a little crazy. I have a little brother too; he's a total psycho.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said, like she didn't really care. But I knew she did. She grabbed her gym bag, and we walked down the darkening canyon together, breathing in the mist that came through most nights and settled over us like an old ghost.