Frogs & French Kisses #2 (6 page)

I finally get online during seventh period, when we have computers. Since we pick our own stations, I arrive extra early to get the window seat way in the back. At least this class isn’t doubled up.

Tammy sits next to me. “I don’t think you should look,” she says, resting her head on her hand. “I don’t want to see it again.”

“Well, you don’t have to sit next to me if you don’t want to. In fact, you shouldn’t get this close to anyone, since you have mono. And I have social leprosy. Now, what’s the name of the Web site?”

She types it in for me.

Maybe it isn’t about me. Maybe it’s about a girl who looks just like me . . . my doppelganger. In Russia.

And that’s when a close-up image of me and my beard fills the screen.

Okay, it’s not just me. There are other people on the screen too, about ten or so additional students unfortunate enough to have made it onto this site. There is also the heading: The Freaks of JFK High. But I can’t breathe. My beard is on the Web, and here I thought I concealed it so well. There’s also a picture of my tripping over the bike rack. I guess that light I saw was a flash.

“Don’t look up,” Tammy says. So of course I do. London is standing at the door. All in white. Smirking.

I thought, It can’t get worse than Thursday! How could it ever get worse than Thursday?

It gets worse on Friday.

“I’m sick,” Tammy says via the traitorous telephone receiver.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“I have a doctor’s appointment this morning. My throat is burning.”

“No. No. No! You’re not sick! Mind over matter!”

“I’m so sorry.”

I can’t believe she’s making me go to school by myself. When I’m the star of the freak Web site.

And it gets worse. I sit on the floor in almost all my classes. Even though I didn’t fail my math quiz, like I thought I did, Ms. Hayward is very concerned by my A and makes me stay after class. When I’m done, there is a picture of me and my beard glued to my locker.

It starts to rain. I have gym outside. JFK’s obnoxious gym teacher makes you participate no matter what. Rain? Cramps? Broken leg? Doesn’t matter—yesterday I even saw London in her gym clothes. We play softball, since April is softball month. I drop the ball repeatedly and get very wet.

Since I have no one to go out to lunch with, I eat alone in the library.

I don’t see Raf all day.

I spend Friday night alone, definitely not at one of Mick Lloyd’s legendary A-list-only parties. (I’m so far off the A-list I’m practically Z-list.) On Saturday, I wake up with a miserable cold with no fever, which means, unfortunately, I don’t even get to have mono. Since I have no friends, I do nothing but work on assignments and stare at my picture on the freak Web site. I change the screen whenever my mom or Miri is around. Letting them see what a loser I am is just too humiliating. And Miri is in too good a mood for me to upset her. Because of some chemical in our gym floor, the cows cannot be used for beef production. So Miri called SALA, the Saving Animals’ Lives Association, and they raised money to have the cows moved to a refuge in Alabama. Guess they were safer in the gym after all. They will now be able to live long and happy lives. Yay, them. I wish I were a cow.

On Monday, the lock on my locker doesn’t work. Someone had my lock clipped and put on a new one. I have to get the janitor to snap it open.

No matter how hard I look, I don’t see Raf all day.

On Tuesday, I find a caricature of me and my beard in the first-, second-, and third-floor bathrooms, drawn right onto the backs of the stall doors, alongside the graffiti. And I’m not saying this because I’m oversensitive, but it so looks more like a caricature of a caveman than one of me. If it weren’t accompanied by the slogan “Rachel Weinstein is a man,” I wouldn’t even have known it was supposed to be me. I attempt to wipe one off with the cheapo school soap, but it won’t budge. The janitor, my new best friend, promises to take care of them over the weekend.

I see Raf only once, in the distance, but he doesn’t see me.

On Wednesday, my clothes are stolen. Since we no longer have access to the gym lockers, I leave my jeans, sweater, and shoes in a bag by the bleachers while I’m playing third base. Unfortunately, by the end of the period, the bag, along with my clothes and my (sob) new shoes, is gone. So I have to wear my smelly gym shoes, a long green T-shirt, and my green gym sweatpants for the rest of the day. And the pants are giving me a wedgie, which I constantly have to stealthily adjust. Okay, fine, pick. Of course, once I’m in my gym clothes, I see Raf every four seconds. In the hall, on the stairs, at the water fountain. I can feel him watching me too, staring. Once, he opens his mouth as if to say something, but I quickly duck out of view. I don’t need him making fun of me too.

On Thursday, as I walk through the senior hallway on my way to second period, I hear hysterical laughter. And I see a large crowd of students circling London, who is dressed in another all-white outfit. Her arms are shuddering above her head. Her hips are bumping from side to side. Her one good leg is quaking. What’s wrong with her?

“You look just like her,” one of her lackeys shrieks. “You’re nailing it!”

London’s nasal voice pierces my eardrums. “I call it the Electric Rachel.”

Oh, no. Ah, jeez. I knew it looked like I was being electrocuted when I danced. I knew it! Miri always told me I wasn’t
that
bad, but this proves it. Keep your head down, and speed up, I tell myself.

“There she is!” one of the other lackeys cries as I pass them.

Don’t look up, don’t look—

“Rochelle! Why don’t you show us how it’s done?” London cackles.

Ignore them. Just ignore them. Pretend they don’t exist.

“Rochelle!” I hear her hollering as I turn the corner, away from them.

By the end of the day, patches of kids all over school are doing the “Electric Rachel.” In the hallways. In the classrooms. In the library. It’s become more popular than the Macarena was.

By last period, I can’t take it anymore, and I hide in the bathroom. Tears spill over my cheeks as I stare at my bearded self. Okay, I know I deserve some karmic punishment for all the awful things I did last month . . . but come on. I have no friends except an absentee best friend (mono now confirmed), the love of my life hates me, and now the entire school is mimicking me? This is too much.

And if London can name a dance after me, how come she can never remember my name? Huh? Huh?

When I get home, I am beyond depressed. Mom is working late, so I am free to wallow. I lie facedown across my floor, letting the pink carpet absorb my frustrated tears. Tigger chooses this moment to sit on my back.

The phone rings and rings and rings, and I know it’s Tammy calling to check on me, but I can’t bear to get up.

When Miri gets home from Tae Kwon Do, she picks up Tigger and sits beside me.

“Howdy,” she says. “Why are you lying on the floor?”

“I . . . they . . .” Though I promised myself I wouldn’t, I break down and tell her the whole story, except for the freak Web site. That was
too
humiliating. “And I wouldn’t even care so much, but the fact that Raf doesn’t like me anymore is the worst part.”

My sister looks horrified. Like Tigger just got run over. “What a you-know-what. I hate her. What can I do to make you feel better?”

I turn over and face the ceiling. “Zap them into cats.” Although they’d probably circle me and scratch me to death. “Don’t bother. What’s the point? There’s no point to anything.”

“I know what will cheer you up!” Miri says, eyes brightening. “Let’s do something from the Save the World list we made on vacation.”

“Why not?” At least I’ll have something to do. And I knew she would ask me to help her with the list eventually. Too bad I kind of fell asleep while she was making it.

She runs into her room and then returns, waving an article from the
New York Times.
“I’ve done some research on number one, helping the homeless. This article is all about the malnutrition of the people living on the streets in Manhattan. I was thinking we could zap up some food to hand out.”

“All right,” I say lifelessly. They can have my dinner. I’m not even hungry. I didn’t have lunch today. The library was packed, so I hid in the bathroom and talked to my caricature.

Miri peers at me strangely. “Why don’t you relax? Take a bath. Watch TV. You look stressed. We’ll work on this over the weekend.” She skips back to her room.

Instead of watching TV, I pull myself off the floor and turn on my computer. And it’s just as I feared. There’s a new picture of me right beside the beard one. I’m in my gym clothes, picking the wedgie in my butt. It’s so pathetic looking that I start to laugh. I’ve officially hit rock bottom. And on the bottom I have a wedgie.

“What’s so funny?” Miri asks, and before I can switch the screen, she sees it. A younger sister just shouldn’t see her big sister looking so humiliated. It’s like seeing your dad cry or your favorite actress without makeup. I expect her to start sobbing, but instead her face turns red, and her clenched fists pound against my desk. “London did that?”

“Don’t worry. It’s a joke.”

“Don’t say that! You’re making me really mad!”

“I’m a loser, all right? Your big sister is a social failure!”

I cry through dinner. I cry while I take a bath. By the time I climb into bed, my eyes are swollen and I look like a raccoon. Hope London brings a camera tomorrow. The shot should be a real winner.

I fall into a dreamless sleep. At about three in the morning, I wake to a shadow looming over me.

“What are you doing, Mir?”

“I’m not Miri; I’m the tooth fairy,” the shadow says. “You’re dreaming.”

Weird dream, I think as I fall back asleep. When the alarm beeps me awake, I rub the crusted tears from my eyes. I’m not going back to school. I’ll just hide. I pull the pillow out from under my head and cover my face with it. I lie on something scratchy. Something that smells . . . like a boy? Raf’s gray wool glove? Why is his glove under my head? I don’t remember taking it out of my T-shirt drawer to cuddle with. I squeeze it. And then I look up . . . and see Miri in the doorway.

“I came up with a few plans to make you feel better,” she says sheepishly.

Sweet scratchy glove. I look back at Miri. Then back at the glove. Does this . . . does this mean what I think it means? “Tooth fairy my butt! Did you do the love spell?”

She gives me a shy smile. “I did.”

Yes! Raf is going to
like
me again! And once he
likes
me again, he’ll always like me—even when the spell wears off. At least, I hope so. “But I thought you were afraid of doing love spells.”

“I was. But I couldn’t stand seeing you so sad. So I got over it. Got to get back on the broom, right?”

How sweet is she? The cloud over my head dances away. Boogies away. Electric Rachels away. “I love you!” I say, and rub the glove against my cheek. Okay, it’s itchy, but who cares? Raf is going to love me again! We could be frenching by lunchtime!

“Now, remember, emotion spells are temporary. And a love spell only lasts like three to four weeks. And it takes a day or two to kick in.”