It's Not Easy Being Bad (16 page)

It was when she was banging her locker door shut
that she thought to herself: But I don't want to. And asked herself: So why should I? Just to prove I can?

She talked to Cassie about cappuccino and
Rashomon
, an old Japanese film she hadn't seen, but which David, her film-fanatic stepbrother, maintained was the most perfect movie ever made. Margalo just said what David said, and they never doubted her, the arty-smarties.

She talked to Ronnie about the baby-sitting course at the library, because Ronnie had taken it in sixth grade. The most interesting thing about talking to Ronnie, with Annie Piers and Lacey hanging around, and Casey coming up to say, “Hihowareyou?” and, “Meet me at lunch,” was the way Heather McGinty looked nervously over from where she stood between another Heather and a Stacey. Heather kind of moved her mouth into a kind of smile, at Margalo—the friendliness you show to someone you don't personally like, but everybody else might.

At lunch, Margalo sat with Casey, at the end of the preppies' table, talking about books. Casey loaned her a copy of
Watership Down.
“My dad has extra copies, so it's okay. I told him you look like someone who'll take care of a book. You will, won't you?”

“It depends on what you mean by ‘take care.'
Because especially a paperback, if you read it, it gets worn out,” Margalo pointed out.

“He means, like, leaving it outside, or dropping it in the tub.”

“It's been years since I dropped a book in the tub,” Margalo said. “What about
Jane Eyre?
Have you read that? Because I bet you'd like it.”

“Have you?” Casey asked, and Margalo decided the truth would get her closer than a lie to what she wanted. “I haven't read it yet. I've been waiting for the right time.”

“And you think seventh grade is the right time?”

“We could try,” Margalo said. “I can get to the library on Saturday. Does your father have a copy?”

“I think so. Hardbound, so it must be one he likes. I won't start reading until Saturday night.”

“It's not a race,” Margalo pointed out.

“I know, it's just more fun if you're both reading it at the same time.”

Margalo asked, “Do you want to say how many pages?”

“This could be fun,” Casey said. “We could be like a book club. Nobody else
reads
,” she complained, meaning—as Margalo knew—nobody else in her own group of friends.

“Yeah, but at least they think you're smarter because you do,” Margalo pointed out.

“They tease me about it,” Casey confided.

When Margalo went over to Tanisha to ask about the math assignment, she was with her friend Lauren. “Lauren's the best guard in seventh grade,” Tan said, introducing her. “No,
you
are,” Lauren argued, and they replayed a couple of points from yesterday's practice. Margalo acted interested in that, acted impressed, acted like she cared.

There was a lot of acting that went into getting less unpopular. It got tiresome, doing all that acting. The trouble with Mikey being home sick was that she wasn't there, in school, to admire Margalo's success, and maybe even be a little jealous. Of course, Mikey jealous was no fun, as in No Fun At All. So maybe it was better not to have her around.

Maybe, but the thing about Mikey also was, she was more interesting than other people.

So okay, she hogged the spotlight. Big deal. Who wanted to fight over stage center, anyway? Not Margalo. Jumping Jehoshaphat! The last thing Margalo wanted was the spotlight always on her. That would just—

With Mikey hogging the spotlight, Margalo could
move around in the shadow, doing whatever she wanted, knowing that all eyes were on Mikey.

So it was good news, wasn't it? when Mikey said she was coming back on Wednesday, and she was going to hand in homework papers so perfect, they would just about guarantee her a place on high honor roll, and she'd been practicing free throws, now that she felt better again. “School is bad enough,” Mikey said, “but staying home is even worse.” She promised to remember to bring in the T-shirt Margalo had asked her for. Margalo wouldn't tell her why, but Mikey already knew the answer. “It's for one of your outfits,” she said. “I bet it is. I bet it's that new sweater you were trying to bore me about.”

And that irritated Margalo, because she assumed that Mikey never paid any attention about clothes. She almost wished Mikey would stay out of school longer.

Except that Mikey was the only one who could figure Margalo out. Margalo could get other people to like her, but only Mikey knew her.

M
argalo rushed Mikey into the school building and into the girls' bathroom the next morning, not even giving her a chance to off-load books into her locker. “Hey,” Mikey protested, “what's with you?” resisting, “Jeepers creepers, Margalo! Take it easy, why don't you?”

Margalo wore Aurora's raincoat, a long, yellow slicker. She had it done up all the way to her neck.

“You expecting an indoor shower?” Mikey asked, sarcastic. She spelled it out, “H.A.H.A.,” since Margalo entirely missed the joke.

Margalo had no time for Mikey's bad jokes. “Did you bring it?” She took the gray T-shirt and disappeared into one of the stalls.

Mikey waited, watching a couple of eighth-grade girls comb their hair, put on mascara, paint pouty pink mouths on.
Yoicks!
she thought.
Not me, not ever.
The smell of cigarette smoke rose out of one of the stalls, and, bending over, Mikey saw six feet in three pairs of Nikes, all pointing toward the base of the toilet.
Crud!
she thought. Thick perfume smells mixed in with the tobacco-y air, and Mikey stayed bent over—when they told you how to survive a fire, didn't they say the most oxygen was nearest the floor?

While she was bent over like that, she checked out what Margalo was doing.

Knapsack and raincoat were on the floor, and on top of them some seaweedy brownish-grayish-greenish cloth, some old, used dust rag. Margalo was wearing those capri pants again, and a pair of the clunky black oxfords that were her winter shoes. Margalo's hair came into view as she bent down, and Mikey straightened up fast.

Acting like she didn't even know Mikey, Margalo stepped out of her cubicle and crossed briskly to an empty sink, with the long mirror above it. She reached into her knapsack and pulled out a long,
golden tube. She was ignoring Mikey so completely that Mikey pushed her face right up to Margalo's, so close that Margalo's face had to share the mirror with Mikey's.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting on mascara.”

“What did you do, steal some from Susannah?”

“As it happens, I borrowed this.”

“From who?”

“Her name's Cassie. She's in my math class.”

Mikey backed down, backed off. She watched Margalo run the tiny brush up along her upper eyelashes, once, twice, then once down, along the lashes at the bottom of each eye. “That looks dumb,” she said, and then, “Who showed you how to do that?”

Margalo didn't answer. When she was done, she turned around and asked Mikey, “What do you think?”

“I think you've lost your mind.”

“I mean, what do you think of the sweater.”

Then Mikey noticed that Margalo was wearing a long sweater, with a wide gray belt at the waist and big gray buttons up the front. The sweater even had a collar.

The sweater was that dust rag. It really was a strange color, a really strange color, maybe the strangest color that Mikey had ever seen, and for sure the strangest color that West Junior High School had ever seen.

Margalo's hair was the same straight brown, tucked behind her ears in the same way, parted off center like always; the way Aurora cut it. Her eyes were the same brown eyes. She was the same height and non-build as always, the same as last Friday. Nothing had changed about Margalo. But that sweater—the color of pea soup, with some ashes stirred into it, and maybe a few crushed dead leaves added for texture—that sweater made Margalo look like a stranger.

Or was it the mascara?

“Holy moley, Margalo,” Mikey said.

“Isn't it great?”

“I don't know why you needed my T-shirt.” There was only a tiny gray band of T-shirt showing.

Margalo stood up onto her toes and pulled the sweater down over her thighs. She pulled at the belt a little, moving it around a little, making everything perfect. “What do you think?”

Mikey didn't know what she thought. “You look thirty.”

“No, I don't. Maybe nineteen.”

“And French.”

“Italian. The label's Italian. La Scala.”

“Like someone from Rome,” Mikey said, trying to name a place exotic enough to explain how Margalo looked. “Or Rio de Janeiro? Sardinia?”

“
Zut, alors!
” Margalo murmured, watching herself in the mirror. Her face had no expression, unless that was a bored-to-death expression on her face. She raised her eyebrows, just a little. “I look that good?”

“You don't look like you go to West Junior High,” Mikey said. “What do you call that color, dog's throw-up?”

“I knew you wouldn't like it.”

“Well, you were right.”

“Because it's so great-looking,” Margalo said. “Follow me. Watch. Listen. Learn.” At the door, she turned around and said to Mikey, “Bring my stuff, will you?” Then she pulled open the door to the bathroom and swept out into the hallway as if she were Queen Elizabeth I about to go sink the entire Spanish Armada single-handed.

Grumbling, like the dwarf who was the queen's jester, Mikey picked up the extra knapsack, and the raincoat, and followed Margalo out the door.

Margalo swept on along, Queen Margalo, who
knew that everybody was watching her, and wishing they were her. And everybody
did
look at her, as if she really was a queen, or at least popular.

Trailing along behind that long, narrow back with the wide belt snug around the waist, Mikey started to enjoy herself. She knew where Margalo shopped, and all of the attention Margalo was getting was pretty funny, when you thought of that. Most of these admiring people were happy to spend a hundred dollars of some parent's money on the exact same sweater every one of them, practically, was wearing, and none of them had people turning to watch them parade down the hall.

So Mikey was pretty proud of Margalo, and pretty pleased to be part of the act. Margalo stopped in front of their lockers. That dog puke color actually did look good on her. How did she do it?

Although, Mikey wasn't about to let Margalo get away with acting stuck up to
her.
“I'm not your dwarf,” she said, passing over the knapsack, and the raincoat. “And I don't see why you had to have my T-shirt, anyway.”

Margalo unbuttoned the big top button, showing just a little more of the gray underneath, and looked even better. She grinned, in total victory.

Mikey grumbled, dumped her books around, pulled out homework papers.

“Rats on you, Mikey,” Margalo said. “If you're going to be like that. Just because I—”

“What, because you
what?
” Mikey demanded.

“Look so good,” Margalo said.

“Just wash it before you bring it back,” Mikey answered.

In homeroom, too, Margalo had everyone's attention. “You're a real
femme fatale
,” Mikey leaned over to whisper to Margalo, who just nodded her head like somone who has absolutely aced a math test. “You and Jessica Rabbit.”

Margalo tried not to laugh, and failed. Mikey felt better.

When they met by their lockers at midmorning, Mikey noticed even Heather McGinty sidling up to take a look at Queen Margalo, who had Annie Piers and Casey Wolsowski hovering around her. “
Tell
, Margalo,” Annie was begging, and Casey was saying, “
Don't
tell, Margalo. Nobody else would look good in it, anyway.”

Mikey clanged her locker door shut and exited the scene. Margalo didn't even notice if she was there or not.

But by lunchtime, everything had changed.

Mikey didn't know how she knew this, but she was sure of it. It was like a tennis match, when the person who was winning—say, Serena Williams—just starts losing points against, maybe, Arantxa Sanchez-Vicario. Everybody in the stands can tell that everything has shifted, although nobody knows why, especially Serena. The announcers stop talking about “the Williams serve” and start talking up “the Sanchez-Vicario scramble.” Even people sitting at home in front of their television sets can tell that things have shifted.

Things had shifted against Margalo, Mikey could tell.

People still looked at her, but then they looked away quickly, as if they didn't want to be seen staring—the way people don't want to be caught staring at a homeless person. But how could Margalo go from queen to homeless person in half a morning? And why didn't Margalo say anything?

They moved along the line, Mikey behind Margalo—even though Margalo was only there while Mikey got her lunch. Grilled cheese sandwiches and french fries today, a crisp brown fatty meal; maybe Mikey
would
try some salad. She could top it with peas; peas had flavor.

Maybe she'd go on a diet and never eat lunch again, and get as thin as Margalo so she could look like some thirty-year-old French model. H.A.H.A., Mikey talked to herself inside her head, since Margalo seemed to have moved into another dimension.

Something had definitely happened. At her table, Heather McGinty had everybody hanging on to every word that came out of her mouth. They were all looking over at Margalo, and then covering their mouths to hide something—maybe laughter, maybe things they didn't want to be heard saying, although if you asked Mikey, they were making sure Margalo could see that they were maybe laughing, maybe saying private mean things.