Plastic Polly (11 page)

I'm searching the room, looking for Alyssa, when I hear the double doors whoosh open and see a snatch of a turquoise scarf disappear into the foyer. Quickly I cross the room, ignoring dirty looks from the kids who didn't make the Talent Team, and cheers from the kids who did.

“Alyssa, wait!” I call, but she doesn't turn around.

Outside, night has fallen. Moonlight frosts the trees, and leaves rustle in the wind. Alyssa's turquoise scarf is flapping behind her as she half-walks, half-runs toward the parking lot.

“Alyssa, please wait!”

Alyssa stops under a streetlight that glows the color of orange sherbet. She turns around. When I catch up to her, I see tiny diamond-shaped tears trickling from her eyes.

“What?” she demands. “What do you want?”

I had so much I wanted to say, but now the words seem stuck in my throat.

“I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry? Yeah, right.” Alyssa mimics Melinda's voice. “Oh, look. It's that ugly girl from my history class.”

“I voted for you, Alyssa. I swear. But Melinda and Jenna outvoted me. That never would have happened if Kelsey were here.”

“But
you're
here, Polly. And you're the PlanMaster. But
you just followed along with Melinda and Jenna, letting them rig the auditions.”

“They weren't rigged,” I answer automatically. Even though I agree with Alyssa, I feel the need to protect Melinda and Jenna and the whole judging process. Like Alyssa says, I'm the PlanMaster, and I'm not ready to admit that the judging committee would only vote for the popular kids. Our friends, in other words.

“They were totally rigged.”

“Why?” I say, anger flaring in my chest. “Just because we didn't pick you? You don't make the cut, so now you think the whole thing is rigged?”

“I saw the list. You never should've been made the PlanMaster. You've let your new BFFs turn Groove It Up into a popularity contest.”

“Melinda and Jenna are
not
my best friends.”

Headlights blink in the parking lot, and I bring a hand up to shield my eyes.

“That's my dad,” Alyssa says. “I have to go.” Alyssa stares at me for a moment longer. “Do you really think our school can win with that list? Because if you do, you're even more deluded than I thought you were.”

True Confession: Sometimes I wonder if my mom wishes she had a daughter who was more like her: someone determined, who always knows what she wants.

O
N
S
ATURDAY NIGHTS
M
OM IS IN CHARGE OF DINNER
. But she hates to cook, so tonight, like most other Saturday nights, we're eating dinner at Chip's. All of the red vinyl booths are filled, and the diner smells like a combination of spicy chili, fresh-baked bread, and coffee. Outside, rain taps against the window. On the walls Chip has hung up several red-and-yellow Groove It Up banners with our school slogan:
WINSTON FOR THE WIN!

Since Chip serves breakfast all day long, I always order hot chocolate and pancakes when we go out to dinner. I also order four small sides of chocolate, strawberry,
butterscotch, and maple syrup. Then I dunk small pieces of pancake in one of the syrups until they're soaked through. I call it pancake fondue.

While I'm drowning a chunk of pancake in chocolate syrup, I tell Mom and Dad about the tryouts and what a disaster they were. Mom and Dad sit close together and hold hands while I talk. Dad steals bites from Mom's plate, and Mom takes small sips of Dad's coffee, because she says she only wants a little caffeine this late at night. These are the nights I like most, when neither of them are working and the three of us can just hang out.

When I've finished, Mom, who's all about the fine print, says, “Are there any guidelines stipulating who you can and who you can't vote for?”

I shake my head. “I checked
The PlanMaster's PlanMaster
this morning. It clearly states judges can vote for whoever they want. Technically we've done nothing wrong.”

Which is exactly what Kelsey said when I called her this afternoon and told her what happened at tryouts. I didn't tell Kelsey about another rule I'd found, one I was pretty sure would solve my judging problem. If I had the guts to use it.

Dad snatches his coffee cup away from Mom and says, “It's wrong in spirit. It's a talent show competition, so the
expectation is that the judges will vote for the most talented students.”

“If that was the expectation, they should have put it in writing.” Mom snatches the coffee cup back.

Mom and Dad argue for a few minutes. I doubt Mom actually thinks it's okay that Melinda and Jenna only voted for the popular kids. Mom and Dad enjoy debating each other over a million different topics, just to see who can make a better case.

Dad once told me Mom was not only the most beautiful woman he's ever met, but the smartest, too. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever meet a boy who will say that about me, instead of having to put up with guys like Derek Tanner who think they're so cool just because they play football.

“Well then,” Mom says when she and Dad have finished debating, “what are you going to do about it?”

“I don't know. Alyssa said—”

“Alyssa?” Mom interrupts. “Did she try out? She's so incredibly talented. Lynn told me Alyssa wants to study at Juilliard. I'll bet one day she'll sing on Broadway.”

I grimace and sip my hot chocolate. Mom and Mrs. Grace—Lynn—are friends, and Mom doesn't understand why Kelsey and I don't hang out with Alyssa anymore. (I never told her about our fight over the Court.) And whenever
her name comes up, Mom likes to talk about Alyssa's great talent. Just once I wish she'd brag about me that way. I mean, Alyssa's not even her daughter. And I am.

“Alyssa tried out,” I say quickly, “and she says there's no way we can win the competition with the acts Melinda and Jenna selected. But Kelsey says—”

“‘Kelsey says'?” Mom frowns. “What about what you say? You have your own voice, Polly. So far I've heard what Alyssa thinks and what Kelsey thinks. What about what
you
think?”

“I don't know what I think.” I slam my hot chocolate down so hard, it sloshes over the side. “That's why I was asking for your opinion. There's nothing wrong with that.”

Just like that, Mom can take a nice night out and ruin it. Just because I'm not more like her and always know exactly how I should handle things. I avoided her all day because when I woke up this morning, I saw she'd placed the application for Camp Colonial on my desk. So while she was taking a shower, I dropped the application onto her bed with a sticky note attached that said,
Tag. You're it!

“Polly, I wasn't saying—”

Mom is interrupted by a syrupy voice calling across the diner, “Laura, Nick, I
thought
that was you!”

I turn. Mrs. Huff is standing near the cash register while Mr. Huff pays their bill.

“Oh no,” Mom groans.

“I know,” I say. Instantly the tension between Mom and me dissolves. In the face of the Huffs, we are united in our dislike of them.

“Girls,” Dad warns, “be nice.”

“
We
are always nice,” Mom says.

Mr. Huff finishes paying the bill, and they start toward us. Mrs. Huff leads the way. Her chest is puffed out, her nose is tipped slightly upward, and her hands are clasped in front of her. She reminds me of a nosy chicken.

Something I've noticed about Mrs. Huff: Whenever she sees Mom, she wrinkles her nose and flutters her eyelashes as though the very sight of my mother is offensive to her.

“Laura, darling, how
are
you?”

“I'm fine, Sharon. How are you?”

“Oh, you know how it is—well, maybe you don't, actually. I know you must be so busy with work, but I'm coordinating the bake sale for Groove It Up. So much to do.”

“Excuse me?” I say. “What bake sale?” I'm thinking back to our planning meetings, and I can't remember a discussion about a bake sale.

Mrs. Huff turns to look at me and blinks several times.
I get the distinct impression she wishes she could blink me out of existence. “Oh, Polly dear! I forgot, Jenna did tell me you're on Groove It Up's planning committee as well.”

“Yes,” Mom says before I can respond. “We're so proud that Polly is the PlanMaster. She said she's really enjoying having Jenna on her team.”

Mom smiles at Mrs. Huff, and I have to bite back a laugh, because I haven't said any such thing, and never would.

“I wasn't aware there was a bake sale,” I say.

“Yes, dear. Jenna told me you've needed a bit of help getting things organized. Anyway, Jenna thought it would be a good idea to sell snacks during intermission to raise more money for the school.”

“Oh.” I don't say anything else, because I don't want to admit that it actually sounds like a good idea.

“Where is Jenna?” Mom asks politely.

“Oh, she's with Melinda and some of the members of the Talent Team.” Mrs. Huff flutters her eyelashes at me. “I'm surprised you aren't there, dear.”

“Tonight is a family night,” Mom says quickly.

Mrs. Huff's smile slips. “Yes. Obviously, I understand the importance of family time.”

Dad, who's been following the conversation with a
wary look on his face, now says, “You know what? I think it's time for us to order our dessert. Polly, why don't you come with me and we'll refill your hot chocolate. Nice to see you, Henry,” he says to Mr. Huff as we scoot out of our booth and walk past him.

“Thanks for getting me out of there,” I say.

“No problem.” Dad's cell rings. He checks it and says, “I've got to take this. Can you order for us?” He answers his phone and heads over to the waiting area.

Chip is brewing coffee when I plunk down at the counter. A sign by the register promises one free slice of pie to each Winston family if we win Groove It Up.

“Polly the PlanMaster,” he says. “How's life treating you these days?”

“Good.”

My family has been eating at Chip's every week for as long as I can remember, so when I tell him I need to order dessert, he punches in our usual fall order: two slices of pumpkin cheesecake for Mom and me, and one slice of apple pie for Dad.

I look over at Mom while Mrs. Huff talks and gestures animatedly. Mom's face is frozen in a smile that looks ready to crack at any moment. I pull my cell from my pocket and send her a text:

Want me to dream up a fake crisis to get you away from her?

I've seen Mom pretend to receive an important text to get out of a conversation she finds particularly tiresome. She would never admit to it, but still, I know she does it.

“Can you hold on a sec, Sharon?” Mom says loudly. “I need to respond to this.” A second later my cell pings:

Mrs. Huff is your elder. You need to be respectful to her. But . . . sure. Dream away. I think I'll need a fake crisis in about ten minutes.

Chip refills my hot chocolate mug and pushes it toward me. “You know who you should put on the Talent Team?”

“Who?”

“Some of Winston's choir kids. I heard them sing Christmas carols last year. Man, those kids got a good set of pipes on them, let me tell you. Especially that one girl you used to come in here with all the time. What was her name?”

“Alyssa.”

Chip nods. “Guaranteed, no one at American River can match her voice. You should put her on the Talent Team.”

“I wish I could,” I say softly, dragging my straw through a mound of whipped cream.

Mr. Huff sits down on the stool next to me. “Hello, Polly.”

“Hi, Mr. Huff,” I answer politely, and check my cell phone. Seven more minutes until I text Mom.

“Jenna tells me you've been struggling with Groove It Up details,” Mr. Huff says. “I'm glad she's there to help you.”

“Yeah, sure.” I make a point of staring into my hot chocolate. Mom would kill me if she thought I was being rude, but I've had my fill of Huffs this week.

“I don't know if you know this,” Mr. Huff continues, “but I'm on the fund-raising committee for Winston Academy. I don't think I need to tell you that a win at Groove It Up this year—and the exposure we'd get on
Good Morning, Maple Oaks
—would probably result in more dollars coming into the school. So as I see it, there are several things I think you can do to—”

“Henry,” Dad says, coming up behind us. “How are you?”

While Dad and Mr. Huff chat, I swivel my stool away and stare out the window. The wind and the rain are beating against a Groove It Up banner Chip strung up above
the door. The banner is coming undone, and looks ready to blow away unless someone sets it right.

I think about the rule I found in
The PlanMaster's PlanMaster
. The one that could solve my judging problem. I'm tired of being pushed around by everyone who thinks they know exactly what I should do as the PlanMaster. Kelsey, Alyssa, Melinda, Jenna, Mr. and Mrs. Huff, and even Chip and the pizza girl from last night all seem to have their own opinions on the subject, and none of them have any problems sharing them with me.