Plastic Polly (4 page)

“Three weeks? For a broken wrist?”

“
And
a concussion.
And
a sprained ankle,” Kelsey says, defensiveness creeping into her voice. “And I hurt everywhere you can imagine.”

“Okay. But three weeks? You're not even left-handed. And why would you want to be out of school that long, anyway?”

Kelsey glances at the get-well card from Melinda. “I just—”

“Excuse me, girls.” Another nurse walks in, carrying a tray. “Dinner is served. Hospital food at its finest!”

I move off the bed while the nurse places the tray on a table next to Kelsey. I don't get it. Kelsey can be extremely persuasive, which is why Alyssa and I always let Kelsey do the talking whenever the three of us wanted something
from one of our parents, so if anyone can talk their doctor into giving them a free pass from school for three weeks, it's Kelsey.

But she never misses school. Not because she loves her classes—Kelsey has an on-again, off-again relationship with her homework—but because as the queen of the Court, Kelsey considers Winston Academy her personal playground. I look around at the bouquets of flowers. It seems to me she'd be dying to go back to school so she could be showered with gifts and attention. So what's going on?

After the nurse leaves, Kelsey takes a bite of chocolate pudding, then makes a face and pushes her tray away. “Since I'm going to be out of school, I called Principal Allen and resigned as the PlanMaster for Groove It Up. I'm really sorry, Polly.”

I frown. “What are you apologizing for?”

Kelsey rolls her eyes. “You know, for an A student you can be really slow sometimes. What happens to the vice president when the president is unable to perform his—or her—duties?”

“They—” I stop as the light finally clicks on. “Oh.”

“Yep.” Kelsey nods and raises her good arm like she's passing a torch. “Congratulations! You are now the new PlanMaster for Winston Academy!”

True Confession: You know how everyone says you shouldn't care what others think about you? Well, I care. A lot.

S
OMETIMES
I
THINK
A
LYSSA GAVE ME THE WRONG
nickname. Sure, Plastic Polly is clever. But Parrot Polly might have been an even better choice, because my job at the Court—and on the Groove It Up planning committee—is to agree with whatever Kelsey says. It's not like she gets mad at me if I don't. (Not usually, anyway.) But Kelsey always knows what she wants, and most of the time I don't, so it's just easier to go along with her.

Groove It Up is always planned by the members of the Court, with the most popular eighth grader serving as the PlanMaster. It's not a school rule or anything, more like
a tradition. And when Mr. Fish holds a meeting for anyone interested in being the PlanMaster, and Queen Kelsey raises her hand and stares down everyone else—silently daring them to cross her—how many other girls are going to volunteer?

Look, it may not be fair. But this is middle school. This is how it
is
.

So the next morning while Mom and I wait outside Principal Allen's office, I'm trying to figure out how to abdicate as the PlanMaster. It has always looked like a ton of work (even though Kelsey didn't seem to be doing a whole lot). And, being the Vice PlanMaster, I get to stand in front of everyone at the Groove It Up pep rallies. But I haven't had to actually
do
anything. It's been nice.

Next to me Mom is firing off texts. Her black pantsuit is freshly pressed, her nutmeg-colored hair is twisted into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, and her ice-blue eyes are narrowed as she taps on her cell. Sometimes I wonder how we could possibly be related when we look so different. Once, I heard Grandpa Pierce say she was the most striking woman he's ever seen. But no one would ever call me striking. Most things about my appearance—my face, my height, my dirty-blond hair—are average. Except for my eyes. Dad says they're the perfect shade of aqua, like
they couldn't decide if they wanted to be green or blue, so they chose somewhere in the middle.

Mom glares at her phone and mutters something under her breath. She's a lawyer for a big firm, but she's not the cool kind of lawyer that struts around in shiny high heels badgering witnesses and demanding that they tell her the truth. More like she spends all day (and many times all night) poring over stacks of boring paperwork in her stuffy office.

Mom says she always knew she wanted to be a lawyer. After she graduated from Harvard, she planned on going to law school. But then she moved back to Maple Oaks in northern California and met Dad. They got married and had me. Mom stayed home with me when I was little, but once I started first grade, she told Dad she was going to law school. I'm probably the only first grader who learned to read by sounding out sentences in legal briefs. Mom just seems happier when she's working and has a huge to-do list. I don't take it personally. Most days, anyway.

“Mom, can I talk to you about something?”

“In a sec,” Mom answers, scowling at her phone and texting away.

I wait, but she keeps sending one text after another. Finally I give up and send a text of my own:

I need to talk to you.

“Almost finished. I promise.”

“Have you had a chance to look at the application for Camp Colonial?” Mom asks once she's put her phone away.

“That's not what I wanted to talk to you about. And, no, I haven't.” A couple of weeks ago Mom handed me an application for this lame camp where you spend half your summer prepping for high school. Look, I may get all As, but that doesn't mean I want to spend every second of my life studying. And sometimes I think Mom looks at my future like it's a geometry problem: What is the shortest distance between point A and point B? With point A being me and point B being Harvard. And the only obstacle standing between Mom's alma mater and her perfect AB line to academic excellence is, well,
me
. That's why I never told her about the invitation I got last year to test for the Star Student program—or the one I received this year either. I knew if she found out, I could kiss any fun I might want to have in middle school good-bye.

“Polly, do you have any idea how many kids would kill for an opportunity like this?”

“I'm guessing somewhere in the range of zero?”

“A little hard work wouldn't hurt, is all I'm saying. Next year you'll be starting high school, and then you'll have to get serious.”

“Fine, I will.” And then just to annoy her I add, “But in the meantime I'm going to be as unserious as possible. Besides, Kelsey says she wants me to help her train for the high school soccer team over the summer.”

“Kelsey says, huh?” Mom frowns. I don't know what her deal is. Lately it seems like she doesn't like Kelsey as much as she used to.

Mom begins to say something else, but she stops when the office door opens and Principal Allen greets us. I expect to hear the stern voice she uses with her students, but instead Principal Allen squeals, “Laura! So good to see you!” and hugs Mom.

“Trudy!” Mom exclaims, all traces of her irritation gone. “It's been ages. How are you? I'll bet when we were cheering for the Winston Wildcats, we didn't think we'd end up here!”

Mom and “Trudy” chatter about the good old days as we walk into the office and settle into chairs around Principal Allen's desk. I can't help feeling a little weird that Mom and Principal Allen know each other. I mean, yeah, I vaguely remember Mom telling me they went to school
together, but it's hard to imagine Mom and Principal Allen as middle school cheerleaders.

Next to Principal Allen's desk is a display case holding several trophies. My stomach clenches when I see the three golden microphones—representing Winston's Groove It Up wins over the last three years. A fourth win this year would set a new record. The trophies occupy their own row, but they're not centered. At the end is a large space, like Principal Allen has already reserved the spot for our fourth win.

“Thank you for coming in today,” Principal Allen says. “With Kelsey out that means that, as the Vice PlanMaster, Polly is next in line to coordinate Groove It Up. There's much to accomplish in the next few weeks.”

Principal Allen looks at me like I'm supposed to speak, to express my gratitude or maybe tell her all about the plans I have for Groove It Up.

“I visited Kelsey in the hospital,” I blurt out instead.

Principal Allen nods and waves her hand slightly. “Yes, I've spoken with the Taylors as well, but Kelsey won't be coming back to school until after Groove It Up, and, as they say, the show must go on. The question is, what to do now? There was a school board meeting last night, and questions have arisen regarding Groove It Up and what's best for the school.”

“I see,” Mom says. I can feel something shift in the atmosphere then, but I can't figure out what.

“Yes,” Principal Allen continues, “and we just need a little bit of clarity about what Polly wants to do—if she wishes to continue on as the PlanMaster, or if she wishes to resign.” Principal Allen looks at me. “Polly, what are your thoughts?”

My thoughts? The only thought in my head is that I wish I could get away—from Mom, who would sign me up for Harvard right now if she could. And from Principal Allen, who seems more concerned about Groove It Up than she does about Kelsey.

I hesitate before answering, maybe too long, because Principal Allen says, “Polly, there are leftover cookies in the teachers' lounge, just down the hall. Why don't you grab a few—there's milk in the fridge—and we'll pick this up in a few minutes.”

I know she's trying to get rid of me—though I'm not sure why—but I don't argue, and try not to run from her office. Inside the teachers' lounge I ignore the cookies and send Kelsey a text:

Are you there?

It takes a minute, but then:

Yes. Hard 2 txt with 1 hand tho.

I'm meeting with Principal Allen. She wants to know if I want to be the PlanMaster or if I want to resign.

I hesitate and then add:

Do you think I could do it?

I had meant to text “should” do it, like whether or not Kelsey thinks it's worth my time. But instead, I typed “could” do it, like I'm wondering if Kelsey thinks I'm able to plan Groove It Up by myself. Which, I guess I am. Wondering, I mean.

I wait for Kelsey to text back.

And wait some more.

When it's clear Kelsey isn't going to respond, I leave the teachers' lounge. The door to Principal Allen's office is cracked open, and I hear whispers. Instinctively, I slow down.

“Oh, Trudy, you mustn't let it get to you,” Mom is saying. “People get worked up over Groove It Up. They always have. Remember when we were in eighth grade?”

“Yes, but things are different this year. These prizes
are making everyone crazy. Do you know how many phone calls I've received from parents who want their kid to get a slot on the Talent Team, just so they can get on TV if we win? Or because their kid is dying to see Shattered Stars? Henry Huff is even insisting that this is too important to let the students handle it.”

“But Groove It Up is always coordinated by the students. It's tradition.”

“That's exactly what I told him, but he's one of our biggest donors, so others listen to him. I need a win here, Laura. Tell me honestly, do you think Polly can get the job done?”

I step closer to the door. I know I should cough, clear my throat, make a bunch of noise, and pretend I haven't just been eavesdropping. But I can't. In the few seconds of silence as we wait for Mom's response, I hear the question a hundred times over:

Can Polly get the job done?

I hear it so many times, it's not until Principal Allen says, “Oh, I see,” that I realize Mom never answered the question.

“You have to understand, Trudy,” Mom says, sounding embarrassed. “Polly's more of a follower than a leader. And anyway, you know kids today. They're lazy. They're
more interested in shopping and texting their friends than working hard.”

“So true,” Principal Allen says. I don't hear the rest of what she says, because I feel like I've been punched in the gut, and there's a strange buzzing noise in my ears.

The nickname Plastic Polly has always bothered me, but I figured it was mostly just because people were jealous, that they coveted a spot at the Court, and when it was denied, they turned to nastiness as their consolation and decided to dismiss me as shallow and fake. But do people really believe it? Does
my own mother
really believe it?

I feel hollow—like I'm nothing but empty space—as I silently back up a few paces, cough loudly, and clomp through the door. I refuse to look at Mom as I take my seat in front of Principal Allen.

“So, Polly,” Principal Allen says, “we were just discussing your options. We feel it's unfair you've been put into this position, that you are now in charge of something as all-consuming as Groove It Up.”