Plastic Polly (7 page)

“Oh, Jenna,” Lindsey says, “what about . . .”

I tune out while Jenna answers people's questions and look down at the speech I wrote. I was going to give the girls a pep talk, and tell them we needed to pull together, that Kelsey's injury was a big blow to the committee, and that we had a long road ahead of us, but if we worked together as a team, I was confident we could win Groove It Up.

Okay, I admit it. I copied my speech from my favorite
movie lines. But still, it's a good speech. And with Jenna coming in and taking over, it looks like I won't be able to give it.

I glance over and see Melinda grinning at me. “I have some things I need to say,” I whisper to her.

“I've got one word for you,” Melinda whispers back. “Sushi Lips.”

“That's two words, Melinda.”

Melinda shrugs like she couldn't care less. “Whatever. Don't pout to me just because Kelsey isn't here and you two can't gang up on everyone else.”

I look at the clock above Mr. Fish's desk. The meeting is almost over, and I haven't said one thing. So much for being a good PlanMaster. I smile halfheartedly at Mr. Fish, who has finished his cheesecake and is staring at me.

Mr. Fish clears his throat, interrupting Jenna, who's going into great detail about the outfits she thinks we should wear to Groove It Up. “If I recall correctly, Miss Taylor already ordered T-shirts for the planning committee.” Mr. Fish glances at me. “In fact, Zack called and said you can pick them up at the mall anytime.”

Zack Wilson, owner of Zack's Shirt Shack, is a big supporter of Groove It Up. This year he was selected to be our emcee.

“I can do that tonight,” I say quickly.

“Fine.” Jenna looks irritated. “Then after that we need to— Polly . . .” She pauses and taps on my notebook. “Shouldn't you be taking notes on all this?”

I pick up my pen and start to write, but then quickly put it down. “You know what, Jenna? We do need someone to take notes.” I toss my notebook and pen at her. “And as the PlanMaster, I'm selecting
you
to be our secretary.”

Jenna starts to protest, but I cut her off, “Unless you've decided you don't want to be a part of the committee?”

Jenna grudgingly flips open the notebook. If I looked closely enough, I bet I could actually see steam coming out of her ears.

Mr. Fish clears his throat again. He has resumed reading his magazine. “You girls should also know that the coin toss meeting with American River's planning committee is tomorrow afternoon. I need at least one of you to attend with me.”

“Okay,” Jenna says quickly. “Melinda and I will go. Kristy should come too.”

“Since I'm the PlanMaster,” I say with a look at Jenna, “I think I'll go too.” Before Jenna can speak, I turn toward the rest of the committee and add, “And we also need to talk about tryouts. We need three judges.”

“Done,” Melinda says.

I pause and look at Melinda. “What do you mean, ‘done'?”

Melinda shrugs. “Jenna and I decided we'd be the judges.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “How do you figure the two of you will be judges?”

“Simple. Kristy can't be a judge if she's trying out. And Lindsey and everyone else are seventh graders, so they can't be judges. So that leaves me and Jenna.”

“Wow,” I say, crossing my arms. “Sounds like you've got it all figured out. So, then, who's the third judge?”

Melinda looks at me like I'm a total idiot. “You are. You're the PlanMaster, aren't you?”

True Confession: If my parents ever let me get a dog, I'd name her Roosevelt, after Eleanor Roosevelt. But I'd just call her Rosie for short.

A
M
I
THE
P
LAN
M
ASTER
? B
ECAUSE IT DIDN
'
T FEEL LIKE
it at the meeting. It felt like I was stuck in my usual role, except this time instead of agreeing with everything Kelsey said, I was supposed to agree with whatever Jenna and Melinda said. After we established that, yes, I was the third judge, I brought the meeting to a close, saying I needed to be somewhere. Really, I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.

On the ride over to the mall, Mom fires question after question at me about the meeting, even though I tell her three times I don't want to talk about it. Once we arrive,
she heads to the food court while I hurry to Zack's Shirt Shack to pick up the Groove It Up T-shirts.

Inside, Zack shows me the shirts Kelsey ordered. They're pink and glittery with the word “Staff” written in swirly purple writing. When I go to pay for them, Zack shakes his head, and his brown corkscrew curls bounce in all directions.

“It's on the house this year, since you guys made me emcee.”

I thank Zack and leave. Standing outside the shop is a boy about my age holding a note card in one hand and a leash in the other. A white toy poodle dressed in a plaid sweater is at the other end of the leash, his tail wagging furiously.

“Ooooh, what a cute dog!” I crouch down to pet him, and am immediately rewarded with several humid licks on my face. I nuzzle him back. “I've always wanted a dog.” Actually, I've always wanted any kind of pet, but Mom is allergic to most animals, so that was never an option.

“You want this one?” the boy asks. “Cuz you're welcome to him.”

The dog jumps up onto my lap, barking and licking my face.

“Percy, down!” The boy tugs on the leash. “I mean it. Get down! I'm so sorry.”

“No problem. His name's Percy?”

“Actually, his name's Pretty Percy—please don't make me tell you why. I'm Justin.”

“I'm Polly.” I stand up and realize that Justin is
tall
. Like, basketball player tall. He's wearing silver wire-framed glasses over eyes the color of green apples. He has a chipped front tooth, which makes his smile seem crooked. I take a step backward because—thanks to Pretty Percy—I probably now smell like dog breath.

“How—” I stop, because my voice sounds squeaky.

You are a member of the Court,
I tell myself sternly.
You can talk to a boy without turning into a complete moron.

“How long have you had Pretty Percy?” I ask, and this time my voice sounds confident.

“He's my grandma's, actually. We're shopping for a present for my mom.” Justin gestures to an antiques shop. “They don't want poodles in their store, and I have something for school I have to pick up from Zack's anyway.” He waves the note card in his hand. “So I'm studying for something until Gran finishes up. You don't happen to remember who ruled England from 1558 to 1603, do you?”

“Queen Elizabeth the First,” I say automatically.

Justin whistles. “Wow.”

“What do you mean by that?” I place my hand on my
hip and study Justin, to see if he looks surprised, like he can't believe someone like me would know the answer to a question like that. But then I realize Justin doesn't know I'm popular. He definitely doesn't go to Winston. I would remember a boy like Justin.

Here's the thing: Sometimes it feels like people expect me to be a total airhead because I'm popular. I mean, I know I don't talk about my grades a lot, but last year in an assembly when Principal Allen called my name for honor roll, I heard Bethany Perkins—the editor of the school newspaper—whisper to her friend, “Plastic Polly made the honor roll? Seriously?” I wanted to lean over and tell Bethany that not only had I made honor roll, but I also knew the answer to the question she'd missed at the last Academic Smackdown meet. (Kelsey had to go to the meet because she needed to earn extra credit, and I tagged along.) I didn't say anything, though, because I was sitting with a bunch of girls from the Court.

“I just mean, wow, that's impressive,” Justin says, and he sounds like he means it.

We stand there awkwardly while Pretty Percy sniffs my sandals. “If you want, I could watch Pretty Percy while you're in Zack's.” I'm not particularly in a hurry to get back to Mom so she can finish grilling me about the Groove It Up meeting.

And, you know, the fact that Justin is cute—in a brainy sort of way—doesn't hurt either.

Justin cocks his head. “You're not, like, some kind of dognapper are you? I'm kidding!” he adds when I start to protest. He hands me Pretty Percy's leash.

While I wait, I pet Pretty Percy and check my cell phone. I missed five texts from Kelsey, all of them demanding to know how the meeting went.

“Okay, all finished,” Justin says, stepping out of the shop. He's carrying a large bag. He clears his throat, and his Adam's apple bobs up and down. “Hey, I was wondering if—”

Just then an elderly lady comes up behind Justin and says, “Ready to go?”

Justin glances at his grandma, then back at me. “Um . . . nice meeting you,” he mutters finally.

I'm hoping he'll finish what he was about to say, but when he doesn't, I hand him Pretty Percy's leash. “Nice meeting you, too.”

And I can't quite keep the disappointment out of my voice.

“What do the shirts look like?” Mom asks when I plop down across from her. She's already halfway through her slice of pizza.

I open my bag from Zack's and hold up a T-shirt.

“It's pretty. Your dinner is getting cold.” Mom pushes a slice of pepperoni pizza toward me.

“Yeah, Zack's was . . . busy.” I start picking off the pepperoni slices. I actually can't stand meat on my pizza, but I love the taste of pepperoni grease on cheese.

“Hmm,” Moms says, and I can tell she's not really listening. She opens her purse and takes out the application for Camp Colonial. “Guess what I found in the garbage this morning?”

“Mom,” I groan, “I don't want to talk about this right now.” I make a mental note that next time I'll tear the application into shreds before I toss it into the trash. Then I take a large bite of pizza, and make a show of chewing, hoping she'll drop it.

Fat chance. “Well, when
do
you think you'll find the time to talk about it?” Mom asks. “This is a very prestigious camp, and spots are limited. And I don't see what the problem is. I thought you wanted to visit Boston.”

“Boston?” I swallow and look up. I do want to go to Boston. Every time we study American history in school, I think it would be cool to see all the old historical buildings.

Mom frowns. “Polly, did you even
read
the application?”

“I've been busy—and now with being PlanMaster for Groove It Up—”

“I understand that Groove It Up is time-consuming, but you still need to focus on your future.”

“I know, but Groove It Up is important,” I say, thinking fast. “I bet it would look great on a college application.” Bingo, the two words that usually get Mom's attention (and get her off my back), especially when I say them together. College! Application!

Except it doesn't seem to have the same effect this time. “Is that why you're doing this?” Mom leans forward. “Or is this about having fun with your friends from the Court?”

Why
am
I doing this? To prove I'm not Plastic Polly? To prove I can be a leader? Because if so, I blew it royally at the meeting. “So what if it is?” I push my plate away, because I don't feel hungry anymore. “What's wrong with doing something just because it's fun? Not everything has to be about work.” I tap the application.

“
Are
you having fun? Because I tried to talk to you about the meeting, and you refused to discuss it.”

“Because it was horrible, okay? Melinda invited Jenna Huff to be on the committee, and the two of them basically shut me out of the meeting.
That's
how it went. There. Are you happy now?”

“Jenna Huff?” There's an edge to Mom's voice. It's slight, but it's there. Mom likes Mrs. Huff about as much as I like Jenna. When we were in Winston's elementary section, Mrs. Huff was president of the PTA. Once, she sent home a note saying it would be nice if the parents who didn't regularly volunteer gave the other mothers a break, and would Mom mind handling the decorations for the class Christmas party?