Twelve (10 page)

Mrs. Potter expected us to be quiet during homeroom and do some sort of work, so I read my history textbook. At Trinity, history had been called “social studies,” and our textbooks had been more like workbooks, with color pictures and lists of vocabulary. This year my history book was the size of a dictionary, and its print was just as small. It made me feel grown-up. But it was also really heavy.

Two seats behind me, a girl tapped a message into her cell phone, and Mrs. Potter glanced up from her stack of papers. Uh-oh. We'd been told expressly that cell phones weren't allowed. Not that I had a cell phone, but lots of kids did.

“Ansley, may I ask what you're doing?” Mrs. Potter said.

“Sorry, Mrs. Potter,” Ansley said, snapping shut her phone.

“Why aren't you doing something productive?” Mrs. Potter asked.

Ansley's cheeks reddened, probably because everyone was staring at her. And probably because she didn't expect Mrs. Potter to make such a big deal out of it. “Um . . . I don't have a pencil.”

“You don't have a pencil,” Mrs. Potter repeated. “As I recall, you didn't have a pencil yesterday, either. Do you think, perhaps, a pencil would be a good thing to bring to school?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ansley said.

“Bring me your phone, please,” Mrs. Potter said.

Ansley slid out of her seat and walked to the front of the room, where she placed her phone on Mrs. Potter's desk. Mrs. Potter dropped it neatly into the top drawer.

“I suggest you find someone who will lend you a pencil, and I suggest that tomorrow you come prepared,” Mrs. Potter said. She waited, then said impatiently, “You may return to your seat.”

“But . . .” said Ansley. I knew she was thinking of her phone.

“Yes?” Mrs. Potter said.

Ansley hovered for another moment, then went back to her desk. As she passed, I saw she was fighting back tears. Mrs. Potter didn't seem to care, which was mean. It made me not like her—in fact, it made me feel something hot and sharp toward her—and I didn't like feeling that way toward my teacher.

I also felt scared of her. I didn't like that, either.

I thought longingly of Mr. Hutchinson, who never would have taken anyone's phone or made a federal case out of a missing pencil. If someone forgot her pencil, he gave her one from his stash, simple as that.

A lump rose in my throat. I bowed my head over my work.

During history, I dropped my textbook on the floor and it was extremely loud and Mr. Fackler thought I did it on purpose. During pre-algebra I stepped on some guy's backpack, and he glared in a way that made my heart pound. It was like he thought I was an absolute idiot. For the whole rest of the class I dwelled on it, telling myself,
I stepped on his backpack, that's all. He needs to chill!
But it didn't ease my shame, which even I realized was too big for my crime.

During English everyone snickered when I pronounced
plethora
wrong, even Louise, who should have stuck up for me since she knew me from before. During lunch she tried to make amends by offering me her brownie, but it was too little, too late. If she was going to be nice to me, she'd have to be nice to me all the time, not just when she didn't have anyone to sit with.

By the time Mom picked me up outside the junior high building, I was ready for a heaping dose of motherly love. I told her all about my horrible day, expecting sympathy, but instead I got another version of Sandra's “deal with it” speech from this morning.

“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said. “You're going to have an awfully long year if you don't find a way to change your attitude.”

So
not helpful. I almost wished I'd waited to ride with Sandra, but she had track from four till six. I yearned to veg in front of the TV with a bag of Doritos, not sit in the bleachers and watch Sandra run.

“Why don't you like your school?” Ty asked from his booster seat in the back.

“Because everyone's mean,” I said. “You better appreciate elementary school while you can, because you're going to hate junior high.”

“Winnie,” Mom chided.

“I love first grade,” Ty said. “For snack they gave us Goldfish, and I snuck some in my pocket. Want one?”

“I suppose,” I said. I extended my hand from the front seat.

“With tail or without?”

“Uh . . . with, I guess.”

“Okay,” he said. He made it swim toward me, saying “swim, swim, swim” to clarify the process. Then he jabbed me with it, hard.

“Ow!” I cried. “What'd you do that for?”

“With their tail they hurt more, because they whack you,” Ty explained. He waved the Goldfish. “Here.”

“I don't want it anymore,” I said. To my horror, my voice trembled.

Ty panicked, as he always did when he upset me.

“Winnie, I'm sorry!” he said. “I did not
mean
to whack you!” His fist, grubby with cracker dust, thrust itself into my vision. “Here, you can have all of them. And if they whack you, I will crunch them with my sharp, sharp teeth!”

“I don't want them,” I said.

Ty hyperventilated.

“Winnie, tell your brother it's okay,” Mom said. “Ty, it's okay. Winnie's not mad at you, are you, Winnie?”

“I am,” I said.

“No, you're not,” Mom said, pulling up short at a red light. “Ty, she's not. She's just had a hard day.” She looked at me from the driver's seat. “Is there something going on you haven't told me?”

Oh, so
now
she wanted to talk, now that I no longer did. Everything was bad and wrong, and maybe it wasn't Ty's fault, but he sure hadn't helped. It actually felt kind of good to have someone else be unhappy, too.

“Winnie?” Mom said.

“A girl called Dinah the B-word,” I said.

“To
Dinah
?” Mom said.

“And all Dinah had done was try to open that other girl's locker by mistake,” I said.

“What's the B-word?” Ty asked.

The light turned green, and Mom pressed on the accelerator. “It's something people say when they're not being very nice.”

“It rhymes with
witch,
” I said. “Only it starts with B.”

“
What
rhymes with
witch
?” Ty asked.

I started to answer, but Mom cut me off.

“Never mind,” she said. “It's a grown-up word. It's a word we don't use.”

“Like
stupid
?”

“Like stupid.”

“But Dinah's not stupid,” Ty said.

“No, she's not,” Mom said.

We rode the rest of the way home in silence.

The next day, Dinah stayed home sick, only I didn't think she was
really
sick. She didn't want to face the B-word girl, that's what I thought. I didn't blame her. I wouldn't, either. But that left me all alone in the universe, and in PE, which was the one class I had with Dinah, I felt especially stupid. We were supposed to find partners to do sit-ups with, and without Dinah, there was no partner for me.

All around girls paired up, giggling and chatting. I felt like the biggest dork in the world, standing there trying to look unconcerned but privately feeling the onset of a panic attack. I would have even taken Louise for a partner. In a snap I'd have taken Louise. But she wasn't an option, because she wasn't in my class.

“Everyone set?” Coach Swinson said. The girls in pairs spread out on the mats, and I realized that in a few short moments I was going to be standing there by myself with a sign taped to my chest that said SUPER-ENORMOUS LOSER.

And then . . . salvation.

“Want to pair up?” a girl said, nudging my arm with her elbow. She had brown hair and green eyes with long lashes.

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“I'm Cinnamon,” she said.

“What?”

“Cinnamon,” she said. “I know it's weird, but that's my name.” Her expression—part martyred, part amused—said she'd been through this countless times before.

“Your name is
Cinnamon
?” I said. “That is so cool.”

“My parents are pretty hippie-dippy,” she explained. She waited, then said, “So . . . do you have a name?”

I blushed. “Oh, right. I'm Winnie.”

Coach Swinson clapped her hands. “Let's do it,” she said. “I want you each to do as many sit-ups as you can in one minute. Then you'll switch.”

Cinnamon and I scrambled into position. She lay on her back with knees bent, and I anchored her feet with my weight. She clasped her hands behind her head.

Coach Swinson blew her whistle. “Go!”

Cinnamon huffed and puffed. Her body jerked beneath me. It was a very intimate thing, holding this newly met person's feet. I focused my attention on counting.

“Fifty-three,” I said at the end of the minute. I released Cinnamon's feet, and she extended her legs. She panted, arms spread wide on the mat.

“Time to switch,” Coach Swinson said. I lay back and put my hands behind my head, and Cinnamon got into place at my feet.

“Ready, go!”

I strained against her. My stomach muscles did the bulk of the work, but my legs were involved, too, bracing against her grip. Down there on the floor I felt very . . . exposed, and I hoped my shorts weren't gaping at the leg. I also hoped desperately and fervently that there wouldn't be a replay of my fart moment at Camp Winding Gap, because, exerting myself like this, it was entirely possible.

“Fifty-eight, fifty-nine . . . sixty!” Cinnamon cried as Coach Swinson blasted her whistle. “Winnie, that's awesome!”

I grinned, breathing hard. Rather than flopping onto the mat, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself up. Was she mad that I'd done more than her? I didn't think so.

Next came laps around the gym, and Cinnamon fell in beside me even though I didn't expect her to. We chatted as we jogged, and I learned that she was an alpha-omega, which meant she'd started Westminster in pre-K and would assumedly continue on through her senior year. At first I thought,
She must know tons of people—so why'd she pick me? What was wrong with her that left her as partnerless as I was?
Then, more charitably, I decided that maybe it was because she knew so many people that she
did
pick me. Because she was able to, sort of.

I liked her kindness, but I didn't want her pity, so I tried to be witty and entertaining. I told her about Sandra and her ratty BMW and how Dad wanted us to wear bike helmets, which made her laugh. She told me that her own dad had just gotten remarried, and that her new stepmom unfolded Cinnamon's used-up tissues to see how many blows Cinnamon had gotten on them.

“What?!” I said.

“She pulls them out of the trash—I'm not kidding,” Cinnamon said. “She's like, ‘You're being wasteful by not using the entire Kleenex.' I'm like, ‘You're being disgusting by checking!' ”

“That's nuts,” I said, imagining Cinnamon's stepmom rooting through the garbage. In my mind she wore a velour sweatsuit, like Gail Grayson's mom. Malena, Gail's boob-friend, was in Cinnamon's and my PE class, and she bounced along ahead of us in her green-and-white gym uniform.

“Hey,” I said, jerking my chin in Malena's direction. “Do you know that girl?”

“Malena?” Cinnamon said. “She's been here since pre-K, too. Not my favorite.”

I was delighted to hear this, and my impression of Cinnamon went up. “Oh yeah? Why?”

“She's not very nice, that's all,” Cinnamon said. “I mean—decide for yourself. But, like, she's the kind of girl who makes you feel bad if you suck at field hockey, or whatever. She thinks she's so much better than everyone.”

“There's a girl from my old school who's like that,” I said, feeling daring. “She goes here now, too. Her name's Gail.”

“Great,” Cinnamon said. “Just what we need.”

I laughed.

In the locker room, I felt happy as I changed back into my normal clothes. I'd made a new friend—maybe—and she was cool. She was also older-acting than my elementary-school friends. And she wore thong underwear. I noticed as she slipped into her jeans.

Still, the very first thing I did when I got home was to call Dinah and tell her she
had
to go to school the next day.

“Because number one, I missed you,” I said, “and number two, you're supposed to spend the night tomorrow night, and your dad won't let you if you're supposedly sick.” It was one of those rules that all grown-ups seemed to share: if you're sick, you're sick, and there should be nothing fun about it. Even though surely Mr. Devine knew that Dinah had spent all day playing Mario Kart on her GameCube.

“But what if I see that girl again?” Dinah asked. “The one who . . . you know.”

“Well, you probably will,” I said. “So you might as well go ahead and get it over with.”

“I don't want to,” Dinah said.

“What other option do you have?” I said. “I mean, come on. Would you rather be homeschooled?”

“Yes,” Dinah said.

I switched tactics, because it was all beginning to sound too familiar. “Anyway, what about that dance-group thingie you told me about? The hip-hop club. Don't you want to sign up?”

Dinah was silent. I knew she did, though, because on the first day of school that was all she could talk about. At the time, I hadn't encouraged her, because I wasn't interested in the hip-hop club, and I doubted she'd join without me. But who knows? Maybe she would.

“Plus there's this girl I want you to meet,” I went on. “She's in our PE class.”