FIRST MARKING PERIOD



WELCOME TO MERRYWEATHER HIGH



It is my first morning of high school. I have seven new note-
books, a skirt I hate, and a stomachache.

The school bus wheezes to my corner. The door opens and I
step up. I am the first pickup of the day. The driver pulls away
from the curb while I stand in the aisle. Where to sit? I've
never been a backseat wasteease. If I sit in the middle, a
stranger could sit next to me. If I sit in the front, it will make
me look like a little kid, but I figure it's the best chance I have
to make eye contact with one of my friends, if any of them
have decided to talk to me yet.

The bus picks up students in groups of four or five. As they
walk down the aisle, people who were my middle-school lab
partners or gym buddies glare at me. I close my eyes. This is
what I've been dreading. As we leave the last stop, I am the
only person sitting alone.

The driver downshifts to drag us over the hills. The engine
clanks, which makes the guys in the back holler something
obscene. Someone is wearing too much cologne. I try to open
my window, but the little latches won't move. A guy behind
me unwraps his breakfast and shoots the wrapper at the back
of my head. It bounces into my lap — a Ho-Ho.

We pass janitors painting over the sign in front of the high
school. The school board has decided that "Merryweather



3



High — Home of the Trojans" didn't send a strong abstinence
message, so they have transformed us into the Blue Devils.
Better the Devil you know than the Trojan you don't, I guess.
School colors will stay purple and gray. The board didn't want
to spring for new uniforms.

Older students are allowed to roam until the bell, but ninth-
graders are herded into the auditorium. We fall into clans:
Jocks, Country Clubbers, Idiot Savants, Cheerleaders, Human
Waste, Eurotrash, Future Fascists of America, Big Hair Chix,
the Marthas, Suffering Artists, Thespians, Goths, Shredders. I
am clanless. I wasted the last weeks of August watching bad
cartoons. I didn't go to the mall, the lake, or the pool, or an-
swer the phone. I have entered high school with the wrong
hair, the wrong clothes, the wrong attitude. And I don't have
anyone to sit with.

I am Outcast.

There is no point looking for my ex-friends. Our clan, the
Plain Janes, has splintered and the pieces are being absorbed
by rival factions. Nicole lounges with the Jocks, comparing
scars from summer league sports. Ivy floats between the Suf-
fering Artists on one side of the aisle and the Thespians on the
other. She has enough personality to travel with two packs.
Jessica has moved to Nevada. No real loss. She was mostly
Ivy's friend, anyway.

The kids behind me laugh so loud I know they're laughing
about me. I can't help myself. I turn around. It's Rachel, sur-
rounded by a bunch of kids wearing clothes that most defi-
nitely did not come from the EastSide Mall. Rachel Bruin, my



4



ex-best friend. She stares at something above my left ear.
Words climb up my throat. This was the girl who suffered
through Brownies with me, who taught me how to swim, who
understood about my parents, who didn't make fun of my
bedroom. If there is anyone in the entire galaxy I am dying to
tell what really happened, it's Rachel. My throat burns.

Her eyes meet mine for a second. "I hate you," she mouths
silently. She turns her back to me and laughs with her friends.
I bite my lip. I am not going to think about it. It was ugly, but
it's over, and I'm not going to think about it. My lip bleeds a
little. It tastes like metal. I need to sit down.

I stand in the center aisle of the auditorium, a wounded zebra
in a National Geographic special, looking for someone, any-
one, to sit next to. A predator approaches: gray jock buzz cut,
whistle around a neck thicker than his head. Probably a social
studies teacher, hired to coach a blood sport.

Mr. Neck: "Sit."

I grab a seat. Another wounded zebra turns and smiles at me.
She's packing at least five grand worth of orthodontia, but has
great shoes. "I'm Heather from Ohio," she says. "I'm new
here. Are you?" I don't have time to answer. The lights dim
and the indoctrination begins.

THE FIRST TEN LIES THEY TELL YOU IN HIGH SCHOOL

1. We are here to help you.

2. You will have enough time to get to your class before
the bell rings.

3. The dress code will be enforced.



5



4. No smoking is allowed on school grounds.

5. Our football team will win the championship this year.

6. We expect more of you here.

7. Guidance counselors are always available to listen.

8. Your schedule was created with your needs in mind.

9. Your locker combination is private.

10. These will be the years you look back on fondly.



My first class is biology. I can't find it and get my first demerit
for wandering the hall. It is 8:50 in the morning. Only 699
days and 7 class periods until graduation.



OUR TEACHERS ARE THE BEST . . .

My English teacher has no face. She has uncombed stringy
hair that droops on her shoulders. The hair is black from her
part to her ears and then neon orange to the frizzy ends. I
can't decide if she had pissed off her hairdresser or is morph-
ing into a monarch butterfly. I call her Hairwoman.

Hairwoman wastes twenty minutes taking attendance because
she won't look at us. She keeps her head bent over her desk so
the hair flops in front of her face. She spends the rest of class
writing on the board and speaking to the flag about our re-
quired reading. She wants us to write in our class journals
every day, but promises not to read them. I write about how
weird she is.

We have journals in social studies, too. The school must have
gotten a good price on journals. We are studying American



6



history for the ninth time in nine years. Another review
of map skills, one week of Native Americans, Christ-
opher Columbus in time for Columbus Day, the Pilgrims in
time for Thanksgiving. Every year they say we're going to get
right up to the present, but we always get stuck in the Indus-
trial Revolution. We got to World War I in seventh grade —
who knew there had been a war with the whole world? We
need more holidays to keep the social studies teachers on
track.

My social studies teacher is Mr. Neck, the same guy who
growled at me to sit down in the auditorium. He remembers
me fondly. "I got my eye on you. Front row."

Nice seeing you again, too. I bet he suffers from post-traumatic
stress disorder. Vietnam or Iraq — one of those TV wars.



SPOTLIGHT

I find my locker after social studies. The lock sticks a little,
but I open it. I dive into the stream of fourth-period lunch stu-
dents and swim down the hall to the cafeteria.

I know enough not to bring lunch on the first day of high
school. There is no way of telling what the acceptable fashion
will be. Brown bags — humble testament to suburbia, or ter-
minal geek gear? Insulated lunch bags — hip way to save the
planet, or sign of an overinvolved mother? Buying is the only
solution. And it gives me time to scan the cafeteria for a
friendly face or an inconspicuous corner.



7



The hot lunch is turkey with reconstituted dried mashed pota-
toes and gravy, a damp green vegetable, and a cookie. I'm not
sure how to order anything else, so I just slide my tray along
and let the lunch drones fill it. This eight-foot senior in front
of me somehow gets three cheeseburgers, French fries, and
two Ho-Hos without saying a word. Some sort of Morse code
with his eyes, maybe. Must study this further. I follow the Bas-
ketball Pole into the cafeteria.

I see a few friends — people I used to think were my friends — but
they look away. Think fast, think fast. There's that new girl,
Heather, reading by the window. I could sit across from her. Or I
could crawl behind a trash can. Or maybe I could dump my lunch
straight into the trash and keep moving right on out the door.

The Basketball Pole waves to a table of friends. Of course.
The basketball team. They all swear at him — a bizarre greet-
ing practiced by athletic boys with zits. He smiles and throws
a Ho-Ho. I try to scoot around him.

Thwap! A lump of potatoes and gravy hits me square in the
center of my chest. All conversation stops as the entire lunch-
room gawks, my face burning into their retinas. I will be for-
ever known as "that girl who got nailed by potatoes the first
day." The Basketball Pole apologizes and says something else,
but four hundred people explode in laughter and I can't read
lips. I ditch my tray and bolt for the door.

I motor so fast out of the lunchroom the track coach would
draft me for varsity if he were around. But no, Mr. Neck has
cafeteria duty. And Mr. Neck has no use for girls who can run



8



the one hundred in under ten seconds, unless they're willing to
do it while holding on to a football.

Mr. Neck: "We meet again."

Me:

Would he listen to "I need to go home and change," or "Did you
see what that bozo did"? Not a chance. I keep my mouth shut.

Mr. Neck: "Where do you think you're going?"

Me:

It is easier not to say anything. Shut your trap, button your
lip, can it. All that crap you hear on TV about communication
and expressing feelings is a lie. Nobody really wants to hear
what you have to say.

Mr. Neck makes a note in his book. "I knew you were trouble
the first time I saw you. I've taught here for twenty-four years
and I can tell what's going on in a kid's head just by looking in
their eyes. No more warnings. You just earned a demerit for
wandering the halls without a pass."



SANCTUARY

Art follows lunch, like dream follows nightmare. The class-
room is at the far end of the building and has long,



9



south-facing windows. The sun doesn't shine much in Syr-
acuse, so the art room is designed to get every bit of light
it can. It is dusty in a clean-dirt kind of way. The floor is
layered with dry splotches of paint, the walls plastered
with sketches of tormented teenagers and fat puppies, the
shelves crowded with clay pots. A radio plays my favorite
station.

Mr. Freeman is ugly. Big old grasshopper body, like a stilt-
walking circus guy. Nose like a credit card sunk between his
eyes. But he smiles at us as we file into class.

He is hunched over a spinning pot, his hands muddy red.
"Welcome to the only class that will teach you how to sur-
vive," he says. "Welcome to Art."

I sit at a table close to his desk. Ivy is in this class. She sits by
the door. I keep staring at her, trying to make her look at me.
That happens in movies — people can feel it when other people
stare at them and they just have to turn around and say some-
thing. Either Ivy has a great force field, or my laser vision isn't
very strong. She won't look back at me. I wish I could sit with
her. She knows art.

Mr. Freeman turns off the wheel and grabs a piece of chalk
without washing his hands. "SOUL," he writes on the board.
The clay streaks the word like dried blood. "This is where you
can find your soul, if you dare. Where you can touch that part
of you that you've never dared look at before. Do not come
here and ask me to show you how to draw a face. Ask me to
help you find the wind."



10



I sneak a peek behind me. The eyebrow telegraph is flashing
fast. This guy is weird. He must see it, he must know what we
are thinking. He keeps on talking. He says we will graduate
knowing how to read and write because we'll spend a million
hours learning how to read and write. (I could argue that
point.)

Mr. Freeman: "Why not spend that time on art: painting,
sculpting, charcoal, pastel, oils? Are words or numbers more
important than images? Who decided this? Does algebra move
you to tears?" (Hands raise, thinking he wants answers.)
"Can the plural possessive express the feelings in your heart?
If you don't learn art now, you will never learn to breathe!!!"

There is more. For someone who questions the value of
words, he sure uses a lot of them. I tune out for a while and
come back when he holds up a huge globe that is missing half
of the Northern Hemisphere. "Can anyone tell me what this
is?" he asks. "A globe?" ventures a voice in the back. Mr.
Freeman rolls his eyes. "Was it an expensive sculpture that
some kid dropped and he had to pay for it out of his own
money or they didn't let him graduate?" asks another.

Mr. Freeman sighs. "No imagination. What are you, thirteen?
Fourteen? You've already let them beat your creativity out of
you! This is an old globe I used to let my daughters kick
around my studio when it was too wet to play outside. One
day Jenny put her foot right through Texas, and the United
States crumbled into the sea. And voila — an idea! This broken
ball could be used to express such powerful visions — you
could paint a picture of it with people fleeing from the hole,



11



with a wet-muzzled dog chewing Alaska — the opportunities
are endless. It's almost too much, but you are important
enough to give it to."

Huh?

"You will each pick a piece of paper out of the globe." He
walks around the room so we can pull red scraps from the
center of the earth. "On the paper you will find one word, the
name of an object. I hope you like it. You will spend the rest
of the year learning how to turn that object into a piece of art.
You will sculpt it. You will sketch it, papier-mache it, carve it.
If the computer teacher is talking to me this year, you can use
the lab for computer-aided designs. But there's a catch — by the
end of the year, you must figure out how to make your object
say something, express an emotion, speak to every person
who looks at it."

Some people groan. My stomach flutters. Can he really let us
do this? It sounds like too much fun. He stops at my table. I
plunge my hand into the bottom of the globe and fish out my
paper. "Tree." Tree? It's too easy. I learned how to draw a tree
in second grade. I reach in for another piece of paper. Mr.
Freeman shakes his head. "Ah-ah-ah," he says. "You just
chose your destiny, you can't change that."

He pulls a bucket of clay from under the pottery wheel,
breaks off fist-sized balls, and tosses one to each of us.
Then he turns up the radio and laughs. "Welcome to the
journey."



12



ESPANOL



My Spanish teacher is going to try to get through the entire
year without speaking English to us. This is both amusing and
useful — makes it much easier to ignore her. She communicates
through exaggerated gestures and playacting. It's like taking a
class in charades. She says a sentence in Spanish and puts the
back of her hand to her forehead. "You have a fever!" some-
one from class calls out. She shakes her head no, and repeats
the gesture. "You feel faint!" No. She goes out to the hall,
then bursts through the door, looking busy and distracted. She
turns to us, acts surprised to see us, then does the bit with the
back of the hand to the forehead. "You're lost!" "You're an-
gry!" "You're in the wrong school!" "You're in the wrong
country!" "You're on the wrong planet!"

She tries one more time and smacks herself so hard on the
forehead she staggers a bit. Her forehead is as pink as her lip-
stick. The guesses continue. "You can't believe how many kids
are in this class!" "You forgot how to speak Spanish!" "You
have a migraine!" "You're going to have a migraine if we
don't figure it out!"

In desperation, she writes a sentence in Spanish on the board:
Me sorprende que estoy tan cansada hoy. No one knows what
it says. We don't understand Spanish — that's why we're here.
Finally, some brain gets out the Spanish-English dictionary.
We spend the rest of the period trying to translate the sen-



tence. When the bell rings, we have gotten as far as "To ex-
haust the day to surprise."



HOME. WORK.

I make it through the first two weeks of school without a nu-
clear meltdown. Heather from Ohio sits with me at lunch and
calls to talk about English homework. She can talk for hours.
All I have to do is prop the phone against my ear and "uh-
huh" occasionally while I surf the cable. Rachel and every
other person I've known for nine years continue to ignore me.
I'm getting bumped a lot in the halls. A few times my books
were accidentally ripped from my arms and pitched to the
floor. I try not to dwell on it. It has to go away eventually.

At first, Mom was pretty good about preparing dinners in the
morning and sticking them in the fridge, but I knew it would
end. I come home to a note that says, "Pizza. 555-4892. Small
tip this time." Clipped to the note is a twenty-dollar bill. My
family has a good system. We communicate with notes on the
kitchen counter. I write when I need school supplies or a ride
to the mall. They write what time they'll be home from work
and if I should thaw anything. What else is there to say?

Mom is having staff problems again. My mother manages Ef-
fert's, a clothing store downtown. Her boss offered her the
branch at the mall, but she didn't want it. I think she likes
watching the reaction when she says she works in the city.
"Aren't you afraid?" people ask. "I would never work there in



14



a million years." Mom loves doing the things that other peo-
ple are afraid of. She could have been a snake handler.

But the downtown location makes it hard to find people to
work for her. Daily shoplifters, bums peeing on the front door,
and the occasional armed robbery discourage job seekers. Go
figure. We are now two weeks into September and she's al-
ready thinking Christmas. She has plastic snowflakes and red-
felt-wearing Santas on the brain. If she can't find enough
employees for September, she'll be in deep doo-doo when the
holiday season hits.

I order my dinner at 3:10 and eat it on the white couch. I
don't know which parent was having seizures when they
bought that couch. The trick to eating on it is to turn the
messy side of the cushions up. The couch has two personali-
ties: "Melinda inhaling pepperoni and mushroom" and "No
one ever eats in the family room, no ma'am." I chow and
watch TV until I hear Dad's Jeep in the driveway. Flip, flip,
flip — cushions reversed to show their pretty white cheeks,
then bolt upstairs. By the time Dad unlocks the door, every-
thing looks the way he wants to see it, and I have vanished.

My room belongs to an alien. It is a postcard of who I was in
fifth grade. I went through a demented phase when I thought
that roses should cover everything and pink was a great color.
It was all Rachel's fault. She begged her mom to let her do her
room over, so we all ended up with new rooms. Nicole refused
to put the stupid little skirt around her nightstand and Ivy had
gone way over the top, as usual. Jessica did hers in a desert 'n'
cowdudes theme. My room was stuck in the middle, a bit



75



stolen from everyone else. The only things that were really
mine were my stuffed-rabbit collection from when I was a lit-
tle kid and my canopy bed. No matter how much Nicole
teased me, I wouldn't take the canopy down. I'm thinking
about changing the rose wallpaper, but then Mom would get
involved and Dad would measure the walls and they would
argue about paint color. I don't know what I want it to look
like, anyway.

Homework is not an option. My bed is sending out serious
nap rays. I can't help myself. The fluffy pillows and warm
comforter are more powerful than I am. I have no choice but
to snuggle under the covers.

I hear Dad turn on the television. Clink, clink, clink — he
drops ice cubes in a heavy-bottomed glass and pours in some
booze. He opens the microwave — for the pizza, I guess —
slams it closed, then beep-beeps the timer. I turn on my radio
so he'll know I'm home. I won't take a real nap. I have this
halfway place, a rest stop on the road to sleep, where I can
stay for hours. I don't even need to close my eyes, just stay
safe under the covers and breathe.

Dad turns up the volume on the TV. The news-team anchor-
dude bellows, "Five dead in house fire! Young girl attacked!
Teens suspected in gas station holdup!" I nibble on a scab on
my lower lip. Dad hops from channel to channel, watching
the same stories play over and over.

I watch myself in the mirror across the room. Ugh. My hair is
completely hidden under the comforter. I look for the shapes



16



in my face. Could I put a face in my tree, like a dryad from
Greek mythology? Two muddy-circle eyes under black-dash
eyebrows, piggy-nose nostrils, and a chewed-up horror of a
mouth. Definitely not a dryad face. I can't stop biting my lips.
It looks like my mouth belongs to someone else, someone I
don't even know.

I get out of bed and take down the mirror. I put it in the back
of my closet, facing the wall.



OUR FEARLESS LEADER

I'm hiding in the bathroom, waiting for the coast to
clear. I peek out the door. Principal Principal spots another
errant student in the hall.

Principal Principal: "Where's your late pass, mister?"

Errant Student: "I'm on my way to get one now."

PP: "But you can't be in the hall without a pass."

ES: "I know, I'm so upset. That's why I need to hurry, so I can
get a pass."

Principal Principal pauses with a look on his face like Daffy
Duck's when Bugs is pulling a fast one.

PP: "Well, hurry up, then, and get that pass."



17



Errant Student races down hall, waving and smiling. Principal
Principal walks the other way, replaying the conversation in
his mind, trying to figure out what went wrong. I ponder this
and laugh.



FIZZ ED
Gym should be illegal. It is humiliating.

My gym locker is closest to the door, which means I have to
change my clothes in a bathroom stall. Heather from Ohio
has the locker next to mine. She wears her gym clothes under
her regular clothes. After gym she changes out of her shorts
but always leaves an undershirt on. It makes me worry about
the girls in Ohio. Do they all have to wear undershirts?

The only other girl I know in gym is Nicole. In our old clan, we
had never been very close. She almost said something to me
when school started, but instead looked down and retied her
Nikes. Nicole has a full-length locker in a discreet, fresh-smelling
alcove because she's on the soccer team. She doesn't mind chang-
ing her clothes in public. She even changes bras, wearing one
sports bra to regular class and another to gym class. Never
blushes or turns around to hide herself, just changes her clothes.
Must be a jock thing. If you're that strong, you don't care if
people make comments about your boobs or rear end.

It's late September and we're starting our field hockey unit.
Field hockey is a mud sport, played only on wet, cloudy days



18



when it feels like snow. Who dreamed up this one? Nicole is
unstoppable at field hockey. She motors downfield so fast she
creates a wake of flowing mud that washes over anyone who
gets in her way. She does something with her wrist, then
the ball is in the goal. She smiles and jogs back to the center
circle.

Nicole can do anything that involves a ball and a whistle. Bas-
ketball, Softball, lacrosse, football, soccer, rugby. Anything.
And she makes it look easy. Boys watch her to learn how to
play better. It doesn't hurt that she's cute. She chipped her
tooth this past summer at some kind of jock camp. Makes her
look even cuter.

The gym teachers have a special place in their hearts for
Nicole. She shows Potential. They look at her and see future
State Championships. Pay raises. One day she scored 35 goals
before my team threatened to walk off the field. The gym
teacher made her the referee. Not only did my team lose, but
four girls went to the nurse with injuries. Nicole doesn't be-
lieve in the concept of fouling. She comes from the "play till
death or maiming" school of athletics.

It it weren't for her attitude, it would be easier to deal with all
this. The crappy locker I have, Heather geeking around me
like a moth, cold mornings in the mud watching Nicole, War-
rior Princess, listening to the coaches praise her — I could just
accept it and move on. But Nicole is so friendly. She even talks
to Heather from Ohio. She told Heather where to buy a
mouth guard so her braces wouldn't cut up her lips if she got
I in with a ball. Heather now wants to buy a sports bra. Nicole



19



is just not a bitch. It would be so much easier to hate her if
she were.



FRIENDS

Rachel is with me in the bathroom. Edit that. Rachelle is with
me in the bathroom. She has changed her name. Rachelle is
reclaiming her European heritage by hanging out with the
foreign-exchange students. After five weeks in school, she can
swear in French. She wears black stockings with runs and
doesn't shave under her arms. She waves her hand in the air
and you find yourself thinking of young chimpanzees.

I can't believe she was my best friend.

I'm in the bathroom trying to put my right contact lens back
in. She's smudging mascara under her eyes to look exhausted
and wan. I think about running out so she can't pull the evil
eye on me again, but Hairwoman, my English teacher, is pa-
trolling the hall and I forgot to go to her class.

Me: "Hi."

Rachelle: "Mmm."

Now what? I'm going to be completely, totally cool, like noth-
ing has happened. Think ice. Think snow.

\\> i low s it going." I try to put in my contact, and poke
ins .(II 111 die eye. Very cool.



20



Rachelle: "Eehn." She gets mascara in her eye and rubs it,
smearing mascara across her face.

I don't want to be cool. I want to grab her by the neck and
shake her and scream at her to stop treating me like dirt. She
didn't even bother to find out the truth — what kind of friend
is that? My contact folds in half under my eyelid. Tears well in
my right eye.

Me: "Ouch."

Rachelle: [Snorts. Stands back from mirror, turns head from
side to side to admire the black mess that looks like goose
poop across her cheekbones] "Pas mat."

She puts a candy cigarette between her lips. Rachelle wants
desperately to smoke, but she has asthma. She has started a
new Thing, unheard of in a ninth-grader. Candy cigarettes.
The exchange students love it. Next thing you know, she'll be
drinking black coffee and reading books without pictures.

An exchange student flushes and comes out of the stall. This
one looks like a supermodel with a name like Greta or Ingrid.
Is America the only country with dumpy teenagers? She says
something foreign and Rachelle laughs. Right, like she under-
stood

Me:

Rachelle blows a candy cigarette smoke ring at my face. Blows
me off. I have been dropped like a hot Pop Tart on a cold
kitchen floor. Rachelle and Greta-Ingrid glide out of the bath-



21



room. Neither one of them has toilet paper stuck to her boots.
Where is the justice?

I need a new friend. I need a friend, period. Not a true friend,
nothing close or share clothes or sleepover giggle giggle yak
yak. Just a pseudo-friend, disposable friend. Friend as acces-
sory. Just so I don't feel and look so stupid.

My journal entry for the day: "Exchange students are ruining
our country."



HEATHERING

As we ride home on Heather's bus, she tries to bully me into
joining a club. She has a Plan. She wants us to join five clubs,
one for every day of the week. The tricky part is choosing the
clubs that have the Right People. Latin Club is out of the ques-
tion, as is Bowling. Heather actually likes bowling — it was a big
thing in her old school — but she has seen our bowling lanes and
she could tell that no Right Person would set foot in there.

When we get to Heather's house, her mother meets us at the
door. She wants to hear all about our day, how long I've lived
in town, and asks little sideways questions about my parents,
so she can figure out if I'm the kind of friend she wants for her
daughter. I don't mind. I think it's nice that she cares.

We can't go in Heather's room because the decorators aren't
finished. Armed with a bowl of orange popcorn and diet so-
das, we retreat to the basement. The decorators finished that



22



first. You can hardly tell it's a basement. It's covered in carpet-
ing nicer than we have in our living room. A monster TV
glows in a corner, and there's a pool table and exercise equip-
ment. It doesn't even smell like a basement.

Heather hops on the treadmill and resumes scheming. She
isn't finished with her survey of Merryweather's social scene,
but she thinks the International Club and the Select Chorus
will be a good place to start. Maybe we can try out for the
musical. I turn on the television and eat her popcorn.

Heather: "What should we do? What do you want to join?
Maybe we should tutor at the elementary school." She in-
creases the speed of the treadmill. "What about your friends
from last year? Don't you know Nicole? But she does all those
sports, doesn't she? I could never do sports. I fall down too
easy. What do you want to do?"

Me: "Nothing. The clubs are stupid. Want some popcorn?"

She edges up the treadmill speed and breaks into a sprint. The
treadmill is so loud I can hardly hear the television. Heather
wags her finger at me. Hanging back is a common mistake
most ninth-graders make, she says. I shouldn't be intimidated.
I have to get involved, become a part of the school. That's
what all the popular people do. She turns down the treadmill
and wipes her brow with a thick towel that hangs off the side
of the machine. After a few minutes of cooling down, she
hops off. "A hundred calories," she crows. "Want to try?"

I shudder and hold out the popcorn bowl to her. She reaches
right past me and takes a pen topped with a Merryweather



23



Purple ball of fluff off the coffee table. "We must make
plans," she says solemnly. She draws four boxes, one for each
marking period, then writes "GOALS" in each box. "We won't
get anywhere without knowing our goals. Everyone always
says that and it is so true." She opens her soda. "What are
your goals, Mel?"

I used to be like Heather. Have 1 changed that much in two
months? She is happy, driven, aerobically fit. She has a nice
mom and an awesome television. But she's like a dog that
keeps jumping into your lap. She always walks with me down
the halls chattering a million miles a minute.

My goal is to go home and take a nap.



BURROW

Yesterday Hairwoman yanked me from study hall and forced
me to make up my "missing" homework in her room. (She
made fluttering noises of concern and mentioned a meeting
with my parents. Not good.) Nobody bothered to tell me that
study hall was being held in the library today. By the time I
find it, the period is almost over. I'm dead. I try to explain to
the librarian, but I keep stuttering and nothing comes out
right.

Librarian: "Calm down, calm down. It's OK. Don't get upset.
You are Melinda Sordino, right? Don't worry. I'll mark you
present. Let me show you how it works. If you think you're



24



going to be late, just ask a teacher for a late pass. See? No
need for tears."

She holds up a small green pad — my get-out-of-j ail-free cards.
I smile and try to choke out a "thank you," but can't say any-
thing. She thinks I'm overcome with emotion because she
didn't bust me. Close enough. There's not enough time for a
nap, so I check out a stack of books to make the librarian
happy. I might even read one.

I don't come up with my brilliant idea right then and there. It
is born when Mr. Neck tracks me through the cafeteria, de-
manding my "Twenty Ways the Iroquois Survived in the For-
est" homework. I pretend that I don't see him. I cut through
the lunch line, loop around a couple making out by the door,
and start down a hall. Mr. Neck stops to break up the PDA. I
head for the Seniors' Wing.

I am in foreign territory where No Freshman Ffas Gone Be-
fore. I don't have time to worry about the looks I'm getting. I
can hear Mr. Neck. I turn a corner, open a door, and step into
darkness. I hold the doorknob, but Mr. Neck doesn't touch it.
I hear his footsteps lumber down the hall. I feel the wall next
to the door until I find a light switch. I haven't stumbled into
a classroom; it is an old janitor's closet that smells like sour
sponges.

The back wall has built-in shelves filled with dusty textbooks
and a few bottles of bleach. A stained armchair and an old-
fashioned desk peek from behind a collection of mops and
brooms. A cracked mirror tilts over a sink littered with dead



25



roaches crocheted together with cobwebs. The taps are so
rusted they don't turn. No janitor has chilled in this closet for
a very long time. They have a new lounge and supply room by
the loading dock. All the girls avoid it because of the way they
stare and whistle softly when we walk by. This closet is aban-
doned — it has no purpose, no name. It is the perfect place for
me.

I steal a pad of late passes from Hairwoman's desk. I feel
much, much better.



DEVILS DESTROY

Not only is the Homecoming pep rally going to spring me
from algebra, it will be a great time to clean up my closet. I
brought some sponges from home. No need to goof off in
filth. I want to smuggle in a blanket and some potpourri, too.

My plan is to walk toward the auditorium with the rest of the
crowd, then duck in a bathroom until the coast is clear. I
would have made it past the teachers with no problem, but I
forgot to factor in Heather. Just as the Escape Bathroom
comes into sight, Heather calls my name, runs up, and grabs
my arm. She is bursting with Merry weather Pride, all perk
and pep and purple. And she assumes I am just as happy and
excited as she is. We troop down for the brainwashing and she
can't stop talking.

Heather: "This is so exciting — a pep rally!! I made extra pom-
poms. Here, have one. We'll look great during the Wave. I bet



26



the freshman class has the most spirit, don't you? I've always
wanted to go to a pep rally. Can you imagine what it must be
like to be on the football team and have the whole school sup-
porting you? That is so powerful. Do you think they'll win
tonight? They will, I just know they will. It's been a hard sea-
son so far, but we'll get them going, won't we, Mel?"

Her enthusiasm makes me itch, but sarcasm would go right
over her head. It won't kill me to go to the rally. I have some-
one to sit with — that counts as a step up on the ladder of so-
cial acceptability. How bad could a rally be?

I want to stand by the doors, but Heather drags me up into
the freshman section of the bleachers. "I know these guys,"
she says. "They work with me on the newspaper."

The newspaper? We have a newspaper?

She introduces me to a bunch of pale, zitty faces. I vaguely rec-
ognize a couple; the rest must have gone to the other middle
school. I curve up the corners of my mouth without biting my
lips. A small step. Heather beams and hands me a pom-pom.

I relax an eensy bit. The girl behind me taps me on the shoul-
der with her long black nails. She had heard Heather intro-
duce me. "Sordino?" she asks. "You're Melinda Sordino?"

I turn around. She blows a black bubble and sucks it back
into her mouth. I nod. Heather waves to a sophomore she
knows across the gym. The girl pokes me harder. "Aren't you
the one who called the cops at Kyle Rodgers's party at the end
of the summer?"



27



A block of ice freezes our section of the bleachers. Heads snap
in my direction with the sound of a hundred paparazzi cam-
eras. I can't feel my fingers. I shake my head. Another girl
chimes in. "My brother got arrested at that party. He got fired
because of the arrest. I can't believe you did that. Asshole."

You don't understand, my headvoice answers. Too bad she
can't hear it. My throat squeezes shut, as if two hands of black
fingernails are clamped on my windpipe. I have worked so
hard to forget every second of that stupid party, and here I am
in the middle of a hostile crowd that hates me for what I had
to do. I can't tell them what really happened. I can't even look
at that part myself. An animal noise rustles in my stomach.

Heather moves to pat my pom-pom, but pulls her hand
back. For a minute she looks like she'll defend me. No, no,
she won't. It might interfere with her Plan. I close my eyes.
Breathe breathe breathe. Don't say anything. Breathe.

The cheerleaders cartwheel into the gym and bellow. The
crowd stomps the bleachers and roars back. I put my head in
my hands and scream to let out the animal noise and some of
that night. No one hears. They are all quite spirited.

The band staggers through a song and the cheerleaders
bounce. The Blue Devil mascot earns a standing ovation by
back-flipping right into the principal. Principal Principal
smiles and awshucks us. It has only been six weeks since the
beginning of school. He still has a sense of humor.

Finally, our own Devils hulk into the gym. The same boys
who got detention in elementary school for beating the crap



28



out of people are now rewarded for it. They call it football.
The coach introduces the team. I can't tell them apart. Coach
Disaster holds the microphone too close to his lips, so all we
hear is the sound of his spitting and breathing.

The girl behind me jams her knees into my back. They are as
sharp as her fingernails. I inch forward in my seat and stare
intently at the team. The girl with the arrested brother leans
forward. As Heather shakes her pom-poms, the girl yanks my
hair. I almost climb up the back of the kid in front of me. He
turns and gives me a dirty look.

The coach finally hands the wet microphone back to the princi-
pal, who introduces us to our very own cheerleaders. They slide
into synchronized splits and the crowd goes nuts. Our cheer-
leaders are much better at scoring than the football team is.



CHEERLEADERS

There are twelve of them: Jennie, Jen, Jenna, Ashley, Aubrey,
Amber, Colleen, Kaitlin, Marcie, Donner, Blitzen, and Raven.
Raven is the captain. Blondest of the blondes.

My parents didn't raise me to be religious. The closest we
come to worship is the Trinity of Visa, MasterCard, and
American Express. I think the Merryweather cheerleaders
confuse me because I missed out on Sunday School. It has to
be a miracle. There is no other explanation. How else could
they sleep with the football team on Saturday night and be
reincarnated as virginal goddesses on Monday? It's as if they



29



operate in two realities simultaneously. In one universe, they
are gorgeous, straight-teethed, long-legged, wrapped in de-
signer fashions, and given sports cars on their sixteenth birth-
days. Teachers smile at them and grade them on the curve.
They know the first names of the staff. They are the Pride of
the Trojans. Oops — I mean Pride of the Blue Devils.

In Universe #2, they throw parties wild enough to attract col-
lege students. They worship the stink of Eau de Jocque. They
rent beach houses in Canciin during Spring Break and get
group-rate abortions before the prom.

But they are so cute. And they cheer on our boys, inciting
them to violence and, we hope, victory. These are our role
models — the Girls Who Have It All. I bet none of them ever
stutter or screw up or feel like their brains are dissolving into
marshmallow fluff. They all have beautiful lips, carefully out-
lined in red and polished to a shine.

When the pep rally ends, I am accidentally knocked down
three rows of bleachers. If I ever form my own clan, we'll be
the Anti-Cheerleaders. We will not sit in the bleachers. We will
wander underneath them and commit mild acts of mayhem.



THE OPPOSITE OF INSPIRATION
IS . . . EXPIRATION?

For a solid week, ever since the pep rally, I've been painting
watercolors of trees that have been hit by lightning. I try to



30



paint them so they are nearly dead, but not totally. Mr. Free-
man doesn't say a word to me about them. He just raises his
eyebrows. One picture is so dark you can barely see the tree at
all.

We are all floundering. Ivy pulled "Clowns" as her assign-
ment. She tells Mr. Freeman she hates clowns; a clown scared
her when she was a little girl and it put her into therapy. Mr.
Freeman says fear is a great place to begin art. Another girl
whines that "Brain" is just too gross a subject for her. She
wants "Kittens" or "Rainbows."

Mr. Freeman throws his hands in the air. "Enough! Please
turn your attention to the bookshelves." We dutifully turn and
stare. Books. This is art class. Why do we need books? "If you
are stumped, you may take some time to study the masters."
He pulls out an armful. "Kahlo, Monet, O'Keeffe. Pollock, Pi-
casso, Dali. They did not complain about subject, they mined
every subject for the root of its meaning. Of course, they
didn't have a school board forcing them to paint with both
hands tied behind their backs, they had patrons who under-
stood the need to pay for basic things such as paper and
paint. . . "

We groan. He's off on the school-board thing again. The
school board has cut his supply budget, telling him to make
do with the stuff left over from last year. No new paint, no ex-
tra paper. He'll rant for the rest of the period, forty-three min-
utes. The room is warm, filled with sun and paint fumes.
Three kids fall dead asleep, eye twitches, snores, and every-
thing.



31



I stay awake. I take out a page of notebook paper and a pen
and doodle a tree, my second-grade version. Hopeless. I crum-
ple it into a ball and take out another sheet. How hard can
it be to put a tree on a piece of paper? Two vertical lines for
the trunk. Maybe some thick branches, a bunch of thinner
branches, and plenty of leaves to hide the mistakes. I draw a
horizontal line for the ground and a daisy popping up next to
the tree. Somehow I don't think Mr. Freeman is going to find
much emotion in it. I don't find any. He started out as such a
cool teacher. Is he going to make us thrash around with this
ridiculous assignment without helping us?



ACTING

We get a day off for Columbus Day. I go to Heather's house. I
wanted to sleep in, but Heather "really, really, really" wanted
me to come over. There's nothing on television, anyway.
Heather's mom acts very excited to see me. She makes us
mugs of hot chocolate to take upstairs and tries to convince
Heather to invite a whole group for a sleepover. "Maybe Mel-
lie could bring some of her friends." I don't mention the pos-
sibility that Rachel would slit my throat on her new carpet. I
show my teeth like a good girl. Her mother pats my cheek. I
am getting better at smiling when people expect it.

Heather's room is finished and ready for viewing. It does not
look like a fifth-grader's. Or a ninth-grader's. It looks like a
commercial for vacuum cleaners, all fresh paint and vacuum-
cleaner lines in the carpet. The lilac walls have a few artsy



32



prints on them. Her bookcase has glass doors. She has a tele-
vision and a phone, and her homework is neatly laid out on
her desk. Her closet is opened just a tad. I open it farther with
my foot. All her clothes wait patiently on hangers, organized
by type — skirts together, pants hanging by their cuffs, her
sweaters stacked in plastic bags on shelves. The room screams
Heather. Why can't I figure out how to do that? Not that I
want my room screaming "Heather!" — that would be too
creepy. But a little whisper of "Melinda" would be nice. I sit
on the floor flipping through her CDs. Heather paints her
nails on her desk blotter and blathers. She is determined to
sign up for the musical. The Music Wingers are a hard clan to
break into. Heather doesn't have talent or connections — I tell
her she is wasting her time to even think of it. She thinks we
should try out together. I think she has been breathing too
much hairspray. My job is to nod or shake my head, to say "I
know what you mean," when I don't, and "That is so unfair,"
when it isn't.

The musical would be easy for me. I am a good actor. I have
a whole range of smiles. I use the shy, look-up-through-the-
bangs smile for staff members, and the crinkly-eye smile with
a quick shake of my head if a teacher asks me for an answer.
If my parents want to know how school went, I flash my eye-
brows upward and shrug my shoulders. When people point at
me or whisper as I walk past, I wave to imaginary friends
down the hall and hurry to meet them. If I drop out of high
school, I could be a mime.

Heather asks why I don't think they would let us in the musi-
cal. I sip my hot chocolate. It burns the roof of my mouth.



33



Me: "We are nobody."



Heather: "How can you say that? Why does everyone have
that attitude? I don't understand any of this. If we want to be
in the musical, then they should let us. We could just stand on-
stage or something if they don't like our singing. It's not fair. I
hate high school."

She pushes her books to the floor and knocks the green nail
polish on the sand-colored carpet. "Why is it so hard to make
friends here? Is there something in the water? In my old
school I could have gone out for the musical and worked on
the newspaper and chaired the car wash. Here people don't
even know I exist. I get squished in the hall and I don't belong
anywhere and nobody cares. And you're no help. You are so
negative and you never try anything, you just mope around
like you don't care that people talk about you behind your
back."

She flops on her bed and bursts into sobs. Big boohoos, with
little squeals of frustration when she punches her teddy bear. I
don't know what to do. I try to soak up the nail polish, but I
make the stain bigger. It looks like algae. Heather wipes her
nose on the bear's plaid scarf. I slip out to the bathroom and
come back with another box of tissues and a bottle of nail-
polish remover.

Heather: "I am so sorry, Mellie. I can't believe I said those
things to you. It's PMS, don't pay any attention to me. You
have been so sweet to me. You are the only person I can
trust." She blows her nose loudly and wipes her eyes on her



34



sleeve. "Look at you. You're just like my mom. She says 'No
use crying, just get on with your life.' I know what we'll do.
First, we'll work our way into a good group. We'll make them
like us. By next year, the Music Wingers will be begging us to
be in the musical."

It is the most hopeless idea I have ever heard, but I nod and
pour the remover on the carpet. It lightens the polish to a
bright vomit green and bleaches the carpet surrounding it.
When Heather sees what I have done, she bursts into tears
again, sobbing that it isn't my fault. My stomach is killing me.
Her room isn't big enough for this much emotion. I leave
without saying goodbye.



DINNER THEATER

The Parents are making threatening noises, turning dinner
into performance art, with Dad doing his Arnold Schwarze-
negger imitation and Mom playing Glenn Close in one of her
psycho roles. I am the Victim.

Mom: [creepy smile] "Thought you could put one over on us,
did you, Melinda? Big high school student now, don't need to
show your homework to your parents, don't need to show
any failing test grades?"

Dad: [Bangs table, silverware jumps] "Cut the crap. She
knows what's up. The interim reports came today. Listen to
me, young lady. I'm only going to say this once. You get those



35



grades up or your name is mud. Hear me? Get them up!" [At-
tacks baked potato.]

Mom: [annoyed at being upstaged] "I'll handle this. Melinda.
[She smiles. Audience shudders] We're not asking for much,
dear. We just want you to do your best. And we know your
best is much better than this. You tested so well, dear. Look at
me when I talk to you."

[Victim mixes cottage cheese into applesauce. Dad snorts like
a bull. Mom grasps knife.]

Mom: "I said look at me."

[Victim mixes peas into applesauce and cottage cheese. Dad
stops eating.]

Mom: "Look at me now."

This is the Death Voice, the Voice that means business. When
I was a kid, this Voice made me pee in my pants. It takes more
now. 1 look Mom square in the eye, then rinse my plate and
retreat to my room. Deprived of Victim, Mom and Dad holler
at each other. I turn up my music to drown out the noise.



BLUE ROSES

After last night's interrogation, I try to pay attention in biol-
ogy. We are studying cells, which have all these tiny parts you
can't see unless you look at them under a microscope. We get



36



to use real microscopes, not plastic Kmart specials. It's not
bad.

Ms. Keen is our teacher. I feel kind of sad for her. She could
have been a famous scientist or doctor or something. Instead,
she's stuck with us. She has wooden boxes all over the front of
the room that she climbs on when she talks to us. If she'd cut
back on the doughnuts, she'd look like a tiny grandmother
doll. Instead, she has a gelatinous figure, usually encased in
orange polyester. She avoids basketball players. From their
perspective, she must look like a basketball.

I have a lab partner, David Petrakis. Belongs to the Cyber-
genius clan. He has the potential to be cute when the braces
come off. He is so brilliant he makes the teachers nervous.
You'd think a kid like that would get beat up a lot, but the bad
guys leave him alone. I have to find out his secret. David ig-
nores me mostly, except when I almost ruined the $300 micro-
scope by twisting the knob the wrong way. That was the day
Ms. Keen wore a purple dress with bright blue roses. Baffling.
They shouldn't let teachers change like that without some kind
of Early Warning Alert. It shakes up the students. That dress
was all anyone talked about for days. She hasn't worn it since.



STUDENT DIVIDED BY CONFUSION
EQUALS ALGEBRA

I slide into my desk with ten minutes left in algebra class. Mr.
Stetman stares at my late pass for a long time. I pull out a
clean sheet of paper so I can copy the problems off the board.



37



I sit in the back row, where I can keep my eye on everyone, as
well as whatever is going on in the parking lot. 1 think of my-
self as the Emergency Warning System of the class. I plan dis-
aster drills. How would we escape if the chemistry lab exploded?
What if an earthquake hit Central New York? A tornado?

It is impossible to stay focused on algebra. It's not that I'm
bad at math. I tested at the top of the class last year — that's
how I got Dad to pay for my new bike. Math is easy because
there is no room for debate. The answer is right or it is wrong.
Give me a sheet of math problems and I'll get 98 percent of
them right.

But I can't get my head around algebra. I knew why I had to
memorize my multiplication tables. Understanding fractions,
and decimals, and percentages, and even geometry — all that
was practical. Toolz eye kan youz. It made so much sense I
never thought about it. I did the work. Made honor roll.

But algebra? Every single day, someone asks Mr. Stetman why
we have to learn algebra. You can tell this causes him great
personal pain. Mr. Stetman loves algebra. He is poetic about
it, in an integral-number sort of way. He talks about algebra
the way some guys talk about their cars. Ask him why
algebra and he launches into a thousand and one stories why
algebra. None of them makes sense.

Mr. Stetman asks if anyone can explain the wangdiddler's role
in the negative hotchka theorem. Heather has the answer. She
is wrong. Stetman tries again. Me? I shake my head with a sad
smile. Not this time, try me again in twenty years. He calls me
to the board.



38



Mr. Stetman: "Who wants to help Melinda understand how
we work our way through this problem? Rachel? Great."

My head explodes with the noise of fire trucks leaving the sta-
tion. This is a real disaster. Rachel/Rachelle clogs up to the
board, dressed in an outrageous Dutch/Scandinavian ensem-
ble. She looks half-cute, half-sophisticated. She has red laser
eyes that burn my forehead. I wear basic Dumpster togs —
smelly gray turtleneck and jeans. I just this minute remember
that I need to wash my hair.

Rachelle's mouth moves and her hand glides over the board,
drawing funny shapes and numbers. I pull my lower lip all the
way in between my teeth. If I try hard enough, maybe I can
gobble my whole self this way. Mr. Stetman drones something
and Rachelle flutters her eyelids. She nudges me. We are sup-
posed to sit down. The class giggles as we walk back to our
seats. I didn't try hard enough to swallow myself.

My brain doesn't think we should spend any time hanging
around algebra. We have better things to think about. It's a
shame. Mr. Stetman seems like a nice guy.



HALLOWEEN

My parents declare that I am too old to go trick-or-treating.
I'm thrilled. This way I don't have to admit that no one in-
vited me to go with them. I'm not about to tell Mom and Dad
that. To keep up appearances, I stomp to my room and slam
the door.



39



I look out my window. A group of little creatures is coming up
the walk. A pirate, a dinosaur, two fairies, and a bride. Why is
it that you never see a kid dressed as a groom on Halloween?
Their parents chat at the curb. The night is dangerous, parents
are required — tall ghosts in khakis and down jackets floating
behind the children.

The doorbell rings. My parents squabble about who will an-
swer it. Then Mom swears and opens the door with a high-
pitched "Ooooh, who do we have here?" She must have
handed out only one mini-chocolate bar to each creature —
their thank-yous do not sound enthusiastic. The kids cut
through the yard to the next house and their parents follow in
the street.

Last year, our clan all dressed up as witches. We went to Ivy's
house because she and her older sister had theatrical makeup.
We traded clothes and splurged on cheap black wigs. Rachel
and I looked the best. We had used baby-sitting money to rent
black satin capes lined in red. We rocked. It was an unusually
warm, wicked evening. We didn't need long underwear and
the sky was clear. The wind kicked up, skimming clouds over
the surface of the full moon, which was hung just to make us
feel powerful and strong. We raced through the night, a clan
of untouchable witches. I actually thought for a moment that
we could cast spells, could turn people into frogs or rabbits,
to punish the evil and reward the good. We ended up with
pounds of candy. After Ivy's parents went to bed, we lit a
candle in the totally dark house. We held it in front of an
antique mirror at midnight to see our futures. I couldn't see
anything.



40



This year Rachelle is going to a party thrown by one of the
exchange students' host families. I heard her talk about it in
algebra. I knew I wouldn't get an invitation. I would be lucky
to get an invitation to my own funeral, with my reputation.
Heather is walking with some of the little kids in her neigh-
borhood so their mothers can stay home.

I am prepared. I refuse to spend the night moping in my room
or listening to my parents argue. I checked out a book from
the library, Dracula, by Bram Stoker. Cool name. I settle into
my nest with a bag of candy corn and the blood-sucking mon-
ster.



NAME NAME NAME

In a post-Halloween frenzy, the school board has come out
against calling us the Devils. We are now the Merryweather
Tigers. Roar.

The Ecology Club is planning a rally to protest the "degrading
of an endangered species." This is the only thing talked about
at school. Especially during class. Mr. Neck has a steroid rage,
screaming about Motivation and Identity and sacred School
Spirit. We won't even make it to the Industrial Revolution at
this rate.

I get hosed in Spanish. "Linda" means "pretty" in Spanish.
This is a great joke. Mrs. Spanish Teacher calls my name.
Some stand-up comic cracks, "No, Melinda no es linda."



41



They call me Me-no-linda for the rest of the period. This is
how terrorists get started, this kind of harmless fun. I wonder
if it's too late to transfer to German.

I just thought of a great theory that explains everything.
When I went to that party, I was abducted by aliens. They
have created a fake Earth and fake high school to study me
and my reactions. This certainly explains cafeteria food. Not
the other stuff, though. The aliens have a sick sense of humor.



THE MARTHAS

Heather has found a clan — the Marthas. She is a freshman
member on probation. I have no idea how she did it. I suspect
money changed hands. This is part of her strategy to make a
place for herself at school. I am supposed to be tagging along.
But the Marthas!

It's an expensive clan to run with; outfits must be coordinated,
crisp, and seasonally appropriate. They favor plaid for au-
tumn with matching sweaters in colors named after fruit, like
apricot and russet apple. Winter calls for Fair Isle sweaters,
lined wool pants, and Christmas hair ornaments. They haven't
told her what to buy for spring. I predict skirts with geese and
white blouses with embroidered ducks on the collar.

I tell Heather she should push the fashion envelope just a
teeny bit to be an ironic reflection of the 1950s, you know, in-
nocence and apple pie. She doesn't think the Clan Leaders,



42



Meg 'n' Emily 'n' Siobhan, understand irony. They like rules
too much.

Marthas are big on helping. The name of their group came
from somebody in the Bible (the original Martha Clan Leader
became a missionary in Los Angeles). But now they follow the
Other Martha, Saint Martha of the Glue Gun, the lady who
writes books about cheery decorations. Very Connecticut, very
prep. The Marthas tackle projects and perform good deeds.
This is ideal Heather work. She says they run the canned-food
drive, tutor kids in the city, host a walkathon, a danceathon,
and a rockingchairathon to raise money for I don't know
what. They also Do Nice Things for teachers. Gag.

Heather's first Martha Project is to decorate the faculty lounge
for a Thanksgiving party/faculty meeting. She corners me after
Spanish and begs me to help her. She thinks the Marthas have
given her a deliberately impossible job so they can dump her.
I've always wondered what the staff room looks like. You
hear so many rumors. Will it have a cot for teachers who need
naps? Economy-sized boxes of tissues for emotional melt-
downs? Comfortable leather chairs and a private butler?
What about the secret files they keep on all the kids?

The truth is nothing more than a small green room with dirty
windows and a lingering smell of cigarettes, even though it
has been illegal to smoke on school property for years. Metal
folding chairs surround a battered table. One wall has a bul-
letin board that hasn't been cleared off since Americans
walked on the moon. And I look, but I can't find any secret
files. They must keep them in the principal's office.



43



I'm supposed to make a centerpiece out of waxed maple
leaves, acorns, ribbon, and a mile of thin wire. Heather is go-
ing to set the table and hang the banner. She babbles on about
her classes while I ruin leaf after red leaf. I ask if we can trade
before I cause permanent damage to myself. Heather gently
untangles me from the wire. She holds a bunch of leaves in
one hand, twists the wire around the stem — one-two — hides
the wire with ribbon and hot-glues the acorns into place. It's
spooky. I hurry to finish the table.

Heather: "What do you think?"

Me: "You are a decorating genius."

Heather: [eyes rolling] "No, silly. What do you think about
this! Me! Can you believe they're letting me join? Meg has
been so sweet to me, she calls me every night just to talk." She
walks around the table and straightens the forks I just set.
"You are going to think this is ridiculous, but I was so up-
set last month I asked my parents to send me to boarding
school. But now I have friends, and I know how to open my
locker, and [she pauses and scrunches her face up] it's just
perfect!"

I don't have to choke out an answer because Meg 'n' Emily 'n'
Siobhan march in, carrying trays of mini-muffins and apple
slices dipped in chocolate. Meg raises an eyebrow at me.

Me: "Thanks for the homework, Heather. You are so help-
ful." I scoot out the door, leaving it open a crack to watch
what happens next. Heather stands at attention while our



44



handiwork is inspected. Meg picks up the centerpiece and ex-
amines it from every angle.

Meg: "Nicejob."

Heather blushes.

Emily: "Who was that girl?"

Heather: "She's a friend. She was the first person to make me
feel at home here."

Siobhan: "She's creepy. What's wrong with her lips? It looks
like she's got a disease or something."

Emily holds out her watch (the watchband matches the bow
in her hair). Five minutes. Heather has to leave before the
teachers arrive. Part of being on probation means she's not al-
lowed to take credit for her work.

I hide in the bathroom until I know Heather's bus has left.
The salt in my tears feels good when it stings my lips. I wash
my face in the sink until there is nothing left of it, no eyes, no
nose, no mouth. A slick nothing.



NIGHTMARE

I see FT in the hallway. FT goes to Merryweather. IT is walking
with Aubrey Cheerleader. IT is my nightmare and I can't wake up.



45



IT sees me. IT smiles and winks. Good thing my lips are
stitched together or I'd throw up.



MY REPORT CARD