by Kaleigh Way
When Mark arrives at school two days late, he is mistaken for Marcie Gray-something... Marcie Gray-whatever... Anyway, everybody thinks he's a girl.
I wanted to tell him that it was a stupid idea. I didn't know which was worse: either way, the girls would know I was a boy dressed as a girl. If I pretended to be a girl for the gym class, any of the girls would recognize me later in day when I was dressed as Mark. I was about to object when the bell rang. It startled Mr. Bruce into action. "Come on," he said, pushing me. "We both got places to go."
Suddenly, in August, as the end of summer was coming into view, my parents told me that we were going to move from California to New Jersey. Why? Because my father got laid off. His company was bought by a bigger company, and the bigger company's first move was to let my father go, along with most of the people he worked with.
Luckily, my dad has lots of friends and connections. And, luckier still, my mom saw the big change coming. She sensed my father's frustration at work, and she put together remarks he made about office life. A month before the layoff was announced, Mom insisted that Dad start reaching out to see what opportunities there were. Because of that, my father pretty much walked out of one job into another.
And so, a mere week after the layoff, Dad was gone. He moved to New Jersey to start his new job. Mom stayed behind to do the packing and moving, and to put our house on the market. I stayed behind with her. Dad lived in a hotel until he found a month-to-month rental, a little apartment that belonged to the friend of a co-worker.
As soon as Dad moved into the little apartment, he wanted me and Mom to come and squeeze in with him, so we could be all together while Mom did the house-hunting.
Mom wanted to go, but she pointed out a huge flaw in that plan: school. I was just about to start high school. By now it was the second week of August, so there wasn't much time to figure things out.
The difficulty was this: Before I could go to school in New Jersey, we had to find a house. Mom didn't trust Dad to pick a good house, so Mom needed to go East. The sooner she got there, the sooner we'd get settled, and the sooner I'd have a school to attend.
Mom said, "I love your father, but he'll pick a place with no windows, or one with a tiny kitchen and no bathrooms. He'll think that we can fix it up, but it will never happen."
After some long talks, they decided to leave me behind. I didn't mind much... this way, I'd get to start school with my friends. But their solution brought up the next problem: where would I live?
Mom called pretty much everyone we knew, and although everyone was sympathetic, no one wanted to put me up for what could end up being four months. Her plan got back to the school somehow, and the principal called. He told Mom that I couldn't be considered a resident if I was just camping out at a friend's house. And if I wasn't a resident, I wasn't eligible for public school.
After a few days of indecision and almost desperation, my Aunt Jane came to the rescue.
Aunt Jane lives an hour's drive away in a town called Tierson. Tierson High School is just a few blocks from her house, and her best and oldest friend is the principal's secretary. This friend assured my aunt that she could get me in for the fall semester without any problem. So, problem solved! I'd go live with Aunt Jane while Mom and Dad settled us in New Jersey. Once they found a house, they'd find me a school, and I'd transfer.
Honestly I didn't mind. My Aunt Jane is my father's younger sister, and she's a lot of fun. She assured my mother over and over that she'd keep me in line, but I didn't buy it. I felt like I was in for four months of vacation, rather than four months of school.
For the same reason, my mother was not too crazy about the idea. I heard her say to my father, "No offense, but your sister is a little flaky. Are you sure Mark will be okay with her?" In the end though, Mom agreed. She had to: she couldn't find an alternative. And that's how it was decided: I'd do my fall semester in Tierson with Aunt Jane, and then I'd move East for Christmas.
"It'll take at least that long to close on a decent house," Mom said.
Once the big decision about school was made, Mom and I got packing in earnest. We gave things away, we threw out a ton of stuff, and we had an enormous yard sale. It seemed like the packing and the trash would never end.
But of course it did end: a week after the yard sale, the moving company came and carted off our boxes and furniture.
Once the moving company left, I thought we were done, but three days of cleaning followed, and there was still more to throw away!
At last that ended, and then Aunt Jane came. She took Mom to the airport, and me and my boxes to Tierson.
Aunt Jane is a nurse. Her schedule is pretty irregular: she has different days off every week, and sometimes her shifts change, but most of the time she works the first shift, from 7am to 3pm. She said we could plan on having dinner together most nights.
Jane told me that school started on the first Thursday of September. I expected it to start on Tuesday, the day after Labor Day, but I didn't mind the delay. Jane insisted that we use those days to drive to Big Sur. She was appalled when I told her that I'd never been. It was beautiful, but I was itching to get back, to get ready for my new school. After all, I wasn't just starting high school, I was starting a new school where I wouldn't know anyone. Understandably, I was pretty nervous. Nervous and excited.
We got back to Tierson at lunchtime on Wednesday, and I went to bed at nine that night. I was still tired from the packing and the move, and the long coastal drive took all the energy I had left. Plus I knew I'd be waking up early: I wanted to get to school early so I could scope things out.
My aunt told me that there would be an assembly for freshmen in the gym, so I figured the first thing to do was find out where the gym is, and after that I could take some time to look around.
When I entered the building, I knew that something wasn't right. The moment I walked in, I had that What's wrong with this picture? feeling, so I stepped aside a moment to figure out exactly what it was. After a minute, it hit me: things seemed far too orderly! I mean, *everybody* seemed to know where they were going. Nobody was looking around, no one looked lost or puzzled — well, no one but me. It didn't look like the first day of school; it looked like school was already underway.
Somehow, the school year had started without me. At least, that's how it looked.
The school day on the other hand was still a half hour away. I still had time to get my bearings. I wandered around, following hallways and stairs, exploring, but it didn't take long before I felt lost and alone. The corridors were featureless. No one said hello. I kept shuffling along and turning one corner after another, and somehow ended up at the doors to the gym. I figured the best thing to do was to wait there until the assembly began.
When I pushed through the doors and entered the gym, I was sure that something was wrong. And not just a little wrong: the place was completely empty. Empty, dark, and cold. There was nothing; no sign that an assembly was going to be held: no chairs, no lights, no people. Bewildered, I walked to the middle of the basketball court and turned around in a slow circle, looking in every corner and finding nothing. I began to feel a little scared, so I jumped when a man's voice called to me from the darkness.
"Hey! What are you doing out there? If you have gym class, you need to get suited up!"
I called to the voice in the darkness and explained that I was waiting for the assembly.
"Assembly?" he repeated. "There's no assembly today."
"For the freshmen?" I ventured. "Orientation?"
"Oh," he scoffed. "That was two days ago! Where were you?"
It turned out that school had started Tuesday, not Thursday, as Aunt Jane had insisted. It also turned out that this man was my gym teacher, Mr. Bruce, and that gym was the first class on my schedule today. There were still twenty minutes to the start of the school day, so he brought me to his office to work things out. He sat down at his desk, sighed, and shuffled through some papers. He stopped at one sheet, grunted to himself, and said to me, "Yeah, just like I thought. You're a drop."
In the public school system, if a student doesn't show up in the first few days of school, he or she is automatically dropped from the rolls. "Don't worry," he said. "It can be fixed. It's not a big deal. I'm pretty sure we still have space for students in the ninth grade. If the grade was full, it would be another story, but it's not. You should be alright there.
"But you've got a more immediate problem. Your first class today is gym, and I'm your teacher. But I don't see a gym uniform there, in the stuff you're carrying."
"No, I thought the assembly would take the place of gym," I replied.
"It did," he said, "two days ago. But not today! And, unfortunately for you, I have a strict uniform policy. This was announced on Tuesday, but I'm going to have to apply it to you anyway. You'll be the first this year. Probably the only one this year. In fact, you'll be the first in... uh, a couple... uh, three years. Since I've started this policy, nobody forgets their uniforms."
"Do I have detention?" I asked, nervously. I didn't want detention on my very first day. I hoped that my meek demeanor, and the fact that I was new, would move him to let me off.
"No," he said. "Detention doesn't work. Boys were always forgetting their gym outfits, figuring they could take the class in whatever they happened to be wearing, but I won't have it. So I found the remedy: I went out and bought a few of these." He held up what looked like a old-fashioned girl's tennis outfit, with a blue skirt and a white top. "The policy is, any boy who forgets his uniform has to wear one of these, and take gym class with the girls."
I was horrified. "Oh, no!" I cried. "But... but, this is my first day of school! I just moved here, and I don't know anyone! I don't want to start off my life here with everybody laughing at me! And I didn't know!"
I could see my pleas had moved him, and he said, "Yeah, I understand. It's not exactly fair... you didn't know... but I don't know what else I can do. If I make an exception for you, the whole thing will get shot to hell. Next week another boy will forget his outfit, and he'll complain that I let you off. And then the kid after him and the kid after him, and pretty soon no one will be ready for gym, and it will take a whole 'nother year to get back on track."
"Couldn't you just give me detention?" I asked. A moment ago I was frightened by the idea of detention, but now detention was starting to look appealing.
"If I could, yeah," he said with a grimace. "The thing is, the principal's already told me that he won't give detention for that. All he'll do is send a note home to your parents. I could do that myself. As if that would help anything."
"Could I skip the class, and go see the principal?" I asked. "I have to straighten out this 'drop' thingy, anyway."
"The 'drop thingy', as you call it, is not a big deal. It'll take all of five minutes. I can let you go a little early and you can straighten that out before your next class."
"What if I go back home, and get my gear?" I suggested. "If I'm late, I could get detention for that."
He scoffed and shook his head.
"But school hasn't started yet!" I protested. "I'm pretty sure I have time to go there and back."
Again he shook his head. "I've already seen you," he replied. "If something happened to you, It would be on my head."
"Can I take gym in what I'm wearing, then?" I asked.
"No," he replied in a flat, heavy tone.
"Why not?" I cried. "The uniform isn't that important, is it?"
That was absolutely the worst thing to say. The uniform issue, as it turned out, was a very sore point for him. A very sore point. He launched into a tirade. Nothing made Mr. Bruce angrier than a boy who was unprepared for class, and not having the proper clothes amounted to not being prepared for class. It showed that the boy didn't take gym class seriously, or didn't think that gym is important. Gym, however, is very important: at least as important as other classes, and maybe more important. If you were out of shape, all your grades would suffer.
He went on and on and on. His voice got very loud, and I found myself unconsciously edging closer to the door.
He said he'd tried everything he could think of to make the boys remember, and still they would forget. He'd make them sit out the class, but that didn't work. He sent them for detention until the principal told him to stop. He sent notes home, with no result. He didn't even want to talk about grades...
"The only thing that works," he said, "is this." And he shook the girl's outfit.
As Mr. Bruce spoke, he face got so red, I thought his head was going to explode. Then suddenly, like a thermometer going down, it went pasty white, and he was calm again. I wasn't sure which color complexion was more frightening. He took a few deep breaths before he spoke again.
"I do feel bad for you, kid," he said in a softer voice. "I understand that you didn't know. So I'm going to give you a break. You will have to wear the outfit, and take class with the girls, but I'll let you get changed here in my office. Usually I make the boy change in the boys locker room, so the others can tease him a little. But I'll spare you that. You can go behind that file cabinet. Nobody will see you."
I did as I was told, and I left my things on a shelf. The gym skirt had underwear built in, so I left my underwear inside the pile of my clothes. "Your things will be safe," the coach said. Then he added, "But you don't have anything valuable there, do you?" I thought for a moment, and took my house key and lunch money. There was a little pocket inside the waist of the skirt, so I put the key and money there.
I didn't have any sneakers, so he took me to a lost-and-found bin, where we found some girl's sneakers that fit.
"You know," he said, "and don't get mad when I say this, but you kind of look like a girl, and for today, that might be a good thing. What's your name again?"
"Mark Donner," I said.
"Umm. You know, you remind me of a Marcie that used to go here. Marcie Something. Now, listen. Here's the idea. Why don't you go to class, and tell the teacher your name is Marcie. Marcie Gray... thing... I don't know. Marcie Gray-whatever. When the class is over, you put your boy clothes back on, and nobody is the wiser. It's a win-win. What do you think?"
I wanted to tell him that it was a stupid idea. I didn't know which was worse: either way, the girls would know I was a boy dressed as a girl. If I pretended to be a girl for the gym class, any of the girls would recognize me later in day when I was dressed as Mark. I was about to object when the bell rang. It startled Mr. Bruce into action. "Come on," he said, pushing me. "We both got places to go."
He brought me back down to the basketball court, where some boys were tossing balls and shooting baskets. I was so nervous, I was nearly shaking, and almost stumbled when I heard a wolf whistle. Mr. Bruce opened a door with one big hand and pushed me outside with the other. I blinked in the sunlight, again almost stumbling, but I had to keep walking because Mr. Bruce's hand was pressing in the middle of my back, gently but relentlessly. He stopped when we reached a group of girls dressed for gym. They were standing in a loose group around a young teacher. Her brown hair was tied back in a short ponytail. She had a whistle hanging around her neck and held a clipboard in her hands.
"Grace? I mean, Ms. Price? This here is Gracie Marlin. I mean, Macy Graylin. No — she's Marcie Something. She's an add, or she will be once she stops by the office. I found her lost in the halls."
"Okay," the teacher said. "Welcome, Marcie." To Mr. Bruce she said, "I guess she can work out the add thingy before her next class."
"Oh, yeah," he replied, grinning. "The 'add thingy'. Sure. Can you let her go five minutes early so she can take care of it?"
Ms. Price nodded, and Mr. Bruce disappeared into the building.
"Okay, Marcie," Ms. Price said, looking me over. "Did you come from a Catholic school?"
"No," I said. "Why?"
"The outfit," she replied. "For today it's fine, but before next time you might want to pick up a pair of uniform shorts and a t-shirt like the other girls. You're just a little, um, overdressed. But anyway... What was your last name again?"
"Donner," I said. Then I (mentally) kicked myself. Saying my name was automatic; it just popped out. I tried to think of some other name, so I could take it back, but aside from my own name (which I'd already said), all I could think of was Gray-something, Gray-whatever. I felt like an idiot as I watched Ms. Price write "Marcie Donner" on her class list. I hoped using my real last name wasn't going to be a big mistake.
We ran over to a field, where a huge sack was waiting for us. It was filled with hockey sticks. Ms. Price gave some directions, and we started playing field hockey. I'd never played before, and I thought it was a lot of fun. After weeks of nothing but carrying boxes and cleaning house, it felt fantastic to be outside and running. I didn't know the game, so I just kept running up and down the field and watching what the others did.
Then, a bad pass sent the ball in my direction. I ran for it and drew my stick back. I saw another pair of legs heading from another direction, so I speeded up, and then—
—BAM! a girl about twice my weight slammed into me. I felt like I'd been hit with a ton of bricks.
I don't remember falling down, but I do remember hearing an ambulance siren in the distance. Ms. Price helped me up, saying, "Come on, Marcie, come sit on the bench." The other girls gathered round to look, but the one who slammed into me hung back. My head was down, and I saw my bare legs sticking out from under the absurdly short skirt. The ambulance lights circled through the trees. I didn't want to go to the hospital dressed like a girl.
"Is the ambulance for me?" I gasped.
Ms. Price smiled. "No, hon, I think you're okay. You just got the wind knocked out of you. You can sit here for the rest of the class, and I'll keep my eye on you." After some more reassurance and a few questions, she stood up, blew her whistle, and got the game going again. Every so often she came over to see how I was doing. Soon I felt fine again, and wanted to get back in the game. She made me wait a few minutes longer, then she let me play.
While the ball was downfield, the girl who hit me came over and apologized. She was a heavy-set girl with short dark hair. "I'm sorry, Marcie," she said. "I didn't mean to hit you so hard. I just wanted to bump you a little. My mom says I don't know my own strength."
"It's okay," I said, and smiled. "I'm fine, and it was an accident, anyway. What's your name?"
"Carla," she replied. She returned my smile and took off after the ball.
I looked up and saw that Ms. Price had seen our conversation. She smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
I was really having fun. I never enjoyed any sport before, and found that it was nice to play when there was no pressure. A few times a breeze fluttered my skirt, and I'd realize I'd forgotten what I was wearing. Whenever I'd get the ball, everyone called, "Marcie! Marcie!" It was great that they knew my name — even if it was a temporary one.
Plus, I scored two goals!
The time flew. Then, abruptly, Ms. Price called me over. "Did they have a team at your old school?"
"Field hockey?" I asked.
"Duh, yeah, field hockey. You're pretty good."
"Thanks," I said. "But no, I never played before."
"Interesting," she said. "We have to talk. Listen, you can go get changed now, and see the principal about the add thingy. Okay?" She pointed me to a door into the building.
The door led directly to the girls locker room, which thankfully was empty. I sniffed at myself and decided that I could get by without a shower. I went from the locker room to the gym, and from there found my way back to Mr. Bruce's office. The light was off, so I switched it on, and ran behind the file cabinet. My clothes were gone! I looked all over the office and in the trash. On an inspiration I ran to the lost-and-found bin, where he'd found the sneakers. But my clothes were nowhere to be found.
Now I felt a little angry. This time Mr. Bruce had gone too far. What did he want with me? I was going to talk to the principal... or maybe my aunt first... but I was going to make sure he got in trouble for this.
I returned to his office. Maybe he'd hidden my clothes so that I couldn't leave without talking to him again. I wanted to look through his desk and file drawers, but angry as I was, I didn't want to get into any more trouble. So I sat in a chair by the door and waited. At first I was mad. Then I was concerned. And then I got worried.
There wasn't a clock anywhere that I could see, but after what seemed like fifteen minutes, he still hadn't come. I got up and headed toward the basketball court. Before I got there, I could see that it was empty, and a boy was climbing the stairs toward me.
"Are you lost?" he said. "Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Mr. Bruce," I told him.
"He's in the hospital, haven't you heard? He had a stroke at the start of class this morning. The ambulance came and everything."
"The hospital?" I repeated stupidly.
"Yeah, the hospital. Are you okay?" he asked. He was a nice looking boy, about my age. I liked him right away, but remembering how I was dressed made me feel quite awkward. "I'm Jerry Auburn. What's your name?" When I hesitated, unsure what name to say, he said, "Don't worry, I don't bite. You're not one of the Graylens, are you? You kind of look like–"
"Marcie," I said, suddenly deciding. I'd already pretended to be a girl for gym class and got away with it. I might still get away with not being recognized later on, when I turned back to Mark. No need to throw that chance away now.
"Yeah, Marcie Graylen. You look a lot like her. Are you her little sister?"
"No, I'm Marcie Donner," I said, going with the lie. "Somebody took my clothes, and I have to see Mr. Bruce."
"Why Mr. Bruce? Why don't you talk to your own gym teacher?"
"Oh," I sighed. "I'm all mixed up. I really need to talk to the principal."
"Do you know how to get there?" Jerry asked. When I shook my head no, he offered to walk with me.
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Oh, Marcie," Ms. Price said with a concerned frown, "What happened to you? I thought you'd get here ahead of me."
In answer I looked up at the Queen of Hearts lookalike standing next to me. I wanted to say, What happened to me? She happened to me. That's what happened to me. Then I looked from Ms. Price's eyes to the hand on my arm, to try to tell her, I'm her prisoner now.
Jerry was a tenth grader. He was a few inches taller than me, so I had to look up to talk to him. He was very confident, positive, sure of himself, and likable.
I, on the other hand, was embarrassed, felt overexposed, and was scared to death of what would happen when the school found out that Marcie was a boy. I had to hope that the principal would understand and help me out. At the same time, everything inside me was screaming that the best and only thing to do was to cut and run, right out the door, and head straight for home. Once there, I could change my clothes, cut my hair crew-cut short, and come back to school as Mark to do the 'add thingy'.
But Jerry put me at my ease. Walking with him, talking with him, calmed me. When I blurted out that I couldn't and wouldn't walk through the halls dressed in my silly outfit with its too-short skirt, first he told me, "You make it look good." And when I laughed at that, he told me that I had to brazen it out: "Walk through the halls like you own the place," he said. "Hold your head up. Don't show weakness. Imagine that everyone wishes they were dressed like you."
"Even the boys?" I asked, half laughing, half scoffing.
"Especially the boys," he replied.
So I tried to imagine Jerry wishing he were dressed like me, and Mr. Bruce wishing he were dressed like me. Then I imagined Jerry and Mr. Bruce wearing the too-short skirt and silly top, and burst out laughing.
"That's the spirit!" Jerry said. "Now you're ready, so let's go!"
We opened a door onto a hallway full of students and noise. I froze for a moment, took a step back, and told Jerry in a low voice, "We should wait until class starts and the halls are empty." He looked disappointed.
"I have to get to class myself," he replied. "If we don't go now, I won't be able to walk you to the office."
That made me stop and reconsider. I really didn't know where the principal's office was. I had no idea at all, and I sure didn't look forward to wandering the halls alone again, especially dressed the way I was. So I took a deep breath and said, "Okay, let's go."
Jerry led me by the arm up the center of the hallway. He saw how frightened and nervous I felt, so he kept talking to me the whole time. I tried to do what he said: I kept my head up, I smiled, I imagined people in the crowd dressed as I was. Then I noticed the strangest thing: Most people didn't even look at me. They were so busy moving or talking with their friends that at most they gave me a quick glance. With Jerry's encouragement, I was beginning to feel less nervous and more confident. Well... not exactly confident, but at least now I felt like I wasn't going to die this way.
But then my fragile confidence broke. Some boy said, "Oh, baby! Check out those legs!" and I lost it. It seemed like everyone was suddenly looking at me. All I saw was a sea of faces, all turned in my direction. I was crazy to ever think I could get away with this: I had to cut and run. My smile fell, and my head started jerking back and forth, looking for an exit. Jerry saw me falter. I don't think he could feel my heart racing, but he could see the terror written on my face. He had no idea why I was so afraid, but he tried to said something. I'm sure it something kind and encouraging, and it might have helped if I had heard it, but there was so much noise I could only see his lips moving. A wave of panic swept through me, but the very instant before I cut into a frenzied run, a woman's voice cracked like a whip through the hallway chaos. When she spoke, I froze like a statue, and everyone else fell silent. "You! Young lady! Stop right there!" I think most of the girls in the hallway also froze, half-afraid she was talking to them. The rest of the students looked around, wondering who she was talking to, and glad it wasn't them. Her voice boomed out, "Stop! You, in the short blue skirt, showing off your legs! I'm talking to you!"
Jerry muttered, "Holy crap!" and with a reluctant "Sorry, Marcie," let go of my right arm as a strong, bony hand grabbed hold of my left.
"Off we go!" the woman bellowed. "Straight to the principal's office!"
"That's where I was going," I told her. "Somebody took my clothes!"
"Save it," she commanded.
I tried again to explain that I was on my way to the office, that I needed help, but the teacher, who was a good foot taller than me and quite a bit stronger, wouldn't listen. The other students, relieved to know that they weren't this woman's target, visibly relaxed. The hallway erupted into whistles, cheers, shouts, and applause, although I didn't know how any of it was intended. I think they were somehow trying to encourage me, but it was hard to tell.
The teacher pulled me through the hallway, but she wasn't hurting me. She just didn't let me stop. I was as helpless as a rag doll in her grasp.
I didn't want to stare, but I shot some quick glances at her. I didn't want to make her any angrier than she already seemed to be.
She looked like the old drawings of the Queen of Hearts, from Alice In Wonderland, with that frightening, frowning face.
I had no idea what I'd done to set her off, but it's not as though anything that happened made sense so far today.
We passed what seemed like hundreds of students and teachers, who all looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. I didn't like being the object of so much interest, so it was a positive relief when we finally landed in the principal's office.
... or at least his outer office. There was a row of chairs against one wall and a rack of small cubby holes — the kind that teachers use as mailboxes — against another wall. There was a desk near an inner door, the door to the principal's real office, and a counter between that desk and the row of chairs. The gym teacher, Ms. Price, was there, on my side of the counter, talking to the secretary, who was on the other side. When I caught sight of the secretary, I remembered with a smile that she is my Aunt Jane's best friend. She had to help me. For the first time, I felt that everything was going to be all right. I liked the office: it was clean and bright and quiet. I had no idea, of course, how much of that office I was going to see during my time at Tierson High.
When I first entered, Ms. Price said, "Oh, here she is..." but trailed off when she saw who I was with. "Oh, Marcie," Ms. Price said with a concerned frown, "What happened to you? I thought you'd get here ahead of me."
In answer I looked up at the Queen of Hearts lookalike standing next to me. I wanted to say, What happened to me? She happened to me. That's what happened to me. Then I looked from Ms. Price's eyes to the hand on my arm, to try to tell her, I'm her prisoner now.
"I need to see Mr. Bryant," the woman bellowed. "This girl is in flagrant violation of the dress code. Flagrant violation. Arm in arm with her boyfriend, as cool as you please, parading her naked legs up and down the hallways."
"Marcie," Ms. Price asked, "why didn't you get changed before you came here?"
"He isn't my boyfriend," I said, going white.
"And your clothes?" Ms. Price prompted.
"Somebody took them," I said.
"A likely story," the other teacher scoffed. "Ten to one she came to school this way."
Ms. Price asked, "Someone stole your clothes out of your locker?"
"No," I said, blushing. "They weren't in a locker. They were sitting on a shelf..."
"A shelf?" the other teacher repeated. "You stupid girl! Do you expect anyone to believe such nonsense? A shelf! Are you trying to tell us you changed your clothes in the library?"
The principal's door opened, and a bald man with glasses and a disapproving expression looked into the room.
"Mrs. Zeff!" he said in a cautioning tone. "Would you please lower your voice? And someone tell me: what on earth is going on out here? No, please don't answer; I take that back. I heard everything from my office, and I don't want to hear it again. You, young lady, what is your name?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Which name should I say? Before I could decide, Ms. Price came to the rescue. "Her name is Marcie Donner, Mr. Bryant. She's an add. A ninth grader."
"First of all, your clothes," he said. "Is there anyone at home who could bring you something more appropriate to wear?"
"I'm not sure," I said. "My aunt might be working."
Mr. Bryant gestured to his secretary. "Ms. Trujillo, could you make a call?" He then drew Mrs. Zeff into his office.
"You know my aunt, don't you?" I asked the secretary. "Her name is Jane Donner. She said she's a friend of yours."
"I don't know your aunt," she replied, looking a little irritated. "Can you tell me her number?"
I was confused. I was sure Aunt Jane had told me that the secretary was her best friend. Ms. Trujillo tapped her pencil and asked for the phone number again. With a little fumbling, and some blank moments, I managed to remember it.
"No answer," she said. "Looks like your aunt's not home."
"Then I'm sunk," I said. "Unless I can go home by myself."
Both women told me that was out of the question.
"I have an idea!" Ms. Price exclaimed, and whispered something to Ms. Trujillo.
"You can try," said Ms. Trujillo with a shrug. "I hope you're right. Otherwise, she'll end up spending the day in here. And while you're off doing that, I'll get these add's done." To me, she said, "Have a seat over there, hon. I think Mrs. Zeff is going to be in there for a long time."
She put her head down and got busy with some paperwork. To herself she muttered, "This part I can do, but the rest... I don't know. I'll just leave a note!"
I watched the clock. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Mrs. Zeff and the principal were still going at it. I couldn't believe they were talking that long about me. Still, all I could do was wait. I looked down at my legs. I straightened my skirt. Oddly, I was beginning to get used to what I was wearing. It was like a Halloween costume, I guess. After a while you forget that you have it on.
A little more time passed, then Ms. Price returned, flushed and a little out of breath.
"I found some things," she said. "They look like they're about your size," she said as she handed me a pile of clothes. "They were in lost and found, but they seem perfectly clean. I found this black bag, too, where you can put your... gym outfit. Isn't it cool?" She held up the bag, turning it this way and that. I had to admit that the bag was pretty nice. I liked it enough that I'd probably use it when I went back to being Mark.
"And here's a plastic bag for your shoes," Ms. Price continued. She seemed to enjoy unloading all these presents on me. Then she stopped, bent close to my ear and whispered, "I know it might seem icky, but I managed to find you some underwear. Don't worry: I'm sure it's clean." With a small friendly smile, she pushed me into a tiny bathroom behind the secretary's desk. "Try to be quick," she said. "I think the principal will be easier on you if you're dressed properly."
She caught the door as I was closing it, and whispered, "Have you ever worn a bra?"
My eyes grew big and I shook my head no.
"I found one that must have belonged to a small girl like you. It has a tiny bit of padding. Try it on, okay? If it doesn't work, I can always rummage a little more."
I locked the door, and looked through the clothes. Of course, they were girl's clothes. There was an aqua tiered skirt that fell to just above my knees, and a white top with long, loose sleeves that ended a couple inches above my wrists. There was also a pair of light brown shoes that looked like slippers. I didn't see that I had much choice: it was either this or the idiotic gym skirt, so I quickly dressed and came out of the bathroom. I was stuffing the gym clothes and sneakers into the nice black bag, when I noticed the way the two women were looking at me.
"Why aren't you wearing the bra?" Ms. Price asked. "I got it because you really need it with that top."
I blushed. "I didn't see a bra," I replied, and turned to look in the bathroom. Both women stifled their laughter.
The bra was hanging out of my waistband in the back. Ms. Price pulled it out, handed it to me, and pushed me back into the bathroom. When I came out the second time, Mr. Bryant was also there, and Mrs. Zeff was gone.
"Much better," Mr. Bryant said. "Big improvement. Thank you, Ms. Price."
Ms. Price gave me a wink and a smile, waved a small pack of papers at me, and left the office.
"Now come with me," Mr. Bryant said, and entered his office.
We both sat down and were silent for a minute. I opened my mouth and was about to explain what had happened to me, but he began talking first. He asked me, "Do you know that we have a dress code at this school?"
"No, sir."
He raised his eyebrows. "You don't?"
"No, sir..." I started again to explain, but he held up his hand to stop me.
"If I were to ask you for example, whether sneakers are acceptable footwear, what would you say?"
"Yes?"
"No."
I frowned in surprise.
He rubbed his chin. "You're new. Apparently you're an 'add' just arriving today, so I don't want to be too hard on you. However, you ran afoul of Mrs. Zeff, and she has put you on her blacklist. I wouldn't worry about that IF — and I stress the IF — if you don't violate the dress code again. And *if* you avoid getting into any other trouble. You don't look like a troublemaker. You're not a troublemaker, are you?"
"No, sir." I said. "Do I have detention?"
"No," he said. "Nothing so serious. This time, anyway. I think — and hope — that Mrs. Zeff put the fear of God into you. Can you sit there for a moment? I'll be right back." Mr. Bryant went to the outer office and talked with his secretary. As he opened the door to come back in, he was saying, "... two copies: one with the letter, and the other in an unsealed envelope by itself."
Then, as if he were meeting me for the first time, Mr. Bryant chatted. He asked about my family, about my aunt, about the move, and whether I liked living in Tierson. I began to relax, and for the third time was about to explain my situation, when there came a soft tap at the door. Ms. Trujillo entered, holding two envelopes, which she placed on Mr. Bryant's desk. Mr. Bryant waited until she left, then said. "Well, here's your punishment. I think you'll have to admit that you're getting off pretty easy. However, if you don't take this seriously, we'll have to come up with something more memorable." He handed me the two envelopes. "As you can see, one envelope is for you and the other is for your aunt. Your envelope has something I want you to memorize. And please take it seriously, because Mrs. Zeff might stop you in the hall and ask you to recite it for her, as well.
"Have your aunt sign her note, so I know that she's read it. Tomorrow morning, you need to come to school ten minutes early, and report directly here to me. Bring the note, signed, and be ready to recite that text. Okay?"
I nodded. This was going to be easy. "You'll also be coming here so that I can check that you conform to the dress code. Is that going to be a problem?"
"No, sir," I said. Especially when I explain that I'm a boy.
He continued, "And you will do that for the following two weeks, making eleven school days total. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," I said.
He stood up. Something in the way he did it made me stand as well. He came around the desk and ushered me out the door.
"There is something else I need to talk to you about," I said. "It's pretty important."
"I'm sorry, but it will have to wait until tomorrow," he told me.
"But—"
"Tomorrow," he repeated, kindly but firmly, and he shut his office door. I was about to knock, when he suddenly opened the door again. "Oh, there is one more thing," he said, "and then I really have to leave you. It's in the note to your aunt, but I forgot to mention it to you. Make sure you wear a dress for the next two weeks. One that fits the dress code. No jeans, no pants, no shorts, etc. A dress or a skirt. Understood?"
Then, before I could say another word, he shut the door a second time.
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
Silly dress? Look at me now: my first day of high school in a new town, and I was dressed like a girl.
I lifted my hand to knock on Principal Bryant's door, but Ms. Trujillo stopped me. "Don't do it, honey. He has an important phone meeting, and then he's leaving for the day. Whatever it is will have to wait for tomorrow."
"But it's important," I whined.
"Listen," she said. "Unless you're dying or giving birth, you've got to wait until tomorrow."
I struggled inside. I wanted to knock, even if I wasn't supposed to. But of course I didn't. So far I hadn't been able to tell anyone that I wasn't a girl. I didn't tell Ms. Price or Jerry, because I still thought I had a chance of changing back to Mark and letting Marcie disappear. Mrs. Zeff wasn't interested in anything I had to say, and Mr. Bryant — although he was very nice about it — didn't give me a chance. He was so good at guiding the conversation, he didn't leave me any space to say, Excuse me, but I'm not a girl.
I sighed, and realized that I had to tell Ms. Trujillo, the secretary. Yet she was another puzzle. I know Aunt Jane told me that the principal's secretary was her best friend. She was the one who got me into Tierson High in the first place, wasn't she? But Ms. Trujillo was very emphatic that she didn't know my aunt at all.
I'd have to leave that question for later. I'd ask my aunt when I saw her after school. Still, friend of my aunt or not, Ms. Trujillo ought to be able to help me out of my predicament. I walked over to her desk, took a deep breath, and said, "It's been a crazy day." That seemed like a good place to start my story. Then I paused. Should I just say, Listen, I'm really a boy or should I begin at the beginning, with Mr. Bruce in the gym?
"Crazy day?" she repeated with a smile. "Don't worry, hon. At least you don't have detention, right?"
"Uh... I guess," I replied. "But see... I'm a... uh... I mean, I'm not... uh..."
Ms. Trujillo waited for me to finish. We looked at each other for a few moments, but the words just didn't come. At last, she picked up a piece of paper and said, "Don't worry. Today is your first day. It probably seems all crazy and complicated, but trust me, things will get better." She handed me the paper. "Here's your new schedule. I don't know where your old one went. In fact, I couldn't find your records at all, which is weird... so anyway, I filled out some temporary forms, just for today. Miss Truman can work the whole records thing out tomorrow — not that it matters to you."
But it did matter to me. My records would tell her who I really am. So I said, "Yeah, about my records... I want to say—"
"Tell me something," she interrupted. "Where were you the past two days? Just sitting at home, watching TV? Why weren't you here? You live just down the road."
"Where was I? My aunt took me to see Big Sur."
"Oh, how nice for you! Big Sur? It's lovely, but, Marcie, you had all summer to visit Big Sur. Did you think that cutting school would somehow make it a better experience?"
"I didn't mean to cut school. My aunt told me that school started on Thursday, not Tuesday."
Miss Trujillo frowned. "It sounds like your aunt is a little mixed up."
"It was an honest mistake," I said.
Ms. Trujillo gave a look of disapproval. "Well, her 'honest mistake' caused you a lot of trouble. Make sure you tell her that. But that's between the two of you. Now listen: Ms. Price took your 'add' notices to all your teachers. So you won't need to do that. You're lucky: you made a good friend there. You really owe her one." She nodded approvingly at what I was wearing. "Things could have gone a lot worse." She smiled and handed me two more slips of paper. "Now, go. You gotta get out of here. These are for tomorrow: they're excuse notes for the classes you missed this morning. Go have your lunch, finish the day, go home, and talk to your aunt."
Ms. Trujillo stood and came out from behind her desk. She ruffled my hair, and gently pushed me out the door. I stumbled into the empty hall. I was in a state of shock. I hadn't been able to tell her, and now I was back in that awful hallway, where everyone had seen Mrs. Zeff drag me like a rag doll in that silly dress.
Silly dress? Look at me now: my first day of high school in a new town, and I was dressed like a girl.
I set my teeth and made a firm decision: I was going back into the office, and I wasn't leaving until somebody in charge knew I wasn't a girl.
Then the bell rang, and a flood of students filled and flowed through the hall. It was unbelievable how many kids there were. Dozens... could there be hundreds? I pressed my back into the wall. The sheer numbers were overwhelming.
Then someone came and stood right next to me, her shoulder to my shoulder, and over the noise she called me by my name: "Marcie! Marcie! Are you all right? You look like you're going to faint."
It was Carla, the girl from gym class. She had a concerned look, but when I recognized her, she smiled.
"Hey," she said. "You wanna have lunch with me? We can sit together!"
"Yeah, sure," I said, still feeling a little lost and uncertain. "Which way do we go?" It wasn't until we started walking that I realized I needed to go back to the office, but there were too many bodies behind us, all of them going forward. The office would have to wait until after lunch.
As we walked, Carla took my schedule out of my hand and, after a quick look, shoved it into my bag. She guided me into the cafeteria, through the food line, and found a table. We sat down opposite each other.
"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked again. "I didn't hurt you in gym, did I?"
"No," I smiled. "I'm okay."
"Can I look at your schedule again?" she asked. I nodded, so she pulled the card from my bag, and a notebook from her own. Her schedule was taped inside the notebook's cover, and she compared the two. "Wow, Marcie! We have almost the exact same schedule. A couple things are kinda flipped... and I have Shop instead of Home Ec."
"Oh, that's good," I said. What else could I say?
"So how come you missed Math and English this morning?"
"Huh? Oh... I was in the principal's office."
"For TWO HOURS?"
It did sound extreme. Maybe I'd waited for Mr Bruce longer than I thought. "I guess so," I said.
"Are you in trouble?"
"I dunno. I had to do the add thingy, but somebody took my clothes while we were in gym..."
"OH!" Carla cried. "Were you that girl? I heard you were parading down the hall with your boyfriend. Who is he?"
I blushed. "He's not my boyfriend."
She grinned. "Then why are you blushing? Do you think he might have a friend for me?" Then she glanced over my shoulder and did a double take. "Oh, there's a cute boy coming this way, and he's looking right at you. Is that him?"
I turned, and saw Jerry grinning as he approached me. My blush deepened. When he reached our table, he said, "Hey, Marcie. I almost didn't recognize you with your clothes on. You look nice. Where did you find them?"
I couldn't stop blushing. "They're not mine," I said. "I'm just borrowing them."
"You ought to keep them," he replied. "They look great on you."
I introduced him and Carla. "I know you," Jerry said. "I saw you playing field hockey last summer. You're good. Are you going be on the team here?"
She smiled and nodded. "I hope so!"
"So," he said, turning his attention back to me. "Want to go for a soda or something after school?"
I blushed all over again. "Oooh," he cooed. "You are such a blusher! Does that mean yes?"
"No," I said. "I really have to get home right after."
"How about tomorrow?" he asked.
What the hell? I thought. Tomorrow I'll have short hair; Marcie will have disappeared. If I say I'll go, maybe I can at least get Carla set up.
"Maybe," I said. "Do you have a friend for Carla?"
He cocked an eyebrow at her and said, "Maybe I do. What do you say to Pat MacKinney?"
Carla blushed scarlet and couldn't speak. Jerry chuckled. "So both of you are blushers! Okay, me and Pat, you and Carla, tomorrow, drinks and small talk!" And then he was gone.
Neither of us could speak for a while. Then Carla gushed, "Wow, Marcie! Do you know who Pat MacKinney IS? I've had a crush on him for, like, forever!" She started babbling about Pat this and Pat that. I tried to listen, but my attention flagged pretty quickly. I just kept smiling and nodding my head. At least one good thing was coming out of my situation.
Carla was great. She was in both my afternoon classes, and showed me the way to each. The afternoon went pretty well. In History, even after I told the teacher my name, he was convinced that I was one of the Graylen girls, and turned my last name, Donner, into a first name: Donna Graylin. I didn't bother to correct him since tomorrow Marcie would be gone anyway.
The last class of the day was Computers. The teacher made it pretty interesting, and the time flew.
Near the end of the school day, though, I started to worry that Carla might live in the same direction as me. I didn't want her — or anyone from school — to see where I lived. I didn't want anyone to connect Marcie with Mark.
As soon as class was over, I asked Carla where she lived. She told me, but the address meant nothing, so I asked which direction she was walking. It turned out that she was staying to play some field hockey, so I didn't have to worry about her coming with me.
All the way home, I kept looking over my shoulder, but didn't see anyone from school following me. In fact, I didn't really see anyone on the street until I got home. My aunt was sitting on her front steps, taking sips from a bottle of water.
"Oh!" she called, smiling, nearly laughing. "You must be my lovely niece, Marcie!"
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Oh, my lord!" she cried. "You have to wear a dress every day for the next two weeks?" She actually sat down on the sidewalk, she was laughing so hard. I wanted to smack her, I was so mad. "We're going to have to do some shopping!" She clutched her sides.
"Is that how you were dressed when you left the house this morning?" Aunt Jane asked.
"No," I said, "these aren't my clothes. I can explain."
"Good," she said, grinning. "I'm sure it's a very interesting story."
"First let me go inside and get changed," I told her, taking a step toward the front door.
"Hold on," she told me, barring the way with her arm. "Tell me first. You look too cute in that outfit! I really need to drink it in."
"It's not funny!" I said. "I need to get changed so I can get a haircut. I need to get a SHORT haircut today, so people don't recognize me tomorrow."
"Your hair is already pretty short," she teased. "How could it be any shorter? You'd look like a boy."
"That's the idea!" I said. "I *need* to look like a boy!"
"Relax," she said. "I'm only teasing you! Your school left me the strangest voicemail. They wanted to know if I could bring some clothes for my niece Marcie." She smiled and shrugged. "I'm glad I missed the call. I wouldn't have known what to say. How come they didn't call my cell?"
"Does the school have your cell phone number?"
"Denise knows it by heart. She's the principal's secretary."
"Oh! The principal's secretary? She is not your friend, by the way! She had no idea who you were!"
Aunt Jane frowned. "What do you mean, she's not my friend? What did she say?"
"When I asked her if she knew you, she said she didn't! She had no idea who you were! I was lucky I remembered your number!"
"Denise Truman doesn't know me? She said she doesn't know me? Wait until I get my hands on her!" Jane looked bewildered and a little hurt.
"No, not Truman! Trujillo! The secretary's name is Trujillo."
"No, no," Jane countered, shaking her head. "That's wrong."
"I met her! I know! I don't know her first name, but her last name is Trujillo."
Aunt Jane frowned, puzzled. "You know what? Apart from her everything else, why didn't they look up my number in your records?"
"That's another thing! They couldn't find my records!"
Aunt Jane fell silent for a moment, taking it in. "Are you sure you went to the right school?"
"Of course I went to the right school!"
"Then why couldn't they find your records?"
"I have no idea! How am I supposed to know?"
"Were they looking for Mark's records or Marcie's?"
"Ohhh," I said. "Duh!" It was so obvious. But still, none of it should have happened. And none of would have happened if we hadn't taken that trip to Big Sur. So: "By the way," I told her, "School started Tuesday. NOT Thursday!"
"Hmmph," Jane commented, not seeming to care very much. "So you missed two days of school. It's not that big a deal. AND you got to see Big Sur. You know, school is important, but it isn't the most important thing in life."
"Not the most important?" I repeated. "Do you know how much trouble it caused? Look at me!"
"Wait a minute," Jane said, holding up her hand. She smiled, but she sounded defensive. "Just hold on. Because you went to school two days late, you ended up wearing a dress? And that is somehow my fault? Kids miss school all the time, but they manage to come home wearing their own clothes. What would have happened if you didn't start until next week? Would you have sprouted breasts?"
"It isn't funny!" I insisted. "I'm in trouble, and it's all your fault!"
"No, no," she said, waving her hands, "I'll admit I made you miss two days of school. I hope that's the worst thing that ever happens in your life, because it's nothing. But there's no way that the clothes you're wearing have anything to do with me. It's not my fault. I'm not saying it's your fault, but it's sure not mine."
My mouth fell open in astonishment. Not her fault? How could she say that? It was her fault! Now I began to see why my mother was worried about my coming here. She was right: Aunt Jane was a flake.
But then I remembered something else, something my Dad often said: "Jane is a merciless tease." And it made sense: that's why she wouldn't let me go inside and change. She wanted to milk every ounce of embarrassment she could from the situation. My embarrassment, obviously.
In any case, I didn't really care whose fault it was. I just wanted two things: (1) to get back into my own clothes, and (2) to get a short haircut so no one would recognize me tomorrow. And maybe, too, I could change my schedule, so people wouldn't immediately identify me as Marcie.
So I looked at my smirking aunt and said, "Okay: never mind whose fault it is. Can you at least help me?"
"Of course," she said. "That's why I'm here! No worries. First of all, let's call Denise Truman and find out why she says she doesn't know me."
"Hello!" I shouted. "That's not the most important thing at this moment!"
"Yes it is," she countered calmly. "We need her help to straighten everything out. She is our man on the inside. Without Denise, this could be a complicated mess. With Denise, It'll be a piece of cake." Jane poked at her phone for a moment, then stopped. "I've got a better idea. Let's go over and talk to her."
"Can I get changed first?" I demanded.
"No," Jane said. "She needs to get the whole picture. Besides, she lives right in back of us, on the next street over. We can cut through the backyard. Nobody's going to see us. Plus, that outfit is really cute on you. Did you know that?"
She jumped up, pulled the front door closed, and led me down the driveway. She stopped abruptly, patted her pockets, and turned to look at me. "Hey, uh — you do have the house keys, right?"
I nodded, and she continued on her way.
We passed our garage, then the garage of the house in back. When we emerged in the neighbor's driveway, we saw a woman sweeping her back steps.
"Hey!" she called. "I told you to stop cutting through here! Didn't I?"
"Uh, yeah," Jane replied, "But this is kind of an emergency. My niece here..."
The woman cut her off. "I've told you many times. Over and over! I told you I was going to call the police and have you arrested if you did it again! You're trespassing, do you understand? And now you're teaching another generation to trespass!"
"Forgive us our trespasses..." Jane intoned. I could hear the smirk.
The woman lifted her broom and ran at us. I didn't wait to see what she could do: I turned right around and ran like hell. Behind me I heard a wallop, followed by Jane swearing.
"Ow!" she cried. "That hurts!"
"Good!" the woman shouted. "That'll teach you to stay off my property!"
Another wallop followed, and Jane swore again.
It made me smile, I have to confess.
"Shoot!" Jane complained as she stood in her driveway rubbing her butt. "That old witch knows how to swing a broom! Damn!" She gave an exasperated huff. "I guess we have to go all the way around the block now."
Jane started walking, and took a right out of the driveway. I followed.
"So how did you end up with the name Marcie?" she asked.
"Apparently I look like a girl named Marcie Graylen. Do you know anybody with that name?"
"Sure," Jane said. "The Graylens are cousins, somehow. They live here in town. My mother's cousin married a Graylen, and John was one of the boys in that family... and Marcie is his daughter. I guess she's about your age. We used to see them all the time, growing up, but I kind of lost touch when I was traveling. You've never met them?"
"No," I said.
She studied me for a moment. "Huh!" she concluded. "You do look like a Graylen."
"Like Marcie Graylin?"
Jane shrugged. "I haven't seen her since she was a little girl, but maybe we can go visit this weekend." Then she smiled. "Maybe Marcie will have hand-me-downs for you!" She laughed at her own joke, and then in a more serious tone asked, "So — all joking aside — tell me: what happened in school today? Where did you get those clothes? And where did your clothes go? And, just... uh... I'm sorry for teasing you before. I know you're upset." She walked in silence for a few steps. Then she glanced at me and said, "But in one thing, I wasn't kidding — that outfit really does look good on you."
I stuck out my tongue at her, and we both laughed.
As we walked on, I told her about Mr. Bruce, gym suits, field hockey, the ambulance, and the walk to the principal's office (I left Jerry out of the story). Then I told her my "punishment." I handed her the note. She stopped to read it, and laughed so hard she was crying.
"Oh, my lord!" she cried. "You have to wear a dress every day for the next two weeks?" She actually sat down on the sidewalk, she was laughing so hard. I wanted to smack her, I was so mad. "We're going to have to do some shopping!" She clutched her sides.
"Aunt Jane," I said. "You have to get me out of this mess. I need to get a haircut so nobody recognizes me tomorrow. And somebody has to explain to Mr. Bryant."
"Oh, hon," she gasped. "At this point, I don't think a haircut's going to do it. It sounds like you made a big splash today, so somebody's bound to recognize your cute little face."
I went white. "So what will I do?"
"We need some help from Denise," Jane replied. "Don't worry. We're adults. We can work everything out."
By that point I had plenty of doubts about the last two things she said, but I hoped that Denise at least would have some common sense.
Jane led me up the walk to a pretty little yellow house. As she rang the bell, she said, "Let me do the talking, okay?"
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"So what happened to your nephew Mark?" Denise asked. "Did Marcie come instead?"
"Yeah, sort of," Jane replied, laughing. "It's a funny story–"
Before she could start, I blurted out, "I'm Mark. I'm her nephew Mark."
Denise answered the door in her bathrobe. She had been sick with the flu, she explained. "I'm fine now. And I'm not contagious. I'm just a little snuffly and tired."
She let us in, washed her hands, set some cookies on a plate, and started boiling water for tea.
Jane introduced me as her niece Marcie, but before she got any further, I took the lead and asked Denise whether she really was the principal's secretary. I was getting a little tired of not being able to speak for myself.
"Sure I am," Denise said. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, uh, my aunt said you were, but..."
Denise grinned. "You figured that since she said so, it probably wasn't true, right?"
"Hey!" Jane objected. "That's not fair!"
I ignored the jab. "Uh — there was a Ms. Trujillo in the office today..."
Denise nodded. "She's just a sub from the district. I'll be back at work tomorrow."
"Oh, good!" I replied.
"So what happened to your nephew Mark?" Denise asked. "Did Marcie come instead?"
"Yeah, sort of," Jane replied, laughing. "It's a funny story–"
That's when I jumped in. As I said, by now I was fed up with being cut off before I could tell anyone that I'm a boy, so before Jane could say another word, I blurted out, "I'm Mark. I'm her nephew Mark. There is no Marcie. Only me. Mark."
At first Denise didn't believe it. The fact that Aunt Jane kept laughing didn't help, because it made the whole thing sound like a joke. Each time I insisted it was true, Jane scoffed and laughed and told Denise not to believe me. In the end I think it was my desperation that convinced her.
But what really sealed the deal was when I told her about Mr. Bruce's obsession with gym uniforms. She stopped short and said, "Oh, no... he didn't. Did he really? Oh, no..." And when I pulled the silly outfit from my bag, Denise's face went white. She sighed heavily.
"Oh, my God," she said with a frown. "I've seen that thing once or twice before. Last time was a couple of years back."
Jane took the outfit from me, shook it out and felt the material. "Wow, this thing is butt-ugly," she observed. "Where on earth did he find this relic? It reminds me of a Victorian bathing suit! And it feels like... ugh... the cheapest kind of polyester." She turned to Denise. "How can he get away with this? Don't the parents complain? I'm surprised nobody's sued him." She shook her head and shoved the outfit back into my bag. "Is this some crazy kind of kink of his?"
Denise gave an offended look. "Jane! You know him! He's a nice guy! A nice, normal, decent guy!"
"Yeah," Jane acknowledged. "But still... in this day and age..."
"Anyway," Denise told her, interrupting, "The principal doesn't condone it. I guess he turns a blind eye, because he and Bruce fought about it for years. And Bruce should be retiring soon. When he does, the whole issue goes away. For the past couple, maybe three, years, no boy ever forgot his gym clothes. So I guess the threat worked, and before that, I guess none of the boys ever told their parents. If they had, it would have been the end of it."
Jane didn't know what to say, she she gave a hmmph! Then she looked at me. "Alright. Now, back to your story. So, you had to wear that silly thing for gym class. Then how did you end up wearing all this?" She gestured to what I was wearing.
"Well... I had to take gym class with the girls," I began. I explained about Mr. Bruce's mix-up with the name, which prompted Jane to explain exactly how Marcie Graylen and I were related, and then...
"So it turned out that Mr. Bruce had a stroke, and now he's in the hospital," I told them, and the two women's jaws dropped. "What!?" they exclaimed together. Denise jumped to her feet and ran to look out the front window.
"Donnie Bruce is in the hospital?" my aunt demanded.
"I don't know his first name," I replied in a cautious tone, "but Mr. Bruce had a stroke and went to the hospital today."
Aunt Jane looked to Denise, who was still standing by the front window. "Is Alice home?"
"I don't think so," Denise replied. "Her car's not in the driveway."
"I'll try to call her," Jane said, and turning her back to us, walked into the kitchen.
I sat there for a moment, looking at the two of them. They both seemed to have forgotten I was there. So I walked over to Denise, because she seemed to be the sensible one.
"So what do I do?" I asked her.
She frowned a moment. "About Donnie, you mean?"
"What?" I replied. "No, about me. What do I do tomorrow? Can you fix it?"
Denise sighed and ruffled my hair. Jane emerged from the kitchen, poking at her phone. "She doesn't answer. I'm sending a text."
"Oh, Jane," Denise said, "You're my friend, I love you, but you just make things so crazy. How do you do it?"
Jane shot a defensive look at Denise. "What are you talking about? I didn't do anything," she said. "How can you say that?"
"If Mark had started school on time, he would have known about Bruce's fixation, and he would have been ready for gym this morning."
Jane retorted, "When you say it like that, it only *sounds* like it makes sense. There isn't any cause and effect here. This is just the way things turned out. It's just a series of strange coincidences and weird luck."
"Whatever!" I cried. "I don't care who did what, or why or when, or how it might not have happened! At this point, I just want a way out. AND, I need to get my hair cut short today, really short, before the barbers close."
"Okay," Denise said. "I'll be back at work tomorrow, and we will work it all out. Come to school tomorrow dressed normally, as a boy. Come straight to the office and we'll talk to Principal Bryant together."
"I can't come," Jane commented. "I have to work."
"Maybe it's better that way," Denise said, laughing, and Jane stuck out her tongue in response.
"Come a little early, like a half hour early," Denise told me.
"Can you just say that Marcie called to drop out, and quietly put Mark back in?" Jane asked.
"First off," Denise replied, "I never put Mark's drop through the system. So he's still enrolled. I tried to call you Tuesday, but couldn't reach you. I even tried, sick as I was, on Wednesday, but of course I couldn't find you.
"Anyway, if Marcie doesn't show, I'm sure Bryant will want to call or visit her home to make sure there are no bad feelings or serious problems. Plus, I don't like to do underhanded stuff. Especially when there's no need to. You know that. It's best to come clean with Bryant. He's a good guy.
"And *I* can cut your hair, Mark. I have some clippers somewhere in the house. If all you want is a crew cut, I can buzz all the hair right off your head. Okay?"
That sounded great to me. I was glad that Denise was finally in the picture. Clearly, my aunt was a flake, like my mother said, and I couldn't rely on her to be the adult. Denise, on the other hand, was a responsible adult, and she at least, had my back.
Denise took another look out the front window.
"You always were the sensible one, Denise," Jane complimented. "I knew you'd work it all out. But there's another alternative I think we ought to explore..."
"And what alternative is that?" Denise prompted.
"What if Mark remains Marcie?" Jane asked. "For the rest of the semester? After that, he goes off to New Jersey, and no one will be the wiser."
I rolled my eyes. Of course, my aunt had to get some last cracks in. As long as she could joke about this, she would. But I knew Denise wouldn't go along. It was too crazy and silly and stupid. Denise would never. I looked from my aunt to Denise, and then it was my jaw's turn to fall.
Imagine my surprise and alarm when I saw Denise's thoughtful frown turn slowly into a laughing smile.
"Well," she said thoughtfully. "He does make a cute girl."
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Stop!" I told her. "It's not funny any more. I never said I wanted to be a girl! Or even pretend to be a girl!"
"Trust me, Marcie-Mark," Jane told me. "I'm your responsible adult. You're in my care. And I'm telling you, this will be good for you. You'll like it. You'll learn all kinds of useful things about girls, and you even can write a book about it when you're older.
My eyes nearly popped out of my head, I was so surprised and shocked.
"You could stay Marcie for the rest of the term," Jane said, "and then go back to being Mark when you move East."
Denise looked at me with a kind of neutral smile. She glanced at Jane, then turned away to look out the front window.
"Bu– wha– I... you sa– ha," I spluttered.
"Look," Jane told me, "I said before: you made a big splash today. You've already started making friends with students and teachers. And...," she said, pausing dramatically, "you like the clothes!"
"I do not!" I said.
"Do too!" she countered. "You've been home for two hours, but you haven't gone to change. You haven't even said you want to change. You like those clothes!"
"They do look good on you," Denise said quietly. "But don't worry, Mark. Jane's just teasing you. *I* was just teasing you. She knows it would never work."
"Never work!? Of course it would work!" Jane countered. "Everyone believed it today."
Denise huffed impatiently, and turned to face Jane. "One day! It worked for one day! What about the rest of the semester? You don't think the other kids will have time to take a closer look, to get to know him better? You don't think that he — or you! — would slip up? And what about gym? What about bathrooms?"
Jane waved her hand. "In the bathroom, he'll just have to remember to sit down and not stare. For gym, I think I can get a doctor's note."
"So he won't take gym?" Denise asked.
"No, so he can shower and change by himself," she replied. "I'm sure I can find a doctor who'll do me a favor. It's just a note, anyway. I just have to think of the right condition, but that shouldn't be a problem."
Denise studied my face for a few moments. I shook my head no, and she smiled encouragingly.
Jane went on, "And for the paperwork... you can't tell me that it would be hard to finagle that. You're the woman on the inside, you can do whatever you like with the records."
"No," Denise countered. "I can't. And even if I switched Mark for Marcie..." she fell silent, thinking. "You know, it actually wouldn't be very hard. In fact, it would be easy: If this is only going to last a semester or less, I could do it. I could leave Mark's record in the system, and set it inactive, so no one will see it. I'd copy all his background into a new record for Marcie. Then, when it's time for Mark to move on, I'll just copy Marcie's grades and attendance and notes into Mark's record."
"That's what I said!" Jane asserted.
Denise went on, "The requests for transcripts and records from his new school would come to me anyway, but even if someone else gets it, his record would be there, right next to Marcie's."
"Then it's settled," Jane said, and clapped her hands. Denise giggled.
"And what about me?" I demanded. At this point, I had no idea whether they were teasing or serious. With these two, it was impossible to tell.
Denise caught my worried look and reassured me. "We're just talking," she said. "Don't worry — it's not going to happen. It can't happen. I won't go along with it. AND, your aunt can't make you do it. Remember, Jane is nothing but a tease. She's trying to get a rise out of you."
"No, I'm not," Jane said with a laugh. "It *is* going to happen. And Marcie and I have to do some shopping!"
"Stop!" I told her. "It isn't funny any more. I never said I wanted to be a girl! Or even pretend to be a girl! And I have told you — several times — that I wanted to get out of these clothes!"
"Trust me, Marcie-Mark," Jane told me. "I'm your responsible adult. You're in my care. And I'm telling you, this will be good for you. You'll like it. You'll learn all kinds of useful things about girls, and you even can write a book about it when you're older.
"Now come on," she commanded. "We have to get to the mall. You need at least one outfit for tomorrow, some underwear, and a starter set for boobies."
Denise, who was standing behind Jane, rolled her eyes and shook her head at me. She twirled her finger near her ear and pointed at Jane, meaning, She's crazy. To me she mouthed the words Don't worry, but aloud she asked, "Can I come? I need to get out, and I have nothing to eat here. We can have dinner at the food court in the mall."
While Denise got ready, Jane went into the backyard to make a phone call. She claimed the signal was better, but I didn't believe her. I paced back and forth, thinking. Denise had assured me that Jane was only teasing. But there was no way I could be sure of that, so I had to be ready to put up a serious fight. In any case, one thing was certain: the longer this went on, the harder it would be to stop. However, I wasn't sure that I'd be able to put my foot down by myself. It seemed like Denise had my back, but would she stand up to my aunt? She seemed responsible, practical, and realistic. Thank God she was coming along with us to the mall: I needed all the help I could get.
Whatever happened next, I needed to flat-out refuse anything that pulled me in the girl direction. That included changing my clothes before we left for the mall.
And then it hit me: I could pull my parents in. Even if it meant going to New Jersey before I was ready. It might be a mess, but it would be better than whatever humiliation I'd go through when the kids at school found out that I'm not a girl.
So when Aunt Jane came back in, I asked if I could use her phone. She handed it to me.
Once I had the phone in my hand, I told her, "I want to call my parents." Then I realized that I didn't have the number.
"It's in the contacts," she said, and touching the screen without taking it from me, she pulled up the number at Dad's little apartment. It rang for a while, but there was no answer.
"It's late afternoon out there," Jane said. "Your father's probably at work or on his way home, and your mother might be out looking at houses. If you call two or three hours from now, you'll get them for sure."
Denise came rushing into the room. "I just saw Alice pulling into her driveway. We've got to go talk to her!" She ran out of the house, leaving the front door open.
"Who's Alice?" I asked.
Aunt Jane's face looked serious for the first time today. She glanced out the window, and in a soft voice said, "She's an old friend... and she's married to your Mr. Bruce."
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
Alice asked, "How will you handle tomorrow? What are you going to do? How are you going to explain to everybody?"
They all looked at me, and I looked back at them. A slow smile came to my lips, and Alice said, "No! You're not! You... you can't! You're not going to pretend to be a girl, are you!?"
We followed Denise outside. She was across the street, talking to a girl who looked about my age. I froze for a moment, then quickly turned to go back in the house.
Aunt Jane frowned, puzzled, and stopped me by putting her hand on my arm. "What's wrong?"
"That girl!" I hissed. "I don't want her to see me!"
"What girl?" Jane's head swiveled, scanning the empty street. "Where? Someone you know?" Jane asked, puzzled.
"The girl Denise is talking to! I don't know her, but if she goes to my school, and she sees me, it's going to make it hard to change back to Mark."
Aunt Jane gave a small smile. "You've got it all wrong," she said. "That woman isn't your age. She's my age. That's Alice. She, Denise, and I went to high school together. We used to call her Tiny Alice because she was always the smallest girl in our class."
Jane glanced across the street. "You can see she hasn't grown any since then."
"She really went to school with you?" I asked, full of doubt. I was beginning to wonder whether I could believe a single word that my aunt said.
"Yes," Jane replied, surprised by my disbelief. "Why wouldn't she?"
"You might say that just to trick me, and get me stuck wearing a dress."
Aunt Jane scoffed and said, "No, I swear. And you're not going to be stuck wearing a dress. Alice is an old friend, and she needs some support right now. Come on, you'll like her. She's great."
As we crossed the street and got closer, I could see that Alice didn't exactly look like a girl. The way she dressed and acted was more adult, more like Denise.
But the thing that really struck me about her was how tired and sad she looked. Well... not sad exactly... but definitely not happy.
"Hi, Alice!" Aunt Jane called. "How are you holding up? How is Donny doing?"
Alice sighed and said, "I guess he's going to be all right. His doctor said it wasn't really a stroke. It was a transchemic something attack..."
"Transient Ischemic Attack," Jane offered. "It's like a mini-stroke. So his symptoms cleared up?"
"Yes," she said. "Pretty much. After a couple hours he kind of came to, and started talking and acting normally. Now he's worn out, and they want to keep him for a couple days to do some tests." She sighed again. "They said it was a warning sign."
"Will he be back at school?" I asked.
Alice gave me a kind of blank stare for a moment. "No, hon, I'm not going to let him. It's time for him to retire. Past time." She kept on looking at me, but there was no expression on her face. It was a little unnerving. She glanced back and forth between me and Jane, and said, "Who are you? Are you two related?"
"Yes," Jane said. "This is my niece, Marcie."
"I'm her nephew, Mark," I countered.
"Niece."
"Nephew."
"Stop," Denise said, gently but firmly. "Alice, we'll let you go. I guess you need to rest."
"No, no, don't go!" Alice cried. "Can't you come in the house with me? I don't want to be alone right now. It'll be too weird without Donny."
"All of us?" Denise asked.
"Yes," said Alice. "All of you! If you don't stay... if you don't come in, it'll just be me and my thoughts. I'll go crazy! Come on, I'll cook you dinner. Please?"
The three women went back and forth for a tiny while longer, but I tuned them out. Something else was happening, something more important... for me, anyway. I had a moment, an unusual, eye-opening moment, and it changed the course of the rest of my life.
As we stood there on that suburban street, the sun sank behind the houses. Everything — houses, cars, trees, people — took on a warm, liquid, golden glow. A soft wind unrolled itself and filled the street, its soft feathery fingers rustling my skirt and rippling its tiers and ruffles.
I'd been outside with bare legs plenty of times, but there was a world of difference between wearing shorts and wearing a skirt. A gentle wave of wind quietly slipped under and slid all the way up my legs, brushing my light cotton underwear, reminding me that every stitch and thread I wore said girl.
A thrill of gooseflesh rushed over my back and arms. Its electric tingle spread up my neck into my scalp.
I drew a deep, smiling breath and saw my little fake breasts rise, then fall.
In a strange and indescribable way I felt right and good. It was a new sensation for me. After a whole day of fighting and fearing what I was wearing, I suddenly relaxed, and when I relaxed, I saw that I belonged right there, that I was part and parcel of the whole scene, and something secret part inside of me said, Oh, God! It's good to be a girl! and then it said, I can do this. I want to do this. I want to be a girl!
And when that secret part of me said those things, the rest of me agreed.
I could have stood there longer, drinking in the magic of that transforming moment, but it ended abruptly when Aunt Jane shook my arm and called out, "Earth to Mark! Earth to Marcie! Come on, boy! Come on, girl! We're going to be with Alice. We can talk more inside."
The warm golden moment ended, but I knew what I'd felt and seen, and I knew what I wanted to do.
I followed the others. We trooped into Alice's house and sat down around her kitchen table.
I drank soda; the women drank white wine. Alice tied an apron around her waist, and got busy washing and chopping vegetables. She put water on to boil and poured some oil into a pan.
All of us offered to help, but she refused. "No," Alice said, "I need to be busy. What you can do is talk to me. Distract me. Tell me anything, everything." She looked me in the face, and said, "You — Tell me the niece/nephew story." Then she pointed at Jane and said, "You — Don't interrupt her."
Jane shrugged and sipped her wine.
I took a deep breath and began, "I might have been one of the last people to see Mr. Bruce before his stroke–"
Jane open her mouth to correct me, but Alice wagged her finger. "Go on," she said.
I told her the story of how I missed the first two days of school, and how I didn't have my gym suit. As I talked, her face betrayed a series of silent reactions. I didn't know what her reactions meant, but each time I paused, she said, "Go on."
When I got to the part where I was in the girls' gym class, Alice asked me to describe the outfit I had to wear. I had some trouble, so I ran across the street to Denise's house and pulled it out of my bag. Alice spread it on the table.
"Oh, my God. These ugly old things. I wonder where on earth he got them! No girl would ever be caught dead wearing one of these." She balled it up and shoved it into the kitchen trash.
"Donny is just insane about gym clothes," Alice went on. "He used to talk about it for hours. Literal hours. I asked him to stop, but I could see it was eating him up. I got tired of asking him to give up on it, to drop it. Once he got on it, he was like a runaway train."
"It's a big deal to him," I said.
She nodded. "I finally realized what it was. He felt that people looked down on him for being a gym teacher, and when the boys forgot their outfits he felt like they looked down on him too. He took it as an insult, like they didn't care, like it didn't matter." She paused. "Like he didn't matter." She looked at the floor and sighed.
I wasn't sure what to say.
After a moment, she collected herself and asked, "Okay: I understand how you ended up in gym class with the girls, but how on earth did you end up in those clothes you've got on? My husband didn't have anything to do with that, did he?"
"No," I said, and told her the rest of the story. Again, I carefully left Jerry out of it. A few times I had to pause because the three of them were laughing so much. Alice stopped me twice because her sides were hurting, and Denise jumped in at one point to paint a short, unflattering portrait of Mrs. Zeff, the woman who hauled me into the office.
"Okay. So that was today." Alice concluded. "How will you handle tomorrow? What are you going to do? How are you going to explain to everybody?"
They all looked at me, and I looked back at them. A slow smile came to my lips, and Alice said, "No! You're not! You... you can't! You're not going to pretend to be a girl, are you!?"
I kept smiling and looking at the three women, but I didn't answer right away.
Denise gently told me, "Come on now, Mark. You know we were only teasing you before, don't you? No one ever wanted you to wear a dress."
"Unless you want to...," Jane prompted, chuckling to herself. But I knew she didn't mean it.
Jane was busy laughing, but Denise and Alice gaped in surprise, because they saw what I wanted. It was written all over my face.
"I want to try it," I said. "I want to try it to be a girl. If I can, I mean. If that's okay."
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Mark, look. This isn't some sitcom on TV. It's real life. It's high school. Kids can be very cruel. You never know — one tiny slip, one little detail could give you away, and it would all be over. Then what would you do? Leave school? Run away?"
Alice cried, "Jane, is everyone in your family crazy?"
Aunt Jane sputtered for a bit, then recovered, saying, "Good one, Mark, good one. You really had me going there for a minute. No, Alice, he's just getting me back for teasing him before."
Alice looked closely at my face and replied, "I don't think he is. You're serious, aren't you, Mark?"
I licked my lips and nodded.
"No, no, nonono," Jane said, waving her hand. "Out of the question."
"Why?" Alice asked. "I'm still having trouble believing that this is a boy sitting in front of me. I mean, I do believe it — Mark, you need some 'girl' lessons, by the way — but my eyes tell me that this is a girl."
"Everybody at school thought I was a girl," I offered.
"Girls don't sit with their legs splayed like that," Alice replied, pointing at my knees, which I quickly closed.
Jane was about to speak, but Denise signalled her to wait. She said to me, "Mark, look. This isn't some sitcom on TV. It's real life. It's high school. Kids can be very cruel. You never know — one tiny slip, one little detail could give you away, and it would all be over. Then what would you do? Leave school? Run away?"
"It's only one semester," I put in.
Denise continued, "It's not just about you, either. If you were found out, my job would be on the line. I would not only get fired, I'd never work in the school system again."
"You could just say you didn't know," I suggested.
"And the records?"
"If I get caught, you can take away the Mark record and say you didn't know."
She thought a moment, then said, "Then where did the Marcie transcript come from, if I didn't know?"
"Could I say I made it?"
Denise puzzled over that, but before she could speak, Jane burst in, "What about bathrooms? What about gym?"
"We talked about that before, remember? You said I could sit down and not stare, and you said you'd get me a doctor's note for gym."
"I was only kidding about the doctor's note," she said. "I just made that up."
"Anyway," I said, "Now I have gym at the end of the day, so I don't need to shower at school. I can just come straight home."
"She has an answer for everything," Alice said.
"He," Aunt Jane countered.
"Whatever," Alice said, smiling slightly.
Jane returned to the charge. "What about your parents? What are they going to say? They'll think I'm a total flake!"
Alice and Denise exchanged glances.
"Don't they think that already?" Denise muttered. Jane didn't take the bait.
"They don't have to know," I replied.
"If you get caught, they'll know," Jane retorted hotly. Then she turned on Alice and Denise. "And what's with you two? I see the looks and faces you're making."
"Uh," Denise faltered.
"The thing is," Alice replied, "is that Marcie is sounding a lot like you. You were always a master at talking people into stuff."
"Stuff they wanted to do anyway," Jane replied.
Denise looked doubtful. "I don't know about that," she countered. Jane glared at her.
"What all of you don't seem to realize," Jane said, "Is how much trouble I could get into."
Alice and Denise erupted into laughter.
"Do you know how many people have said that to you?" Denise countered. "The two of us included."
Now that the heat was off me for a moment, a thought suddenly hit me: None of them realized that I was just as surprised as they were. I didn't mean to say what I said. I meant it, but I didn't mean to say it. It just kind of came out. The moment of insight that I had on the sidewalk was like something out of time, a kind of cosmic moment that I didn't know how to process or what to do with. It was like a curtain was lifted and I saw this whole girly dimension calling to me. It felt like home. And now, sitting here, dressed in a skirt and cute top — well, it felt so incredibly natural, as if I always dressed this way. Jane was right: I liked these clothes. I didn't want to get changed.
Another thing: I liked being with these three women. For the first time I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up: I wanted to be like them! Was that strange? Whether it was weird or strange, well, whatever it was, it was right.
It sounds so logical and clear when I write it down like this, but at the time it was just a jumble of inarticulate feelings. I felt them, but didn't know what they meant. I went with it, because it looked like the best way to go.
My experience on the sidewalk and my time with these women... sure, it was brief, hardly an hour. Still, it was enough to convince me that I could do it and that I wanted to do it. It would be fun and interesting to be a girl for a few months. And yes, maybe it wouldn't always be easy, but it would definitely be worthwhile.
Alice said, "Face it, Jane. All your life you've gotten people into mischief. Sometimes they've landed in more trouble than they could handle."
Denise added, "For once, the shoe is on the other foot."
Jane shook her head. "I can't believe this! I can't believe the two of you are ganging up on me!" She waved her hand as if to shut Alice and Denise off, and turned to look at me. "Mark, listen. You know I was only kidding before, right? I was just teasing you. I never, never, never meant for you to wear a dress to school. I will even go so far as to say that I'm sorry that I made you late for school, and I'll admit that this is all my fault, okay?"
I could see that she was almost choking on the words — that it was hard for her to apologize. Denise and Alice were astonished.
Denise said, "Wow! That's a first."
"I wish I had a video camera," Alice added.
Jane ignored them. "Don't do this, Mark," she asked quietly. "Don't do this to me."
"I can do this," I replied with a firmness and decision that surprised even me. "I can pull it off. Alice and Denise didn't believe I'm a boy, and no one at school thought I was a boy. I can do this, and I want to do this."
Jane sighed.
"Okay," Alice said. "But you're going to need some help. Seriously. You have to come over this weekend and I'll help you." Suddenly her face lit up. "Oh! And I have something you can wear tomorrow!" She grabbed my hand and said, "Come on, I'll show you." She led me out of the living room into a short hallway. "You two, stay there," she called to Denise and Jane.
I followed Alice into her bedroom and she pulled open her closet. "I have a dress that I think you could wear tomorrow. You can try it on now, anyway. I bought it, but then I never had the nerve to wear it. It looked good in the store, but when I got it home it looked more like a costume than a dress, but I think you can pull it off."
She handed me a dress on a hanger. It was a brown Bohemian dress. There were swaths of three or four different patterns, separated by blue or purple lines. If the pieces were arranged differently, it would have looked like a crazy quilt. One pattern was a soft tie dye of white, red and brown; the second was light red and white flowers; the third looked like cells under the microscope, drawn in brown and white, and the last was blue paisley. From the waist up, the stripes ran diagonally, but they were horizontal on the skirt. The sleeves were long and loose.
Alice said, "I'll leave you to it." Before she left the room, she said, "Are you really a boy? Tell the truth."
"Yes," I said. "Cross my heart."
After she walked away, I heard her tell the other two, "Let's open a bottle of wine. Dinner's just about ready."
The dress fit me perfectly, and I have to say, I liked it a lot. Being a boy, I'd never worn colorful clothes anyway, but I guessed that even girls didn't wear so many colors at once. Once it quieted down out front, I came out to show them.
"Is this too much?" I asked. "Too many colors?"
Jane's mouth fell. Alice's eyes lit up. Denise said, "No, it's you. It's just fine. It looks really good on you."
They asked me to spin, to walk up and down, to sit and stand again. Alice examined the fit. Denise and Alice commented on which shoes might suit the dress. Just then, a timer dinged.
"Oh!" Alice cried. "You can't eat dinner in that. If you spill something on it, you won't be able to use it tomorrow. Come on, I've got another one I can't wear. Then I'll put dinner on the table."
She shut off the burners on the stove and ran back to her bedroom, pulling me behind her. From the closet she quickly extracted a white minidress. "Don't worry about how it fits," she said. "This will help you learn what to do with your legs."
"But it's white," I said. "What if I spill food on this?"
"Don't worry," she said, "Neither of us can wear this dress in public anyway," and she ran from the room.
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"That's not what I meant," she countered. "I mean that you have to behave. You can't be tricky and get around the rules. Rules are rules, and if you don't watch out, they can really bite you in the butt. If you're going to be a girl and not get caught at it, you have to keep your nose clean, keep a low profile, and not draw attention to yourself. You might think that teachers and adults are old and stupid, but they ignore a lot of stuff. They let a lot slide. If you flaunt the rules, people will notice, and when they have their chance, they'll lower the boom on you. Do you get me?"
As Alice disappeared down the hall, she called, "Be quick, because dinner's ready."
Soon I heard the clank of plates and the clink of knives and forks. Someone was setting the table.
After one last look in the mirror, I took off the Bohemian dress, and held up the white dress in front of me. I had t-shirts as long as this dress! Well, almost as long.
"Hurry up in there, Marcie!" Alice sang out.
I sighed, and stepped into it. After some struggle I got it up my body and was able to slip my arms in. Surprisingly, it wasn't hard to zip myself.
"Marcie!" Alice called again, "Dinner's on the table!"
I quickly adjusted myself and tugged the hemline down. "Brazen it out," I told myself. "Brazen it out."
The three women were already sitting at the table when I entered the room.
Denise said, "Whoa!"
Jane said, "No way. No way! You can't go anywhere dressed like that!"
"Okay, mom," Alice said. "This is just for practice. I already told her she can't wear it in public."
Jane sighed heavily and hung her head with a black look. I almost found myself apologizing, but then thought, If you want to do this, you've got to keep going. I sat at the small round table between Jane and Denise, facing Alice.
Alice lifted her glass. I looked and saw that mine was filled with water. Alice said, "I really appreciate the three of you coming tonight. I know I've been a little wild, but I didn't want to be alone... with my thoughts... and fears... tonight. Sorry, Jane. I wanted to be distracted, and I guess it's been at your expense."
Jane's mouth moved a little, but she didn't look up or say anything.
Alice went on, "I'm worried about Donny, and I don't understand what's going on. The doctors didn't really explain..."
Jane took a breath and said, "Right. That's why there are nurses. The doctors run in and run out. Most of them don't take the time to sit down with their patients, let alone their patients' families." Then she explained the difference between strokes and transient ischemic attacks, which was what Mr. Bruce had had. Her explanation was remarkably clear and easy to understand. Jane talked about how lucky Mr. Bruce had been, about it being a warning, and so on...
Alice listened closely, every so often sipping her wine. Denise surreptitiously winked at me, and then I understood. Alice was drawing Jane out, calling on her professional side. I could see Jane relaxing as she explained, and Alice kept asking questions, so Jane kept talking. Alice really wanted and needed to know — and the conversation lasted the whole dinner — but Jane needed it, too. While Alice sipped her wine, Jane gulped hers, and between the wine and the explaining, Jane warmed and grew expansive. She didn't get drunk, you understand. She just loosened up.
Denise and I kept silent. Every so often she'd smile at me. A few times she signalled me to eat slowly, take smaller bites, to keep my knees together, to sip (not gulp) my water.
Once the meal was over, Denise told me, "You better get to your homework. We'll do the cleanup." She gestured to Alice's desk in the corner of the living room. "You can work over there."
As I crossed the room, I scooped up the principal's letter to Aunt Jane, and grabbed the bag Ms. Price had given me. My only homework was some History reading. Oh, and memorizing the dress code for girls. I read it through four times.
A shirt or blouse that can be tucked in (any color). Skirts or dresses (no higher than one inch above the knee), suits, casual pants or slacks (any color). A belt must be worn with pants. Sleeveless outfits are not allowed. Solid color stockings, dress shoes or dress boots. Skirts with slits are not acceptable. Tight fitting or revealing clothing will not be permitted. Girls may wear one pair of small earrings and a watch. Makeup is not encouraged, but if worn, must be minimal.
When I finished the History reading, the women were still cleaning up. It looked like a good moment, so I took the principal's letter and a pen. My aunt was in the middle of telling something long and complicated, and she was smiling, so I slipped in next to her, smoothed the letter on the counter, and held the pen toward her. Without a thought, without missing a beat or stopping her story, she signed with a flourish and I stepped away.
Behind Jane's back, Denise pretended to be shocked. She put her mouth in an oh and shook her head. Smiling, she whispered, "You are a bold girl, Marcie! Just like your aunt."
I went back to the desk, and started packing my books into the bag. Denise followed me over.
She said, "I hope you know I'm on your side." I nodded. She went on, "I hope you'll be on my side, too."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"That was clever, the way you got your aunt to sign that note."
I smiled.
"It's good to be clever, but not too clever."
I didn't follow.
"Look," she explained. "If you're really going to do this thing, you're going to have to be good."
"Don't worry," I replied. "Everyone will think I'm a girl."
"That's not what I meant," she countered. "I mean that you have to behave. You can't be tricky and get around the rules. Rules are rules, and if you don't watch out, they can really bite you in the butt. If you're going to be a girl and not get caught at it, you have to keep your nose clean, keep a low profile, and not draw attention to yourself. You might think that teachers and adults are old and stupid, but they ignore a lot of stuff. They let a lot slide. If you flaunt the rules, people will notice, and when they have their chance, they'll lower the boom on you. Do you get me?"
"Yes, I guess I do," I replied.
"So, if you're going to be a girl, you have to be a good girl. Okay?"
"Okay," I said.
"If you're tricky or troublesome, your parents might hear about it, and the whole thing could unravel."
"Okay," I repeated.
"'Nuff said, then," she told me, and smiled and ruffled my hair. Then she grinned and said, "Okay, girlfriend, give me a hug." She gave me a big squeeze. I put my arms on her back and squeezed a little, too, until she let go and walked back to the kitchen, chuckling.
I had no idea what that was about.
As I set my bag by the front door, Denise gave Alice a hug, too. Alice gave her a look of alarm.
"Oh, no," she said. "You're not going, are you?"
"I better," Denise said. "I was sick yesterday and I ought to get home, get ready for tomorrow."
"Yeah, me too," Jane said. "I have to be at work by seven."
"Oh, oh," Alice cried. "You can't leave me. Can't you all stay here tonight?"
Jane and Denise hesitated.
"Please?" Alice begged. "The four of us can have a sleepover. You can leave for work from here. I have plenty of room. I'll make you breakfast!"
"I guess," Denise said. "I can run across the street for a shower in the morning. Okay. Yeah."
Jane's shoulders fell and she shook her head. "Sorry, Ally," she said. "I have to sleep in my own bed, especially after the all the heart spasms I've gone through tonight." She looked at me as she spoke. My eyebrows shot up and my mouth went into an oh. Jane saw this, and said, "Yes, Miss Innocent, I'm talking about you. You can stay if you want, Marcie," she laid heavy emphasis on the name, "and don't think I didn't notice that note you had me sign.
"You can have your game," she said. "But if it comes apart, don't come crying to me. Got it?"
I nodded, a little frightened, and barely managed to say, "Thanks, Aunt Jane."
At this her face softened, and she said, "Come here, you little monkey!" She wrapped me in a bone-breaking hug.
"Do you know you're my favorite aunt?" I said.
"Oh, man, what bull!" she shouted, laughing.
"No, really!" I protested.
"Okay," she said, and hugged me again. "You be good, okay? Don't be wild like these two. Or like me. Keep out of trouble."
"I will," I said.
"And if it does come apart," she said, "do come running to me, okay?"
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
Ms. Tandy held up the doll and asked if anyone knew what it was.
One girl said, "A doll."
The teacher replied, "Come on, if it was that easy, I wouldn't have asked."
"Oh! Oh!" another girl called. "I know! I know!"
The rest of the evening was pretty uneventful. After Aunt Jane left, Alice showed me the guest room. I took a shower, then called my parents. They were tired from house-hunting. I told them about my trip with Aunt Jane and a little about school. It wasn't hard to leave stuff out — they didn't have much energy to listen. It was nice to hear their voices, even if they sounded a little discouraged. My mother hadn't seen anything she even remotely liked.
After the phone call, I returned to the living room, but Alice and Denise were talking intently about who knows what, so I waved good night and settled in the guest room for the night. I thought about calling Aunt Jane, but instead read the dress code a dozen times until I knew it by heart.
The next morning I only stumbled once when I had to recite it for the principal. I got it off perfectly for Mrs. Zeff, who happened to catch me in the hallway. She actually complimented me on my dress! Carla and I had lunch together. Carla dominated the conversation by talking about Pat McKinney, and what a great friend I was to have set her up.
This unfortunately reminded me of my date with Jerry. He and Pat arrived near the end of lunch to firm up the date. Carla looked ready to burst, and Pat, who turned out to be a beefy monster, was obviously very interested in Carla. There was no way I could let her down, so we arranged to meet after school at a soda shop. My many blushes made Jerry smile, and I couldn't help but smile back. I had to get a grip on this blushing business. Maybe Alice knew some trick to keep it from happening.
The rest of the day was uneventful, until the last class of the day, Home Ec. Thank God it was my last class.
Now, even if I did want to be a girl for a few months, I had no desire to take Home Ec. I wasn't even sure what it covered, but I knew it wasn't for me. On the other hand, Shop didn't tempt me in the least, and there were only two girls (Carla being one) who'd taken that class. There was no point in sticking out AND doing something I was no good at.
So, on to Home Ec.! The teacher, Ms. Tandy, had a doll on her desk when we entered. I guessed we might be learning infant CPR or some such thing. That wouldn't be so bad.
While the roll was called, I couldn't help but notice the one boy in class, John Martin. He seemed a little uncomfortable, but he bore it well. The teacher asked him why he'd taken the class, and he explained that he was going to be a fashion designer, and he was here for the sewing. His candor surprised me. I guess I'd always assumed that guys who followed that career were gay, but this guy didn't seem to be gay or effeminate at all. In fact, I began to suspect that he'd taken the class to be with all the girls.
But who was I to wonder about a boy taking Home Ec., anyway!
Ms. Tandy held up the doll and asked if anyone knew what it was.
One girl said, "A doll."
The teacher replied, "Come on, if it was that easy, I wouldn't have asked."
"Oh! Oh!" another girl called. "I know! I know!"
"Yes?"
"It's Baby Thinks-A-Lot!"
"Close, but not quite," the teacher replied. "This is Baby Think-It-Over™. This is your assignment for the weekend. Each of you, except for Mr. Martin, will get a baby, a bracelet, and a notebook.
"When you get your baby, I will activate it."
"What does it do?" someone asked. "Does it wet itself?" There was some laughter at this.
"No," Ms. Tandy replied, "but I think, before the weekend is over, you might wish that it did. This is an infant simulator. This is a scale replica of a three-month-old. It will give you an idea of what it's like to care for a baby. You need to keep this baby with you from now until Monday morning, when you will return them to me. I'll be here early on Monday morning, and I'm sure most of you will be as well.
"The baby cries at random intervals, and you must soothe the baby by putting this key in its back." She showed the key, which was attached to the bracelet. She inserted it and removed it. "Sometimes the baby stops in five minutes, sometimes it takes as long as a half hour. You hold the key inside until it stops crying. This simulates feeding, changing, giving affection.
"Each baby has a recorder inside that will show how prompt you were in soothing the baby. It also will show whether you dropped, threw, shook, or hit the baby, which — I shouldn't need to say — are very bad things to do. Any of those actions could kill a real baby."
"What happens if the batteries fall out, or the key gets stuck inside?" I asked.
"Hmm, you're a clever one," the teacher replied. "I'll have to keep an extra eye on you. No, you can't do either of those things. If you take out the batteries, it will be recorded as abuse. If you could somehow leave the key inside, the recorder will show that you neglected the baby. It would be like taping a baby bottle to a baby's head.
"Also, before anyone asks," she said, looking directly at me, "You can't get your mother or grandmother or friend or anyone else to 'babysit'. The bracelet is tamper-proof. If you succeed in getting it off, it will show, and you will get an F for this assignment."
In a loud voice, she announced, "You will be graded on how well you treat your baby. Be good to your baby. Don't hurt your baby."
She held up a notebook. "You also need to record your observations and feelings during this weekend. Don't worry about what you write; just write. It's important to be candid and honest.
"Any questions?"
I raised my hand. "How come he doesn't have to take a baby?" I asked, gesturing to John Martin. "That isn't fair."
"Welcome to the world of women, Miss Donner!" she replied. "Men can't have babies. That's not fair, either, but there isn't anything we can do about it. Feel free to write about it in your notebook this weekend.
"Mr. Martin, you can also take a notebook. If you happen to have any observations about your classmates, you can write them down."
"I think I have my first entry," he said, grinning. He turned to me and said, "What's your name now?"
I glared at him, and Ms. Tandy said, "Marcie, why don't you come on up and get the first baby?"
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Oh, my God, Jerry!" I said when he emerged, "Everybody thinks this baby is real and that's it's mine!" At that moment, the baby stopped crying and let out a soft coo. I sighed in relief...
I felt like an ass. Like a stupid ass. Here I was, a thirteen-year-old girl (apparently) with a doll! Could anything be more embarrassing?
Yes, it could. I could be a thirteen-year-old girl with a doll in a soda shop.
"What a thweet widdle dolly-wolly you have, Marcie-Warcie," Jerry said. Carla and Pat snorted with laughter.
"What are you doing with that thing?" Carla asked.
"It's her dolly!" Jerry said.
"The damn thing looks real," Pat commented.
"It smells real," Jerry added.
"It sounds real, too," I said, "and that's the bad part." The four of us were sitting in a booth, and I shoved the little monster behind my back, between me and the wall. The waitress rushed over with a shocked expression.
"Miss," she said. "You can't treat a baby like that."
"It isn't real," I said. "It's just a doll. See?"
She clearly didn't believe me until she looked at it for a while and touched it.
"I'll be darned," she said. "There I was, thinking how awful! You, a little slip of girl, with a baby!" She glanced at Jerry, and it was clear she'd been thinking something about him, too. He blushed, and that made me feel a little better about my own blushing.
The waitress took our orders and left. Jerry asked who my teachers were, and told me something (usually something funny) about each one. Our food came, and we started into it. Carla and Pat were getting along great. He had his arm around her, and she actually put her head on his shoulder at one point. It seemed awfully fast to me. I guess they'd been admiring each other from afar for a long time...
Suddenly, the baby started to cry. I fumbled a bit, but quickly got the key into its back.
"Jerry, I think I better go outside until the baby stops crying," I said. "There's no telling how long it goes on." The piercing cries made everyone in the place stare.
Jerry stood up and I slid past him, holding the doll awkwardly. A wet spot on the floor made me slip, and I almost dropped the baby. Someone let out a shocked gasp, and I heard a stage whisper, "A child at her age, can you believe that?" My face turned a deep crimson, and I got out the door as quickly as possible. I looked back through the window and saw Jerry putting money on the table.
Unconsciously, I started rocking the baby in my arms and talking to it. "It's all right, it's all right," I cooed. When I caught myself, I stopped. How stupid could I be? The only thing that helped the "baby" was the plastic key: I just had to hold it in until the crying stopped.
"Maybe it's hungry," a woman passing by suggested, "Don't you have anything to feed your baby?"
Her friend said, "It's either hungry or it needs to be changed. Doesn't look like you have any diapers, either."
"No, no," I said, "it isn't that," but before I could explain, they shook their heads in disgust and walked off.
"Of course, she knows better!" one said.
"Girls that age having babies!" the other replied. "What did her parents teach her? A child having a child!"
They looked at me with heavy disapproval.
"Oh, my God, Jerry!" I said when he emerged, "Everybody thinks this baby is real and that's it's mine!" At that moment, the baby stopped crying and let out a soft coo. I sighed in relief and removed the key.
"Do you want to go back inside?" he asked. "I have your stuff here, but if you want, we can go in and sit down again."
"No, I hate to spoil the day, but I ought to go home."
He cocked his head and smiled. "'Date?' Is this a date for you?"
I blushed. "No, I didn't say 'day', I said 'date'. I mean... I said... oh, whatever."
"Don't worry about it," he said. "I was just teasing. Anyway, we met, had some food, your baby cried... Hey, this is my first time out with a single mom!"
We laughed and I felt a little better.
"The thing is," I said, "Is... ah, that I'm not technically allowed to, uh, go out..." It sounded lame as I said it, but Jerry shrugged.
"There's no law against talking, is there?"
"No," I said. "I like talking to you." Why did I say that!?
"Good!" he replied. "I like talking to you. Hey, what if we talk at a movie tomorrow? Or maybe we could whisper?"
"I just told you," I said, incredulous. "I'm not allowed to go out with boys."
"What if you go the movies by yourself, and we happen to bump into each other? And what if we accidentally sit together?" he asked.
I gaped at him in disbelief. "You are persistent, aren't you?"
"It's my middle name," he replied. "Before you get there, I could buy two tickets by mistake, and way too much popcorn for one person..."
"I can't anyway," I told him. "For one thing, I have this doll that could cry during the movie, and for another, I have to go shopping."
"You could do that anytime," he scoffed.
"No, I can't," I countered. "I don't have any clothes for school."
"Did someone steal them all?" he laughed.
I blushed. "I just... oh, Lord. Listen, I can't explain."
"I get it," he said. "It's a girl thing. Just as long as you're not avoiding me."
"I'm not," I said.
"Then how about next weekend?" he smiled as if he already knew the answer. I looked in his face and eyes, and tried to think of an excuse.
"If my aunt finds out, I'll be grounded forever," I said.
"We can meet inside the theatre, in the dark," he said. "No one will even see us."
I agonized in silence.
"Keep it simple," he said. "Just say yes."
I started thinking. This was only my second day as a girl, and already I was getting asked out. If I said no to Jerry, some other boy or boys could start pestering me — not that Jerry was a pest! In fact, I liked Jerry. If I was a boy — I mean, if I — what I mean is, I'd like hanging out with Jerry anyway. So maybe it was best to encourage him... up to a point. He could deflect the attention of other boys. So I said, "Yes."
"Great!" he replied.
"We can talk next week about when and where and what..."
"...and how," he finished.
"And how," I echoed, smiling.
"Great!" he repeated. "So, next weekend, then... So, in the meantime, can I walk you and your baby home? I hope you don't mind if I don't offer to carry it."
"I don't mind, if you don't mind walking with a girl and her doll," I replied.
"I should line you up with a stroller," he said. "And don't you need a big bag for diapers and bottles and stuff?"
"Yes, that's all I need," I replied, rolling my eyes and laughing.
I couldn't help it. His banter was irresistible.
I shifted the doll from one arm to the other. It wasn't heavy, but it was inconvenient. Jerry was watching me, and he said, "I was kidding before about the stroller, but I think we might have one at home. I mean, my little sister probably has her doll stroller. I think she'll lend it to you." His eyes twinkled. "But you'll have to swear that you won't keep it."
I smiled and shook my head at his silliness. Why not? I asked myself. I already look ridiculous. "Do you really think so?" I asked. "How old is she?"
"Nine," he said. "But she still has all her old toys."
And so we made a slight detour to Jerry's house...
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
Cassie cut in with a question to me. "I was thinking about what you said before. You came here to Tierson without any clothes? Without any at all?"
"Were you naked?" Nina giggled.
"No," I said, blushing yet again. "I had some clothes, and I did bring a big box, but it was all boy clothes."
"WHAT!?" Cassie cried. "Boy clothes?"
I guess I imagined that we could just pick up the stroller and leave... I didn't think about having to meet Jerry's family, but of course, that's what happened.
We came in the back door, into the kitchen, where Jerry's big sister Cassie was munching on an apple. The family resemblance was pretty strong, although Cassie is a little taller, and her hair is a reddish blonde. She's beautiful, like a model, and when she smiled, her smile was perfectly symmetrical.
"Hi, Jerry!," she called. "Starting a family?"
Jerry ignored the remark and introduced us. Cassie shook my hand, which struck me a bit odd. As she did, she looked at me in a funny way, as if she was trying to remember something. Then she got it.
"Oh! Jerry, is this the girl with the legs?"
Jerry opened his mouth to say something, then shut it.
"Is everyone in your family a merciless tease?" I asked.
"Pretty much," he shrugged.
"Come on, now, Marcie," Cassie prodded. "You're practically a celebrity. Everybody knows about the two of strutting down the hall, arm in arm, you in a miniskirt... I need to hear your side of the story."
"We're here on a mission," Jerry interrupted. "Where's Nina?"
"What's with the doll?" Cassie asked me.
"It's homework," I said.
"And you want Nina's help?" she asked, grinning. "She does know a lot about dolls."
Jerry's mother entered the kitchen at that point. "What's all the ruckus out here?" she asked, and stopped dead when she saw the "baby" in my arms.
"It's just a doll," I said. "It's an infant simulator."
Cassie chuckled. "Years from now, Marcie will be saying, 'I remember the first time I met my mother-in-law...'"
"Cassie, that's enough," her mother cautioned. She had thought it was a real baby, my baby, and just for an instant was afraid her son had brought home an underage, unwed mother. Thank goodness I was able to nip that misconception in the bud.
After the introductions and explanations, Jerry's mother offered me a snack and then went upstairs to look for Nina. Jerry and I sat at the kitchen table with some iced tea (neither of us wanted food), while Cassie studied us from behind a counter, smirking. Nina, a wiry, likeable little girl with dark hair, zoomed in, pronounced the doll "cool!" and zoomed off to get her stroller. While Jerry and I took a sip of our drinks, Cassie resumed the attack.
"Marcie, I heard that your clothes were stolen. Is that true? How did it happen?"
I was ready for this. Alice and I (with some help from Denise) had worked out the kinks in my story, and here was my first chance to tell it. My new and improved story was mostly the truth, with a couple of fixes.
Here's how it went: I began with Aunt Jane making me miss the first two days of school. Early on Thursday I ran into Mr. Bruce. I explained that he was a family friend (through Aunt Jane and Alice). Since I didn't have a gym outfit, he lent me the tennis dress. (That part was important, because older students like Cassie might have seen a boy in that same outfit.) I changed in the bathroom, and when I realized I didn't have a lock for my locker, he let me leave my clothes in his office.
"Why didn't he just lend you a lock?" Cassie asked.
"He didn't have one," I replied. "Anyway, after class he was in the hospital, and my clothes were gone."
"Where did you get the ones you were wearing later?" Jerry asked.
"Ms. Price got them from lost and found."
Looked like the story worked pretty well!
"But you got in trouble, right?" Cassie asked.
"Yeah, I have to wear skirts for two weeks, and recite the dress code every morning for Mr. Bryant — and Mrs. Zeff, if she sees me. It's not so bad. Still, if Mrs. Zeff hadn't been seen me, I don't think I would have gotten in trouble at all."
Cassie grunted at Mrs. Zeff's name. "She can be a bear, but she's great once you get on her good side."
"Good to know," I commented.
"Why do you have to wear skirts?" Cassie asked.
"To show that I know how long a skirt has to be to meet the dress code."
"How come you have to go shopping tomorrow?" Jerry asked. "Didn't you do that before school began? Isn't that a rule for girls?"
"Oh, yeah," Cassie sneered at her brother, "It's on page ten of the How-To-Be-A-Girl rule book."
"You went crazy, shopping before school started!" he told her.
"Of course I did!" she retorted. "I had to be ready!"
"My point exactly!" he cried, and turning to me asked, "So why weren't you ready, Marcie?"
Alice had seen that one coming, too. "We didn't know we were moving until August. That threw everything out of whack. What with the packing and everything, we didn't have a chance. Plus, until my parents find a house, all of our stuff is in storage, including a big box with most of my clothes. The movers took it by mistake."
"Too bad," Cassie sympathized. "That's a nice dress, though."
"Thanks," I said. "Alice lent it to me."
"Lucky you," she said.
Nina came in during that last exchange, carrying a folded-up stroller and a few other items. "Maybe Cassie can lend you some clothes," she offered.
Cassie scoffed. "Nothing of mine would fit her! She's like a two, at most!"
"What size are you?" Nina asked her.
"That's classified information," Cassie retorted.
"Oh!" Nina shouted. "You know what? We could be like those Russian dolls, you know? The ones that stack up inside each other? I could fit inside Marcie, and Marcie could fit inside Cassie!"
"Great," Cassie muttered, and left the room, pushing past her mother as she left.
"She's not that big," I said. "Plus, she has a great... uh, figure."
Jerry's mother nodded. "She is a bit tall for a girl, and she's a little self-conscious about it."
Nina was busy unfolding the stroller. "See?" she said, "It's the perfect size for your doll!" She took it from my arms and strapped it into the stroller. It was a perfect fit, and would be a lot more convenient than carrying the thing in my arms. She tucked a blanket around the baby.
"AND," Nina announced dramatically, "This is a nice bag for diapers and bottles and stuff. There's already some bottles and diapers in here, see? You can hang it on the stroller like this."
"Great!" I replied. "Thanks, Nina!"
"Oh, honey, she doesn't want that bag," Mrs. Auburn said.
"Yes, I do," I countered. "People think this is a real baby, and two old ladies were yelling at me today because I didn't have any food or diapers with me."
"Really?"
"Well, not yelling, but they were pretty mean."
Mrs. Auburn invited me to dinner, and I accepted. My aunt was out tonight anyway; I would have had to cook for myself.
Now that Jerry was at home, he wasn't teasing me at all, which was nice, and Cassie was upstairs, probably sulking.
I sat on the couch with Nina while Jerry set the table. Nina wanted to hold the doll, and she asked me to read to her. She handed me a book called Pish Posh by Ellen Potter. I'd never heard of it, but I think I liked it more than Nina did, and she liked it a lot. After I'd read one chapter, the doll started crying. I held out my arm so Nina could push the key in its back. It cried for a full 15 minutes, but no one seemed to mind. I just kept on reading through the noise.
I felt so at home, sitting in the Auburn's living room. They were a nice family, and — even with all the teasing — I felt comfortable with them, as though I'd known them all my life. It was such a contrast to how I grew up! I mean, not that my home wasn't nice and all that... and of course I had plenty of friends and things to do, but my family is just me, my mom, and my dad, and a lot of the time dad was at work. There wasn't all the warmth that all these... people generate. I mean, knowing that there's someone in the next room, somebody upstairs, someone sitting next to you... that's more "someone's" than I ever had before.
We sat down to dinner when Mr. Auburn got home. One of the first questions he asked me was: "How many brothers and sisters do you have?"
"I'm an only child," I said. "I've always wondered what it was like to have brothers and sisters. It seems pretty nice."
"It is nice," Cassie replied, "It's so wonderful that I'd like to give you mine. You can have Nina and Jerry for your brother and sister. Please take them with you when you go home." Cassie smirked. "Oh, wait — that won't work, because if Jerry is your brother, he can't be your boyfriend."
"Is Jerry your boyfriend?" Nina asked me.
"Um," I said, and looked to Jerry for help. He didn't know what to say either.
Mr. Auburn came to the rescue. "This is a family of terrible teases, Marcie. Don't let them scare you."
"I wonder where they get that from," Mrs. Auburn commented.
"Not from me," Mr. Auburn said, feigning innocence.
"When I first met Skip," Mrs. Auburn said to me, gesturing at her husband, "he had me in a state of continual embarrassment. My face was so red, it felt like sunburn."
"I know what you mean," I told her.
Mr. Auburn looked at Jerry and raised his eyebrows. "What are you doing to embarrass this girl, son?"
Jerry shrugged and smiled. "Maybe you should ask Marcie that question."
I sighed and rolled my eyes.
"Don't answer, hon," Mrs. Auburn told me.
Cassie cut in with a question to me. "I was thinking about what you said before. You came here to Tierson without any clothes? Without any at all?"
"Were you naked?" Nina giggled.
"No," I said, blushing yet again. "I had some clothes, and I did bring a big box, but it was all boy clothes."
"WHAT!?" Cassie cried. "Boy clothes?"
I blushed and looked at my plate. What a stupid mistake! Thinking quickly, I said, "Oh, I, uh, used to be a tomboy..."
"That's hard to believe," Mr. Auburn commented.
"I've changed a lot in the past couple... in the... recently," I faltered.
"How did you change?" Nina asked, frowning.
Mrs. Auburn stepped in: "You'll find out soon enough, hon, but we're not going to discuss it at the dinner table. I think we've grilled poor Marcie quite enough. I mean, really, you're giving her the third degree. No more questions for Marcie!"
"What is Marcie short for, anyway?" Mr. Auburn asked, as if his wife hadn't spoken. "Marcella?"
"Uh, yeah," I said, a little stupidly.
"Marcella Donner," he said. "It's a nice name."
"Do you have a middle name?" Nina asked.
"No."
Cassie smiled. "Ursula or Angela would be good middle names for you."
"Thanks," I said, uncertainly.
"Don't thank her," Jerry cautioned. "She's thinking about your initials: MAD or MUD."
"Oh."
Nina thought for a minute, her lips moving. "If your middle name started with 'O', you could be MOD!" She smiled, proud of herself.
"Thanks, Nina."
"Okay, now," Mrs. Auburn said. "No more picking on Marcie, or I'll pull out your baby pictures." She looked at Cassie. "That means you, too, young lady."
Cassie grunted and looked down for a moment. Then she smiled and looked up. "Are you making any friends at school?" she asked. "I mean, aside from Jerry."
"Yes," I said. "I guess Carla Richio is my best friend there, and I know Pat MacKinney."
"Marcie and I set them up," Jerry boasted. "They're a hot item now."
"Ah," Cassie said to me. "Nobody's going to be picking on you, then."
"Aside from you all," I countered, smiling.
"What do you mean, Cassie?" Nina asked. "How come nobody will pick on her?"
"Carla and Pat are both big bruisers, either one of them could beat up anybody in the school."
"Anybody?" Nina got wide-eyed. "Even you, Cassie?"
Cassie hesitated. She really didn't want to say it! Finally she sighed and said, "Yes, even me."
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
He stopped walking. "How can you ask me that? Have you ever looked at yourself? I mean, it isn't even that... I don't know. How could I pass up a chance to be with you? I remember the first time I saw you, when I was walking up the stairs from the basketball court, and I saw you, lost, in that cute little dress...," he was grinning, and I had to smile too. I could see that moment in my mind, too. "I had to talk to you. I had to try to go out with you. I couldn't not try. I really like you."
After dinner, Mrs. Auburn asked me, "Is there anyone you need to call? Doesn't your aunt need to know where you are?"
"She's out tonight with friends," I said, "but I ought to call Alice. She's going shopping with me tomorrow."
Mrs. Auburn brought me to a quiet room and pointed out the phone.
Alice sounded glad to hear from me. I asked about Mr. Bruce. Alice told me he was fine, and was coming home from the hospital on Tuesday.
"Do you want to come with me tomorrow to visit him?" she asked. "He wants to see you."
"Uh," I hesitated. I didn't want to go, but what could I say?
"Come on, I told him all about you! Don't worry, he won't spoil your secret!"
"Okay, then," I agreed — there was no way out of it!
Alice said she'd come pick me up at 8:00 AM. "Be ready!" she said. "Eat a big breakfast! It's going to be a long day."
I explained about the baby and the stroller. She laughed and said she didn't think it would be a problem. Little did she know!
After the phone call, I returned to the living room to find Jerry and Cassie clearing the table. I moved to help them, but Mr. Auburn said, "No, no. You relax. Take a seat. Guests don't work in this house."
"I can't sit here and watch somebody else work," I protested.
"You could read to me some more," Nina suggested.
I did want to know what happened to the girls in Pish Posh, so I sat down with her. She held the doll while I read. The baby cried, and just like last time, I held out my wrist so she could insert the key in the doll's back.
While we waited for the crying to stop, Nina asked, "What's a tomboy?"
"It's a girl who acts like a boy and dresses like a boy."
"And you do that?"
"I used to do that."
"Why?"
Cassie had stopped to listen, and she — never one to miss a chance to tease — echoed Nina's question. "Yes, Marcie, why did you dress like a boy?"
I sighed. What could I say? "I don't know," I said. "I guess I didn't like girly stuff, dresses, dolls..."
"And now you're making up for it," Cassie smirked, gesturing at the doll in Nina's lap.
"I guess so."
Nina had another question. "Why did you stop?"
Cassie's eyebrows rose. "Now that's an interesting question! Marcie, please tell us, why did you stop dressing like a boy?"
These Auburns were such terrible teases! Cassie was ten times worse than Jerry. At the same time, I didn't really mind. She didn't seem mean. The teasing was a family thing, so it was her weird way of welcoming me, or something like that.
"Well, uh, I grew up," I answered.
"So what?" Nina objected. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"When a girl grows up," I began, lamely, "um..."
"Go on," Cassie prompted. "What happens when a girl grows up?"
"Well..."
Nina looked at me expectantly. Was there any non-embarrassing way out of this? I didn't want to explain about how a girl's body changes! Suddenly, I was inspired.
"She outgrows it!" I concluded. "So I grew up, I outgrew being a tomboy. Okay?"
"Okay!" Nina said.
Cassie frowned, disappointed, and returned to clearing the table.
"Excellent save, Marcie," Mr. Auburn commented.
The next time the baby finished crying, I decided it was time to head home. Of course, Jerry came with me.
"That was nice of you to read to Nina," he said. "You got big points for that with mom and dad."
"I like her," I said, "Plus, the book was pretty good!"
"I'm sure she'll let you borrow it," he teased.
"Seriously, I would like that."
He laughed and said he'd ask her. "On second thought, you can ask her Monday, when you bring the stroller back."
"Okay," I shrugged. "It's a date."
"Hmm," he said. "A date on the calendar? Or a date-date?"
"You can't tease me with that any more," I declared, laughing. "You have to figure it out yourself."
"Hmm," he said. "You're not getting immune to me, are you?"
"Let me put it this way: It was nice to see you blush for a change," I said.
"Oh, yeah," he said. "Cassie can be a gigantic pain."
"She's nice. I really like your family."
He smiled.
Although I'd been talking, I was thinking too. The Auburns are nice people. Jerry is a nice guy. And here am I, deceiving them, deceiving him, using him as a shield from other boys... It wasn't right... was it?
When I decided to "be" a girl, I was mainly thinking about the clothes, but with the clothes came a way of relating to others. Was it right to fool people like this?
"Jerry, I have to talk to you about something..." I ventured.
"I'm all ears."
"We've only known each other for two days..."
"Really? It seems longer, doesn't it?"
"Yeah." Wasn't it weird? How could I have gotten so deep into being Marcie? Maybe it wasn't a role I was playing — it sure didn't feel like I was acting. I was sincere, just being me. And yet, it's a different me. How could I be attracted to Jerry? Certainly I wouldn't be so flirty if I were dressed as a boy. I'm sure I'm not gay, but it's like, when I put on a dress... well, I feel like a girl! Maybe I'm just going with my feelings more than I usually would?
"Marcie? Marcie? What did you want to talk to me about?"
"Um, you know I'm going to be moving at the end of the year, right?"
"Yeah," he replied. "I wish you weren't."
"I wish I wasn't, too, but unless my parents can't find a house, I'll be gone."
"Let's hope they don't find a house, then."
"Yeah," I said softly. "But, they will. And I'll be gone. How can you get involved with me if you know it's going to end soon?"
He stopped walking. "How can you ask me that? Have you ever looked at yourself? I mean, it isn't even that... I don't know. How could I pass up a chance to be with you? I remember the first time I saw you, when I was walking up the stairs from the basketball court, and I saw you, lost, in that cute little dress...," he was grinning, and I had to smile too. I could see that moment in my mind, too. "I had to talk to you. I had to try to go out with you. I couldn't not try. I really like you."
"I really like you, too," I replied.
"People date. A lot of the time — maybe most of the time — it doesn't work out. Does that mean people shouldn't date?"
"No," I admitted.
"We all have to try. We never know what could happen. Your father might get a job next month in Tierson, and then you'd be stuck with me." He smiled his sunny smile. I had to smile back.
"Okay," I said. "So, we'll see what happens."
"Don't worry about the future," he said. "Just enjoy the present."
"Okay," I said. "But I have to tell my aunt about you. I can't be sneaky about this."
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"We'll also get your legs waxed, and we'll take a peek at your chest and back to see if you need any waxing there."
"Waxing?" I asked. I'd never heard of it before. "What is that like? Is it like waxing the floor?"
"Ahhh, yeah, it's a lot like that," Alice said, tongue in cheek. "It's fun, you'll like it."
My aunt wasn't home when I got in, and she was asleep when I got up. I changed into my shorts and sneakers, and put on a t-shirt that I never dared to wear before. It always looked girly to me. It was a pale blue, with a big round neck and too-big sleeves that almost reached my elbow. I'd never even tried it on before, and now that I did, it confirmed my old opinion: girly.
At five to eight I put the stroller and the diaper bag outside. I sat on the front step with the doll in my arms.
Alice laughed when she saw the doll. I told her, "You won't laugh after it's cried a few times."
"Whatever!" Alice replied. "Here's the plan for the day. We can't realistically do all the shopping you need, so we're going to get enough to take you through next week, and then we'll shop again next Saturday."
"What kind of sense does that make?" I asked. "How hard can it be to buy clothes?"
"If you're going to buy random clothes, it's not hard at all," Alice replied. "If you want to build a wardrobe, it takes time. You'll see." I started to object, but she cut me off. "Trust me. You'll see. Let me tell you what-all we have to do today.
"First, the hospital. Donny really wants to see you." I so didn't want to go, but how could I tell Alice that I didn't want to visit her husband in the hospital?
"Second, you're going to get your hair cut."
"Why?" I cried out. "Do you know how long it took me to grow this?"
She glanced at me. "The length is fine. It needs some shaping... you need a cut that screams 'girl'. You don't have it. And that reminds me: we have to get you a decent shampoo and conditioner and talk about how to use them."
"I know how to use shampoo," I sulked.
"Hmm," she smiled. "Won't hurt to go over it again, though, will it? Anyway, we're going to get your nails done. You can think about whether you want to use nail polish. There are pros and cons..."
I looked at my nails. Alice said, "It looks like you work in a garden. Those need to be cleaned up.
"We'll also get your legs waxed, and we'll take a peek at your chest and back to see if you need any waxing there."
"Waxing?" I asked. I'd never heard of it before. "What is that like? Is it like waxing the floor?"
"Ahhh, yeah, it's a lot like that," Alice said, tongue in cheek. "It's fun, you'll like it."
"Okay," I said.
"By the way, all the people who'll be working on you are friends of mine. I've called in some favors. The woman who'll be waxing your legs knows you're a boy. It would be hard to fool her. But don't worry, she won't tell anybody. The others all think you're a girl.
"And what else? Oh, right! It would be nice to get some cosmetics, but I doubt we'll have the time. I want someone to show you how to use them.
"Aside from that, you need underwear and better padding for your breasts. As far as clothes, I cleaned out my closet and went through my stuff. Those bags in the back seat are stuff I can't wear that I think you can use. With that, and a couple — like two — skirts and tops, you'll be ready for next week and a little beyond.
"So how does today's program sound to you?"
"It sounds like a lot," I said.
"It is," she agreed. "I don't know whether it's physically possible to do it all, but we'll find out."
"Oh!" she suddenly remembered, after she parked her car near the hospital. "Do you want to get your ears pierced?"
Alice didn't give me a chance to reply. I had to run a little to keep up with her.
Once we entered the hospital, getting to Mr. Bruce's room turned out to be quite difficult. Nearly every hospital employee felt obliged to stop me and explain that children were not allowed as visitors. I had to explain to the receptionist at the front door, to a nurse in the hallway, to another nurse near the elevator, to an intern on the elevator, and another nurse who got on the elevator, that it is not real baby.
When we got off the elevator at Mr. Bruce's floor, they really ganged up on me. It started when one nurse spotted me. She said loudly, "Miss? No, you cannot bring that baby on the floor! You must return to the lobby."
That was the signal that mobilized the others. Nurses blocked me from moving down either hallway. I was surrounded, like a wanted criminal. Alice was separated from me by the crowd.
"It's for the good of the baby," one of them said, over and over, "You must return to the lobby."
I was gaping, trying to talk, but nothing came out. The nurses talked all at once — the chatter confused me to the point of speechlessness. A doctor took me by the shoulders, spun me around, and pushed gently but firmly, making me walk back toward the elevator. I couldn't resist, but suddenly I knew what I could and couldn't do: I couldn't fight or shout. That would only make things worse. So in a clear, calm voice, I said, and kept repeating, "It's not a real baby. It's an infant simulator. It's a doll." The doctor got so far as to press the [-DOWN-] button on the elevator.
At the last moment, as the elevator doors opened, and the doctor was about to shove me inside, a nurse intervened and got the man's hands off me. She hustled me past the crowd and — guided by Alice's waving — escorted me into Mr. Bruce's room.
"Sorry about that," she said. "They meant well. Just stay in here until you're ready to leave."
I was a little short of breath, but managed to thank her.
"You go to Tierson High, right?"
I nodded.
"My daughter must be in your Home Ec. class. She has one of those creatures this weekend, too."
"What's her name?" I asked.
"Eden," she said. "Eden Hensel. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a little taller than you?"
I immediately knew who she was. "Oh, yeah," I said. "I know who she is. The prettiest girl in class."
She smiled. "Nice of you to say. Anyway, now you have something to talk to her about. I'll shut this in case the doll starts making noise." She left, closing the door behind her.
I turned around. Mr. Bruce was sitting in a chair by the window. Alice stood next to him with her hand on his shoulder. "Hi," I said, shyly.
"Holy cow," he said to Alice. "You weren't kidding." To me he said, "Come a little closer, let me look at you."
I did. As I got closer, he scowled. I hesitated, so he said, "It's not you, kid. It's that damn doll." He shook his head.
"Do you know about them?" Alice asked.
"I wish I didn't," he said, "But it was all that Tandy woman could talk about for months. Every blessed teachers meeting. I almost stopped going to the Teachers Lounge all together! She wanted every girl in the school to take one of those things, but luckily all the rest of us agreed it was excessive." He shook his head. I set the "damn doll" on the bed.
"I'm sorry if it starts crying," I said, apologizing in advance.
"Don't worry about it," he sighed. "Listen, I'm glad you came. I thought Alice was pulling my leg when she said you were going to continue — uh, to wear a dress." He looked embarrassed. "Is the rest true? Did someone steal your clothes, and you had to go to the Principal's office?"
"Yes," I said, "but it wasn't bad."
He colored. "Listen, the first thing I'm gonna do when I get back to school is to throw away all those damn outfits. I'm not going to make anybody wear them anymore."
"It's okay," I replied. "I understand why you did it."
"It's not okay. I owe you an apology. A big one. I'm sorry. I never should have done it."
"It worked out alright, though."
"If you say so. Even if it did — which I doubt — I have no excuse. What I did was wrong. I should have found a better way to deal with my frustration."
"It's alright," I said.
"Don't beat yourself up, Donny," Alice added.
"Listen," he said to me. "I'm going to retire. Alice has been begging me for a few years now, and it's clear that it's time. I'm gonna finish this semester, see if I can go out on a positive note, with a little dignity, instead of carried out on a stretcher. And, uh — if you're really going through with this, I'll keep your secret. I guess I owe you."
"Thanks."
"I don't understand why you want to do it, but I know I'm partly to blame, so..."
"Okay, honey, we get it," Alice said. She bent down and kissed him. "I'll be back tomorrow, but now we have to leave. We've got a big day ahead!"
"Fine," he said. "Have fun, uh... girls."
As we were leaving, I saw that nurse, Mrs. Hensel again. "I don't remember whether I thanked you," I said. "I'll have to tell Eden how you saved me today."
She smiled. "I wish you would. We just moved here, you know, so she doesn't have many friends yet. People don't realize, but it's often hard for a pretty girl to meet people."
Alice pulled me into a closing elevator.
"Did you hear what she said to me, Alice? Why did she said that?"
"I don't know. Guys can be intimidated if a girl is really pretty, and girls can imagine that she's stuck up. I hear that being beautiful can be a burden, but I wouldn't know."
"Are you fishing for compliments?" I smirked.
She looked at me in surprise. "Since when are you such a tease?"
"Sorry," I apologized. "I guess a friend is rubbing off on me."
Alice gave a wry smile.
A woman in the elevator turned and said, "Do you mind if I ask how old you girls are?"
"Thirteen," I said. Her jaw dropped, so I quickly added, "It's not a real baby," and held it up so she could see.
She stood in embarrassed silence for the rest of the elevator ride.
As we walked to the car, I was surprised to notice that Alice was seething.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"That woman on the elevator," she said through clenched teeth. "She thought I was thirteen, too."
"I didn't get that," I countered. "She was wondering if this was my baby."
"No," Alice retorted. "She thought we were the same age."
"Isn't that a compliment?" I asked her. She answered with a glare.
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
I won't go through every detail of the day, but I will say that it didn't take me long to realize that Alice was joking when she said that waxing was fun. AND that it was nothing like waxing floors.
I won't go through every detail of the day, but I will say that it didn't take me long to realize that Alice was joking when she said that waxing was fun. AND that it was nothing like waxing floors. Her friend told me that I didn't really need it, but that if I wanted, she could pick off some stray hairs here and there.
When she pulled the first strip came off, I let out an astonished shriek that made Alice's friend jump back. The woman turned to Alice and said, "She really doesn't need it. She's too young, and there's no point."
Alice asked her to take a look at my back and chest, which she did. "No," the woman confirmed. "She doesn't need it! I'm not going to torture her. You're all done, hun."
The other thing I ought to mention is that my hair (the hair on my head, I mean) went from being long and shapeless to cute. At first I didn't think I could deal with the new look, but soon I couldn't stop looking in the mirror. The biggest difference was the bangs, which — being a guy — I had never had before. The rest of my hair was parted in the middle and fell straight down. It was shortest in the front, near my cheek bones, and then got longer and longer as it passed my shoulders and hung maybe three inches down my back. I loved it.
PLUS, she colored my hair, so that, instead of a vague brown, it's a caramel color, slightly closer to blonde, which I also loved!
Alice made me buy a hair dryer and a styling brush, and told that it would take me a half hour longer to get ready in the morning. "So start earlier on Monday, okay? And practice tomorrow, so you're not late for school."
She helped me carry all the bags inside, and then sat down to talk with Aunt Jane. I was exhausted. I dropped all the stuff on the floor in my room, kicked off my shoes and fell on the bed. I was almost asleep when the phone rang. Aunt Jane stuck her head in.
"Hey, cutie! Phone's for you. A little girl named Nina?"
Nina? I ran to the phone. "Hi, Nina. It's Marcie. How are you?"
"I'm good," she said. "My brother needs to talk to you."
When she handed the phone to Jerry, I teased, "That's a little low, isn't it? Getting your sister to make the call?"
"It isn't what you think," he said. "She really needs to ask you something, but I figured I ought to explain first.
"Tomorrow my father's company is having this outing for employees' families. We've gone the last couple of years, and it's deadly boring. When I say it's 'boring', I'm making it sound much better than it is. Even if I could invite you, I wouldn't, because you would hate me forever for bringing you there."
"Is it really that bad?"
"It's worse than I can convey in words. Anyway, Cassie and I have tried everything on earth to get out of it. My mother doesn't even want to go, but we have to, or it will make Dad look bad. It's our family duty."
"So what does Nina have to ask me?"
"Hang on." He took the phone away from his face to talk to Nina. "Nina, will you go in the kitchen a sec? I have to get all mushy with Marcie. I'll call you when you can talk to her, okay?"
I heard Nina say, "Yuck!" and Jerry returned to the phone.
"Sorry, but I had to get rid of her to tell you this. My parents have taken pity on Nina, and they'll let her stay away, but there's nowhere for her to go. Unless you'll watch her. She wants to go to Tierson Park, for the pony ride and the merry-go-round and stuff like that. Would you mind? My parents will pay you to babysit her, but Nina can't know. She really likes you, and she wants it to be like a friend thing."
"Okay," I said.
"Okay?" he repeated. "Wow! Great! Listen, you don't have to do this. I'll understand. But you'll be rescuing a poor little girl from a fate worse than... well, worse than school, anyway."
"I'll do it," I said.
"You're a lifesaver. I wish you could babysit me too."
"Hmm," I said. "Maybe we can arrange that some other weekend."
"All right," he joked. "For future discussion. Now I'll put Nina back on."
The next morning at ten thirty, the Auburn family came to pick me up. Jerry's father and mother were in front. Nina was sitting between Cassie and Jerry in the back.
"Where do I go?" I asked.
"You can sit on my lap," Jerry said.
"I don't think so," his mother said. "Nina, slide onto Cassie's lap."
"Jerry, you're forgetting that Marcie has to hold your love child," Cassie put in.
"What's a love child?" Nina asked.
"Do you see what you're teaching your sister?" Mrs. Auburn asked. "Never mind, Nina. Please don't repeat it."
Jerry got out so that I could slide in, between him and Cassie. They were both a little dressed up: Cassie was wearing a dress, and Jerry wore a dress shirt with a collar, and some freshly-pressed khakis.
Cassie asked me, "Why didn't you bring your stroller?"
"Nina told me she had something better," I replied.
"It's a surprise," Nina said, smiling.
Mrs. Auburn turned to face me. "Cassie?" she prompted.
Cassie handed me her cell phone. "For emergencies only," she said. "If it rings, don't answer unless it's my mom or dad. Understood?" Her face was red from embarrassment.
"I won't even look at it unless I have to," I promised. "Nina can watch me."
Cassie showed me how to find the numbers for her mother and father.
"How do I dial 911?" I asked.
"Duh," she replied.
"I never had a cell phone!" I protested. "It could have been something different."
Cassie rolled her eyes.
"Okay, girls," Mrs. Auburn said. "Marcie, in the trunk there's a backpack with water and a picnic lunch. It will get lighter as the day goes on." She handed me an envelope. "Here's money for the little train and the pony ride, and whatever else you girls do." She winked at me.
"Nina knows her way around, so she can be your guide. Just be back at the front gate at 5:00. I'll call you when we're on our way."
When the Auburns dropped Nina and me at Tierson Park, I was about to struggle into the backpack, but Nina stopped me.
"You have to put my surprise on first," she told me.
Nina's surprise was a baby carrier. It's a harness that you wear on the front of your body, with the baby facing forward. If I wasn't wearing the backpack, it would have been fine, but as it was, I felt like a sandwich, with one weight behind me and another in front of me.
"Let me know when you're hungry, Nina," I told her.
"Oh!" she said. "How come the pack will get lighter? Mom said it would get lighter as the day goes on."
"It's got food and water in it," I replied. "Every time we eat and drink, we will be taking stuff out of the pack."
"Mmm," she said. "Oh! What's a 'love child'? What did Cassie mean?"
"It's when two people who aren't married have a baby together."
"How can people who aren't married have a baby?" she asked.
"Oh, Nina..." I hesitated. "Do you know where babies come from?"
"No," she said simply.
I sighed. "Well, I'm not going to tell you. You have to ask your mother that one."
"Okay," she agreed. After a few moments she said, "Oh! I have to ask you something about tomboys."
"Fine," I said with a sigh, "but let's walk while we talk, okay?"
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Nina," I asked, "Do you think anybody knows this is just a doll?"
"Nope!" she replied brightly. "It looks too real."
"But it doesn't move," I said.
"So?"
I got more than my share of strange looks. Look at me: holding a little girl's hand, carrying an apparent baby in front of me, and wearing a heavy backpack. People had to see that Nina couldn't possibly be my child... maybe that would make them think the baby wasn't either...
"Nina," I asked, "Do you think anybody knows this is just a doll?"
"Nope!" she replied brightly. "It looks too real."
"But it doesn't move," I said.
"So?"
After climbing what seemed an endless hill, we came to a large, old fashioned carosel. Nina wanted to get enough tickets to go around three times, so that's what we did, changing horses each time the carosel stopped. After we exited the ride, the baby cried, so we sat at a picnic table until it was done. Thankfully, Nina was hungry at that point. She managed to put away an amazing quantity of food and water. The pack was now a more manageable weight, so the walk to the pony ride wasn't too arduous.
After Nina took a few turns on the pony, we found a pretty field where I spread our blanket and rested. I set the doll between us, and rolled onto my back, with my arms behind my head. I felt so light after dropping all that weight. The doll cried again, this time for a half hour, but I didn't mind. It gave me an excuse to lie there on the blanket.
Nina peppered me with questions. Some she'd asked before, but didn't seem to remember. She wanted to know why I was a tomboy. Did I ever have a doll as a girl? Did I prefer baby dolls to Barbie dolls? How did I feel about stuffed animals? Did I ever have a canopy bed? Did I ever want one? Did I ever wish I was a princess? Could any girl be a princess?
I told her about Grace Kelly and how she became Princess Grace of Monaco.
"Wait," Nina objected. "She was a movie star and then a princess?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
Nina sounded disappointed. I couldn't understand why.
"It isn't fair! If she was just a girl, like any girl, then that would be interesting. But she was already a movie star!"
I think I got it. "She was already somebody special, so it wasn't — uh," I couldn't think of the word. Special? Romantic? No, not quite.
"Could someone — I mean just a regular girl — find out she was a princess? Like in The Princess Diaries?"
"I don't know, Nina. I never saw that movie."
"You NEVER saw it!?" she cried. "Never?"
"No," I said. "I could watch it with you sometime."
"Okay," she said. She sucked on her lower lip, thinking. After some silence, she said, "Were you always a tomboy?"
"As far back as I can remember," I sighed. Honestly, I was getting pretty tired of the "tomboy" topic.
"So you never went to ballet class?"
"Nope."
"Did you ever play house?"
"Nope."
"Did you have any dolls?"
"You asked me that already."
"Oh. Did you ever play with dolls?"
I thought for a minute. Maybe it would be good to say "yes" to something... but Nina didn't give me a chance.
"Did you ever see any Mary-Kate and Ashley movies?"
"Who? Oh, never mind. Nope."
"Were you ever a flower girl in a wedding?"
"Nope."
"Huh." Nina mulled this over. Or maybe she was trying to think of other typically girly things. The baby stopped crying, but Nina remained on her back, hands clasped behind her head, looking at the sky. She was chewing on the stem of a long spike of grass. I waited in silence. It was nice to be free from the questions for a while, so I left her to her thoughts. After about five minutes, she suddenly glanced at me and asked for water. Then we made our way to the Little Train.
One of Tierson Park's claims to fame is the Little Train. The ride takes twenty minutes, and the route is landscaped like a toy train's, with little buildings, depots, and scaled-down bridges and streams. The ticket line was rather long, but it moved quickly. Once we had our tickets, we waited in another line for the train.
In front of us was a mother with twin boys. They boys were probably about three years old, and cute, but very stocky — a pair of tiny juggernauts with curly blond hair. The mother was with her friend, another woman, who kept glancing at me. I never got a chance to tell her it's not a real baby because she never stopped talking.
We stood there for fifteen minutes before the train came, and in that time, the twins escaped three times. Each time it was the same: The boys stood on either side of the mother. One boy would run off to the left. The moment his mother would turn and grab him, the other boy would run off to the right.
The first time, some stranger caught the escaped twin and brought him back. The second and third times Nina stopped the boy before he could go anywhere. The poor, harassed mother thanked her each time.
The amazing thing was that her friend didn't move to help her and didn't stop talking, either!
Nina told me in a low voice, "When we get on the train, they have to sit in a closed car, because they're little. We can sit in an open car because we're bigger." She pointed out a sign that explained this policy.
In spite of that, and much to Nina's irritation, the women and the twins sat on the seats directly in front of us in one of the open cars.
"They're not supposed to!" she grumbled, but one of the boys turned and smiled at her, and she smiled back.
It was a fun little ride, and it was pretty relaxing, too. I set the pack between my feet, and held the baby on my lap. I looked up, and the mother's friend was watching me. She had taken a seat facing backward.
The twins were even more active on the train than they'd been on the ground. They kept squirming and wiggling and climbing everywhere. Their mother kept grabbing them and sitting them back down on either side of her. She was getting a bit desperate because they could easily slip out of the car. It was an almost constant struggle with no let-up. Again, the friend never thought to take one of the twins in hand!
At about the middle of the circuit, the train came to a big curve, and it tilted a little into the turn. The ground fell away from the tracks on that side, and the drop was littered with sticks and rocks. Imagine if one of the twins took a spill down there!
As if on cue, I looked up, and guess what was about to happen! The twin on the left was kicking and screaming, and the twin on the right was getting ready to make a break for it. He stood on the seat, and put his hands on the rail. The mother's friend kept talking, oblivious to the danger.
"He's gonna jump!" Nina cautioned, and just then the boy did a little experimental hop. I put my hand in front of him like a stop sign. I figured that if he knew he was watched, it would be enough to keep him in his seat.
It wasn't. He took two more little test jumps, and a third hop carried him right over the rail. I clutched at the front of his shirt with my right hand, and grabbed him from behind with my left. His momentum nearly pulled me over the side, so I braced my legs under the seat in front of me, and held on. I had a good grip on him, but I couldn't pull him in at first. For such a little kid, he was incredibly heavy.
It all happened in seconds.
While I was grabbing the boy, my doll popped off my lap and flew from the train. I didn't see it — I was so focused on the little boy — but the doll rolled down the hill, tumbling all the way to the bottom.
Several women started screaming, and the screams got all the little children crying. The train came to a stop, and the conductor went bounding breakneck down the hill, chasing what he thought was a baby.
I bent over the seat in front of me, and managed to haul the boy back onto his seat. His mother started crying, saying, "Thank you! Thank you! Oh, my goodness!" over and over. I had to hug myself, my arms hurt so much.
"Your doll went down the hill," Nina told me, and I looked down to see the conductor struggling towards us.
"That's mine," I called to him.
"Cripes!" he panted. "I thought the damn thing was real!"
Good thing it wasn't. The poor doll took a stick through its neck, and was dirty and pock-marked from the fall.
I sighed. It looked like I'd get an F in Home Ec.
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Good Lord!" my aunt exclaimed as she looked at my arms and listened to my story. "How many days is it? Not even four days as a girl, and your life is an adventure!"
By the time we got back to the Little Train Station, answered questions, and exchanged contact info with the mother, it was time to head to the front gate. I'd been massaging my arms the whole time, and the pain had finally gone.
When we climbed into the Auburn's car, I looked and felt like a wreck. Jerry put his arm around me and I rested my head against his chest. It felt good for someone else to be strong for me.
Nina, on the other hand, was supercharged. "You should have seen it!" she shouted. "Marcie caught this boy in the air! She saved his life!"
"What happened to that doll?" Cassie asked, bewildered.
"It fell off the train!" Nina shouted. "You should have seen it!"
"Nina, you're breaking my eardrums," Cassie cautioned her. "Maybe Marcie should tell the story."
"No, Nina can tell it," I quietly said, and so she did.
The family looked tired when we first got into the car, but Nina's story woke them up. Mrs. Auburn invited me to dinner, but I begged off. I wanted my aunt to look at my arms.
"We could take you to the emergency room," Mr. Auburn offered.
"No, I think my aunt will be good enough," I said. "She's a nurse."
"I'm sorry you had such an awful experience," Mrs. Auburn said. "I never thought..."
"No, no," I said. "It was great. Even with the train thing, it was fine. I had a good time, and I think Nina did, too."
"Let's go do it again!" Nina shouted.
"Next year, maybe," I said, laughing.
Cassie didn't tease me once all the way home. Jerry just smiled. He really couldn't talk or even whisper to me. Nina would have drowned him out. He just held me and hugged me, and somehow I wasn't surprised at how much better it made me feel.
"Good Lord!" my aunt exclaimed as she looked at my arms and listened to my story. "How many days is it? Not even four days as a girl, and your life is an adventure!
"Seriously, though," she added, "As a boy you were kind of colorless, you know? You were a nice kid, but you were just kind of there. Not much personality. No offense."
"None taken."
"But as a girl, you've blossomed! You draw people in, you develop relationships, things happen to you. It's amazing."
"I guess." I was exhausted.
"Your arms look okay. Do they hurt anymore? No? If they do, let me know right away. If I'm not around, you can get Denise or Alice to take you to the emergency room. If you're at school, go right to the office. Especially if they start hurting suddenly. And take it easy in gym class this week."
She gave them some more diagnostic squeezes and prods, then asked if I was hungry.
"I guess," I said. "Mostly I'm beat. I still have to write all this stuff in my notebook."
"Hmm," she said, picking up the baby. "Has this thing cried since it fell off the train?"
"No," I said. "Oh, no! Those things are expensive."
"Don't worry about that yet," Aunt Jane said. "Listen, I'm going to make you a nice hot bath. I have some salts that should relax you. While you do that, I'll try to clean this crazy doll, and then I'll make some dinner. When that's all done, you can write in your notebook. How's that sound?"
"Like heaven," I said.
The next day I was at school an hour early. If Ms. Tandy wasn't there, I'd wait, but if she was, I could dump the little monster and be free of it. Almost free, anyway. I was pretty nervous about the state of the doll. Aunt Jane had cleaned it up pretty well, and it had cried a couple of times in the night, but the fall from the train would look like the worst child abuse imaginable to the recorder. And what if I had to pay to replace it?
Still, I didn't think the doll looked too bad until I ran into Eden.
"Holy cow!" she exclaimed. "What did you do to that poor thing? Throw it off a train?"
"You're a good guesser," I replied. I told her a quick version of the train story. First she did goggle eyes, then she said, "No way!", and finally she bent over laughing so hard that I had to stop and wait for her to straighten up and start walking again.
"What did you really do to the doll?" she asked, as she wiped the tears from her eyes.
"That's what really happened!" I cried, which set her off laughing again.
I huffed impatiently and pulled on her arm. "Come on," I said. "I have to get rid of this awful thing."
Ms. Tandy was in her office. We were the first ones there. "Couldn't wait to give them back, could you? Would you like some extra credit? Keep it another week?"
"No way — I mean, no thank you," Eden said, handing hers in, along with her notebook. Ms. Tandy cut the bracelet from her wrist. Then Eden stepped back so she could watch Ms. Tandy's face as I handed my doll in.
"Oh, Marcie," she said, astonished. "What the hell did you do to your baby?"
Eden couldn't control herself. She shouted, "She threw it off a train!" and erupted in a fit of giggles.
"Thanks, Eden," I said. To Ms. Tandy I said, "It fell off a train."
"How did it do that?"
"I was catching a baby who jumped off the train. The doll slid off my lap and rolled down a hill. I didn't notice because at the time I was trying to keep the real-life baby from falling."
Eden's body was wracked with silent laughter. Ms. Tandy took a look at her, and opened her mouth to say something, but then she, too, succumbed. She let out some high-pitched peals of laughter. At last, with some effort she got a grip on herself.
"Do you honestly expect me to believe that story, Marcie? Are you out of your mind? Eden! If you can't stop laughing, go wait in the hall."
"Sorry." Eden stopped laughing, but she made some pretty weird faces as she struggled to keep silent.
I handed Ms. Tandy a sheet of paper. "This is the phone number of the baby's mother. The second one is for the little girl I was babysitting. The last number is the train conductor's."
I handed her my notebook. "I wrote down everything that happened in here."
"Oh," Ms. Tandy said, "I'm sure this will make interesting reading!"
At that, Eden let out a screaming laugh, and ran into the hall.
"Please don't give me an F, Ms. Tandy," I begged. "I swear, that baby — the real baby — could have died if I hadn't caught him, and there was no way I could catch that heavy boy and watch the doll at the same time." Eden sobbed out a laugh in the hallway. I wanted to smack her.
"You're serious, aren't you?" Ms. Tandy said.
"Yes! I am! You can look at the recording inside. I was really good with that baby. Nothing bad happened to it until then. And it still works. It was crying last night."
"You're the girl who wanted to take out the batteries and jam the key inside, Marcie."
"Oh, no," I cried, "Oh, no! I wouldn't have done those things! I was just curious! Please, call the conductor or the mother or even the little girl — they'll tell you."
"Do you think I'm that gullible?" Ms. Tandy asked, "Do you think I'd take the word of a little girl?"
"She's Jerry Auburn's little sister." I don't know why I said that; it somehow seemed relevant.
Ms. Tandy shook her head at me in disbelief. "Your boyfriend's little sister? You expect me to..." She sighed.
She studied my face and after a few moments said, "I will call this conductor and then we'll see. And I'll check the doll to see how badly it's damaged. We can talk later in the day. Try to not have a nervous breakdown in the meantime, okay?
"And Marcie, the next time you have a wild story to tell me, don't bring Eden. Her giggling undermines your credibility."
Eden and I still had almost an hour before school began. I could see she was fighting to keep the giggles down.
"I'm sorry, Marcie. Listen, let me buy you breakfast. Are you hungry?"
As if in answer, my stomach growled, which set her giggling again. I grabbed her arm again and pulled her toward the stairs, away from Ms. Tandy's office. "Where could we possibly have breakfast?" I asked her, more than a little irritated.
"In the cafeteria, duh!" she replied. Her giggles finally subsided. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to 'undermine your credibility'."
"That's okay," I said.
"Did that stuff really happen?" she asked me, as she stifled one last giggle.
"YES!" I said. "Yes, it really happened! I really hurt my arms! I thought I broke something!"
"Okay," Eden said.
"Oh, listen, I met your mother this weekend, too."
"My mother?" Eden was puzzled.
"Before you ask, no, she was not on the train. It was at the hospital." I told her about my adventure there.
"Wow, Marcie. Does stuff like this happen to you all the time?"
"I don't know," I said. "Only lately."
"Maybe you should keep that doll," she giggled. "You could do a reality TV show."
I gave a wry smile and told her, "If I kept that doll, I'd shoot myself on the first episode."
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Miss Donner?" he asked, "Is your life usually so... exciting?"
"No," I said. "Just since I came here."
"Hmm," he said. "If things keep up at this rate, I won't need to watch television any more."
Eden was fun. I liked her. She was an only child, like me, and had just moved to town, like me. Her father was in the Army, stationed in Pakistan.
She was in the middle of telling me about her move when the PA system clicked on. We both fell silent.
"Marcie Donner, please report to the Principal's Office. Marcie Donner, to the Principal's Office immediately."
My jaw dropped. Eden's did as well.
"What did you do now, Marcie?"
"I'll tell you if you come with me," I said.
Mr. Bryant was standing in the outer office. He was smiling.
"Forgotten me, Miss Donner? Too busy catching babies who fall off trains?"
"How do you know about that?" I asked.
He smiled and said, "I have my sources."
Denise coughed and smiled. "Oh," I said.
"Yes, 'oh'," Mr. Bryant said. "That's a nice outfit you're wearing. Now let's hear the dress code for girls and you can go about your business."
I rattled it off without a hitch.
"Miss Donner?" he asked, "Is your life usually so... exciting?"
"No," I said. "Just since I came here."
"Hmm," he said. "If things keep up at this rate, I won't need to watch television any more."
I didn't get it, but Denise laughed, and I ducked out to join Eden.
Eden was in my three morning classes, and the two of us hooked up with Carla in second period. I copied Eden's schedule, and found that either she or Carla was in every one of my classes, and the three of us were together most of the time.
"So, are we all going to sit together at lunch?" I asked.
Carla smirked and said, "I'm sitting with Pat."
"Okay," I joked, "Don't get too smoochy in the cafeteria, Carla."
She arched her eyebrows as if to say, You know I will.
Eden and I got our food and sat down together. I looked around the room and spotted Carla at a table with Pat and Jerry.
"Doesn't your boyfriend eat lunch with you?" Eden asked.
"I was just wondering about that myself," I said, but I was soon to find out why he didn't.
I was busy trying to catch Jerry's eye, so I didn't see Ms. Tandy approach. I jumped when she spoke.
"Hi, girls. Mind if I sit for a moment?" Without waiting for an answer, she sat down next to me.
"Marcie, I have good news for you," she said. "I talked to your conductor, and he confirmed your story. Out of curiosity, I called the baby's mother. She says you're a hero and an angel." She smiled.
"I couldn't talk to the little girl you were babysitting, so I talked to her mother." Her eyes twinkled. "You gave me these numbers yourself, so you can't blame me if I used them.
"Anyway, Mrs. Auburn had all sorts of nice things to say about you. You're in like Flynn there, girl."
"Um, is that good?" I asked.
She laughed. "Believe me, if your boyfriend's mother likes you, it's a good thing. You're lucky.
"About the doll," she said, pausing to build suspense, "The Little Railroad is going to pay to replace it. So you're off the hook there, too. Also, they're going to send you a lifetime pass to the Little Railroad for you and a guest, so you can go on catching babies as often as you like."
"What about my grade?"
"I looked at the recorder, and you're right. Except for the fall from the train, you did well. You were a little rough, but most of the girls were. If it was a real baby you would have realized it, so don't worry. It was the same for you, Eden, in case you wondered. You both did fine for the doll part of your assignment. I still have to grade the notebooks. That will take me a little longer." She suppressed a grin and said, "Marcie, I think I'll save yours for last."
I nodded and thanked her. There was one last little thing bothering me, though, so I had to ask: "Ms. Tandy? How did you know that Jerry is my boyfriend?"
"Oh," she said. "Did you think that was a secret? Look, Marcie, this is a little school; there aren't that many students. There are teachers all over the place, and we see and hear things. We compare notes, especially about students who stand out."
"Do I stand out?" I asked, a little afraid.
Eden burst into giggles. Ms. Tandy smiled. My jaw dropped.
"I was trying to keep a low profile," I said softly.
Ms. Tandy looked puzzled. "You were? Well, you're not doing a very good job. In fact, if this is you keeping a low profile, I'd hate to see what would happen if you cut loose."
Eden's giggles kept bubbling out.
"And why in the world would you try to keep a low profile, Marcie? Wait... don't tell me. You've made my head spin enough for one day." She stood up. "In any case, congratulations on catching that baby. It was the right thing to do, even if it wrecked the doll. A real baby is more important any time." She smiled at me and left.
As soon as Ms. Tandy was gone, Carla roughly pushed her tray of food onto our table. She sat down with a thump! and a sullen expression. "Stupid cafeteria monitors!" she muttered.
"What happened?" I asked.
"That witch standing by the wall told me I couldn't sit with Pat. She said we were too 'hot and heavy' and that it wasn't appropriate."
"Oh, Carla," I said sympathetically. I looked over at the other table and Pat shrugged.
"Listen, I'll be right back," I said. "I have to ask Jerry something."
"Good luck," Carla said.
In fact, before I reached the table, the woman that Carla called a witch stepped in my way.
"Miss Donner," she said, "I just sent your crony away. Do you think you have some special privilege? Boyfriends over here–" she gestured at Pat and Jerry's table "–girlfriends over there." She gestured at my table. Behind her, Jerry shrugged at me, just as Pat had.
I opened my mouth, but couldn't find anything to say.
"Go," the monitor told me. She took one of my shoulders and turned me around.
"What a witch!" I exclaimed as I sat down again with Carla and Eden. "And how does she know my name? I've never seen her before."
"It's Big Brother," Carla growled. "It's repression."
I saw Eden fight off some giggles, and it made me smile.
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
It was a nice evening, and Jerry walked me home. He put his arm around my shoulders and steered me so I could dig into the bag. There was a little coral-colored teddy bear, a brand new Barbie, and a small baby doll.
"Ah," Jerry said, as I showed him my presents, "It's remedial, you know? She's trying to get you caught up on the girly stuff you missed."
Monday night I had dinner again with the Auburns. I returned Nina's stroller and bag, and she lent me a book called A Little Princess by Frances Burnett.
Cassie looked at me in disbelief. "How old are you, nine?"
"I never read it," I protested.
"What's next? Are you going to join Nina's Brownie troop?"
"I'm a Junior Girl Scout!" Nina protested. "Brownies is for little girls."
"Sounds just about Marcie's speed, then," Cassie quipped.
"I think she likes me," I said in a stage whisper as Nina led me upstairs. Cassie scoffed loudly below.
Nina showed me her room. She pointed out that her bookcase was chock full of books, and offered to choose the best "girl" books to lend me. She cautioned, "You can only borrow one at a time. I need them back."
I liked her room. It was definitely a little girl's room — it couldn't be mistaken for anything else. There was a canopy bed, lots of stuffed animals, baby dolls and Barbie dolls. Nearly everything was white, soft blue, or pink. "Pink is my favorite color!" she said as she held up a pink gift bag. "This if for you, but you can't open it until you go home, okay? I'm gonna put it by the front door, so you don't forget it. Remember: no peeking!"
Nina had also organized Wednesday night: I was invited to see The Princess Diaries. "But you can't get all mushy with Jerry!" she warned. I smiled.
It was a nice evening, and Jerry walked me home. He put his arm around my shoulders and steered me so I could dig into the bag. There was a little coral-colored teddy bear, a brand new Barbie, and a small baby doll.
"Ah," Jerry said, as I showed him my presents, "It's remedial, you know? She's trying to get you caught up on the girly stuff you missed."
"She's so nice," I said. "I have to get her a thank-you gift."
He shrugged.
"Oh," I suddenly remembered. "I have to talk to you about something. Did you know that you're my boyfriend?"
"Uh, well, I kinda, but, um, what..."
"All the teachers think we're boyfriend and girlfriend. Ms. Tandy does, the cafeteria lady..."
"Oh, yeah, yeah. They spy on us. They think they know everything. Does it bother you?"
"The boyfriend part, no." We smiled at each other. "Them knowing, yeah. That does bother me. I didn't like it when the cafeteria lady knew my name. It's not like I'm a troublemaker."
"No, but you do stand out."
"Hmmph."
He smiled and stopped. "Hey," he said, "If you're my girlfriend, how come we've never kissed?"
My aunt was reading a magazine when I came in. "Have a good time?" she asked.
"Yep!" I replied.
"What's in the bag?" she asked. I showed her the dolls, the bear, and the book.
"I see," she said. "I remember this book. Trying to make up for what you missed, huh?"
"I guess," I said.
"Oh, I have some news for you," she said. "I was talking to your father today. He said they're closing on your old house this Thursday."
"Closing? What's that mean?"
"It means the sale is final. The closing is when the buyer and seller sign all the papers and the money is exchanged."
"I thought they sold our old house when we left."
"No, no, these things take time." She looked like she was going to say more, but stopped herself.
"Hey, check this out!" she said, reaching behind her. "I got a digital camera today, and I haven't used it yet. Mind if we try it out together? I can get a shot of that outfit."
"Okay," I said happily. I posed for a couple of shots, some with my teddy bear and others with my baby doll. We looked at them together. I'd never used a digital camera before. I was impressed by the way we could check out the shots and delete the bad ones. In fact, we re-took a few of the shots until we both liked them.
"Great," Aunt Jane said. "I think I got the hang of it now."
Then we sat down and had a long chat. She wanted to know how things had gone with Ms. Tandy. That led us naturally to Jerry. Somehow she guessed that we'd kissed on the way home, so we had a pretty frank chat about boys and being careful. At first I was worried about what she'd say, but I think she made an effort not to judge or lecture me — she wanted to be sure I'd keep on talking to her.
While we talked, I noticed that Aunt Jane was unusually upbeat and happy. I wondered whether something good had happened to her.
"Oh, I cleared something up today," she said, in a mysterious voice. "I kind of ironed out a problem that was hanging over me."
Tuesday was uneventful. It was my first day of gym class since I'd started school, and it worked out fine. I wore my gym suit under my clothes, so I just had to slip out of my skirt and top and change my shoes for sneakers. I took a locker near the door, and after class, I quickly slipped my clothes on over my gym suit and headed out. Eden is in my class, and I was surprised to see that she and several other girls had done the same.
"I can't use those showers here! Ugh! They are so disgusting!" one of the girls commented as we left the building.
"Are they really that dirty?" I asked Eden.
She shrugged. "I dunno. I didn't look. I'd just rather shower at home."
After we got outside Eden asked me, "Hey, Did you hear about the show? The school is doing Bye Bye Birdie."
"No, I don't know anything about it."
"I can lend you the movie. It's pretty fun. I'm going to try out. I can't sing, but I'm a good dancer." She smiled and pointed one toe. "Do you know how to sing, Marcie?"
"Only in the shower."
"Do you want to audition with me?"
"As a dancer? I can't dance."
"Are you sure? Come over my house, and we can see. I'll show you the audition routine I worked out. And I can teach it to you!"
"I don't know..."
"Come one, give it a try, Marcie! It'll be more fun if we do it together."
I was doubtful, but Eden was persistent. She weedled and cajoled, and finally I thought, Why not? It could be fun.
"I'll try," I told her. "But I can't promise anything. I've never danced."
And so the two of us trooped off to Eden's house. It was pretty close — about as close to school as my house, but in a different direction.
Eden's mother made us a snack of fruit and sandwiches. After we demolished that, Eden led me to a big, empty family room.
"We don't have enough furniture to fill the house," she said, "But I like it this way. It's my dance studio. Now watch. This is part of a song from the show."
She put on "Telephone Hour," a 50's-style song about "goin' steady," and danced to it. She really danced. I was impressed, and told her so.
"I've been taking lessons pretty much my whole life," she said, proudly. "Now you try it with me."
We worked for a couple of hours. Eden was very patient, and pointed out mistakes I didn't realize I was making. In the end, I could do most of the moves, but couldn't remember how they fit together.
"You'll get it," she said. "We just have to practice. Can you come over tomorrow? Are you free this weekend?"
"Tomorrow I'm going to Jerry's, and Thursday my aunt's taking me out. But Friday and the weekend are good."
She looked a little disappointed, but said, "Okay. We could work lunchtimes, I guess. And if we work hard this weekend, I think we'll get it. Auditions are next week, though, and that's not much time. They didn't say which day the dance auditions are, so we have to use every day — we don't know how much time we've got. The routine's got to be rock solid."
"If I can't learn it, promise me that you'll audition by yourself? I don't want to drag you down or keep you out."
"You won't drag me down," she said. "You'll get it."
I still had my doubts, but I was determined to try. I walked home, passing the school on the way. As I walked, I wondered: When I go back to being a boy, will my life still be as interesting and fun as it is now? Or can my life only be this way while I'm a girl?
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Anyway," Ms. Tandy continued, "Why are you trying to keep a low profile? You're not on witness protection, are you?"
A student walking by overheard that remark, and his eyebrows shot up.
Wednesday during lunch hour we worked on the routine. Eden found an empty classroom with enough room to move. The dance felt a lot different, and more fun, with the skirt swirling around me, catching my momentum, stopping, and swirling back again.
"You're right," Eden said. "We need to practice and audition in skirts. We have to make sure the swirling's not jerky."
The evening at Jerry's was nice. After dinner, we popped in the Princess Diaries DVD. Jerry, Nina, and I sat on the couch together. Mr. Auburn disappeared, but Mrs. Auburn sat in an armchair near us. She knitted the whole time, but I was sure she had a weather eye on her son.
At first, I was sandwiched between Nina and Jerry. Then Nina climbed into my lap. After a hour I asked them to pause the movie because I was being cooked alive. Nina was as hot as an electric blanket, and since I was leaning into Jerry, the heat had nowhere to go.
I stood and shook my clothes to cool off a little. Then Jerry and I went to the kitchen to get drinks.
"You like the movie, don't you?" he asked.
"Oh, yeah, it's fun," I replied. "Don't you?"
He peeked to make sure Nina wouldn't hear, and then said, "It's a chick flick, Marcie. No — it's not even a chick flick, it's a movie for little girls. The only reason I'm watching is so I can be with you."
"That's sweet," I said. He rolled his eyes comically, and spread his arms, as if to say, What else I can do? I put my hands on his chest and popped my foot, like the girl in the movie.
Nina peeked in the door and said, "Quit the mushy stuff! Let's watch the movie!"
We sat back down arranged in the opposite direction, with Jerry on my left and Nina on my right. This time it wasn't as hot because Nina started fading, and lay on the sofa with her head on my lap and her legs dangling over the arm. Mrs. Auburn cleared her throat, and Jerry and I moved apart a little bit. I don't know how she communicated it, but we got the message.
As he walked me home, Jerry said, "No offense, but I can't watch another movie like that. It's way too much girly sweetness. I can't take it." I laughed and made a vague silent promise.
On Thursday morning, when I got to school, something was going on. It was still early, so not every one was there. It was a good thing, because the few students who were there were all looking at me. At first I thought I imagined it, but pretty soon it was too obvious to ignore. I began to feel quite uncomfortable, and I heard the soft sound of whispers everywhere I went.
By the time I reached the Principal's Office, I was almost jumping out of my skin from paranoia.
"Ah, Ms. Donner," Mr. Bryant said. "Am I safe in assuming that you haven't seen this yet?" He was holding the school newspaper.
"No, I haven't," I admitted.
"Why don't you have a seat and take a look at page five," he said, handing me the paper.
I'm glad he asked me to sit down. When I opened to page five, my jaw fell. A cartoon took up almost a quarter of the page. It was a very fanciful depiction of the incident on the Little Train. It showed me, swinging on a rope, in the act of catching (with one hand!) a round, fat baby in midair. Far above was the train. You could see the frightened mother's face, the shocked passengers, and the crying children. The whole thing looked like the cover of a comic book. It showed me wearing a very short skirt that rippled in the wind.
"Do I really look like that?" I asked, hardly knowing what I said.
"It is a speaking likeness of your face. The rest is fairly idealized... I won't comment on the legs," he said, clearing his throat.
"It makes you look like a superhero," Denise said.
I was speechless. Mr. Bryant handed me a glass of water.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I can't censor the paper. I have already lodged a complaint. If your parents or your aunt would like to come in, I can arrange to have the paper's moderator–"
"No, never mind," I interrupted. "It's probably better just to let it blow over."
"Fine," he said. "However, if you change your mind about that, or if you need, ah, sanctuary, feel free to come back here. Understood? Will you be alright?"
"Yes," I said. "After the shock wears off."
The day was a little weird, but really wasn't that bad. I guess people either didn't see the paper, or if they did, they didn't connect the cartoon with me. A few people openly stared at me, and a few others pointed me out to their friends as "the one in the cartoon." Only two people actually teased me about it, and one yelled "Hey, Legs!" But that was about it.
Except that at lunch time, Ms. Tandy came and sat down with Carla, Eden, and me. She gestured with the school paper and said, "So much for the low profile, eh, Marcie?"
"I guess," I said. "But I think it's going to blow over."
"I don't know the boy who drew this," she said, "but he got your face perfectly. It's almost photographic."
"The legs are pretty exact, too," Carla added. We all looked at her in surprise. "What?" she demanded. "I've seen you in gym class."
"Anyway," Ms. Tandy continued, "Why are you trying to keep a low profile? You're not on witness protection, are you?"
A student walking by overheard that remark, and his eyebrows shot up.
"What's witness protection?" I asked. "Whatever it is, I'm not on it."
"I guess I shouldn't joke about things like that," Ms. Tandy said. "It's actually pretty serious. Let's say you know something about organized crime — maybe you witness a mob murder — I don't know. So you go to the police, and you testify against the crooks. Because of that, your life could be in danger, so the FBI gives you a new identity and moves you to a new city. In that way, you're safe, because you have a new name, a new life. The crooks don't know how to find you."
"Wow," I said. "Does that really happen?"
"Yes, it does," she said. "But if your cover is blown — for instance, you run into someone who knew you before, or you tell someone — then the FBI has to move you again."
"Oh, there's a movie like that! Kate whats-her-name's mother is in it and Mel Gibson — Oh! What is it called?" Eden babbled.
Ms. Tandy stood up. "I better go. You girls have fun. And you, keep a low profile!" Laughing, she left.
Carla frowned. "Why are you trying to keep a low profile?" she asked me. "And BY THE WAY, did you notice it's not working?"
Eden went wild with giggles. I let out a big sigh.
"Oh!" Eden exclaimed, suddenly remembering. "Are we going to rehearse our dance tonight? We really need to get it down."
"No," I replied. "I told you, tonight my aunt's taking me out to dinner."
"Mmm," Eden mumbled, obviously disappointed.
Aunt Jane and I arrived home at the same moment. She was trying to unlock the door. It was a little tricky because she was holding two bags and had half a dozen copies of my school newspaper under her arm.
"Where did you get those?" I asked.
"Denise dropped them off at lunchtime." Smiling, she shook her head at me. "You're really going all out, aren't you?"
"What did I do?" I asked. "And why do you have so many of those?"
"Oh, memories, scrapbooks," she said vaguely. "I thought your parents might want a couple copies."
"My parents!?" I squeaked fearfully.
"Wow, that got a rise out of you," she said, laughing, as she dropped the papers on the coffee table. "Calm down, girl."
I did calm down, remembering that she would get into a lot worse trouble than I ever would if my parents found out.
"Let's see what you're going to wear to the restaurant tonight," she said, with a twinkle in her eye.
I never thought of my aunt as feminine. She always seemed very — what's the word? — I don't want to say "tomboy" because I've grown to hate the word... and "plain" doesn't quite do it, either. She definitely wasn't mannish, but... What I'm getting at is that I've never seen her wear makeup, and only seen her in a dress two or three times at most. Her hair has always been the same short, functional cut.
Because of all that, I was pretty surprised when she helped me get ready. She picked out my prettiest outfit, and she brushed and styled my hair way better than I ever could.
Then, to top it off, she did my makeup — the first I'd ever worn. It was very light, but it made a big difference.
"Too bad you didn't pierce your ears. I don't have any clip-ons," she commented.
Next she inspected my nails. "They look okay," she said. "I don't feel like fooling with nail polish, and I don't think you know how to do it, so let's stop there."
"Okay," I said, admiring myself in the mirror. "Thanks. It's really nice... I mean, I look nice."
"See?" she smiled. "Your old aunt knows a trick or two."
"So what's the occasion?" I asked. "Why are we getting so dressed up?"
"It's nice to get out once in a while," she said. "Let's say that you've inspired me."
Forty minutes later, she emerged wearing a nice but simple dark blue dress. She'd done her own makeup, and was wearing a pearl necklace and matching earrings.
"Wow!" I exclaimed.
"I clean up pretty good, don't I?" she said, posing this way and that.
At the restaurant, a valet took our car. The moment we entered, I felt intimidated — it seemed you'd have to be rich just to look in the window. We were ushered to a very separate and quiet table. I was so impressed, I didn't dare talk above a whisper. "I've never been in a restaurant this nice before!" I hissed to my aunt. "I've never been anywhere this elegant!"
In a low voice, she replied, "I don't think I have, either. We're getting a very special treat tonight."
That confused me. She said "we" as though she was being treated, too. I also noticed that the waiter hadn't removed the two extra place settings.
"Aunt Jane," I whispered, "Is someone else coming?"
She smiled and nodded.
"Who?"
"I'll tell you," she said. "If you promise not to faint, scream, or run away." She took my hands firmly in hers and asked, "Do you trust me?"
"I don't know," I replied, nervously.
"Okay then: no more suspense. Your parents are coming to have dinner with us."
© 2006,2007 by Kaleigh Way
"You certainly owe me and your mother an apology," he said. "If you wanted to do this, you should have called and told us before you did it."
"Would you have said yes?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "I wouldn't."
21. Laying Down The Law
"My parents!? Oh my God! Oh my God!"
"Calm down, Marcie. They already know."
"They know?" I squeaked in a frightened whisper.
"Yes, I told them on Saturday, while you were out with Alice."
I gulped.
"And I sent them those pictures of you."
I didn't know what to say or do. I looked around, lost. I opened and closed my mouth but didn't say a word.
Aunt Jane spoke softly. "Look, hon. How long do you think I could go without telling them? If I hadn't, they could have called the school for any number of reasons, and your secret would be over. Plus, they have some liability for what you do... if there were any problems or trouble, they would get called on the carpet."
"How could they get in trouble if they didn't know?"
"It doesn't matter if they know. They're your parents; society expects them to know. If something happened and they didn't know, it would make them look like bad parents. It would be much worse for them.
"Your parents and I have been talking about this several times a day for the past week — well, since Saturday anyway."
"And what do they say? Are they going to make me stop?"
"No, I don't think so. Yesterday your father kind of worked things out. Your mother is a little... well, she's having a harder time. You'll see."
I was so nervous, I was shaking.
"Calm down," she repeated. "They're your parents. You're their only child, their baby. They're not going to kill you." She glanced over my shoulder. "Speak of the devil! Here they are!"
She stood up and kept hold of one of my hands. I think she was afraid I might cut and run. The waiter came over at the same time as my parents, so he was kind of in the way as Jane gave each of my parents a hug and a kiss. Then Jane stepped aside to present me.
"Holy–" my father said, trying to hide his shock. He blinked a few times, then recovered, saying "Come give your father a hug, Mar–cie."
I gave him a frightened little squeeze. He gave me a smile that was meant to be reassuring, than stepped aside so my mother could see me. The waiter was standing next to her, in the perfect spot to witness my mother's jaw drop and her face go white. I'm sure he had an equally good view of the anxiety on my face.
Dad frowned as the waiter gaped, glancing back and forth between the Mom and me. He cleared his throat, but the waiter didn't take the hint. So Dad said, "We haven't seen each other for a long time. Could you give us ten minutes?" The waiter didn't seem to hear — he stood stock-still with his mouth open. "How about five minutes?" my father asked. No response. "A little privacy?"
My mother held out her hand to me, but suddenly her eyes closed and her knees buckled. My father must have seen it coming, because he caught her, held her up, and gently lowered her into a chair at our table. He sat down next to her and talked in a quiet voice as he held her hand. My aunt sat on my mother's right and took her pulse.
"Is she okay?" I asked.
"She fainted," my dad replied. "She'll be fine in a few moments." He drew a breath and looked around, only to see the waiter at his elbow. "Are you still here?" he asked. "Okay, how about this? Bring two light beers and a cosmo for the adults, and a diet coke for the young lady."
The waiter continued to gape stupidly, so my dad said, "Now!" in an icy, low voice. At that, the waiter finally snapped out of it and left.
"Thought I'd never get rid of him," he growled. I began to sit down, but my father barked, "Don't sit opposite your mother. We don't want her fainting all night long. Stand by me until she comes to, and then you can sit here, between me and her. Okay?"
"What happened?" my mother asked in a weak, breathy voice.
"You fainted," Dad told her. "Are you alright now?"
She nodded, so Dad stood. He took me by the shoulders and pressed me into the chair next to Mom, and then sat himself on the other side of me. My mother smiled and took my hand.
"Sorry," she said. "But even after seeing the photos, it's still quite a shock." She carressed my hand and studied my face. "Maybe it would be easier if you looked like someone from my side of the family. Art, who does your daughter look like?"
"Uh," he said, looking at me with a frown, "I don't know — one of my cousins, I guess."
"Marcie looks like a Graylen," Jane put in. "In fact, we have a cousin Marcie who is supposed to be very similar to this young lady here."
"'Supposed to be'?" my father echoed.
My aunt prompted me to tell the story of how it all began. I didn't do a very good job of it at first, partly because I got a bit mixed up between the edited version that we'd invented and what really happened. Plus, I didn't want to mention Jerry. On top of all that, it was my parents I was talking to — I was pretty nervous about how it would all turn out.
Still, they were a good audience.
They asked about my friends, so I mentioned Carla and Eden, and spoke of Nina as a girl that I'd babysat. I talked and talked, telling them about Ms. Tandy, the baby simulator, the hospital, and the Little Train. The three adults were pretty quiet, listening, sometimes asking questions.
"And all these things happened in the past week?" my mother asked. I nodded.
The waiter handed us dessert menus and left. I realized then that I'd monopolized the conversation. "So how are things in New Jersey?" I asked.
"Much quieter than they are out here," my father said drily. "My job is good, I like the people. I told you that. We haven't found a house yet, and that's a little discouraging. But you knew that, too. Why don't we stick to the subject? But first, let's have a look at the desserts. Why didn't that waiter bring a dessert cart?"
As if on cue, the waiter came, wheeling a cart full of amazing treats. He described each one, and it was very hard to choose. To be fair, after his initial cluelessness, the waiter turned out to be very quick and helpful. We each chose a different dessert, and passed them around the table for everyone to taste. Then my father said, "Okay, back to the subject at hand: is there anything else you need to tell us about what you're doing that we don't know?"
"Um, no?" I said. I didn't want to mention Jerry.
"You certainly owe me and your mother an apology," he said. "If you wanted to do this, you should have called and told us before you did it."
"Would you have said yes?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "I wouldn't. I hope you can understand the position you've put me and your mother in here. Suppose one of the girls' parents found out that a boy was in her gym class, watching her get changed each day in the locker room? Do you think they could sue us and the school for letting it happen?"
"I don't know," I said in a small voice.
"I didn't either," my father said, "So I spoke to a lawyer about that and some other related issues."
"What did he say?"
"We'll come to that. The point is, you can't do this behind our backs."
"Sorry," I said. "You're not going to make stop, are you?"
My father and mother looked at each other for a few moments, then my mother asked, "You really want to do this?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I want to see what it's like to be a girl for a while."
"And what do you think so far?"
"I like it."
My father asked, "And what will you do when you start school in New Jersey? Cut your hair short, leave the skirts behind, go back to being a boy?"
"Yes."
He shook his head. "I don't believe it. I don't think you can. Look at yourself. You clearly enjoy what you're doing. Your aunt's kept us pretty up-to-date on your activities. It's like you've turned into a different person."
"Are you going to tell the school?" I asked.
"By rights, we should," my father replied. "But... well, what the lawyer said was–" then he hesitated. "I think I'll keep that to myself for the moment."
He was silent, thinking about how much he wanted to tell me. Then, finally: "No, we won't tell your school — for now. But you have to keep your nose clean. Squeaky clean! If you get in the least bit of trouble, I'll jerk you out of that school so fast, it'll make your head spin, and you'll find yourself in New Jersey, where we can keep a close eye on you. I've even considered military high school. There's a good one not far from where I work. I'm going to send you the brochure, so you know where you could end up."
"What!?" I cried.
"And, if you're going to continue to do this, and if you don't want us to tell your school, there's a condition: you have to get counseling."
"Counseling?" I echoed. "There's nothing wrong with me!"
"I didn't use the word 'wrong'," he pointed out. "But answer me this: how many other boys in your school come to school in a dress?"
I looked down. "None."
"How many pretend to be a girl?"
I hung my head. "None."
"Do you have an afterschool club, where you can share your experiences?"
"No," I admitted.
"It would be useful for you to have a little help," he concluded. "And that is what a counselor will give you."
"I don't need help," I protested. "This is just an experiment."
"Hang on, Art," my mother said. "Let me try a different tack. Marcie, listen to me. You look very nice tonight, do you know that?"
"Thanks," I replied, smiling shyly.
"Did you choose that dress? Did you go out and buy it yourself?"
"No," I admitted.
"Did you find a stylist and tell her that you wanted that cute hair cut? Did you choose the hair color?"
"No."
"And your makeup — did you do that?"
"No."
"Someone helped you with all those things, didn't they?"
My father cut in. "Let me try a different tack. If you don't go to a counselor once a week, and follow his recommendations, you will not continue with your 'experiment'. That's final. I've already made an appointment for tomorrow morning at 10:30. Your mother and I will come and pick you up at school, and while we're there we'll stop in and say hello to your principal. What do you think about that?"
"It sounds fine?" I replied.
"That's my girl," he said dryly.
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
Dad shook his head. "Your Mr. Bryant told me that in case we were in witness protection, our cover had been blown. I told him we aren't, but of course he doesn't know what to believe. How in the world do you get into these messes?"
"I don't know," I protested. "I don't do anything!"
22. Good Comic Material
On Friday morning, soon after the beginning of second period, the PA system crackled. The teacher stopped talking and waited.
"Marcie Donner, please report to the Principal's Office. Marcie Donner, to the Principal's Office immediately."
"Miss Donner?" the teacher prompted. I gathered my things and left the room.
My parents were waiting in the outer office, and Mom was chatting with Denise. They broke off when I entered the room.
"Ready?" my father asked, and he took my backpack.
"I can carry that," I said, taking it back.
"Sorry," he said. "It's a reflex."
Their rental car was parked next to the school. I don't know what kind of car it was, but it was black and very cool. There were a lot of kids staring from the second-floor windows. Dad opened the back door for Mom, and the front door for me.
Once we were inside, before he started the car, he took off his sunglasses and turned to me. "Have you been telling people that you're on the witness protection program?"
"Witness protection? No," I replied in surprise. "I didn't even know what that was until yest– oh!" The scene suddenly flashed before my eyes, and I told him about Ms. Tandy's joke. "That boy passing by overheard."
"And he started a rumor," my father concluded. He shook his head. "Your Mr. Bryant told me that in case we were in witness protection, our cover had been blown. I told him we aren't, but of course he doesn't know what to believe. How in the world do you get into these messes?"
"I don't know," I protested. "I don't do anything!"
My father laughed. It was the first time he'd laughed since he arrived, and it made me feel a lot better.
"We happened to meet your gym teacher, Grace Price," my mother said. "She's very nice, and thinks quite highly of you. She's sorry you won't be here next year to play on her field hockey team."
"Yeah," I said. "I like her."
"We're going to meet your other teachers at lunch time," my father said. "An impromptu parent-teacher conference, since we live so far away. All of your teachers. I got the feeling that they're curious to meet us. Very curious." He gave me a searching look, then smiled. "Don't worry," he said. "It's just normal stuff — for a change!"
"At least I hope so," my mother added.
"Hey, am I going to get out of school every Friday for this?" I asked.
"No," my dad replied. "It will be an after-school thing — we'll fix the day."
I groaned.
Dad explained, "We need to jumpstart this. That's why the appointment is now. And this is the deal — don't forget that."
We spent over an hour at Mr. Marks' office. He is my "counselor" — he's a psychologist, and so far I like him. Half the time was spent doing paperwork. My father had to sign all sorts of permissions and releases, and fill out insurance forms. My mother worked on my health history and some other documents. In the meantime, I had a long questionnaire to do.
Then the four of us sat down and at first, my father took over. He explained the situation until he was sure Mr. Marks understood his point of view and what he wanted. Mr. Marks wore these huge eyeglasses that made his face look small, and he was pretty thin, so he looked kind of wimpy, but after listening to my dad for a while, Mr. Marks took the wheel.
He explained that although there were parental rights and controls, my parents had to understand that I (me!) had to have a "reasonable expectation of privacy," or it would "compromise the therapeutic relationship." My father protested, but Mr. Marks insisted that the things he was talking about were a matter of law, not personal preference.
Then, when he was done explaining, he gave me a huge wink without my father seeing, and asked — in a very stagey, goofy voice that made him sound like a complete idiot — "I just have one question, ah–" he looked at his clipboard, as if reading from there "– 'Mark'. Why would such a pretty girl pretend to be a boy?"
I could see my father's blood pressure rise up into his head. If he had a hat, I think it would have flown off. "Dad! Dad!" I exclaimed, and put my hand on his arm. "He's just joking! It's just a joke!"
My mother laughed, and my father harrumphed a bit, but in the end he smiled too. He shook Mr. Marks' hand, and after some parting remarks, we left.
I realized as we drove back to school that Mr. Marks, by standing up to my dad, had won my father's respect and confidence. He made my mother feel that he cared and would protect me, and made me feel like he was on my side, even if my dad (or my dad's insurance) was paying the bill. So it was a success all around.
"Is that your father?" Carla asked at lunch time. "He looks like one of the Men In Black."
"Uh, I guess he does," I said. He is pretty tall and imposing.
"Your mother's cute, but you don't really look like her," Eden said.
"Mmm," I said. I was only half-listening.
"I wasn't saying you're not cute, you vain hussy," Eden retorted, giggling.
"I don't know which is worse," I complained, "to sit with my back to them and miss what's happening, or look at them and see what's happening."
"Face it," Carla said. "Having your parents at school is pure humiliation. You gotta pray that they don't come over and talk to you."
"Oh!" Eden added, "And hugs and kisses, in front of everybody!"
"You gotta pre-empt that stuff," Carla agreed. "And hope they have the sense not to call you any cutesie nicknames."
"In a loud voice," Eden added.
I realized I was wringing my hands, so I said, "Thanks, you guys are great."
There was an eruption of adult laughter. It came, as I feared, from the table where my parents and teachers were sitting. My mother caught my eye and smiled. My cheeks burned red. What in the world could they be saying? Ms. Tandy was talking, and the laughs just kept on coming. My father wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.
"I'm glad I'm such good comic material," I muttered.
At last, the teachers took their leave, and my parents came over to talk to me. I introduced Carla and Eden, then said, "Sounds like you had a good time over there."
My father smiled and said, "You really hit the ground running."
My mother said, "We heard a lot of good things about you."
My father said, "And some that's hard to believe."
Eden giggled, and my parents smiled. I wanted to melt into the floor.
"Your aunt told me that you're going clothes shopping with Alice tomorrow," my mother said. "Do you mind if I come with you instead?"
I groaned quietly. "Can we talk about this at home?"
"Are you coming straight home from school?" Mom asked.
"No," Eden replied, before I could speak. "We have to work on our dance routine at my house."
"Oh, really?" my mother said, interested. "You didn't tell us about that. Can I come see?"
"Not tonight," Eden put in — again, before I could say anything! — "It's just a quick run-through. If you want to come tomorrow, it would be better. More like audition quality."
"It's for Bye, Bye, Birdie," I explained.
"How about this?" Eden said. "Marcie, you come at 7:30. We can work for an hour and a half, and your mother can come at 9. We show her the routine, and you guys can go shopping!"
"That sounds fine," my mother said.
I gaped silently at Eden. Seven-thirty in the morning!? AND inviting my mom!?
I looked at the clock. There were still ten minutes left to lunch. I felt like the whole cafeteria was watching. How do I cut this short? I wondered, and turned to my dad. "Dad, are you sure the car is parked in a good spot? I heard they hand out parking tickets like, uh — like, uh–" I couldn't think what to compare it to. Water?
My father frowned, but then his eyes lit up. "Oh, I see!" He put his hand on top of my head and messed up my hair. "Linda, we're embarrassing her!"
"We are?" my mother said. Carla was grinning like a fiend. Mom said, "Well, we'd better go then! But first, I need a great big hug from my little girl!" At that, she grabbed me from behind, and put her cheek against mine.
"Mom... Mom — MOM!"
She let go, smiling, and said, "Art, don't you want to give your daughter a hug?"
"No," he said, "I think we've done enough damage. Bye, hon."
"First let me fix your hair for you," my mother said. "Do you have a brush handy, Marcie?"
Before Mom could make good on her threat, my father took her arm, and they went off, much to my relief.
Eden's eyes were like saucers. Carla's grin threatened to split her face in two. "Hey," she said, "I got a great idea! You ought to invite Jerry to your audition tomorrow, so he can meet your mother." She laughed at her own joke, but I felt the blood drain from my face. That would be all I'd need!
"Wow, Marcie," Eden said. "You're really good at changing colors. You turned all these different reds, and now you're white. It's amazing!"
"It's a gift," I told her, imitating Mr. Monk. "It's a blessing... and a curse."
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"What's the problem?" she repeated, almost in a shriek. "I'll tell you what's the problem! What if you fell and split your silly head open?"
"But I didn't," I protested weakly.
23. Jinxed!
The last class of the week was Home Ec. with Ms. Tandy. She gave back our baby notebooks. I glanced inside. A-plus! I guess I really earned that grade!
Ms. Tandy said, "Some of your notebooks were pretty sketchy, and that's reflected in your grade. About the babies: most of you were pretty good. At the same time, most of you were a little rough. I think if it was a real baby, you'd see the baby's reaction and be more gentle. That said, a couple of you actually hit the baby."
"Or threw it off a train," someone muttered, and everyone laughed. I looked at the floor.
"Right," Ms. Tandy said drily. "I'm going to talk individually with the girls who mistreated their babies, and then I'll give you that part of the grade. For now, let's talk about how what this experience was like for you."
"The crying drove me up the wall," one girl said. "It kept waking me up."
"I just stayed home all weekend," another remarked. "I was too embarrassed to go out with that thing."
"Those of you who did go out," Ms. Tandy asked, "did people treat you any differently?" My cheeks colored at that, so she called on me.
"People thought it was real," I said, "and they thought I was a teenage mother. They made all kinds of rude remarks and looked at me like I was some kind of — I don't know — something awful. They said my parents didn't raise me well. It was horrible."
"One lady called me a tramp," someone said. "And some other names I can't repeat. Can I?"
"No," Ms. Tandy said. "I think we can imagine. So what have we learned?"
After school Eden and I went to her house and ran through the routine a few times. "Tomorrow we have to work on the weak spots," Eden said. "We have to get more flow. It's got to be more fluid."
"Okay," I shrugged.
"Are you mad at me for inviting your mother tomorrow?" she asked.
"No, I don't care."
"Hey," Eden said. "I have a present for you!" She ran out of the room for a moment and came back with a short skirt. "When I saw that train cartoon, I realized that you always wear long skirts."
"It's the dress code," I said.
"Yeah, but other girls wear short skirts to school."
I sighed. "I guess Mrs. Zeff didn't get her claws into them. They watch me. They check what I'm wearing, every day."
"Right, I forgot." she said. "But it's the weekend! So put it on!"
I quickly changed. It was a cute little thing that came to middle of my thigh. It was blue, and had some white lace trim. The skirt fanned out a little, sort of like a bell. "Do you like it?" Eden asked. I nodded. "So twirl!" she said.
I twirled and jumped and swung my hips to make the skirt shake. "Hey, I like it!" I said. "It's fun."
Eden was pleased that her gift was a success, and she walked with me when I left for home. "I'll go as far as the school," she said.
We talked about one thing and another, and when we reached the school we stopped. I don't know if you remember, but the front door of the school doesn't face the street: it's on the side of the building. And there, near the front door, were two boys. One was sitting on the ground, and the other was running around like a freaked-out chicken. As we got closer, we could see that the sitting boy was having trouble breathing. Eden and I ran over to see.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Cory's having an asthma attack!" the panicked boy told us. "I knocked and I rang, and I ran all around the building, but nobody's inside!"
"Okay," I said. I looked at Eden; she was goggle-eyed. "Does he have any asthma medicine?"
"Yeah," his friend said. "But it's in the building. In there." He pointed up, to an open window on the third floor.
"You mean his medicine is in that room?" I asked.
"Yeah! That was our last class. He left his backpack in there."
I looked at the brick wall and said, "All right. I can do this." I took off my shoes, and said to the boy, "Don't look up my skirt." He nodded, frightened, and I started to climb.
My toes and fingers fit into the space between the bricks, and I kept close to the wall as I climbed. At first it was pretty easy, but once I got about halfway up, my arms started shaking. Still, I didn't have any choice but to keep going. I didn't look down, and I didn't stop.
The worst of it came when the window I was aiming for was just a few feet away. I felt a burst of panic welling up inside me and a little voice said I'm not going to make it! but I had to. I had to. If I didn't make it, I would fall. I had to make it!
When they do this on TV it looks easy! I told myself. Beads of sweat ran from my forehead into my eyes, stinging them, but I didn't dare stop to wipe.
I'd imagined that once I grabbed the windowsill that I could just haul myself up and in, but my arms were so weak that I had to keep climbing with my feet until half my body was over the sill, inside the room. As soon as I slid to the floor, the lights came on. In that moment I spotted the backpack and saw Ms. Tandy at the light switch. My arms were shaking like crazy.
"Marcie Donner! Have you lost your mind? What in the world are you doing?"
I didn't have the breath to speak, so I grabbed the backpack and threw it out the window to Cory's friend. I waved Ms. Tandy over and gasped, "Come see."
When she got to the window, the friend had pulled the inhaler from the backpack, and was just handing it to Cory. "Asthma 'tack," I puffed.
She was speechless for a moment, then said, "Let's get down there!" At that, I put one leg up on the windowsill. She pushed it back to the floor, incredulous. "Are you crazy!? Not that way! We'll take the stairs! Like normal people do!"
As we ran, she looked at my feet. "Barefoot, too? Oh, Marcie, what are we going to do with you? I saw you climbing, but I was afraid to say anything — I didn't want to make you fall."
By the time we exited the front door, Cory was drawing deep, heavy breaths, like someone who'd been running a long time. "Thanks," he gasped to me.
Ms. Tandy knelt beside him and put her hand on his forehead. "Are you all right?"
Cory nodded. "I just needed my inhaler."
"Don't any of you kids have cell phones?" Ms. Tandy asked. We all shook our heads. She looked at me and said, "Marcie, you need to get a cell phone."
"Me? Why me?"
Her hands shook for a moment, then she said, "Because somehow YOU are always in the middle of things! If you had a phone, you could have called your aunt, who is a nurse, or some other emergency number, or even 911! Oh!" I could see she was frustrated, but I didn't understand why.
I looked at Cory, who was panting slowly, as if he'd been running. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Yeah," he said. "Thanks. I really appreciate it." Then his eyes drifted down, and he stared at my legs, not leering, but as if he was studying them.
I put my hands on the hem of the skirt and pressed it against my thighs. "Hey!" I gently chided.
He was startled. "Oh, sorry!"
"Marcie," Ms. Tandy said. "Look at me."
"What's the problem?" I said. "I got his medicine, and he's alright."
"What's the problem?" she repeated, almost in a shriek. "I'll tell you what's the problem! What if you fell and split your silly head open?"
"But I didn't," I protested weakly.
"You were lucky!" she retorted. Then she sighed. "You did a good thing and a bad thing at the same time, Marcie. Normal people — especially girls in short skirts — don't go scaling walls! Into locked buildings! Someone could have called the police, and — by the way — if you think you're keeping a low profile, guess what! You're not!"
Cory, who was still sitting on the ground, followed this with great interest.
Ms. Tandy was struggling to find the right words. Then she said, "Look, Marcie. You have to realize that life isn't like a comic book! You're not some kind of action hero!"
Cory's face lit up, as if he'd just had a revelation. His breathing became regular, and he stood up. "Maybe she is!" he said. "Maybe she is an action hero!"
Ms. Tandy and I looked at Cory in disbelief, and at the same instant we both said, "Give me a break!"
Ms. Tandy's eyes twinkled. Then she pointed at me and said, "Jinx! You owe me a coke!"
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"So...," Mom began, "What are you going to do about boys?"
"Uh, boys?"
"Yes, what are you going to do when boys start showing interest in you?"
"What do you think I should do?" I asked (and I think I managed to sound very innocent).
24. Miss No-Secrets
"Seriously, though," Ms. Tandy said. "There are times when I wish I was principal, but right now I am so glad I'm not."
"What?" Cory said. "You're not going to tell Mr. Bryant, are you?"
"She's not in trouble, is she?" Cory's friend cried.
"Oh, Marcie!" Eden murmured, and for once she wasn't giggling.
"I have to," Ms. Tandy said. "I don't know what he'll do or say, but we can't have students climbing the walls. You know what I mean."
"Oh, no," I said. I felt crushed. "You're not going to tell my parents, are you?"
She looked at my face for a moment, then asked in a low voice, "When are they leaving?"
"Sunday night."
"Look," Ms. Tandy said, in a confidential tone. "I know for a fact that Mr. Bryant is on a trip, and he won't be back until late Monday morning. So I can't tell him until then, and we should probably let him decide what the appropriate course of action is."
"Thank you," I said breathlessly.
"But," she cautioned, "BUT — don't go running around bragging about this, or saying that I let you off. You could still be in big trouble, and the more people talk about this, the more likely it is that you'll get some kind of disciplinary action."
"Disciplinary action!?" the three other students echoed, and Cory's friend said, "Punishment?"
Cory told her, "That's not fair! She helped me!"
"Let's leave fair and not-fair up to Mr. Bryant. Can you four just sit on this until Monday?"
"Yes," we all agreed.
"Okay," she said, and she gave me a hug. "Marcie, you are a panic. Seriously — for once, try to keep a low profile!" Smiling, she went back into the building.
The moment Ms. Tandy was gone, I turned to Eden and said, "Listen, Eden: DON'T TELL YOUR MOTHER. Okay? If you do, she'll tell my mother. Can you do that?"
Her eyes were enormous. She nodded. "Do you swear?" I asked.
She nodded again. "I swear."
Cory thanked me many times over, and promised that he'd get his parents to tell Mr. Bryant that I'd saved his life–
I interrupted him, and said, "Listen, whatever you do, don't do it until Monday, okay?"
He took some convincing, but after I explained my reasons, he finally agreed.
The next morning, Eden pushed me hard. I don't think I've ever had such an intense workout. Friday night, I thought I had the dance down pat. But today she showed me all kinds of stuff that I was doing wrong — stepping with the wrong foot, putting my foot down too hard, turning on my heel instead of my toe, starting movements too early, hanging my head when it should be up, and not opening my arms enough. At about ten to nine, I heard my mother arrive, and faintly we could hear the two women in conversation.
"We're almost ready for them," Eden told me.
"Are we?" I asked. "I don't know if I know this dance at all!"
"You do!" she said. "I'm just fine-tuning. Don't worry." Then she sniffed the air and told me, "I think you might need a quick shower before you go shopping with your mom, though."
"Thanks," I said, mugging.
She laughed and said, "You'd tell me if I was stinky, wouldn't you?"
"Would I?" I asked.
She looked shocked and gave me a little punch on the arm. "You're my friend! You'd have to tell me!"
"Okay," I said, grinning.
We ran throught the dance once more, then called our mothers.
"So," my mother said, as we drove off, "since I didn't get to give you your first doll, or send you to dance lessons, at least I can take you to get your ears pierced."
"Oooch!" I said, clutching my earlobes. "Does it hurt?"
"No, it doesn't hurt," she said. "At least, I don't think so. It was so long ago, I don't remember."
When we stopped at a red light, she took my hands and looked at my nails. "Do you know how to do your nails?" she asked. "Have you ever worn nail polish?" When I said "no" to both questions, she said that we could do that together tonight. "Unless you have other plans," she added.
"No, I don't have any plans," I said. Jerry knew that he couldn't call me while my folks were in town.
"So...," Mom began, "What are you going to do about boys?"
"Uh, boys?"
"Yes, what are you going to do when boys start showing interest in you?"
"What do you think I should do?" I asked (and I think I managed to sound very innocent).
"I think you should tell them that you're not allowed to date."
"That is what I told them," I replied, proudly.
"'Them'?" she repeated. "So boys, plural, have already asked you out?"
"Well, no," I hedged, "No, not boys — boy — one boy asked me out."
"Hmm," she said, and much to my relief, she let the subject drop.
Parents are so sneaky! The thing is, you have to pay attention ALL THE TIME around them. They wait until you're relaxed and happy, and then they throw in a zinger! I'm talking about my mother — at the moment.
What happened is that we had a nice morning. Mom had gone through my wardrobe on Friday, and pointed out — just as Alice had — that with the addition of a few skirts and tops I could do a lot of mix-and-match. Our mission was to find other pieces that fit with what I already had. We dug through an enormous thrift store together. In the beginning I was overwhelmed. I felt like we were going to have to look at everything, but she narrowed it down: women's clothes, skirts, my size. That was more manageable. And then, we only looked at the nice ones, so in the end, out of a ton of junk, we found six possible skirts. I tried them all. The one that I loved was way too tight (I couldn't pull it up over my butt!), but we ended up buying three.
So I learned something about how to shop. The whole day went like that. Mom really knew what she was doing. I would look at a rack of clothes and see a bunch of ugly stuff for old ladies. She would go through the same rack and find things that I wanted to wear. It was like magic!
Somewhere along the way we had a quick lunch, and in the late afternoon I got my ears pierced. I didn't even know I had a birthstone, but now I have an aquamarine stud in each ear! (That's March, in case you don't know!) My mother smiled. "Now you can borrow your aunt's earrings," she said.
"Does she have any?" I asked.
Mom raised her eyebrows. "You'd be surprised. Your aunt is like a dozen people in one. You think you know her, then suddenly you find a new side to her, one that's been there all along. Did you know that she worked for a couple of years at an AIDS mission in Africa?"
I was astonished. It didn't seem like something Aunt Jane would do at all.
"Well, she did," Mom replied. "She's like a cabinet full of hidden drawers. You never know what you'll find." Mom looked at me in silence for a while. "I'm beginning to think that you're like that too."
"I don't think so," I said, sincerely. "I don't have any secrets."
My mother almost choked, she laughed so hard. When she was done, she said, "Okay then, Miss No-Secrets! Let's go have a snack."
She was still shaking her head and chuckling to herself when the waiter left our food. "Oh, Marcie," she said, laying emphasis on my name. "It must be nice to have no secrets, nothing to hide."
I blushed and poked at my ice cream.
"Oh, I wanted to ask you," Mom said. "That little girl on the train, what was her name?"
"Nina," I replied.
"Is she Jerry's little sister?"
"Yeah–" I froze with my spoon halfway to my mouth. "Uh...," I wasn't sure what to say next. How much did Mom know?
She looked at me, waiting to see what I'd say. I couldn't read her face. Was she mad? Upset?
"How..." I began.
"Eden's mother told me," she said. "I was so shocked I almost dropped my coffee cup on her nice clean floor. Why didn't you tell us? Your father specifically asked if there was anything else you should tell us. Does your aunt know?"
"Yes." I managed to swallow a bit of ice cream and said, "Aunt Jane knows everything."
Mom looked off in the distance. "I doubt that very much."
Then she sighed. "The longer I stay here, the longer I think I should stay. You've been doing this for one week and... and all I can think is What's going to happen next week? I don't know if I can stand the suspense."
The suspense was killing me, too. I wanted to ask the obvious question, which was Are you going to tell Dad? but the even bigger question was whether she'd stop me from being Marcie.
"You know what I'd like to do?" she said. "Not far from where your father and I are staying, there's a high school — it's run by nuns, and it's just for girls. I'd like to take you back with us and send you there."
My jaw dropped. My eyes goggled. "A Catholic girls school?" I asked. "You'd send me to a Catholic girls school?"
She said, "You'd look cute in their uniform. The skirt is a blue plaid. It's actually pretty nice. With white knee socks. It would make the whole wardrobe issue a lot easier, and there wouldn't be any boys to worry about."
"Mom!" I said — I didn't know what else to say. I was in total shock.
"Or maybe you'd prefer your father's option — military school?"
"No!" I said. Compared to military school, Catholic school sounded great. Not that I wanted to go there, but at least I could still be Marcie.
My mother looked surprised. "Look at your face!" she said. "If you had to choose, you'd go to the girls school!"
"Well, yeah," I said. "I don't want to go to military school."
"Oh, my goodness," she said. "Your father was just trying to scare you."
"He was?" I said. "So there is no military school? And is there really a girls high school near you?"
"Well, yes, that part is true," she said. "There is a military school and there is a girls school. And frankly, if you're going to be doing this, I'd feel a lot better if you were down the street instead of across the country. At least I could keep an eye on you. And don't think that your father wouldn't consider the military school."
Well, *that* was confusing.
I took a big breath and let it out slow. What could I say? I didn't want to go anywhere. I liked things the way they were: my parents off in New Jersey, me in California with my new life and new identity... I didn't want to move. Still, I couldn't get the image of the girls-school uniform out of my head. I tried to fight it, to block it out — I was afraid that if it stuck in my head and took hold, I'd have to do it.
Plus, my parents didn't know about my wall-climbing incident. That could be the last straw.
"Don't look so glum," Mom said, as she scooped a spoonful of my ice cream. "Tell me about Jerry."
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
She started laughing, but I cut her off.
"I know that everything I do is oh-so-funny, but I'm really scared. Should I tell my parents? Or hope that they won't find out? And are you going to narc me out just so you don't get in trouble?"
25. Oh-So-Funny
"Catholic girls school!?" Eden and Carla cried out together. I had called Eden, and she conferenced Carla in.
Carla said, "Whoa, girl, you are deep in doo-doo."
Eden agreed. "Oh, Marcie, I don't want you to move."
"I don't either," I said. "but I don't know what to do."
"Why don't you talk to your aunt?" Carla asked. "She sounds pretty cool."
"I don't know," I said. "She might tell my parents behind my back."
"How about Alice?" Eden suggested.
We worked and re-worked the topic until it was exhausted, and then I hung up.
I immediately dialed Jerry's number, and right after Jerry answered, my father picked up. "Are you still on the phone?" he asked. "I have to make a call."
"I'll be done in a minute," I promised.
"You've been on for a over an hour," he pointed out. "I need the phone." With that, he hung up.
"Oh, Jerry!" I said. "I have to be quick. Ms. Tandy is right — I have to get a cell phone!"
"Huh?" he replied, "Why would she say that?"
My father knocked on my door. "Are you done yet?" he asked.
"I gotta go," I whispered.
"It's okay," he said. "Will you call me later?"
I went to the kitchen, where I found my aunt alone, pouring herself a cranberry juice. "Can I talk to you?" I asked in a low voice. "Alone?"
It was almost overwhelming, the fear, the anxiety... the sense of impending doom. I didn't want to go to New Jersey. I didn't want to go to military school. Girls school... *that* was something I didn't even want to think. Mainly, I didn't want to stop being Marcie, and now, without wanting to or meaning to, I'd stepped right into trouble again, and I needed help before my parents found out.
Jane walked to the back door and motioned with her head for me to follow. We sat on the back steps together and I told her about the asthma-wall-climbing incident. She started laughing, but I cut her off. I was almost trembling as I spoke.
"I know that everything I do is oh-so-funny, but I'm really scared. Should I tell my parents? Or hope that they won't find out? And now that I told you, are you going to narc me out just so you won't get in trouble?"
She frowned at my last question, but then she said, "Alright. I guess I deserve that. No, I won't rat you out. I swear and I promise to you that from now on, if I feel I have to tell your parents something, I'll tell you first. Okay?" I nodded.
"Okay," she said. "I want you to be able to trust me, because if you feel like there's nowhere to turn, you're going to get into trouble." The trace of an amused smile floated across her face, but she banished it. She took a deep breath and said, "Now let me think for a minute." She looked at the ground, and up at the sky, and after a bit she asked, "What was that teacher's name again?" and "Will you get me my cell phone?"
When I handed her the phone, she said, "I'm going into my garage for a little privacy. I'll make a couple calls and then come find you. Okay?"
I nodded silently and ran off to my room.
About twenty minutes later she came to find me. I was sitting on the floor, hugging my knees, leaning against my bed, nearly dying of suspense and anxiety.
"Denise gave me Tandy's number," Jane said, "and I talked to her about what happened. You did the right thing, telling me while your parents are here. The best thing to do is to tell your parents right now."
"Are you sure?" I said.
"Yes," she replied, "Because there is no way that the principal isn't going to call them. Put yourself in your father's shoes. He goes all the way back to New Jersey, he's at work, and then a phone call comes about you literally climbing the walls."
"He'd throw me into military school," I said.
"He'd be mightily pissed, at very least," she said. "You have to tell your story first. Ms. Tandy offered to come over and talk with them, if you want." She stopped for a minute, then said, "I hope you realize how lucky you are, that she's willing to go to bat for you."
"I guess," I said as I bit my nail.
"No," she said. "Don't guess. I'm telling you." She grabbed me by the shoulders and smiled. "We can do this. You and me. Okay? You ready?"
"No," I replied.
"Good," she said. "Let's go do it. And don't bite your nails."
My parents were sitting in the living room, in a pair of armchairs, reading. I sat down on the couch opposite my dad, and told them a highly condensed version of what happened. It was like pulling a bandaid: I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. I don't think my father was really listening at first, because he didn't really react. His mind was still inside whatever it was he was reading, so when I finished, he asked me to start at the beginning. Something must have registered, though, because he was listening with a cautious look.
When I came (again) to the part where I climbed up the wall, he threw down his papers and howled, "You did what!?"
I gulped and explained, but each phrase that came out of my mouth was like dry wood on a hot fire. He got angrier and angrier with every detail.
"Let me get this straight," he said. "You climbed up the side of a building, at night, to the third floor, so you could throw a bag out the window?"
"No," I protested. "Cory needed his medicine!"
Jane spoke up. "Artie, hold on. That boy was having an asthmatic crisis. If Marcie hadn't stepped in, he would have ended up in the hospital."
"Of all the lame-brained, thoughtless stunts!" he roared. "What if it was a prank and those two wanted to get you into trouble? What if you'd gotten yourself arrested, or thrown out of school? Did you think about that?"
He paused to make sure I was listening and said very deliberately, "What if you fell? You could have died. You could have been crippled. At the very least you could have been hurt. Did you think about that?"
"No," I whimpered.
By now, he was mad as a simmering volcano. "We told you to keep a low profile. We told you NOT to get into trouble. But what do you do? You put on a skirt and climb up a building! In the dark!"
I struggled for something to say, but all I could do was cry.
"Well, *that* is the end. That's finished it! No more! You're DONE!" he shouted. "You're coming back with us tomorrow! Start packing, because I'm booking your ticket right now! Say goodbye to California!" In a fury, he crammed his papers haphazardly into his briefcase, squeezed it shut, and stormed off to the kitchen.
There was a bang from the kitchen, and he shouted, "And DON'T get on the phone!"
My mother came over to sit next to me. She gently wrapped me in her arms.
"I was only trying to help!" I cried softly.
"I know, hon, I know," she said. "Give your father a chance to calm down, and I'll talk to him."
"Will you really?" I asked. "Will you let me stay here?"
"I'll do what I can," she said. She gave me a little squeeze and rocked me gently. I felt much calmer in her arms, but deep down I was still a quivering mass of fear.
Aunt Jane got up and strode into the kitchen. She said something to my dad, and then I heard the back door slam. I fell silent. Mom stopped rocking.
She whispered, "They went into the back yard." I stopped crying and strained to hear. Soon I heard my aunt yelling. I couldn't make out the words. I heard my father yelling back. They went back and forth for a while, then stopped.
The actually shouting didn't last very long, but they must have kept on talking, because they didn't come back inside.
I nestled deeper into my mother's embrace, and took a deep breath. "Mom," I said, "if I have to go back, I'll go to the girls school, okay?"
My mother started laughing and said, "You would, would you? Oh, you are just too much, Marcie-Warcie! You really are my little girl, aren't you?" and she rocked me in her arms some more, until — after a long time — the back door opened and shut, and my father returned to the room.
I looked up from the safe place in my mother's arms. He didn't look so angry any more.
He cleared his throat. "I talked to your teacher, Ms. Tandy," he said. "She, uh, gave me her point of view... her side of the picture. She said that you did a good thing and a bad thing at the same time."
"Yes?" I said. It sounded promising, but I was still afraid to move.
"And," he continued, "against my better judgment, she persuaded me to let Mr. Bryant decide how best this should be handled. After all, you did what you did on school property." He took a deep breath and went on. "And, ah, Ms. Tandy also pointed out that what you did was, ah... well... heroic." His voice cracked a little on the last word.
"Oh, Artie," my mom said, "are you crying?"
He didn't answer, but he came and sat on the other side of me. We had a big family hug.
I didn't dare ask if this meant that I could stay in California and keep on being Marcie, but it sure looked that way. The wisest thing, I was very sure, was to keep my mouth shut.
Dad said softly, "I'm proud of you and angry at you at the same time. What you're doing worries me terribly, and the fact that you're thousands of miles away doesn't help the situation. I want to put my foot down, but at the same time..."
"Shh, shh," my mother said.
It wasn't long before my father had enough of the hug, and he stood up. "Your Ms. Tandy told me — I mean suggested — that you get a cell phone. Now, I've seen how you tie up the phone like a teenage girl, but I think she's right. I've thought about this before, and we could go tomorrow to pick one up, and put you on our family plan. But you have to promise that you won't abuse it. Don't make me a pauper by yakking it up with your friends."
I nodded. "I'll just use it for emergencies," I promised.
"Famous last words," he countered.
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
No one had ever called me "babe" before (of course), and I wasn't sure that I liked it. In fact, the whole phone call left me feeling uncomfortable, as much as I liked talking with Jerry.
When I called Jerry's house, Cassie answered the phone. "Hello, Miss Witness Protection!" she said.
"I'm not on witness protection," I replied.
"I figured that. Why does everybody think you are?"
I told her the story, and she laughed. "You know, some kids thought your dad was the FBI guy, come to relocate you."
"Yeah, I heard. Cassie, is Jerry there?"
She ignored my question. "They figured that when you walked out the door, we'd never see you or hear of you again. You'd be in some new suburb in a new school,with a new name. They couldn't believe it when you came back for lunch. Some people are so gullible!"
I like Cassie, and usually I don't mind her teasing, but right now she was proving to be quite the pain. For a moment I considered hanging up and calling back, but she'd just answer again. "Cassie, come on. Let me talk to Jerry."
"No, you come on," she said. "Nina gets Marcie time, Jerry gets Marcie time, how come I don't get any Marcie time?"
I sighed. Was she kidding? Did she really want some "Marcie time"? It didn't seem likely, but... I had nothing to lose. In fact, there was something I wanted to ask her. "Okay," I agreed. "It's *your* Marcie time."
"Oh, how nice!" she exclaimed. "But now I have to go! Thanks for calling!" and she hung up!
I stared at the phone for a moment, blinking, before I called back. This time Jerry answered.
There wasn't any point in telling him about Cassie. I'd already wasted enough time with her, so I skipped to the important stuff: I told him about my conversation with my mother: how Eden's mother told her we were dating, and how she'd threatened to send me to an all-girl school.
"Catholic girls school, huh?" Jerry said. His voice had a strange tone, as if he was... I don't know... savoring the idea.
"Jerry, it sounds like you'd like it if I went there."
"Marcie, do you think your mother could send you one of the uniforms? So you could, you know, model it for me?"
"Model it for you?" I repeated, incredulously. "Jerry! I am truly shocked!"
"Hey," he said. "You put the picture in my mind. Now I can't get it out. I have the feeling that tonight I'll dream of you dressed that way."
My cheeks were hot. He'd never talked like this to me before, and I didn't like it.
Partly to change the subject, I told him about the wall-climbing incident.
Again, he didn't seem to understand the trouble I was in. He was simply excited about what happened.
"Wow!" Jerry exclaimed. "I can't believe it! You climbed barefoot, to the third story!? You are amazing! Do you think you could do it again? Oh! Oh! I just thought of something! Oh, this is great!" He could hardly contain his excitement. I didn't think it was all that amazing, but I didn't know what he thinking until he asked, "That kid, the one on the ground, the one with the asthma — did you say his name is Cory?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Is he a little chubby, green backpack, hangs with a skinny kid who looks like a chicken?"
"Yeah." I squirmed a bit at the unflattering descriptions.
"Don't you know who he is? That's the guy who drew the cartoon of you and the Little Train. It's Cory something. Cory Fleet. Oh, babe — I think you might be featured in another cartoon this Thursday!"
I flashed to the way he was studying my legs, and it clicked. He was going to draw me.
"Oh, no!" I cried. "He can't!"
"What do you mean 'oh, no'? This is so sweet!"
"No, no, it isn't 'sweet' at all. It's bad! It's *very* bad!"
"No, no, no. This is good! How could it be bad? How could it possibly be bad, babe? Everybody loved the first cartoon! I have it hanging in my room."
"You do?"
"Of course I do! I fall asleep looking at it every night."
I was in stunned silence, until Jerry was struck with another idea: "I wonder if that Cory guy could draw you in one of those uniforms. Wouldn't that be wild? Then you wouldn't have to ask your mother to send one."
No one had ever called me "babe" before (of course), and I wasn't sure that I liked it. In fact, the whole conversation left me feeling extremely uncomfortable, as much as I liked Jerry.
I wanted to talk to my aunt and my mother about it. I didn't think Eden could help, and I was sure Carla couldn't. Carla was making out with Pat on their first date; she would just tell me to run with it.
Still, I was afraid that my mother might think that girls school was the best solution. Maybe I'd wait until my parents were gone, and talk to Aunt Jane.
In spite of my misgivings, I walked to the living room anyway. My mother and aunt were busy with towels and bottles and files and buckets and things, which made me remember that we were doing our nails tonight. "Just in time!" Mom said, when she saw me.
"Is Dad here?" I asked. If I was going to broach the subject (and I still wasn't sure I would), I wanted to make sure I didn't set off any volcanos.
"No," Mom replied. "He went out... to get some air. He'll probably be gone a while. Do you need to talk to him?"
"No, no," I replied hastily. He was the absolute last person I wanted to talk to at the moment. "I was just wondering."
They sat me in a chair and put my feet in a bucket of warm water and... bubble bath, I guess, and set each of my hands in a bowl. Well, my fingertips, anyway.
"Don't move, and be careful not to knock the bowls over!" Aunt Jane commanded.
I sat there, feeling a little like a prisoner, while the two women bustled around the room. There was nothing to do but wiggle my knees and scrunch my itchy nose.
After what seemed like ten minutes, they came back to me and set to work on my hands.
Aunt Jane saw me making faces, so she scratched my nose for me.
"You're awfully quiet," Mom observed. "What are you thinking about?"
"I bet I can guess," Aunt Jane said.
I took a deep breath. "If I tell you," I said, with much trepidation, "Do you promise that you won't pull me out of school?"
"Uh oh!" Jane laughed. "Maybe we ought to get a good stiff drink ready before we hear this one!"
My mother pursed her lips and frowned. "Oh, honey," she said. "Why don't you just tell us what's on your mind? We'll take it from there."
"Okay," I sighed.
I told them about my conversation with Jerry, and said, "I knew that he liked me, but I didn't think he really liked me. I mean in such a... physical way."
"You thought you were just friends?" Mom asked.
"Well, no."
"Friends who kiss?"
"I guess. Something like that. I figured that if I was with him, other boys wouldn't bother me."
"I don't think it works like that," Mom said. "You might just have to break up with him."
"Really?"
Mom shrugged. "I think you'll be better off and safer if you don't go out with boys. Your friend Eden doesn't date."
"She's new here," I countered.
"So are you," she replied.
I fell silent. Aunt Jane said, "Well, you could go the old-fashioned way. You know, there actually used to be rules about stuff like this."
"Really?"
"Yes, like 'Never be alone with a boy.' In fact, I wanted to tell you: never invite him over here unless I'm home and I know he's coming."
Mom chuckled. "I remember another one: 'Don't sit on a boy's lap unless there's a phone book between you.'" We all laughed.
Aunt Jane said, "You have to make it clear, more by what you do than what you say, that kissing is as far as you'll go."
"Okay," I said. I was starting to feel better.
I thanked her and went into the inner office. Mr. Bryant and my aunt were there, waiting. "Well, well, well," he said. "My favorite student."
That didn't sound good. I didn't want to be the principal's favorite student, did I? "Am I in trouble?" I asked.
On Sunday, my mother was torn — she couldn't decide whether it was better to go or to stay. She needed to leave, so she could look for a house, but she wanted to stay, so she could keep an eye on me. In the end, she went back to New Jersey, thinking that the sooner she found a house, the sooner the three of us would be together.
Jane and I left them at the airport at 4 PM. Whenever my father flies, he insists on being at the airport two hours before the flight — "Not leaving the house, not ready to go, but AT THE AIRPORT." So at the airport they were, and in no time at all, they passed through security.
That left my aunt and I at loose ends. It was too late in the day to start anything, and too early to have dinner, so we went back home and hung around aimlessly. Eventually we ordered a pizza.
The phone and the doorbell rang at the same moment. I stood up, vacillating, unsure which way to go.
"Marcie, I'll get the door," my aunt called out, "You get the phone — it's probably for you anyway."
The call *was* for me, and (of all people) it was Mrs. Wilson, the mother of the twins on the Little Train. She apologized for calling, hoped she wasn't interrupting dinner, and so on... She seemed to have a hard time getting to the point.
After she'd chatted a bit, she asked if I'd ever heard of Brenda Earshon, a local psychic. I hadn't.
"She is amazing! She's just amazing! Every so often I go for a reading," Mrs. Wilson said, "And she is amazing! Oh, I said that already, didn't I!" She giggled at herself and went on. "Do you know, she told me two years ago that I would have twin boys? At the time I couldn't even get pregnant! Can you believe it?"
Mrs. Wilson seemed like a nice lady, but I had zero interest in her psychic friend and all her amazing predictions. In the background I could hear her little boys shouting, and then a loud BANG!
"Do you need to go?" I asked her. "It sounds like something happened there."
"Oh!" she scoffed. "Something is *always* happening here. That's what it's like when you have children."
Aunt Jane, who imagined I was talking to one of my friends, gestured impatiently, calling my attention to at the pizza. I rolled my eyes and pointed desperately at the phone, and she got the message. She called loudly, as if from far away, "Marcie! The pizza's getting cold!"
That startled Mrs. Wilson, and she got to the point. "I'm sorry, dear! I won't keep you from your dinner. I'll tell you why I called. Marcie, Mrs. Earshon wants to meet you. She can give you a reading — it'll be my treat. Okay? I'm telling you, you won't believe it! Do you have any time this week?"
"No, this week is going to be pretty busy. How about next weekend?"
"She doesn't do readings on the weekends, but anyway she told me you'd find some free time this week."
That put me off. What business did this lady — psychic or not — have with my schedule? "She told you that, did she?" I asked, a little testily. "I don't have *any* free time this week." Didn't I just say that?
I didn't like being so rude to Mrs. Wilson, but she didn't seem to notice or to mind.
"I know," she said. "You don't have free time now. She meant that you would find free time that you don't expect."
I sighed. Aunt Jane pointed again at the pizza. I gestured helplessly at the phone. "Mrs. Wilson? They're calling me to dinner. It's getting cold. I'm sorry..."
"Will you do this for me?" Mrs. Wilson asked, "and then I'll let you go. If you suddenly find yourself with a lot of time and nothing to do — during the week, this week — will you call me?"
I promised I would, and hung up.
"Weird," was my aunt's only comment when I repeated the conversation.
Monday was a quiet day. Eden was on pins and needles, wondering what Mr. Bryant would do or say about my wall-climbing.
"I'm dying to tell my mother," she said. "I can tell her tonight, right?"
Surprisingly, I was very calm about the whole thing. I guess from the very start I was mostly concerned about my parents' reaction, and whether I'd have to leave school — or worse, leave Marcie — behind. Since neither of those things was likely to happen, I felt that I was in the clear.
In fact, it was well into into third period before the PA system crackled to life and called me to the office. Ms. Tandy was talking to Denise as I arrived. "Here she is," she said, and then to me: "I tried to put you in the best possible light."
I thanked her and went into the inner office. Mr. Bryant and my aunt were there, waiting. "Well, well, well," he said. "My favorite student."
That didn't sound good. I didn't want to be the principal's favorite student, did I? "Am I in trouble?" I asked.
"Let's try to avoid those stereotypical labels, shall we?" he said. "Good, bad, trouble, punishment — let's just talk about what we're going to do."
I swallowed hard. It sounded like I was in trouble.
"As Ms. Tandy said — several times — you did a good thing and a bad thing at the same time. Luckily you weren't hurt, but if the student body hears that you scaled the wall, you can be sure that others will try to duplicate your stunt. And you can rest assured that at least one attempt will end badly.
"So, while I admire and applaud the way that you selflessly helped Cory, in the interest of public safety, I have to take some kind of disciplinary action. I've talked with your aunt, and we've agreed that you will be suspended for one day — tomorrow — but that it will not appear on your record."
"Suspended!?" I cried.
"It won't go on your record," my aunt pointed out.
"So?"
"The point is," Mr. Bryant said, "that — as far as the student body can see — you've been punished. From your point of view, you could look at it as a day off from school. And nothing will go into your permanent record."
"It's a good deal, Marcie," my aunt told me. "Your father is on board with this."
"But, but...," I floundered.
"I would appreciate it if you would keep the part about your permanent record to yourself," Mr. Bryant said. "I'm also going to make sure that the school newspaper doesn't feature the event in another cartoon."
I frowned. "I thought you said you couldn't censor the paper."
"This is a matter of public safety," he replied smugly.
"And there is one more thing I have to say: Could you try to think before you act, Marcie? Next time you're going to do something out of the ordinary, ask yourself what someone else would do — what would your aunt or Ms. Tandy or Ms. Price do in the same situation? You have a big heart, and you seem to be absolutely fearless. That's wonderful... but you need to... you need to think first. You don't want to be all heart and no head. Do you understand?"
"Suspended!" Carla shouted. In a lower tone she added some more colorful comments that actually shocked me.
"Oh, Marcie!" Eden sympathized.
"It's okay," I said. "At least my parents won't freak out on me." When I told them how Saturday had gone, they were wide-eyed.
"Man, Marcie," Carla said. "You're just a magnet for trouble, aren't you?"
"Do you want to start again?" I asked.
"No, no. Let's just... Okay. Here's what we'll do. I'm going to tell you what I see and hope it makes sense to you, because it doesn't make any sense to me. Okay?"
Tuesday morning I tried to sleep late, but I'd been getting up early for so long that I couldn't keep my eyes closed. My aunt was already at work, so I was home alone with nothing to do. I didn't want to think about it, but I remembered what Mrs. Wilson had said: "If you suddenly find yourself with a lot of time and nothing to do..."
For some reason, I was a little miffed. I felt manipulated, as though someone had backed me into a corner. I know it doesn't make sense, but it seemed like Mrs. Earshon was rearranging my schedule. I wanted to be mad at somebody, but I liked Mr. Bryant too much to be mad at him, and I couldn't be mad at Ms. Tandy or my aunt, or even Mrs. Wilson. So, I was mad at Mrs. Earshon.
At the same time, I had absolutely nothing to do, so I called Mrs. Wilson, who practically jumped out of her skin for happiness. An hour later she drove up with the twins strapped into their car seats. Both boys were wiggling and struggling to get out, straining to grab anything in reach.
"They must be a handful," I said. "I mean, they're really cute..."
"Oh, tell me about it," she said. "They're my joy and my dispartation."
Dispart... Disper... Desperation! I thought, but I kept it to myself. I had the feeling that if I didn't correct it right away, the wrong word would get stuck in my head and I'd end up saying it that way myself.
She dropped me in front of an ordinary suburban house, told me when she'd come to fetch me, and drove off. I stood on the sidewalk, feeling as I'd been abandoned. I wasn't scared, but I didn't want to go inside. Once again, there was nothing else to do. So I walked up to the door and rang the bell.
In spite of my misgivings, I liked Mrs. Earshon right away. She insisted I call her Brenda. She was an inch or so taller than me, with curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a nice smile. She had a nice figure, but her hips were wide, as if she'd had a child or two. She brought me inside and looked me up and down. The first thing she said was, "How old are you?"
"Thirteen."
"Hmm. And you're flat, aren't you? This is all padding, right?" She didn't poke my little fake breasts, but she didn't seem to need to.
I was embarrassed. Was it that obvious?
"I don't know how you usually look," she replied, "Maybe today you weren't as careful as usual. I have something that can help. Some girls just need a little kickstart." Then she turned and walked to her dining room. I followed.
She shuffled a deck of tarot cards, and had me cut them. Then she dealt them out, face up, and studied the result. She was smiling a little as she arranged the cards, but then she frowned slightly. She pointed at one card and another, and her lips moved, was if she was trying to do difficult sums in her head. Her frown deepened.
I'd never been to a psychic before, so I thought this was how it always worked. I waited in silence as she frowned and rubbed her chin. I guess there were about twelve or fourteen cards on the table, each with a strange and interesting picture.
She cleared her throat and said, "Do you mind if we start again? This uh, ..., well, let's just start again." After another shuffle and cut, Mrs. Earshon dealt out the cards. Again, it was a dozen cards or so, arranged in the same pattern as before.
She blinked a few times, and held her breath. She put her chin in her hands and stared at the cards in silence. I don't know the tarot deck, but it looked like a lot of the same cards had come up again.
"Is it something bad?" I asked.
"Uh, no," she replied, hesitantly. "It's not... uh, ''bad'', it's just..." She sighed, and frowned, wrinkling her forehead.
"Listen, I have to tell you the truth — I've been doing this a long time, but this just stumps me. It's pretty much the same as the first layout... different cards, but similar... Hmm..."
"Do you want to start again?" I asked.
"No, no. Let's just..." She found the card layout so confusing, she was at a loss as to what to say.
"Okay. Here's what we'll do. I'm going to tell you what I see and hope it makes sense to you, because it doesn't make any sense to me. Okay?"
I shrugged, so she began.
"Okay. What's weird about this is that almost every card appears with its opposite. It's like you're two people, or you have a secret life or something. But you're too young for something like that!
"And here — this is not even you — this is somebody near you, close to you, who is young and old at the same time. They need your help. This is an old person who seems young or a young person who seems old. Does that make sense?"
"No," I said, genuinely puzzled.
"Not old-old," she said. "Just older than you, like twenties or early thirties."
Again, I shrugged.
She studied the cards a bit more. "Here's another weird one, and... okay, I'll tell you, but don't get all worried about this. Here is an older man — NOT your father, but a father figure — and see this card over him?" The card was Death, a skeleton in a black robe, holding a scythe. "Now that doesn't necessarily mean that someone's going to die, but it's a big change, and in this case not a good one. This is somebody near, but not someone you're close to." She licked her lips and looked at me. "Does that make any sense? Is there someone physically close, who's like a father figure, but not emotionally close?"
I was about to say "Mr Bryant, my principal," but before I did, she added, "He has dark hair."
"No," I said. "If you hadn't added the dark hair, I would have said yes."
"Well," Brenda said, a little put out, "This guy has dark hair." She sighed and looked over the cards some more.
"Okay, moving on, then. See this card here? It says you're going to be famous. But this card here says you won't. And they way they go together, it's like — I don't know — like — I know this sounds crazy, but — it's like your shadow breaks off and becomes famous, but you stay the same. Does that make any sense?"
"Maybe," I shrugged. It didn't really make any sense at all — nothing had, so far, but I was beginning to feel badly for Mrs. Earshon. After all, if she knew I was really a boy, she might have been able to make sense of things. Still, a secret is a secret, and a secret's to be kept.
"Okay," she said. "Some things are pretty clear, though. Like, uh, no enemies, no big problems, you're surrounded by friends and supportive family, which is great. I don't see anything about money or health, so I have to assume they're not issues."
She tapped on one card with her forefinger and said, "This card in this position is key. It's the central theme. In your case the theme is change, transformation. I guess that could be puberty, but when the card is in this position it means that your puberty is a greater unfolding and transformation than it is for most people."
"Well, that makes sense," I said. I felt like I had to throw her a bone.
"It does?" she asked, unconvinced. "These other cards... I'm not even going to say. It's like... This is in the weeks ahead... like an accident that's not a mistake, or... oh, I give up." She scratched her head. "I've never had so much trouble doing a reading. Do you mind if we run a quick verification? It's just a four-card thing."
"Sure," I said, and after another shuffle and cut, she dealt out four cards. I recognized two of them.
She sighed and scooped them up. "It's the same thing all over," she said, frowning. "Opposites, contradictions... you're not on your period or sick or something, are you?"
"No."
"And you don't take drugs or anything like that?"
"Nope."
Again, I almost opened my mouth to tell her, but I stopped myself again. I had to remember: I didn't know this woman, really. How could I trust her? She might know someone connected to the school, and one loose word from her could end everything.
She clutched the cards and puzzled over the situation. "Well, it's almost time for you to go. Will you do me a favor? Will you come back — in the middle of January or so — will you come back for another reading?"
"I can't," I replied. "I'm going to move to New Jersey around Christmas."
"You are!?" she was genuinely shocked. "I didn't see that. Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure."
"All right," Brenda said. She was clearly flustered. "I don't mind admitting when I'm stumped. It doesn't happen very often. Marcie, you're just a complete puzzle to me. Listen, then: if you're still here in the middle of December, will you come back? Before you move? I'll give you the reading for free. And tell Mrs. Wilson she doesn't owe me for this one. I can't take money if I can't tell you anything."
At that, we saw Mrs. Wilson's car pull up outside. "Oh!" she said, suddenly remembering, "I've got something for you! Go wave to her, so she knows you're coming, but don't leave just yet."
Mrs. Earshon ran to her kitchen, while I opened the front door and waved. Then she bustled up and in a confidential way handed me a small brown bag, the kind that coffee comes in.
"This is an herbal tea. One good tablespoon in a big mug. Pour in boiling water and cover for 15 minutes. Drink it once a day for ten days. Okay? Now run!"
When I got home, I opened the bag. It held a mixture of crumpled leaves and tiny sticks. I was pretty suspicious, but it smelled good, so I brewed a cup. The tea smelled even better than the dry mixture. I took a tiny sip, and liked it. I drank a slightly bigger sip, and then another, and soon the cup was empty. After a couple of minutes, I felt warm all over and suddenly had a lot of energy. So put on the music Eden had given me, and ran through our dance routine a couple of times. Then I had lunch, straightened up the kitchen, and cleaned my room. When I finished my room, I did my homework. That took me to three o'clock. Time to leave for my appointment with Mr. Marks!
Before I left, I hid the tea in my room. I liked it, and didn't want my aunt drinking it up or throwing it out by mistake.
"Wow," Eden said. "You made me look beautiful."
It was true. Eden was standing under the window in the third frame. Cory had obviously spent most of his time drawing her. The clothes, the hair, her face, were all exactly as they were that night.
"Earth to Eden," I said. "That's how you look. You *are* beautiful."
On Wednesday, Cory Fleet flew across the cafeteria and dropped into a chair at our table. He looked distracted and upset. Then, suddenly realizing what he'd done, he asked, "Oh, hey, can I sit here a sec?"
"You're already here," I replied, smiling. "What's wrong? You don't look very happy."
"I've been censored," he said, "And I'm not even supposed to tell anybody."
"So why are you telling us, then?" Eden asked, sipping her juice.
"You already know about Marcie climbing the walls," he replied. "I made a cartoon about it, and as soon as I handed it in, it was like they were waiting for it! They didn't just tell me that it couldn't go in the paper, they said I couldn't show it to anybody."
He frowned and scrabbled at his backpack as it slipped from his hands and slid to the floor. He was also holding a portfolio, but I noticed he kept a firm grip on it.
"It's supposed to be a public safety issue," I said.
"Yeah," Cory said, eyeing me suspiciously. "That's what they said. How did you know?"
"It's what Mr. Bryant said when he suspended me," I said.
"Oh, right, I forgot. Talk about not fair! You get suspended and I can't use my cartoon!" Cory slumped. I didn't think the two events were really in the same category, but I didn't want to make him feel worse by saying so. Honestly, I was kind of glad that another picture of me wasn't going to appear. Maybe Cory thought he was doing me a favor... more likely, he hadn't taken my feelings about it into consideration at all.
Still, he was obviously very upset, so I kept my thoughts to myself.
Cory's jaw worked spasmodically, and then in a low voice he said, "Do you want to see the cartoon?" We nodded, and after a quick look around the room, he pulled some xeroxed sheets from his portfolio and said, "Don't let anybody see."
I have to say, it was beautifully drawn. It was a six-panel comic in black and white. And yet...
"I don't think my skirt was quite this short," I observed drily.
He grinned sheepishly. "Artistic license."
It showed me climbing the wall like Spiderman, without effort, and when I tossed the backpack down, Cory's friend fell over catching it. Again, he made me look like a super-confident superhero, with hair and skirt rippling in a personal breeze.
Eden was in the picture, too, and the real-life Eden couldn't get over it. "Wow," she cooed to Cory. "You made me look beautiful."
It was true. Eden was standing under the window in the third frame. Cory had obviously spent most of his time drawing her. The clothes, the hair, her face, were all exactly as they were that night.
"Earth to Eden," I said. "That's how you look. You *are* beautiful."
Eden and Cory were both blushing. Carla and I exchanged a look. Cory quickly took the sheets back and tucked them furtively into a folder.
"Aren't you having lunch?" I asked him.
"I'm too upset to eat," he said.
"Hey, how come the cartoon is so big? Did you think they'd let you use a whole page?"
"No," he scoffed. "The original is even bigger. You draw it big, and shoot it small. You get better quality that way."
I didn't know that.
"What really bothers me," he went on, "Is that I spent hours on that cartoon, and now I can't use it."
"Does it really take that long?" Eden asked.
"Yes!" he replied. "First you have to work out the story and the layout, before you sketch it. After that, you draw it in pencil, and then you ink it. Plus, this one had a complicated background, with all those bricks..."
And all the details in Eden's mini-portrait...
"Couldn't you have left the bricks out?"
"If I left the bricks out, how would you climb the building?"
"Wouldn't it save time if you just drew it in ink in the first place?" I asked.
"No, because then you can't correct mistakes. One slip, and you have to start all over, from zero. You can't erase, cause it would smudge, and you can't use white-out, because it will look crappy."
Cory fidgeted and shifted in his chair. He looked over his shoulder at the food line. He jiggled his leg and licked his lips. "Uh, thanks for listening," he said abruptly. "I think I could eat something now. Laters!"
After he was gone, Carla beat me to the punch: "Oooh, Eden, did I see sparks fly? Did you hear music playing? Violins and angels singing?"
Eden turned red, and said, "What do you mean? I don't know what you're talking about."
"You like Cory don't you?" I said. She turned redder by way of response.
Carla observed, "And Cory obvious has the hots for you, girl."
Eden looked down and asked in a careful voice, "Why do you say that?"
"Why do you think he spent so much time drawing you?" I replied. "Everybody else in the cartoon was kinda sketchy, but he took a lot of time with you — it was like a tiny portrait."
"Oh," she said, smiling happily. "I didn't notice."
The Bye, Bye, Birdie dance tryouts were Thursday after school. We were almost the last ones up. I guess they were going in order of class, so as freshmen we were at the end of the line. By the time our turn came, I had it figured out. Anybody with real talent or training would get to be a featured dancer. The rest of us would be a dancing chorus.
I don't know exactly what a dancing chorus would do, or how it was different from the singing chorus, or the people who made up the crowds, but anyway, the dancing chorus was clearly for people who wanted to dance, but couldn't.
Eden started the music, and we ran through the routine. When we finished, there was silence. At first I didn't know what to think. I thought we'd done a good job. Nobody clapped or smiled. The two women running the tryouts whispered to each other for a couple of minutes. I glanced quizzically at Eden, and she shrugged.
Finally, one of the women asked, "Where did you get that routine?"
"Eden made it up," I said.
"And she taught it to you," she said. It wasn't a question, but I nodded in response.
"Have you ever danced before?" she asked me.
"No," I said.
"How long did you two practice?"
"About a week."
She nodded, then turned to Eden. "Listen, I can't make you a featured dancer because you're only a freshman. But how would you feel about helping me teach the actors to dance? I don't think we can count on them knowing one foot from the other, but they all have to dance."
"I'd love to!" she cried.
The woman looked relieved.
"Great!" she said. "I *really* need help with the one-on-one teaching. A number of kids here can dance, but you're the first one who can teach. You'll get a mention in the program for it."
Eden beamed.
"Good," the woman said. "Put your name, address, and phone number on this sheet here. I hope you can make this your only after-school activity until the show." Eden nodded. "And will you be available weekends?"
"Whatever it takes," Eden replied.
Wow! Talk about making a splash.
"And what about Marcie?" Eden asked.
"Who?" the woman asked, puzzled. Eden gestured to me. I waved and smiled.
The woman looked as if she'd utterly forgotten me.
"Oh. She can be in the chorus."
An upperclass girl came in to use one of the toilet stalls. I didn't look at her, but I heard her sit down. At the same time, there were noises from the boy's bathroom, which is on the opposite side of the wall. In a vague way I remembered Carla once telling me to never use this bathroom, but she didn't have a chance to explain why. I suddenly found out.
Friday was a big day.
It was the last day of my dress-code punishment - the last day I'd have to go to Mr. Bryant's office to recite the dress code for girls and have him check my outfit. By now, it was just a friendly formality, more like saying "good morning" than a disciplinary thing.
In any case, I took a detour before going to the principal's office, on account of another big thing: my first pimple. It appeared that morning, under my right cheekbone, red and ugly. It wasn't ready to be squeezed, but it hurt enough to make me constantly aware of it. I went to the first-floor bathroom to study my face in the mirror. I wondered whether Eden might know how to cover it up... I hadn't had time to ask my aunt.
While I was there, an upperclass girl - she looked like a junior - came in to use one of the toilet stalls. I didn't look at her, but I heard her sit down. At the same time, there were noises from the boy's bathroom, which is on the opposite side of the wall. In a vague way I remembered Carla once telling me to never use this bathroom, but she didn't have a chance to explain why. I suddenly found out.
Behind the wall, there were fast, excited voices. I could make out one boy saying, "Throw it! Throw it!" over the sound of a toilet flushing. Then came a muffled explosion, followed by a low, heavy gurgle. I turned, completely puzzled, and saw a geyser of water shoot upward in one of the toilet stalls - the only occupied stall, of course, and the girl inside shrieked and screamed, then started to cry.
I gingerly stepped through the water that now covered the floor and gently knocked on the stall door.
"Are you okay in there?" I asked. I knew it was a stupid question, but what else could I say?
"Of course I'm not okay!" she shouted. "I'm covered with sewer water!"
"Listen," I said. "I can help. I'm going to go to the nurse's office to get a blanket and a towel you can wrap yourself in. Just stay there. Okay?"
"Okay," she replied in a small voice.
When I emerged, I saw Jerry and Pat. "What's going on in there?" Jerry demanded. "Was that you screaming?"
"Can I tell you later?" I said. "You guys — don't let anyone in there until I get back, okay?" They nodded, so I ran upstairs to the nurse's office, explained the situation, and grabbed a blanket and a towel. While I was running back down, the bell rang. Jerry said, "We got to get to class. Are you going to be okay?" I nodded, and they quickly left.
Back inside the bathroom, I coaxed the girl out of the stall and draped the towel over her head, covering her face. "This way no one will see who you are." Then I pulled the blanket around her, covering her whole body. "Now let's get you to the nurse's office."
She followed me with slow, tiny steps. It took forever just to get out of the bathroom and into the hallway, which was empty except for one big senior in a varsity jacket.
I didn't mind helping this girl, but at the rate she was going, I'd never get to class. I looked at the boy's big shoulders and made a quick decision. "Hey, can you help me?" I called. "This girl was hurt. Can you carry her to the nurse's office?"
The girl gave a tiny yelp from under the towel, but I whispered, "You'll get there a *lot* quicker!"
"Sure," he said. "Anything to get out of class!" He moved to pick her up, but I stopped him.
"Is that jacket made of leather?" I asked. He nodded, so I had him take it off. "Just a precaution," I said. He gave me a puzzled smile, but when I didn't explain, he shrugged.
He scooped her up as if she weighed nothing, and ran up the stairs two at a time. I meant to hold the doors for him, but instead he left me running to catch up, holding his jacket. When we got to the nurse's, he set the girl on a bed, and the nurse unfolded a screen to hide her.
When the two of us were left alone outside the screen, he looked at himself and then at me.
"Why are my arms all wet?" he asked in surprise.
"It's just water," I told him, "but it wouldn't hurt to wash them well with soap and hot water."
"Ah," he said, comprehending. "Cherry bomb in the toilet, right?"
"I guess," I said. "Thanks for your help."
I ran to my homeroom, and was just dropping into my chair when the PA clicked on. "Will Marcie Donner please report to the principal's office? Marcie Donner to the principal's office."
My teacher said, "Took the words right out of my mouth."
At lunch, right after Carla, Eden, and I sat down, Cassie plunked into the chair next to me. "Hi, there," she said, smiling.
"Hello," I said. "What brings you here?"
"My long, lovely legs," she replied. "How come you were called to the principal's office this morning? Seems like you go there a lot."
"I was supposed to go before school," I said, "It was the last day of my dress-code thing."
"Thing?" she repeated. "As in punishment thing?"
"Yes," I said, "What's up, Cassie? Why are you here?"
"Why are any of us here?" she replied.
Inwardly, I sighed. Lately Cassie was getting to be a bit much. She was going beyond just teasing me to hassling me. At first, I thought that the teasing meant she liked me, but now I wasn't so sure. And I didn't see a way to make her stop.
At that moment, the girl who had been doused walked by my table, followed by the tall guy in the varsity jacket. He smiled and gave me a big thumbs-up. I returned the gesture. The girl was wearing different clothes, and her hair was clean. She looked none the worse for her experience that morning.
"What was that about?" Cassie demanded.
"What is anything about?" I responded, smiling. Might as well give as well as I got!
She cocked her jaw to the side and narrowed her eyes slightly as she considered me.
"Okay," she said. "I'll tell you why I'm here if you tell me why Mahon the Man gave you the thumbs-up."
"You go first," I responded.
A quick blush spread across her face, then disappeared. "All right. I brought you a book. It's from Nina. I was going to tease you with it." She pulled a 'Nancy Drew' book from her bag and slid it across the table to me. I stuffed it into my bag. "Now spill."
"Why did you call him Man-The-Man?" I asked her.
"His last name is Mahon. M-A-H-O-N. It's pronounced like 'man', so everybody calls him Big Mahon or Mahon the Man. So how do you know him? Why did he give you the sign?"
I told her, Carla, and Eden about the cherry-bomb incident.
Cassie eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "You got him to carry the girl upstairs? Who was this girl?"
As she questioned me, she seemed angry, though I couldn't for the life of me understand why.
"I don't know her," I lied. "I don't think I'd recognize her, either. She was all wet and bedraggled when I saw her."
Cassie stood up and looked at me with disdain. "You're a miserable liar," she said, and walked away.
Carla and Eden were silent for a few moments, then Carla said, "Marcie, I never thought I'd say this, but school is getting way more interesting than television."
I sighed. "That's what Mr. Bryant said, too."
Eden was munching on a cracker. Between bites, she asked, "Why is Cassie's sister giving you a Nancy Drew book?"
As if in answer, a bored-looking girl from one of my morning classes threw a note on the table, next to my elbow. "It's from your boyfriend," she said, as if that was the lamest, most abjectly stupid source that a note could ever come from.
"Thanks," I said, unfolding it. I read the first part of the note aloud to Eden and Carla. "Watch out for Cassie — she is going to tease you with some dumb book. It isn't from Nina. It's just a joke." The rest I didn't read to them, I just blushed at it.
"Hey!" I called to the girl. "How long did you hang on to this before you gave it to me?"
She stopped, turned slowly, and glared at me. "Oh, no you didn't!" she said, wagging her finger like a metronome.
"Uh-oh, here we go," Carla said.
The girl wound up and let loose a tirade. "Hey, yourself! Don't 'hey' me, girl! Think you're all Marcie Donner, Darcy Monner, Fartsy Gonner-ee-ah or something? Do I look like a mailman? Am I wearing a mailman's uniform? Am I post-office-special-delivery? I don't think so!"
I thought she was done, but she took another breath and went back to it.
"Do I look like some kind of bicycle messenger to you? Hey yourself! Hey! HEY! Barcy Bonner! Parcy Ponner! Where's my bike? I'm not a bike messenger! Did I ring my bell at you?"
Everyone was watching, but I was too stunned to be embarrassed. And still the girl wasn't finished.
"Don't you go calling me 'hey' - My name's not 'hey' - I did you a favor. Check it out: It's not a telegram. Nobody died. It's same-day service, right? Check the postmark, before you start giving me lip."
She blew a bubble and popped it with a loud crack! "You got a complaint? Do you have a complaint? You can go right on down to the complaint department and give it a great big kiss." Turning, she pointed with both index fingers to her butt. She stared at me for a moment, said, "Yeah, I didn't think so," and started to walk away. Then she stopped and announced, "Oh, yes, and by the way, I DID read your note." She rolled her eyes and gave another resounding crack! with her bubble gum before leaving the room.
"What the hell was that?" I said.
Carla shook her head and laughed. "That girl is a trip."
"Why in the world did Jerry give the note to her?" I wondered.
"He probably doesn't know her," Carla replied. "I mean, you thought she was normal until just now, right?"
"Are you going to read it?" Eden asked.
"Read what?" I asked, blushing. "The rest of the note? It's kind of personal."
Carla guffawed.
"No, silly," Eden replied. "Nancy Drew."
"Oh, I guess so," I replied, and the three of us laughed.
"Oh," I said. "Remember when I told you that I'm not supposed to date? Well, I'm really not supposed to have you over when no one's home."
"You'll be home," he said playfully.
"Hey, thanks for the note and everything," I told Jerry as he walked me home, "but that girl you gave it to is a nut case!"
"Yeah, I saw the scene in the cafeteria," he said. "When I gave her the note, she looked pretty normal. Anyway, I knew she was in your class, and I didn't get the chance before school to tell you about Cassie."
"It was a nice note, anyway," I said, tipping my face up towards him. We stood on a corner, smooching, until we had to stop for air. He held me close and whispered, "Is your aunt at home?"
"Oh," I said. "Remember when I told you that I'm not supposed to date? Well, I'm really not supposed to have you over when no one's home."
"You'll be home," he said playfully.
"Sorry," I said. "We can't."
"I'll be good," he promised.
"No, no, no," I said. "I can't. I really can't."
"Okay," he said, letting go.
"Sorry. Remember — Catholic school."
"Ooh, ooh!" he said excitedly.
"No, silly — my parents will put me away!"
"Okay. I get it, I get it. See ya tomorrow!"
Once he was out of sight, I ran into the house and pulled off my top and my bra. The little bags of birdseed I'd been using for padding fell to my bed. They'd been driving me crazy all day long. I first noticed after coming back from the principal's office. They were chafing and irritating me, and I couldn't wait to take them out.
I went into the bathroom and found some body lotion. As I spread it on my chest, I noticed that there was a little lump under each nipple. They were like big pimples. They didn't hurt, but they were uncomfortable, like the zit on my face. The cream, and taking the padding out, made them feel better.
I put on a light cotton t-shirt, but even that chafed. I thought about putting bandaids over my nipples, but instead I tried wearing a sports bra. It seemed to be the only thing I could wear that didn't bother me.
The next day (which was Saturday) the zit and the bumps had disappeared, much to my relief, but I decided to take a break from the padding — give my chest a rest. It was Saturday, anyway, so I wasn't likely to see anyone from school.
I got dressed and ran over to Alice's house.
I guess I need to back up a little. I told my aunt all the things the psychic had told me. Clearly, some of what she said made no sense at all. Other parts, like the business about a double life, was pretty obvious — not to Mrs. Earshon, but they made sense to me. I did feel a little badly about not explaining that I was both Mark and Marcie, but still... it's my life. I have to be cautious about my secret identity.
I told Aunt Jane, "Oh, there was one really weird thing she said, about a young/old person: someone who's old but looks young. But not old-old; just older than me."
Jane looked at me in surprise. "You don't know who that is?" she asked.
I shook my head in the negative.
"You really can't figure it out? It sounds just like Alice. She's my age, but she looks as old as you."
"Oh!" I flashed back to the scene in the hospital elevator, and recalled how angry Alice had become when the woman thought that she was 13 like me.
"Most women would be glad to appear younger," Jane said, "but I guess when you're short, people take you less seriously. The worst thing to call Alice is 'cute'. She hates that more than anything."
So, I figured I ought to go see her. She'd helped me a lot, and even if Mrs. Earshon turned out to be wrong about Alice needing help, there was nothing wrong with a little visit.
Alice was still in her bathrobe. "Hi," she said. "Did you have breakfast yet?"
I'd only had my tea, so she cooked some eggs and made toast for both of us.
"Where's Donny?" I asked, forcing myself to use his first name.
"Oh, he's at school," she said with a frown, looking down as she ate.
On a Saturday? That didn't sound right. "But he's going to retire at the end of the year, isn't he?"
Alice sighed. "That's what he said, but I can see he's setting himself up to stay indefinitely." She took a sip of coffee. She added, with some bitterness, "I guess he wants to die with his boots on."
"Oh." I didn't know what to say. It looked like Mrs. Earshon was right — Alice did need help.
Still, I didn't see how she needed my help. What was *I* supposed to do? Convince Mr. Bruce to retire?
Then again, maybe there was some way to cheer Alice up?
I suddenly had a terrible, terrible idea — it would probably make Alice angrier than anything, but it was the only idea I had, so I went with it.
"Alice, do you want to do something fun with me?"
She smiled. "What did you have in mind?"
"First you have to promise you won't get mad..."
An hour later we were driving away. Alice looked at herself in the rear-view mirror. "I don't know how I let you talk me into this," she said. "This is the one thing I always try to avoid: looking like a teenager."
The two of us were dressed in our shortest skirts, flip-flops, and belly shirts. Her hair was pulled back in a scrunchy. "Let's just hope I don't run into anyone I know," she added.
"It'll be fun," I said, for the umpteenth time. I sure hoped I was right.
She drove us to the Glenn City Mall, which was pretty far from home. "And what are we going to do here?" Alice asked. "We're not picking up boys."
"No, no," I said. "I told you: We're just going to hang out, walk around, window shop. We'll just pretend we're two teenage girls at the mall."
Alice took a deep breath. "Okay. I must be crazy, but... Let's do it!" She got out of the car and started marching across the parking lot.
"Hey, hey, slow down!" I called. "I can't keep up in these flip-flops. Besides, remember you're a teenager. You're not going anywhere, you don't have a mission."
She stopped, and after waiting for me to catch up, she linked her arm in mine. "Fine. Now you drive," she said.
We walked around, and wandered through some goofy novelty stores. It took Alice about an hour to loosen up. She went from clutching my arm and saying, "I feel so exposed in this outfit" to giggling and playing with her hair. Every boy, and most of the men we passed were checking her out, looking her up and down. I didn't think she noticed, but when I mentioned it, she said, "Oh, yeah! I caught that! Nice to know I've still got it!" And she waggled her tail a bit, laughing.
We also did some dress shopping, which I'll tell you about later.
Eventually we ate lunch. Boys kept wandering by, but none of them stopped to chat us up. The guys in the stores were very attentive, but again, more to her than to me. I didn't really mind, but it was a little disconcerting. Maybe it was just the breasts — I hadn't bothered padding my chest today. Anyway, the point had been to cheer her up, and it did do that.
"Wow!" she said, as we drove home. "I never thought I'd like being mistaken for a teenager!"
"We could do it again sometime, if you want."
"I don't think so," she said. "But maybe I won't be so pissed next time somebody thinks I'm your age. I don't know. Anyway, today was fun!" She smiled in silence for a bit. "Thanks, Marcie, I really needed that. It was nice to have a little vacation from myself."
As I walked home, I felt like I ought to explain things to Mrs. Earshon, or at least tell her about my day with Alice. Maybe next time I had time off during the week? I wondered... if she understood my real situation, what could she tell me about my future?
"Maybe your little breasts are growing."
I didn't realize she was joking, so I said, "Maybe. Maybe wearing a bra is making it happen."
"Oh, right!" she laughed. "Are you serious? If that was all it took... Oh, wait! Your breasts are growing? You're not taking hormones, are you?"
One thing that Alice and I did at the mall on Saturday was to buy a dress for me. It was the first piece of girl clothes that I bought with my own money. I needed a formal dress for dinner with the Auburns.
"How dressy does it have to be?" Alice had asked.
"The invitation says black tie," I replied.
"Ooh, fancy!" she cooed.
It took a lot less time than I feared to find a dress. We visited two outlet stores, and found the dress in the second store, after only an hour and half of looking. It was a beautiful dark plum cocktail dress, and it shined in a way that gave some subtle color changes when I moved. It was sleeveless, had a v-neck, and a full skirt. I loved it the moment I saw it, and it fit like it was made for me. It was so comfortable and cool, I didn't want to take it off!
Alice gave it the thumbs up, so I bought it. She also told me she had a silk shawl I could borrow, to wear over my shoulders. As we were stowing the dress in her car, she asked me about my breast pads. "I noticed you only used them when you were trying on dresses."
"I'm giving my chest a break," I explained.
"Why?"
"The little bags were irritating my... uh, they were chafing."
"Maybe your little breasts are growing."
I didn't realize she was joking, so I said, "Maybe. Maybe wearing a bra is making it happen."
"Oh, right!" she laughed. "Are you serious? If that was all it took... Oh, wait! Your breasts are growing? You're not taking hormones, are you?"
"Hormones?" I repeated. "What are you talking about?"
"Female hormones, to make your breasts grow!"
"No!" I said. "I'm not taking anything! But... can you do that? Take hormones to make your breasts grow? Can you get them in a drugstore?"
Alice was almost speechless. "Are you really that naive, or just pretending?" she asked. "You need a prescription. A *doctor* has to give them to you!"
She huffed, frustrated as she searched for words, and finally said, "Go ask your aunt about it. I don't really feel comfortable explaining this stuff to you."
"Okay," I said. As we walked, she kept glancing at my chest, until I asked her to stop.
The Auburns picked me up at 5 PM. I felt beautiful in my new dress and heels. Aunt Jane had helped me with my hair and makeup, and lent me her pearl earrings, along with many warnings about not taking them off or playing with them.
Jerry rang the doorbell, wearing a tuxedo and looking very handsome.
My aunt had us pose at the foot of the stairs so she could snap the classic prom-type photo.
As we walked from my front door to the Auburns' car, I had a sudden thought: "Jerry, how are we all going to fit in the car, wearing these nice clothes?"
"Don't worry," he replied. "Cassie is going to meet us there. Her date is giving her a ride."
"Oh. Who's her date? Anybody I know?"
"Mahon the Man," he replied, as he opened the car door for me.
I suppose you're wondering why we were all dressed up. What was the occasion? Mr. Auburn's job — whatever it was — demanded a lot of family involvement. The company frequently hosted family events, and regarded all of them as obligatory — even for the family of the employees!
The point of this dinner was to celebrate some company milestone. I don't know (or care!) what it was, but it must have been something big, because the invitation extended even to people like me — dates of the children of employees! It seemed awfully invasive. My name was even on the guest list at the front door!
While we were waiting to have our names checked against the list, I noticed (reading the list upside-down) that Cassie and Mahon had not yet arrived.
Just as the receptionist was putting little blue checks next to our names, Cassie and Mahon walked in. They really made a beautiful couple, and Cassie attracted her share of looks from the men in the area.
Mahon was behind Cassie, and as soon as he saw me he again gave me the thumbs up, but added the motion of zipping his lips. I smiled by way of response.
Cassie noticed some of this exchange, so she turned to Mahon and asked, "How do you know Marcie?"
"How do I know Marcie? She's famous! The baby on the train, scaling the wall, not to mention the miniskirt incident..."
"Okay, okay, I get it," Cassie said, cutting him off. She must have noticed, as I did, that he left out the toilet-bomb incident, which happened only yesterday.
We were seated at a round table, alternating boy/girl, so that I was between Jerry and Mahon, and Cassie was between Mahon and some stranger, who looked to be her father's age.
The man started chatting with Cassie. He was obviously feeling quite lucky to find himself next to such a young, attractive girl, and Cassie was too polite to give him the shoulder.
While her attention was drawn that way, Mahon asked me, "Did you tell Cassie about that girl and the toilet?"
"Yes," I replied. "She knows you carried the girl upstairs, but I don't know who she is."
"Bad and good," he commented.
"Do you like that girl?" I asked him.
"That information is on a need-to-know basis," he replied, and tried to look mysterious.
I shook my head and wrinkled my brow. "Can you tell me what your first name is, then?"
"Manfred," he replied.
"Is it really?" I asked.
"It'll do for now," he said. "No more questions, little girl."
After some introductions and a short speech from some company executive, hors d'ouvres and drinks were served. Then Cassie announced, "I need to use the ladies room," and she looked pointedly at me.
"Uh, so I do," I said lamely. "'Scuse me, boys."
Cassie took my arm and marched me down the hall. The bathroom was really nice. There was a lounge with armchairs, two vanities, mirrors everywhere, and little tables and lamps. Next came a huge room full of sinks. Cassie stopped and leaned her hands on one. We were the only two people in there. She studied her face in the mirror.
"Uh, Cassie? I actually do need to pee."
"Uh, Marcie?" she said, copying my tone in a sarcastic way, "I actually do too."
"Oh," I said, a little confused. "I thought you brought me here so we could talk."
"That too!" she said. "What is with you? Were you born yesterday or something?"
"Kind of," I admitted.
She growled impatiently, and pushed past me to enter one of the stalls. I hesitated a moment, then sat in the stall next to hers.
"Listen," I said. "About that girl..."
"Keep your voice down!" she hissed. "The people in the hall don't need to know my business. Look, Marcie, I know I tease you and everything, but I don't think you have any reason to lie to me."
"I didn't lie!" I said. "I don't know her name, and I wouldn't recognize her. She was all wet and her hair was in her face when I saw her. Then I wrapped her up–"
"Spare me the adventure story!" she interrupted.
"I'm trying to tell you–" I said, but was interrupted by the sound of her flushing.
When I joined Cassie at the sinks, I said in a low voice, "Listen: I am pretty sure that the girl who was walking in front of Mahon at lunch yesterday is the one."
She looked at me with wide eyes.
"Do you know her?" I asked. She shook her head. "You're a miserable liar," in a pretty fair imitation of the way she said it. I figured I might as well try to make her laugh.
Instead, she looked at me with disdain.
"Listen to me," I told her. "I didn't say anything at lunch because I didn't want to embarrass her. You wouldn't want anyone to know if you were soaked in toilet water, would you?"
She sighed. "I guess not." She looked at the floor for a moment, and I thought I saw two tiny pearls of tears appear in the corners of her eyes, but then they were gone.
"Okay," she said. "I'm sorry." She took a big breath and let it out. "You know what really bothers me? What really makes me mad? It's that he just walked right by me with her. I was RIGHT THERE and he didn't even see me."
I thought back to that moment. "You kinda had your back to him. Plus, he probably didn't expect to see you sitting with a bunch of freshman girls."
"Maybe," she said.
A little light went on in my head. "Did he expect you to not be there?" I asked.
"I was supposed to be in a lunch meeting," she admitted. "It started late, so I ran in to t... to talk to you."
"If it will make you feel better," I said, "I'll find out who she is. Okay?"
"Never mind," she said, "I'm just going to ask him. It's nice of you to offer, but..." She seemed calmer, not angry any more.
"Are we okay?" I asked timidly.
"I guess," she said. "I want to be mad, but after talking to you..."
I smiled. She smiled back at me, opened her arms and gave me a big hug. "You really are a nice kid, you know that? I'm sorry I'm so mean to you. My brother is a lucky little dope."
She let me out of the hug, held me by the shoulders, and looked me in the face. "You know what? I promise that I will never, ever, EVER tease you again — for the rest of the night." Then she let go of me.
Cassie looked into the mirror and fussed with her hair, smiling. "I wish you could be my little sister," she told me. "We could trade Jerry for you. Maybe your family would like to have a boy in the family for a change."
"Yeah, I think they would," I replied, and we both laughed.
"Yeah, whatever," he said. "Hey, I can only give you a quick kiss with my parents watching."
I smiled. "I understand." I got up on tiptoe, and he gave me a peck on the lips. Resting my head on his chest, I hugged him tight. Then I noticed that my left foot had "popped," like the girl in The Princess Diaries, so I put it back on the ground and let go. "Thanks. I had a lot of fun."
Cassie looked down at my chest, and said, "You better adjust your pads before we go back out there."
Embarrassed, I looked into the mirror and quickly shifted the little bags.
"That's better," she said. "I'll try to keep an eye out for that when the dancing starts."
"There's dancing?" I asked.
"Yes, didn't you know?" She looked at my shoes. "I guess you didn't. I don't think you'll do a lot of dancing with those pointy toes."
"They're comfortable," I countered.
"Now they are," she said. "See what you say later! Anyway, don't change the subject. Are you flat? I didn't realize."
I blushed by way of response.
"Don't worry," she said. "I didn't see it until now. I have something that might help."
"Is it a tea?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said. "Have you heard of it? I hung on to it for Nina — I figured it would keep, but you can use it."
"Where did you get it?"
"A friend of mine," she said. "Don't worry, it's safe. Turns out I didn't need it, by the way." She bounced her breasts and laughed.
I didn't say more, because I wanted the tea and didn't want to give away the fact that I already had some. I liked it, and was planning on asking Mrs. Earshon how to get a fresh supply once I ran out. Now I might not have to.
We returned to the table just as dinner was being served.
"What do girls do in the bathroom?" Jerry wondered aloud. Mahon shook his head.
"Same thing you do," I said.
Nina guffawed.
"Then why does it take so long?" he asked.
"Next time, I'll bring you with me and you can find out," I retorted.
Nina gaped.
Mrs. Auburn explained to Nina that I was only kidding, and suggested we change the topic.
Nina was sitting to Jerry's left, and she kept cutting into our conversation. I didn't mind so much. I could see that it bothered Jerry, but he didn't let Nina see. In the end, we made it a three-way conversation. It was easier. At one point, Nina was telling Jerry the plot of some Disney movie, and he was patiently listening. Mahon took advantage of the distraction, and tapped me on the shoulder. Cassie was leaning on his arm, smiling at me.
"Listen," he said. "Yesterday morning after I washed my hands, I recognized the girl's voice — the one who was doused. She's my cousin. I don't want people laughing at her, so I'd appreciate it if you keep the story to yourself. Okay?"
"Sure," I said. "No problem."
"Great," he said. "You're alright." Then he turned back to Cassie, and I turned back to Jerry.
"When are we going to start dancing?" I asked him.
"I'll dance with you!" Nina shouted. Jerry grinned.
"Okay, Nina," I said as I stood. "Let's get this party started." To Jerry I said, "Don't think this gets you off the hook."
Cassie was right about the shoes. I danced a lot. Then I danced as much as I could take. Eden's lessons didn't really teach me how to dance, but they did help me to relax and not worry about how I looked. Jerry surprised me — he was quite a good dancer, and had me spinning and dipping. I had a great time until my feet started to hurt. Once they started, even after I took the shoes off and massaged them, they didn't get better. I tried dancing barefoot, but the damage was already done. In fact, it was a week before I was walking normally again.
Afterward, when the Auburns dropped me home, Jerry accompanied me to my front door. I held my shoes in my hand. I walked on the grass next to the walkway.
Jerry said, "Women and high heels! Why can't you just wear shoes that feel good?"
I looked up. Barefoot, I was a lot shorter than him.
"High heels bring me a little closer to you. Anyway, they did feel good until I started dancing. I have to get Cassie to explain why her feet are fine."
"Yeah, whatever," he said. "Hey, since my parents are watching, I can only give you a quick kiss."
I smiled. "I understand." I got up on tiptoe, and he gave me a peck on the lips. Resting my head on his chest, I hugged him tight. Then I noticed that my left foot had "popped," like the girl in The Princess Diaries, so I put it back on the ground and let go. "Thanks. I had a lot of fun."
It wasn't late, so my aunt was still up, sewing with a needle and thread. "All my pockets have holes," she explained, holding one up for me to see. "So how did your evening go?"
"Great, except that my feet are killing me!"
"I guess you need some lessons in buying shoes," she said. "Boy feet are different from girl feet. Your feet are more square, so the pointed shoes are going to hurt you, even if they feel good in the store."
"I didn't know," I said.
She shrugged and smiled, and set down her sewing. She went and got me a basin of epsom salts and warm water. I sat there in my cocktail dress, soaking my feet, while she, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, went back to mending pants.
She had her legs bent under her, and she was looking down, wearing her reading glasses, intent on her sewing. I cleared my throat.
"Can I ask you something?" I said. "Is it true that if I take hormones, I'll grow breasts?"
"Ow!" Aunt Jane cried, and tiny dot of blood appeared on the side of her index finger. "Jeez Louise!"
"Sorry!"
"I should know by now," she said, putting down the needle and sucking her finger. "When you start talking, I have to get ready for a shock. Yes, female hormones will cause men to develop breasts. You need a prescription to get them, and a doctor has to monitor you."
"So the breasts don't get too big?"
"No, so you don't get a hormone imbalance. Hormones are very powerful — there are several different kinds, and they regulate healing, growth, metabolism — pretty much everything. They interact, and if one gets out of whack, the others won't be right, either."
"If I could take them, how soon would I have breasts?"
She looked at me, considering something for a moment. "Breast growth is very individual. It happens over months and years, not days and weeks. You don't just take a pill and have two hooters pop out the next day."
I was quiet, thinking. She had stopped sewing and was studying my face. I smiled, not knowing what she was thinking.
She took off her glasses and asked in a serious tone, "You haven't gotten your hands on some estrogen, have you? Birth-control pills?"
"I don't even know what you're talking about."
"Does that mean no?"
"Yes."
"Yes, it means no?"
"No, I don't have any kind of pills. I don't even know where to get those pills. I'm just asking questions. I'm curious."
"Okay," she said. "I'm just trying to be careful. If you want to take feminizing hormones, you have to talk to Mr. Marks, and you'll have to get your parents' permission. It's really serious, so — listen to me carefully — don't get into it on your own, okay? You can really screw yourself up."
"Okay," I agreed. "But are you saying that there's a way to get the pills without a doctor's permission?"
She looked at me in surprise. "People do break laws," she said. "But you better not, or I'll pull you out of that school and put you on the next plane to New Jersey! I won't even bother asking your parents first!"
"Hey," I protested, "I'm only asking questions!"
"Okay," she said. "But don't fool around with pills or shots or anything, okay?"
"Okay!"
"Ah, I'm sorry, Marcie," Mr. Bryant said, "but I can't hug you. I can send for the nurse, though."
In spite of everything, this made me laugh. "So she can hug me for you?"
The next week at school was quiet for a change, and yet it was a very exciting week for me. Mrs. Earshon's tea was working! At first I wasn't sure, but each day I let out a little birdseed from the bags I used to stuff my bra.
It looked like my original supply of tea would run out by Saturday or so, but on Tuesday after school, Cassie gave me a plastic bag (with a wink!) full of the same mixture, more than twice the amount Mrs. Earshon had given me.
"Once it starts working, you're supposed to stop taking it," Cassie said. "If you have any left, pass it on."
"Cool! Thanks!" I replied, and she ran off to join Mahon the Man.
On Wednesday at lunch, Carla gave me a serious look. "It's already Wednesday, Marcie," she commented.
"Yeah, so?"
"Everybody wants to know what you're going to do this week."
"Do I have to do something?"
"You have every week so far. You don't want to disappoint your fans."
"'Fans'? If I have fans, this is the week I will disappoint them. And hopefully next week and the week after, too."
"We'll see," Carla replied as she shoved some chips into her mouth. "You seem to have a talent for finding hot water, no matter where it's boiling."
"That's pretty good," Eden commented. "Did you make that up?"
"Yes I did," Carla replied proudly. "I think I'm going to get the copyright."
Wednesday passed without incident, but Thursday morning something *did* happen, and it wasn't funny at all.
I woke up thinking of Alice. Mrs. Earshon had been right — Alice had needed my help. Maybe she still did. In my mind's eye I could see her face from last Saturday — how glum she was about Mr. Bruce continuing to work.
As I turned it over in my head, I realized that maybe there *was* something I could do. I could visit Mr. Bruce.
Remembering my first day of school, I figured that I could catch him in his office before homeroom. He'd been pretty embarrassed when he saw me at the hospital. Maybe if he saw me in a dress at school, it would help him remember his promise to quit teaching.
Right! He felt so guilty when I visited the hospital, seeing me at school, on his own turf — it would guilt-trip him directly into retirement!
As I looked through my closet, I tried to find my most girly outfit.
Unfortunately, I didn't have anything that was very frilly or girlish. In the end, I settled for the outfit Ms. Price had pulled out of lost and found. I hadn't worn it since the first day, but it was a pretty nice. In case you don't remember, it was an aqua tiered skirt, a white top with loose sleeves, and a pair of light brown shoes. The shoes had a very low heel, which was perfect. My feet were still aching from dancing in high heels.
As I walked to school, another idea came to me: I could ask him — just an innocent question! — whether he'd gotten rid of the girls' tennis outfits that he used for punishment. I could ask if he'd give them to me, now that he wasn't going to use them. I chuckled to myself.
The closer I got to his office, the better I felt about what I was doing. It had to work.
I walked past the principal's office, where Mrs. Zeff had grabbed me three weeks earlier. I entered the door that Jerry had led me though, full of encouragement. I slowed down as my footsteps echoed in the dark hallway above the gym. It was kind of a creepy place. Finally, after the lost-and-found bin, I arrived at Mr. Bruce's cage-like office.
He was sitting in his chair with his back to the door. I knocked, but he didn't answer. I called his name, but there was no response. Laughing to myself, I realized he was asleep, and slipped quietly up to his desk.
The moment I saw his face, I realized that something was terribly wrong. His head had fallen back, and his chin rested against his shoulder. White spittle trailed from the corner of his mouth.
I stood stock-still staring for a minute or so, and then, full of fear, I reached for his neck to feel for a pulse. There was none. Involuntarily I jerked my hand back, because his skin was so clammy and cold. With my other hand I tested my own neck to be sure I knew where to find the pulse, then tried him a second time, and once again, my hand jerked back by itself. Hardly knowing what I did, I backed away, away from him, until I bumped into a file cabinet.
I gulped, trying to wet my throat, and fished in my bag for my cell phone. Once I found it, I fumbled it open, and dialed 911.
"What is the nature of your emergency?"
"Hi, I'm Marcie Donner," I croaked inaudibly. I cleared my throat, squeezed my eyes shut, and started again, this time in a louder voice. "My name is Marcie Donner. I'm at Tierson High School, and I think my teacher is dead. His name is Donny Bruce."
The woman on the other end asked me some questions; she wanted me to take a pulse and to describe what I saw. She told me she was sending an ambulance, and asked me to contact a responsible adult, like a teacher or the principal.
"Don't hang up!" I cried, but it was too late. She was gone.
I looked at Mr. Bruce's desk. Next to his phone was a list of school numbers. Trying not to look at Mr. Bruce, I dialed the principal's office, and Denise answered.
"Oh, Denise!" I said, and began sobbing, "I think Mr. Bruce is dead!"
She spoke to me in a calm voice. I told her that I'd called 911. She said something to Mr. Bryant, and then kept on talking to me, trying to keep me from flipping out.
Soon Mr. Bryant appeared. He put his hand on Mr. Bruce's neck, took the phone from me, and told Denise, "I've got it from here. Yes, she's right." To me, he said, "Will you be okay if we wait for the medics?"
I nodded dumbly, hardly knowing what he said.
"I'm sorry," he told me, "but I need to keep an eye on him and I don't want to let you out of my sight." We sat in the chairs outside Mr. Bruce's office, the same spot where I'd waited for Mr. Bruce on my first day. I hung my head and wrung my hands. Mr. Bryant put his hand on my shoulder.
After an eternity, Denise arrived with the medics, and she led me back to her office. She gave me a drink of water, and I realized that I was shaking.
When Mr. Bryant returned, Denise told him that she'd already called Mr. Bruce's wife. "Do you mind if I go and drive her to the hospital? She's a very close friend."
"Of course," Mr. Bryant said. "Take the day, if you need it. Whatever the school can do, remember. Call me for anything."
"Can I go with her?" I asked. "She's my friend, too!"
Denise looked to Mr. Bryant, who shook his head. "I'm sorry, Marcie. There's no way I can let you go. It's policy." He gestured to Denise, who gathered her things.
I sniffed. "But there's no way I can go to class today!" I cried.
"I understand," Mr. Bryant said. "However, it's a point of law. I can only release you to your aunt."
Denise hugged me tight and said, "Sorry, kiddo." To Mr. Bryant she said, "Can you give the kid a hug? She needs it." Then she left.
"Ah, I'm sorry, Marcie," Mr. Bryant said, "but I can't hug you. I can send for the nurse, though."
In spite of everything, this made me laugh. "So she can hug me for you?"
He shrugged in an embarrassed way. "If you want to sit here, you're welcome," he said. "You might be more comfortable up in the nurse's office, though. She's better at dealing with, uh... girls' issues, uh... I mean emotional issues, than I am. But once you feel better, you ought to go to class. Being busy will help you."
"I don't think so," I said, and another wave of silent tears spilled from my eyes.
"Let me try something," Mr. Bryant said. "Don't move." He hurried into his office and made a phone call. When he came back, he used the PA to call Ms. Price. "I need someone to cover the office," he explained.
Of course, once Ms. Price arrived, she gave me a hug, but had to let me go so she could pick up Denise's duties. Soon after, Aunt Jane arrived, a little out of breath. "I ran over as soon as I could," she panted. Then she held out her arms and said, "Come here, kid," and she hugged me until I couldn't cry any more.
The moment I finished, she said, "Come on. Let's get out of here. We need to find Denise and Alice."
Denise and I both stayed out of school on Friday. I had my tea with me, and made sure I didn't miss my daily cup. By now I had breasts like little half-apples, and no longer needed padding to fill my bra. They weren't big breasts, but they were mine, and I hoped the tea would keep them growing.
My aunt had her arm around me a lot that day. I was still in shock. I'd never seen a dead person, let alone touched one. Is there any disease you can catch from touching a dead person? My skin crawled. I washed my hands a dozen times, but I could still feel that cold, clammy skin and see those open, empty eyes. I couldn't get his slack-jawed face out of my mind.
We met up with Alice and Denise at the hospital. I don't know why the ambulance had to take Mr. Bruce there at all. I mean, he was already dead! But I didn't dare say anything. An autopsy was going to be done; the police came to ask me and Alice questions, and they wrote down everything I said. Poor Alice! She looked so pale and small, and she didn't even react when the tall policeman mistook her for the high-school girl who'd found the body.
I did a lot of sighing.
The four of us stayed together. We went back to Alice's house, and helped her make phone calls. Each of us ran home briefly to get pajamas and overnight bags. While I was there, I called my mother and told her what happened. She asked me to call her back before I went to bed.
Denise and I cooked dinner while Aunt Jane helped Alice get through plans and papers. Several times Alice broke down, and once she ran from the room to sob alone in her bedroom for an hour. Aunt Jane kept plowing through, making calls, checking things off a list.
"How old was he?" I asked Denise softly.
"Fifty-three," she said. "Alice is thirty-one, like me and your aunt."
"Wow," I said.
"Yeah," Denise said. "Twenty-two years difference. She was twenty-one when they got married, so they've been together ten years. They were a nice couple too. He was never as rough and tough as he pretended to be." She smiled. "He was a big old pussycat, and he was nuts about Alice. They were crazy about each other."
"They never had kids," I observed.
"They tried. Alice had two miscarriages. Don't mention that or children, if you can help it."
"Okay," I promised.
After dinner, Denise insisted I help her clean and organize the refrigerator and freezer. I soon saw why. People kept stopping by, dropping off meals. Denise kept a list of who brought what, of which container or dish had to be returned, and she sorted the foods into fridge or freezer. "No more cooking for a while," she said.
Denise and I both stayed out of school on Friday. I spent a good part of the day cleaning the house. I had my tea with me, and made sure I didn't miss my daily cup. By now I had breasts like little half-apples, and no longer needed padding to fill my bra. They weren't big breasts, but they were mine, and I hoped the tea would keep them growing.
Alice sat or wandered around, pale as a ghost. Periodically she'd hug me and dig her head into my shoulder, soaking me with tears. I wasn't sure what to do or say. I just held her.
Aunt Jane kept finding papers that needed doing, people who needed notifying. She was constantly adding and crossing things off a big list, making phone calls. Most of the time she'd say she was Alice, so Alice didn't have to talk. At one point Jane mentioned to me (while rubbing her red eyes) that she was pushing to get as much done as possible before the weekend, when offices wouldn't be open.
For lunch, we ate some eggplant parmesan that someone had brought. The eggplant was kind of crunchy, but we ate it anyway. It didn't taste very good, but it filled us up. After lunch, Jane sent me to make some copies, buy some stamps, and send some letters. I also had to send some faxes from the copy place. I'd never done that before, so the copy guy helped me. He was tall and gangly, with long spidery fingers.
While the fax machine was making noises and doing its thing, he asked, "Skipping school today?"
"Kind of," I replied.
He nodded. "A bad girl, huh?" I realized then that he was hitting on me.
"No, I'm a good girl."
"Ah." He nodded again, with a knowing look. "And being good takes practice, right?"
I grabbed the documents. "Is this finished now?"
"Yeah," he replied. "All you have to do is pay." We walked to the cash register.
"How much is it?" I asked.
"Your phone number," he replied.
"What?"
"Your phone number," he repeated.
"Um, look," I said. "I'm way too young for you, and anyway I already have a boyfriend."
"Okay," he said. "No harm in trying. Your total for the copies and the fax is $2.16."
After I paid, he said, "When you outgrow your boyfriend, come on back. You know where to find me."
"Sleezeball," I muttered when I reached the sidewalk.
Alice stood or sat, unmoving, looking like a little lost girl. We took turns hugging her, making her tea, and listening to her talk incoherently about Donny. I tried to take her for a walk, but she cried every couple of steps, so we turned back.
Aunt Jane pulled out every document in the house and went through it, organizing Alice's affairs. I thought this was kind of pushy of Aunt Jane, but Mr. Bruce had handled all the finances, and Alice had no idea of what was what. Jane made several lists: the monthly bills, bank and other accounts, debts, insurance, everything. On Friday she had managed to get most of it changed into Alice's name, or at least got the process going. On Saturday she figured out what money Alice would be getting from insurance, pension, and so on, and she worked out a budget. I was pretty impressed.
"It's a lot of work when somebody dies!" she told me, when we were alone for a moment. "Thank God Donny kept good records!"
"Are you almost done?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I'm doing what I can now. A lot will come up in the months ahead. Plus she's got to learn how to do it herself."
The wake was set for Monday evening, and the cremation for Tuesday morning. Aunt Jane told me I'd be in school Monday, but I'd get out Tuesday. She asked if I minded staying at Alice's house for the week. "To get all these days off, I had to take some night shifts. After the funeral I won't be able to be here, but Alice isn't going to want to be alone for a while."
Of course I agreed.
For my part, I kept looking down at my breasts. They weren't very big, but they were mine. Home grown. I grew them myself, I said to myself proudly, from all-natural ingredients. They were the same size as the little bags I used to use for padding, but these babies were real, and they wouldn't shift or fall out.
The funeral was not so sad, really. Even though I had a black dress of my own, Alice insisted on lending me one of hers — a stretchy wool dress. I was afraid it would be itchy, but it wasn't at all, and I liked the way it hung on me.
When I imagined the funeral, I pictured all of us standing around a hole in the ground, crying. Instead, since Mr. Bruce was cremated, there was a short service in a plain little chapel, and then the coffin was rolled away. There were people sobbing, but Alice had cried so much at the wake, I don't think she had any more tears in her.
The whole time we were sitting, Alice kept a tight grip on my left arm. When we stood up, I took the opportunity to move to the other side of her. She immediately grabbed my right arm and hung on tight. She still had that look of being lost.
For my part, I kept looking down at my breasts. They weren't very big, but they were mine. Home grown. I grew them myself, I said to myself proudly, from all-natural ingredients. They were the same size as the little bags I used to use for padding, but these babies were real, and they wouldn't shift or fall out.
"So what happens now?" I asked Aunt Jane.
"We go to a little reception."
Mr. Bruce's family had hired a hall nearby. Aunt Jane drove us. Denise sat in front, and Alice and I sat in back. Alice still had my arm tight in her grip. I wanted to tell her to let go, but I knew she needed it, so I kept my mouth shut. When we got out of the car, I switched sides again. I did that as often as I could. The only time she let go was when someone gave her a hug.
Denise came by and asked, "How are you doing, kid?"
"My arms hurt a little," I whispered. "Can you let Alice hang on to you for a while?"
"I'll try," she said, "but I think she wants you."
Alice emerged from the hug, and turned to look for me. Denise had placed herself between us, and said, "Alice, want to take my arm for a while?"
Alice didn't answer. She just looked at Denise with big, sad eyes.
I couldn't take it. I walked toward her, and her hands moved like magnets toward my arm. She took possession of it, squeezing hard. "Alice," I asked as gently as I could. "Could you please not grip so tight?"
She gave me a weak smile, and loosened for a moment. An instant later she reverted to her vise-like grip. I didn't ask her again.
I've thought about it a lot, then and after, but I don't know why she latched onto me. I met her mother and brother and sister, and even though she hugged them several times and cried all over them, in the end she always came back to holding my arm.
Could it have been because we were the same height? I wondered — with her clutching my arm and standing so close — whether we might look like Siamese twins, but we're so different, different clothes, different hairstyles, different shapes... Some people guessed I was her daughter, so at least the age difference was obvious... Anyway, it was a mystery, and I didn't dare ask why.
The rest of the week was similar. Denise and I camped out at Alice's house. Denise pretty much kept things going, preparing the meals and cleaning up after, while I sat with Alice. I had to do my homework during lunch hour, because Alice was stuck on me all week. We started going on walks together. Wednesday morning we were both up early, and there was nothing to do, so I suggested we go out. I was getting a bit stir-crazy.
It turned out to be an inspired choice. At last she didn't need to hang on to me. She just walked. And she talked. And talked and talked and talked. I didn't need to ask questions or even say uh-huh or nod. She poured out words nonstop. She told me all about her and Donny: how they met, how he proposed, where they thought they were going as a couple. She told me about the miscarriages. She didn't cry, she just wiped her eyes now and then.
When I got home from school that day, she wanted to walk again, and after dinner we walked a third time. It was the same thing on Thursday and Friday. I got to hear a lot more than I ever wanted to know about what it was like to be married. I admit that a lot of it was interesting. There was a lot I had never thought about. I never realized that when you get married, you start living with another person that you haven't grown up with — I mean, you never imagine that marriage can hinge on things like thermostat settings and furniture choices and what goes into tuna salad...
Some of what she said really made me blush. She talked about pretty intimate, physical stuff. Sure I was kind of curious, but I didn't really want that level of detail. Too much information! But I kept my mouth shut and listened and walked.
I'm no psychologist, but I could see it was doing her good. She wasn't weepy or lost any more, and when I got up on Saturday, she had already been out for a jog and was fixing herself breakfast. She served me fruit salad, eggs, and toast. Her mood was a lot better. She was more like the old Alice.
Oh. There's something that I forgot to tell you, what with all the talk of the funeral and crying and whatnot.
The tea kept on working. Every day, my breasts were a little bigger and nicer. By Saturday morning, when Alice was handing me my breakfast plate, they'd gone from being half-apple size to more like full-apple size. Not big apples, but nice apples.
Nobody noticed but me, since Aunt Jane was doing her night shifts and sleeping in the daytime. At lunch time in the cafeteria I was sitting by myself, doing homework as I ate, so I didn't have time to talk with Carla and Eden. I'm pretty sure Eden saw the change when we were in gym class, but she didn't have a chance to say anything. Now my chest was almost as big as hers. Not quite, but almost.
I kind of wanted to keep it to myself as long as I could. After all, I wasn't doing anything wrong, was I? But I got careless. I mean, it was Saturday morning, I was still half-asleep, and I didn't expect Alice to have come out from her "lost" cloud.
I sitting at the table, wearing long cotton pajama pants, a tank top, and a light bathrobe. My robe was open, and I wasn't wearing a bra. Alice sat across from me, crunching on a piece of bacon. She suddenly stopped chewing.
"Is that you?" she asked in a shocked tone.
"What do you mean?" I replied, trying my best to sound innocent as I pulled my robe closed.
"You know what I mean! Look at you! Oh my god, you are so busted, girl! I've got to call your aunt!"
"Uh," I said stupidly, wishing I was more awake. I should have seen this coming! "She's asleep. You can't wake her."
"I can wake her, and I will wake her!" She picked up the phone and dialed a number. As it continued ringing, she frowned and scoffed, "Voicemail." Then, after a wait: "Janey, it's me, Allie. Call me as soon as you hear this. If you could come over, it would be even better. It's about your nephew-slash-niece, Mark/Marcie. She's up to something and you need to know about it. Bye."
Alice turned to me. "So what did you do? Where do you get the hormones?"
"I'm not taking hormones!" I said. "I'm not doing anything!"
She shook her head. "You're going to need a better story than that for your aunt!"
Just then, the phone rang. Alice still held it in her hand, so she answered on the first ring.
"Yeah. Janey? Oh, I'm good. I'm fine. It's this girl you left over here! She's got breasts! ... Breasts, yeah! ... Big enough! ... Yes! YES! No... No, I asked, and she said no. ... Okay... Okay... Right... Bye."
Alice looked at me. "She's on her way over. And she is on fire. So what did you do?"
My aunt didn't appear for about twenty minutes, which was odd. When she did arrive, she was mad. Not boiling mad or hopping mad, but a cold, scary mad. By that time, I'd fessed up to Alice about the tea, and brought out the paper bag I'd gotten from Mrs. Earshon. There was just a little bit in the bottom, not quite enough for a cup. I'd been using the supply that Cassie gave me since Monday, but hadn't gotten around to throwing the old bag away.
"Is this all of it?" Alice asked.
"Yes," I said, while thinking, That's all that's in that bag, yes. So it wasn't *technically* a lie. Not a lie-lie, anyway.
The first thing my aunt said was, "Don't even ask whether I'm going to call your parents. I am. I have to. But first you have an appointment right now with a doctor, so put some clothes on." She opened my robe and looked at my chest. Her face went white. She drew in a breath and said, "Jeez almighty!" before she turned away and fell heavily into a chair.
Alice grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me around and pushed me away. "Go get dressed," she whispered.
I was shaking as I put my clothes on. For some reason, I wanted to wear pants today, but — surprise — they weren't part of my wardrobe. I pulled on the outfit from my first day as Marcie — the aqua skirt and white top. It was comfortable, and it was right there. I listened to as much of the conversation between Alice and Jane as possible, and came out as soon as I could.
"You need a coat," Jane barked, so I went and got one.
"Sorry, Alice," I said softly as we left.
She shrugged and gave me a smile when Jane's back was turned. Then she ran over and gave me a hug. As she did she whispered, "Thanks for helping me so much this week. Tell me how it goes with the doctor!"
"I don't know how parents survive!" she exclaimed. "You've been with me for what — five or six weeks now, and I feel like I'm either going to have gray hair or a heart attack or both! And the thing is, you're just skipping along, tra la la, and — oh! I'm a girl! oh! I have a boyfriend! oh! I climbed the school building! oh! I have breasts!"
The ride to the doctor's was not the most comfortable conversation I've ever had. I wanted to ask questions, but knew I should keep quiet. The saying "bite your tongue" came to mind, so I literally clamped my teeth on my tongue to remember not to talk.
Aunt Jane, on the other hand, just let herself go.
"I don't know how parents survive!" she exclaimed. "You've been with me for what — five or six weeks now, and the whole time I feel like I'm either going to have gray hair or a heart attack or both! And the thing is, you're just skipping along, tra la la, and — oh! I'm a girl! oh! I have a boyfriend! oh! I climbed the school building! oh! I have breasts!
"And every time you convince me that it's not some stunt you pulled, but just 'the way things happened'. Well, that train has stopped. That flag will not fly any more! You did this on purpose. You knew what you were doing. You knew what was happening, and you hid it so no one would stop you."
I sat in silence, and put the tip of my tongue back between my teeth to remind me not to talk.
"Am I right?" Aunt Jane demanded.
"Yes," I replied in a small voice.
"What?" she said loudly. "I didn't hear you."
"Yes, you're right," I said.
"I don't believe this bull-hinky story about a magical tea, by the way. I don't want to hear it. I'm taking you to a pediatric endocrinologist, and he will tell me what you've been up to. And then I want to know where you got the pills from."
"I didn't take any pills," I said, in spite of my determination not to speak. I wanted to ask what an engocryologist was, but went back to biting my tongue.
Jane didn't say anything for a while, but then, in a softer tone, she told me, "I want to believe you, but it's practically impossible, in the first place, for breasts to grow that quickly, with or without chemical help. And if there really was a tea that gave results like that, girls all over the world would be drinking it. Something happened to you, and even if it is the tea like you say, you still need to see a doctor. In spite of everything, you really are a boy, which is something you seem to forget."
At the hospital Jane led me through a maze of back hallways and stairs until we ended up in the employee clinic. A doctor was sitting in a chair, waiting for us. Aunt Jane fell all over herself thanking him for his time.
He said, "It's okay. I had a couple kids I had to see anyway." He was a fairly young, good-looking guy with light brown hair. He was wearing a white coat and had a stethoscope around his neck. He smiled at me, introduced himself as Dr. Monroe and shook my hand.
I liked the feeling of his strong, rough hand. I thought, If I were a girl, I'd have such a crush... but this was no time for thoughts like that. As he led me into an exam room, Aunt Jane insisted on coming with us.
He had me lift up my shirt and open my bra. I felt pretty embarrassed as he looked at my breasts and felt them. He also felt in my armpits for some reason, and then told me I could get dressed again.
"I don't understand why you wanted me to see Marcie. Rapid growth is unusual — I mean, it's rare, but not unprecedented. And you don't mind, do you?" With a smile, he directed the last question at me, and smiling I shook my head no.
"The problem is," Jane said slowly, "that this is a boy here."
"No," the doctor said.
"Yes," Jane insisted.
The doctor smiled. "Is this a joke? Did Hughie put you up to this?"
In the end, the doctor had a to do a more thorough exam to be convinced, and then his manner changed. He asked whether I was "transitioning", whether I was under a doctor's care, and whether I was taking any hormones. Jane answered all the questions except the last.
"I'm not taking any hormones," I said. "I'm not taking any kind of pills or shots or anything like that."
Luckily, the doctor seemed to believe me. Also, he wasn't upset or worried, which made me feel better. He commented, "Boys sometimes have breast growth at the onset of puberty. It isn't harmful. Once their testosterone starts going, the growth reverses."
"This much growth?" Jane asked.
"Well, no," he admitted. "I'm afraid that if you want to reverse this situation, you'd need to undergo, uh, breast reduction. But — based on Marcie's presentation, demeanor, dress — I'm guessing that this is a welcome change. Am I right?"
I nodded again.
"Have you talked to your therapist or doctor about hormone suppression?" I shook my head no. Jane sighed.
"What the hell is causing this?" she demanded. "You don't seem overly concerned."
"No, I'm not overly concerned," he said. "Things like this happen! Usually the problem is how to get rid of them. If Marcie likes them and wants them and her parents don't mind, then I don't see any cause for concern.
"I do want to do some bloodwork," he said, "I'll write up the order, and you can have it drawn right now. Once the results come in, I'd like to see Marcie in my office."
He handed Aunt Jane a card. "Call on Monday and make an appointment for two weeks from now. And get a referral from her therapist. We all need to be on the same page."
Jane insisted, "Aren't you afraid that she's taking hormones?"
"Honestly — just a gut feeling — I don't get that impression, and she says she isn't. Do you have any reason to think she is? I mean, aside from the breasts?"
"What do you mean 'aside from the breasts'? That's why I think so."
"Hmm," the doctor commented. "Puberty is a fairly malleable state. A lot of things can happen before the body settles down. Admittedly, this is a pretty extreme case, but boys do grow breasts. It happens." To me he asked, "Are you using a shampoo or body wash with lavender or tea tree oil in it?"
I shook my head no and asked why.
"Lavender oil and tea tree oil have been known to provoke breast growth in boys. Again, once the boy switches to a different product, testosterone gets the upper hand, and the breast growth reverses."
Jane pulled the brown paper bag from her purse and asked, "Do you know anything about this tea?"
The doctor took a sniff and chuckled. "Oh, yeah, I've seen this stuff before. It's harmless. Girls drink it and hope it will make their breasts start growing, but it has no effect. They drink it, and what was going to happen anyway starts happening, and they think the tea did it. It's just some herbs — wild yam, fennel, some other stuff. Like I said, it's harmless."
"Can I keep drinking it?" I asked.
"If you like it," he said. "Drink all you want. It's not going to do anything for you either way."
Jane and the doctor talked a bit more, and by the end of their conversation, she was a lot calmer.
I liked the doctor, and I had already decided a couple of things:
The blood tests didn't hurt. I had to look away so I wouldn't see the needle, but the woman who did it was good and fast.
When she was done, she asked, "Are you too big for a lollipop, hon?" When I smiled and shook my head no, she gave me a red one.
"How about you, mom?" she asked Aunt Jane, who sighed, then smiled, and took a green one.
As we drove away, Aunt Jane said, "I don't how I'm going to explain this to your parents. The doctor seems to think it's just happening by itself, but your parents are going to flip right out. I'll try to keep them calm, but I'm sorry, Marcie, they might want to pull you out of here." She looked at me. I smiled at her, and she shook her head.
"I don't know how you can be so calm about this. It's a big deal. I mean, you realize that if you want to go back to being a boy, it's going to be difficult. You might need more than a breast reduction."
She took her lollipop out of her mouth and said, "You manage to get into the craziest situations!" She sucked on the lollipop, thinking.
"I guess it would be worse if you didn't want to be a girl and had those things pop out of you, but still..." She didn't finish the thought. She just sighed.
"Hey," she said, "I haven't even had breakfast yet. Are you hungry?" I was. So, we went to a diner, where she had breakfast and I had lunch.
Then she drove home and went to bed, saying she'd call my parents when she woke up.
I walked over to Alice's house, filled her in on what happened, and made myself a cup of tea.
I borrowed a top from Alice that was as daring as I dared to be. "Um," she said, "I don't know if you're old enough for that top, but one thing I do know for sure: if you're going to wear it, you have to take a jacket, so you can close it up. You need the option."
She told me, "It's been nice having you here, and in some ways I wish you could stay forever, but I have to start sleeping alone sooner or later. Tonight, why don't you and Denise go sleep in your own beds. I'll be okay."
Then she gave me a big, big, back-breaking hug and said, "I really love you for being here when I needed you!"
While I was packing my stuff, Jerry called to invite me to the mall. I asked Alice if she was sure she'd be alright.
"Go, take off!" she replied. "I'll be fine. I'm a big girl. Not a tall girl, but a big girl."
"I can come," I said into the phone. "How are we going to get there?"
"My mother's going to drive us. Don't worry, though: she has to get Nina some shoes and clothes and stuff, so you and I can go around by ourselves."
"Okay," I agreed. "And I have a surprise for you!" Afterward I wondered whether it was a good idea to say that, but I couldn't take it back, and I did want to show my assets off to somebody besides Dr. Monroe.
I borrowed a top from Alice that was as daring as I dared to be. "Um," she said, "I don't know if you're really old enough to wear that top, but one thing I do know for sure: if you're going to wear it, you have to take a jacket, so you can close it up. You need the option."
The jacket was zipped up when Jerry rang the bell. "What's the surprise?" he asked. The jacket was bulky, so you couldn't tell that anything was different about me.
"I'll show you when we get rid of your family," I replied, blushing. Now I was pretty sure I'd done a stupid thing. Oh, well. Live and learn.
Jerry sat in front with his mother and I sat in back with Nina, who was very glad to see me.
"Do you know what I'm doing today, Marcie?"
"No, what?"
"Getting my ears pierced! Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Really? Will you hold my hand while they do it?"
"Sure."
She talked for the rest of the trip about movies she'd seen, books she'd read, new dolls she got or wanted. All girly topics. Jerry sighed and looked out the window, tapping his fingers.
"Aren't you hot with that jacket on, Marcie?" Mrs. Auburn asked.
"No, I'm good," I said. I think she knew I was hiding something. It occurred to me that I should get a t-shirt or something at the mall, so she could see me with the jacket open later. It might be a good idea anyway.
Nina was brave about the ear-piercing, and I gave her a big hug afterward. Mrs. Auburn kept looking at my jacket, so I decided that the first thing I had to do was buy a replacement shirt and put it on.
Jerry was waiting impatiently outside the jewelry store. I smiled at him and said, "I need to buy a top."
"Hell, no!" he said. "I've had enough girly stuff for one morning! Come on!" He took my hand and dragged me off to a sports store, where he spent a good hour looking at sneakers, baseball caps, and sports equipment. I tried to be interested, but I was pretty bored. I tried to talk with him, but he didn't hear me. He was so absorbed in the merchandise that he seemed to have forgotten me.
So I wandered off and found a girl who worked in the store. "Do you have any shirts for girls?" I asked.
"Anything in particular?" she asked.
"Um, just something to cover me up better." I patted my chest.
"Any team in particular?" she asked.
"Nope."
She laughed. "You're not a sports fan, are you?"
"Nope."
"Oh-kay-ee," she laughed. "Follow me!"
She showed me to a room in the back of the store that was full of shirts and caps. "These are baseball t-shirts," she said. "Women's on this side. You look like a small. And, uh, this one... if you don't care about teams, um..." she looked down the aisle at Jerry, to see what he was looking at. "Is he your boyfriend?" I nodded. "Then, um, how do you feel about black and orange?"
"Sounds like Halloween," I replied with a shrug.
Her eyes almost popped out of head. She said, "Oh-kay-ee," really slowly. I think she wanted to laugh, but I didn't see anything funny.
Then she reached past me, pulled a shirt off the rack, and put it in my hands. "How about this one? It'll go well with your eyes." She said the last part as if it were a joke, and I felt pretty sure she was putting me on, but I couldn't see how. In any case, I looked at the shirt and really liked it!
"Thanks," I said. "I'll take it." The t-shirt was a nice gray and blue, with a round neck and half-sleeves. She rang it up, and I shoved it in my purse. After another fifteen minutes, Jerry bought a pair of shoes and a baseball cap. The cap was black with orange letters on it. Honestly, it seemed like the ugliest one in the store, but he seemed excited about it.
When we got outside, he said, "Oh, hey, what was that surprise you had for me?"
"Oh, uh, okay," I said. "Now I feel really stupid."
There was an alcove between the sports store and the vitamin store. It looked like a good spot to show him. I pushed him into the alcove, past a big leafy plant, and opened my jacket, blushing (of course).
"Whoa!" he said. "Nice!" He grinned. "Can I touch?"
I hesitated for a moment, then said no.
I closed the jacket, and was about to zip it up, but he gently put his hands on mine. "Don't, don't," he said. He made an effort to look into my eyes, but his own eyes kept wandering down.
"Come on," he said. "Take the jacket off for a while. Let's go for some ice cream."
As we walked, I got a lot of looks from boys and men of all ages. It wasn't that my breasts were so big, it was just that the top really put them on display.
"I didn't know breasts could grow that fast," Jerry commented. "You didn't have those two weeks ago, did you?"
"Could you lower your voice?" I asked him. "I don't really want to talk about it."
While we were eating the ice cream, a big drip fell on my right breast. Jerry's eyes widened. "I can take care of that for you," he offered, smiling broadly.
"No, thanks, I got it," I said. I wiped the ice cream off with my index finger, then had to clean the sticky spot with a wet napkin. When I finished, I realized that I had a audience. I looked up at several sets of male eyes.
"Jerry, I have to go to the bathroom for a minute," I told him, and quickly made my way to a stall where I changed shirts. The new t-shirt was cute. It was a little tight, but not revealing at all. I felt a lot more comfortable. It reminded me that I needed some new bras, but I didn't think Jerry could handle that kind of shopping, and didn't know whether his mother would appreciate my bringing her son into the lingerie department.
On the other hand, Jerry might like it too much! In any case, I'd do it later without him.
When I walked up to our table, Jerry's jaw dropped. I could see the disappointment in his face. "You're kidding!" he said. "I can't believe it! You're kidding me!"
"I'm sorry, Jerry, but that other top was too revealing. It was embarrassing."
He scoffed. "I don't mean that," he said. "It's that Dodgers shirt. I never knew you were a Dodger fan."
"I'm not," I replied. "Is this a Dodgers shirt?" I looked down, and sure enough, the word "Dodgers" was printed on the shirt, just above my left breast.
"You didn't know!?" he exclaimed. "You didn't notice!?"
"No! Calm down! I just got it for the color! Is it really a problem for you?"
"If I buy you a Giants shirt, will you wear it?" he asked me.
"If it's that important to you, sure," I replied.
"Okay, wait here," he said, and he ran off, leaving me at the table. I watched his spoon shift slowly through his ice cream as it melted in the cup.
To tell the truth, I was a little miffed. I liked the shirt I bought, and had no idea what colors I'd just agreed to wear. I felt a little frustrated.
A chubby middle-aged man at the next table was chuckling to himself. "I'm sorry," he said to me. "I couldn't help overhear. If you don't mind my saying, that shirt does look very cute on you. They're nice colors."
"Thanks," I said. "Are you a Dodgers fan?"
"No," he said. "I couldn't care less about baseball."
"Me, neither. Hey, do you know what color the Giants wear, by any chance?"
"I'm guessing it's black and orange," he said. "Like your boyfriend's cap, right?"
"Oh," I said, and my face fell.
"Don't worry," he said. "You'll make it look good."
I had to smile at that, and he smiled back. "Ah, you've made my day," he said. "I better go while the sun is shining." And he left. He was nice, so I waved goodbye when he looked back.
After a long time Jerry returned, carrying a bag from the sports store. "Hey," he said. "Here is a shirt for you." He produced a black t-shirt with some orange letters over the chest. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.
"Okay," I said, and looked at the size. It was a medium. "Jerry, it's way too big!" I looked at the cut. "And it's a man's shirt!"
"I thought you were a medium," he said.
I sighed. "We can go change it," I told him.
"Hmm," he said. "Do you mind going by yourself to do it? I don't want to walk with you while you wear that other shirt."
I was speechless for a moment. Then, in the spirit of compromise, I took out my jacket and put it on.
"Can you zip it up?" he asked.
"Are you serious?"
"Dead serious."
I looked at him for a moment. I was willing to make concessions, but I honestly felt he was going way too far. I know that I don't care about sports, but even taking that into consideration, I felt that he was making a big deal out of nothing.
"It isn't nothing," he said. "It's important to be true to your team."
"If I was a Dodgers fan, would you still want to go out with me?"
"It would be difficult," he said. "And anyway, you say Dodger fan, singular."
"I don't believe this!" I cried.
At the table behind Jerry, a big guy in a Giants cap was sitting with a little girl. He leaned back and touched Jerry on the shoulder. "Listen, man," he said. "Let her wear the shirt. It isn't worth it. Take it from me — I been married 25 years. And let me tell you: your wife doesn't need to be a Giants fan."
"She's not my wife," Jerry said in an irritated tone.
"She's not going to be your girlfriend either, if you don't back down on the shirt issue," the man said. Then he turned back to his food.
Jerry sat, stewing silently, fighting with himself, until finally he said, "Okay. Let's go change the shirt. Together. I'll get one for me in my size, then it will be clear. From now on, when you wear your Dodgers shirt, I'll wear my Giants shirt. Deal?"
I laughed and gave him a big hug.
"Good move, son," the man commented with a smile.
"Come here, you little Dodger girl! You know I love you, don't you? I'm not getting rid of you! I just don't have to be your mother any more! Let's face it, you're like a little soap opera — with breasts!" She laughed and laughed at her own joke.
I was turning my face, pressing my head against him, when a flash went off, followed quickly by several others.
"Sorry," the man with the camera said, "but it was too beautiful to miss." He introduced himself as a newspaper photographer. "If that picture comes out the way I saw it, we could all be famous. Both of you are really photogenic, has anybody told you that?"
He followed that with a stream of flattery, telling us what a nice couple we made. He talked about my cheekbones and Jerry's shoulders, and so on. He asked about the t-shirts.
Jerry gave him a slightly inaccurate version of what happened: He made his purchase of a Giants t-shirt seem like a Solomonic inspiration. In the end, the man asked our permission to use the photo, and then he disappeared.
After that, we went to a bookstore. Jerry needed a copy of Moby Dick for English class.
While I waited, I looked through the girls magazines. I wanted to get one, but couldn't make up my mind. How was I supposed to choose one? Maybe I should pick by the woman on the cover — go for the one I'd most want to be? Was that the way to decide? Maybe I should go with the article titles that interest me... No, that didn't help much either.
I wondered whether Eden had any thoughts on the subject, or whether Cassie would answer me seriously if I asked her. Knowing Cassie, she might steer me the wrong way just for a laugh.
Jerry walked up to me with his purchase in his hand. "Hey, Jerry," I said. "Which of these magazines does Cassie read? Does she read any of them?"
"Oh, pull-eez," he said. "Can we go? Haven't I suffered through enough girly stuff for one day?"
"I don't know," I replied. "Have you? Seriously, come on: you must have noticed the names of the magazines Cassie reads."
He looked at me and shook his head. "You're lucky you're so incredibly cute," he said. I blushed a little and smiled. "Come here," he whispered. He put his arms around me and we started kissing each other as if we were trying to make up for years of being apart.
A man cleared his throat behind me. He did it again, a little louder. Then he said, "Could you two please take that outside? Outside the mall?"
"Sorry," I said, and we left the store.
We wandered around a little longer until it was time to rendezvous with Mrs. Auburn and Nina.
As we approached, Jerry's mother's eyes twinkled. "Are you a Dodger fan, Marcie?" she asked.
"Let it go, ma, let it go!" Jerry cautioned.
"Now I know why you had your coat zipped up earlier," she commented. "You wanted to surprise Jerry."
I grinned at her. "I just liked the colors. I didn't even know it said 'Dodgers' until Jerry pointed it out."
"Jerry HATES the Dodgers!" Nina informed me.
"But he likes Marcie, right, Jerry?" his mother teased.
"We have an agreement," Jerry informed us, in a very serious tone. "If she wears that... shirt, I will wear this one, just so the facts are clear."
"Yes," his mother said, smiling, "We have to make sure the facts are clear."
I had a hard time to keep from laughing. Nina burst out with a laugh, but I don't think she knew what she was laughing at. I gave her a hug.
When I got home, Aunt Jane was awake and smiling. She'd worked the third shift last night. "Good morning/afternoon! Hello there! I didn't know you were a Dodger fan."
"I'm not," I said. "I just got it for the colors."
She laughed.
"You're in a good mood," I observed.
"Yes, I am!" she chortled. "And do you know why? Because I am done being in loco parentis with you."
"What do you mean?" I asked, a little alarmed. I don't know Latin, but I could figure that out — it meant she wasn't going to be acting as my parent any more.
"I mean that your mother is coming!" she said. "It turns out that your parents found a house that they like."
The color drained from my face. "Does that mean I'm moving?"
"No, silly!" she said. "Well, not right away! Your parents made an offer on the house, and it was accepted. Now they have to wait for the closing. That takes at least a month, usually longer. I'm thinking end of November, early December. You might even make it to the end of the semester before everything is settled.
"Anyway, in the meantime, your mother is coming out here so she can keep an eye on you! I mean, both eyes!"
Aunt Jane was crowing with glee, but when she saw the glum look on my face, she grabbed me and hugged me. "Come here, you little Dodger girl! You know I love you, don't you? I'm not getting rid of you! I just don't have to be your mother any more! Let's face it, you're like a little soap opera — with breasts!" She laughed and laughed at her own joke.
I didn't think it was very funny, but her silliness made me laugh anyway.
"Call your mother," Jane told me. "She'll explain everything." Then she turned a critical eye on my shirt. "Then you and me — I have to take you bra shopping. You've outgrown that one by a long shot."
My mother didn't really explain anything. She zipped through a bunch of real-estate lingo that I didn't understand, quickly brushing the subject out of the way.
What she really wanted to talk about was my breasts. She wanted to know how big they were. She was shocked when I told her I was almost as big as Eden, so I tried to backpedal. She wanted my measurements, but I didn't know them. "Call me back when you know your bra size," she said. "In fact, take all your measurements. Get your aunt to do it. I want to know the numbers."
"Aunt Jane is taking me shopping for bras as soon as I hang up," I told her.
"It's not for that!" she exclaimed. "I want to know exactly how big those things are! Look, I don't know how you can be so blase about this. It isn't every day that a boy sprouts a pair of breasts from one day to the next. What are you going to do when you go back to being Mark? You are going to go back to being Mark, aren't you? I hope you understand that this is a big deal — a very big deal — but you're acting like it's nothing out of the ordinary!"
"I guess I like it," I told her.
"Oh, Lord," she said. "It's a good thing I'm going to be out there soon."
"When are you coming?"
"Tuesday morning. I'm taking a red-eye flight, so I'll be there before breakfast. Your aunt has all the details. If it's any consolation, you'll get to skip school so you can come and get me."
"Great!"
After I hung up, I became aware that I had a stomach ache. I know it sounds weird to say it that way, but I suddenly realized that my stomach had been hurting for a while, and I wasn't sure when it started. Could there have been something wrong with the ice cream I ate?
"What's the matter?" Aunt Jane asked me. "What's that face about?"
"My stomach hurts," I told her.
"Probably just nerves," she smiled. "You're worried that your mother is going to cramp your wild Marcie style." She laughed.
I tried to smile, but my stomach hurt too much.
Aunt Jane took me back to the mall to shop for bras. We bought three, and Jane did pretty much all the work. She even helped me try them on.
"What's with you?" she asked. "Does your stomach really hurt that much?"
"Yes," I said. "Maybe I have the flu or something."
"Maybe you just need to go to the bathroom," Jane replied. "Have you gone yet today? But it's probably just nerves, like I said before. You'd be surprised how many people come to the emergency room for that."
"Do they really?" I asked.
"No," she admitted. "It sounded good though, didn't it? Seriously, nerves can tie your stomach in a painful knot. Still, if you think you're going to throw up, tell me so I can pull over, okay?"
"I won't," I said, and bent over, with both hands on my belly.
"Hey, I wanted to ask you guys," I said. "Do either of you read any girls' magazines? You know, like Cosmo Girl or Elle Girl or—"
"Or Barf Girl," Carla interrupted. "Pull-eeze! Are you serious?"
I told her about my stomach.
"Maybe it's your appendix," Carla said. "That's what it felt like when I had mine taken out."
"No," I said, "it's my stomach."
Carla shrugged and pushed some more food into her mouth.
"Hey, I wanted to ask you guys," I said. "Do either of you read any girls' magazines? You know, like Cosmo Girl or Elle Girl or—"
"Or Barf Girl," Carla interrupted. "Pull-eeze! Are you serious?"
Eden smiled. "I don't get any of them. Right now I'm reading Healing A Princess. It's a good story." She sipped her drink. "Why are you interested in those magazines?"
"Oh, I don't know." I said. "I feel like I ought to be reading one, but I don't know which one to choose."
"Why don't you ask Cassie?" Eden said.
"She'd just laugh at me," I said. "But I guess I could try. She'll tease me anyway."
"She's like your big sister," Carla said. "Big sisters are a big pain. But seriously, don't read those magazines. They soften your brain."
I shrugged.
"Oh, look," Eden said, gesturing behind me. "Jerry's arguing with the cafeteria monitor."
I turned, and saw him. He had a newspaper in his hand that he was trying to show her. Finally he got her to look at it. She laughed and waved him through. He walked up to my table.
"Gah!" he spat. "I have to get special permission to talk to you!" Then he smiled, and I could see he wanted to kiss me.
"The monitor's watching," Carla cautioned.
"Look," Jerry said. "I had to show you this." He spread the paper on the table. It was the sports section from the Globe, and on the front page was a big color picture of the two of us at the mall — me in my Dodgers shirt and Jerry in his Giants shirt.
"Oh, how sweet!" Carla said. "Look at the caption: Love Conquers All. Ha!" She laughed, and Eden went on to read the rest. The caption gave our names, our school, and said that our "affection for each other doesn't interfere with allegiance to our teams."
"What a hoot!" Carla crowed. "How lovey-dovey!"
"Anyway, it's a nice picture," Jerry said to me. "They are good colors on you, even if it's the wrong team."
"Aww," Eden cooed.
"That's enough," the monitor called, and Jerry went back to his table.
"Who are you calling?" Carla asked me, as I dialed my cell phone.
"My aunt," I said. "I want to see if she can pick up some copies of the paper."
My aunt and I took off after dinner. I was still pretty uncomfortable, but trying not to show it. Jane still put it down to nerves.
"Why do we have to leave now?" I asked.
"I've told you twice already," my aunt replied, a little impatiently. "It's a two-hour drive, and the plane gets in at six. So we either leave tomorrow at four AM or leave tonight and get a hotel near the airport.
"Your mother's landing in a little regional airport so she could get a low fare. That's also why she's on a red-eye. The overnight flights cost less. Your parents can't afford to be flying back and forth every time you get into something."
"Ha, ha," I said mirthlessly.
"Come on," she said, smiling, and we got in the car.
After a long, uneventful drive, we checked into a hotel.
I couldn't sleep much, and after several hours of tossing and turning, we dressed, checked out of the hotel and were on our way to the airport. I looked like hell, and my stomach hurt more than ever.
"Now I'm starting to worry," my aunt said. "Once we pick up your mother, we're going to take you to see someone."
"Yeah," I agreed. "The sooner the better."
We had to wait near baggage claim. I sat down with my hands on my stomach while my aunt scanned the crowd. By the time my mother appeared, tears of pain were streaming down my face.
"Oh, honey, what's wrong?" my mother asked.
"You have to take me to the doctor," I said. "Now."
Aunt Jane ran for the car. My mother anxiously watched for her bags, and I stayed put, crying and clutching my stomach.
A woman from airport security sat down next to me and started asking me questions. Wordlessly I looked at my mother, who ran over to explain. The woman stood up, turned her back to us, and talked into a walkie-talkie. "Copy that," she said at the end, and turned back to face us.
"An ambulance is on the way. There's a hospital close by."
Aunt Jane pulled up outside at that point. She got out of her car, and immediately another security officer confronted her, telling her to move the car. I gestured with my head, and Mom told the woman, "That's my sister-in-law."
To make a long story short, Mom and I took off in the ambulance. Aunt Jane waited to pick up my mother's luggage, and one of the guys from the ambulance stayed to show Jane the way.
"It was nice of that man to stay with my sister-in-law," my mother commented. She had to talk loudly to be heard over the siren.
"Yeah," the medic replied. "I think he has a thing for her."
"Oh," my mother said, in an almost inaudible voice.
It turned out that Carla was right: I had appendicitis, and they operated right away.
I don't remember much of what happened once we got to the hospital. Maybe it was the anesthesia, maybe I just passed out. I remember someone saying, "Look, she's exhausted," and pushing my hair off my forehead. I remember my mother signing forms... I remember Aunt Jane and some guy... I remember looking up at faces in surgical masks... Someone asked me to count backward from 100. I got as far as 99.
The next thing I knew, I was in a gauzy, dimly-lit, but very white room. It was the most quiet place I had ever been in my life. A nurse came by and offered me some water. After I sipped a little through a straw, I asked, "Am I asleep? Is this a dream?"
"No, hon," the nurse said in a quiet, kind voice. "You're still feeling the anesthesia a little. Everything went fine. Soon we'll take you to your room and you can see your family."
The rest of the hospital stay was a blur. It seemed like we rushed out of the place. As soon as I got to my room, I saw that my mother had been crying, and Aunt Jane was angry.
A nurse and some other people in white protested, but Jane put me a wheelchair and pushed me to her car. There were lots of voices. It seemed as if everyone wanted to argue but were trying to be quiet at the same time.
I didn't understand... everything was still dream-like.
Mom and Aunt Jane filled the back seat of the car with blankets and pillows, like a bed. Someone with strong arms lifted me in, and I fell instantly asleep. I remember the car making some bumps and turns, and next thing I knew, I was waking up in my own bed at Jane's house, feeling very thirsty.
"It isn't that I want you to be upset at what happened, but it doesn't seem that you understand the gravity of what's going on with you. You just skip happily from one bizarre cataclysm to the next, while all around you, parents, relatives, and friends clutch their hearts in terror."
Mr. Marks cleared his throat. "The lesson for me is that we can't afford to miss any sessions. You've missed two in a row — with good reasons, obviously," (he meant the funeral and the operation), "but next time we have to reschedule. I mean, if your mother and your aunt hadn't called to tell me what happened, we would have spent this entire session trying to separate fantasy from reality."
He twisted his mouth, then cleared his throat. "Still, even knowing what happened, I have a very hard time believing that it's so. I'll be glad to hear Dr. Monroe's take on these new developments."
It's been a week since my operation. I mean operations, plural. It turns out that the hospital made a mistake and took out too much.
What happened is that before Aunt Jane arrived to help look things over, my mother had signed a batch of forms: insurance forms, hospital admission forms, consent forms.
Among the forms was a consent for an orchidectomy. It was there by mistake, but my mother signed it anyway, without knowing what she signed. The form said that she'd been informed of the nature of the procedure, etc., etc., but no one explained anything until after the fact.
What happened was that another patient in the ER needed the procedure for medical reasons, and a well-meaning clerk got the idea that *I* was that patient.
While they scheduled me for the appendectomy—which means removing my appendix — they also scheduled me for the orchidectomy—which means removing my testicles. You can probably guess what a big surprise it was to everyone, and — like my appendix, once they were gone, there was no putting them back.
My mother was mortified, and my father went through the roof. My aunt told me that Dad was suing the hospital, and my mother apologized over and over, in tears.
Honestly, though, I didn't mind.
"I don't understand why you're so upset," I said to Mr. Marks. "It's like you want to... to scold me or something. It's not like this was my fault."
Mr. Marks frowned. "What I don't understand is why it doesn't upset you," he countered. Then he paused and said, "No, that's not exactly what I meant to say. Look, the thing is, you act as if nothing particularly important happened. Like, you went to school, you had a snack, you played jump rope, you had a surgical procedure, you went to the mall... You don't seem to grasp the finality of what happened to you."
"What do you mean?"
Instead of answering me directly, Mr. Marks said, "Let me ask you this: you told me that you saw your mother crying. Why do you think she was crying?"
"Um, because of the mistake the hospital made."
"What does that mean to her?"
I shrugged. "I'm her child and she cares about me. She feels bad about signing the form. Also, this brings me one step closer to being a girl, and that's hard for her, too."
Mr. Marks scratched his head. I could see he was getting a little frustrated and impatient, which was unusual for him. "Okay. How about this: what event do parents want to see in their children's lives?"
"The day they move out?"
He groaned in frustration. "And then?"
"They get married?"
"And then?"
"They have kids?"
"Bingo! And what do they call those kids?"
"Grandchildren?"
"Exactly! Do you get it now?"
I licked my lips and looked around the room. I don't think I'm dumb, but I didn't see what he was driving at. I looked down at my Dodgers t-shirt. No answers there.
"Grandchildren!" he exclaimed. He had a hard time staying in his chair, he was so worked up. "Your mother wants grandchildren! Where are they going to come from?"
"From me?"
"Not any more!"
"Why not?"
Mr. Marks swore, and I was shocked. He'd always been kind, patient, and even funny. I realized later (when he apologized) that he was frustrated by my not understanding.
"Marcie, do you understand anything about human biology? Do you know about the birds and the bees? Where babies come from?" I nodded. He said, "It sure doesn't sound like it. You need to get a book for teens that explains all of that stuff. Before next week. And you have to read it. I'm going to quiz you on it, and I'm also going to call your mother to make sure you study it. Right now what's important is for you to realize that — regardless of appearance, in spite of breasts and surgical procedures — internally you are still a boy. You can't get pregnant, ever, not even if you have sexual reassignment surgery. There is no way, now or ever, that you can have a baby. Okay?"
I nodded.
"Until a week ago, you could have had a child of your own. You could have been a father. That would make your parents..."
"Grandparents."
"Very good. But now that you lost your testicles, you can never be a father. Your body doesn't produce sperm any more. Do you get it?"
"Yes."
He sighed. "I'm sorry I lost my temper with you. It isn't, as you said before, that I want you to be upset at what happened, but it doesn't seem that you understand the gravity of what's going on with you. You just skip happily from one bizarre cataclysm to the next, while all around you, parents, relatives, and friends clutch their hearts in terror."
"Really?"
"Really. This week, try to see how things affect your mother and your aunt. I don't necessarily mean asking them, but you could if you like. What I do mean is, look at their faces and try to imagine... if you were in their place, seeing you do the things you do. How would it feel to be your mother or your father or your aunt right now?"
"I'll try," I said. "Should I do that with you, too?"
He laughed. "It couldn't hurt."
"Marcie, what's with you?" Carla asked me. "You're so calm. It's kinda spooky. Are you on something?"
Cory walked by our lunch table. He gave me a funny look, then he smiled at Eden. She smiled back at him.
"Pretty soon the monitor's going to make him sit at Jerry and Pat's table," Carla commented. Eden reddened.
"Are you and Cory an item?" I asked.
"We talk," Eden said, with a little smile. "I don't have a lot of time right now, though, what with the Bye Bye Birdie rehearsals. But we talk."
"What was the weird look he gave me?" I asked her.
"He wants to ask you something," she said, and gave me a mysterious look. "But don't ask me what it is, because I won't tell you."
Somehow I didn't feel like wheedling the answer out of her. I wasn't tired. It's just that... not knowing didn't bother me. I felt... serene, I guess. Eden would tell me in good time, or Cory would.
"Marcie, what's with you?" Carla asked me. "You're so calm. It's kinda spooky. Are you on something?"
"No," I said, shrugging.
"I hope it wears off soon," she continued. "I'm waiting for your next escapade."
"Escapade?" Eden laughed. "Her next adventure. Oh!" she said, suddenly realizing. "We're like the girls in Nancy Drew! Marcie is Nancy, you're George, and I'm Bess — except that I'm not fat like Bess. And Jerry is whats-his-name, uh, Nancy's boyfriend..."
"Ned Nickerson," I supplied.
"Yes! And your Aunt Jane is Hannah whatever–"
"Hannah Gruen," I said. "But Aunt Jane is a nurse, not a housekeeper–"
"Whoa, whoa! Slow down there, girly girls!" Carla said.
"Sorry," I told her. "I just read a couple Nancy Drew books, so it's all fresh in my mind."
"Those are for little girls," she said.
"I know," I said, blushing. "But I never read them before."
"You've gotta get off that junk," Carla told me. "It's bad for your brain!"
Eden giggled.
... or did she? I looked at Eden's face and heard her giggle a second time, but she wasn't laughing. "What the –?" I asked.
Eden gestured behind her to Cory, who was answering his cell phone.
"That's Cory's ring tone," she said.
"Your giggle is Cory's ring tone?" I asked, eyebrows high.
Mrs. Auburn had asked me to pick up Nina after school. "Jerry and Cassie are busy," she said, "and I'll pay you, but don't let Nina know you're babysitting, okay?"
Tierson Elementary was a fifteen-minute walk, so I couldn't get there just when school ended, but Nina was going to wait for me. Eden came along so she could talk about Cory. We walked as quickly as we could. "I don't want her just hanging out in front of the school," I explained.
When we arrived, Nina was looking suspiciously at a car parked nearby, and was obviously relieved to see me.
"Hi," she said. "There's a weird guy hanging around. He came over to talk to me, so I backed up toward the school door, until he gave up. I just wish that he'd go away."
There was only one other little girl waiting. I asked, "Nina, do you know her?" Nina shook her head. "Let's wait until someone comes to pick her up."
Nina was clutching a notebook and a pen with a big pom-pom on the end. I said, "Nina, will you write down the number of his license plate? Just in case?" She scribbled it down. I took out my cell phone and set my purse on the ground.
Eden looked worried. "The guy is talking to that little girl," she observed.
I turned to look. The man had opened the back door of the car, and gestured to the girl. She shook her head no. Swiftly, he scooped her up and jumped into the car. The car took off.
It was as if an electric shock ran through my entire body. I grabbed Nina by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "Stay with Eden," I told her. I thrust my cell phone into Eden's hands and said, "Call 911. Take Nina to your house. I'll meet you there." Then I turned and ran.
The car took a left at the corner. I cut across the park, aiming to meet the car before it hit the next intersection. I was running faster than I ever ran in my life. The distance wasn't far, and I caught up with the car as it paused at the stop sign. I wanted to shout, "Stop!" or something, but didn't have the breath. I put my left hand on the frame of the driver's window and looked the driver in the face.
"Get the hell out of here!" the man in the back seat yelled. I don't know if that was directed at me or the driver, but the driver hit the gas. The girl in the back seat yelled, "Help me! PLEASE!"
I don't know how or when or why I did it, but with my right hand I grabbed the roof rack, and kicked my right foot up. My heel got stuck in the rack, so I couldn't have let go if I wanted to. I hooked my left leg on the side of the car as well as I could, and hung on for dear life.
I was on there pretty well, but if my hands slipped or lost their grip, I'd hang by my heel and my head would hit the road, so believe me, I didn't let go.
The driver panicked and started speeding up and braking hard to try to shake me off. He took some fast right turns, but I clung like a barnacle. The man in the back seat kept shouting, but I couldn't make out what he was saying.
The wind stung my eyes, and my hands started to hurt. I felt like an animal, fighting for survival. I couldn't think or do anything but hang on tight and not let go.
At the same time, I saw the faces of the two men and the little girl, like close-ups. I could see every emotion, every feeling and thought that went through them. The car was going fast, but time was moving slowly — incredibly slowly. I wondered whether I was going to die or be badly hurt. I knew I couldn't let go... not just for myself, but for the little girl.
I don't know how long it went on or how far we drove, but it seemed like an eternity. The girl kept crying, and the man kept shouting. I could see the driver's face, desperate with fear. Finally, I heard the whoop, whoop of a police siren, and the car stopped.
The policeman had to lift me up so I could unhook my heel from the roof rack. The entire time the man in the back seat was accusing me of everything he could think of, from vandalism to attempted carjacking. He said I had a weapon, a gun or a knife, that I must have dropped on the road.
The policeman didn't say anything. He calmly held me and helped me until I had both feet on the ground. He asked if I was okay, and when I nodded, he gave me a wink. I leaned against the back of the car as my chest heaved. I needed to catch my breath.
The policeman, with the same calm manner, asked the driver for his license and registration. The driver fumbled for it. I was about to turn to look at the girl, when–
Suddenly, and frighteningly, a second police car pulled up and stationed itself in front of the car. The policeman near me unsnapped his holster and put his hand on his gun. "Keep your hands where I can see them," he said to the men in the car.
To me, he said, "Go to the police car," and gestured with his head.
"I can't walk," I replied. My legs were wobbling so hard, I thought I was going to fall down.
The policeman pulled out his gun and said to the men, "Turn off the engine and step out of the car." Two more policemen came up to the bad guys' car. One pulled out the man from the back seat and bent him over the trunk of the car. The other moved me aside and helped the little girl from the car. I slid down to the ground and started crying.
Mr. Marks had told me, All around you parents, relatives, and friends clutch their hearts in terror. The terror was right there on the faces of Nina and Eden. Nina buried her face in my shirt and I could feel her trembling. Eden couldn't even talk.
In the end, the two kidnappers were handcuffed and taken away. I was still shaky... I still had trouble standing. My arms had big, wicked bruises on them but somehow they didn't hurt. One of the policemen gave me ice packs, but they were hard to use. They were so cold, it hurt to hold them, so I had to keep switching hands, and they kept slipping out of place. The little girl and I were put in a police car and driven back to the elementary school, where Eden, Nina, and the girl's mother were waiting. Eden and Nina were scared to death, and the little girl and her mother were crying.
In that moment I saw what Mr. Marks was talking about when he said, All around you parents, relatives, and friends clutch their hearts in terror. The terror was right there on the faces of Nina and Eden. Nina buried her face in my shirt and I could feel her trembling. Eden couldn't even talk.
The police drove the three of us to Eden's house. It all made Mrs. Hensel very nervous. She gave us something to eat, and kept dropping things while I told her the story.
At first Nina was tucked in a ball on my lap. I hugged her and hugged her and rocked her in my arms, but after she'd eaten a little bit, she told the story all over again from her point of view.
Mrs. Hensel said, "Oh, my!" a dozen times, and her face kept going white. She quit holding things in her hands — it was the only way to keep from dropping them. Honestly, I was afraid she was going to faint.
Much to my relief, after an hour or so Eden and Nina seemed better.
Later, when I walked Nina home, she kept glancing over her shoulder, as if someone was following us. Of course, there was no one there.
Seeing her do that just broke my heart. I wanted to tell her not to worry, but how could I?
When we got to the Auburn's house, I had to tell the story to Mrs. Auburn. Cassie and Jerry weren't there. I felt awful for Nina and her mother.
Mrs. Auburn told me I was very brave, but all I could say to her was, "I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry, Marcie?"
"I'm sorry Nina had to be there."
"That wasn't your fault."
"I could have left school early."
"If you had, who knows where that other little girl would be now?" The two of us were already crying. Nina, who was standing on a chair, looked from her mother to me and back again. Then she put her hand on her mother's shoulder and said, "Don't worry, Mom. It's alright."
Mrs. Auburn took us both in her arms and gave us a long, long hug. I didn't want to let go.
She invited me to dinner, but I had to get home to Mom. That meant telling the whole story again, and once more I saw in her face the fear and pain that Mr. Marks had told me about.
"Mom, I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to do it. I didn't want to do it. I didn't think. I just saw him grab that little girl, and I started running..." tears were pouring down my face. "I don't mean to make your life so hard. I really don't. It's just..."
"Oh, honey," she said, and put her arms around me. "You're a very brave girl. It scares me sometimes — sometimes it scares me to death! — but I am so, so proud of you. I really am!" She hugged me until I stopped sobbing, and then she said, "Let me call your aunt and find out what to do about those bruises."
We ate together, and then she drew a hot bath for me with baking soda in it. It was very soothing, and I fell asleep in the tub for a while. When I woke up the water was getting cold, so I rinsed off and washed my hair. I took a good look at myself all over, and found some bruises on my legs, but they were nothing compared to the ones on my arms.
"Good thing the weather's cool," Mom observed. "You can wear long sleeves until the bruises fade."
Somehow it felt much less dramatic the next day. Still scary, still horrible, but I went to school without worrying about crying every five minutes.
Mom told me I could stay home if I wanted, but I didn't. I needed to be busy, not to be alone with myself. She helped me pick out a long-sleeved reddish-brown dress. It was cotton, so it didn't feel rough against the bruises. I couldn't carry anything in my arms, so I took my little backpack.
At lunchtime, Cory sat at our table. "Hi," I said. "Eden said you wanted to ask me something."
"Yeah," he said. "Are you okay?"
I smiled. "Is that what you've been waiting to ask me?"
"No, but Eden told me what happened yesterday." Eden looked down. "It sounds pretty scary."
Yeah, it was," I admitted, "but I'm okay. Are *you* alright, Eden?"
"No," she said. "I'm still pretty, uh..." she broke off and silent tears rolled down her face. "Oh, my God, I thought you were going to die, Marcie!" she whispered. "And I didn't know what to say to Nina..."
Cory put his hand on her back and said something soft and soothing. She turned to him and put her head on his shoulder, crying quietly. Carla suddenly stood, looking over my head at someone. It was the cafeteria monitor. Carla very quickly intercepted the woman and talked to her, seriously and intensely. The monitor put up her hand several times to quiet Carla, but Carla pushed on, insisting and explaining.
They talked for a few moments, and then the monitor and Carla came over.
"Eden, honey," the woman said. "Are you okay? Would you like to go to the nurse's office?"
Eden replied with a sad, muffled "No."
"Okay," she said. "But if you're too upset, one of your friends can take you there. Right, girls?" We nodded. She scratched her cheek, and said to Cory, "For today it's fine, but tomorrow, you have to sit with the other boyfriends." Cory gaped, and Eden gave a little giggle.
"Is that Cory's cell phone, or is that you, Eden?" I joked. She sniffed, sat up, and started wiping her tears.
"I'm okay," she said. "Thanks, Cory."
"Yeah," he said, turning red as a beet.
The cafeteria monitor indicated by gestures that she had her eyes on Cory, then smiled and left.
Carla said, "Wow. I didn't think she'd listen to reason."
"That was very cool, what you did, Carla," I commented.
She shrugged. "Hey, by the way," she told me, "I'm never gonna wish any more adventures on you, Marcie. I'm sorry I ever did! I hope you can really keep a low profile from here on."
"Thanks," I told her, smiling. "We'll see what the future brings."
"This is your life we're talking about. Try to show a little interest! I'm not asking you what you want for lunch. I'm asking you how you want to appear on legal records. I hope that you at least understand that you can't switch back and forth between girl and boy every semester."
"We have to face facts," Mom told me. "It's going to be pretty hard for you to go back to being Mark."
"I guess," I said. My mother and I have been having this exact, same, identical conversation a lot lately. It finally occurred to me that maybe she was trying to get used to the idea.
"So...," she began, a little nervously.
I looked at her expectantly. Were we going to go over the same ground yet again, or was she going to talk about something new?
"So..., your father and I want to know something: how would you feel about legally changing your name to Marcie?"
I shrugged. "Okay."
She bristled a bit. "Don't be so nonchalant!" she scolded. "This is your life we're talking about. Try to show a little interest! I'm not asking you what you want for lunch. I'm asking you how you want to appear on legal records. I hope that you at least understand that you can't switch back and forth between girl and boy every semester. Do you have any idea how much work it would take for you to go back to being a boy?"
I felt a little uncomfortable. "I haven't really thought about it."
"Well, think about it!" she said. "What would you have to do?"
"Okay," I said, "Um, I'd have to get a haircut. And no more earrings or nail polish? And, uh, I'd probably need all new clothes." My mother crossed her arms and tapped her foot. I know she was biting her tongue, so I tried to speed things up a bit. "I guess I would have to have an operation to... uh, to..." I gestured at my chest.
She nodded. "You'd have to have those removed."
"Yeah," I said sadly.
"Anything else?" she asked.
I looked at myself. "I'd have to let my body hair grow."
"Even before that, there's something."
"I'd have to take toss– tosstes– tosstester– testosterone." I looked at the floor.
"Right," she said, but not unkindly.
"I think that's everything," I said.
"Mmm," Mom said. "And that's more than enough." She took a breath, then said, "So, back to my question: do you want to legally change your name to Marcie?"
"Okay," I repeated.
"No." Mom replied testily. "Not okay. On Monday, you have a day off from school. It's a Teachers' Day. We can go and get your name changed, and that's what we're going to do, unless you tell me, right here and now, that you want to go back to being Mark next semester."
"Okay," I said.
"No!" she said angrily. I could tell she was at the limit of her patience, but I didn't know what she wanted. So she finally spelled it out. "I don't want you to agree with me. I want you to tell me what you want to do. I want to hear you say I want to be Mark or I want to be Marcie. And so help me God, if you say 'Okay' one more time, I'm going to slap you!"
I almost said it, just as a reflex, but stopped myself in time. "I want to be Marcie," I told her.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
She put her hands on her forehead and walked away.
I waited a little bit, then followed her into the kitchen.
"Mom," I said, "honestly, I'm not trying to make this hard for you. I know I act like it's all just happening to me, but I really like it. I love being Marcie, and I don't ever want to be Mark again."
"Okay," she said in a tired voice.
I wasn't sure whether it was the right thing to do, but — what the heck, I gave it a shot. I walked over to my mother and gave her a hug. She put her head on my shoulder, and put her arms around me, too. Then she hung on. I rubbed her back a little. She kept holding on. I scratched my eyebrow and gave her another squeeze. "Mom?" I said. She didn't reply. "Oh, Mom," I called. "Can you let me go now?"
She sighed and let go. "I have to admit," she said, "You're better at being a girl than you were at being a boy."
"How come you want me to change my name?"
She considered a moment before telling me. "The lawyer that your father talked to said we could be liable — that means someone could potentially sue us — if they found out you were a boy going to school as a girl. He said that we have to establish the pretext of your being transsexual, and then we might have a viable defense."
"What's that mean?" I asked.
"If we can show that you are seriously trying to change gender, we could say that we hid the fact so you'd avoid prejudice."
"I think I get it," I said.
"To tell the truth, we didn't want to go with it, because he said we could lose anyway. But with all the things that have happened lately... it would be hard for anyone to doubt that you want to be a girl."
She swallowed hard and looked at the floor. I kept my mouth shut and didn't move. After a few moments my mother smiled and looked at me.
"So..." she said, "I guess you like the name 'Marcie' and want to stick with it."
"Yeah," I smiled.
"Marcella," she said.
"Yes." I was still watching myself, guarding myself, trying to not say okay.
"Good. Don't make any plans for Monday. We're going to do this in Sacramento, so nobody around here accidentally hears about it."
It was a long drive to Sacramento. We did a lot of talking.
"What was that phone call with Eden about last night?" she asked. "Can I ask?"
"Yeah," I sighed. "She was upset because I got dropped from the dancing chorus."
"Why were you dropped? I thought you danced just fine."
"I missed too many practices. Plus the woman in charge is like a drill sergeant. I don't think she likes me."
"Does it bother you, being dropped?"
"No," I admitted. "I didn't really want to do it. I just went along because of Eden. But she's not in the dancing chorus anyway."
"So... no Bye Bye Birdie for you?"
"No, I can still be in it, kinda. Jerry said I can be on stage crew."
"Oh, that might be fun," she said in a weird tone. I remembered that she wasn't very happy about my having a boyfriend.
"Don't worry, ma," I said.
She laughed. "Oh, hon, I have to worry about you a lot more now than I ever did before."
I sighed and looked out the window at the unglamorous scenery. "Why in the world did people ever come to Sacramento?"
"It was the gold rush that brought people here," Mom replied. "Then there was the transcontinental railroad."
Once we got into the city itself, Mom somehow managed to negotiate all the wacky one-way streets and find a parking garage.
"Will I get a new birth certificate?" I asked.
"No, not yet," Mom replied. "There isn't really much point until you can change the gender on it, right?"
"I guess so," I replied.
Before we went up to the court, Mom and I had a little snack in a coffee shop.
She finished eating first, and after clearing her place, she pulled out some papers and went through them.
"Are those for my name change?" I asked. She nodded. While she went through them, I saw the name MARCELLA ANTOINETTE DONNER.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I called. "Is that supposed to be me? Is that supposed to be my name? Antoinette?"
"Yes," Mom replied with a satisfied smile. "You're going to be Marcella Antoinette Donner. Antoinette was my mother's name."
"I thought her name was Toni."
"That was her nickname."
"No offense, but I think it's a weird name. I don't want it. It would make my initials MAD, like mad."
"Your friends could call you Maddie, then. You'll have another nickname handy if you need or want it."
"Mom! No! This isn't fair!"
"Oh, no?" she asked, her voice rising a bit. "Not fair? It's not fair? Is that what you think? Well, think about this:
"Parents usually name their children, but you went and took the name 'Marcie' all on your own. If you were born a girl, I was going to name you Antoinette. And for a boy's name, I wanted Antoine."
"Whoo-yuck!" I commented, and actually shuddered.
She looked at me in silence a moment. "I liked it. I still like it. But your father hated it."
"Yay, Dad!" I cheered.
"I don't think so," she cautioned. "He wanted to name you Rusty."
"Rusty!? Like a dog?"
"That's what I said. We couldn't agree, so the name 'Mark' was a compromise. And — no offense — but I always thought it was a very plain name."
"Yeah, I guess," I conceded.
"So, now that I have another chance, and since neither you nor your father thought about your middle name, I am finally going to get my wish!"
"Oh, Mom!"
It was too late to redo the documents, and I could see that it made her happy...
Maybe it was her way to find something nice for herself in all the changes that were happening in me.
So I waited a bit, and pretended I was thinking. Then I told her that I liked the name, and that I was happy she named me after Grandma Toni. She smiled and then she teared up.
It was so corny, I could feel my eyeballs start to roll, so I grabbed her in a hug. That way, she wouldn't see the expression on my face.
She squeezed me tight and said, "Oh, Marcie! I'm so glad!"
The legal part of it was no big deal. We waited in a tiny courtroom (I didn't know that courtrooms could be that small!) for about forty minutes, until a judge called my name. After my mother and I were sworn in, the judge asked us a couple of questions. We just kept saying "yes" until he declared that my name was now Marcella Antoinette Donner.
The judge, a bald man with a nice voice, took off his glasses and studied me for one long moment. Then he said, "Best of luck, Miss Donner," and gave me a friendly smile. "I don't usually have two such lovely ladies in my courtroom, or such easy cases to decide. You've really made my day!"
"Oh, thanks," I said, a little embarrassed. I saw that Mom got a little red as well, and I had to try to not giggle. We awkwardly made our way out of the little wooden gate that closed off the witness box.
"Oh, uh, your honor!" I added in too loud a voice, as a very late afterthought.
He laughed and waved his hand, as if shooing us out. "Go have fun, ladies. Enjoy the nice weather!"
"That's your new high school: Blessed Yvette High School for Girls. I've told you the name before."
"I don't think so," I said. "I'd remember a whacked-out name like that."
She gave me a funny look.
As soon as we were out of Sacramento and back on the highway, Mom said she had something to tell me. "I don't want to spoil your day," she said, "and I'm sure you're going to take this as bad news, but — after all — there is no good time to tell you."
"What?"
In a quiet voice, she dropped the bomb: "You're going to have to come to New Jersey soon."
I tensed up. "How soon?"
"You get out early on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. We'll leave right after. That way, we can have Thanksgiving as a family, and you start your new school on the Monday. This way you'll meet some of the other girls and hopefully make some friends before Christmas vacation."
"Thanksgiving? Oh, wait a minute — the other girls?"
"Yes, we want to send you to Blessed Yvette."
Huh? "Mom, who is 'Blessed Yvette'?"
"That's your new high school: Blessed Yvette High School for Girls. Yvette was a saint, or almost a saint. I don't know how they work it out. Don't act so surprised. I've told you the name before."
"I don't think so," I said. "I'd remember a whacked-out name like that."
She gave me a funny look.
I went on. "And don't *I* get any say in all of this? What if I want to stay until the end of the semester? What if I want to go to the public high school? Is there something wrong with the public school there? I mean, I never wanted to move anyway. Especially to New Jersey!"
Mom let out a big sigh. I looked out my window, and saw her face reflected in the glass. She glanced at me, again with that look I couldn't read. I remembered what Mr. Marks said about putting myself in her place. I tried to imagine what she was feeling, but drew a blank. So I asked her.
"Mom, what are you feeling right now?"
She laughed. "Who are you, Dr. Phil?"
"What I mean is, I know what it's like to be me, but I don't know what it's like to be you. Is it hard, being my mother?"
"Oh, honey," she said. "I wouldn't want to be anyone else's mother. You're my baby!"
I rolled my eyes and said, "Yeah, but that's not what I mean. Is it such a big deal to let me stay to the end of the semester? And why do you want me to go to a girls school?"
"Fair enough," she said. "Let me take one question at a time. Let's see: what is it like to be your mother? Oh, it's a little stressful, being the mother of a quote-unquote action hero. It scares me. When that little girl got kidnapped, well..." she choked up for a moment.
"I'm proud and amazed at what you did, but I can't help but think that you easily could have died, or at least been badly hurt. You could have ended up being kidnapped yourself! I know you didn't, but you could have. The eternal question with you is what's going to happen next?"
"I know," I said.
"At the same time, I think... I know... you're trying to keep a low profile." She laughed in spite of herself and was silent for a while. Then she continued.
"You asked about staying until the end of the semester. Your poor father is all alone in New Jersey. And I just feel like a visitor here. Your aunt has been very generous in sharing her home, but we're driving her up the wall. Maybe you don't notice, but she wants to get her house back to herself. Plus, there is so much happening with our new house... the inspection, the mortgage... it's hard to manage it, long distance.
"I want us all to be together. For many reasons. We're a family — that's the big one — but I'd like my husband to hold me when you have your next adventure."
"Oh, mom," I sighed. "I don't think I'm having any more adventures. That last one did it for me."
"Like I said before," she continued, returning to my questions (which I'd forgotten!), "it's better for you to switch mid-semester. That way you get to make some friends. If you change schools during vacation, it's harder to meet people. Although meeting people and making friends doesn't seem to be a problem for you any more."
"Did it used to be?" I asked.
"It sure looked that way," she replied. "Now, what else did you ask me? Oh, the public high school... right. Where we are now, there is a public school, but it's not very good. You'd be better off staying in bed than going to that school there. Our *new* house is in a district with a very good public school, so once we move, you can go there, unless you like going to Blessed Yvette's."
"Blessed Yvette," I repeated scornfully.
"Maybe you should look her up on the internet and found out who she was," Mom gently suggested. "The school has a website, too, I think. Anyway, Blessed Yvette's was very accomodating about everything."
I frowned. "Does that mean they know I'm not, uh —" I had a hard time saying it, "not really a boy? I mean, not really a girl?"
"No," she replied, "and that has to be our little secret." She bit her lip. "You asked me what it's like to be your mother. Well. It's hard when I talk to my friends, and they ask me about Mark and how he's doing. I have to be careful what I say. You've been in the newspapers a couple of times already, and I don't want to connect what you did with Mark. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"We haven't talked to any of our relatives for a while," she said. "I don't know what we're going to put on our Christmas card this year. And we're running out of time on that one." She shook her head.
I had to puzzle over that for a while before I knew what she was talking about.
"And your father..." she drew a breath. "It's lucky that we're moving to a new town, where nobody knows us. But your father, when he started his job, of course one of the first things he did was hang up a photo of the three of us in his office. Everybody knows he has a son Mark. They ask about you."
"But they don't know me."
"It's called being polite, Marcie. People ask about family, to show interest. So, where did this Marcie come from? Who is she? And what happened to Mark? Eventually someone will put it together, but what is your father supposed to do? When they say, Hey, Art? How's your son Mark doing? what does he say? Oh, it's the darndest thing. He's a girl now. How about that."
"Oh," I said in a small voice. I hadn't thought about that.
"Yeah, 'oh'. And the potential legal problems, if someone realizes you're a boy... So, when you ask me whether you have any say in what's happening... I think you've already had your say in a big way. Your father and I are doing our best to cope with the repercussions of your little experiment in dress-up."
She concentrated on the road for a while. Then she said, "Let's see. I think there was one more question. Oh, right: girls school. You know I'm uncomfortable with you dating boys."
"You don't want me to date girls, do you?"
She shot me a look that just about scorched me.
"Sorry, Mom!"
"Don't interrupt me," she said. "I know it's going to happen, but I'd like to slow it down as much as possible. That's part of it. Also, like I said, you can't go to the good public school until we move. Plus, you need to be around girls so you know how to be a girl. You're okay at it now, but there are some rough edges that need to come off, and being with other girls will help with that. AND, you might find that you like it."
"But we're not even Catholic, Mom!"
"That's okay. It turns out that a lot of the girls who go there aren't. They just want a good, affordable private education."
"And since you mention dating girls–"
"I was only kidding!" I cried, surprised to find myself blushing.
"I don't want you getting involved with girls, either. Your life is complicated enough already."
I could feel my entire face glowing red. Seemed like a good time to change the subject. "Oh!" I said, remembering, "What did you mean when you said the school was accommodating? What was there to be accommodating about?"
"Popping you in near the end of the semester, for one. They're also going to let you take gym class at the end of the day so you can shower at home."
"How did you swing that?" I asked.
"We told them you have an embarrassing skin condition," she grinned. I was shocked. "We offered to bring a doctor's note, but they didn't care. We were just bluffing, though. I don't know what we would have done if they needed one. You have to to take gym with the seniors instead of your own class."
"How am I going to explain that?" I asked.
"You don't have to explain it," she said. "Say that you didn't make your schedule, and you don't know why it's that way."
"Wow, Mom," I said, "I didn't know you were so clever."
"You had to get it from somewhere, didn't you?" she quipped.
"You sound a little sad," Cassie said brightly. "What's wrong?"
"If I tell you, you'll just tease me," I replied, "Besides, I want to tell Jerry first."
"Oh my god," she said breathlessly. "You're not pregnant, are you?"
"Now I have a question for you," Mom said. "How come you haven't asked anything about the new house and the new town?"
"Um," was all I could say for a moment. It was a good question. I didn't even know where it was on the map.
"I guess I was used to it being up in the air. Aunt Jane said we had to wait for the closing, whatever that is. Is it sure for certain that we're going to get that house? And why does it take so long?"
"Buying a house isn't like buying a pair of shoes, or even like buying a car. There's a lot involved."
"So, could it still fall through?"
"I suppose it could, but it would have to be something catastrophic. Theoretically, either party could pull out, or the title search could get complicated, but at this point..." she trailed off.
"How long after the closing until we move in?"
"We can move in right after the closing. In fact, once we have a closing date, I'm going to schedule the movers to bring all our stuff out of storage into the new house, and we'll go over and start cleaning and painting..."
My face fell. "Cleaning? Isn't the house clean when you buy it?"
"Oh, my goodness," she said. "Face it, young lady. Cleaning is a part of life."
She told me about the town. It's called Flickerbridge, which is about as weird a name as "Blessed Yvette." While she talked, I started daydreaming. I thought about the school's name. The initials would be BYHS. That didn't sound so bad. I could tell people I was going to BYHS. That would be my school, at least for a month. I tried to picture myself in the uniform, and wondered how short the skirt could be.
"Mom, does BYHS have a dress code?"
"What? Oh, I'm sure it does. Why?"
I was still a little lost in thought. "When we get there, can you take a picture of me in the school uniform?"
She didn't answer me. Instead she narrowed her eyes and looked at me as closely as she could.
"Eyes on the road, Mom! Eyes on the road!" I cautioned.
"Who is this picture for?" she asked.
Then she got it. "Oh, no," she said. "No, no, no. You are not sending pictures of yourself to boys."
"Not boys," I protested. "Boy. Just Jerry. He asked for one."
"He asked for a picture of you in the school uniform?" I nodded. "Absolutely not. And that is final. When we leave in a few weeks, you will say your goodbye to Jerry."
"Why don't you like him?" I asked. "What do you have against him?"
"Nothing," she sighed. "He seems perfectly nice. In fact, I have to admit that I like him. He's a good catch; he seems like a keeper. If you were really and truly a girl, I'd be happy. His family is very nice... I like his mother."
"So what's the problem?"
"I'm so afraid of what could happen. Please promise me that you'll be careful — very, very careful, Marcie. Don't lead him on, and don't get carried away. Don't let him get carried away. Especially now that you're leaving."
The first thing I did when we got home was look at the calendar. I only had 18 days of school left, and only 29 days left in Tierson. Not even. What did I have left? Pat's Halloween party, the Veterans Day weekend, and Bye Bye Birdie. Maybe I could do something special with that long Veterans Day weekend. I'd have to think. I wanted to call Carla and Eden, but neither of them were home.
I called Jerry's house. Cassie answered and told me that Jerry was out somewhere with Pat. "They're out doing some dumb boy-thing," she said. "They're probably burping, rolling in mud, and punching each other on the arm. You know, the usual."
"I guess," I said.
"You sound a little sad," she said brightly. "What's wrong?"
"I'm down," I replied, "but if I tell you, you'll just tease me. Besides, I want to tell Jerry first."
"Oh my god," she said breathlessly. "You're not pregnant, are you?"
"No," I said scornfully.
"You sound like you're on your period," she said.
I sighed, and figured I might as well go with it. "Yes I am," I said. "So could you not tease me today?"
"Okay," she agreed (which surprised me!).
"I did want to talk to you about something," I said, then hesitated. "If I ask you a question, will you give me a straight answer?"
"Sure, but only today."
"Okay. I want to read, um, a fashion magazine, you know, um, a girls magazine, but I don't know which one to choose."
"Oh, yes," she replied. "Your tomboy past strikes again."
"I guess."
"Right now I read Cosmo. And Allure sometimes — they have good recommendations for makeup and moisturizers and stuff like that. You have to pick that up, at least every now and then, once you start wearing makeup.
"When I was your age, it was Seventeen. It's pretty subjective. One of my friends reads Redbook. She likes the short stories.
"You know what you should do? Try different ones until you find the one you like. You can't really tell from the covers or the contents. You have to live with it a little bit. One of them will click, like it's made for you. Anyway, it's not life-or-death and it's not like you can make a wrong choice. Just grab one and see if you like it.
"Nobody's going to laugh unless you're carrying Cosmo when you're dressed frumpy. But you don't dress frumpy."
"Oh, thanks." Cassie actually gave me a compliment!
"Hey, by the way," she said, "that was pretty cool, what you did — saving that little girl. I don't think I would have had the guts."
"Thanks, Cassie."
"No problem," she said. "Today, no teasing. In a day or two, merciless teasing, okay?"
"Okay," I said, smiling.
Cassie was so nice to me that I almost told her the news. But I held out until Tuesday lunch, when I could tell Carla and Eden at the same time.
"Whatcha got there?" Eden asked, turning her head sideways. "Redbook? My mom reads that."
"Yeah," I admitted. "I borrowed this one from my mother. I think it's too mature for me."
Carla scoffed. "Maybe you're too mature for it."
"I don't think so," I replied. "I just wanted to give it a try. I have to find the magazine that fits me."
"No you don't," Carla countered. "You don't need that stuff."
I shrugged, and then I dropped the bomb.
"Moving?" Eden cried. "Oh, it's not fair!"
"Wow, that's just around the corner," Carla observed. "You're gonna be gone in a flash."
Eden was crestfallen. I wondered whether she and Carla would continue to be friends after I was gone. They didn't really have anything in common except me. Come to think of it, though, I don't really have anything in common with either of them. We're just friends.
"So, are you gonna go to that girls school?" Carla asked.
"Oh, yeah. Listen to what it's called: Blessed Yvette High School for Girls."
"Blessed Yvette?" Eden repeated. "What kind of name is that?"
Carla laughed so hard she nearly choked on her food. "Oh, that is just too precious!" she howled as soon as she was able.
"Jerry wants a picture of me in the school uniform," I told them.
Eden's mouth dropped open in shock.
Carla shook her head. "Boys are pigs," she said. "Are you going to send it to him?"
I nodded, smiling. Eden laughed.
I added, "My mom told me I couldn't, though."
Carla shrugged. "Maybe she's right. Boys think those outfits are sexy. He might do nasty things with that photo."
"I dunno," I said, and took a sip of my water.
Eden asked, "Will you be here for Bye Bye Birdie?"
I nodded.
"At least you won't miss Pat's party this weekend," Carla noted. "So what did Jerry say when you told him?"
"I haven't told him yet," I replied. "I'm telling him after school. Can you guys keep it to yourselves until tomorrow?"
"I never realized that when I show up as Marcie, you'll have to explain..."
"Well..." Dad said, in a noncommittal way.
"What are you going to say?"
After telling Jerry about the move, I went home and called my dad.
My hands were shaking a little bit, but I had to do it before I lost my nerve.
"How did the name change go?" Dad asked.
"Fine. It was pretty easy." I gave him a quick version of the day. "So, now I'm Marcella Antoinette Donner," I concluded.
"Oh," he laughed. "Your mother finally got that name in there! Did she tell you the story? That before you were born she wanted to call you Antoine? — or Antoinette?"
"Yeah, she did," I said. "And you wanted to call me Rusty?"
"Yes," he said. "It's a good, strong name. I thought it was a great name for a boy. I still think so."
"Oh, Dad! It's a good name for a dog!"
"That's what your mother said," he replied. "But a friend of mine, in the Navy, one of the best friends I ever had, his name was Rusty."
"And this guy... he had red hair, right?"
"He did, yes, he did have red hair."
"Oh, Dad! It was just a nickname! His real name was probably Clarence or something," I laughed.
"I liked it," he said simply. "I knew it was a nickname. Anyway, at this point it's all moot anyway."
"I guess," I agreed.
"So what's on your mind?" he asked after a little pause.
"How do you know something's on my mind?"
"This is the first time you've ever called me," he said. "Usually it's me or your mother who calls you. Did your mother give you any news?"
"You mean about the move? Yes, she told me. We'll all be in New Jersey soon. Yay!" I said, ending with a bit of fake enthusiasm.
"Right," he said. "I'm looking forward to it. But listen, you have to prepare... mentally. This is a very small apartment. We'll be a little tight here, but at least we'll all be together. We've never lived under such cramped conditions, so there will be some adjustments. There's only one bathroom."
"Uh-huh. I can deal with it."
"You say so now," he joked. "We'll see!"
I paused, feeling very awkward. My father yawned, then apologized.
"Dad?" I leaped right into it. "The real reason I'm calling is that I wanted to say thanks."
"Oh, you're welcome," he said. "What are you thanking me for?"
"For everything."
"It's okay," he said. "Don't worry about it. I'm not really sure what you're thanking me for, but it's okay."
I felt so totally inadequate. It was frightening. I could handle something being weird or hard for me, but thinking that I'd made things difficult for my father... at his job... that was too much to handle.
That picture in his office, I knew just which one it was... he always said it was his favorite. Someone had snapped a picture of the three of us at my cousin's wedding. We were outside, and the three of us were smiling at each other, unaware of the photographer. It was a perfect picture, a good likeness of each of us... everybody happy...
"Um, Mom told me that you have a family picture in your office and that the people you work with ask about me — about Mark, I mean."
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "People ask about each other's families all the time."
"Yeah, but I never realized that when I show up as Marcie, you'll have to explain..."
"Well..." he said, in a noncommittal way.
"What are you going to say?"
"What do you think I should say?" he gently countered.
"Maybe I could be a child of a former marriage?"
He scoffed. "Your mother and I have never been married before, and anyway the numbers don't work. We'd have to be married after you were born, right? Besides, then people would ask about our exes."
I couldn't quite work all that out, so I took a different tack.
"Could I be adopted, or the child of a cousin or something?"
He drew a breath. "I don't think I could pretend that you're not my child. I'm sure your mother couldn't. And even if we did say that, what happened to Mark?"
"He stayed in California."
"You mean we abandoned him?"
"No — He just liked California and stayed."
"That's not a very good story, Marcie." His tone was very quiet and gentle.
"Sorry. I'm just trying to help."
"I know you are. And I appreciate it, but if we're going to make up a story, it has to make sense and hold together. We can talk about it once you and your mother get here. Honestly though, I don't see a way around telling the truth."
I didn't know what to say.
"Try not to worry. I can take a little flack. And we'll talk about it." He sounded a little tired. I remembered the time change; that it was later for him than it was for me.
Then I started thinking: if the people he worked with knew about Mark, it might eventually get to someone in school. I mean, people know people, and this is exactly the kind of story that people would want to tell. I felt the panic creeping up my spine.
"Dad," I said. "If one person knows, then everybody could know. My school could find out."
"I know," he said. "We've thought about that. If I tell at work, we have to tell your school too. Maybe we'd have to tell them first."
A chill ran through me.
"We'll talk about it when you get here," he repeated. "And I want the school to meet you first, before we potentially tell them."
"Potentially?" I repeated. "Does that mean we might not tell?"
He hesitated. "We'll talk about it when you get here, okay?"
It looked like I'd have to be Marcie-who-used-to-be-Mark, which did not look like a good option, especially as a way to get to know people. "Hi, I'm Marcie. I used to be Mark, but you know... I liked dresses better."
After talking to my dad, I felt pretty nervous. I'd been thinking of the move as a new start, where I'd be Marcie as if I'd always been Marcie. Now, it looked like I'd have to be Marcie-who-used-to-be-Mark, which did not look like a good option, especially as a way to get to know people. "Hi, I'm Marcie. I used to be Mark, but you know... I liked dresses better."
I was determined to work out a good story: one that left me as Marcie from the very beginning, one in which Mark either never existed or was somebody else (not me!). I took out a piece of paper and began a list of all the questions that needed to be answered:
Then I stopped. Was that all? What else was there? There had to be something else. I thought about the picture in my father's office. That was really the only problem. Could he say that he put up the wrong picture? That it wasn't his family? That the kid, Mark, was a cousin of mine, or something?
I sighed. If he only hadn't put up the picture, there wouldn't be anything to explain.
No, that wasn't true. His co-workers probably asked about his family. They didn't just go by the picture! Wife? Kids? Those are normal questions.
Plus, there are my relatives. Most of them are on the West coast: California, Washington, and an uncle in Texas. They'd be far away from New Jersey, but they would have to be told. Sooner or later. How could they not know? What could we say? (Oh, yes! We thought Mark was a boy, but turns out he was a girl all along! Never thought to look! Neither did the doctors! It's the damndest thing!)
I wished there was someone who could help me. There were so many people I *couldn't* ask: Eden, Carla, Jerry, Cassie, Mr. Bryant.
My aunt isn't home right now, but she'd probably have some ideas. At least she'd have the adult perspective. Was there anyone else? Maybe Alice or Denise?
Then it hit me: Mrs. Earshon, the psychic! She might be able to tell me how things were going to work out, even if she didn't have the answers.
I dug out her number and gave her a call.
She said hello, and yes, she remembered me...
She seemed a little cool and distant, almost formal, as if she didn't want to talk to me.
Still, she didn't hang up.
I told her when I was moving, and asked if I could come for another reading, but she replied that it was too soon.
I asked what she meant, and she said, "It's just too soon," and left it there.
Before the call, I planned on explaining to her the whole Mark and Marcie business, but now, with her acting so weird, I was sure I didn't want to.
It was puzzling and frustrating, and I was getting a little angry. She was the one who wanted to meet me, in the first place. I didn't go seeking her out. She was the one who was curious about my life and wanted to see what her cards said about me. Now that the shoe was on the other foot, she didn't want to know me? What was that about?
Still, I had to be careful with what I said, because there was something else I needed from her: more tea. I wanted to know where to get it.
She told me I could buy it through the internet. She gave me the name of the tea and the website. I had to ask her twice, so she ended up telling me the same thing three times total. She didn't sound impatient or angry or anything. She was just flat. It was disappointing. I had to do all the work in the conversation. All she did was respond to what I said with the shortest answers possible.
At the end, when I'd given up, when I was going to say goodbye, she said, "You know, that tea... you're supposed to stop drinking it when it starts to work."
"Oh, I know," I said. "I did stop. This is for a friend."
She sounded impatient when she said, "Marcie, don't forget that I'm psychic. It's not a joke. I know when people are lying, and I can tell that you're lying now. I just don't understand why."
"Why would I lie to you?" I asked her in a defensive tone. What did she want from me? She didn't want to talk to me, and now she was getting mean. I didn't have to take that from her. She wasn't my mother, after all. She had no right.
"You'd like to hide something," she said simply.
"I have nothing to hide," I told her.
"It almost sounds like you believe that," she countered.
I felt my anger grow like a flame. Now that I knew where to get the tea, I didn't need to be careful. So I told her, "I don't want to be rude, but why are you accusing me? What did I ever do to you? Are you mad at me because your reading didn't work? Because you couldn't figure me out?"
In a surprisingly calm voice, she said, "Can I ask you one thing? If I'm wrong, I'm very sorry, but I have a question for you: Are you really a boy? Or did you used to be a boy?"
I was stunned, and for a few moments I couldn't speak. Inside I was asking, How could she hit me there?
"Marcie? Marcie? Are you there?"
At last I said "yes" in a low croak.
"Yes what?"
"I was born a boy, but I'm changing into a girl."
"Ahh!" she said in a relieved tone. It almost sounded like a long, slow fart, or the air coming out of a balloon. "Thank goodness! Now I get it!"
"Please don't tell anyone."
"I won't, hon." Now her voice was warm and confidential. "They wouldn't believe me anyway. So, did the tea do anything for you? I guess it must have, or you wouldn't want more."
I told her what happened. As I talked, she gasped and chuckled.
"My doctor doesn't believe it. He says it couldn't be the tea."
She laughed happily. "Well of course he wouldn't believe it."
Now she was relaxed and ready to talk. It was like a dam had broken; now the water could flow. This was the Brenda Earshon that I'd been hoping to talk to!
"Tell me," she asked. "Are you nervous about the move? I get the feeling that you're afraid of being exposed."
I told her about my father, about the photo in his office, and about my new school.
"Oh, don't you worry about any of that!" she said. "It isn't going to come to anything. Your parents are watching out for you. You have to be ready for a few unpleasant experiences, but nothing bad. Just normal life. The only thing — the only person — you have to worry about is a girl near you —"
"In New Jersey?"
"Yes, in your class, a girl your age, a girl in your class, in your school in New Jersey. Anyway, I didn't mean worry. You shouldn't worry, because your only defense is to be *open*. You have to try to be the best friend you can be. That's what you need to remember, okay?"
"I guess. Brenda, when I'm there, can I call you?"
"Uh," she hesitated. "You know... you have to understand... that this is my livelihood. This is what I do for a living. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
She paused for a moment, then said, "Why don't you give me a call after you're settled. I mean really settled.
"This is what I want you to do: When you're in your new house, after everything is unpacked and put away, after all the dust has settled, and you're all moved in, you're going to have a special moment. The first time you look around your room and feel that everything's in place, then you can call me. Not a moment sooner. And we can talk about how it could work."
"How what could work?"
"Your calling me. Like I said, I do this for a living. Even my friends have to pay."
I smiled. "Are you saying I'm one of your friends?"
"Oh, aren't you the clever one," she laughed. I heard a doorbell in the background behind her. She said, "Listen, I have to go. Remember what I said: don't worry, be OPEN, be the best friend you can be. Call me when you're really, truly settled, and we'll make arrangements. Now I have to go."
Her doorbell rang again, and she hung up.
I chewed on my finger for a little bit. "My mother would kill me," I said, "and my father would flip out."
I have a tip for adults: if you don't want a child to worry, don't say "don't worry" unless they are already worrying. If they're *not* worrying, they'll start to think, "Don't worry?" Why would I worry? They wouldn't say "don't worry" unless there was something to worry about. What do they know that I don't? and you'll get that worry train chugging right along.
So, after talking to Mrs. Earshon, I was worried.
I went crazy waiting for my aunt to get home. When she finally did get home, she went to her room, then to the bathroom, and I couldn't say two words to her until we — she and Mom and me — were sitting around the dinner table.
Jane looked a little worn out, and I wondered whether she'd have the energy to help me.
I told her my dilemma: about my father's office workers and the family picture. About who was Marcie and what happened to Mark, and what to say.
"That's no big deal," she scoffed, without looking up. "You already solved that problem."
"I did?"
"Yeah, with the tomboy business. You told everybody you used to be a tomboy. Now you take it one step further, and say you used to want to be a boy."
That was just about the stupidest thing I'd ever heard. Maybe my aunt was overtired or something.
"No," I said. "That doesn't make sense."
As if I hadn't spoken, my aunt continued, "You wore boys clothes and insisted on being called Mark. Now that you've grown up" (she gestured at my breasts) "you've changed your mind; you like being a girl. It happens in real life — sometimes — so that's what happened to you."
I frowned. It still didn't make sense. It was all wacky and backwards. But Mom's face just lit up. "That's it!" she cried. "That will work! Oh, I can't wait to call Artie! Excuse me." She daubed her lip with her napkin, and ran out of the room.
With disbelief, I watched her go and heard the boops as she dialed the phone. I let out a big, frustrated huff and shook my head.
Aunt Jane looked at me with a laughing smile. "You're not convinced?" she asked.
"It doesn't work!" I protested. "It doesn't go! There's no way that it makes any kind of sense. And nobody's going to believe it!"
"They have to believe it! What's the alternative? That you were a boy?" She laughed. "Even if they look at pictures of you when you were little, they'll still believe it.
"The only masculine thing about you is your jaw, and even that not so much. And a few boy-mannerisms you have. Like the way you shovel food into your mouth.
"Your mother is right. When you go to the girls school, you'll act more like a girl. Here you spend too much time with boys and boyish girls like Carla. If you spent most of your day with girls like Eden, you'd behave more like her and nobody would ever think you were a boy."
"I guess," I allowed. Boy-mannerisms, I muttered to myself. As if!
My aunt chuckled. "Don't worry. Everybody will buy the I-wanted-to-be-a-boy story."
"But I didn't want to be a boy!" I said.
"You didn't?" she asked, a little surprised.
"No — that's not what I mean. I mean, I'm supposed to tell people that I was a girl who wanted to be a boy?"
"What's the problem?" she asked. "It's not a girly enough answer? It's a lie. But it's a good lie. It fits into the facts in a very neat way."
"Hmph," I said. I didn't know what I didn't like about it. Mom, to hear her in the next room, seemed to think it was a wonderful solution. "I guess I just wanted Mark to be someone else entirely," I told her.
"Mmm," Jane nodded. "Like your twin brother who was lost at sea."
"Yeah," I said. "That's the kind of story I was hoping for."
Now that the REALLY big question was (apparently) answered, I had to talk to Carla and Eden about ANOTHER big question: what costumes would the three of us wear for Halloween?
I kind of assumed that we'd have some sort of group costume. Eden did, too, but Carla didn't like the idea at all. She was going to be a hula girl, period. AND, she wanted to be the only hula girl.
"I don't want you girly girls showing me up," she explained.
Carla's remark gave Eden the perfect idea for our costumes: we wouldn't be girly at all! We could be football players! Her mother helped us put the costumes together. We got black spandex pants and jerseys that were just long enough to cover our butts. Then we found some cheap helmets and shoulder pads that were made for small boys.
The funny thing was that the mannish outfits only played up our femininity: dressing like boys made us look pretty girly — in spite of the padding, and even with the helmets on. We got some of the black stuff to smear under our eyes, and that was the whole costume!
Pat's Halloween party was fun. Some of the boys took our costumes as an excuse to give me and Eden fanny pats, which got old very quickly. Aside from that, the party was great. Nothing happened that you need to know about, though.
Jerry and I clung to each other pretty closely. He seemed to be the only one who really knew that I was going. You know what I mean. Everybody knew, but it didn't change the way they behaved.
Jerry told me, "I have to get as much of you as I can before you go!"
When he hugged me, I had to fight to not cry. I didn't want to waste the time crying on him... I just wanted him to squeeze me, and hold me, and touch my hand and kiss me.
Oh, and don't tell Mom, but I had a burning wish and desire to be one hundred percent girl in every part of me before I had to leave Tierson.
Tuesday evening, which was Halloween itself, I stayed home and handed out candy to the trick-or-treaters, who were mostly very small kids.
I wore my costume again, just for the heck of it. I was very pleased to see that everybody, even the smallest kids, knew I was a girl in spite of how I was dressed. It wasn't like I had any doubts... it's just nice to get a little validation! Although I did hear one boy say to his friend, "Of course she's a girl! Didn't you see those breasts?" The friend turned around, gaping. When I waved to him, he gawked and stumbled. The first time I made a boy nervous!
The next day at school, Cory asked me and Eden to meet him at the school newspaper office. "I got permission to use this room," he explained, as he led us into a small meeting room and shut the door.
We sat around a small metal table, and I waited while Cory composed himself.
Then he started wringing his hands nervously, and said in a shaky voice, "Uh, Marcie, I've been wanting to ask you something for a long time, and I can't wait any more. I know you're moving, and ah," he gasped for a moment, and I was afraid he'd have another asthma attack.
I waited anxiously for fifteen seconds, but then he drew a normal breath. I relaxed.
He continued, "So, ah, I feel like I'm, ah, running out of time to ask... to ask you... well, the thing I want to ask you." He looked me in the face, and I nodded.
As you can probably imagine, I was getting pretty uneasy. If Eden hadn't been sitting there smiling, I'm not sure what I would have done. I didn't want to be rude to anyone. Plus, he's Eden's boyfriend... which was a good thing, considering the way he was carrying on. He couldn't be wanting to ask me out, could he? That was just too, too impossible.
Cory stammered for a little while, talking about how much time he'd put into something or other, and not wanting to throw it away, but he would if he had to, even though he didn't want to, but if he had to throw his work away he wanted to do it now rather than later...
I gave Eden a desperate look, silently asking what is he talking about?. She smiled, almost laughing, and she interrupted Cory.
"Cory, you're taking forever! You're killing Marcie with the suspense! Can I ask her?" Before he replied, she turned to me and said, "Look, Marcie, Cory wants to do a webcomic about you. Well, us. I'm in there, too."
"A webcomic?" I asked. "What are you talking about? About me?"
Now, I was really starting to worry. I opened my mouth, but words failed me.
I remembered Cory's cartoons about the Little Train and my climbing the building. Mainly I remembered the short skirts and the hair in the wind. Big round breasts and lots of leg. I shook my head.
Cory nervously began pulling papers out of a portfolio. He was perspiring like a horse. Wet blotches appeared on his shirt.
The sheets of paper were very big, like two feet wide, and they all had cartoons on them. "I was thinking of you, like, as an action hero, you know?" He was talking very quickly, and his hands fumbled while he arranged the papers in front of me.
"And then I thought, like, superhero? And then it hit me, and I started drawing like crazy. I stayed up all night, three nights in a row! It was like, uh, inspiration, and I couldn't stop because it all worked so well..."
He set some more sheets on top of the ones I'd seen. It was a lot of work. He must have been making these for ... well, I don't know. A long time.
"I have more at home," he told me, as if apologizing.
"You do?" I asked. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be scared or flattered or what.
Some of the drawings were sketchy, but they all were good. Very good. Even better than the cartoons in the paper.
There wasn't a whole lot of dialog ... There was a lot of me, always in a short skirt, hair in the wind, showing lots of leg. The breasts were bigger, more than a little bigger than real life, but that I didn't mind. I mean, I didn't mind *that* much. It gave me something to aspire to.
And there were plenty of drawings of Eden in there, too. In most of them she was giggling.
"I'm the Giggler," she explained. "Your sidekick."
"Sidekick? And you don't mind that?" I pushed the pages around a little, and asked, "Is Carla in here, too?"
Cory blushed deeply. "I want to put her in, but ..."
"He's afraid to ask her," Eden finished for him. "He's afraid of her and of Pat."
"I've always wanted to do a webcomic," Cory explained, "but I never had any idea what it could be about. But, you, you know, with you as the central character — well, not really you, but inspired by you..."
Now, his nervous perspiration was pouring freely. It was a little gross, but not too... Eden grabbed some paper towels and mopped his brow. Then she gave up and handed him the whole roll.
He didn't seem to notice. His eyes were glued to my face, anxiously trying to read my face, to gauge my reaction.
I came to a page that showed only me and Eden. Lots of leg and hair. I shook my head.
"Cory," I said, "I don't look that good. I mean, I'm not *that* pretty or hot, or whatever. Eden is — you made her look the way she really looks, but you make me look perfect. I'm not."
Cory shrugged, and said, "Artistic license."
Eden said, "Oh, Cory! You're supposed to deny it and say she is perfect!" Then she giggled.
I smiled.
Eden went on, "It does look like you, but more heroic than you are in real life. Bigger." Her eyes twinkled mischievously.
"Whatever," I said, blushing a bit.
There were a few notes written on the drawing.
As I bent to read them, Cory quickly explained. "I figured you — your character — and the comic would be called Heroette."
"Is my name in it?" I asked.
"No," he said. "I call you Darcy Monet. Is that okay?"
"I guess," I said. "What's Eden called?"
"Dee Dee van Gogh." Eden giggled at that, and I had to laugh.
"Can I see the drawings before they go on the web?" I asked. "I'd like to have some veto power."
Cory squirmed a bit. "I can send you sketches, but by the time it's inked, it's too late to change."
"Hmm," I said, "but if there's something I really object to, I hope you won't put it on the web, or at least you'll take it down if I ask."
He was silent for a bit, considering it.
Eden said, "Cory, you know, she wants to make sure there isn't anything that makes us look stupid or ... well, slutty."
"I hadn't even thought of that," I said. "I was just worried about my life being on the web for all the world to see."
"Oh!" Cory said, in a relieved tone. "Is that all? It wouldn't be your life. It's all imaginary. You're just, like, the model, the inspiration, you know?
"See, this is the thing: in real life you do stuff that people only do in movies. So I thought, what if there was a girl who did that kind of thing all the time and had superpowers and a costume —"
"Yeah, that's another thing," I put in. "I don't like the skirt."
"No?" he asked, "I could change the style. I could put pleats in, or give it a ragged edge, or make it tighter, or add lace... if you show me a skirt you do like..."
"No, no, it isn't that," I said, "it's the length. It's almighty short."
"Well, yeah," he said, as if to say well, what did you expect?
I chewed on my finger for a little bit.
"My mother would kill me," I said, "and my father would flip out."
I thought a little more. "If somebody, anybody, like some clown in Arkansas or New Jersey or Tokyo reads it, they're not going to know that there's a real girl named Marcie Donner, are they?"
"No, no!" he said. "As far as anyone will know, it's all just stuff that I dreamed up in my head."
"Okay," I said. "As long as you agree to these conditions: (1) There can't be any way for people to know my real name, or who I am, or where I live. (2) You can't make me look stupid or slutty or too sexy. (3) I get to see the sketches first, and if I don't like the final drawing, you have to take it down. (4) You don't use anything from my real life without checking with me first. Okay?"
Cory smiled. He looked tremendously relieved.
"I can live with that," he said.
Eden clapped her hands and *almost* gave him a celebratory hug.
"I'll wait until you dry off," she told him with a cute smile.
"Why is this here?" I asked.
"Who the hell knows?" Ryan replied. "Do you know what a chimney climb is?"
I can't say that the time flew. The days ran like regular days. Saturday I went to a movie with Jerry. We spent a lot of the time kissing and whispering. The week that led up to Veteran's Day was a week like any other week.
It was odd for me, everything going along as it always went, and at the same time knowing that my time was short. Even though everyone knew I was leaving, nobody seemed to feel it but me. I mean, at lunch, I'd look at Carla and Eden and think, "I might never see them again," while they would be talking and acting like I'd be there forever.
Well, Jerry knew that our time was slipping away. He was the only one who felt the same ache that I did... that it was all finishing... that I might never come back again.
On Veteran's Day, Friday, I went on a picnic with the Auburns.
I bought a pair of jeans for the occasion. I also got them because Jerry said I'd need a pair for stage crew. "You have to climb ladders and stuff," he said. "Unless you want to put on a show for everybody, you'll wear jeans."
It was kind of a special event or a milestone or something, buying my first pair of jeans as a girl. Eden came with me to help pick them out. I'm really going to miss her. Carla, too, but not in the same way. Carla was my first friend at Tierson High, but Eden was my best and closest girl friend.
The picnic with the Auburns was so nice. I like them so much, I almost wanted to cry! Is it crazy for someone as young as me to wish that someday I could marry Jerry, and have his family as my in-laws?
Nina sat near me, and I could tell she was sorry I was going. I put my arm around her and she leaned into me. It was so special! I never felt that much trust and acceptance... from anyone, really.
Nobody mentioned the move directly, but it was always right there, behind everything we did and said. The Auburns must have agreed not to bring it up.
Cassie didn't tease me much, and Mr. Auburn only asked me *one* embarrassing question. Both of those things were so unusual that it just underlined the strangeness and finality of the day.
Saturday and Sunday of that weekend were taken up by day-long rehearsals of Bye Bye Birdie. There was a lot of work to do, mostly crowd control.
You probably don't know how high-school musicals work. A big part of it is fund raising, which means selling as many tickets as possible.
The way you get parents and relatives to buy tickets and come to the show is to put their children in it. So there was a huge chorus. There was the dancing chorus and the singing chorus, and the "extras" chorus for people who can't sing or dance. All these people needed to be stored somewhere when they weren't on stage, and they had to be quickly moved on and off as needed.
Professionals brought our sets to the theater and hung them. On Saturday, they taught us how to work everything. On Sunday, they watched us do it.
The show was held in the Academy of Music, which is a very grand name for a small-town theater. Still, the place was impressive. The stage was incredibly deep, and the area above the stage, where the unused backdrops were hanging, was so high you couldn't see the top.
Sunday, I had a wardrobe problem. "Mom!" I called, "Do you know where my jeans are?"
"In the laundry. They were filthy! You should have put them to wash after that picnic. It looked like you played football in those pants and rolled all over the ground! Grass stains, dirt, mud... Then you got dust and grime all over them in that theater yesterday. Don't they ever clean that place? Now they won't need to, since you cleaned it for them with your jeans!
"You've got to take care of your pants the way you take care of your skirts. Wearing pants is no excuse for being messy..."
"Okay, Mom! I get it!" I sang out.
She still had one more phrase aching to get out: "I had to wash those pants before they got up and walked away by themselves!"
"Oh, Mom!"
There was nothing to be done. There was no way on earth that they'd be clean and dry in time, and no way could I wear them wet. It was too cold out, for one thing, and my mother wouldn't have let me out of the house.
I picked out a gray wrap-around skirt. It was my least favorite and most functional skirt, and I figured it could afford to get dirty. Besides, in spite of Jerry's warning, so far I hadn't done any ladder-climbing or anything that made a skirt impractical. Pants would have been more comfortable, but I didn't have that option.
When I arrived and met up with the the rest of the stage crew, it was easy to see that something was afoot. The boys were huddled in a group, looking at me.
"What's up?" I asked, feeling a little uncomfortable.
"Nothing bad," Jerry whispered. "Listen, we want to get under the stage. It is the coolest place! It has trapdoors and special effects and stuff. There's a door by the light board, but it's locked."
"And?" I prompted.
"There *is* a way in, but you have to go through some funny hallways and passages. Ryan can go some of the way, but there's a place where the hallway gets really narrow. You're the only one small enough to fit through. Once you're inside, you can open the door for the rest of us."
Ryan was the smallest guy, just a little bigger than me. He explained, "I can almost make it through, but my head is too big. Last year I could do it."
"Almost doesn't count," someone said.
I nodded, and Jerry, Ryan and I went off stage left, down the hall, past the dressing rooms, into the properties room. This was a huge, messy place full of interesting stuff. We weren't supposed to be in there, so we moved quickly.
Following Ryan, we went to the far corner where there was a small door, about three feet high. Instead of a knob, it was held shut by two turnscrews. Ryan opened them with his Swiss army knife. This led to a narrow, dead-end hallway lit by skylights. The ceiling was very high above us.
"Why is this here?" I asked.
"Who the hell knows?" Ryan replied. "Do you know what a chimney climb is?"
I did. It's when you plant your back against one wall and put your feet on the opposite wall, and walk yourself up.
"No peeking," I cautioned Jerry, before I agreed to the climb.
"Don't worry," Ryan said. "He needs to keep a lookout, so we don't get caught."
Jerry rolled his eyes.
"I'm not kidding, man," Ryan insisted. "If we get caught now, we'll be closed out—"
"Okay, okay," Jerry acquiesced in a huff, and exited to the properties room.
It was easy until we got about twenty feet up. "Here's the shelf," Ryan grunted.
Above and behind us was an opening. He went first, resting his elbows on the ledge, then his hands, and finally, in a quick (but scary) movement, his butt.
"If you don't think you can do it, better go back down," he said, but I quickly copied his movements.
"Excellent!" he complemented, nodding sagely. "I figured that if you could scale the building, you wouldn't have a problem with this."
My heart was pounding a bit, but I just nodded.
From there, a ladder took us down to a dimly lit hallway. Ryan made me climb down first. "You won't be able to get in front of me down below, unless you want to climb over me."
I passed on that offer, and carefully descended the ladder. Once on the ground, I slowly felt my way down the hallway, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Soon the passage ended at a narrow gap.
"I can't get through there," he said from behind me, "So you'll have to go it alone. Once you're through at the other end, you'll be on a landing, and you'll find a light switch on your right. Go down the stairs. You'll see a door with a sign that says Don't shut this door so damn tight that you can't open it. Open that door, switch on the light inside, and turn off the light on the stairs. Now you'll be under the stage. Go left. Just follow the wall. It turns a corner, and a little ways after that you'll find some stairs going up. That leads to the door by the light board. If you hear someone tapping on it, tap back, and open it quietly. Okay?"
I made him repeat the whole thing three times, until I was sure I got it.
"How did you guys find these passages?" I asked.
Ryan shrugged and smiled. "Just poking around. You ready?"
"Yeah, I'm ready," I said. I gulped and began pushing through the gap.
It was pretty tight, especially around my hips and breasts. I was sure I could get through, so I kept going.
My skirt was getting pulled by the rough wall. It rode its way up my thighs. If Ryan had been in front of me instead of in back, he would have gotten an eyefull. Since he wasn't, and no one could see, I didn't worry about it. At least my skirt wasn't falling off.
I hope this place isn't *too* dirty, I thought. I really have to get more pants. This is probably going to ruin my skirt. Oh well, it is my least-favorite.
Then, as the skirt pulled even more, I thought, This better not get my underwear dirty! How would I explain *that* to Mom!
While I talked to myself I kept pushing on. I came to a lump of rough concrete in the wall behind me, just at the level of my butt. It was probably a patch.
I took a breath and tried to squeeze my hips smaller. Of course it didn't work. Some points in the concrete scratched my butt through my clothes. The skirt was going to be filthy for sure.
I wiggled and shifted to get my hips around the pointy parts, and for a moment I was afraid I was going to get stuck inside here and not be able to get out. Then what would happen? Would they call the fire department? If they did, what could they do? Would they have to break the wall to get me out? Would it hurt?
"Ryan? Are you still there?"
"Yes," he replied. "Everything alright?"
"Oh, yeah," I said. "I think so. There's just something poking me in the butt."
I heard him sigh in a way that meant, Oh, brother! Girls can be so dumb!
At least that's how it sounded to me. I got a little irritated, and *then* he said, "Can you speed things up? Or are you afraid to go on?"
"I'm not afraid!" I told him, and felt the rough concrete rub against me.
Whatever damage my skirt was going to suffer was already done, I figured. I could always throw it away, and Mom would never see it. I had to get out of this stupid passage!
So I gave a quick tug with my hips, to get past the rough patch. I heard a pop! and a tick-tick as something small hit the ground and bounced once.
Immediately I knew what it was: the button that held my wraparound skirt had come off and skipped away. I was sure from the sound that it hand landed ahead of me, in the direction I was heading.
I moved forward quickly now, and as I did, my skirt worked its way completely off me. I had to grab it to keep it from falling to the floor. And then I was through.
I could hear Ryan's feet shifting anxiously in the darkness. "Everything okay?" he asked. "Can't you find the light?"
I saw the switch quite plainly, but I wasn't ready to turn on the light. "Hang on," I told Ryan. I gave my skirt a good shake and wrapped it around me, holding it with one hand. Then I switched on the light. "Looks good," I said.
"All right," he said. "I'll wait here until I see the light go off."
"Good." I repeated. Then I started looking around for the button.
Ryan asked, "What's wrong? Why aren't you moving?"
"I lost a button."
"Oh," he said, in a dismissive tone. "They must have plenty of buttons upstairs. I mean, it wasn't made of gold or something, was it?"
"I've got to find it," I said. "It's the button that holds my skirt closed."
"Oh," he said. His little face lit up with interest.
Ignoring him, I looked carefully. There wasn't much area to search, but the button was nowhere to be found. I looked at the floor in the narrow gap, but the button wasn't there, either. I made my way slowly down the concrete stairs, looking everywhere, but still didn't find it.
Since there wasn't any place else left to look, I had to give up. There wasn't any point. The button was lost. Ryan was right: there were probably plenty of buttons upstairs in the costume area.
I opened the door, turned on the understage light, and turned off the light on the stairs.
After shutting the door — being careful to not shut it "so damn tight" — I took my skirt off again and gave it a good look. There was some dust on it: concrete and ordinary dust. I shook it out hard, and brushed it with my hand. It didn't look too bad. I picked off the threads where the button used to hang, and wrapped the skirt around me again.
I could hear people walking overhead. It was quite clear that I was under the stage. It was a huge space, and seemed bigger than the stage itself. It was a spooky place. Strange machines lurked in the middle of the room, and I couldn't make out what they were. The bare beams that held up the wooden stage were supported by endless rows of columns.
I wasn't really afraid, but I wanted to get out of there. I walked quickly along the wall until I found the stairs up. I turned on the stairs light and turned off the lights in the big room. Then I tore up the stairs.
There was a soft tapping on the door, so I gently opened it. The guys all ran inside, hardly letting me by.
Jerry was the only one who waited. "Hey, babe. How'd it go? I can see by your face that something's wrong."
"This stupid skirt," I said. "It's a wraparound, and I lost the button."
"Ah," he said, getting it in one. "So if you let go, it'll wrap around your ankles?"
"Mmm," I replied. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
He grinned. "How did you guess?"
He looked around, then spotted a script sitting on top of a trunk. The script was held together by a big metal clip. He took the clip, put an empty coffee mug on the papers (to weigh them down), and helped me get the clip in the right place to hold my dress shut.
It took a little doing, but once in place, it worked great. It felt a little funny, but it did the job.
"Thanks," I said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. He ran downstairs and I went to look for someone with a needle, thread, and an extra button.
I hadn't gone two steps, when the director called everyone to attention. I was in the wings, so I couldn't see him.
As I moved forward to get a better view, someone ran into me, someone with a coffee mug in hand. He look at me, and he didn't even apologize!
A little miffed, I moved to the right so I could see better. I rested my hand on a huge fan whose support was six feet high.
The director was still calling people to attention, and as he called, "People! People! Can I have some silence, please?" my head started to itch. It felt like some dust or a bug or something was caught in my hair. I wasn't sure whether it was moving, or just making my skin crawl. Either way, I tried to not freak out. I just wanted to get it off me.
It was no surprise that something got into my hair. That funky, dusty basement-like area I'd just gone throught... it would be odd if there wasn't some dirt, or worse, on me someplace. I'd have to get someone to look me over before I went home, so Mom wouldn't ask where I'd been.
As I reached with my left hand to brush the possible spider or dust or dust-spider-yuckiness-thing from my hair, (Ew! Ew!) I unconsciously moved my right hand as well. That unaware hand hit the big fan in the worst possible place: the ON switch.
As the fan revved up, the breeze ruffled the pages of the script. Inevitably, the coffee cup that weighed them down was gone, carried off by the rude person who'd bumped me.
I stood there, mouth open, one hand reaching for the cobweb in my hair, the very picture of a ditzy teenage girl.
The top sheet fluttered, lifted slightly, and suddenly shot onto the stage. It didn't go far. The next sheet followed more quickly, and sailed halfway across the stage. The third and fourth followed even more quickly and flew even farther, and soon pages by the dozen were flitting across the stage, landing everywhere.
It looked like paper being shot from a firehose, and the pages covered the stage like snow. Stupidly, I ran directly into it, arms in the air, trying to stem the flood by standing in the way.
I got plastered with paper and my hair blew into my face, until at last I had the sense to step out of the way. The last few dozen sheets blew out behind me as I stood there with my arms open like a perfect idiot.
All the sheets had gone. The fan was tearing into my hair and skirt, pressing my clothes against me, and softly shifting some of the pages on the ground.
"Shut the fan off!" the director shouted. "Shut the fan off! WILL SOMEBODY SHUT THE GODDAMN FAN OFF!"
Someone offstage did so. Silence descended.
The director said, "Young lady, what is your name?" Red faced, I told him.
"Well, then, Miss Donner," he said in a syrupy, sarcastically polite voice, "Would you please be so kind as to pick up my script from the floor? Could you do me that great favor? And once you've done that, would you be a dear and put the pages back in order? If it's not too much to ask?"
He added in an abrupt shout, "And can you do it QUICKLY?" I jumped, and a few people laughed.
Then, in a normal, irritated tone, he asked, "Now, you wouldn't happen to know what happened to the clip that was holding the script together, would you?"
"I lost the button on my skirt," I said quietly, "and–"
"What are you saying?" he shouted. "Do you see, students? You must PROJECT your voice to be heard. PROJECT your voice.
"Now tell me, Miss Donner, where is the metal clip? PROJECT your voice as you speak."
I sighed, and pointed to my hip.
"And why, pray tell, is the clip on your hip?"
I explained, that it was a wraparound skirt and I'd lost the button.
My explanation provoked howls of laughter, hooting, and whistling.
The director called for silence, then said, "Will someone who can help Miss Donner repair her skirt please do so?"
Needless to say, there were several offers that left me quite red in the face.
I crouched down with my back to the crowd and began collecting papers. A few other people, including Eden, helped me gather them.
Then, while I sat at a desk in one of the dressing rooms, with a shawl wrapped around my waist, I put the pages back in order, as somebody's mother sewed the button back on my skirt.
She paused every so often to guffaw or to wipe her eyes, but in spite of that, she was done before I was.
As I looked around at their sullen faces, I suddenly felt like Wendy from Peter Pan in the midst of the Lost Boys. "I could tell you a story," I wanted to say, but of course I didn't.
"I told you to wear pants," Jerry said later. Then he burst out laughing. "I'm sorry..." he said, "I just keep getting the picture of you and those papers everywhere. I wish I'd seen it. It's like... hey! Did you ever watch I Love Lucy?" He laughed even harder.
I gaped in astonishment and hit him on the arm.
"Oh! Take it back!" I said.
He kept laughing. "Take it back!"
After he'd regained his composure and apologized enough to mollify me, he told me the boys' plan for the nights of the performance. Each night, as soon as we got there, I'd go open the door. The boys would take turns standing inside the door so they could open it for each other. They had worked out some signals... It all sounded terribly uninteresting.
Jerry was incredulous. "Don't you want to go back down there? That place is so cool!"
I scratched my eyebrow and said, "Not really. I thought it was kind of creepy and dirty." The memory of the cobwebby-spidery thing on my hair was still very fresh. I shuddered.
"No, listen," he said. "Tuesday night, before the dress rehearsal starts, I will give you the grand understage tour: the trapdoors, the special effects, the lights. You'll love it."
I shrugged. "Okay, if you say so."
"I do say so," he replied.
Unfortunately, Tuesday night was so busy, and there were so many adults everywhere, that it was impossible for me to get past the dressing rooms. Boys were changing clothes at the far end of the hall, so the monitor wouldn't let me through.
The rest of the stage crew was very put out. We were all in a group backstage. I was the only one standing. The boys were sitting or half-lying on the ground, or on boxes and props. As I looked around at their sullen faces, I suddenly felt like Wendy from Peter Pan, in the midst of the Lost Boys. "I could tell you a story," I wanted to say, but of course I didn't.
"How is she going to get in tomorrow, and the night after, and the night after that?" one of the boys asked.
"We're never getting down there again," another lamented.
"It's the only reason I was on stage crew," sighed a third.
"I have an idea," I said, with a big smile. "There is a way."
"What?" Ryan asked, his face full of doubt.
"I could disguise myself as a boy."
"No way!" Jerry scoffed.
"I think I could make it work," I told them. To Jerry I said, "I need your Giants t-shirt and baseball cap."
He grinned. One of the other boys groaned, "Oh, give me a break!"
I borrowed an ace bandage from my aunt, and used it to tape down my breasts. I put my hair up under the hat, and didn't use any makeup. Wearing Jerry's t-shirt, I walked right past the monitor with Ryan and another of the Lost Boys. Jerry didn't come — I figured that if he was along, it might make someone recognize me.
Once past the monitor, the rest was easy. I did the chimney climb and down the ladder by myself. Then the narrow hallway, down the stairs, through the understage area, and finally up the stairs, where Jerry was tapping. I quietly opened the door, and one of the Lost Boys went inside.
That done, I skipped off to the bathroom, removed my disguise, and put on a little makeup.
"Ta da!" I said, posing this way and that in front of Jerry.
"You're amazing!" he said. "What a transformation!"
"If you only knew!" I quipped. He shook his head, smiling.
"So will you let me give you the downstairs tour later?"
"Sure."
To tell the truth, we didn't have a lot to do. The crew was at least twice as big as it needed to be, so there was no problem with people hiding under the stage. I guess that was the idea from the start.
After the second act was well underway, Jerry asked if I wanted the tour he'd promised. On stage, the students playing Kim's mother and father were about to sing "Kids!" which is kind of a boring song, so I said yes.
The two of us slipped through the door and down the stairs. He picked up a flashlight and the two of us walked around, hand in hand. He showed me the different machines and explained what each one did. A lot of kissing was involved, but the machines were interesting, too. There were some that blew stuff up on the stage, like fake snow or fake fire or confetti or whatever.
"I don't think any of them blow papers all over the stage, though," Jerry noted.
I gave him a sock on the arm and he pretended it hurt.
You'd never guess from above, but there were little elevators and trapdoors of various sizes all over the stage. Some could make people disappear (there were piles of mattress-like foam to catch the falling actor), but most were just plain doors, so if you had a street scene, for instance, you could have someone climb down a manhole, or walk into the subway.
The trapdoor that interested me most had a strange device like a cage under it, and two huge springs.
"Jerry, what does this one do?"
"This one is the coolest of all! See, the actor gets in here..." He led me inside the cage-like part as he talked. "Last year we took turns going through this..."
"I feel like I'm locked up," I complained. "I want to get out."
"Don't worry," he said. "Nothing will happen. You cross your arms over your chest so you don't whack them." He crossed my arms for me. "See the door above your head? It makes you pop up in the middle of the stage near the front. It looks like you appear out of nowhere. The trapdoor over your head opens the moment the platform under your feet starts moving. See the wood you're standing on? It matches the stage, so you can't tell from above whether the platform is up or down. It's a perfect fit."
He went on describing how it worked. I was a more than a little uncomfortable and wanted to get out, but I didn't want to interrupt him.
While he was talking, one of the other boys came sauntering over. Jerry didn't see him, but when the guy got closer, I suddenly realized what he meant to do: he was going to send me up on stage.
I couldn't get out of the cage without help, so I cried out, "Jerry!" and pointed at the other boy with my chin.
"No, you idiot! Don't!" Jerry shouted at him, but the other boy was faster. He slammed the button with his fist, and with a click and a whoosh! I was standing on stage, facing the audience.
The auditorium was full. I knew that my mother and Aunt Jane were out there somewhere. Instinctively I reached up to push my hair back from my face, and then I froze. I gaped at the crowd before me, and couldn't move. It seemed like a slow eternity as I gazed into that dark sea of faces. It was probably only a few seconds that passed, but it seemed like an hour, and what finally broke my spell was quick thinking by one of the actors.
The kid playing Kim's father grabbed my arm and spun me to face him. "Kids!" he sang. "You can talk and talk till your face turns blue!" Then he spun me away from him and gave me a shove. I stumbled forward, and the force of the shove kept me stumbling until I was safely offstage.
One of the Lost Boys looked at me with dismay. "Oh, Marcie! What did you do? No more going understage! We're all going to be in trouble now!"
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"If I was your father, and I knew that a group of boys got you to go to a place like this with them, well —" he sighed. "Let's just say I would be less than happy."
Of course the Lost Boy was right. We were in trouble.
The director asked everyone on stage crew to come in early on Thursday. He read us the riot act. You can probably imagine what he said. We were irresponsible, it was dangerous, it was not a safe space. Of course one of us could get hurt, but since no one knew we were down there, one of us could get trapped, unable to call for help, until someone happened to have a reason to go below stage. Even then, we'd be lucky if they found us.
He tried his best to paint a picture of one of us injured, starving, alone, and cold in the dark under the stage for days, weeks, months, or even years. It was exaggerated and melodramatic, very overdone.
As if that wasn't enough, he pointed out that we could be killed or maimed by the machines themselves, and he dwelt for a long while on my appearance from the trap door. He asked me three times, "Do you realize that you could have lost your hands or arms, or even literally lost your head doing what you did?"
Sometimes it was hard for us not to laugh, but when he started scolding the boys for taking advantage of me, I started getting pretty mad. He said I was gullible, impressionable, and naive, and that I had to be more careful what sort of boys I associated with.
"You have to think about your reputation," he told me, "You don't want people thinking you're some kind of floozy who'll do anything for a thrill." I was about to tell him that I'd heard enough, but luckily he dropped the subject before I opened my mouth.
He had a list of our names, and wanted to make sure it was correct before he called our parents.
"Oh, man!" one of the boys complained. "Do you have to call them? You already chewed us out."
"Yes, I do need to call them," the director replied, "I have a responsibility to call them, and I can't punish you as effectively as I hope your parents will."
A few of the boys groaned.
The director went on, "But I am, unfortunately, going to have to wait until Saturday to call them, because if you're going to be grounded I don't want you grounded until the show is over."
Next, the building manager from the theater talked to us. He repeated a lot of the same things, but he added that the lock had been changed on the door near the lights. "So, wherever you got the key from, it's no good any more," he concluded.
One not-too-bright boy named Paul said, "We never had the key."
"You never had the key?" the man asked in surprise. "Then how did you get in?"
We all looked at each other. I hoped no one would rat me out, but Paul spoke right up and laid it all out. I couldn't believe it.
The man looked at me for a while and said, "You should have thought that if the boys wanted you to be the only girl on stage crew, they must have had something bad in mind."
I didn't answer. I was angry and embarrassed and it seemed like the textbook definition of unfair. Somehow *I* was getting the major flak, and being blamed in a way that the boys weren't. Which was doubly unfair, or super-unfair, when you consider that I didn't even WANT to go under the stage in the first place.
I was in trouble because I did the boys a favor.
The building manager made me show him the way in. I pointed to the shelf high in the wall, then we went back down the stairs near the light board and I showed him where the narrow hallway met the landing.
He whistled. "I've been working in this building for fourteen years, and I didn't even know these hallways were back here!" He let out a breath and said, "Kids! They just get into everything!"
We walked back down the stairs, and as he shut the door he told me, "I'm going to change this lock right now, and this door will stay locked from here on in."
I almost pointed out that (according to the sign) he might end up closing the door so damn tight that no one would be able to open it, but I bit my tongue instead.
When we reached the stairs that led to the light board, he stopped and turned to me. Then he said, "I know this is a little out of line, but I'm going to give you a piece of advice. I have a daughter... she's a good bit older than you, but you know, fathers always worry about their little girls. If I was your father, and I knew that a group of boys got you to go to a place like this with them, well —" he sighed. "Let's just say I would be less than happy."
He put a foot on the first step, then stopped again and said, "In fact, if I was your father and I knew you were the only girl on stage crew, I wouldn't let you do it at all."
I hung my head, wondering exactly how much trouble I'd get into. Mom and Aunt Jane had missed my magical appearance. Aunt Jane had fallen asleep (she worked a night shift two nights before and was still recovering), and Mom happened to be looking away. I found these things out later. Since neither of them had mentioned it, I didn't bring it up.
Unfortunately, I was pretty sure that Mom was going to be home on Saturday when the director would call. She had already warned me that we had a major cleaning operation this weekend. She wanted to leave the house nice for Aunt Jane, and I had my last appointment with Mr. Marks. Mr. Marks was doing me a special favor by letting me come on Saturday.
I imagined Mom getting the call while I was with Mr. Marks. She'd call Dad, and by the time I got home they'd be ready to flay me or fry me or whatever they were going to do to me. I probably didn't have to worry about school since I was leaving in less than a week...
Of course, there was the inevitable question of whether it would do any good to tell Mom first, before she heard from the director. As much as I hated the idea, I could see the advantages. So, Friday after school, I'd tell her.
On previous nights there had been parents serving as monitors by the dressing rooms and in the areas where the big crowds of students were on hold. Now there was one near the light board, keeping an eye on the stage crew — on ME in particular. The monitor, who was somebody's father, told me so. "It's for your own protection," he said.
Every time I'd go out of his sight, he'd come hurrying after me. So I started telling him, "I'm just going to walk over there and come right back." He'd follow me anyway.
Finally I said, "You know, if you're going to spend all your time watching me, the boys will be free to get into all kinds of mischief."
I really just wanted to get him off my back. It looked like he took the hint, because after that he stayed near the light board.
I saw Eden standing offstage on the other side, and I waved to her. She didn't see me, so I walked across the stage toward her. For some reason, I was sure that the curtains were closed. I thought I'd seen one of the other stage crew pushing some props onstage, but I guess I was mistaken.
So, there I was, walking in a leisurely way across the stage, when Eden finally saw me. Her face registered shock, which puzzled me. Then I realized that the curtain was not only open, but that two actors were talking. The two of them had their backs to me. It was the buildup to "Put On A Happy Face." For a moment, I looked into that dark sea of faces that was the audience, then I ran the rest of the way across.
"Marcie, what in the world were you doing?" Eden asked in a whisper.
"Who knows?" I sighed. Luckily, the director must have missed that appearance of mine, because I never heard anything about it.
Eden gave me a hug. "Oh, Marcie, I'm going to miss you! I'm going to miss all the crazy, scary things you do, but mostly I'm going to miss you!"
"I'm going to miss you, too, Eden. You're my first best friend, do you know that? My first best friend ever."
Tears came to her eyes, and then I realized that I was crying too.
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Oh, Marcie, Marcie, Marcie! What I am going to do without you? I'm going to have to go back to my boring old life! So many times I thought you were going to give me a heart attack, but I wouldn't have missed any of it."
Fast forward to Friday night. I told my mother about popping through the trap door. All she did was shake her head. I had the feeling she couldn't make any sense out of what I said.
I told her that the director was going to call her, and she said, "Fine." I think she was distracted by our trip to New Jersey and the new house. She couldn't handle any more details.
I told Aunt Jane about it, and she laughed. Then she hugged me really hard and mussed up my hair. "Oh, Marcie, Marcie, Marcie! What I am going to do without you? I'm going to have to go back to my boring old life! Oh, girl, I'm so glad you came to stay with me. So many times I thought you were going to give me a heart attack, but I wouldn't have missed any of it. You're my favorite niece, do you hear? Don't forget your old auntie. Make sure you call me now and then. Keep me up to date on all your pranks and adventures."
I smiled, "I will. Thanks for letting me stay here, and thanks for letting me do all this."
"Oh, hon, it's been mind-blowing. I can't believe it's only been two and a half months. If you ever want to come stay, you know you're always welcome! Just one thing — if you do come visit, don't turn back into a boy. You're right, the way you are. You make a great girl." She smiled a warm smile, so I hugged her and found myself crying into her shoulder.
"I'm going to miss you so much, Aunt Jane!"
"Okay, okay," she said, after a while. "Just do me a favor and call me 'Jane' from now on. That 'Aunt Jane' stuff makes me feel too old. You're a big girl now."
All right. So I'd managed to get on stage each night — inadvertantly. Of course, I couldn't let the last night, closing night, go by without doing something spectacularly stupid.
It was the second act, during a big dance number called "Shriner's Ballet." The girl who plays Rosie goes into a Shiner's meeting, and dances for them, trying to make her boyfriend jealous.
I was standing near the lightboard when that dope Paul looked up. "Oh, crud!" he said. "I left my script with the lighting changes way up there!"
I tilted my head back. Way far back. I could see the script, plain as day. There was a catwalk about eighteen feet up: a narrow walkway made of a metal grate. Through the grate you could see the script, a small white rectangle not far from the top of the ladder.
"So go up and get it," I told him. I was still pretty irritated with him for ratting me out.
"I c-ca-ca-can't," he whispered. "I'm afraid of heights."
"Then why did you go up there in the first place?"
"Ryan tricked me," Paul said. "I got so scared I almost fell." He looked at me with pleading eyes. "Marcie, I know you're not afraid to climb."
"All right," I growled. Up the ladder I went. At least this time I was wearing pants, and there were no cartoonists nearby.
It was pretty high, and frankly I could see why Paul got scared. It had to be higher than eighteen feet, so I tried to stop thinking about exactly how high it could be.
As it happened, I had to climb onto the catwalk to retrieve the script. It wasn't as close to the ladder as it seemed from the ground. I gave an impatient huff, and wondered how in the world Ryan could possibly have tricked that idiot Paul to climb up here.
I crawled on my hands and knees to reach it, then pushed the script over the edge. Paul caught it and gave me the thumbs up. I swore at him in an undertone.
Then I froze. Paul was right. It was scary. When you stand on a grate, there's mostly empty space beneath your feet. You look down at what ought to be some sort of floor holding you up, but you see right through it... all the way down to the hard wooden stage.
I was afraid to move. The walkway was only a foot wide, and there was a gap in the railing on my left. I was afraid to back up, since I was crawling, but I couldn't turn around unless I stood up. So I grabbed the railings, and pulled myself to my feet. That was better. At least I wasn't looking down.
On the other hand, I felt a little lightheaded. I hadn't eat any dinner — or lunch, for that matter. I was too nervous and excited. I hung on to the rails and waited for the dizziness to pass.
I waited, but nothing changed. The lightheadedness didn't get any better, so I started moving. I turned around slowly, being careful in my movements. I turned to the left, so I could keep my eye on that gap in the railing. Why was it there? It had to be incredibly unsafe. Next to the opening hung a huge rope that rested in a hook. What was that for? My eye traveled up the rope to see where it was attached. Bad idea! Looking up was worse than looking down. Looking down made me lightheaded. Looking up made my head swim. The ceiling tilted sideways.
Startled, I let go with one hand. I didn't mean to let go! The moment I did, I panicked a little and went to grab the rail again. Instead, I ended up grabbing the rope. It came free from the hook, but at least it felt solid in my grip. The rope was thick and heavy. Whatever it was attached to, it wasn't coming loose.
Instinctively, I grabbed the rope tight with both hands, and then I fell.
I mean, I expected to fall. What really happened is that I swung forward on the rope, like Tarzan. My head suddenly cleared, and I knew that the best thing — the only thing — to do was to hang on tight. I shot down in an arc, right across the front of the stage, in front of all the dancers. Above the music I heard a few gasps and some startled laughter.
My momentum nearly brought me offstage, but I was high up off the floor again. Below me, I saw the director in a red-faced rage.
"Marcie Donner, come down from there!" he hissed angrily, but then I was flying away from him, back across the stage, this time butt-first. The audience howled. Some of the dancers, distracted, collided with each other. The girl who played Rosie shook an angry fist at me.
When I swung back to where I started, I figured I'd grab the catwalk and climb back up, but I didn't swing high enough, so back I went across the stage.
This time, when I reached the low point of the arc, right in the middle of the stage, strong arms scooped me up, and a familiar voice said, "Let go, Marcie, I got you." I let go and fell into his arms. It was a nice feeling.
But who was it? I turned to look at my rescuer, and it was none other than John Martin, the boy from my Home Ec. class. He was grinning like mad. "I love you, Marcie!" he laughed, and gave me a great big kiss on the mouth. Then he carried me offstage, as if I were a prize he'd won.
Jerry was waiting. He looked daggers at John Martin. John just shrugged, set me down, and ran back on stage to finish the dance.
My legs gave out. I collapsed into Jerry's arms.
Jerry had the weirdest look on his face, so I said, "Kiss me, you fool!"
He looked at me, uncomprehending, so I said, "Seriously, kiss me! A lot! And hold me — I can't stand up!"
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
Before lunch was over, the PA cracked on. "Students, I want to wish you all a safe and happy vacation. We look forward to seeing you back on Monday. Unfortunately, one of our students will *not* be returning, and I think you all know who I mean."
It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. My last day of school in Tierson. Maybe the last day I'd see Carla, Eden, and Jerry. Ever.
I went in early to say goodbye to Mr. Bryant and Denise. Denise gave me a hug. Mr. Bryant said how much he'd miss "all the excitement" and he wished me well.
Then, when I was about to leave, he caught my arm and said, "Marcie," in a soft voice. When I turned back to face him, he hesitated, then said, "I've spoken on the phone with your new principal. She seems quite professional, and I have no doubt that she's good at what she does..."
Uh-oh, I thought. This doesn't sound good.
"The thing is, sometimes school can really take the life out of a child, do you know what I mean?"
"I guess so," I said uncertainly.
"What I'm trying to tell you is... what I'm trying to say... is that you have to trust your own heart above all else, regardless of what people in authority tell you."
My jaw dropped in astonishment. "Mr. Bryant–" I began, but he interrupted.
"I hope you know me well enough to realize that I'm not advising anarchy or a life of crime and rebellion."
I nodded.
"And I wouldn't give this advice to everyone..."
I nodded again.
"What I'm trying to say is that, sometimes when adults are too strict, the wisest thing a student can do is find a way to bend without breaking. I hope you know what I'm getting at."
"I think so," I said. "You're telling me that my next principal is a real–
"Ah-ah-aah!" he cautioned with a raised forefinger.
"Okay," I said. "I get it. Thanks."
From there I visited Ms. Price and Ms. Tandy, since I wouldn't have class with them.
Ms. Price was nice; she hugged me and told me to try for the field hockey team at my new school. "Do something athletic," she said, "You're a natural."
Ms. Tandy didn't hug me, but she did give me her phone number and email address. "Keep in touch," she said. "I'll always be wondering what you're up to. And if you ever need somebody to talk to, I'm here." I was surprised and touched.
Then, with a twinkle in her eye, she asked whether I wanted the doll that fell off the train. "I still have it," she said. "It works, but I can't really use it."
I declined, horrified.
When she saw the look on my face, she laughed so hard she had to clutch her stomach. "I was only kidding, you silly! I'm going to keep that thing for myself! It's priceless!"
At lunch, the girls gave me going-away gifts. Carla gave me an address book, with the name, address, phone number, and email address of every freshman in school. Some of them wrote notes. I cried when I opened it, and had to shut it so I didn't blot any of the writing.
Eden gave me a framed photo of the three of us. I'd never seen the picture before. In it, Carla was obviously saying something funny. She was smiling, Eden was giggling, and I was laughing.
"Oh," Carla said, "I love that picture!"
"It's a good one of all three of us," Eden commented.
"Who took it?" I asked.
"Cory's friend, whats-his-name?"
"The chicken guy?" I offered. Eden nodded. She pulled out another, bigger package that was obviously another framed picture.
"This one's from Cory," she said. "It's really special to him. It's an original."
It turned out to be a cartoon based on the one that was banned, when I climbed the outside of the school building. It showed Cory wheezing and me coming to the rescue: climbing the building (in a ridiculously short skirt!) and climbing back down with the backpack in one hand.
The last panel showed everyone from school looking out the windows and doors, saying, "WE'LL MISS YOU!"
Again, I had tears in my eyes, but through them I could see the little drawn figures of Jerry, Mr. Bryant, Ms. Price, Denise, Mahon The Man and Cassie, Pat and Carla — even Mrs. Zeff!
Eden and Ms. Tandy stood on either side of Cory.
"He was particularly proud of this guy," Eden said. "He knew you were close to him." She pointed out a figure peeking out the door to the basketball court.
"Oh, my God!" I gasped, and started crying out loud. It was Mr. Bruce!
When I was able to compose myself, I turned to look at the boyfriend table and mouthed a Thank you! to Cory.
Before lunch was over, the PA cracked on. Mr. Bryant spoke.
"Students, I want to wish you all a safe and happy vacation. We look forward to seeing you back on Monday. Unfortunately, one of our students will *not* be returning, and I think you all know who I mean."
"Oh, no!" I whispered. Carla and Eden smiled conspiratorially.
"It's unusual for a freshman to make such a mark on the school. It's unusual for any student to display courage in the face of danger, to think quickly and do the right thing in a moment of crisis, but it's very rare when someone does those things over and over again. I know that I speak for all of the teachers and most, if not all, of the students when I say that we'll miss wondering what new adventure each week will bring.
"Please join me in a round of applause and thanks to Marcie Donner for her selfless acts of courage, for her quick thinking, and for keeping us all on the edge of our seats. Goodbye, Miss Donner. We will miss you!"
Everyone in the cafeteria began to applaud. People started standing up. I cried and cried.
Jerry came up next to me and said, "Do you want to say anything?" He waved everyone into silence, and helped me to stand on my chair.
"I just want to say thanks to all of you, and I will miss you, too!"
Jerry helped me down, and led me down the hall toward the front door. I handed him an evelope addressed to Nina. "It's the lifetime pass to the Little Train," I told him.
He handed me a brown manila envelope. "This is from Cassie," he said. "It's Cosmo." I smiled.
Jerry had already given me his present: a gold bracelet, which I was wearing proudly.
Everyone followed us, and someone started singing, to the tune of the Bye Bye Birdie theme, "We love you Marcie, oh yes we do..." It was sappy and silly, but it was breaking my heart.
We went out the front door, and Jerry turned me to face the building. A big, homemade banner hung from the second-floor windows. It read "WE WILL MISS YOU!"
It was like Cory's drawing come to life! Except that one person was missing... I looked over to the gym door, knowing that Mr. Bruce wouldn't be there. At that moment I knew that Cory's picture that would be my last image of Mr. Bruce, replacing the last time I saw him in real life...
Thanks, Cory! Thanks, Mr. Bruce!
I kissed Jerry like I would never kiss anyone ever again. I hugged Carla, hugged Eden, then got into the car with my mother. We drove away, and I cried as if I could never stop.
Tierson High rolled away behind us, and then Tierson itself.
Soon we were on the long, featureless highway to Sacramento Airport.
"Are you okay, hon?" Mom asked, reaching over to pat my leg.
"Yeah," I sighed, wiping away the last tears.
"I think you'll find good friends in New Jersey, the same way you found them here," she said.
"I hope so," I said. "But one thing's for sure: I'm not going to do anything crazy or dangerous any more. No more adventures."
Mom smiled. "That will be a relief."
"I want to be an ordinary girl with an ordinary life," I said. "Period. The End."
"Okay," Mom agreed. "One ordinary life, coming up!"
© 2006, 2007 by Kaleigh Way
When Marcie moved to New Jersey, did she leave her history as a boy behind?
copyright © 2006, 2007 Kaleigh Way — All Rights Reserved
"Marcie, before you get carried away, you have to consider a few things."
"Uh-oh," I said. Already I felt the money slipping away.
Maisie Beale's Diary, First Entry:Dear Diary,
Nothing personal, but I hate you. My therapist told me to keep this diary so I can explore my feelings. But I don't want to explore my feelings. I don't *need* to explore my feelings. There isn't any point. It won't change anything and it won't help anything.
She asked me to write down whatever bothers me, whatever thoughts I have, so we'll have something to discuss.
As I already said, there isn't any point: I don't need to discuss anything, but I figure that sooner or later my parents will find this book, so I am writing it for them. I want them to see how badly they screwed up my life. Or maybe they'll see how badly they screwed up their *own* lives, but I doubt it. That may be too much to ask for.
I never asked to be born. That's the first thing that bothers me. My parents are the ones to blame for that. Maybe we could discuss that in my next session. Maybe Ms. Goldenflower will have some alternatives we can explore. NOT! It's too late for alternatives. I'm already here.
What's the next thing that bothers me? Oh, right. I want to know who made my parents get married in the first place? From the stuff they yell at each other, it sounds like a classic case of hate at first sight, and it's only gotten deeper over the years. Mom says Dad's been a stuffy, self-absorbed child the whole time she's known him. Dad says Mom is a vindictive, anorexic witch, and always has been.
Why don't we discuss that, Ms. Goldenflower? Why don't you explain why two people who hate each other all the way down to the ground — why do those people marry each other? They don't even pretend they were ever in love. I've never heard them talk about "how it used to be" or "back when things were good" — as far as I can tell, things were never good.
When I heard my parents were getting divorced, at first I was relieved and glad. I thought that divorce would be good for them — that they could finally stop hurting, walk away, and be happy for the first time. Instead, they use it as a new, no-holds-barred battleground. Sometimes they both want me. Sometimes neither wants me. Sometimes I'm their weapon, and sometimes I'm their target.
People say that Truth is the first casualty in war, but it isn't. Truth is the second casualty at best. Children are always the first casualty.
Aren't I profound?
Isn't it all a big huge waste?
Now tell me, Ms. Goldenflower: how is discussing this — any of this — going to make it better?
Do you think I need to understand it? Come to terms with it?
I have news for you: I've already come to terms with it. I get it. I've got the whole picture, in living color and full-shout stereo.
Oh, there is one more thing, and this one I actually would like to discuss: My parents are going to split up, and live at opposite ends of the country. Couldn't I live by myself someplace in the middle? Chicago, maybe? Can we discuss that, Ms. Goldenflower? (I honestly *would* like to discuss that!)
Yours truly, with lots of fake hugs and kisses,
Maisie Beale
My name is Marcie Donner, and until last summer I was a boy. Now I'm pretty much a girl, or almost a girl. More than halfway girl, maybe. My parents have been really nice about accepting the change, so I'm trying to be nice about accepting the move from California to New Jersey.
I've made a serious resolution: I'm not going to complain about the climate, or where we live, or the fact that my parents are sending me to a Catholic girls school. I'm going to make the best of everything and be a good, obedient daughter.
It shouldn't be hard. How could it be hard?
At this exact moment, Mom and I are on a plane flying from Sacramento, California to Newark, New Jersey. We took off a half-hour ago, and Mom just gave up on trying to read a small-print document about our new house.
I don't understand all the details, but I do know that we haven't "closed" yet, which means we can't move in. Until the closing, Mom, Dad, and I will squeeze into a itty-bitty studio apartment, where Dad's been camping out alone.
After Mom put the paperwork away, she took off her glasses, eased off her shoes, rubbed her eyes, and said, out of the blue, "You know, Marcie, we've never discussed your room."
"My room? What room?" What in the world was she talking about?
Usually when she mentions my room, it means I have to go clean it. And right now I don't have a room. My old room, the room in our old house, is gone — the house was sold. The room in Aunt Jane's house, where I lived the past three months, has gone back to being a guest room. Was there a room just for me in Dad's little apartment?
"I mean your bedroom in the new house, silly. I didn't tell you this, but we made a fair amount of money when we sold our old place, and we got an incredible deal on the new place. Which means that we have money left over. The new house doesn't need any work, really, so we can put that money into furniture and this and that..."
I understood about the money, but not about the furniture. Our old house was full of furniture. Nice furniture, too. I couldn't imagine having space for any more.
"Mom, how could we possibly need new furniture?" (To say nothing of the "this and that".)
"Your old bedroom furniture is kind of small for your new room–"
"Small?"
She nodded. "It's a big house, honey. Bigger than our old one. I think you'll be very surprised. And your room is, well, it's more than good sized. There's space for a vanity, a desk, maybe some chairs. And, like the rest of the house, it has a high ceiling. So, if you want a canopy bed..."
I had a flashback to Nina Auburn's room. "Mom, I'm not nine years old."
"I know, honey," she said with a smile.
"I don't want a pink room, with lace and teddy bears and hearts."
"I know," she repeated with the same smile, "but your old furniture is so boyish, and so — well, old. Wouldn't it be great to pick out new colors and new furniture together? We could create a whole new room for the whole new you!"
"Hmm." I had to think about that. It sure didn't sound "great." Plus, I know how Mom is: she'll make me pore over paint samples, and after I've finally picked something I like, she'll set my choice aside. Then she'll choose five identical colors and ask me which one is my favorite. And THEN she'll ask me why it's my favorite. The furniture story could only be worse.
Deep down inside I heaved a deep, secret sigh. Then I remembered: Be a good daughter. You owe them. At that thought, I quit resisting. Why not let her have her fun? How hard could it be?
"Okay, that does sounds like fun," I lied, smiling.
"Great!" she enthused, and squeezed my arm so tightly that my mouth opened and my eyes popped. "A little mother-daughter bonding!" Then she reached down and hauled a big, fat notebook out of her bag. It was chock-full of pictures clipped from magazines. And how many pages was it? Two hundred? Three hundred? Four?
"Oh," I said, feeling as if I'd wandered into a mine field and didn't know the safe way out, "I didn't think we'd be starting so soon."
She smiled at me as she put her reading glasses back on. "Honey, what did you think we were going to do on this long, long flight?"
"Watch a movie?" I offered, but as her smile began to fall, I quickly said, "Just kidding! Let's see what you've got!"
We spent what seemed like hours talking about colors and styles, and despite my best efforts, it was putting me to sleep. Everything looked the same! She'd turn a page, and I'd swear it was identical to the page before. I looked at my watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed! This was going to be a long, long flight. Maybe the longest flight in history.
"Oh, Mom," I said. "I need to go the toilet. Urgently."
"Okay," she said, not looking up from her book.
I got up, hoping and praying there'd be a line. A long line of old ladies... and with that thought, a song I heard once came to mind — though I could only remember the chorus:
Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
Seven old ladies got locked in the lavat'ry;
They were there from Sunday till Saturday,
Nobody knew they were there.
Unfortunately, there were no old ladies, stuck or waiting. There was no line at all. Both toilets were free, so I leaned against the back wall and chewed my fingernail.
A stewardess was back there, organizing the drink cart. "Stretching your legs?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Really I'm escaping... my mother wants to talk..."
"Ah," she said sympathetically.
"... about how to decorate my room."
"I see," she said. "You want something modern and cool, and she wants something frilly and old-fashioned."
Well, not really, but I went with it. "Pretty much."
The stewardess shrugged and said, "Try to compromise. Find something you both like."
"Thanks," I said, "I can try."
She busied herself with the cart, and I went back to my seat. No help back there!
"There you are!" Mom smiled. "I thought maybe you'd jumped off the plane."
"No," I joked, "they locked the door and I couldn't find a parachute."
As I wiggled into my seat, just as I was about to close my seat belt, I suddenly realized that now I really *did* need to use the bathroom.
"I thought you just went!" Mom exclaimed.
"I forgot," I said, "I was talking to the waitress. I mean, the stewardess."
"Oh, Marcie," she sighed.
When I came back from the tiny room, I saw the stewardess, whose name turned out to be Liz, bent over my seat, talking to my mother. When I got closer, Liz straightened up and smiled at me. "Marcie, your mother has some great ideas!" In a whisper she hissed, "You don't know how good you've got it, girl! I'd kill for a room like that!"
Sighing, I slid back into my seat.
"Ready?" Mom asked. "Need to go the bathroom again?"
"No," I said, "I got it all out of my system. Let's have a look."
In spite of the combined enthusiasm of Liz and my mother, the decorating ideas did not excite me. Everything my mother showed me was beautiful, but I couldn't choose. I didn't have opinions. All of it was just fine with me, and it was so hard to think of something to say!
I wondered how many bathroom trips I could take before Mom would get suspicious. Maybe if I was lucky the film would be too good to miss, and Mom would shut the book.
No such luck. It was a boring legal "thriller" — even more deadly dull than the decorating.
I realized that I needed to find something interesting to me in the midst of all this, and something started to come to me. Often Mom would point and say, "I had one of these when I was a girl..." or "Your Grandma Toni bought this for me when I was your age..." so I rubbed my eyes and scratched my nose and asked her, "Mom, why don't you tell me about *your* room? I mean, what your room was like when you were my age?"
That was the right thing to say! Her eyes lit up, and she described everything. The colors, the furniture, the fabrics... I forced myself to pay attention, to try desperately to remember it all, because this was what she would try to recreate for me. (I think.) Unless I understood where she was coming from, I wouldn't have a chance of getting what I wanted in there as well.
Unfortunately, all those details just turned into mashed potatoes once they entered my head. Or cotton, big wads of cotton. Not a single detail stuck. I kept spacing out. Whenever she looked away, I shook my head hard or pinched myself to try to stay awake.
Her words kept fading out and fading in. I realized she was describing her old desk, and suddenly thought, Maybe if I talk, it will help, so I said, "I bet a new white Apple laptop would look great on a desk like that."
That stopped her dead. Her smile faded and after a short pause she said, "You know, Marcie, sometimes you're just like your father."
"What?" I asked. "What did I say that was wrong?"
She didn't answer.
"Oh, come on, Mom! I didn't mean anything!"
"It's all right," she said quietly. "I can see that you're not interested. You've been yawning and looking at your watch ever since I opened this book."
"Oh, Mom, I'm sorry! I *want* to do this with you, I really do! Maybe I'm no good at decorating, but I can learn! You can teach me..." I trailed off. She'd shut the book, and was now bent over, putting it away. I was relieved and sorry at the same time.
But then, as all the decorating cotton-and-mashed-potatoes was clearing out of my head, something struck me. There *was* something I wanted to know. Mom had mentioned money. Could there be money for a computer? For fun things for me?
I asked, "Mom, how much of a budget are we talking about, here? Can you tell me?"
At that, she straightened in her seat, and her eyes lit up. She grabbed my arm, and started talking in an excited, low voice, so no one else could hear. "Oh, Marcie! I forgot to tell you! The call came just as I was running out the door, and what with the house and the trip... I completely forgot!"
"Forgot what?" I asked. She was *incredibly* animated. Whatever it was, it was big!
"They wanted to have a presentation ceremony, and put you on TV. Somebody's probably going to come and interview you anyway, but it turns out that one of those kidnappers that you helped catch was a wanted criminal."
"Yeah?" I didn't see the point. They were kidnappers; of course they were criminals.
"No," she said, her voice dropping to an even lower whisper. I had to strain to hear over the whine of the plane's engine. "There was a reward for catching one of them, and they're sending you the money."
My jaw dropped. "How much?"
Almost inaudibly she told me: "Ten thousand dollars."
"TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!" I shouted. Everyone on the plane turned and looked. Several people had been dozing, and the glares and stares made me want to shrink away.
"Eek! Sorry everyone!"
It took a while before they all finally turned away. When they did, I said in a soft voice, "Oh my God, Mom! Ten thousand dollars!"
The wheels in my head started turning. I was so shocked I didn't even know what I wanted to do with the money... what did I want? I was too young for a car...
"Now, before you get carried away, you have to consider a few things."
"Uh-oh," I said. Already I felt the money slipping away.
"First, there's college." I nodded. "Then, there's an operation that you need to get."
"Oh, yeah," I said, getting the point.
"Yes," Mom continued, "It would be nice if you helped out with that."
"Okay," I said, in a chastened voice.
"You can use some of the money for fun," she said, "Maybe a nice pair of boots, or a coat, or some jewelry."
"I guess," I said. I felt like a balloon with the air let out.
"Don't feel bad, honey," she said. "You'll be glad later on."
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Marcie, I've seen pictures of you since you... changed, but seeing you in person is..." Dad looked at me for a few moments, then hugged me and pulled Mom into the hug. "... so much better!" he finished.
Maisie Beale's Diary, excerpt:Dear Diary,
Parents think that children are stupid, or that they don't hear or register or understand things. I have news for them: everybody misses things. Everyone is stupid sometime. But nobody is stupid all the time.
Since they've started shouting about divorce, I've discovered a lot of things about my parents that I didn't know before. Some of those things I don't particularly care to know, but I've written them all down in a little notebook just in case they might be important later.
The first thing is that my father is very rich. His salary is a quarter of a million dollars a year (!), plus big quarterly bonuses, stock options, benefits, and "perks" which I guess are presents of some kind. He owns three OTHER houses "free and clear" and two boats. I've never seen any of those things. According to my mother, Dad is trying to "hide" them. The boats are supposedly big, like yachts — they sound too big to hide. Still, when I asked him when I could see one of his boats and go for a ride, he told me that he doesn't own any boats.
Fine. Lie to your own daughter.
Something that I would like to know — just out of curiosity — is: how do you hide a house? I mean, the thing is on a street somewhere. Anyone could drive by and look at it. You can't pick it up and move it to the middle of a forest. I'd like to discuss that, Ms. Goldenflower. Seriously, I want to know.
Dad also has several bank accounts and investment accounts. Some of them are in other countries. Mom cleverly got the details on those before the subject of divorce arose.
She likes to brag about that to her friends. I've heard it many times.
My mother doesn't exactly have nothing, either. She owns a time-share and her parents' old house in New Jersey. She also has a lot of jewelry, paintings, and money she's put away (hidden) over the years.
The problem for both of my parents is that California is a community-property state, which means that husbands and wives own everything 50/50. Now that they're splitting up, Dad doesn't want to lose half of what he owns to Mom, and Mom doesn't want to lose any of what she has. So they're each trying to hide stuff, but they're not doing a very good job of it.
The biggest surprise of all, though, was finding out that *I* have something, too...
Thanksgiving was nice. It was really nice, in fact. Dad was so happy to have us back! He was shocked when he saw me, but I could see it was a happy/proud shock. I can't blame him for his surprise: after all, last time he saw me, I didn't have any breasts or hips to speak of. Plus — even though he probably didn't notice — my skin and hair are a lot softer.
"Marcie, I've seen pictures of you since you... changed, but seeing you in person is..." he looked at me for a few moments, then hugged me and pulled Mom into the hug. "... so much better!" he finished. "I'm glad you're both finally here!"
He'd made reservations for dinner at a nice restaurant. It was a little bit of a drive, but worth it.
"I'm glad Janey had that idea about explaining the Mark/Marcie business," Dad began.
"I still don't get it," I interrupted.
"Marcie, give up on it," Mom said. "It makes sense to everybody else!"
Aunt Jane's idea was to say that I've always been Marcie — that I've always been a girl — but that I had a long tomboy phase: during that phase, I wanted to be a boy so much that I insisted on being called "Mark" and always dressed in boy clothes. Once I started growing breasts, I changed my mind and turned into a girly girl.
Mom says that "it happens" and "people can relate to that."
I guess it's just another weird thing from the strange world of parents.
"It was a huge relief to me," Dad said. "In fact, this weekend we have an appointment to get a new family portrait so that on Monday I can put it on my desk.
"And speaking of work, one or two of the people I work with are going to be at this restaurant — including my boss — so you might get to meet them."
Mom started quizzing Dad about names, making sure she knew who was who before she met them.
I tuned it out and stared at the scenery. I'd never seen so much snow. I mean, aside from up in the mountains. Here in New Jersey, it could snow anywhere. I understood that this was an early snow, but shouldn't an early snow be a light snow?
Everyone was bundled up, including me. I don't know how Dad knew how to choose them, but he bought me a pair of very cool black snowboots with a fur trim. I was wearing a knee-length kilt, black tights, and a soft red turtleneck. It wasn't just soft — it was supernaturally soft!
"Hey, Mom!" I said, "What is this sweater made of? What material?"
"Marcie," Dad cautioned, "You interrupted your mother."
"Sorry," I said. "I was daydreaming."
"That's okay," Mom said. "It's silk and cashmire. Isn't it nice?"
I murmured agreement. The last item in my outfit was a black faux-fur bomber jacket — also chosen by Dad! I never knew he had such good taste in clothes!
I have to say, the best thing about being a girl is the clothes. And the hair. And — well, everything.
The car skidded slightly. Mom said, "I guess we have to get used to winter driving."
"The hardest thing is the black ice," he told her.
"What's black ice?" I asked.
"It's ice on the road that you can't see. I don't know what makes it that way, but you can't count on seeing the ice patches. Sometimes you just feel them."
That sounded pretty weird and nonsensical until I got out of the car. I took one step, slipped, and almost landed on my butt. Almost. Some wild wiggling and arm waving kept me vertical.
"Good save," Dad commented.
"Um, Dad," I asked, embarrassed, "Can I take your arm? I'm afraid I'll fall."
"Me, too," Mom grinned. I don't think she really needed the help, but for sure I did. My boots didn't have much of a grip. I should have guessed that real snowboots wouldn't have heels, but what do I know about winter clothes?
I made a desperate grab for Dad's arm. Thank God he's a big guy.
"That's quite a grip you've got there," he told me.
"Sorry," I told him, loosening my hold.
Mom strolled over (without slipping!) and took his other arm.
"What's the deal?" I asked. "Am I the only one having trouble?"
"It's okay," Dad said, which didn't really answer my question.
I had several more slips on the way in, with all the associated wiggles and wobbles and waves.
It was a distinct relief when my feet were on a normal floor. We checked our coats and moved inside.
"This place used to be a railroad station," Dad explained as I gawked.
"Cool!" I said, with awe.
The ceilings were high — really high, and made of dark wood. There were heavy iron lamps in the walls and actual lamp posts here and there. They looked like gas lamps, but had electric bulbs inside. It was very old-timey, like something out of the 1800s: solid, heavy, substantial. At the same time it was warm and welcoming. The staff was friendly. They ushered us to our table, pointed out the buffet, and took our drink orders.
"There are live plants everywhere," Mom observed, looking up. "Even the ones way up there are real. No plastic."
I followed her gaze, and saw vines extending from planters high in the walls. Some of them must have been 30 feet up or higher.
"I wonder how they water them — they're so high up," I said, "and how do they change the light bulbs way up there in the ceiling?"
Our waiter, who had just arrived with our drinks, heard me and answered, "We've got a cart that's like a little elevator. It lifts people most of the way up. Then they use long poles with special attachments."
"Thanks," I said, and he smiled.
We loaded our plates at the buffet. I tried to take a small taste of everything... there were so many choices! I was afraid of overdoing it, but I wanted to try it all.
When we were settled with our meals and drinks, Mom asked Dad, "Do you see anyone you know?"
He looked around, scanning the dinners, and when he turned his gaze over his right shoulder, someone waved to him. He smiled and waved back.
"That's Rhonda Means," he told Mom, who also smiled and waved.
Rhonda made signs that we should eat first and talk later, which I was glad to do.
"I didn't know your boss is a woman," I commented. "Or that she's black."
"Are either of those things problems for you?" he asked.
"No, no," I said. "I was just surprised. I thought you'd mention something."
"Well," he said, as he dug into his turkey, "You've been pretty involved in your own life lately."
"Sorry," I said.
"It's okay," he sighed. "It's part of being young. I actually did tell you, but I guess you don't remember. In any case, she's a good boss. So far, one of the best I've had. Smart, no baloney, tells it like it is. She keeps meetings short, doesn't let other groups hassle us..."
I realized I didn't know much about my father's job. "Do you think I could come in some day and see what you do?"
He looked up and smiled, "Yeah, that would be good. A 'take your daughter to work day'." He laughed. "We could do that during your winter break."
"Cool!" I replied, and we turned our attention to the food.
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"When I saw the way you wiggled in the parking lot, I just had to meet you. You had some serious moves going on out there."
"Oh," I replied, reddening just a little, "Aren't you the bold one?"
Maisie Beale's Diary, excerpt:I didn't even know I had a godfather. I probably should have guessed, but he died when I was a baby. This means I have a godmother somewhere, too. I have to remember to find out who she is.
Anyway, my godfather was one of Dad's rich friends. He was never married and he had no kids, so when he died he left — I want to say everything but I don't know if it's true. In any case, he left me a lot. Enough to make my parents fight over me. They don't want to share custody.
Why? Because whoever gets me gets to spend my trust fund. Even if it's my money, they get to draw off it for expenses related to raising me.
The one good thing that Ms. Goldenflower did was to hook me up with a lawyer. I kept asking her questions about divorce and about my trust fund. She wanted to talk about my feelings (as if they ever mattered). I wanted to talk about reality and the things my parents were fighting about.
Finally, out of desperation, she got me an appointment with a young guy who was the first adult on this planet who ever took me seriously.
The first thing I asked him was whether he worked for my mother or father. I'd heard about "conflict of interest" and really needed to know. He didn't work for either. Never had. Could not, as long as he represented me. He would bill my trust fund, so I was paying him. This defines loyalty in the world of lawyers.
I ran down my list of questions. I wanted to know if I could stop them from spending my money. He said that I could. He got my parents' financial papers from the divorce proceedings, and had a judge issue a stop on withdrawals from my account unless a custodial parent could demonstrate need. I also got a record of the money they'd already taken. They'd each taken a lot. My lawyer had my bank send a letter to each of my parents, so they'd know a lock was put on the account and that I had "received a comprehensive statement of all account activity to date." Put 'em on notice.
The sweet taste of victory didn't last very long.
I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when the custody battle changed direction, but I was.
Instead of fighting to keep me, my parents starting fighting to get rid of me. They also wanted to cancel my therapy sessions. Before, when they thought they'd get my trust fund, each wanted sole custody. Now, they each want the other to have sole custody.
I'm not going to say that it hurt me.
It didn't hurt.
It just surprised me.
Still, it's one thing to believe that you're not wanted, but having legal, documentary proof that you're not wanted, is... just... it's something else.
I had to go to court so custody could be "awarded." Children's court. It was a little room, but the chairs were all normal size. The judge was okay. He tended to treat me like a kid, always reassuring me about unimportant junk and explaining obvious things. Still, he didn't overdo it.
He asked me which parent I'd prefer to live with. "Neither," I said.
He replied, "I can understand that. I can't blame you. In your position, I wouldn't want to live with them either."
Then came the nice part of the day: the judge told my parents off. He took his time about it, and he was very thorough. Dad tried to interrupt, but the judge shut him right up. He said, "Mr. Beale, if you don't close your mouth and listen, I'll charge you with contempt, and you'll spend the night in jail. And that's just for starters."
Once he had their attention, he ripped them up, down, and sideways, especially about how they'd used my trust fund and the way they were trying to dump me. He said, "I can understand your fighting over houses, bank accounts, cars... but this is a child! Someone who came from you and depends on you for her very life!"
In the end he said, "I'm sorry to do this to you, Maisie, but I have to award joint custody. I wish there was some alternative, but I don't see one. If you can find one, you give me a call, and I'll see what I can do."
I tried to get a good look at Ms. Means without being too obvious about it. She was a very attractive woman. I remember Dad said she was about 40. I hoped to look that good at 40. Her hair was cut in the short, straight style that's big now (it probably has a name, but I don't know it). Whatever it's called, it looks good on her. She wore a red silk blouse and black slacks — very simple, understated, elegant. I wanted her shoes.
She was a fair-skinned Black; her skin was a light caramel color, that went well with her reddish-brown hair.
There was a young man with broad shoulders, obviously her son, sitting next to her. His skin was slightly darker, and his hair was fuller and wavier. He had his mother's fine features, but set in a strong, masculine face. He could be an athlete, but I couldn't decide which sport.
There were two other people at the table: a gorgeous blonde woman with a miraculous tan. The girl sitting next to her was similarly blonde, though her skin was pale. She had an almost anorexic thinness, and caught me staring but didn't seem to mind.
I looked down at my plate, which was mysteriously empty. "Dad," I asked, "did you take my food?"
He started back, incredulous, and nearly choked with laughter.
"Marcie," my mother told me, "I think you need to slow down when you eat. You shovel food in your mouth like you're stoking a furnace."
"Thanks, Ma," I drawled.
"You're not even aware that you're eating."
"Okay," I droned.
"Do you even taste your food?" she asked. I sighed.
"You need to know," she shrugged. "It's not ladylike."
"Right," I said as I started to stand, "I get it. I'll work on it."
"Going back for more?" Dad asked, grinning. I nodded. Mom drew a long breath and gave me a cautionary look.
The buffet was set up on two sides of a long table. I went down the left side. This time I was trying to be selective, but everything looked so good! Still, I kept myself to tiny samples of each item.
When I came around the end of the buffet, I saw Ms. Means' son working his way down the other side, heading toward me. I had the feeling he was waiting for me.
"Oh, hey," he said.
"Hi," I replied, feeling suddenly shy. He was a good four inches taller than me, and I was in heels.
"Marcie Donner, right? I'm Trevor Means." He held out his hand.
"Uh," I said stupidly. I had both hands full, so I offered him an elbow. He waggled it, grinning.
"My mother told me your name," he said. "When I saw the way you wiggled in the parking lot, I just had to meet you. You had some serious moves going on out there."
"Oh," I replied, reddening just a little, "Aren't you the bold one?"
"I am," he agreed. "Fortune favors the bold."
"So I've heard," I said. "Has it favored you?"
"Today it has," he replied, grinning.
"I guess I left myself open on that one," I commented.
"Would you also be open to my calling you sometime?" he asked. "Sometime soon?"
I had to admire his grammar and style. He was confident and — what was the word? active? — yet he wasn't pushy. He wasn't pushy at all. He was persuasive.
"What sport do you play?" I asked.
"None really," he replied. "I play a little ball, but nothing serious. Why? Do you only date a certain type of athlete?"
"No," I said laughing. "You look like... you're built like a jock, but I couldn't figure out which sport... And you said 'ball' — which kind of ball? Basketball?"
"Guilty as charged," he replied, nodding. "Yeah, Mom said you were some kind of girl detective. I see she was right."
"Oh, no," I said. "I'm no detective."
"Huh. I was misinformed then. So, I'll call you," he concluded, and walked past me, smiling, before I could reply.
Very smooth. I looked in the direction of my table, but the buffet centerpiece blocked the view. Clever, Trevor, very clever.
"Trevor, how are you going to call me?" I asked through the foliage.
"Tell me your number," he replied.
"Will you remember it?"
"Try me and see."
I recited the number, and he said, "Got it."
When I got back to my table, Mom was looking at me in a strange way. "What happened to you?" she asked.
"Nothing," I replied, as innocently as I could manage.
At that moment, Trevor walked past. He didn't look our way. He didn't give any clue that he knew who we were, but when Mom saw him, her glance shot back to me. How did she know?
"Marcie," she warned.
"Mom," I said, protesting my innocence.
"What's going on?" Dad asked.
In answer, Mom pointed at Trevor's back with her eyes.
Dad sighed and looked at me. "My boss' son!" he lamented, as if that said everything.
"I didn't do anything!" I protested.
"You never do," Dad replied. "It all just happens somehow."
I blushed and looked down at my food, pushing it around with a fork.
Mom's eyes were still on me. "I have to say I'm a little jealous," she said. "I never got this kind of attention when I was your age."
Dad somehow managed a look that was both a frown and smile at the same time. "That's not how I remember it. As I recall, I had a lot of competition."
It was Mom's turn to blush. My mouth fell open.
"Now *this* sounds interesting," I said with a big smile, glad the tables had turned.
"Don't change the subject, young lady," Mom countered. "You've got to put the brakes on now. Don't give him your phone number, for one thing."
I tried to look nonchalant, but my face gave me away.
"Hoo boy!" Dad said. "Maybe it's time to take that cell phone away."
"Noooo!" I cried.
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"You're going to lie low in a Catholic girls school?" Maisie grinned.
"I hope so."
"Oh, God, I hope not!" she cried. "Listen, next time you do something crazy, bring me along!"
I was saved by Trevor's mother, who came over to meet me and Mom.
"So, Mark, is it?" she said to me.
I stammered in response.
"Just teasing!" she said. "I'm glad you realized that being a woman is better. Isn't it?"
"Definitely," I agreed.
Dad coughed shifted in his chair. "Marcie said she'd like to come to the office and see what we do," he told her.
"Great!" she said. "Do you want to come and do a little work, or just hang out with Daddy?"
"Uh...," The question sounded like a test, and I figured she wanted me to say work, but I said in a firm voice, "I want to do both."
She nodded approvingly. "I hear you're a sort of Nancy Drew, Marcie. What's that like?"
"I'm nothing like that," I told her.
"Aren't you the Marcie Donner who single-handedly caught two kidnappers?"
"The police caught them," I said.
"You just hung onto the getaway car as it sped through town," she supplied.
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"Your father mentioned it, and then I googled you," she said. "The Tierson local paper is on the web."
"I didn't know that. Anyway, Nancy Drew was a detective. I'm just... just a girl."
"Actually she was a sleuth," Ms. Means laughed a deep, throaty laugh. "I always thought that was a funny word. In any case, keep me abreast of your new adventures, and do come visit."
Then she crouched down next to my mother and started talking to her. I was surprised by the way she so abruptly dropped me, but in the next moment I felt a small hand lightly touch my shoulder. I turned to see the blonde girl from Ms. Means' table. She looked even thinner up close.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Maisie Beale. You're coming to BYHS, right? Marcie Donner?"
"B-Y–" I started, confused
She interrupted by saying, "Blessed Yvette's" in an undertone. She clearly disliked saying it out loud.
"Oh, oh, yeah!" I agreed.
"You're going to be in my class," she announced, and smiled. I liked her smile, and found myself smiling back.
"Great," I said.
"So where are you from?" she asked.
"Tierson, California," I replied.
I glanced over at Maisie's table. Trevor smiled at me, and the blonde — Maisie's mother — stood up and headed our way. I told Maisie, "Oh, looks like your mother's coming over, too."
Maisie made a look of distaste. "That fat cow!" she snarled.
I was shocked. Maisie went on to criticize and insult her mother in a low voice that only I could hear. Most of it was variations of the words "fat" and "sloppy," but believe me, her mother was neither. She was a complete knockout.
"I think your mother's beautiful," I told Maisie.
She gave me a strange look, as if to say if only you knew or how would you know?
Maisie's mother called, "Oh, honey, have you made a new friend?"
Without even looking at her mother, Maisie said, "Back off."
Her rudeness offended me. I couldn't believe it. Still, no one had heard it except for her mother and me. I was so shocked and disturbed that I couldn't keep my eyes off her mother's face, to see how she'd reaction. I felt mortified for her, but she didn't change expression at all, as if Maisie wasn't speaking.
Without missing a beat, Maisie's mother turned and introduced herself to my mother. She and Ms. Means pulled chairs over and made a little women's circle.
At that, Maisie grabbed my arm, pulled me out of my chair, and said, "Come on. I need a smoke."
Her grip was surprisingly strong, and I found myself running after her down one hallway and then another, until we emerged from the back of the restaurant, where some of the kitchen workers and waiters were smoking. They stood in the warm air of a big exhaust vent.
Maisie, with no hesitation, walked over and said, "Can we get in here, too?" They didn't answer, but moved to make space for the two of us.
She fished two cigarettes and an enormous old-fashioned lighter out of her bag. She put both cigarettes in her mouth, lit them, and passed one to me. She shut the flame inside the lighter with a loud click!
"I don't smoke," I told her.
"I know," she replied. "That's why I lit it for you."
"How can you tell?" I asked.
"You didn't reach for one, and you're holding your cigarette all wrong." She smiled, but she wasn't making fun.
I put the cigarette to my lips, but in my nervousness I shoved half of it into my mouth. I pulled it out again quickly, but the workers were already laughing. I fiddled with it until it was between my first two fingers, the way Maisie held hers, but it felt funny. Finally I put it between my thumb and forefinger.
Then I took my first puff, and blew the smoke skyward. I took another puff and blew the smoke away. I wondered whether I could blow smoke rings.
"This isn't bad," I said.
"You're not inhaling," Maisie informed me quietly. "But it's okay. Don't start now."
"Why not?" I asked. Wasn't I inhaling? I drew the smoke into my mouth, kept it there, then inhaled some air through my mouth. The smoke went down my throat into my lungs, and I started hacking and coughing. I bent over, and someone gently put their hand on my back. No one laughed, and when I straightened up, one of the kitchen help handed me a glass of water.
"Oh, little girl, this is not for you!" another man said. "No smoking for you!"
"Sorry," Maisie said. "I wasn't trying to corrupt you. I just wanted company." She ground my cigarette out with her toe.
"That's... okay," I coughed. Then I drew a breath. Much better. "I'm good now."
Someone took the empty glass from me and brought me another. Then the restaurant workers went away, leaving me and Maisie alone. She lit another cigarette, but didn't offer me one.
She asked, "Is it true that you helped catch some kidnappers?"
"Yes," I said. "It wasn't a big deal."
Her eyebrows went up. "No big deal? And did you really climbed up the side of a building to get a kid's asthma medicine?"
"It was only to the third floor," I replied. "How do you know all this?"
"Mrs. Means was talking about you. She said you're a teenage action hero."
I laughed. "Not any more."
"You're going to lie low in a Catholic girls school?" she grinned.
"I hope so."
"Oh, God, I hope not!" Maisie cried. "Listen, next time you do something crazy, bring me along!"
"Okay," I laughed, "but don't hold your breath. I don't think the crazy stuff that happened in California could ever happen here. And I'm really going to try to just be a regular girl."
Maisie shrugged, then laughed to herself. "Maybe all that crazy stuff is in *you*, not California. I always thought California was pretty boring."
"Yeah, so did I," I admitted, "until–" I stopped myself.
"Until what?"
"Uh, until the crazy stuff started happening," I replied, a little stupidly. I'd almost said that it was boring until I became Marcie.
Maisie nodded and give me a wry smile. "We could use some crazy stuff happening around here."
I didn't answer. Maybe a lot of what happened to me was exciting and fun to hear about, but some of it was terrible when it happened. I didn't wish for anything exciting. Just being Marcie was enough for me.
She threw her cigarette on the ground and pressed it under her boot. Then she handed me a piece of gum. "To get rid of the smoke smell," she said. Then she looked in my eyes. "One of your eyes is red from coughing. Come here." She got something out of her purse and unscrewed it.
Quickly, decisively, she grabbed my face with her right hand, tilted it back and pulled open my eye with thumb and forefinger. Before I had a chance to react, she dropped two drops of some liquid into my eye.
"Hey!" I protested, blinking.
"Feel better?" she asked.
To tell the truth, it did. I nodded.
"Visine," she said. "Let's get back before they come looking for us."
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"I never thought I'd complain about this, but Mom, the skirt's too short."
"No it's not," she replied. "It looks fine."
Maisie and I talked and talked. We found some chairs against the wall, far from everybody, where we sat down next to each other.
We traded stories. We got the lowdown on each other.
She told me about her parents' divorce, and how she was always going "from one hell to the other" as she put it.
We talked about school. She told me about my classmates, the teachers, and the principal. What she said about Sister Honororia, the principal, pretty much confirmed the warning Mr. Bryant had given me.
"Your old principal warned you about Honororia?" Maisie asked in disbelief.
"Yeah, he was pretty cool," I said.
"With everybody? Or just with you?"
I blushed, and that made her press the issue, so I ended up telling her about my first day of school, when I got into trouble for wearing too short a skirt.
"Oh, yeah, the nuns are crazy about that at BYHS, too," Maisie told me. "They actually take a ruler and measure the height of your skirt."
"Oh, that reminds me!" I said. "If I bring a camera on Monday, will you take a picture of me in my uniform?"
"Sure," she laughed. "For your boyfriend in California?"
I nodded, my cheeks slightly red. "Do you think that's weird?" I asked, "That he wants to see me in the uniform?"
She shook her head. "Guys are weird. For some reason, the uniform is a big turn-on for them. Go figure."
We laughed together.
Mom was all excited about meeting Dad's boss and Maisie's mom, whose name is Ida. The two mothers made a date to meet for coffee on Monday "after the girls are in school."
Dad was glad and relieved to have the family together again. Once we got home, the sleep that comes after eating turkey swept over the three of us.
When we woke from our naps, Mom insisted that I get ready for tomorrow, which meant I had to try on the Blessed Yvette uniform for the first time. I have to admit, it wasn't too bad. I hadn't seen a blue plaid before. Probably after wearing it every day I'd get sick of it, but right now I didn't mind.
Tomorrow we had an appointment with the principal, Sister Honororia, at the ungodly hour of nine AM.
It would have been bad enough to make an early appointment on a day off, but what made it truly insane was the fact that Mom and I were still on California time. Meaning: it was going to be like six in the morning for us.
Plus, the nun insisted that I wear the school uniform to the appointment.
Mom thought it was a "fine idea."
"I never thought I'd complain about this, but Mom, the skirt's too short."
"No it's not," she replied. "It looks fine."
"It has to be at most two inches above the knee. This is at least three."
"I don't think that's important, Marcie. No one is going to take a ruler and measure."
"Yes, they do! Maisie told me they do!"
"She was just pulling your leg, I'm sure," Mom said.
"No, Mom. Listen, I have some experience with this: I was in trouble for two weeks in Tierson for wearing a short skirt."
"That was a tennis skirt," Mom countered. "This skirt is fine."
I tried to tug it down, but it didn't go.
Dad was getting antsy. He was hungry (we all were!) and I had to quickly change so we could go out for supper.
This time, he explained, the restaurant would be more intimate. No one from work would be there.
We were going to walk there and back. The sidewalks were (fairly) clear of snow, and my father wanted to celebrate: the new job, the new house, the family back together. He and Mom were going to drink champagne, and he didn't want to worry about driving home after.
So we walked. Or they walked. I slipped and slid and wiggled and waggled. I was unsteady, but determined to do my damnedest to keep from falling down.
Mom and Dad were arm-in-arm ahead of me, and they kept stopping as they talked. I understood that they wanted to get all lovey-dovey — parents can get weird that way. But it was driving me crazy, because they were breaking my momentum! All the stop-and-start was throwing me off balance. When we reached a corner, I scurried around to get ahead of them.
It was easier to negotiate the slippage if I could just keep moving.
After a long, slow ten minutes of walking, we reached the town center. This time, *I* was the one to stop dead in my tracks. I didn't expect it to be so nice.
It was only a few blocks long, maybe five blocks, that rose up a gentle hill. The main street was very wide, which was — I don't know, kind of relaxing in a funny way. It was as if the town was saying, Let's just spread out and have a nice little spot here. The buildings were all in the Tudor style, with dark brown beams and light cream stucco. Nothing was higher than two stories, and it was all clean and sparkly and quiet.
The most striking feature was the streetlights. I had liked the streelights in the train-station/restaurant earlier, but these were much nicer. They were taller and more elegant. They really had class. They were old iron, but they looked almost delicate, like a lovely lantern sitting at the top of a narrow tree.
Then the light itself caught my eye. The lamps were like old gaslamps. I say "like" because there was no gas. The glow came from a special bulb that seemed to move and burn like a flame. They were beautiful.
So far, I was liking Flickerbridge. I could see myself hanging out down here. The stores were definitely worth exploring. If only I had those ten thousand dollars... oh well. Still, I might find something fun for the money Mom would let me spend.
I turned to see where my parents were. They were moving slowly, about two blocks behind me. They stopped yet again. Just out of habit, I huffed in impatience, but this time I didn't really mind. It was pretty right where I was, and I felt so much like I was in the right place at the right time.
I decided to stop so my parents could catch up.
Close to where I stood was a tiny patch of sidewalk that was completely bare. No snow, no ice, no black ice. It was only six or seven inches square, but I planted myself right on it. It was great. Standing still on non-slippery ground, I felt how tense I'd gotten in all my efforts to stay upright. I moved my shoulders around and loosened up.
Just at that moment, as if by magic, it started to snow lightly. For the first time in my life, I caught snow flakes on my tongue. I tipped my head back and felt the tiny crystals fall and melt on my cheeks. They caught in my eyelashes, and danced up and down as I blinked. For a girl who'd never really seen snow, it seemed like fairyland.
Then I watched the flakes dropping steadily into the street, huge heavy flakes. It wasn't snowing hard, but it was constant.
Through the falling whiteness I saw an old lady coming down the hill toward me. She was carrying a large purse. She walked slowly, but only because she was old — she wasn't having *any* of the trouble that I had. I guess *she* had the right kind of boots!
She plodded along, sure footed, her arms bent like two angular hooks. Hmmph! If I could, I wanted to take a look at the sole of her boot, to see where I'd gone wrong.
Behind her, in the distance, somebody else clearly had the right sort of boots. At first he was only a shadow, but the shadow quickly grew, and that meant he was moving fast. In fact, he was running.
I was amazed. My boots seemed designed to make me fall. The old lady's boots let her walk normally. This man's boots actually let him run!
Soon I could tell that it was a young man, and I watched his sure-footed progress with awe. For some reason, seeing him run made me take a tiny step back, and I shimmied just a bit on his behalf. He wasn't going to slip, after all. I had to do it for him. I looked down and centered my feet on the bare spot.
He came closer and closer, never missing a footfall, and as he passed the old lady, he smoothly lifted her purse right off her arm and kept on running. There wasn't the slightest break of pace. It was a smooth, almost practiced move, and it happened oh-so fast.
Shocked by the suddenness of it, I lifted my arms and wavered unsteadily, but I couldn't speak. The old lady herself was too startled to cry out yet.
The thief's quick steps brought him directly in front of me. He growled, "Out of the way, little girl!" and gave me a rough shove.
Instead of knocking me out of the way as he intended, his blow only made me teeter more. By now, I'd had a lot of practice wobbling, and instinctively my body shifted and shook to compensate. I was practically an expert by now.
My right foot hit a patch of ice, and it slipped and shot out from under me.
Just one thought filled my mind: Don't let your butt hit the ground! Desperate to not fall, I grabbed his jacket with both hands. My hands were like tight iron claws. There was no way I was going to let go. I was NOT going down!
He cursed and twisted a little, to shake me off, which made my left foot hit the ice, and it slid away from me. In spite of my determination, it looked like I was going down. My butt was going to strike the ground after all. Worse yet, I was probably going to bring the thief down on top of me.
"Get off!" he whined, and swatted at my hands.
I scrabbled with both feet to try to stay up, still clutching his coat with both hands. It was getting ridiculous: my feet were churning like a cartoon character, and my body kept lurching up and down. A few times I accidentally kicked him while he stood still, trying to free himself from me. The way we were locked together, if he tried to get away, he was sure to fall himself.
He turned his body hard left, determined to shake me loose, but — in spite of his high-traction boots — he slipped, falling backward, and his head made a dull bonk! against the nearby iron lamppost.
Once he stopped moving, I found my little square of clear, non-icy ground, and managed to get my footing back.
By some crazy miracle, I hadn't fallen at all. The thief, on the other hand, was sitting on the ground, looking around in a daze, and he actually said, "Who hit me?"
After straightening my clothes, I reached down and took the woman's bag from his hand. I waved it at the lady, shouting, "It's safe!"
"Marcie!" my mother called anxiously.
"I'm okay!" I shouted in her direction.
A moment later, my phone was in my hand. I dialed 911 as I carefully balanced on the tiny, clean square, where I waited for the woman, my parents, and soon after, the police.
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Why are you staring at me?" she demanded.
"I'm sorry," I replied, "I didn't mean to be rude. I've never seen a nun up close before."
The police put the thief in the back of the squad car and took our statements.
"Word to the wise," the first policeman told me, "It's not a good idea to tussle with bad guys. You could have gotten hurt."
"I didn't tussle," I told him, "I was just trying to keep from falling down."
The second policeman laughed, but the first silenced him with a look. Then he asked me, "What school do you go to?"
"BYHS," I replied.
"Huh?"
"Blessed Yvette's," I said in an undertone. He nodded.
Mom and Dad were quiet at dinner. I don't think they knew what to say.
Finally I said, "Can you see now that things really do just happen to me?"
Dad cleared his throat. "They never used to happen to you when you were a boy. Why is that?"
"I don't know."
"It's as if one day you stepped into a crazy teen-spy movie."
I laughed, but they didn't.
"It's unnerving," Dad said.
"It's frightening," Mom said.
"I don't look for it," I told them.
"Let's talk about something else," Dad said.
It was a nice dinner. After two glasses of champagne they began to relax and have a good time. I tried to keep my mouth shut, so they could talk and be all mushy with each other. It was kind of hard to watch, and — I couldn't help it, but I kept picturing the sleeping arrangements back at the apartment. They had given me the tiny bedroom (with its single bed), while they shared a queen-sized sofa-bed in the big room. I hoped (with a shudder) that the lovebirds could behave.
When we walked home afterward, they each took one of my arms. They said it was so I wouldn't fall down, but I know it was some sort of protectiveness. I felt like a prisoner, but I understood why they were doing it.
The next morning my alarm woke me at six. To my inner clock, it was three in the morning. "I can't believe it," I groaned to myself. I crawled out of bed, and made my way on hands and knees into the bathroom. Once the shower warmed up, I lay down and let the spray rain over me.
After probably twenty minutes the water woke me up... somewhat. Awake enough to wash my hair and get ready for my appointment. The reason I started so early is that we only have one bathroom, and I wanted to be absolutely sure I got all my stuff done in time, without a rush. I needed to make a good impression on this principal. If she was even half as bad as Mr. Bryant and Maisie told me, it was best to stay on her good side.
I took my time with my hair, and decided to wear no makeup or jewelry at all. While I was studying my reflection, Dad knocked on the door, so I left the bathroom to him. "All yours!" I announced.
"Your mother is still sleeping," he warned in a low, sleepy voice. "Good Lord, it's like a sauna in here!"
I put the uniform on again, this time adding a camisole under the blouse, so my bra wouldn't be so evident. Somehow the skirt looked even shorter today, though I knew it was impossible. I experimented with letting down the zipper so I could bring the hem down an inch, but it didn't work. The blouse isn't long, so it hung sloppily and showed a little skin (which is also against the dress code!). Plus, the skirt could easily fall down, since the zipper doesn't hold unless it's zipped all the way up.
There was nothing for it except to go with the non-dress-code, too-short skirt.
It seemed like a weird thematic destiny of mine.
Dad and I quietly ate breakfast together. Then he kissed his still-sleeping wife and left for work. At quarter to eight I woke her. I began to wish I'd woken her sooner! She was moving so slowly I was afraid she'd make us late.
"How long does it take to walk there from here, Mom?" I asked, as an indirect hint.
"I don't know," she replied in a lifeless tone.
"In the snow it might take a little longer," I added.
She stopped putting on her mascara to look at me. "We'll get there on time," she said.
"I just want to make a good impression!" I told her. "Maybe we should call a taxi?"
Mom stopped again and glared at me. I made the motion of zipping my lips. If I didn't talk to her, she wouldn't keep stopping.
We did make it on time, but just barely. When we got in the door of the school, I took my uniform shoes from a shoe bag and changed out of my boots into the shoes.
"Aren't you prepared?" Mom commented, in a tone of approval.
As soon as we entered the principal's outer office, the principal herself came to meet us. I almost laughed at first. Maisie should have warned me. Sister Honororia was tiny, like an elf, with small, round, wire-rimmed glasses. Her face had only a few wrinkles, but those wrinkles were deep and sharply defined. She was shorter than me, and she was in heels!
She wore the whole black outfit that nuns wear, the white bandeau across her forehead, the black veil, the black long-sleeved tunic, and the scapular, which is the long strip of cloth that rests on the shoulders, like a narrow poncho. I learned all those terms later on, and I also discovered that Honororia was the only one who wore them all. Most of the other nuns just wore simple dresses. They looked like ordinary women, except that their clothes were much plainer than an ordinary woman's.
"Why are you staring at me?" the nun demanded.
"I'm sorry," I replied, "I didn't mean to be rude. I've never seen a nun up close before."
"I assume you've never spoken to a nun before, either?"
"No."
"No, sister," she corrected. "You should address a nun as sister."
"Yes, sister," I replied.
Honororia walked around me, looking me up and down. When she returned to her original place, she asked, "Do you know why I asked you to wear your uniform today?"
"Perhaps you thought it would show my attitude, sister," I replied.
"And what attitude would I see?"
"You would see a willingness to comply, even if I am a little unprepared."
"In what way are you unprepared?"
"My skirt is an inch too short."
"If you knew it was too short, why did you wear it?"
"I only received it yesterday, sister. I'll make sure it's fixed before Monday."
"Do you know how to sew?"
"No, sister, but I can learn."
She was now standing very close to me, studying my face. "Good answers," she commented. "You should know, Marcella, that you have an advantage or a disadvantage, depending on your point of view. I already know all the other girls in the school, so I'll be able to devote more time to getting to know you. I'm interested to see whether you answer so well because you're clever or because you're good."
"Both, sister," I replied, "I could be both."
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
As we walked away from the school, Mom said, "I think that went very well."
I looked at her in astonishment.
Sister Honoraria said, "Please have a seat." Mom and I sat down. I was watching myself the whole time, trying to move in the right way, smoothing my skirt under me, keeping my knees together and all that.
The nun watched me closely, and then walked around me, correcting pretty much everything. First she told me to put my knees together. They already were together, but I gave them a squeeze. Then: feet directly below knees, ankles together, hands on knees, head up, eyes forward, shoulders back. Throughout the rest of the interview, whenever I relaxed slightly, she was on me again to correct my posture.
"I won't give you detention this time for the short skirt," she told me, "but of course next time I'll be obliged to."
"Thank you, sister."
"I had an interesting talk with your last principal, Mr. Bryant," she said. "Apparently he took a great interest in you." She let that statement hang for a few moments, to see if any implications fell out of it. "Frankly I found his attitude to be overly indulgent. I've also been informed of your various adventures."
She said the last word as if it were dirty. "Most recently, you were fighting in the street with a muscular thief. I must tell you, Marcella, this is not appropriate behavior for a young lady."
"What?" I asked, confused. "Fighting?"
"My brother is a policeman here in town," she explained. "It was he who took your statement. Apparently you gave a rather heavy blow to the man's skull."
My jaw fell open.
"Don't gawk, girl!" she commanded.
"In spite of its size, Flickerbridge is a small town," she continued. "Wherever you go, whatever you do, no matter how you are dressed, people will know that you are a Blessed Yvette student, and they will take you as a representative of our school. If you are a brawler or worse, it will reflect badly on the school, on your classmates, on the teachers and the staff. I will have to take such episodes as disciplinary matters. Do you understand, Marcella?"
"Yes, sister," I said, my mouth suddenly dry.
"Keeping out of trouble is not enough," she said. "That's a negative virtue. You must be a positive model of virtuous and ladylike behavior, always and everywhere. That may not be fashionable, but it is right, and it is our standard here at Blessed Yvette's."
"Yes, sister," I said quietly.
"And one last thing," she said. "We have zero tolerance for gang activities."
My eyebrows went up at that, and when I didn't reply she asked, "Is that clear?"
"Yes, sister," I said.
As we walked away from the school, Mom said, "I think that went very well."
I looked at her in astonishment.
She was smiling. She caught my expression and asked, "Didn't you?"
"I think she wanted to chain me to a wall in the basement and beat me with a cane," I replied.
Mom huffed, irritated. "This is exactly what you need, Marcie," she said. "Virtuous and ladylike behavior. You need to learn that. And if she's a little strict, it won't kill you."
A little strict?
"I hope not," I replied, and Mr. Bryant's warning came to mind: find a way to bend without breaking.
"I could always run away," I mused aloud. I was ONLY KIDDING, I swear.
Mom looked at me, her face filled with pure terror.
"I'm joking!" I cried. Her frightened look shocked me to the core. "It was only a joke! I was joking! It's just a joke, mom! Really!" I hugged her and held her until she believed me. Honestly, I'd only said it to tease her!
"There are things you can not joke about," Mom told me.
"Okay, I'm sorry," I said. "I really am. I didn't think it would upset you!"
"Well, it did!" she replied. "Don't ever say that again. And don't ever run away! It would be so dangerous for you, and your father and I would just... die."
I let go of her and we both wiped the tears from our eyes.
"Oh, what a morning!" I said. "It must be the time change."
She laughed, which made us both feel better.
From the school we went to the bank, so I could open an account. Since I'm a minor, one of my parents has to be on the account as well.
While I was counting how many people were in line ahead of us, I noticed that the man who was first in line was wearing dark glasses and a floppy hat, which made it hard to see his face and hair.
"Hey, Mom," I said, smiling, "Do you think that man is going to rob the bank?" I pointed one hand like a gun, made some goofy faces, and silently giggled.
She glanced at him, then looked at me and pursed her lips. "Remember what Sister Honororia said, Marcie. Virtuous and ladylike behavior."
I sighed and rolled my eyes in the most ladylike way I knew. I didn't really think the man was a bank robber. It was just a joke about the way he was dressed. Still, my eyes followed him as he went to the teller's window, and I saw the teller's eyes widen. She was shocked by something he said.
Then her eyes went down to something that he showed her inside his coat, and she began to shake. He passed her a gray cloth bag, and she, head down, began to load it up with money. Somehow no one saw any of this except me, and I wasn't sure what to do.
"Mom," I hissed, tugging hard on her sleeve. "Mom! This is a real bank robbery!"
She looked where I indicated, but at that moment there was nothing to see.
"Oh, Marcie," she sighed.
Then the teller passed the bag to the crook. As he lifted his arm to take the bag, his gun came clearly into view. Mom's face went white. Another teller saw it, too, and so did the security guard.
The guard came walking up quickly, drawing his gun as he approached. He said, "Sir, put your firearm on the counter and keep your hands were I can see them." The guard was short and overweight, but he didn't show the slightest trace of fear. I, on the other hand, had plenty of fear, and it showed. It prickled like cold electricity all over my arms and legs, and the hair on my neck felt as if it were standing several inches high.
The robber didn't look scared at all. He lifted his gun and coolly aimed at the guard's chest. The guard had his gun in hand, but he wasn't ready to shoot. The robber got there first.
The bad guy's gun didn't waver in any way. In a cold, low voice, he told the guard, "Lay your gun gently on the floor."
The guard hesitated, just for a moment, so the robber shouted, "DO IT!" All of us in line flinched, and the guard did as he was told.
Then, in a loud, clear voice, the robber ordered, "Everybody stay calm. Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt." He told the guard to lie face down on the floor, and once the man was down, the robber used his foot to shove the guard's gun well out of reach.
Then he took a step toward the front door, gun still trained on the guard, when a police car pulled up outside, directly in front of the door. The siren was silent, but the lights were going, and they flashed and circled all through the bank.
The robber swore. Then he looked at the tellers, then at the people in line. My blood turned to ice when his eyes rested on me. "Come here, girl," he said. I didn't move. He pointed the gun at my mother and said, "Come here now or mommy gets it."
I quickly moved toward him. I heard my mother's barely suppressed whimper behind me. My heart was pounding. He grabbed me roughly, held me close, and pressed his gun against my head. He gripped me so tightly that my feet left the ground for an instant. Then he set me down, but his grip was desperate, and the gun was pressed so hard against my head that it hurt.
He was strong. His muscles were hard, as hard as bone. His heart was pounding through his chest — or was that my heart? — but his grip never loosened: it was steady and unwavering.
Two policemen had come inside, but they stopped just inside the door. Each of the cops held his gun with two hands, arms straight out, and the guns were directed at me and the bad guy. This does not look good, I thought. But there's no way that this is the end for me. I'm not going to die like this, wearing this silly uniform.
"I'm taking the girl with me," he said. "Nobody follows, nobody tries anything, or I shoot her. UNDERSTAND?" The policemen didn't respond, and they didn't put their guns down. I wondered what they had in mind. Were they going to shoot him as he held me? Wasn't that dangerous?
We moved slowly toward the door, just past the guard, who was still lying on the floor. I could see my mother crying, and it made me angry. He made my mother cry! How dare he! At that moment, something inside me said, I'm not going anywhere with this jerk!
It struck me that, however bad things were right now, it would be much worse if he took me away. Here at least there were two policemen and the guard, and all the other people. Out that door, it would be me, alone.
I had to make sure he didn't take me through the door.
If I was going to try something — anything — I had to do it now.
An idea came to me. I pictured the movement a couple of times to be sure I'd do it right, and then I let loose. I picked up my right leg and slammed the side of my foot as hard as I could against his shin. Then, with all my might, I brought it down, the hard sole of my school shoe, scraping his shin all the way, and planted my heel deep and hard in his foot. At the same time I pushed his gun as high as I could, straight up in the air.
The security guard must have seen it coming, because he was the first to react. As round as he was, he was on his feet in a flash, and quickly disarmed the robber as I gave him a fierce kick and a scrape down his other shin.
The police ran over. One of them grabbed me (and with unnecessary force, I'm sure) almost threw me out of the way. I ran to my mother, who wrapped her arms around me, crying and telling me all sorts of incoherent things.
Once the crook was safely stowed in the police car, the guard came over and said, "You're a very brave young lady. I'm glad you had the presence of mind to do what you did."
"Don't tell her that!" the tall policeman contradicted. "It was foolhardy! She could have been killed!"
Then I recognized him. He was Sister Honororia's brother. "I told you just yesterday not to brawl with the bad boys! That's what policemen are for!"
Behind him, the other policeman, his partner, gave me a shrug and a grin, to tell me he didn't agree, even if he couldn't say so.
I didn't answer. What could I say? I just hugged my mother. My mind was a wide empty blank.
After the police left, the bank manager wanted to talk to me. He brought Mom and me into his office and offered some water to drink. "I'm sorry I don't have anything better," he told us. "But honestly! I have to tell you that it was disgraceful, what that policeman said to you. It was rude and unfeeling! He spoke to you as if — as if — well, as if *you* were the criminal!" He was quite agitated, so he made an effort to calm himself. Then he continued. "If that man had dragged you out of the bank, who knows what would have happened to you? I have a daughter of my own, and I hope she'd have the pluck to fight the way you did."
Then he personally helped me open my account, and told me that he would deposit the reward money into my account as soon as some paperwork was done. Reward money? "It won't be much," he said apologetically. "It depends on the amount stolen, so I'm afraid that it will be only be something like $200."
My jaw dropped. "That's a lot of money to me!" I told him.
He laughed. "I'm glad you're pleased! I hope you'll always be our customer, in spite of what happened today." He stood and shook my hand. "And if there is ever anything I can do for you — I mean for either of you, of course — please don't hestitate to ask. Whatever I can do, I will."
I was walking on air when we left the place, but not for long. Mom and I fought all the way home, as though what happened was in some way *my* fault.
"It's because you were looking at him," she said. "You were watching him from the moment we got in line. He knew, and that's why he grabbed you. Do you understand?"
"Mom, I was the youngest person in line! He thought I'd be the easiest to handle!"
We went back and forth, getting hotter and hotter. "What was I supposed to do?" I demanded. "What would you have done?"
"I wouldn't have been there in the first place," she said, illogically.
"But you were there!" I shouted back.
I don't think we ever had such a horrible fight. When we got back to the apartment, I took off the stupid uniform as quickly as I could. Then I looked around for a door to slam or someplace to be alone. But the apartment's too small; there isn't even a closet to hide in. And it was too cold to go outside. What could I do?
While Mom was in the bathroom, I grabbed the phone. I called Maisie and asked whether I could come over.
"Hell, yeah!" she said. "Mom can pick you up. Are you ready now?"
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
I looked up at the second floor, and saw a girl's face in one of the windows. She looked directly into my eyes, but she didn't move or wave. I was so startled, at first I couldn't tell the others, but when I did, the girl was gone.
"Mom, why are going this way?" Maisie asked, in a tone that suggested that her mother was complete idiot. I like Maisie, but one thing she does that I cannot stand is the way she treats her mother.
"Marcie hasn't seen her new house. I thought we might drive by."
"Oh, thanks," I said. She smiled at me, then turned her eyes back to the road.
Maisie rolled her eyes and whispered to me, "She is such a total witch! She drives me up the wall!"
The car stopped in front of a big blue Victorian house. It sat on hill, and there were two flights of stairs from the sidewalk to the front door. I had to tip my head back to see the front door.
"Do you want to get out and see it?" Maisie's mother asked. "Nobody lives here, so we can walk around, but we can't go inside."
"Sure," I agreed. We walked up the driveway, which was steeper and had less snow than the steps. I have to say, I liked the place right off. It was big — bigger than our house in California, and there was a large porch in front with a porch swing.
Maisie lit a cigarette the moment she stepped from the car. Her mother looked at her, opened her mouth to say something, then stopped herself, tightening her lips.
I looked up at the second floor, and saw a girl's face in one of the windows. She looked directly into my eyes, but she didn't move or wave. We locked eyes for a couple of seconds. I was so startled, at first I couldn't tell the others, but when I did, the girl was gone.
Maisie's mother told me, "It must have been a trick of the light, Maisie — Marcie."
"I'm Maisie," Maisie said in a reproving tone.
"I know that!" her mother snapped. "I misspoke for a moment."
In a dismissive gesture, Maisie threw her cigarette into the snow, where it hissed out with surprising loudness. Then she turned her back and returned to the car.
I'd seen all that I could easily see of the house, and my feet were getting cold, so I wanted to go, too.
"Thanks for showing me the house," I told her mother. "I really appreciate it."
She gave me a tight smile, and followed me back to the car. I couldn't understand the tension between the two of them. Maisie had told me about the divorce and she had called her mother's house one of her "two hells," but I was having trouble seeing it.
Then I remembered the fight I'd had with my own mother today. I knew that we'd apologize and make up... eventually. Maybe Maisie and her mom had a fight and just stayed mad? Who would know? Plus, I realized that I hardly knew either of them... Maisie might have good reason to dislike her mother, no matter how nice she seemed to me.
When we got to Maisie's house, her mother got on the phone to my mother, and the two talked for a solid hour. Even if I was still mad at my mother, I was glad that she'd made a friend so quickly.
Maisie wanted to hear the blow-by-blow of my argument with my mother. For once, she didn't interrupt me.
When I was done, she almost shouted, "I can't believe it! She's mad at you because the guy grabbed you!?" She shook her head. "Adults are so messed up! It must be that once you pass a certain age, your brain dries up and hardens. That's why it quits working."
She scoffed to herself and continued, "You know what it's like? I thought of this one time, and it's true: getting older is like climbing a ladder. Becoming an adult is when you kick the ladder away and pretend it was never there."
"Not all adults are that way," I replied, feeling uneasy.
She continued, "Maybe, in the distant past, when our parents were teenagers, things were so different that they can't even comprehend what it means to be alive today."
"Oh, Maisie," I protested, and repeated, "Not all adults are that way. Hopefully we won't turn out that way."
She nodded. "That's for sure!"
It wasn't so much that I wanted to change subject, but I there was a question I wanted to ask Maisie almost from the moment we met. "Why do you smoke?" I asked her. "I've been wanting to ask you."
She looked at me for a few moments before replying. "I have lots of reasons," she said. "Good reasons. One, is for weight loss. It reduces the appetite. Two, it pisses off my mother, and she can't stop me, which is a bonus. Three, I like it. Four, it's cool."
I searched for something to say. I didn't want to preach to her.
"Look," she said, "I don't care whether *you* smoke. Nobody I hang out with smokes. Susan doesn't smoke. I don't expect you to pick up the habit, and I hope you don't expect me to stop."
"Okay," I agreed. "There was something else I wanted to ask you, and I know it's none of my business, but how come you and your mother don't get along with each other?"
"Oh, that's an easy one! And I don't mind telling you. When my parents got divorced they both fought to dump me on each other. Neither of them wanted me, so I don't want either of them."
If she had a cigarette in hand, she would have blown a cloud of smoke to the ceiling, to signify how little it meant to her.
I was stunned. How could she be so casual about it? What she'd just said was horrible — worse than horrible!
Maisie came from such a different world than me! I mean, sometimes my parents got angry or irritated with me, but I never felt that they didn't want me. Even now, when I was practically burning with anger at my mother, I knew that nothing could ever break our connection. She was always my mother, and I was always her child.
Maisie looked at my striken face, and laughed. She stretched and smiled. "Look at you! Don't worry, Marcie! It doesn't matter! Okay, so my parents are jerks. It's not the end of the world! Come on, let's not talk about that junk. Tell me about the bank robbery!"
Well, I did, but of course I had to back up a bit and tell her about the purse-snatcher, first. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to explain the cop's reaction.
It was Maisie's turn to be shocked. She didn't know that Sister Honororia had a brother, let alone a brother on the Flickerbridge police force. "Figures," she said. "I think *my* family's messed up, but that one just wins the prize. Could you imagine the two of them as kids?"
"Hmm," I said. "No, honestly, I can't."
Maisie wrinkled her nose and shuddered, then laughed. "Me, neither!" Then an idea kicked in: "Unless... unless... they were the worst bullies in their school!"
"Yuck!" I reacted, shuddering as well.
Maisie's mom invited me to dinner, and I was glad to stay. It was nice to hang out in Maisie's room. It was big and comfortable and warm, and nobody bothered us.
Then I realized that I'd never done this before. When I spent time at Eden's house, we were almost always in the rec room, working on the dance routine. I'd never been to Carla's house, and at Jerry's I was always with Jerry, but never in his room.
"Do you always wear skirts?" I asked Maisie.
"I guess," she said. "I like clothes that are bulky and loose, and it's hard to find pants that fit that way and don't fall down. I'm not really into clothes, like you. My mother buys me all this stuff and I just grab things at random. She's always like 'this-doesn't-go-with-that', but I could not care less!"
"Ah," I said. "I never really thought I was into clothes, but I guess you're right." It sounded like not being interested in clothes was a way Maisie had of rejecting her mother. I didn't completely believe that she wasn't interested in how she looked.
Maisie smiled. "I bet you read one of those fashion mags, like Cosmo or Elle."
I blushed. "I'm still trying to find the one that fits me best."
Maisie shrugged. "It's cool. I'm just not into it. Maybe when we go to a dance or something, you could pick out what I should wear."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Otherwise my mother will get involved. If I say that you picked what I'm wearing, she won't want to step on your toes, or she'll talk to you about it."
I nodded. That actually didn't sound bad. In fact, it sounded good. Maisie's mother dressed like she knew quite a bit about clothes. I could learn a lot just watching her, and if I could talk to her, it would be even better.
The more I thought about, the more I liked the idea.
The "dinner" was just three frozen meals, microwaved and set on plates. I got the impression that this was how it usually went. Maisie's mother asked me questions, talked to me, talked about my mother. Maisie tuned it out and didn't say a word. While her mother and I talked, Maisie made the motions of eating, but when we got up from the table, I noticed that she'd barely eaten anything.
"Wanna walk by your new house?" Maisie offered. "It's really close. You'd never guess from the way we drove here..." She rolled her eyes at her mother's inept driving skills.
It was close, but I wouldn't say it was very close — it was about five blocks away. And, to tell the truth, I was sure that we walked the exact same route that Maisie's mother had driven.
The house still looked good: big, welcoming, homey. Still, no one was inside, so the windows were dark. I scanned them for the girl I'd seen earlier, but didn't catch a glimpse.
"Do you want to see if we can get inside?" Maisie asked.
"You mean break in?"
She shrugged. "Why not? It's your house."
"No," I said. "With my luck, Honororia's brother will come by and arrest me."
Maisie laughed, and lit a second cigarette off the end of her first.
"So, uh, which way is school?" I asked her.
Maisie waved her arm vaguely ahead. "It's kinda that way... and it's too far to walk in the snow. Flickerbridge is really big, area-wise. The school, and where you live now, are way on the other side of town. When the weather is nice enough, I walk to school. It drives my mother nuts, for some reason.
"Oh, and speaking of driving, did you know our mothers are going to take turns driving us to school?" She rolled her eyes.
Suddenly goosebumps suddenly ran up my arms, and I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I turned quickly and my eyes flew automatically to that same second-floor window, but there was nothing to see — or at least it was too dark inside to see anything.
"What?" Maisie asked.
"I felt like someone was looking at me," I said.
"Ooh! Maybe it was a ghost, Nancy Drew!" Maisie laughed.
"Don't call me that," I said.
She shrugged. "Okay, if it bugs you, I won't." She was silent a moment, then said, "Hey! We could go by Susan's house! Want to?"
Susan Ash was a friend of Maisie's and she was also in our class at BYHS. We started walking, and suddenly darkness fell. The streetlights came on, and at the same moment, my cell phone rang.
"Hi, Mom," I said.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked.
"Caller ID," I said. "What's up?" I couldn't tell whether she was still angry.
"I just wanted to know where you are. Are you coming home soon?"
"I guess," I said. "I can. I'm out walking with Maisie. We went by the new house."
"Again?" she enthused. "Do you like it?"
"Yeah, I like it. It looks pretty nice. It's big. How did you know that I was there already?"
"Ida told me."
"Mmm."
"Listen, I can come pick you up. I'll come now and chat with Ida until you get back to Maisie's."
"Okay," I said and we both hung up.
Maisie seemed surprised when no one was home at Susan's house, but I was pleased to see that it wasn't far from where I'd be living.
Maisie said, "I just realized that the three of us will be living in, like, a triangle. From here it's about five blocks to your house, and um, five blocks to mine."
"Cool!" I said.
"And we'll all suffer at BYHS together," she added.
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
The PA crackled to life, and said, "Will Marcella Donner please report to the principal's office? Marcella Donner to the principal's office."
Monday morning, both mothers drove us to school. Well, Maisie's mother did the actual driving. My mother was a passenger. The woman were chatting away nonstop.
"Look at them! They're just giddy!" Maisie whispered to me. Aloud, in the tone of a mother talking to children, she told them, "Now don't you girls get in any trouble while we're away."
Mom giggled, but Maisie's mother didn't react, aside from a little twitch in her jaw.
"How come Susan didn't come with us?" I asked.
Maisie's mother glanced at me in the mirror before replying. "Her mother's not very social," she sighed. "Lord knows I've tried."
"I hate to agree with my mother," Maisie commented, "but it's true. Susan's mother hardly lets her out of the house. She makes her study all the time. Chinese," she said, as if the last word explained everything.
When I frowned, she explained, "Chinese families have this work ethic, you know? Susan has to get A-plus in everything and go to an Ivy-League school. All work and no play. She has to go straight home after school."
"That doesn't sound so bad," my mother said.
"Maisie, you're giving her ideas!" I cautioned, and made a big-eyed cut it out face. Maisie grinned.
As soon as the car stopped, the two of us barrelled out of the car and ran up the walk before the Moms could get out any last motherly words.
"Oh my God!" I told her. "It's bad enough she wants to send me here..."
"Oh, don't worry," Maisie laughed. "I don't see the Ivy League in your future!"
I stopped and stared at her, and said in a voice full of offended irony, "Oh, thank you very much, Maisie Beale, for that vote of confidence! It's not like you were being rude or anything!"
"I'm just kidding, you goof!" she said with a smile. Then she shouted, "Last one in the door is a rotten egg!"
We were laughing as we fell through the front door, but at the sight of Sister Honororia, we stopped and fell silent. "Good morning, sister," we sang out together.
"Good morning, Margaret, Marcella," she said. "I hope you two weren't tearing up the street like a pair of hooligans." Without waiting for an answer, she added, "Remember: virtuous and lady-like behavior." Then she turned her back to us so she could look down the hallway. Maisie stuck her tongue out.
I grinned until Sister Honororia said, "Keep your tongue inside your head, Margaret."
Maisie frowned, shook her head and gave me a shrug that asked How does she know?
"I know everything that goes on in this school," Honororia replied, still with her back to us.
Maisie gawked at the woman's back, astonished.
"Don't gawk," the nun commanded.
I pulled on Maisie's arm and we left.
"How did she know?" Maisie asked, once we were safely out of earshot.
"There must be a reflection someplace," I said. "We can check on it later."
As we walked into homeroom, a friendly voice called, "Hey, new girl!" It was an Asian girl with long black hair and a nice smile.
"Susan?" I asked. She nodded and held out her hand. We shook.
I made a mental note that girls shook hands sitting down. I'd have to get used to not jumping up.
"Welcome to BYHS," she said as she rolled her eyes.
"Now there's three of us," Maisie said. "We can be a gang."
"Oh, but there's zero tolerance for that!" I quipped.
The three of us sat together, chatting and laughing, while a frumpy, friendly-looking woman unloaded her briefcase onto the teacher's desk. She looked around the room and when her eyes landed on me she waved, smiling. I waved back.
"That's Mrs. Wix," Susan explained. "English teacher, and our homeroom teacher."
The PA crackled to life, and led the entire school in a prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance. Then it said, "Will Marcella Donner please report to the principal's office? Marcella Donner to the principal's office." Mrs. Wix gave me a wry grin, and whispered, "We'll introduce ourselves when you get back."
As I walked through the empty halls, I wondered why I was being called. It couldn't be for running up the walk. If *that* was the problem, Maisie would have been called, too. Then again, maybe there wasn't a problem. Maybe there was some kind of paperwork or forms I had to bring home, just because I was new. Whatever it was, it couldn't be anything bad.
The stairwell and the hallway echoed with the announcements. The last echoes where fading as I entered the principal's outer office. Sister Honororia was waiting at the door of her inner office. She beckoned, and I followed.
"I daresay you know why you're here," she said, after she shut the door and we both sat down.
"No, sister," I replied, and checked my posture. The nun gave me a once-over, but didn't correct anything.
"I am glad to see that you lengthened your skirt," she commented. "Did you do it yourself?"
"Yes, sister. My mother showed me how."
"Good. Cultivate a teachable spirit. Now to the business at hand. You won't be surprised that I know about your exploit at the bank on Friday."
"No, sister."
She nodded. "I asked you to come here so I could tell you that you will have detention for the next two weeks. Normally a student would be expelled or at least suspended for doing what you did, but you're new here, and I want to give you a chance."
I was shocked. I opened my mouth and shut it, and my body twitched several times. Detention?
My first impulse was to protest that I'd did nothing wrong. However, I'd already had *that* argument with my mother — twice — and once with my father. So I waited for my second reaction, which was try to bend without breaking. I swallowed hard and said, "Thank you, sister."
Her mouth worked a little. Had she been hoping for a fight? For a protest? Was she disappointed that I wasn't crushed or angry or upset? She watched me closely, waiting for the faintest hint of battle.
When none came, she licked her lips. "Good then. You can return to class."
When I put my hand on the doorknob, I was struck by an idea. I turned around and asked, "Sister, can I ask your advice on something?"
"Certainly," she said, in a crisp, no-nonsense voice. She was ready to parry any thrust I could possibly give. But I didn't give one.
"What would you have done, if you had been in my position?"
"There at the bank?"
"Yes."
"Yes, sister," she corrected.
"Yes, sister," I repeated.
"Had I been in your predicament," she replied, "I would have prayed for the grace of God." She pursed her lips. "I certainly wouldn't have fought, like a common hooligan. You put yourself and everyone in that bank in great danger by doing that. Especially when you consider that you were wearing your school uniform. That alone should have helped you remember how you need to comport yourself."
I nodded. "Thank you, sister."
"You're welcome, Marcella."
"WHAT!?" Maisie shouted, when I returned to class and told her and Susan. Then, in a lower voice, "Detention!?"
"Maisie?" Mrs. Wix said.
"Sorry, Mrs. Wix." Maisie replied. "I was just surprised by something."
Mrs. Wix nodded, as if she didn't mind.
Maisie silently mouthed That's insane!
Susan gave me a smile of rueful commiseration.
"Everyone, we have a new student with us today: Marcella — or do you go by 'Marcie'?" I nodded, so she went on, "Marcie Donner, who just moved here from California. I guess you came for the snow, which is pretty early this year, hmm? Please make her welcome, girls."
I smiled and gave a little wave as I looked around the room. I was surprised to see that maybe three-quarters of the girls were Black. I guess I'll see what it's like to be in the minority, I said to myself.
Mrs. Wix picked up a book and said, "Today we'll start off with one of my favorites," and her fingers dug into the pages just in front of a tasseled bookmark.
I silently sighed to myself. It was strange that here I was, starting out again, my first day at school, with two weeks of detention. I thought about what the nun had said, about not fighting. There was no way I could do that. Honestly, being expelled from BYHS seemed like a small price to pay for staying alive.
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
"Now," I said, "my parents want to keep a very close eye on me, and they think that Sister Honororia is just wonderful."
"Don't say her name too loud," Maisie cautioned. "She's behind you in the corner, and she's looking right at you."
"Tread softly because you tread on my dreams," Mrs. Wix finished.
I had never liked poetry, never read it, but at that moment I was hooked. It was the most magical thing I'd ever heard, and I wanted more of it.
"That was He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by William Butler Yeats, girls," Mrs. Wix said again. I wrote "Yates" in my notebook so I could look it up later.
Susan looked at what I'd written, shook her head, and wrote "Yeats" on my pad.
"Thanks," I whispered.
"Marcie, just so you know, I start every class by reading a bit of poetry or a piece of prose that is exceptionally well written." I nodded.
Then she dove into the lesson, which had nothing to do with Yeats or poetry.
At lunch, Maisie, Susan, and I sat together. "So how does this compare to your old school?" Susan asked.
"Well...," I said, "at lunch I used to sit with two of my friends just like this..." The three of us smiled at that. "But right over there," I gestured over my right shoulder, "was the boyfriends' table, where our boyfriends had to sit."
"Really?" Maisie snorted. "It sounds like prison! It defeats the whole purpose of going to school with boys! Could you talk to each other?"
"Sure you could. The only problem was that if the teachers knew you were an item, you couldn't sit together in the cafeteria. There was a no-PDA rule."
"PDA?" Susan asked.
"Public Displays of Affection," I explained. Maisie snorted again.
"So you had a boyfriend?" Susan asked. I nodded. "What happened now that you moved away?"
"We talked on the phone a couple times since I got here..." I replied. "I really miss him."
"I didn't mean to get you down," Susan said. "I was just curious." She sighed. "I don't know if my mother will ever let me date. That's one reason she sent me here, to an all-girls school."
"Yeah, me too," I said. "I wasn't even supposed to be dating when I went out with Jerry."
"How did you manage it, then?" Maisie asked as she munched on a carrot.
I laughed. "The first time he asked me out, he wanted to take me to a movie. When I told him that I wasn't allowed to go out with him, he said we could both happen to go to the same movie, and he could accidentally buy two tickets..." Susan and Maisie laughed. "The thing was, my parents were *here*, and I was *there*, so that's pretty much how I got away with it."
"Mmm," Susan commented, looking quite envious. "Did you stay with a relative or something?"
"Yeah, my Aunt Jane."
"And she let you do whatever you want."
"Well, she wasn't supposed to... but, yeah, I guess I got away with a lot." (Talk about understatements!)
"Lucky you!" Susan commented.
"Now," I said, "they want to keep a very close eye on me, and they think that Sister Honororia is just wonderful."
"Don't say her name too loud," Maisie cautioned. "She's behind you in the corner, and she's looking right at you."
As if on cue, Honororia came to our table. "Margaret, Susan, Marcella," she said, as a greeting.
"Good afternoon, sister," I replied.
"What have you learned today, Marcella?" she asked.
Huh? I thought. I wasn't ready for the question, but something came to me quickly. "I learned that I like poetry, sister. I didn't know that before."
"And how did that happen?" she asked.
I told her about Mrs. Wix's reading.
"Ah, yes," she said. "I'm sure you can find Yeats in our school library. Susan can certainly help you find your way.
"Mrs. Wix is one of our graduates, did you know that? Class of '94. It seems like yesterday, that she was sitting at one of these tables, just like you, with—" she stopped in midsentence. Actually, it was more like she froze in midsentence.
I looked at her in surprise.
She caught my look, and willed her face into an expressionless mask. Then she took a breath and hurriedly said, "In any case, she's one of our best."
She looked at each of us in turn, then said, "Girls," as a — well, as the opposite of a greeting — and left.
Once she was gone, I said, "Mmm," with a slight grimace. "Susan, do you think you could help me in the library now?"
"Yeah, why?" Susan asked.
"I have to keep on her good side, and I know she's going to ask me about Yeats next time I see her." I sighed. "I need something to read in detention, anyway."
After a quick visit to the library, I called my mother on my cell phone. She almost sounded glad that I'd gotten detention.
Mothers!
Dentention wasn't so bad. At least I wasn't the only one there. It was me and another girl, but we had to sit on opposite sides of the room, and the detention nun wouldn't let us even look at each other. I didn't mind so much because I was a little sweaty and sticky from gym class. I didn't want anyone smelling me!
After I got through my homework, I read a few pages of the Yeats book. I found the poem Mrs. Wix had read, and I liked it as much as when I first heard it. I read it over and over, in fact, and even thought about memorizing it.
Looking back over my day, I had to admit that gym had been the strangest class, mostly because it was a class of seniors. Mom had set it up — it was the only way I could have gym at the end of the day, which would allow me shower at home. At least, on a normal day I could shower at home.
One thing that was clear: if I did any school activity on a gym day, I was going to be uncomfortable, unless I could figure out a way to shower alone.
Or — I could get the operation to make me all the way girl. I had to get it done soon. Mom had mentioned it when she told me about the reward money, which meant that my parents had discussed it. I knew that before I could get the operation, I had to get a new therapist and endocrinologist. I also had to wait for my parents to quit freaking out about the purse-snatcher and the bank robbery — not that *that* had anything to do with anything.
Then — not to change the subject, but — I had a funny idea. I wondered whether the public library has the Nancy Drew books... Then I wondered where the public library was. No, no, it's a stupid idea, I realized. If something else happens, they'll think I got the idea from the books... that I went looking for trouble... I had to avoid any idea of adventurous, crime-fighting teens.
When I left detention, I headed straight for the front door. Mom was there, talking to Sister Honororia. Hoo, boy. Remember: find a way to bend without breaking.
"Ah, here she is now," Sister said. The two women were smiling.
"Hello, sister. Hi, Mom."
Honororia looked at the books in my arms, and tapped her index finger on the red Yeats book. "So you found it," she said, approvingly.
"Yes, sister. I was able to read some of it during detention."
"I hope you were also able to reflect on the error of your ways," she said. I wasn't sure, but that might have been a joke. There was a kind of twinkle in her eye, but it didn't completely convince me.
"I may have," I replied. I don't know why I said it. What else was I supposed to say? It just came out of my mouth — but the nun seemed to think it was funny.
"Good! Good!" she laughed. "Well, off you go! Nice talking to you, Mrs. Donner."
As we walked home, I could see that Mom was very happy. I resolved to not burst her bubble.
"You like Sister Honororia, don't you?" I said.
"I think she's a wonderful woman!" Mom gushed.
Luckily Mom didn't see my face. To say I was taken aback is putting it mildly.
"I found out that my English teacher used to be a student here," I informed Mom. It seemed like neutral information that she might like to know.
"Oh, really?" she asked. "Mrs. Wix was a student here?"
"How do you know her name is Mrs. Wix?"
"I met her," Mom said. "I met all your teachers, while you were still out in California."
"Oh," I said, considering.
"Is that a bad thing?"
"I guess not," I admitted.
"So how was your day?" she asked.
With an effort, I managed to not sigh, and pretty much told her everything.
She just got happier and happier. Interesting.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"I guess I didn't think about it because there weren't any boys around."
"Oh, my," Maisie commented. "Aren't you a woman of the world!"
"Can we conference Susan in?" I asked Maisie.
"No," she replied. "Her parents don't let her use the phone."
"They don't let her use the phone at all?"
"No. She's never called me, and I only called her once. And that was a mistake!"
"Why was it a mistake?"
"Well, one time there was this party at school... it was a school thing, so her parents were going to let her go. I couldn't remember what time the party started, so I called Susan to ask her."
"And?"
"And she was grounded!"
"What!?"
"She couldn't go to the party."
"Because you called her?"
"Yes! Isn't that crazy? I guess they figured we were planning something bad. I don't know."
"Wow!"
"Yes, it's very wow. I felt like a jerk when I found out. So never, never call her."
"That makes absolutely no sense!"
"I told you: her family is super strict. So, what were you telling me?"
I'd almost completely forgotten! With all Maisie's interruptions... What did I want to tell Maisie? "Oh, right! When my mother and I were walking home from school–"
"Wait! Your mother walked you home from school!?" Maisie giggled. "Did she make you hold her hand when you crossed the street?"
"Oh, uh," I fumbled. The wrongness of my mother coming hadn't hit me until then. It *did* sound as if I was in third grade. "I guess I didn't think about it because there weren't any boys around."
"Oh, my," Maisie commented. "Aren't you a woman of the world!"
"ANYWAY," I continued, trying to get back to the point, "she was all gushing about Honororia, and wanted to know everything about my day–"
"Everything!? You didn't tell her everything did you? You didn't tell her anything about *me*, did you?"
Oh, lord! Maisie was so paranoid! "No, just harmless stuff. Nothing about you."
"Good! Be careful! Remember: anything you say to your mom will get repeated to mine. And I don't want mine to know anything. I wish she didn't need to know where I live."
"I get it," I said. "Don't worry. I won't even tell her I know you! ANYWAY–"
"Quit saying 'anyway', Marcie. Just tell the story."
"Okay! The thing is, I realized that she's reliving her high school years through me."
"Who?"
"My mother!"
"Oh, yuck!"
"I thought it was kind of cute. I mean, a little weird, and maybe a little creepy, but cute."
Maisie was silent for a few moments. Then she said, "I tend to forget that all mothers aren't like mine."
"Yeah, sorry."
"It's okay."
The conversation was exhausting and a little frustrating. It was so much work! All those distractions and detours! The only thing I wanted to tell her about was Mom's vicarious second childhood. I'd never seen my mother so excited and happy... I just wanted to talk about it with somebody my age.
In retrospect I could see how it would creep Maisie out. It was a little strange to me, too, but I guess that's what mothers do. Maybe it was behind her wanting to decorate my bedroom, too.
Maisie asked some questions about my dress-code punishment back in Tierson. She wanted to know how many days of detention I had, and did I think I was fated for detention and so on. I answered her questions — with many interruptions on her part.
After I hung up, I went to the kitchen. My feet were dragging. The call had worn me out!
Mom had just finished getting dinner ready, so I set the table while she put some things in the sink. Dad wasn't home yet.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"I was just on the phone with Maisie... Do girls always interrupt each other when they talk?"
She laughed. "Maybe you don't notice..."
"Oh, I do not!"
Mom put one index finger on the end of her nose and pointed at me with the other, laughing.
"No!"
"You just interrupted me, Marcie! You do it all the time! Ask your father if you don't believe me!"
"I never!" I protested. "There is no way I interrupt like Maisie does! You never heard her!"
"I hear you two in the car in the morning. Neither of you ever finish a sentence."
"No, that's you and Ida," I countered.
"Oh, Marcie," she began, but her smile burst into a laugh.
I scoffed, but she kept on laughing. I wasn't really offended, but I was a little miffed.
I turned my back to her, but she came over and hugged me from behind. I shook my shoulders as a gentle hint for her to get off me.
"You know, you're a lot more fun as a girl," she teased. She started playing with my hair, so I shook my head and walked to the cabinet where the glasses were.
In the midst of my irritation, I had a sudden thought: Mom was in a good mood, so it seemed like a good time to ask my big question. I gave it a shot: "Mom, do you and Dad ever talk about my getting... the operation?"
"Yes, we do. You do want to get it, don't you?"
"I wish I could get it tomorrow!" I declared. Her eyebrows went up.
"I'm glad you're so sure," she said cautiously, "but there are a couple of things to consider..."
"Like?"
"See? You interrupted me again."
"Mom!" I groaned.
"ANYWAY," she said (in exactly the same way as I said it to Maisie), "it's an operation, so you'll need four to six weeks to recover. That means it has to happen in the summer. You can't miss that much school."
"Oh," I said in a small voice.
"AND, you're supposed to wait until you're eighteen. I've spent a lot of time talking to Mr. Marks about this–"
"You have?"
She nodded. "You've gone so far, we thought it might to be possible to make it happen sooner..."
"Do you think it could happen next summer?"
She went white before she said, "We'll see," in a quiet tone, so I figured I ought to drop the subject for now. I guess she could handle the idea of it, but not as an imminent reality.
I turned back to the glasses, and after what I thought was a discrete pause, told her about Mrs. Wix reading the Yeats poem. It was just about the only thing that happened at school that I hadn't already told her.
She didn't say anything, so I snuck a look at her. Changing the subject didn't seem to be working, because she still looked a little freaked.
Just then my cell phone rang. I ran into the bedroom to get it. It was Trevor Means!
"Of course I remember you," I said, smiling, "And no, you're not interrupting dinner."
"Ah, that's good, at least," he said.
He sounded even sexier on the phone than he had in person, but he didn't sound happy at all.
After I put the phone down, Dad arrived, and a few minutes later the three of us were sitting around the table.
"I have some news," I announced. "Bad news for me, but good news for you."
Mom turned to look at me, and Dad raised his eyebrows.
"Trevor Means called to say that he can't go out with me."
Dad frowned and Mom gave me a questioning look.
"Apparently his mother noted his interest in me," I said, echoing Trevor's words, "and she told him that if he was dating the daughter of one of her employees, it could create complications in the workplace."
"Ah," Dad said in a careful tone.
"You don't have to pretend you're not glad," I told them both. To tell the truth, I wasn't all that upset — I was disappointed, yes — but I felt like pouting a little.
"I'm not glad," Dad told me. "Relieved is more the word. At the same time, I'm sorry for you."
"I'm not glad either," Mom said. "It's just that your life is so complicated... and a boyfriend just–"
"I know, I know," I said, a little testily.
"Oh, that reminds me," Mom said, smiling a little. "Marcie asked me whether girls interrupt a lot."
Dad chuckled, so I rolled my eyes dramatically.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Sister said in a quiet voice, "Come with me." I had no idea what was going to happen next, and to tell the truth, I was a little afraid. She walked to the far corner of the room, and opened a tall, dark door.
"Oh," I said, my mouth full of mashed potatoes. "Who is Peppermint Patty? Do either of you know?"
"Um, yeah," Dad said. "Don't you know Peanuts? And don't talk with your mouth full."
I thought for a moment and shook my head.
"Charlie Brown?" he prompted. "Lucy, Linus, Snoopy?"
"Oh, right," I said. "I thought it was just called Charlie Brown."
"No," he said. "And Peppermint Patty... who was she? Peppermint Patty is the tomboy, right, Linda?"
"I think so," Mom said. "Why?"
"In gym, the senior girls kept asking me where Peppermint Patty was."
A light went on in Dad's brain.
"Oh, right! Peppermint Patty's best friend was called Marcie. She was this dorky girl with glasses. She always calls Peppermint Patty 'sir'."
"Umm," I said. "How nice."
Dad chuckled in spite of himself.
"If you ignore it, they'll probably stop saying it," Mom suggested. "Besides, none of your friends look like Peppermint Patty, do they?"
"And I don't look dorky, right?"
Unfortunately, Dad was thinking — about something else. So instead of answering my question, he said, "I've got one of those Peanuts books someplace. I'll get it after din–" He stopped dead, then said, "No, I won't. It's in storage."
The three of us were doing that all the time. You'd think of something, a book, a tool, a funny little thing you want to show someone, and just as you were going to go get it, you'd remember: it was in storage. It just kept happening, over and over.
Most of my stored stuff was Mark stuff, so I didn't miss it much, but even so, I couldn't wait until it was all unpacked and available.
So I could throw it all away, I suppose.
"I'm pretty sure we'll get a closing date tomorrow," Mom said, literally crossing her fingers. "It might be as soon as Thursday or Friday."
"Oh, God, I hope so," Dad and I said at once.
We were *all* tired of the close quarters.
"But wait," I said. "If the date is tomorrow, how could it be Thursday or Friday?"
Mom gave me a look. "Tomorrow they will give us the date, which could be–"
"I get it, I get it," I said quickly.
We talked about the new house for a bit, but I didn't tell my parents about seeing the girl in the window.
Why? Well, I wasn't sure whether I'd imagined it. If she really was there, she'd probably just gone in on a lark, just to sneak into an empty house. She couldn't be living there. Mom and Dad have been through the place several times already. They would have noticed. Besides, I was pretty sure I'd recognize the girl if I saw her again, so if she broke anything... But anyway, once we moved in, I knew Dad would change all the locks and make sure the house was secure. It was one of the first things on his to-do list.
There *was* something I wanted to talk to Mom about, though. "Mom, I think I'm going to need more uniform blouses for the next two weeks."
"Marcie, you interr– oh, never mind. Why do need more blouses?"
"I have to go to detention after gym, and I can't shower. So I have to sit there, all funky, for an hour."
"Mmm," Mom said. "I'll get you some more. Maybe you could clean yourself with some baby wipes..." Her voice trailed off.
"Huh?"
"I did that once in an airport. You just go into a bathroom stall and, you know, use them..." She waved her hands around her underarms and upper body, holding an imaginary baby wipe. "It's not horrible."
I silently passed on that option, and said, "I'm okay with blouses for tomorrow and Wednesday."
Then, after a pause, I licked my lips and threw this out to them: "You know... if I had the operation, I wouldn't have this problem."
It was my father's turn to go white. My mother just bit her lip.
"She brought this up earlier," Mom said. "I told her what we'd discussed. Marcie, you can't push this. Nobody switches from boy to girl in the space of a couple of months."
Dad wiped his mouth. "Doctors have protocols they have to follow. We have been working on this, though, since you've come so far in other areas." He reddened a little. "AND since you're so actively interested in dating."
He cleared his throat. "About that: I hope you understand that we're primarily concerned about your safety..."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean, we worry that someone might accidentally find out that you're not... all girl."
"Oh."
"The point is, we don't want you to get hurt. At the same time, we don't want you to be... how can I put it..." He sighed and said, "sexually active."
"Ohhh," I said, getting it. "You don't want me to think that if you help me get the operation, that you're giving me some kind of license..." Now it was my turn to get embarrassed.
"Exactly," Dad said grimly. "I'm glad we understand each other."
I ate in silence for half a minute, and had some trouble swallowing.
Dad continued, "We do have to find you a new endocrinologist and a new therapist. We made an appointment for you with someone Mr. Marks recommended. We'll see whether you like him, and whether we like him."
"When is that?" I asked.
"Saturday at nine."
I groaned.
"It's a small price to pay, if you really want to do this," Dad said, a little irritated.
"I know," I said. "I'm not complaining about that."
"Good."
"It's just that it's so early in the morning!"
My father shook his head, but he smiled.
"We are still on California time," Mom admitted.
Even if I'm not tall, I never felt little until the next day in gym. A lot of it is due to the age difference: I'm the only freshman in a class of seniors, so they're all three years older than me.
Plus, we were playing basketball, which I've never been good at. I thought that girls wouldn't be as competitive and mean as boys, but I was wrong. Many of the girls in the class are on the team, and they pretty much played by themselves while the rest of us ran back and forth trying to catch a rebound.
Everyone — even the girls who weren't basketball players — seemed to be at least a foot taller than me. I'm in the land of the giants, I told myself.
Okay, so they weren't really *that* tall, but still... I had to look up to virtually everyone.
One of the seniors, who was a little geeky, took pity on me and explained that the gym teacher was also the basketball coach. "You just have to do two things: keep moving, and keep your arms in the air when you're near your basket." So I did that, but still the coach kept yelling unintelligible things at me.
We hadn't played for very long when Mara, a big-boned basketball star, gave me a hip-shot that knocked me off the court. I didn't expect it, so I fell like a ragdoll on the sidelines. Of course the teacher missed seeing what Mara did, so she yelled at me to get back in the game! Mara hung out her tongue and laughed.
It didn't bother me much the first time, but when she did it a second time, I got angry. The coach yelled at me again, so I pointed at Mara and shouted, "She knocked me down!"
"No excuses!" the coach yelled. "Get in the game!"
The third time, I saw it coming. Mara was coming up fast and hard. She shifted, turned, and cocked her hip. I dropped flat to the floor, so that when her hip swung, it met no resistance. She stumbled, falling over me, and she went down hard. Her legs hurt me a little as she fell, and her big clunky sneakers scratched my thigh, but I quickly slid away from her and jumped up smirking.
Not for long! Mara's face twitched with anger, and the coach was suddenly behind me. She grabbed both my arms and marched me off the court.
"Right now! Office! Detention!" she barked as she pushed me toward the door.
"What!?" I shrieked. "Why is okay when she does it?"
"She's a basketball player!" the coach shouted. "Now move!"
As I headed out of the gym, I looked back at Mara, who sat on the floor, smiling wickedly, with the ball on her lap.
Glistening with perspiration and red-faced with anger, I made my way through the empty hall to Sister Honororia's office. Another detention!
Sister herself was standing in the outer office. Her secretary wasn't there, and Honororia was looking through some papers.
"Marcella," she said in a questioning tone. "What brings you here?" Her voice was strangely different: calm, almost tired. It didn't have its usual edge.
I told her the story, and she surprised me by listening to the whole thing without interrupting or reacting.
The way she looked at me, I was very conscious of how sweaty and angry I looked. Part of me was wondering what the correct "virtuous and ladylike behavior" was supposed to be, but I couldn't come up with anything.
When I finished talking, Sister said in a quiet voice, "Come with me. I want to show you something." She walked into her office and I followed. I had no idea what was going to happen next, and to tell the truth, I was a little afraid. She led me to the far corner of the room, and opened a tall, dark door.
I remembered my fear that she wanted to lock me in the basement and beat me with a cane, but when I looked inside the door, all I saw was a large bathroom with very old fixtures. What in the world? I didn't get it. Then she spoke.
"This is my private bathroom," she said. "While you have detention this week and next week ONLY, on the days when you have gym, you may shower in here. I'll make sure you find a clean towel."
"Th-thank you, sister." I was utterly and completely shocked.
She shut the door, and walked back to the outer office, where she picked up a pad from her secretary's desk. Without looking at me, she said, "I would appreciate it if you don't mention this liberty to any of the students."
I quickly said, "No, sister."
"And don't touch or look at anything in my office. I'm sure I'd notice." She scribbled something on the pad and ripped off the top sheet. "Give this to your teacher," she said. "It says that you have detention today, which is true." She looked into my eyes, but it was an expressionless look.
"Thank you, sister."
"One more thing: I'm taking away one of your detentions. A week from Thursday will be your last detention. Understood?"
"Yes, sister. Thank you, sister."
"Now go," she said. "And remember."
I ran back to class, and managed to look a little hangdog as I gave Coach the note. She tucked it into the papers on her clipboard and said, "Get back in the game, Donner."
Honororia wasn't there when I showered. It was certainly a relief to be clean for the hour of detention. Once again, the same girl was there, and once again we couldn't sit together or talk. Since we weren't supposed to look at each other, I couldn't get a good view of her, but I didn't think I'd seen her during the day in the halls or the cafeteria.
I finished my homework, read some poems, and thought a bit. It was odd, the way that Honororia had been nice to me. She hadn't made any comment at all on my story. Nothing about who was to blame or what I should have done. I wondered what was behind it. Maybe she had a problem with Coach? Maybe I caught her in a good mood?
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Mom paused and looked at me for a moment. "I don't understand why that girl can't talk to her own mother."
"I can't speak for Maisie," I protested.
I didn't tell anyone about Sister Honororia's kindness. Not even my mother. I was pretty sure that she'd tell Maisie's mother, and who knows who she would talk to.
To tell the truth, I didn't get a *chance* to tell my mother. She wasn't there when I left detention, so I walked home by myself. A lot of the snow had melted and all the sidewalks were clear. I started thinking about what it would be like when we moved across town. It was nice, being able to walk home. After we moved, I'd have to get a ride every day. Maisie said we could walk in nice weather, which meant we had to get a ride when the weather wasn't so nice. This was something I'd have to figure out. I didn't want to depend on someone else to get home.
When I walked into our apartment, Mom was on the phone. It didn't take long for me to figure out that she was talking to Ida, Maisie's mother. Mom sounded all happy and excited — "giddy", like Maisie said. I was glad for her. I know she had friends back in California, but not like this — so close and giggly, like kids. I wondered whether Dad was making friends, too...
I changed into the short skirt that Eden had gaven me and a t-shirt. It was pretty warm in the apartment. Then I flopped down on the couch with the Cosmo from Cassie. I mostly looked at the pictures, even the ads, just absorbing the clothes, the shoes, the hair, the looks, the poses... as I did I realized something. I was never really interested in girls. I mean, dating girls, kissing girls... none of that stuff ever entered my head. I did admire the way some girls and women looked, and now that I had the chance to look that way too... well, that's what I wanted all along. I went back to the beginning of the magazine and started looking for a girl whose coloring was similar to mine.
Mom hung up and rushed over to me. "I've got big news!" she said. Her eyes drifted to my legs, and I saw the isn't that skirt a bit too short, young lady? thing coming up, but it never got out — it was trumped by whatever it was she wanted to tell me. "GREAT big news! I've ready told your father. We're closing tomorrow!"
"Tomorrow?" I repeated. "So we can move in..."
"Tomorrow!" she replied. "After the closing, the house is ours! The earliest I could get the movers to come is Friday morning. Your father is going to take off work–"
"I could take off school," I offered hopefully.
"Nice try," she grinned, "but no. You wouldn't be any help on moving day. The movers will do all the work. But don't make any plans for the weekend. If any of your friends want to come and help, they're welcome, but they have to be ready to work. Ida will be there... you can invite Maisie."
She paused and looked at me for a moment. "I don't understand why that girl can't talk to her own mother."
"I can't speak for Maisie," I protested.
"She must have told you something," Mom persisted.
"Will you tell me what Ida's said about it?" I hazarded, hoping for a no.
"No, of course not!" Mom snapped.
I smiled. She understood. We each had to keep our own friend's secrets.
"Okay, Miss Smarty-Pants. In any case... about the house: tomorrow after school, Ida will pick you up and bring you to the new house, and we — WE, got it? We will do as much cleaning as possible."
"Remember, I have detention," I said. For once, I was glad about it. "Friday, too."
"Hmmm." Mom considered this. She was probably thinking of calling Sister Honororia to see if some arrangement could be made. Then she let the idea go. "All right. But make sure you do all your homework while you're in there — Friday, too — and be ready to work afterward."
Then she floated off, singing some goofy song about "moving on up" as she got dinner ready. I kept flipping the pages of Cosmo, but I couldn't really concentrate.
Suddenly the singing stopped and Mom re-emerged from the kitchen, her hands dripping. "Marcie? Go pick out some work clothes for tomorrow. I'll bring them with me so you can change when you get there. Something that can get dirty. Don't forget whatever shoes, socks, underwear you need."
"Okay," I said without looking up. "Shoes, socks, underwear."
Mom didn't move. She stood in the doorway, waiting.
"I meant now," she said.
"OKAY!" I jumped up and picked out my sneakers, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a do-rag to tie up my hair. Plus the incidentals (socks, underwear). I put the sneakers in a plastic bag and threw everything into my gym bag. Then I left the bag by the front door. Mom went and checked it.
"Don't you trust me?" I asked.
"Of course I do," she answered. "But you might innocently forget something that would prevent you from working..."
"Oh, Mom," I groaned.
At dinner, Dad seemed a little nervous. "Aren't you happy?" Mom asked.
"Sure," he said. "It's just that there's a lot to do."
She waved her hand dismissively.
"Oh, I almost forgot! I found out that our house has a name!" she announced. "It's called the Villa Sabatino."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because it was built by a man whose last name was Sabatino in the 1920s, and he gave the house his name. His family lived in the house ever since — well, except for the current owner, who apparently never actually lived there. So, the house really only belonged to two families: the Sabatinos and now the Donners!"
"The twenties isn't all that long ago," Dad puzzled. "I wonder..."
For some reason the face of the girl I'd seen in the window came to my mind, along with Maisie's voice saying Maybe it was a ghost, Nancy Drew!
I shivered.
"What's wrong?" Mom asked.
"Oh, nothing," I said. "Just a shiver."
"A shiver of excitement," she commented, smiling.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"Who's Mark?" Susan asked, suddenly very interested.
Maisie responded by pointing at me.
For some reason, I had to walk to school on Wednesday. Mom was busy and couldn't explain why Ida wasn't coming. I figured there was a blow up between Maisie and her mother, and that Ida didn't want to make a scene in front of Mom and me. As badly as I felt for Maisie and her Mom, I was glad to be able to walk a bit, and it was nice to be alone for once. Even if it was cold, it was a clear, sunny day. The air felt very clean, and aside from gym class I really hadn't had much movement since we arrived.
Soon — this weekend! — we'd be in the new house... It would be my third move in four months!
I thought about inviting Maisie and Susan to help with the move, then stopped dead in my tracks. I pictured the moving men carrying all our boxes out of storage, and that's when it hit me: What did I have in storage? Boy clothes, boy furniture, a boy's bicycle, boxes with "Mark" written on them... How could I possibly explain? The two girls who were probably going to be my closest friends would know I used to be a boy!
Sure, they'd want to help me unpack... they'd want to see my stuff, my clothes...
This weekend looked like a shortcut to disaster!
So what if I didn't invite them? Would they be offended? Susan, maybe not. Her parents probably wouldn't let her come, anyway. Maisie? She would be offended for sure. She's so touchy, she'd end up hating me the same way she hates her mother!
Speaking of which, I remembered Mom telling me that Ida would be helping. So if Maisie doesn't come, it will be an absolute, undeniable snub.
What was I going to do?
I fished for my cell phone and took a quick look around. There was no one, except for a woman about a block away, walking toward me.
I pushed the speed dial to call Mom. The phone rang and rang, but she didn't answer. Maybe she was in the bathroom? I waited. And waited. I must have heard ten rings. Didn't we have an answering machine? (Of course we did. It was in storage!)
The woman was getting closer. She paused in front of the school, as if she was going to go up the walk, but then she looked at me and put her hand on her chin. She was a thin black woman with curly black hair. She wore a long purple silk dress that clung to her and moved as she moved. Her coat, which hung open, was black and fur trimmed. She had an hourglass figure, amazing legs, and the most beautiful face I've seen in real life. I was in awe. It was like seeing a movie star.
And I wasn't the only one staring at her. A man in a car fell under her spell, and he cut his speed down to a crawl. I saw his face tracking her as he passed in front of the school. He moved at a slow constant rate, but all his attention was on her.
She suddenly moved toward me, and I realized that my call home was still ringing. Mom hadn't answered. I closed the phone and put it away. I didn't want anyone to hear this conversation, not even a stranger.
It turned out she wasn't a stranger.
"Marcie?" the woman asked when she was in front of me. "Marcie Donner?"
"Yes," I said. "I'm Marcie Donner."
"Ah!" she said, delighted. "I'm Yvette Overmore. I am your French teacher!"
"Pleased to meet you," I said, shaking her outstretched hand. "How did you know my name?"
"It's a small school, Marcie. Yours is the only new face. I see an attractive young lady in our school uniform, but I don't recognize her. Who else could it be, but Marcie Donner?"
Ms. Overmore was simply charming. I felt like I'd been lifted up, welcomed, flattered.
Over her shoulder I saw the man's face, still transfixed. His car was moving with impossible slowness. He wanted to make his vision of her last as long as humanly possible, and as we stood there, he plowed right into another car that was pulling out of a parking space. There was a loud, long sound of crumpling metal, followed by the sounds of two men shouting at each other.
"I think we should go," she said, with a mischievous twinkle, and took my arm.
As we made our way up the path to the front door, I said, "That man hit the other car because he was staring at you."
"Oh, yes?" she smiled. "Are you saying I'm responsible for that accident?"
"Not responsible," I fumbled.
"How do you know he wasn't staring at you, you little minx?" she countered in a sly tone. I knew it wasn't true, but I felt incredibly buoyed by her remark, and as the two of us entered the school, I had a big sunny smile.
I was still smiling when we encountered Sister Honororia.
"Good morning, Ms. Overmore, Marcella," she said. "Marcella, could I have a word?"
"What did Honororia want with you?" Maisie asked when I sat down in homeroom. Mrs. Wix was busy unloading her briefcase.
"She wanted to know if I was moving soon."
"Are you?" Susan asked.
"Oh, yeah, my mother said!" Maisie threw in. "Can I come help?"
"Me, too!" Susan said.
"Can you get out of the house?" I asked.
"Sure," she said. "For something like that, yeah. I might have to bring my little sister, if that's okay."
"Yeah, I guess... sure," I replied. I'd have to figure out the Mark issue before Saturday morning! "Oh, hey, I found out that our house has a name!"
"A name?" Susan asked.
"Yeah. It's called the Villa Sabatino." The moment I spoke, Mrs. Wix dropped her books. They clattered and banged to the floor. The class stopped talking and looked at her. She had a strange expression... as if she'd seen a ghost. A strand of hair fell into her face, but she left it there.
"What did you say, Marcie?" she asked in a strained voice.
"I'm moving this weekend, Mrs. Wix."
"After that."
"My new house has a name. It's the Villa Sabatino."
Mrs. Wix face went white. "Really," she said, breathless. I thought she was going to faint. "Interesting."
One of the girls in the first row jumped up and gathered the fallen books. Mrs. Wix sat down heavily, pulled over one of her books, and opened it. I noticed that she was holding it upside down.
Then the PA cracked to life and the morning prayer began.
It didn't take long for the mystery to be explained. Second period was French. I don't know a word of the language, but for some reason, I had to "audit" the class. Before class began, Susan, Maisie, and I sat together. We were talking about Mrs. Wix's strange reaction, when Ms. Overmore glided over and asked in a friendly way what we were talking about.
"You're thick as thieves," she laughed in her beautiful, throaty voice.
When I told her what had happened with Mrs. Wix, she said, "Oh!" with great surprise, and the smile dropped from her face. "Hmm. I understand; I understand. Marcie, that house is where your Mrs. Wix grew up. Her maiden name is Sabatino." She looked at me for a moment, then glanced at Susan and Maisie. Her demeanor was quite serious. She seemed to want to say more, but considered her audience... and decided to stop there.
She turned abruptly and walked away.
"Well, girls, back to our sheep, as the French say..." and so began my first French class.
"That's pretty strange, isn't it? That you'd live in Mrs. Wix's old house?" Susan said. We were sitting at our usual table in the cafeteria.
"I wonder how Ms. Overmore knew it was her house," I puzzled.
Maisie nibbled on the end of a single french fry. "You know what I wonder?" she threw out, and looked at me. "I wonder about the whole Mark business. What's that all about?"
"Who's Mark?" Susan asked, suddenly very interested.
Maisie responded by pointing at me.
Susan frowned. "Another boyfriend?"
"No," Maisie corrected. "She's Mark. Or at least she used to be."
My face was red, and I was paralyzed with fear. Where did this come from? How much did Maisie know? Had she heard the tomboy story? I had to assume that that's what she was talking about. My mother probably told Ida, who told Maisie... I stammered, "I used to... ah..."
"She used to want to be a boy," Maisie filled in, with a mocking smile. "She wanted to be called Mark."
She suddenly paused, and said, "Mark Donner," as if the name rang a bell. I was terrified. It seemed as if a rift had opened in the cafeteria floor and my feet were slipping at the edge.
How in the world could she know Mark? I *never* knew Maisie before — I was quite sure of that. And I'd never heard her name before, so how could she possibly have heard mine? Sure, she came from California, but California's a huge place. The chances of our ever being anywhere near one another were infinitesimal!
I had to keep my grip: I couldn't freak out.
In that moment I realized that I didn't know where she lived in California. When we first met in the restaurant we had so many things to talk about that we never got to that one detail.
For sure, I couldn't ask her now, or she'd realize I had something to hide.
"Why in the world would you want to be a boy?" Susan asked.
Maisie looked like she was still turning my old name over in her mind.
"Oh," I groaned. "I don't want to talk about it."
I wished I had talked to Mom before I had this conversation. Was I going to be outed already?
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"Look at this, though!" I said, pointing to a comment in italics. It read The "evil twin".
"Whoa! What does that mean?" Maisie asked. "Mrs. Wix, evil? I don't believe it. It's impossible."
"Why on earth would you want to be a boy?" Susan repeated.
"I don't know," I said, squirming. "I was stupid. What can I say?"
"I can't imagine..." Susan said. She looked at me as though she was trying to mentally subtract my female attributes. Then she shook her head. "And you made people call you Mark?"
"Can we talk about something else?" I begged.
"Like what?" Maisie asked, as she crunched on a piece of celery.
"Like how Ms. Overmore knew that, ah... how did she know that my house was where Mrs. Wix grew up?"
"Oh, that's easy!" Susan said. "They used to go to school here together. They were classmates."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"After Honororia told us that Mrs. Wix was a student here, I went to the library and found the old yearbook. It turns out that they were friends back then."
"Friends?" I asked. "Mrs. Wix and Ms. Overmore? Friends? I didn't even think they were the same *age*!"
It was hard to think of two people more different, or of a more unlikely friendship. One woman was fashionable, young, and energetic, and the other was old, frumpy, and slow. (And honestly, I'm not trying to be mean! I really like Mrs. Wix.)
Susan nodded and gave a cute shrug.
"I don't think they're friends now," Maisie commented. "They avoid each other in the hall, and they only talk when they *have* to. And then, they're really stiff with each other."
"Huh," I said. "Can we go look at that yearbook after lunch?"
Susan nodded.
Maisie said, "Anything you say, Mark."
"Don't call me that!"
The three of us crowded together at a library table, Susan in the middle. "You have to see this picture on page 19," she said, opening the book to a photo of the teenaged Wix and Overmore, smiling and holding a poster together.
Ms. Overmore was even more striking back then: her cheeks were fuller, her skin looked a little darker, and she had a sassy smile that looked like something out of a fashion magazine. The young Mrs. Wix was cute, pale, big eyed, slim, and smiling. Very different from the Mrs. Wix we knew.
The two girls were shoulder to shoulder, and looked like the best of friends. "See?" Susan said. "I told you!"
Maisie read the caption aloud, "Misty Sabatino and Yvette Collinson designed the fund-raiser's poster."
"Misty?" I echoed. The name didn't suit Mrs. Wix at all. I couldn't imagine anyone ever calling her Misty.
"It must have been her nickname," Susan said.
"Yeah, but...," I objected.
Pointing to the young Ms. Overmore, Maisie noted, "Her name used to be Collinson." She tapped her index finger loudly. "That means that Ms. Overmore was married, too — or is married."
The was married too jarred my ear, so I asked, "Is Mrs. Wix *still* married?"
Susan and Maisie replied with one voice, "Mr. Wix was killed in a car accident."
I was startled, and they both laughed, which startled me even more.
"Oh, we shouldn't laugh..." Susan began, putting her hand on her lips.
"... but it's an old, tired story..." Maisie continued, rolling her eyes.
"Mrs. Wix tells it all the time. Don't worry, you'll hear it. It's the tragedy of her life," Susan concluded. Her mouth was working as if she was trying not to laugh.
Maisie caught my look and said, "Oh, come on! We're not heartless. It's just that after you hear it ten times... twenty times... I don't know. It kind of loses its punch."
I wasn't convinced, but didn't feel like arguing the point.
Susan looked at me with raised eyebrows and a little smile. "Back to the pictures?"
She turned to the individual portraits, and found Ms. Overmore.
"She was already beautiful," Maisie commented.
"She's amazing," I agreed. "She could be a movie star."
"And here," said Susan, turning pages, "is Mrs. Wix." She showed us a photo captioned, "Margaret (Maisie) Sabatino."
"Oh, crud!" Maisie cried, "She's a Maisie! I picked this nickname because nobody else would have it. And who has to be Maisie but that old cow!"
"Maybe nobody calls her that now," I offered.
Susan nodded. "The other teachers all call her Margaret or Marge."
Maisie huffed with great indignation, but Susan's comment seemed to mollify her, at least a little.
"Look at this, though!" I said, pointing to a comment in italics under the name. It read The "evil twin".
"Whoa! What does that mean?" Maisie asked. "Mrs. Wix, evil? I don't believe it. It's impossible."
I had an idea. Mrs. Wix's picture was the last one on the right-hand page. I reached over and turned the page, and there was the answer: the first picture on the next page was Mrs. Wix's twin!
"Mary (Misty) Sabatino," Susan read. "She has a twin!"
Under her name was written In Memoriam.
"Had a twin," I commented.
"Freaky," Maisie said.
Suddenly, a voice behind us made us jump. It was the librarian. "Can you girls please keep it down? There are people here trying to study. It *is* a library, after all."
"Sorry, sister," we three sang.
Her eyes fell on the book, where Susan's finger rested under Misty's picture. "Oh, Misty," she said sadly.
"Did you know her?" Maisie asked.
"Of course I knew her. Didn't you know? I've been here since the dawn of time." The nun smiled thinly. "Misty was a wonderful girl, always positive, full of life. And she loved to dance." She gazed at Misty's picture with a pious look, and said in a church whisper, "The poor girl died March 17, 1993."
"The day I was born," I said.
"St. Patrick's Day," Susan said in the same moment.
"Mmm," the librarian said, making a point of ignoring our references. "She was killed by a drunk driver. Pray for her soul, girls, and keep your voices down."
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Maisie asked, "Why do you go to therapy? I know why I go — I've been screwed over by my parents. But why do you go? There's nothing wrong with you. Is there?"
"Uh, it's kind of personal," I replied.
Maisie grabbed the yearbook from Susan's hands and rifled the pages. She was impatient with Susan's slowness in going through the book. "Oh, look at this!" Maisie said, turning the book toward us, showing one of the last pages.
It was a tribute to Misty Sabatino: a collage of pictures of her. There was one of the twins (her and the young Mrs. Wix) with their heads together, but all the rest were Misty alone. In some she was dancing, in one she played a guitar. You saw her laughing, walking to school...
"Look," Susan said, "She's smiling in all of them except this one." She pointed to a small photo off to the side of the collage. It showed a pale, big-eyed Misty staring straight into the camera.
"She looks so sad!" Maisie commented.
"Like a little lost girl," Susan added.
I froze. It was unmistakably the girl I saw in the window. It couldn't be anyone else.
"What?" Maisie asked, catching my expression.
"Nothing," I said with a shiver. "It's just awful that she died so young."
I wasn't sure I wanted to tell anyone that I'd seen Misty's face in the window. I could still believe I'd only imagined it, but that was a little harder now that I recognized the face. Then again, maybe I was only fooling myself into thinking that it was Misty's face I'd seen. It could easily have been a girl who looked like Misty. It could even have been someone from the Sabatino family, a teenage girl who wanted to look around her family's house before my family moved in.
"So, it's a mystery," Susan said.
I realized that I missed something. "What's a mystery?" I said.
"I knew you were off in the clouds!" Maisie laughed. "This should be right up your alley, you girl detective, you."
"I'm not a girl detective," I said.
Maisie shrugged.
"So what's the mystery?" I repeated.
Susan answered, "Why Mrs. Wix was the evil twin. It looks like Ms. Overmore was friends with Misty, not Ma– Mrs. Wix."
Maisie said, "I wonder whether Ms. Overmore blames Mrs. Wix for Misty's death?"
"Oooh," Susan said. "A guilt trip." She flipped to one of the pages in front, then nodding said, "Ms. Overmore was on the yearbook staff. She could have made the tribute and slipped in the 'evil twin' comment."
Maisie continued, "Maybe Mrs. Wix is so dowdy because she feels it's her fault."
This was the side of Maisie that I didn't like at all. She could be so incredibly unkind. "I like Mrs. Wix," I said.
Maisie looked at me for a moment, and said, "You would, Mark."
At first I felt distress, but then remembered my mother's suggestion about the Peppermint Patty comments: If you ignore it, they'll probably stop saying it. Maisie was only trying to get a rise out of me. So I smiled.
Then something struck me. "Wait. If Misty was killed by a drunk driver, how could it possibly be Mrs. Wix's fault?"
Maisie shrugged.
"I don't know either," Susan replied, "but what else could the evil-twin remark be about? I doubt that Mrs. Wix put that under her own picture. I mean, who was the driver?"
The three of us sat looking at each other until Maisie said, "So what's next? Is there somebody we could ask?"
Susan replied, "I think I can get to the public library tomorrow night. I could look through old issues of the Flickerbridge Sentinel. We know the date, so it shouldn't take me long to find the story."
"Good thinking," Maisie admitted. Then added, "Better you than me!"
When I got out of detention, Ida's car was waiting for me. I was a little excited; this would be my first view of the inside of my new house. And there was a surprise waiting in the car: Maisie, dressed in jeans. "Hey, girl!" she called to me.
"What are you up to?" I asked.
"I'm helping you clean your new house," she replied. I smiled. "I do know how to clean," she informed me. "You'll see. Everything shiny, clean, and manageable."
"Cool," I said.
Ida broke in. "I have a message from your mother, and a menu for you to look at. The message is, your therapy appointment is moved to next Saturday. Here's the menu. I need to know what you want for dinner so I can put the order in."
As I tried to scan the menu, Maisie said, "Why do you go to therapy? I know why I go — I've been screwed over by my parents. But why do you go? There's nothing wrong with you. Is there?"
"Uh, it's kind of personal," I replied.
Maisie gave me a look of disbelief. "What do you mean personal? I'm your friend. You can tell me."
"I can't," I said.
She looked genuinely shocked. "Marcie," she protested. "You have to tell me! I'll let you read my diary if you tell me."
"You keep a diary?"
"Yes, Miss Goldenflower makes me," she said. "She's my therapist."
"I wish you wouldn't call her that," Ida scolded. "You know that's not her name. And you can't ask Marcie that question. Let a girl have her secrets."
Maisie looked daggers at the back of her mother's head. "But you're going to ask Marcie's mom, though, aren't you? If you haven't already. When you find out, will you tell me? I'll be a loving daughter if you do."
Ida scoffed. "Hardly," she replied. I wasn't sure which part of Maisie's remark she was replying to, but it didn't matter.
"Let me think about how to tell you," I said.
"Okay," Maisie replied. She looked out the window, then back at me. "Have you thought about it?"
"No," I laughed. "Maisie, give it a rest. It really is personal."
"But you'll tell me?"
I opened my mouth and shut it. Then I said, "I'll tell you something. Not everything."
"Hmmph!" She didn't really seem put out. She just wanted to tease me and get me riled.
And so she fell silent for a bit. Then an idea hit her. Smiling a wicked little smile, she whispered, "It's the Mark business, isn't it?"
I don't know why I didn't react. Maybe it's because I knew something a little mean was coming. She was right, but at the same time she was so, so wrong.
I looked at her and felt a strange feeling that I don't think I've ever felt before: I felt kind of sorry for Maisie. I felt pity. Her mother seemed nice, but if what Maisie said was true, neither of her parents really gave a damn about her. As far as I could tell, Susan and I were her only friends, and our friendship was still fairly superficial. She couldn't hang out with Susan, or even talk to her, except during odd moments at school.
So what did she do before I arrived at BYHS? What does she do after school now? Is she alone all the time?
"Oh, Maisie," I said. "You are a terror." She grinned happily.
I guess having someone to tease is the closest she's come to having a friend.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Maisie was full of surprises. I knew she was rich, that she'd always been rich, and that she didn't clean her own house, let alone her own room. She didn't even make her own bed! Yet, here she was digging through trash with me, and she seemed to find it less disgusting than I did.
I figured that Maisie was going to call me "Mark" in front of my parents to see what would happen, so when she did I was ready.
"Where do we start, Mark?" she called out.
Before my mother could react, I said, "I don't know, Mike."
"Ow!" she groaned dramatically, as if she'd been struck. "Point goes to Miss Donner."
Mom cut in, "I think the first thing you ought to do is see your new room. After that, take a look around the house. Then you can either start cleaning upstairs, or you can bag up the trash in the basement and carry it to the garage." Maisie and I looked at each other, and Mom continued, "Your room is the one on the right at the top of the stairs."
The two of us tore up the stairs. I thought I had a sure win, but Maisie arrived several steps ahead of me. She's little and bony, but she's wiry and fast. She also did some strategic elbow work and at the end she took three steps in a single bound.
When I walked into my new bedroom, all I could say was "Wow!"
"Luck-ee!" Maisie commented.
The ceiling was very high, and the windows were huge. "You're going to need curtains, girl, unless you want to give anatomy lessons to the neighbors."
There was a bay window in front, and its three windows faced the street. "This way's south," Maisie told me, "so you'll have a lot of light." There was a fourth window on the east wall that looked out to the side yard and the neighbor's house.
"You know what this room is?" Maisie asked. "This room is vast. I can't believe all this is for one person."
I opened the door to the closet, which was in the north wall. "Yikes, that, on the other hand, is painfully small," Maisie commented. "A little musty too. Better leave it open."
There was one door left to open, in the middle of the west wall. "Is this another closet?" I wondered aloud. It turned out to be a tiny room with a narrow window at one end. "What the heck is this?"
"I dunno," Maisie admitted. "It could be a closet, if you put up a bar, or even a couple bars. But it's so long and narrow! I suppose you could fit a skinny little bed in here, but it would be claustrophobic."
"What were they thinking?" I said. "If that window wasn't there, you could use the whole thing for storage."
"Or if the door was at the other end, near the window, you'd have all this part," Maisie said, waving her arm. "Another mystery, Nancy."
Automatically I almost said, Don't call me that, but stopped myself. It was certainly better than being called Mark.
"Okay, let's see the rest of the house," I said. "We can finish our tour in the basement, and then decide which job is worse."
In the end we opted for carrying the trash out of the basement. As dirty and creepy as it was down there, cleaning the bathroom seemed far worse. "Plus," Maisie pointed out, "we might find something interesting!"
Dad gave us each a pair of work gloves, and armed with two boxes of large trash bags, we descended the stairs from the kitchen. The basement was lit by two bare light bulbs in the unfinished ceiling. I was glad I wasn't down here alone!
Maisie looked around, sniffing. "No mice or rats," she commented. "That's good."
"What are you, a cat?" I asked. "How do you know what mice and rats smell like?"
"Oh, I can smell them, girl, believe me. They have a very distinct stink. Huh! Distinct stink — I just made up a tongue twister!"
Maisie was full of surprises. I knew she was rich, that she'd always been rich, and that she didn't clean her own house, let alone her own room. She didn't even make her own bed! Yet, here she was, digging through trash with me, and she seemed to find it less disgusting than I did.
"What is it with all this old cloth?" she wondered aloud, as she shoved a handful of it into a bag. "None of it was ever any good; it's all rags and rags of rags."
Lifting one of the larger "rags of rag," I found a pile of newspapers and old magazines. There were similar piles nearby. "Hey, Maze!" I said. "Do you think any of this stuff is worth anything?"
Her nose wrinkled as she sampled the pile. There were old, dirty copies of Look, Life, and The Saturday Evening Post. "They would be, if they weren't so dirty and bent," she said. "Collectors want things in good condition."
"Maybe if I cleaned them up a little, I could sell them in a yard sale," I ventured.
"Oh, yeah," she said. "You could do that. We should make a SAVE pile over there." She pointed to an empty spot near the north wall, and went back to bagging rags.
Under another pile of rags we found a cache of rock-hard paint brushes. Some of them were stuck forever to mixing sticks or paint-can lids. "Could be modern art," Maisie mused with fake pretension, and I giggled.
The work went fairly quickly, and we didn't talk much. In the end, we didn't find anything of real interest, and — excepting the petrified paint brushes — there weren't many laughs to be found. A few items were pretty gross, and I still shudder when I remember finding a dead mouse.
"Calm down!" Maisie said. "This thing is so dried out, it must have died a thousand years ago, when the pharaohs ruled this land."
"Just... just... throw it away, will you?" I screeched.
"Okay," she said. "Quit being such a girl about it." With a look of distaste, she speared it with an ancient screwdriver. It made a very dry crunch. Then she dropped it into a garbage bag.
"Sorry, Maze," I began, but she turned away and got back to work.
Again, I marveled at what a hard worker Maisie was. I couldn't think of a way to compliment her on it without it sounding patronizing, so I just kept working, trying to keep up with her. But it was hard! She never stopped. The song John Henry came to mind, although I'd be John Henry and she'd be the machine.
"Hey, let's lug these bags out to the garage, and get something to drink," Maisie said. "We have to keep hydrated or we're going to ache tomorrow."
"Yeah, I guess so," I replied. "How do you know this?"
She pushed a stray lock of hair from her face and smiled. "Experience, my young friend, experience."
When dinner arrived, we all washed our hands and gathered in the empty dining room. It was lit by a chandelier full of little bits of glass cut like crystals. Luckily someone else (not me!) had cleaned it. Probably Mom and Ida had tackled it during the day. It must have been a pain, taking down all the little pieces (being careful not to break them!), cleaning them all, and putting them back up.
"What are you talking about?" Maisie asked me, incredulous. "It's not a big deal. Once you take it apart, it's easy to clean. It would be hard to clean only if you left all the glass bits on there."
Ida knelt next to the bags of food and handed things to my mother, who took care of the distribution. Since there weren't any chairs or tables, we were going to have to sit on the floor.
"And Marcie," Mom cautioned, "even though these are work clothes, there is no need to get food all over them."
"Mom!" I protested, blushing.
Maisie mugged a haw haw face at me. I figured it was better to let my mother's comment go. If I continued to protest, she was bound to have plenty of examples of times I'd ruined clothes by spilling food. I couldn't remember any, but I'm sure she could!
"Mrs. Donner, do you have any lamps, like floor lamps, you could bring tomorrow?" Maisie called across the room.
Ida pulled a pile of paper napkins from the bag. She didn't look up.
"No, Maisie, I don't think I do," Mom replied. "They'd all be in storage." It was already dark, so we could only work in the rooms that had light fixtures: the basement, the kitchen, the bathrooms... "But you're right, we could certainly use a couple..."
"I can bring some tomorrow," Ida quietly told her.
Maisie smirked. "The moving men will do that tomorrow."
My mother glanced quickly at Maisie, then Ida. When Ida didn't react, Mom said, "Yes, that's true, but they'll all be packed. If I could borrow a few lamps, it would make tomorrow night more productive."
"Good," Ida said. "Then it's settled."
The two women sat on the floor, facing each other, leaning against opposite sides of the doorway to the living room. Their voices dropped when they started talking.
"Look at them," Maisie commented, "Mom's probably going on about her girlhood in Flickerbridge again. They're like two schoolgirls. Isn't it gross?"
Maisie and I were sitting against the far wall, opposite our mothers. Dad was by himself with his back to the windows. He heard Maisie's comment, and looked from the two women to Maisie and me a couple of times and grinned in amusement. Even without looking, I could tell that Maisie had turned red. She hadn't meant to be overheard.
"Sorry, girls," Dad said, still smiling. "But sound carries in an empty house. I didn't mean to eavesdrop."
Maisie looked down, a little uncomfortable.
After dinner, we all went home. There wasn't much we could do in the dark, and tomorrow was a school day. I wasn't surprised by how tired I felt.
"I wish I'd thought about the lights," Mom said. "We didn't really get that much done."
"At least the bathrooms and the kitchen are clean," Dad said. Mom nodded.
Dad looked at me in the rear view mirror. "Hey, back there. How're you doing?"
"I'm good, Dad. I'm beat, though. Maisie is like a machine! It wore me out, trying to keep up with her."
"She does work hard," Mom agreed. "And she doesn't complain the whole time, like some people I know."
"Oh, Mom," I protested, but I was too weak to go any further.
"And she was the first one to mention lamps. I should have thought..."
Dad cleared his throat. "I have to tell you both something. Tonight I realized who Ida and Maisie are. I never met them before, but, Ida is the ex-wife of Aiden Beale, who was head of IT at my old job. He's actually the one responsible for the layoffs."
"Oh!" my mother said, surprised. I froze.
"I've never met Aiden Beale, but the point is, if I were you two, I wouldn't explore their life or our life in California too deeply. You never know... they might know somebody who knows us. I don't want you to worry, because it isn't likely. At the same time, we have to be ready, because everything about Mark might come out.
"Beale is very rich, really snooty, and not a very nice man. I doubt that he knew or cared who I was. There were at least three levels of managers between me and him. The point is, the Beales moved in a very different social circle."
My mother said in a quiet voice, "I had no idea. Ida doesn't like to talk about California anyway. It's all connected to her divorce and her husband, which is... well... You can see how it must have been... must still be... so incredibly painful."
"Where did they live?" I asked.
"Tarhent," Dad said. "Just like us."
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"Maisie, you're *not* fat," I told her. "You've never been fat. You're never going to BE fat. You're so not fat that you, uh, that you..." I didn't know how to finish, but it didn't matter. Her face had changed, and she was furious.
I gasped.
"Don't have a heart attack," Dad said. "They lived in Llewellyn."
I let out a great sigh of relief. Llewellyn was an enormous gated community on the edge of Tarhent. Llewellyn has its own security force, its own stores and movie theater, and there's a big wall around it. The people who live in Llewellyn are constantly trying to separate from Tarhent. They want to be a town in their own right with their very own zip code.
The zip code in particular is a very sore point.
You can address letters to Llewellyn, California, and they'll get there, but if you look up the zip code it always comes up TARHENT, which really burns the rich folks.
"Now, even though I don't think there's any cause for worry, I do think it's better if you can connect with them here in New Jersey, in the present, and not in California, in the past."
"That's very philosophical, Dad," I commented.
He looked at me in the rear view mirror again. "I guess you feel good enough to joke about it."
"Well, yeah!" I replied. "If they lived in Llewellyn, they might as well have lived on the Moon."
People never walked in or out of Llewellyn. I don't know if that was allowed. I'd only seen expensive-looking cars driving in and out. Tarhent itself wasn't poor or bad or anything, but there was no mixing. I didn't know anyone who lived in there, and I didn't know anyone who knew anyone who lived there. So there was no danger that Ida or Maisie could ever have known or come across me as Mark.
"Not exactly," Dad said. "You never know. There might be some random connection in there someplace."
"Oh! That reminds me!" I said. "Mom, did you tell Maisie's mother about the whole Mark-tomboy thing?"
"Um... no," she said, frowning. "In fact, it's never come up. Let's see... Rhonda Means could have told her, at Thanksgiving. Why?"
"Oh, just that my boxes with MARK written on them will be all over the place. Susan and Maisie will see them."
"Don't worry. We'll just tell them the same story."
"They already know the story! Maisie's mother must have told her, and Maisie told Susan..."
"Okay, okay," Mom said. "I get it. How about this: I'll have the movers put all the 'Mark' boxes and your old furniture in the basement. It's dry enough, and since you and Maisie cleaned it, no one has any reason to be going down there. We will have to put your old bed in your room until we get your new furniture, but it is just a bed. Oh, and I guess your bureau can go in there — I don't think it looks too boyish... you'll need it, in any case. Then we'll keep you and your friends busy unpacking the kitchen. Does that sound like a plan?"
I exhaled. A big exhale, as though I'd been holding my breath for days. I was so relieved! "Thanks, Mom!" I gushed. "You're the best!"
"Oh," Dad said, pretending to be hurt. "And what about me? Aren't I the best, too? Can I at least be second best?"
I laughed and grabbed his shoulders from behind, giving him a happy squeeze. It felt like an enormous weight had lifted off me.
That night I had a dream about the new house. When it started, I was outside with Maisie and her mother, standing in the snow. The three of us were wearing BYHS uniforms. Somehow, even though none of us were wearing coats, we weren't cold. I was staring at Maisie's mother — I can't tell you how beautiful she looked.
"I should send Jerry a picture of you in that uniform," I told her. "You make it look good."
Ida frowned and said to me, "No, Maisie — I mean Marcie — that's not the point! Don't look at me! Look at her!"
Bewildered, I looked up where she was pointing. It was one of my bedroom windows. It was the window where I'd seen the girl, but she wasn't there now. There was nothing to see.
I turned to tell Ida, "She's not there," but Ida was gone, too. So I turned the other way to look at Maisie, but she had moved... far, far away. She was so far off! In the distance she looked oh-so tiny, like an itty-bitty doll. Even though she appeared to be only two inches high, I could see that she was dancing. It was a weird kind of dance. Her head was down, and she was mostly moving her elbows and knees... jerky movements, like a marionette's.
Maybe people danced like that before I was born, but no one danced that way now.
"Maisie!" I called. "Maisie! Quit dancing like that! What are you doing? Maisie!"
The girl lifted her head.
A horrifying chill ran through me. Every hair on my arms lifted in terror.
"I'm not Maisie!" the girl laughed, as if it were a cute joke. She was right: she wasn't Maisie at all. She was Misty Sabatino.
As soon as I recognized her, she zoomed right up to me, and stuck her face in mine. Her eyes were enormous, and there was a dull roaring in my ears. Misty said something, but I didn't get it.
"What did you say?" I asked. I wanted to get away, but I was paralyzed. I couldn't move a muscle. It was even hard to talk. My tongue was thick; I couldn't get the words out. For some reason, it was important for me to ask her what the little room was for, but it was impossible.
She repeated whatever it was she'd said, but I missed it again, so I shook my head.
Exasperated, she shouted in my ear, "I didn't want to be fat. I don't want to be fat! I'M NOT GOING TO BE FAT!"
"Maisie, you're *not* fat," I told her. "You've never been fat. You're never going to BE fat. You're so not fat that you, uh, that you..." I didn't know how to finish, but it didn't matter. Misty's face had changed, and she was furious.
"I'M NOT MAISIE!" she screamed, "DO YOU GET IT?"
I woke up in a sweat, my heart pounding.
It took a few moments to remember where I was: New Jersey, Flickerbridge, Dad's apartment.
I lay without moving a muscle, while my eyes darted all around the room.
Every atom of my body was listening, fearing. Was she here? Was she gone? Was she in the room with me? I knew it was only a dream, but it scared the bejeezus out of me.
After half a minute, with great caution, without making a sound, I slipped out of bed. By now I was awake and knew full well that it was only a dream, but what I told myself in my head didn't matter.
Even if I knew it was crazy, I had to poke all the clothes in the closet to make sure nothing was behind them or hanging between them. I searched every corner, and looked under my bed. I even pulled the sheets back — all the way back — to make sure no one was in there with me, hiding at the bottom, waiting to grab my feet. I wanted to pull back the curtain and look in the street, but didn't dare.
Why didn't I dare? What if I opened the curtain, and she was there, standing in midair, with her face against the window?
After taking another good look under the bed, I climbed back in and pulled the covers up to my neck.
I lay there shivering until I finally feel asleep again.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Maisie cut me off. "Listen to me. I know that Ida seems like a nice person. Maybe she is nice to you and your mother... and to everyone else on earth except me." At this point, Maisie was fighting back tears. She dropped the wrench, balled her fists, and swore. "I'm NOT going to cry...," she said, gritting her teeth.
After detention on Friday, Ida picked me up again. Maisie wasn't in the car, so I sat in the passenger seat in front, next to her.
This was the first time I'd ever been alone with her, so I felt a little shy. She seemed as she always did... sort of business-like, guarded. Not un-friendly, but not exactly open.
"Are we going to the old apartment?" I asked.
"No," she replied, "Your father took care of that today. That little place is history. He packed up everything, and once the moving men were done at your new place, they went and picked up the few things you had at the old one."
"Where's Maisie?" I asked.
"Maisie is helping your mother," Ida replied. She sounded almost offended, maybe even a little hurt.
"The mother-daughter thing is rough sometimes," I offered.
Ida looked at me for a moment, and when she saw I wasn't teasing or being mean, she smiled. "Thank you, Dr. Phil."
I laughed.
Ida sighed and continued, "I wish Maisie and I got along as well as you and your mother do."
"Yeah," I said, "well..."
Ida sniffed slightly, but I didn't see any sign of tears. I tried to find something to say to her, but the only things that came to mind were things I couldn't say. I couldn't tell her anything I'd heard from Maisie, because she'd confront Maisie with it, and then Maisie would feel betrayed...
For sure, I had no intention of wading into the minefield of Maisie's relationship with her mom. Better to talk about something else entirely. So I said, "Mrs. Beale, how did you learn about clothes?"
She stiffened. "In the first place, my name isn't Beale. I never took... that man's name. I'm Ida Falange, which may not sound like the greatest name in the world, but it sure as hell comes off better than Ida Beale."
She gripped the steering wheel tighter and in a low voice, to herself, she muttered, "Ida Beale! I was never Ida Beale!"
I wasn't sure how to respond, so I kept quiet. It sounded like she was on the verge of... I don't know what, but I didn't want this adult — who I barely knew — I didn't want her exploding on me. I didn't want to find out firsthand whatever it was that Maisie didn't like about her mom.
Then, Ida's grip relaxed and she frowned, as if trying to remember something. She glanced at me again. "But what was it you asked me?" It came to her, and her face softened into a smile. "Oh, clothes! Well, I've always loved clothes. Do you?"
Thank goodness! I'd hit on exactly the right topic.
Afterward, when I told Maisie, she reminded me that it had been her idea for me to talk about clothes with Ida. Whatever.
In any case, Ida really did love clothes, and she loved to talk about fashion. She said a lot that was hard for me to follow: she rattled off a lot of unfamiliar names. I realized that there was more to the world of fashion that I'd thought. Along the way, I managed to tell her that I loved the way she dressed and wished I had a sense of style like hers. I asked her what kind of shoes Ms. Means was wearing on Thanksgiving (Michael Kors). I even asked her how she did her makeup, because she has this very light, subtle style, that looks like the merest shading, almost like no makeup at all...
"Oh, honey, that's a whole 'nother hour or two in the telling," she replied happily, "and it would be easier to show you than to tell you."
I noticed that Ida had taken the long way home, to extend the conversation — which was fine by me. She really knew a lot.
She didn't just talk, either. She asked me questions, wanted my opinions, and she drew some things out of me that I didn't know I knew. It was great, and I was a little sorry when we had to stop.
"I have to say," she confided after we got out of the car, "I wish that Maisie had the same interest in looking good that you have." I smiled and shrugged. She took my arm and we climbed the stairs together.
As we entered the house, we could hear Maisie's voice coming from the kitchen, all bubbly and light. My mother's voice interjected here and there. It sounded like they were getting along as well as me and Ida.
When the two of us walked into the kitchen and saw Maisie's face flushed and happy, I said, "Hey, Maze, maybe you and me should swap mothers for a little while!"
"Sounds good to me!" she replied tartly, and I felt Ida's mood drop like a stone.
"You know, seriously, it might be a good idea," I told Maisie later, as she helped me put my bed together.
Or — to tell the truth — I watched her do it, and tried to hand her the right things.
"What?" she asked, as she tighted a screw. It was hard to believe she'd never done any of this before.
"Switching mothers. Maybe for a night or a weekend you could stay here and I could stay at your house."
Maisie stopped and stared at me for a minute. "Why?" she asked, shaking her head slightly.
"For a change," I said. "I heard how happy you were talking to my mother–" Maisie nodded, and went back to work. "... and I had a great time talking to your mother about clothes."
Maisie rolled her eyes.
"Seriously, Maisie. I could learn a lot from her. She could show me how she does her makeup."
"That stupid cow," she muttered, more out of habit than anything else. "I have to admit, she does know that stuff."
"And it kills her that you're not interested."
Maisie's tone grew hot. "That's kind of the point, isn't it? If I was interested, then she'd want to talk about it. If I'm not interested, then there's nothing to say."
I was about to reply, but she cut me off. "Listen to me. I know that Ida seems like a nice person. Maybe she is nice to you and your mother... and to everyone else on earth except me." At this point, Maisie was fighting back tears. Her jaw worked as she tried to push her emotions back down, but it was a lost battle.
She dropped the wrench, balled her fists, and swore in a low whimper. "I'm NOT going to cry...," she said, gritting her teeth.
"It's okay," I said softly.
"I mean, what kind of monster doesn't want her own child?" she growled, choking on the words. "Animals don't even do that! She and my father fought over who would get stuck with me. I heard them! And not just once! It was weeks and weeks! Day after day! All day long! You take her! No, you take her! Why should *I* take her?" She drew breath in a backward wheezing cry that was painful to hear. "I hate them! I hate them both! But I'm stuck with them and I can't get away!" She wasn't shouting — her voice was low, a near-whispered concentrate of pure emotional power.
A flood of tears and sobs followed, and she grabbed me, crying and gasping. She held onto me as if she were a shipwreck victim, finally on land, but still afraid that she'd drown. It actually hurt, the way she was pulling me down, but I set my teeth and waited it out.
I looked around the room, but there were no tissues... not even a scrap of cloth...
She cried on and on, and clutched me desperately. Her whole body trembled and quaked, and when I put my arms around her, I felt her rib cage right under her skin. She's nothing but bones, I thought, and those poor wretched bones shook and shivered.
There was nothing I could do but hold her.
I have been afraid in my life, and I have felt lonely at times, but I never felt that no one loved me. As I hugged my skinny friend, I caught a glimpse of that feeling: the terror and emptiness of being alone on earth, of having no one... no mother, no father, no sister or brother...
After a couple of minutes, she stopped and sniffed, but kept her grip. She held me by my shirt sleeves and rested her forehead on my shoulder. After a few more sniffs, she let go.
"I can get some tissues from the bathroom," I told her. "I'll be right back."
She smiled weakly, and I quickly retrieved the box.
After she cleaned her face, she said, "Whew!" She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath. She licked her lips. She sighed and her chest rose and fell heavily.
When Maisie could finally talk, she said, "That's the first time I've cried since..." a hard shudder passed through her and she shook her head. "... since it all fell apart. Sorry, Marcie."
"Sorry?" I echoed. "Maisie, I'm your friend. I'm here for you. This is what friends are for!"
"Really?" she asked.
"Really!" I said. "Come here, you!"
Then I hugged her until she protested. "Okay, okay! Let go, girl! I get the point! Lemme go! Enough with the mushy stuff already! Let go!"
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Susan smiled and flounced. "What can I say?" she grinned. "I'm just that clever! So when's Maisie get here? I have to tell you guys what I found out about Misty Sabatino. It's scandalous."
I slept in my new room for the first time — my big, new, empty room... alone. Last night's dream came back to me, but I was too tired to be scared or to worry about ghosts. In fact, I felt like I was finally at home. My sheets and blanket were functional and plain, but at least they were familiar. They were mine, from California. They were the ones I'd had back in Tierson, before I was Marcie, before my life really began.
We'd get new bedclothes soon, something that better suited a teenage girl... but for now I could deal with the ones I'd used way back when.
The night passed in deep and dreamless sleep, and when the sun came through my curtainless windows, I woke, feeling better than I had in a long time. I guess the hard physical work was good for me.
And maybe I was finally over the jet lag!
I dressed in the little room, since no one could see in that window, and I went downstairs. My parents were nowhere to be seen, and from the quiet in the house I guessed that they were still in bed, asleep.
The new house was great. It was huge, and at the moment was filled with boxes, and as silent as... uh, a tomb? a church?
Anyway, it was silent. Silent in a nice way, a good way.
And it was HOME! I *really* liked this house. It had a nice feel, it had a good vibe. It was light and sunny and clean and open. Mom really made a good choice: I had to hand it to her.
I ate some cereal, standing at the counter in the kitchen, then made my tea and some toast. The kitchen table and chairs were set up already, but I took my food into the living room, where I ate and drank standing by the window. I hadn't eaten two bites before I saw a familiar girl walking up the street. I ran outside to meet her.
"Susan! Up here!" I waved. It was a little chilly to be out in a t-shirt, so I backed into the front door as she came up the steps.
"Whoo!" I said, shaking off the cold, which was surprisingly penetrating. "You made it!"
"Yes!" she enthused, "and I didn't have to bring my little sister!"
We hugged each other for some reason, and I took her coat. She didn't want any breakfast, so I wolfed down my toast and carried my tea with me as I showed her around. We made our way silently upstairs, and I showed off my room.
"Now here is a mystery," I told her. "See if you can figure out what this is supposed to be." I opened the door to the little room, and the two of us walked in. "See? It's too narrow for almost anything. Either the door is on the wrong end, or the window shouldn't be there."
Susan took it in without saying a word. She shut the door and looked at the blank end-wall behind it. "This is a dressing room," she said. "See those marks? There used to be a mirror there, as big as the wall.
"And there and there," she continued, pointing to spots on the side walls, "there used to be lights. Oh, maybe they were gas lamps! And they didn't replace them with ordinary lights, which would change things in here quite a bit. And a vanity would go right there, by the window. That way, you get light, but the way this window is placed, no one can see you."
I was amazed. It all made sense. "I did get dressed in here this morning," I told her.
She smiled and flounced. "What can I say?" she grinned. "I'm just that clever! So when's Maisie get here? I have to tell you guys what I found out about Misty Sabatino. It's scandalous."
Susan was not moved by my pleas for a preview or a hint, and she didn't believe that I could pretend to be surprised when I heard it the second time.
"Why did you tell me about it if you weren't going to tell me?" I pouted.
"Do you think it's easy for me to wait?" she countered. "I'm dying to tell!"
"So tell!" I cried.
My father stuck his head in the door. "Hey! Keep it down to a dull roar, will you?"
"Sorry, Dad. Did we wake you?"
"You woke me, Marcie. I didn't hear your friend. But it's okay."
I introduced them, and then Dad went off to wake up properly. Mom followed soon after, and I finished Susan's tour of the upstairs.
After Maisie and Ida arrived, the two mothers worked in the kitchen, and we three girls unpacked books. Dad was replacing the locks on the doors and checking the windows.
As soon as he moved upstairs, I said, "Okay, Susan, spill."
"Huh?" Maisie asked.
"She found out about Misty Sabatino," I replied.
"Okay," Susan said in a low voice. "So I was at the library last night..."
"Oh, whatsit?" Maisie said. "The evil twin stuff?"
"Right," Susan said, and began again. "So I was at the library last night, and I found a small news item about Misty Sabatino's death. It said that she died of heart failure."
"What!?" Maisie and I shrieked.
"Shh!" Susan cautioned with a glance toward the kitchen.
"But the nun said she was killed by a drunk driver!" I hissed.
"So the nun lied?" Maisie asked in an undertone.
Susan waved away the questions and went on. "The newspaper also said that she died at home, alone. Now, I *would* have stopped there, if the librarian-nun hadn't told us that lie..."
I began to say, "If she died at home, alone..."
"Right," Maisie finished my thought. "There's no way she was killed by a drunk driver, unless he drove up those stairs."
"No," Susan agreed. "I figured there was more to the story."
"And was there?" Maisie queried.
"I kept going through the paper, but in the weeks that followed, the only other reference I found was a letter to the editor from an anonymous BYHS student."
"If she was anonymous, how do you know she was from BYHS?" I asked.
"Good question, Nancy," Maisie commented waggishly.
"She said she was a BYHS student," Susan replied. "Anyway, the thing is, she talked about amphetamines and weight control."
"Huh?"
"Back then, apparently, a lot of people were taking amphetamines to lose weight."
"Appetite suppressant," Maisie explained.
"Doctors would prescribe them; you could get them at the pharmacy," Susan added. "I guess they didn't know how dangerous they were."
"Yikes!" I commented.
"The long and the short of it is this: the letter pretty much said that amphetamines were what killed Misty Sabatino. The writer didn't say so directly, but she managed to make it clear." From her bag she pulled out two photocopies of an old newspaper and handed one to Maisie and one to me.
"Whoever this girl was," Susan continued, "she must have worked very hard on this letter, because she tells a lot without actually saying anything explicitly. She talks about peer pressure and body image, but she also lays specific stress on family pressure."
I tried to read the article, but it was hard to do that and listen to Susan at the same time.
"Why don't you put it away and read it later," she suggested. "It's amazing, but you really have to pay attention to get it all."
I could see the wheels turning inside Maisie's head. She started off saying, "So... family pressure... evil twin... Ms. Overmore and Mrs. Wix don't speak..." she nodded several times and gave Susan and me a significant look.
"Oh, you don't think–" I put in.
Susan, triumphant, tied it all up: "Ms. Overmore wrote this letter. She blames Mrs. Wix for making Misty feel fat. Misty took amphetamines to try to lose weight, and maybe she overdid it. She took too many pills, or maybe it was simply a side effect, but in any case, she suffered heart failure."
"... and died upstairs, in your room!" Maisie added, looking at me.
"Thanks, Maze," I said. "I really needed that picture in my mind."
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"It's never hard to know what boys are thinking," Maisie said.
"Or what they're looking at," Susan added.
"'Maze'?" Susan echoed. "Hey, if she gets to be Maze, can I be Suze?"
"Hmm," Maisie reflected. "Then you would have to be Marz," she said to me.
"I don't think I need another nickname, thanks. But I'll be glad to call you Suze."
Susan brightened.
I said to her, "You look so different in casual clothes. You're a lot prettier."
"Why thank you," Suze replied. "I feel prettier, too."
"Hey, do your parents know?" Maisie asked me.
"Know what?"
"That somebody died in this house?"
"I don't know. I don't think it would matter."
"But isn't it creepy? I mean, are you going to have a hard time sleeping in that room, knowing that Misty died in there?"
Sometimes Maisie didn't seem to have any feelings or tact at all. "Maybe if you keep going on about it, I will. Could you quit reminding me? I think Suze found out what we wanted to know. That's the end of it, isn't it?"
"I don't know...," Maisie mused. "I mean, two of the main people involved... we see them every day at school..."
"And," Susan added, "we don't know why the librarian-nun felt the need to lie to us."
"A cover-up," Maisie continued, and Susan added, "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark."
When Maisie and I looked at her puzzled, she explained, "Shakespeare," and at our uncomprehending looks, she waved her hand. "Never mind."
After we'd worked several hours, I was ready for a break, and even Maisie was wiping her brow.
At just that point, Mom asked the three of us if we'd go do some food shopping. "Ida and I don't want to stop, and your father has a lot to do, so if you girls don't mind walking..."
We didn't. It was fun to be out with the girls.
At one point, where the sidewalk was wide enough, we linked arms and walked three abreast: Maisie on the left, Susan in the middle, and me on the right. Each of us was wearing jeans and boots, and we were all smiling, heads up, confident.
Two boys watched us approach. One of them smiled and said, "You girls look like an ad for jeans or boots or hair or something."
The other waited until we passed and said something that was both complimentary and rude at the same time.
"It's never hard to know what boys are thinking," Maisie said.
"Or what they're looking at," Susan added.
"Still, it's nice to know that we've got it," I offered.
"Oh, we've got it!" Susan said.
"Coming and going," Maisie added.
"Oh!" I was suddenly struck with a thought. "Are we walking back the same way?"
The three of us broke up in giggles.
After finding and buying everything on Mom's list, I wasn't paying attention while the cashier bagged the groceries.
And so, when we left the store, Maisie and Susan were each struggling with a heavy bag, while I followed, stuffing the receipt into my purse.
"Hold up," Maisie said, "Suze, set the bag down here." Here was a bench just outside the store. Then she turned to me. "Princess, will you go get a third bag? We can split this up into three small loads."
I dashed back inside while they waited, and when I arrived with a third sack, Maisie fished in her purse and frowned. "I'm out of cigarettes," she announced, and without further ado walked back into the store.
"Okay..." I began, as I opened the third bag.
Susan interrupted saying, "I want to go look with Maisie. I've always wanted to see all the different brands..."
"You do?" I asked, with some surprise.
"Oh, come on!" she protested. "You know I'm not dumb enough to smoke — no offense to Maisie —"
"Who can't hear you anyway–" I put in.
"I'm just curious about the colors and designs and the names. My mother would kill me if looked, so here's my chance. Just think of it as anthropological research."
"Whatever," I said. "I'll just divide up the loads."
Suze skipped off and I got to work.
It didn't take long to get the bags more or less the same weight. I had my head down, working, moving cans and containers around, packing the bags a little better.
As I finished, I had the distinct impression that someone was watching me. And not in a nice way.
I turned my head slightly and saw that it was a man, a big man. I didn't need to take a second look to know who he was: He was Sister Honororia's brother, the policeman. Instinctively, I wanted to flinch, but I made an effort not to react.
When he saw that I'd noticed him, he approached me.
I decided to try and be friendly. So I smiled and said, "Hello, officer. Plain clothes duty today?"
"Don't try to be funny," he replied, in a dry, humorless tone. "I'm off duty. I'm a cop, not a detective."
"Sorry," I said.
"I wear the uniform."
I nodded.
"Are you keeping your nose clean? Not getting into trouble?" he asked.
I didn't like his tone. He was talking to me as if I were a felon. It seemed like he was trying to provoke me.
And then it hit me: that was exactly what he was trying to do. He wanted to provoke me, so that I'd do or say something stupid, something blameworthy. Even if the law wouldn't let him punish me, he'd go and tell Sister Honoraria that I needed more detention.
Don't play his game, I told myself. Remember, bend without breaking.
"Yes, sir," I replied.
"What's that look mean?" he demanded. "What's with that face you're making?"
"What face?" I asked. "I didn't think I was making a face."
"Do you have something to hide?"
"No, sir." I said. He was so aggressive and hostile, I almost stuck my hands in my pockets, but caught myself and left my hands dangling at my sides.
"Why are you waiting here? Are those your groceries?"
"Yes, they are."
"Do you have the receipt?"
"Yes I do."
"You didn't answer my question: why are you waiting here?"
"I'm waiting for my friends to come out."
"Are they students at Blessed Yvette's?"
"Yes, they are."
He nodded, stepped over, and glanced into my grocery bags. He twisted his jaw and sniffed. "Just remember," he said as he left, "I've got my eyes on you."
"Yes, sir." I replied. Then I turned my eyes to my bags. I was careful to not watch him walk away.
Maisie and Susan came over as soon as the policeman was well away.
"Who was that?" Maisie asked as she peeled the cellophane off her cigarette pack.
"That's Sister Honororia's brother, the policeman."
"What did he want?"
"He just wanted to hassle me," I sighed.
"I hope you told him to mind his own damn business," Maisie said.
"No, I did not," I replied. "I don't want another week of detention."
"Oh, yeah," Maisie agreed, getting it. "Jeez! With cops like him, who needs criminals?"
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"Mom, you're killing me!" I protested.
She just scoffed. Dad was no help... he just slogged along, head down, perspiring.
The weekend was tiring, but it was good. Mom and Ida kept pushing forward, wanting to make the most of it.
My mother kept saying, "We can't lose momentum! If we leave something undone now, it will stay that way for months!"
"Mom, you're killing me!" I protested.
She just scoffed. Dad was no help... he just slogged along, head down, perspiring.
And Maisie and Susan were there, both days, all day, working.
"Aren't you guys tired?" I asked. "I'm just about dying here!"
They shrugged.
"We take breaks," Susan said.
"And we don't complain all the time like you do," Maisie grinned, "so it isn't as obvious."
In the end, all the boxes were empty, everything was put away, and all the furniture was in place. I didn't think it was possible. If I'd been in charge, we wouldn't be anywhere near done.
"Oh, but we're not done," Mom informed me. "There is so much left to do!"
I groaned. It sounded like she was enjoying herself!
On Monday, Ida drove me and Maisie to school. I was sore all over, but they seemed fine.
"Maybe you pushed yourself too hard," Ida suggested.
Maisie scoffed. "You're too soft, Marcie!"
I rolled my eyes.
"And, I told you to hydrate!"
I huffed loudly, but said nothing.
Ida dropped us off and drove off to meet my mother. They had plans and projects, and for once I thanked God for school, so I could miss all that "home work"!
"Oh, you are a lazy spoiled thing, aren't you?" Maisie asked, with surprising affection.
When the two of us were nearly at the door of the school, I told her, "Watch. Honororia is going to want to talk to me."
"About what?"
"About her stupid brother."
She shook her head. "If you get detention, you ought to complain of police harrassment."
Sister Honororia was waiting, and she *did* want to talk to me. "Marcella, a word, please."
She drew me aside to a niche in the corridor, and spoke in a low voice. "Marcella, you don't have any older siblings, do you? No big brother or sister?"
"No, sister, I don't."
"Mmm," she said. "That's right. You're an only child, so you don't know what it's like. It's interesting, but older children, especially first-borns, often feel an ... exaggerated sense of responsibility ... as if they were some sort of additional parent. Do you follow me?"
"I think I do, sister."
She fixed her eyes on mine and nodded. "They have a way of meddling ... or controlling ... It's a sort of misplaced ... or misdirected kindness, I think," she continued, "and it's often quite inconvenient."
Her eyes searched my face.
I smiled. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, sister."
"Oh, good!" she replied with a sigh of relief. "Then off to class you go!"
As I started to walk away, she said, "Oh, Marcella... Let's say your last day of detention is Wednesday, shall we?"
"Thank you, sister."
Maisie and Susan were waiting anxiously. "So do you have detention?" Susan asked.
"I have one less," I crowed.
After I told them what happened, Maisie said, "Interesting... so even the wicked, controlling nun has problems with her brother, the wicked, controlling cop."
"Looks that way," I said. "But don't spread it around."
That night, Maisie called.
"Hey, Maze, what's up?"
"Can I talk to your mother?" she asked.
"My mother?"
"Yeah, you know that lady who lives in your house?"
"Ha, ha. I *know* who my mother is. What I dont know, is why you want to talk to her?"
"That's right — you don't know. But don't worry, I'll tell you after. Will you put her on?"
My mother was a little surprised, but she took the phone. I stood by, on pins and needles, listening, while Maisie did most of the talking.
As Maisie spoke, my mother's puzzled expression relaxed into a smile. She even chuckled a bit. What was going on?
My mother's side of the conversation didn't tell me anything. All she did was agree, saying, "Oh, that's a great idea! Yes, I do," and things like that. I kept making questioning faces at her, but she ignored me.
Maisie's voice was just barely audible, like a series of squawks. I moved my head closer to the phone so I could listen better, but my mother — my own mother! — turned her back on me so I couldn't hear a word! She wedged the left side of her body, the one with the phone, into the corner of the kitchen counters so I couldn't get my head in and listen!
Then she said to Maisie, "Oh, yes, she's here. She's dying to know what we're talking about." The she laughed, and I could hear Maisie laughing too.
I growled with frustrated impatient curiosity.
Then Mom said to Maisie, "Okay, great! That sounds like a plan! Yes, right, but that shouldn't be a problem. No, I don't think so ... No, not at all. Right! Good! I'm looking forward to it. Yes, Maisie, yes. I'm glad. Okay, here's Marcie again." Smiling, she handed the phone back to me.
"So what was that all about?" I asked as I walked out of the kitchen, heading for the stairs to my room.
Dad, who was sitting in the living room, called after me, "Don't monopolize the phone!"
"It was Mom on the phone all this time!" I retorted, and trudged up the stairs.
"Okay," Maisie said. "This is great! It's better than great!" She was obviously in a good mood. "You know your idea about trading mothers? We're going to do it!"
"What!? Are you kidding?"
"No, I'm not kidding! We're going to do it this weekend. That is, if the cow agrees. But she should. Don't you think?"
I sighed.
Maisie said, "Yeah, yeah, I know you hate it when I call her that. I don't care. But listen, you can come here and play the good daughter. She'll be so happy. And you can talk about girly things with her. You'll both be in heaven, and I'll be the hell out of here."
"Uh...," I said. It was a lot to process.
"Don't tell me you want to back out!"
"No, no, it's not that... it's just a surprise..."
"You want to do it, right?"
"Yes, sure, yes..."
"Listen, you hate working around the house, but I love it..."
"You do?"
"Didn't you see me last weekend?" she demanded. "Yeah! I fix everything around here! My mother is so useless. So's my dad, but anyway... if you stay there, you're going to work like an Egyptian slave girl, building the pyramids, eating only straw or hay, like in the Bible."
"Oh, Maisie," I laughed, "I'm sure that's all wrong."
"So? Do you want to slave around your house this weekend?"
"No..."
"Wouldn't you rather squirt perfume in the air and walk into the mist with my mother?"
"I guess..."
"Then listen." Maisie gave me the details of the switch: Ida would take us to school on Friday. She'd drop Maisie's weekend bag at my house and pick up my weekend bag.
Then my mother would pick us up from school on Friday and drop me at Ida's house.
One of the mothers would drive us to school Monday morning.
"That's a long time," I observed.
"Yeah, isn't it great?" Maze enthused. "All you have to do is ask Ida. She doesn't have a clue about it, so you have to explain it and sell it. You can do it."
"Okay," I replied. "Can you give her the phone?"
"As if!" she countered. "You can call her. I'll hang up. You call back. I won't answer, so she'll have to."
"Ah... I..."
"Look, it's better if you call her. She'll be touched. Okay, I'm going to hang up now. You call right back. Then call me after to let me know."
"Maisie, listen," I began, but she'd already hung up.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Could somehow Maisie and her mother *both* be right in some way? Could Maisie have exaggerated? Could Maisie have misunderstood?
I sighed. Why do people have to be so complicated?
"Thank God I don't have detention today!" I told Maisie.
"Yeah, that's a big change for you, isn't it, you wicked thing?" she teased.
Girls in blue plaid skirts and white blouses flooded past us, anxious to get OUT OF THE BUILDING. Friday afternoon is exciting in and of itself, but for Maisie and me it was even more so: today begins the weekend of the switch.
"Hey, cool!" Maisie observed. "Your Mom staked out the primo parking spot!"
In fact, Mom was standing by her car directly in front of the building. I turned to Maisie and was astonished to see something like joy on her face. I'd never seen her so plainly, simply happy. Ever.
"She must have been waiting for us for, like, ten minutes!" Maisie gushed in admiration.
"Hi, girls!" Mom called out. "Ready for the big weekend?"
"Shotgun!" Maisie shouted, and jumped in the front seat, next to my mother.
I climbed in the back, smiling a little, but at the same time feeling a bit odd. I was glad to see Maisie happy for once, but it was weird to be sharing my mother with her.
After Mom settled herself behind the wheel, she turned to me and said, "Now we have to drop you at your house, Marcie." I pushed my face into a smile.
Mom started the car and Maisie started babbling. "This was a great idea, Marcie! I'm so glad you thought of it. This weekend is going to be the best..." I tuned her out and looked out the window.
I'd been looking forward to spending the weekend with Ida. I really had. At the same time I was nervous. I know that Ida's Mom's friend. I know that Mom has spent a lot of time with her, and trusts her. She has to trust her, or she wouldn't let me stay with her. At the same time...
Maisie had told me so many bad things about Ida. Not just bad things, but terrible things. Things I couldn't imagine a parent doing.
At the same time, I couldn't imagine Ida doing any of it. As far as I could tell, Ida cared about Maisie. She looked out for her. She tried to connect with her. It was Maisie who'd shut everything down between them.
At the same time, Maisie couldn't have made all that stuff up.
And so, I was afraid. Yes, now that I was going to spend three nights and two-plus days with Ida, I finally admitted to myself that I was afraid.
What if I got to see the bad side of Ida? The side that only Maisie knows? Could she hurt me? Would she hurt me? I didn't think so, but what did I know?
At the very worst, I could get out of there and run home. So I did have a way out.
Could somehow Maisie and her mother *both* be right in some way? Could Maisie have exaggerated? Could Maisie have misunderstood?
Or, could Maisie and her mother *both* be wrong? For a moment, I felt as if a light had gone on, but then I couldn't work out what it would mean, so I dropped it.
I sighed. Why do people have to be so complicated?
AND THEN, as I watched my mother happily listen to Maisie's babble, I realized something: I'd been so busy thinking about how things would go between Ida and me, that I hadn't spared a thought for Maisie and my Mom.
What were they going to do? "Work around the house." Doing what? It was all done! What were they going to do all weekend? Were they going to talk about me?
I wanted to ask... something, but the two of them chatted away sixteen to the dozen, and there was no way I could get a word in. I tried, but they were jumping on the ends of each others' sentences, and laughing away... My attempts to talk just got lost...
... as if they'd forgotten I was even there. In fact, Mom almost missed Maisie's street, and had to make a big awkward turn to get back to it.
"Lucky no one was around to see that!" Mom laughed, and Maisie let out a big, open-mouthed haw haw haw and clapped her hands like a little girl.
The two of them were beginning to seriously bug me.
They dropped me off without ceremony, and drove away almost before I shut the car door.
I watched them disappear around the corner. For a few moments I stood there, feeling vaguely like a orphan, trying to somehow feel sorry for myself, but the feeling wasn't very strong. I took a deep breath and turned toward the house.
Ida was there, waiting, smiling, at her door.
I waved and smiled back, and when I was a few feet away I grinned and said, "Hi, Mom!"
"Oh!" she cried. "It's been so long since anyone's called me that!" She wrapped me in a warm, enveloping, mom-ish hug. I put my arms around her waist and realized for the first time how soft she is. So feminine, so soft.
I made a mental note to ask her what scent she was wearing.
And I was quietly glad that Maisie wasn't around — it was so much easier to be with Ida without all of Maisie's negativity.
We went inside and Ida showed me to my room. I knew that Maisie would be sleeping in my room, but I was staying in their guest room. Ida had already unpacked my bags.
After she showed me where she'd put my things, I quickly changed into jeans and a sweater.
"I've got ideas for tomorrow and Sunday," she told me, "but I wanted to hear what you'd like to do tonight."
"Uh, I'd like to go food shopping first," I told her. "I want to cook dinner for you... If that's okay."
"Oh!" she said, surprised. "That would be different!"
First I checked that she had the right pots and pans. Surprisingly, she did. Next, I made a quick inventory of what little food she did have. Then the two of us put on our boots and walked to the store. The shopping didn't take long. I got jasmine rice, tofu, and small bottles of oil and soy sauce. I didn't want to spend a lot of time peeling and chopping, so I opted for a bag of frozen stir-fry vegetables. Ida silently watched me select all these things, as if I was doing something that was utterly foreign to her. I wondered whether she had ever cooked in her life.
It didn't take long to whip up the meal, and it came out pretty well. Ida was impressed. "You should come over more often," she said. "Not a lot of cooking goes on in this house. I never learned, and Maisie couldn't care less."
After dinner I ran through their collection of DVDs. One of the titles rang a bell, and the picture on the cover made me sure: John Tucker Must Die was a movie I'd meant to see, but Jerry had always refused to watch it with me.
"Oh, yeah," Ida said drily. "*I* got that one — and some others — in hopes that Maisie would want to see them with me, but..."
"So let's do it!" I interrupted.
We sat together on the couch and watched the movie. It was a lot of fun. You ought to see it. The two of us laughed our heads off! Although it's a "chick flick," there aren't any tears. Plus, it isn't corny at all.
At some point after the movie began, Ida moved closer to me and put her arm around my shoulders — which caused me an anxious moment. Why? Well, Ida is a beautiful, beautiful woman. Her proportions are perfect: she has nice curves, but is very trim at the same time. Her hair is a honey blonde, and her face is cute and open. Her breast rubbed softly against my upper arm as she snuggled up, and... well, okay: what I was afraid of was how much boy I had left in me. I didn't want to get, um, excited about being near her. I didn't want my secret revealed in such an embarrassing way.
As it turned out, I didn't need to worry. If there was any "boy" in me, it didn't show. Something else was happening, something else entirely. I could tell that Ida was longing for that mom experience that Maisie wouldn't let her have. Maisie didn't talk to her mother if she could help it, and when she did, she made sure it hurt Ida in some way. I'd never seen Ida even dare to reach her hand out toward Maisie, let alone touch or hug her.
So I relaxed and rested my head on Ida's shoulder. It was nice. My Mom wasn't so touchy-feely, and it was nice to be wrapped in all that comfort and safety. I could almost feel her womanliness passing into me as she held me.
When the movie was over, we shut the TV off and shifted so I was lying with my head in her lap. She gently ran her fingers through my hair, and asked me about school. She told me about her parents and how she'd grown up in the house... She told me which room was hers, what school she'd gone to, how the town had changed, and what was still the same.
As I listened to her voice and breathed her scent, I relaxed, and felt the tension drain from my body... I didn't realize until just then how tense I was: I'd been on edge ever since we arrived in New Jersey. This was the first time I could let go and do nothing.
Ida's voice drifted in and out, and what she said mixed with half-dreams in my head.
I looked up at her through my sleepy fog and said, "I want to be just like you."
She smiled and passed her hand over my forehead. "You need to get to your bed, little girl. Come on."
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Ida told me that she didn't want to be too ambitious on our first weekend together. "I'm hoping we can do this again, maybe often, and so I'd rather take it easy and get to know you a little bit. It's nice to be with you when, uh–"
"I understand," I said, and finished her thought: "– when Maisie's not around."
"I know you want to learn about makeup," Ida said, "but there are other things that will make a lot bigger difference to you."
"Like what?" I asked, frowning. We were just finishing breakfast, and I was nursing my special tea.
"First, we need to get you some bras–"
"I have plenty of bras!" I replied.
"I know you do," she said gently, "and I'm sure they're very nice. But they don't fit right. Most of them don't give the support you need, and you probably don't realize how uncomfortable they are."
I shifted a little in my chair and resisted the urge to adjust myself. "I thought that's just how they are, or how they're supposed to be, or something."
She shook her head. "So, bras. That's the first thing. The second thing is shoes." My eyes lit up. "You need two good pairs of school shoes."
"School shoes!?" I echoed. "I thought we were going to look at cool shoes, like the kind you and Ms. Means wear. Michael Kors and Manolo and stuff."
"Oh, we can look at them too," she said, smiling, "but in case you didn't notice, I don't wear shoes like that all the time. Most of the time I'm wearing something sensible and comfortable that also looks good. Like these." She showed off the shoes she was wearing. The heel wasn't very high, but they still looked like designer shoes.
"Those are sensible shoes?" I asked.
She nodded. "It is possible to look good without suffering," she said. "Most of the time. Your day-to-day look has to be comfortable. You don't want to be one of those women who tear off their shoes every chance they get, and moan and groan about how much their feet hurt. Shoes and bras are not supposed to hurt."
"Okay," I said. I was doubtful, but willing to be guided. "Then what?"
"Oh, after that we'll have dinner," she said. "Do you feel like cooking again?"
"Uh, sure," I replied. "But those two things are going to take all day?"
They didn't take all day, but we took our time going from place to place, and pretty much gave into any whim that took us off track. It was so nice to not be goal-driven, to not have to do something for once!
Ida told me that she didn't want to be too ambitious on our first weekend together. "I'm hoping we can do this again, maybe often, and so I'd rather take it easy and get to know you a little bit. It's nice to be with you when, uh–"
"I understand," I said, and finished her thought: "– when Maisie's not around."
She bit her lip and didn't answer, but later that afternoon, when we were sitting in a pastry shop, the topic came up again.
Ida played with her collar and made a strained face before launching into it.
"I'm not going to ask what Maisie's told you... I shouldn't... and I won't... it's better if I don't hear..."
I looked at her and tried to not tense up. I *so* did not want to get involved in the Maisie-Ida conflict. If I had to take a side, I'd have to side with Maisie, no matter what. She's my friend. Ida, even if she's Maisie's mom, is still just a random adult.
Ida continued, "I'm sure that Maisie's given you her version of my, ah, divorce." She didn't look to me for confirmation. She gazed into her cup as she swirled her coffee around. I noticed she was trembling slightly and looked extremely uncomfortable.
"People who've never had one think that divorce is the easy way out," she said, "but it's not. It's one of the worst things imaginable. It's like dying."
"You don't have to–" I began, but she interrupted.
She locked eyes her eyes on mine and said, "Marcie, whatever Maisie told you — whatever she said — it's probably true."
Ida shocked me to the core by what she said, but she must have shocked herself as well. In a paroxysm of nerves she seized her left hand with her right and her eyes darted one way and the other. She let go of her hand and knocked her coffee to the floor.
The cup didn't shatter: it cracked into pieces. Ida stared at pool of liquid spreading near her feet. She said nothing, but drew a slow shaky breath. I didn't dare move.
The two of us kept silent while the shop owner came over, cleared up the mess, and brought Ida another coffee.
"You don't need to tell me this," I said, as gently as I could. "I don't need to know." And I don't want to know! I shouted silently.
"But I do need to tell you," she said, with some desperation. Then she caught herself and backed off. "No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Marcie. I can't impose... But still..."
In a softer voice she asked, "Can you let me tell you my side of the story? It won't take very long. I would hate for you to think I'm the same monster that Maisie sees."
"Okay," I said, nervously, and made a few jerky movements of my own, one of which nearly sent my hot chocolate to the floor. I had to sit on my hands to keep them steady.
Ida swallowed hard. "My husband, Maisie's father, was a jerk. He was unfaithful, he drank... he cheated on his taxes, he cheated on me... he was arrogant and thoughtless and generally absent. Maisie and I were just ornaments in his life, usually on the shelf, but trotted out when he needed to show us off.
"And me? Well, I can't claim that I was ever the *best* mother in the world, but before I filed for divorce, Maisie and I got along. Not as well as you and your mother, but we had our moments." She looked at her nails. "At least, she didn't hate me. Or call me names." She took a breath.
I recalled that Maisie had told me she'd spent most of her childhood with nannies, but I didn't ask Ida how that fit with her story.
"And now comes the bad part," she said, pulling out a tissue with a shaky hand. "My husband didn't love me, didn't need me, didn't want me. As far as Maisie was concerned, he was barely aware of her. I filed for a divorce. I thought he'd be glad to see us go. But he wasn't.
"His pride was offended, and he wouldn't let me go without a fight." She swallowed.
"So he didn't want you to leave?"
"No, ah," she looked confused by my question. "I mean yes. I mean–" She frowned to get her bearings. "Look: he might have wanted me to go, but *he* wanted to choose the how and the when. In his mind, I was just an add-on to his life... more like a possession than a person. He might have wanted to throw me away, but if *I* walked away, then that was like... stealing to him. He had no problem rejecting me in a thousand ways, but if I told *him* I didn't want him... well, that was wrong in his mind. He wanted to hurt me as much as he could for wanting to leave. He wanted to be the one to end it...
"Anyway... I'm not rich like Aiden — my ex — but I have enough. I didn't really want his money... I just asked for enough to maintain me and Maisie as she grew. Not only did he not want to give me a cent, but he also threatened to take away everything that I had."
"How could he do that?" I asked.
"It's complicated," she replied.
I must have given her a look, because she said, "Okay, it's not complicated. By California law, half of what he owned was mine, and half of what I owned was his. So he was entitled to half my house here in Flickerbridge, and I was entitled to half his house in Llewellyn, just for example."
"Couldn't you each just keep your own house?"
"Well that would make sense, wouldn't it? If everyone was sensible, it would all be easy. Unfortunately, in a divorce everyone is so angry and hurt and crazy that they go for the jugular, and do as much damage as they can. If you can't take someone's money outright, you can at least make them spend it all on lawyers and..."
She stopped and spread her hands as if to steady herself. "The point is, I was afraid. I was afraid to be alone... a little. But mainly I was afraid he'd leave me penniless and homeless. Which is what he threatened to do, in so many words."
She drew a very deep breath and let it go.
"And then, we fought over Maisie's money."
"Maisie has money?" I asked, with some surprise.
She laughed. "Oh, yeah. Didn't you know? Maisie has more money than me and her father put together. It's in a trust fund, though, so she can't touch it, but anyway...
"I was so angry with Aiden! We started fighting over Maisie's money, Maisie's money, Maisie's money, and then over Maisie herself. It was just..."
She passed her hands over her face. "We'd been arguing about all these... things... inanimate objects... houses... money... things... and then we started arguing about Maisie in the same exact way." Beads of sweat broke on her forehead.
"The two of us were screaming and shouting and saying the worst possible things... and not just one time, but for days and days on end. It was awful. Inhuman."
Her lips tightened. "It was never about Maisie. It was all about hurting each other... me and Aiden."
Ida looked at me without seeing me. Her face was pale and her pupils were like pinpoints. She was miles away, and it was frightening. Here I was, in a mall, in the middle of... Someplace, New Jersey, with an adult I barely knew, listening to things I never wanted to hear.
"We said the most horrible things about our little girl... and Maisie heard everything." She went white for a moment. "Everything. Every single nasty hurtful word. Things no one on earth should ever say, but we said them."
She tried, with shaking hands, to take a sip of coffee, then thought better of it.
"I've come up with a thousand excuses for what I did... my mind does it, all by itself... churns out reasons, justifications, for what I said... but..." She shook her head and didn't finish the sentence.
"You know, when you're a kid, you think that adults understand everything, can handle everything, always know the right thing to do... but sometimes you're just in over your head, and you're lost...
"I was overwhelmed by selfish fear, and — honestly, I swear — I didn't realize how horrible we were — *I* was — until the custody hearing." Tears welled in her eyes, but didn't fall. Her voice fell to a whisper. "The judge called us awful parents. He didn't want to give Maisie to either one of us, and he apologized to her — can you believe that? The judge actually apologized to Maisie for having to leave her with her own parents." She gasped for breath, but didn't cry. "I was devastated. In that short space of months, I made Maisie hate me, and now we can never go back."
She dabbed her eyes. "You can't imagine, Marcie, when the two most important relationships in your life go bad at the same time. And not just bad, but irretrievably bad." A small shudder passed through her.
The two of us sat in silence for a while. I didn't know what to do or say, so I put my hand on hers.
She sat there, sniffing, for some time. I wondered whether I could safely take my hand back, but I didn't. I just left it there.
After a minute and a half (I was watching the clock) she finally looked up, smiled, and put her other hand over mine. "You're such a good girl, you know that?"
"I try," I said.
That night, after dinner, I called Maisie.
"Hey, Marce!" she said, "I am having a blast with your mother! She is so cool!"
"Really?" I asked. "What are you guys doing?"
"We put up ALL the curtains in the house. All of them!"
"Wow," I said. "And that was fun?"
"Yeah! It was a lot of work, though. Putting up the curtain rods isn't as easy as you'd think. Your dad helped with that part."
I made a noncommittal grunt.
"Then we had to adjust the lengths..."
"I don't know how you can enjoy doing that stuff, Maisie. Honestly, it makes me feel bad for you, but I'm glad I missed it!"
"Well, what are you guys up to?" she challenged.
"Girl stuff," I replied. "Clothes, shopping, shoes, hanging out, watching movies."
"Oh, I see," she said, in an unenthusiastic tone. "You two are just going hog wild, aren't you?"
"It is fun, Maisie. I wouldn't trade it for hanging curtains any day."
"Maybe we should stay like this," she suggested. "We could swap moms for good!"
"Oh," I began, but she cut me off.
"I know, I know. You'd miss your mommy!"
"Well, yeah," I replied.
"I wouldn't," she retorted.
"I know," I said sadly.
"Oh, well. Hey! Do you mind if I paint your room?"
"Uh, no, I guess not... what color?"
"Do you really care? Can I choose? I mean, me and your Mom?"
"Um, I, ah, no," I said. I honestly had no idea what color I'd like. "Sure. Go ahead. Knock yourself out. Just don't make it pink, okay?"
"Great!" she replied. "Hey, speaking of pink, why don't you girls go do your nails or something?" She laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world.
I considered for a moment. "That's not a bad idea," I said.
She scoffed, and after a little more talk we both hung up.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
In a low voice that was almost a whisper, Maisie told me, "I saw the ghost of Misty Sabatino."
Goosebumps rose in a rapid wave up the back of my neck and both my arms.
Monday morning I woke early, before the sun came up. It was dark, but I knew exactly where I was. In the past three weeks, I'd slept in how many beds? I counted four: in Aunt Jane's house, in Dad's tiny apartment, in our new house, and here at Maisie's house.
I lay there in the dark, enjoying the silence, until the sky began to lighten. That meant it was six-thirty. I got up quietly, showered and put on my school uniform. It seemed so bizarre to be going back to school: the weekend with Ida had been so full, so much fun, that I felt as if I'd been away for a month. School was like a distant memory — it just didn't seem real.
It had been a great weekend. I'd finally relaxed, unwound. I was SO GLAD to not be working on the house or cleaning, and I had a great time with Ida.
I really did. Even with the weird breakdown scene at the mall, when I had to listen to her story, I really liked Ida.
At the same time, I was more confused than ever about the Maisie-Ida conflict. After spending time with Ida, I liked her. A lot. I wanted to spend more time with her, but that would be difficult with Maisie's — apparently justified — negativity.
I pushed it from my mind. I wasn't going to solve it by thinking about it. Maybe I could talk to Susan... she always had an idea... she might have some way of figuring it all out, and maybe finding a way to fix it.
If it could be fixed.
BUT ANYWAY, enough about that! I pushed it from my mind and got out of bed.
After washing my face and dressing, I carried my suitcase and my backpack downstairs and left them by the door. Then I set up the coffeemaker for Ida, made myself some cereal and and poured a glass of juice. She came in, wrapped in her bathrobe, just as I sat down to eat.
"Hey, there, kiddo," she said in a soft voice. She gave me a gentle hug, and a kiss on the top of my head before she clicked the coffeemaker on. She listened to its strange hissy gurgles for a while, then quickly pulled out the pot and stuck her mug into the dark stream.
"Ahh!" she sighed as she took her first sip. "There is nothing — absolutely nothing — like that very first sip of coffee in the morning." She cradled the mug with both hands to enjoy the warmth of it. Then she set it on the table and reached over to rub my arm. Her hand was pleasantly warm.
"It's been so nice having you here," she said. "It makes me feel like a normal mother again."
I smiled by way of response.
"I was talking to your real mother last night on the phone, and she wondered whether we'd want to do this again next weekend."
"Really?" I squeaked. "I'd love to!"
She smiled and pulled me into a hug. "Oh, I'm so glad!" she said. She kept on hugging me, and I hugged her right back. She was a much better hugger than Mom, who tended to smother me when we hugged.
When Ida let me go, she continued with what she was saying, "Apparently they got so much done around the house, that they want to keep going next weekend too."
"Yeah, Maisie told me that they hung all the curtains, and she said they were going to paint my room."
"They painted a lot more than your room," Ida said. "It looks like your mother and my daughter are an unstoppable team. Your father had to leave the house on Sunday afternoon and go sleep in his car somewhere. It was the only way he could get any rest!"
"My God!" I cried.
Ida shrugged and laughed. "To each her own," she said, and wagged her newly-painted nails at me with a grin. "Next weekend, makeup!"
I smiled and wagged my newly-painted nails back at her.
Later, in homeroom, I looked at the flecks of color on Maisie's arms and in her hair. "Which one is the color of my room?" I asked.
She grinned and scanned her forearms. At last she settled on a dot of blue. "It's this one. Tropical Blue."
I stared at it, but couldn't get a good idea of how it would look on a wall.
"You'll see it tonight," she said. "And with the curtains... très magnifique!"
"Excellent pronounciation, Maisie," Mrs. Wix interrupted, "but this is English class. We're about to begin."
"Very magnificent!" Maisie quipped, and we got to work.
On the way to the cafeteria, Susan said she wasn't hungry and went off to the library.
"What's eating her?" Maisie asked me.
"I think it's the mom swap," I said. "She got all quiet and distant when we were talking about it."
Maisie frowned, uncomprehending.
I raised my eyebrows at her, disbelieving.
"What!?" Maisie demanded. "I don't get it!"
I sighed. "If Susan asked you to swap moms with her, what would you say?"
"No friggin' way!"
"Right," I nodded. "She'd like some of the freedom we have."
"I see," Maisie said, nodding. "That's very astute of you, Miss Donner."
After we got our food and sat down at our table, Maisie gasped and said, "Oh, I can't believe I forgot to tell you!"
"What?" I asked.
In a low voice that was almost a whisper, Maisie told me, "I saw the ghost of Misty Sabatino."
Goosebumps rose in a rapid wave up the back of my neck and both my arms.
"I was sound asleep, and she woke me up," Maisie continued. "She was staring at me with these great big eyes, and she said, What are you doing in my room?"
I was thunderstruck, and it took a few moments before I knew what to say. "And then what happened?"
"At first I thought it was a dream, you know? I figured that maybe I was still asleep." She snapped off the end of a baby carrot with her teeth and munched it loudly as she spoke. "But she didn't go away. She just kind of stood there in a floaty way, and she was sort of transparent."
My mouth hung open. "And then what happened?"
"She said, This is MY room! Get out of my room! You're not supposed to be here!"
My heart was pounding. This was my bedroom, my house, she was talking about. What was going to happen to me tonight?
"Maisie," I asked, "Were you scared? What did you do?" It was like pulling teeth, getting the story out of her!
Maisie assumed a very cocky look and — after several open-mouthed chews of her carrot — replied, "I told her to eff off!"
My jaw dropped. "You did? What did she do?"
"I said, Back off, ghost girl! You don't scare me!"
I stared into Maisie's face. I couldn't believe she'd been so bold! "Maisie, the suspense is killing me! What happened next?"
"She... she...," Maisie made a strange face, as if she was going to sneeze, but was trying to fight it. "I told her..." Maisie's face contorted again, and I was confused. She sucked in her lips, as if she was biting them.
She shut her eyes for a moment.
Then she exploded into shrieks of laughter.
"Oh my God!" she cried. "If you could see your face!" She imitated my stupidly gaping amazement, then burst into laughter once more. "If you hadn't made that goofy face, I could have strung you along the whole lunch period!"
"Oh, Maisie, sometimes you're such a jerk," I said, in an irritated tone.
"How can you be so gullible?" she retorted, "You really thought I saw a ghost?" For the rest of lunch period she let out snorts and giggles every few minutes.
A few times she started going woooo in a ghostly tone, but broke off in laughter.
I *so* wanted to smack her.
What happened next was so predictable, I should have seen it coming.
Well, not next next, but the thing *after* the next thing.
When I got home, I was amazed at how different everything was. The living room was completely done: all the furniture in place, rugs on the floor, curtains on the windows, and the walls were a pale, uh... "What color is that, Mom?"
"Salmon. A very light salmon. Maisie and I mixed it ourselves, actually."
Nearly the whole first floor was painted, and there were curtains on every window. The transformation was astounding. "It must have been a lot of work!"
Mom stared at me, her hands on her hips. "Yes, my real daughter, it was."
"Hey!" I protested, "I... and you and she..."
Mom waved away my protests. "It's all right," she said, as if to say I forgive you for running off and having fun while I was slaving for you.
"Still," she continued, "I have to say that your friend worked awfully hard in a house that is not even hers..."
She likes doing that stuff! I thought, but managed to bite my tongue. "Do you want me to stay home next weekend and work around here with you?"
"Oh, heavens no!" Mom replied. "I saw how you were last weekend, dragging around, doing as little as possible, moaning and groaning the whole time ..."
"Mom! I worked my butt off!"
She smiled, and was about to say something, but then she beckoned me into one of her smothering hugs. I took a deep breath and went in.
On the other hand...
What they'd done to my bedroom absolutely blew me away. The bed was covered by a white spread that I think I've seen before. The walls were this amazing blue: Maisie had called it "Tropical Blue." It did make me think of a deep blue tropical sea (although I've never seen one in real life). The curtains were two kinds of green in long thick vertical bands. Mom told me the exact colors: teal and lime green, and the way the four colors went together was simply amazing. A boy would never live with these colors: this was a real, bona fide, teenage girl's room.
"I love it!" I shouted. "It's fantastic!"
Mom was very pleased with my reaction, and she said, "It's not done yet!" with a little smile.
Although I haven't lived in this house very long, I felt like I was finally back in my own bed, and was so tired that I fell deeply asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
The bed was my old bed, and the pillow was my old pillow... even so, they seemed fresh and new, and at the same time completely familiar and comfortable.
I lay in a profound, dreamless sleep that seemed to last forever...
... until exactly 2:15 in the morning, when my eyes snapped open. A pale but pretty girl was bending over my bed. Her eyes were open as high as they could go, and her expression was one of timid curiosity.
"Who are you?" she asked me. "Why are you here?"
I tried to respond, but panicked: the words caught in my throat. A wave of fear washed over me, and I clutched my blanket desperately with both hands.
There was no need to ask who she was: I recognized her right away.
She was Misty Sabatino.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Here it was, the first time I was ever face to face with an actual ghost, and it was clear as clear could be: She was afraid of me.
When I was small, I was afraid of bugs and frogs and lizards and things like that. Over and over my father would tell me, "They're more afraid of you than you are of them."
Of course, it never helped. How can you tell if a spider's afraid? It doesn't make a sound, and you can't see its face. Then too, the things move so fast, one second you notice them on the wall and the next second they've jumped halfway up your arm.
Scared or not, they never seemed afraid of me.
On the other hand, here it was, the first time I was ever face to face with an actual ghost, and it was clear as clear could be: She was afraid of me.
Of course, I was afraid of her, too. I was scared to death! I'm still surprised I didn't wet the bed when it happened.
And yet, the confusion and uncertainty on Misty's face didn't make me brave. I couldn't unlock my throat and get any words out. I tried to get a grip on myself.
After a couple gulps of air I managed to clear my throat, and finally croaked out "Marcie."
Then, before she could reply or I could make another sound, there were footsteps in the hall. Another ghost?
In the same moment, Misty and I turned to look toward the sound, then back to look at each other. We were equally startled. She didn't know who it was either!
Then it connected; I knew those fast-approaching feet. "It's my mother," I whispered. The footsteps arrived at my door. The doorknob rattled, then turned. Misty faded out and was gone before the door was even open a crack.
Mom glared at me. Her hair was a mess. She looked like she'd just woken up. When I say she didn't look at all pleased with being awake, I'm putting it mildly. She was loaded for bear. "Who were you talking to?" she demanded. "What in the world were you thinking, using your cell phone at this hour of the night? Was it some boy?"
I gaped at her. What was she talking about? My phone? Why was she talking about my phone? I'd just woken up, too, and her words didn't make sense — they barely registered as words.
"We'll take that phone away from you if you can't be responsible. Where is it? Who were you talking to?" She walked to the middle of my room and looked around her. There wasn't much to see.
"Well?" she demanded. "Answer me!"
I gestured at my backpack. "My ph-phone's in there," I told her. "It's off. I wasn't using it."
She picked up the backpack and fumbled clumsily with it.
"It's in the little outside pocket," I offered, "the one on the strap–" just as she found it and pulled it out.
"It's cold," she said.
"I told you: I wasn't using it."
"I heard you talking. You woke me up."
"I must have been talking in my sleep," I lied. "Sorry."
She drew a heavy sigh and stopped moving. Then she looked down, as if she'd forgotten what she was holding: my backpack in one hand, my phone in the other. She shoved the phone back in its pocket and set my backpack on the floor.
"I'm sorry," Mom said, sounding a little calmer. She came over, sat on the edge of my bed, and took my hand. "I guess I'm still not used to sleeping in a new house. You know all the noises the house makes at night?"
I shook my head.
"No? Oh, it's just the house settling: those creaks and snaps and weird sounds. There's one noise I can't even describe... I don't know what it sounds like or what it is.
"The problem is, that they're just sounds, but they sound like all kinds of things... like somebody opening a door, or footsteps...
"One day when I was here all alone I could have sworn that somebody ran up the stairs. But it was nothing. There was nobody there."
Even though Mom was trying to be reassuring, I could feel the little hairs on my arms standing up in alarm.
"Still, even though I know it's nothing... that it's just an old house... well, you'd think that if it had to settle, it would have been finished and done with it a long time ago... and even though I know that it's nothing, it's keeping me awake at night. Eventually I'll get used to it. You're lucky you don't hear it.
"Anyway... I'd just fallen asleep — finally — and then I heard you... talking... oh–" She looked at my windows, struck by a sudden idea. "Maybe it wasn't even you, maybe some girl was walking by the house, talking to her friend. Maybe she was out there on the sidewalk, and I thought it was you."
She looked in my eyes and ruffled my hair. "I don't think you talk in your sleep. You never did before."
I shrugged.
"So why were you awake?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "But I was sound asleep until a couple minutes ago. I like it here. I didn't — I don't hear any weird sounds."
My face felt like it had a wild, guilty look, but Mom either didn't notice or put it down to my just having woken.
"Good," she said. "I'm glad. I like it here too, but I just have to get used to another house's noises. This one doesn't sound like home to me yet."
I smiled. She smiled back, and said good night.
After she left, I lay there for a while, wondering about what happened. When I saw Misty, I thought I was awake, but it could have been a dream. It was exactly like what Maisie said... so it could have been suggestion, you know? She told me about seeing the ghost of Misty Sabatino. I believed it, it made a big impression, and so I dreamed about it that night. When I first woke up, it seemed so real that I could feel the fear on my skin, but now, especially after talking to my mother, it was fading, the way dreams do.
But maybe it wasn't a dream...
I thought about looking around the room and under the bed, but I drifted back to sleep instead...
The next day Maisie was out sick. It turned out to be the flu, and I wondered if maybe she'd just worked too hard last weekend.
When Maisie didn't show up Wednesday, Susan sullenly joined me for lunch. She ate in silence, looking down.
"Susan?" I asked. "If I tell you something, will you promise to not tell Maisie?"
She looked up, but didn't answer. I could see she was interested, but her curiosity hadn't overcome her resentment. "Why don't you want Maisie to know? I thought she was your best friend."
I let that little conversational landmine just slide on by. "This is something serious, and Maisie doesn't take anything seriously."
Susan nodded. "So I'm the serious one."
She wasn't making this easy at all. "Do you believe in ghosts?" I asked.
At first, she wasn't sure how to process that one, but after a couple of chews she said, "Yes, I do." Then she stopped, and turned to me. The full light of her attention was on me, and she got it: she knew exactly what I was saying. "No!" she said in a low voice. "You didn't!"
"I think so," I said, "but I'm not sure." I told her the whole thing: from Maisie's joke to my mother walking in.
"Wow," Susan said, both hands flat on the table. "This is incredible!"
"What do think I should do?" I asked. "Is there anything I can do?"
"I don't know," she answered. "Do you mind if I ask my grandparents about this?"
I was confused. "What? Your grandparents? Why?"
"Yes, my grandparents," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "They might know something that would help. If it happened to me, I'd go talk to them about it."
"Uh–"
"They're not going to laugh, and they're not going to tell anybody."
"Well, sure, okay then."
"Good!" she said, smiling brightly again.
The old Susan was back.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Susan shrugged and smiled. "They said that if it bothers you, you have to find a way to get Mrs. Wix involved."
"How can I do that? What am I supposed to do? Invite her for a sleepover?"
Thursday, Maisie returned. She was subdued, but looked okay. Her smile was weak and she hardly spoke at all.
At the beginning of lunch she paid a long visit to the bathroom.
"I hate to say it," Susan said, "But I like Maisie better this way. I didn't realize how... abrasive she can be until she quit talking."
I smiled ruefully. "I know what you mean. I've tried to talk to her about it, but it's all that stuff about her parents' divorce..."
Susan sighed. "I know, I know." Then, anxious to change the subject, she said, "I talked to my grandparents about your... you know, visitor."
I raised my eyebrows. "And?"
"They said was that it wasn't about you. They said it's Mrs. Wix's problem."
"Mrs. Wix's problem!?" I repeated. "That's no help. How can it be Mrs. Wix's problem? Misty's popping up in my bedroom. What am *I* supposed to do?"
She shrugged and smiled. "I don't know. All they said was that if it bothers you, the only solution is to get Mrs. Wix involved."
"How can I do that? What am I supposed to do? Invite her for a sleepover?"
Susan giggled at the thought. "Do you see the ghost every night?"
"No," I said. "She hasn't been back since that first time." I bristled a bit. "How can you be so nonchalant about it?"
Susan shrugged. "I guess 'cause it isn't happening to me," she said as she sipped her iced tea. "If it was me who saw her, it would be different. I suppose."
I wasn't so sure. I'd never seen Susan shocked, surprised, or stumped by anything. She seemed to just take everything in, and calmly sort it out in her head.
In fact, when she got upset about Maisie and me swapping mothers, it surprised me. I guess no matter how smart you are, you can still feel hurt from being left out.
I twisted my mouth to the side as I thought. I couldn't get the imagine of Mrs. Wix, her hair in curlers, unrolling her sleeping bag in my bedroom. And then, I had a great idea.
"Hey, Suze! Do you want to come for a sleepover?" I asked. Then, joking, I added, "I'll see if Mrs. Wix can come and we'll really make a night of it!"
"Is that a joke?" she asked cautiously. "I mean, I know the last part is, but–"
"No, it's not a joke," I replied. "I'm inviting you for a sleepover. In the hope that we get to see Misty Sabatino together."
"Oh, I wish," she sighed. "But my parents–"
"I know, I know, but you can ask, can't you? Not this weekend, though."
"Are you and Maisie doing the mom swap again this weekend?"
I nodded.
She smiled and thought a moment. "I guess I can ask. It won't hurt to ask..."
Maisie was smiling and chewing gum when she got back from the bathroom. She dropped into a chair next to Susan and groaned with pleasure. "I finally had a cigarette!" she declared. "It's been almost a week without a single puff! No wonder I was dragging!"
"Maisie," I objected, "Do the math: you've only been sick for three days–"
"I didn't smoke while I was at your house," she retorted. "I didn't want to shock your mother. So I haven't had one since last THURSDAY!"
She smiled, stuck out her tongue, and proceeded to attack her food. It was amazing to see the change in her.
"She's back!" Susan crowed.
"With a vengeance," Maisie added, speaking with her mouth full.
"Are you still up for the mom swap this weekend?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah!" she replied. "Wouldn't miss it!"
"What are you two going to be working on?" I asked.
"Oh, it's going to be a surprise, Princess," she grinned. "While you're off buffing your toenails and trying on tutus, we're going to be working."
"I'm not going to be trying on tutus," I said, a little irritated. "But I can see you're feeling better: you're already teasing me."
She scoffed. "Do you know why I tease you? It's because you're so easy! Your hackles go up at the slightest thing."
"Oh," I said. Was that why she didn't tease Susan? Suze was completely unflappable.
"Anyway," Maisie said, "unless your mother's already done it, we're going to paint the kitchen and some other rooms, and hang all the pictures. Stuff like that. What are you going to do?"
"Your mother's going to teach me about makeup," I said, and for some reason I blushed deeply.
Maisie gave a little hmmph! and Susan smiled.
"Oh, hey!" Maisie said, suddenly remembering, "Have you seen any ghosts yet?"
"No," I replied drily, as she chuckled at her own joke.
Susan and I gave each other a knowing look.
That night at dinner my mother said, "I'm glad Maisie's feeling better. I get so much done when she's here."
"Hmmph!" I said.
My mother and father glanced at each other. Mom asked, "Does it bother you that she comes here? Remember, this was your idea."
"I know," I said, "but it's getting pretty weird."
"Weird?" Mom asked. "What do mean, weird? Is it weird for you at Ida's house? Are you uncomfortable there?"
"No," I said. "I like being with Ida. She's really nice."
"So what's weird then? Not being home?"
"Oh, I don't know," I protested, sorry that I'd brought it up.
"I thought I was doing you a favor," Mom continued, "knowing how much you hate housework. But, if you'd rather stay here and help me get things done..."
"No!" I said more forcibly than I meant. Then, softly backpedaling, "I mean, it's all, you know–"
"I understand," Mom said, in a long-suffering tone. "It's alright."
"Oh, Mom," I groaned.
"Do you want to help me fix up the house?" she asked.
"If you really want me to stay," I said, trying to choose my words carefully, "or if I have to stay, I will. And I'll work hard. But, if you're letting me choose, I think I can learn a lot more if spend the weekend with Ida."
Mom said nothing. She turned her attention back to her dinner.
I wasn't sure whether I'd hurt her feelings, but I was pretty sure it was a good time to keep my mouth shut.
Dad quietly took the two of us in, then said to me, "Even when you were a boy, you weren't very handy."
"I wasn't?"
He shook his head no. "I still don't know you've managed to pull off some of the stunts you've done, like climbing a building, jumping onto a moving car, doing a chimney climb to the top of a wall..."
"To say nothing of fighting hand-to-hand with thieves and gunmen," Mom added.
"Come on," I protested. "I wasn't fi–" but Mom wasn't finished.
"Obviously, hanging curtains and unpacking boxes just isn't exciting enough for you."
"Oh, Mom! Come on!" I cried. "If you *really* want me to stay, I'll stay!"
"Oh, good!" she said. "With you and Maisie here, I'll really make progress!"
"What!? No, Mom, that's totally unfair! We — I — you..."
Mom's eyes twinkled. "Look at you!" she said. "My goodness! I'm only kidding! You really don't like working around the house, do you?"
"It isn't that," I said.
"Look," she said, "I've planned everything out, and if I can get Maisie here for two more weekends, we can finish everything. It'll be worth it to me."
"Two more weekends?" I asked. I didn't want to push Susan's sleepover off (that is, if Susan could make it).
"You like being with Ida, don't you? You talk about her a lot."
"I do?"
"Yes, you do! About makeup, and shoes, and fashion, and hair... it's Ida this and Ida that..."
"I didn't realize," I said.
"As if your own mother didn't know about those things..."
"Uh..."
"It's alright," Mom said. "I can deal with the rejection. Ida's a good influence. Just remember that I miss you. I want you here with me. At the same time, there is just too much to do, and I can't relax until the house is livable."
"Okay, okay!" I said.
"And I know that Ida loves having you there. What will you two be doing this weekend?" she asked.
"She's going to teach me about makeup," I said, and once again I blushed furiously.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
I was astounded. "How did you know it was me?"
She chuckled. "I'm psychic, remember? No, seriously, I have caller ID. What did you think?"
This weekend was even better than the last. The more time I spent with Ida, the more I liked her. We did the makeup thing: she talked to me about colors. We flipped through a fashion magazine and she used the faces to illustrate different techniques, and explained when and where they're appropriate. We talked about day, evening, and night. She showed me how she did her own face. Together we picked out some good cosmetics for me, and she helped me get three different looks with them. I had my eyebrows tweezed, which is always fun (I'm being sarcastic, in case you can't tell — tweezing eyebrows is a pain!).
We did other things too. We watched The Devil Wears Prada together, and we took a long walk through the neighborhood. She told me how things had changed since she was my age... who used to live in this house and that house... who was her best friend, and what they did together.
I got so comfortable during our walk that I almost told her my secret — my big secret — I mean, about how I used to be a boy.
Thank goodness I didn't, but it was only chance that stopped me: we ran into a tiny little girl with a cute little dog, and after that distraction was over, the feeling passed and I realized what a bad mistake I almost made.
On Sunday night when I was lying in bed, I realized that Ida and I were bonding. It used to sound like a stupid meaningless word to me, but now that I'd experienced it, I deeply appreciated it.
And then, of course, Monday at school was a terrible let-down after the weekend. It was hard to take the mundane ritual... high school almost seemed unreal: flat, dull, and, well... high school.
Until the big moment: when I finally went home. Maisie had told me at the very end of lunch period that she and my mother had "done" my room. She told me at the absolute last minute of lunch, so it was impossible for me to ask her anything at all. I know she did it that way on purpose. I was in agony the rest of the day.
"You'll see, Princess! You'll see," she cackled, and I wanted to smack her. Plus, I had to tell myself that being called Princess was a lot better than being called Mark.
When I got home, I ran upstairs and burst into my bedroom.
It was a dream! The furniture was white neo-Victorian (my mother told me later). There was a bureau as tall as me, a huge desk, a rolling chair, a bookcase, a cute bedside table with a lamp. Near the front windows was a sitting area with two massive armchairs, a rug and a coffee table. The bed had an antique cast-iron frame, and an incredibly high mattress, and the whole thing was covered with a mountain of blankets, covers, and pillows. I couldn't believe it. All the furniture, the rugs, the bedclothes, must have cost a fortune!
"It wasn't as much as you might think," Mom said. "With Ida's help, I was able to get some amazing deals. Most of these pieces were a display setting, so we saved quite a bit just from that... And knowing what I was looking for helped a lot. I think I mentioned to you on the plane that we had a generous budget."
"Although you did go a little overboard," my father commented with a smile, as he peeked in the doorway over Mom's shoulder.
"What about you?" she asked, nudging him conspiratorially in the side.
"Oh, yeah!" he laughed as he hauled out a computer video screen from behind his back. "I'd almost forgotten!" He walked theatrically over to my desk, where he set it down with a flourish.
"The rest of it's in the extra room," he said. "I'll hook it up later."
"A computer!" I shouted, overjoyed.
"We figured you could use some of that reward money now," Mom said, "and your father says that the computer will help you with your homework."
He raised his eyebrows and smiled. "So, Marcie, are we the best parents, or what?"
"Yes!" I shouted, "You guys are the best parents ever!" And I ran over to hug them.
Now, I told you all of that just so I could tell you this: That night, after dinner, after my dad had set up the computer ("We don't have the internet hookup yet, so you'll have to be patient," he cautioned), after I finished my homework and changed into my pajamas, I sat on the floor in the middle of my room and looked around me.
I had never had a bedroom like this before.
I never dreamed I would ever have a room like this, yet here it was.
I didn't mind that Mom, Ida, and Maisie had chosen it all for me. It was better that way: I didn't have any ideas about it. I wouldn't have known where or how to even begin.
My room was beautiful, and far better than anything I could have come up with on my own.
That's when it hit me: I was finally settled. Since last August, when we started packing, I hadn't really had a home. But now, I did: I was HOME. I could feel it, through and through.
It was exactly the feeling that Mrs. Earshon, the psychic, had mentioned: "When you're in your new house, the first time you look around your room and feel that everything's in place, then you can call me."
I looked at the clock. It was 9:15. That meant it was 6:15 in California. I dug out my address book and dialed the number.
It rang twice, and then I heard the familiar voice say, "Hello, Marcie?"
I was astounded. "How did you know it was me?"
She chuckled. "I'm psychic, remember? No, seriously, I have caller ID. What did you think?"
"Oh," I said. "So..."
"Tell me, Marcie, how is your room? Is everything in place?"
"Yes, it's–"
"Hang on, Marcie, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm going to start dinner soon. We can talk a little bit about you, and a little bit about business. But we have to be quick, because my tummy's rumbling. I've been going all day, and had to skip lunch."
She put on a headset and chatted as she quickly dealt some cards. "Let's see what we have," she said, and then let out an sigh of dismay. "With you, there is always this double... um, two things mixed together." This was something that confused her greatly when I first met her, before she knew I was transitioning.
"I never... Oh, look at this: There is danger coming, soon, I mean physical danger, but it's not for you... but at the same time it involves you. Oh, dear. Let's see. Oh, I wish we had more time, but... hmm... Right: what it probably means is that somebody misses their aim: they want to hurt someone else, but end up trying to hurt you."
"Is it bad?" I asked.
"You'll be alright," she replied. "The cards that talk about your health and well-being, they're all good. So, you won't be harmed. Maybe a little scared, but you're a brave girl. What you need to remember is this: you have to try to be the best friend that you can be. That's what will save you; that's what will get you through."
Oh, brother! It sounded like an after-school film! Incredulous, I asked, "I'm supposed to be best friends with a person who tries to hurt me?"
"No, that's not what I said. You have to be a friend to the people around you. People your age."
"Is someone my age going to try to hurt me?"
"Hold on. Try to stop interrupting, okay? This danger that I mentioned, it involves an adult, a man, not a relative. Someone you've met." I thought of the bank robber and the purse snatcher. Who else could it be?
For some reasons, Sister Honororia's brother, the policeman, came to mind as well, but it couldn't be him. He wouldn't hurt me. He was a jerk and a power freak, but he was a policeman, after all.
"As far as people your age... there is a girl close to you, probably in your class, your school, who will be... very negative toward you. VERY negative. But there, too, you have to try to stay open, to love, to be a good friend. I see this girl has a broken heart. And this is someone you've already met. Do you know who I'm talking about?"
"Oh, yes," I said, and tears came to my eyes. It had to be Maisie.
"Okay, so be ready. This is going to happen soon, too. The good news is that both things are going to come in the next week or two, and then it will all be over. Oh, and hmm. It says here that you just got some money, but I saw that in the newspapers already. Put it in the bank. You'll need it for something... I don't know what."
I wanted to interrupt and complain about all the love and be a friend stuff — how could she be serious? What was it? Love conquers all? Give me a break!
I didn't get a chance to ask her, though. Just as I was opening my mouth, she went on to something else.
"Here's one more hard thing with some good news behind it: you have to call your old boyfriend–"
"Jerry?"
"I don't know his name, Marcie. Anyway, you need to call him so he can break up with you."
"What!? You can't tell me to break up with him!"
"I'm not, Marcie," she said. "I never said you should break up with him. I'm just saying that you have to call him. However, according to the cards, when you call, he's going to break up with you. You don't need to — in fact, you shouldn't — say anything about a breakup. If I'm wrong, I'm sorry, but I don't think I am."
"Hmmph!" I commented. "I don't want to do it!"
"You have to. Otherwise you won't be able to go on with... oh, you'll find out. You have to call him. But don't worry: there will always be a boy buzzing around you. Not 'boys', plural, but there will always be a boy for you. Okay?
"I guess," I said glumly.
"Keep your chin up," she said. "It's mostly good news. Bad stuff followed by good stuff. That's going to be your life, so get used to it. And, listen, I have to go. I'm starving! This one's a freebie, but I'm going to send you a little brochure with prices and what to do if you want to talk with me. I told you, this is what I do for a living. You're an interesting person, but I can't do this for free. Okay?"
I gave her my address and we hung up.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
I almost dropped the phone in shock. I wanted to slam down the phone. I wanted to slam it down and break it, but still somehow cry and shout and tell him off... but I didn't.
I decided to bite the bullet and call Jerry right away.
"Am I interrupting dinner?" I asked.
"No," he said. "It's cool. I was just about to call you myself."
"Oh," I said. "Well, here I am!"
I wanted to say I miss you, but if Mrs. Earshon was right, I didn't want to make it harder for him.
I really like Jerry. I've always liked Jerry. Hearing his voice made me wish I was there, in California, with him, rather than here in cold New Jersey, clutching a telephone.
I wanted to be right next to him so I could feel... all that I was feeling... there, with him. He could put his arm around me, and we could kiss, and never stop...
In my mind's eye I could see us, feel us... our lips touching, our eyes closed, his arms around my shoulders, mine around his chest... me standing on tiptoe...
It felt like months since our last kiss... though it's only been two weeks.
I asked about his family. He told me that Nina said hello, and that Cassie asked whether I liked the Cosmo she'd given me.
"She also told me to ask if you found a new boyfriend yet," he added. "That's Cassie asking, not me."
"I know," I said, blushing. "She's a terrible tease."
"Yeah, tell me about it!" he agreed. "But she wouldn't tease you if she didn't like you."
"I know," I said. "It's the Auburn family's way of showing affection."
"Yeah, I guess. That's what Mom says, anyway. She says she consoles herself with that thought." He laughed. She would need some consolation: Mr. Auburn was the biggest tease of all!
"Anyway," Jerry continued, "speaking of Cassie — and I'm not supposed to tell you this, in case it doesn't happen — but she might stop by and visit you in January. Did you know she's going to Princeton next year? Is that close to you?"
"Oh, uh, I didn't know — I don't know," I said. "I don't think Princeton is close-close... I'll have to look at a map... but, oooh! Ivy League! I didn't realize she was that smart! Princeton is Ivy League, right?"
"Yeah, it is. My parents are over the Moon about it. And yeah, she is that smart. I'll tell her you had your doubts, though," he replied in a smirking tone.
"Oh, don't do that! I don't want Cassie mad at me, especially if she's coming here!" I laughed.
"Don't worry, I'll just tell her you said hi. And that you hate Cosmo." He laughed again.
After that, a silence fell between us, a silence that for some reason seemed extremely awkward. I put my fingertips on the mouthpiece and sent a wordless I miss you down the line. It felt like he got it.
But then, he took a breath and began saying something he must have rehearsed before we spoke. It had that pre-prepared sound to it. "Marcie, I know you haven't been gone very long, but–"
Ouch! This was it! Mrs. Earshon was right! It was coming, it was here, plain as day. Suddenly Jerry was on tiptoe, choosing his words carefully, as if he was afraid of breaking something.
When he got as far as, "... and this isn't easy to say..." I couldn't stand the suspense, so I blurted out, "Jerry, are you breaking up with me?" and started wringing my hands.
Why did I rush right to the point? Part of me wanted him to suffer and squirm, to make him squeeze out the words as painfully as possible, but another part of me — well, most of me — wanted to get it over with. Like pulling off a bandaid: I always took a deep breath and just did it, as fast and hard as possible. If it was going to hurt or even make me scream, at least it would be quick: I wanted it to happen and be over.
Unfortunately, having somebody dump you isn't anything like pulling off a bandage. Even if you know it's coming, even if it happens long distance, even if it's because you moved away, it still hurts, and as badly as it hurts in the moment, it hurts much worse afterward.
I knew there was no point in trying to hang on. I knew it before I left California. I was just a freshman in high school, for pity's sake. And honestly (as I told myself the next day) what I missed wasn't so much Jerry himself, but Jerry's family. I was an only child, and being with the Auburns was my first experience of family life. Do you know what I mean? I have a family, but not brothers and sisters...
No, that's all a lie: I missed Jerry. I missed him: his smile, his protective arms, his jokes, the way he'd embarrass me and make me blush, then laugh and call me cute... and I'd miss the way he kissed me.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm sorry. But you're far away, and..."
"Oh!" I said, struck by that last phrase... what did he mean? "You're far away," he'd said, leaning a little on the you're, as if to say... *I* am far away... but someone else is near!
Again, I rushed right to the point: "You're already seeing someone else?"
"Um, yeah, right," he said. "How did you know? Did she tell you?"
She? Who was this "she" that could tell me? There was only one person: "Eden?" I gasped, astonished. My best friend, Eden!? "You're going out with Eden? Oh, Jerry! How could you?"
I almost hung up. I almost dropped the phone in shock. I wanted to slam it down and break it, but still somehow cry and shout and tell him off...
... but I didn't.
We talked for twenty minutes more. I cried for fifteen of them.
When we finally hung up, I set the phone down and looked at it. With both hands I swept the tears off my cheeks and wiped my hands on my skirt. I took yet another tissue for my nose, and grabbed the phone again.
I called Eden and went through the whole business again with her. She told me how it happened. They ran into each other and started talking about me. They sat together in the cafeteria to talk about me. They walked together so they could talk about me.
Pretty soon, one thing led to another, and — well, it wasn't that they weren't talking about me, but they found other things they could do together... and Jerry ended up back at the boyfriends' table.
She didn't say, but I could picture him touching her hand, the two of them kissing... I didn't want to see it, but my mind did it all by itself, illustrating all the things that Eden didn't say.
Still and all, I understood. It hurt, and so did my stomach after all that crying, but I understood. Corey was a nice boy, and he was Eden's first boyfriend ever, but... (sigh) he couldn't compare to Jerry.
And Eden was lonely, too. She and Carla were friends... but it wasn't the same since I left.
Unfortunately, my mental pictures were far too good: I could see the two of them! Eden and Jerry, laughing, talking, arm in arm, walking away, kissing... my face grew red with embarrassment.
I felt rejected, flat, ugly, and unloved, but at the same time, I had to admit, however grudgingly, that they made a nice couple. At least they did in the pictures in my head.
After an hour with Eden, we were laughing again, friends like before, and I missed her so much! When I finally hung up, my ear was all hot and flabby. I grabbed it and tried to waggle and rub a little life back into it, when the phone rang again. I picked up before it finished the first ring.
"The Donner Residence," I announced, trying to sound as prim and proper as possible. I was goofing around, figuring that Eden had forgotten to tell me something. But it wasn't her at all!
"How formal!" a familiar, sexy voice replied. "I hope I didn't need a reservation before I placed this call."
"Trevor?" I said with some surprise. Recovering, I asked, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I'm glad you find talking to me such a pleasure," he said, with an audible smile. "Marcie, I'm calling to see if you're free. Do you we think we might be able to see each other this weekend? I'm thinking maybe lunch, maybe a movie... or if you prefer something more active, there's roller skating, or we could even go bowling. I'm pretty open as to what we do, as long as it's you and me, doing it together. How does that sound?"
"Hmmm," I said. "It does sound good, but what about the difficulties it would create in the workplace?"
"I figure that we could be — oh what's that word... discreet? I don't know about you, but I've never been discreet before, so it could be something new for both of us."
I laughed, but then I sighed. "Oh, Trevor."
It was certainly tempting, especially after getting dumped by Jerry. Heck, Trevor was temptation incarnate!
I sighed again. "I'm sorry, because I'll be busy this weekend, but anyway, I've never been good at keeping a low profile."
"I see," he said. "You're figuring that we'll go somewhere and terrorists will pop out of the woodwork."
"Something like that," I agreed.
"And you will have to subdue them," he continued.
"Yeah, right," I said. "Seriously, though, things happen. Usually when I don't expect them. And the more I try to be invisible, the worse it gets. At least, that's my history."
"So why don't you try expecting them and looking for them, and then maybe those things won't happen? We could do it as an experiment, say Saturday afternoon? Besides, even if all hell breaks loose, I wouldn't mind a little adventure... Flickerbridge is way too quiet. If we get caught, we can always say that we simply ran into each other. A coincidence. After all, we *do* live in the same town. It could happen." After a pause, he added, "In fact, I think it should happen. I'll willing to bet that it's bound to happen."
"I forgot how persistent you are," I said, feeling warm and flattered. I glanced at myself in the mirror and ran my hand through my hair. "But I have to say no. Our parents work together, and..." I wanted to kick myself, but somehow I had to do the right thing.
"I get it, I get it," he said. "Listen, why don't we do this: can you save me a few dances at the company's Christmas party? Like all of them?"
"That sounds good," I agreed with a smile. "That can certainly be done."
"Then it's settled," he said. "Let's call it a date. We'll make it happen."
I laughed and agreed, and we said our goodbyes.
When I ran downstairs for a snack, Mom was standing by the refrigerator. I still had a big smile on my face. She noticed it, and pointed to my big red ear.
"Looks like someone's been on the phone a long time," she observed. "Who were you talking to?"
"Oh, Jerry," I said. "He broke up with me." Mom's eyebrows went up. "Then I called Eden. Jerry's dating her now."
"Ah," Mom said, taken aback. She couldn't put it together, so she said, "I see. And that makes you happy because..." She waved her hand in a vague circle, indicating that I should fill in the blanks.
"Oh," I said, suddenly realizing that I couldn't tell her why I was smiling. "Oh, uh, Eden just told me some funny stuff and made me laugh. Right at the end of the call."
"Uh-huh," Mom grunted. She clearly didn't believe me, but it didn't look like she was going to push it.
She did look like she was about say something, though, so I quickly pre-empted it.
"Mom, please don't say anything about me and boys tonight, okay? Don't tell me I'm lucky I don't have a boyfriend or any of that stuff, okay?" The last "okay" came out as a high squeak, and two big round tears rolled down my face. My smile was gone... I don't know where.
"Oh, honey," she said, and came to hug me.
The tears ended there, though. "I guess I got all cried out with Eden," I told her, turning my head inside her hug so I could breath and talk.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" she offered, as she squeezed me and rubbed my back a little.
"Maybe tomorrow," I said, not resisting the hug. "But promise–"
"No comments about boys or dating or luck," she smiled. "I guess that means I don't get to say anything."
"We'll see how it goes," I said, laughing, and wiped the last two tears away.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"Yeah," I agreed. "Could you imagine if you died wearing some outfit that you hated? And then you were stuck in it forever?"
"You mean like a Blessed Yvette High School uniform?" The two of us laughed aloud. "Yuck!"
"Did you say your name is Marcie?" she was asking me, as I floated up from sleep.
"Yeah," I replied as I rubbed my eyes and let out a huge yawn. "Misty?" I asked. And it was her.
She didn't look like a ghost. She just looked like a girl, any girl, a little older than me, about Cassie's age. I couldn't see through her, and she wasn't floating in the air. She sat on the edge of my bed, with one leg tucked under her and the other leg dangling. She sounded friendly and curious, as if there was nothing strange about who we were or how we were meeting. It was like we were two new girls on the first day of school.
Misty was dressed in workout clothes: spandex shorts, a sports bra, tank top, and loose t-shirt. Her hair was pulled back with a pink scrunchie and her feet were bare. It was a seriously outdated look.
She saw the way I looked her over and explained, "This is what I was wearing when I died."
"Oh," I said. "So you know you're... uh–"
"Dead? Yeah, I know. At first it was horrible, and then it was creepy. And then for a long time I was scared to death, but then it got so boring! " She scratched her head and then tossed her ponytail. "After a while I got used to it... There wasn't anything else to do. You know, most people can't see me. I wonder why that is? I used to look out the window a lot, but not many people looked back, the way you did. That other girl can't see me at all."
She poured so many words into what she said, it was a bit hard to follow. Maybe, being dead, she didn't need to catch her breath?
In any case, my brain caught up a few moments after she finished, and I thought ''the other girl?''
"Do you mean Maisie?" I asked.
"I guess," she said. "Blonde hair, skinny like a skeleton, smokes?"
"That's her," I said. Did that mean that Maisie smoked here?
"She scares me," Misty confided.
I laughed. "She's alright. Hey, can we go into that little room over there? I don't want to wake up my parents."
"Sure," she said. "I think your mother can hear me. She is your mother — you said she's your mother, right?"
"Yes," I said. "And I'm sure she can hear me."
Maybe once Misty got used to talking to someone, she'd slow down. I hoped so, anyway.
As we stood up and crossed the room, I softly asked her, "Does it bother you that we moved in here?"
"No!" she said. "I'm so glad! I was alone in here for years and years! I had NOBODY to talk to!" She was looking at me over her shoulder as she talked. My mouth opened and my hand went up — I had to warn her: she was about to walk into the door!
And then she did. Walked right into the door, through the door, ghosting her way into the dressing room. It was a little bit of shock. I mean, you see it in movies and on TV all the time, but when it happens in real life, it's a whole 'nother thing.
I, on the other hand, opened the door, walked in, and closed the door behind me.
Once we were both safely inside, we sat on the floor and started talking.
"And the two of you just talked — chatted? Just like that?" Susan asked me.
"Yeah," I replied, stifling a yawn. "Sorry, but we talked for a long time. It was exhausting. She talks nonstop, all kinds of stuff all mashed together..."
Susan grinned. "I guess she doesn't need to stop and catch her breath, does she?"
"That's what I said!" I agreed. "Plus, she hasn't been able to talk to anybody for years, which must be tough."
"So you're getting the brunt of all her pent-up... words... or whatever."
"Yeah. It's like the dam broke. I'm hoping that once she's used to me, she'll slow down and talk about one thing at a time."
I picked at my lunch. I was so tired that I had no appetite.
But then I remembered something. "Oh, Suze! You know what? She didn't kill herself! She didn't take an overdose or anything. She said she never even took that many diet pills. It turned out to be a bad reaction... or a side effect. Maybe she was sensitive to them, or allergic or something."
"So it wasn't Mrs. Wix's fault," Susan put in.
"Misty said it wasn't," I told her. "And I believe her. That letter implied that Mrs. Wix got Misty obsessed with her weight, but I don't believe it. Misty seemed pretty normal to me."
"For a girl who's been dead for 13 years!" Susan quipped.
"Well, she doesn't seem like the type who'd kill herself," I offered.
Susan smiled.
"I know, I know," I said. "She's already dead, so even if she was the type, she can't... but if you met her, I think you'd feel the same."
"I hope I *do* get to see her! Oh! Oh! I forgot to tell you!" Suze was actually jumping in her seat. "I can come! My parents are going to let me come for a sleepover! But it can't be this weekend. Is the weekend after, okay? Like, Friday night?"
I pretended to think for a minute. This was going to work out great! But I had to level with Suze, because she was going to find out anyway. "Actually, it works out a lot better. My mother wants Maisie to come over next weekend to finish the work around the house."
"Oh," Susan said, a little disappointed.
"I'm really glad you can come," I told her, and she brightened again. "I hope you get to see her, too."
I pulled out my agenda and took a quick look at the calendar. "That's going to be the Friday before Christmas! Wow, it really snuck up on me this year!" Christmas would be on a Monday. I didn't think my family would mind if Suze came over on the Friday night before.
"Oh, but...," I began, "Did your parents realize that next weekend is just before Christmas?"
She shrugged. "No. They wouldn't notice. They're pretty traditional Chinese, and we're not Christians, so we don't celebrate Christmas."
I nodded. A wave of tiredness washed over me.
"Whoa, you looked like you were going to nod out there!" Susan commented. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Yes," I said, "if Misty lets me get a little sleep tonight."
"So what else did she say? Did you ask her about Ms. Overmore?"
"No, I forgot. I asked her stuff about being a ghost."
"Like what?"
"I asked her whether she could change her clothes. You know? Because she was wearing these goofy workout clothes when she died. She said that she could take them off, but there isn't any way she can get anything else to wear. And she said that a couple of times she threw away her t-shirt, the one she wears on top, just to see what would happen, but when she wasn't paying attention it came back. She was wearing it again."
"Hmmph," Susan commented. "That kinda sucks."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Could you imagine if you died wearing some outfit that you hated? And then you were stuck in it forever?"
"You mean like a Blessed Yvette High School uniform?" The two of us laughed aloud. "Yuck!"
"Oh!" Suze snickered. "What if you were wearing some hideous clunky shoes? Like clown shoes? And you just put them on for a JOKE... and then you died..." she burst into giggles.
In a mock serious voice I said, "I wouldn't be caught dead wearing those shoes!"
"But you would be, because you would be–" she couldn't finish for laughing.
"Oh, and I asked her — I asked Misty — if she was stuck in the house... if she had to stay there forever."
"Is she?"
"No. Well, kinda. She can go places, but she doesn't want to. Anyway, she keeps popping back. She'll go somewhere, but then suddenly she's back home."
"Sounds like some dreams I've had..." Susan mused.
"And I asked if she ever visited Mrs. Wix..."
"Did she?"
"Yes," I said, dropping into a quieter voice. "But when Mrs. Wix got older she didn't like looking at her. And she said it was hard to talk to her."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know," I replied. "But I gather that Misty used to go around to places a lot more, like here at school and around town, but when things and people changed, it wasn't as interesting... or it was depressing... or something. Besides, she couldn't talk with anybody."
"Except you, now."
"Yeah, I guess." I remembered my food, and started nibbling on my sandwich.
"Oh, Marcie," Susan sighed. "These things could only happen to you."
She looked at me as she sipped her iced tea, and then asked, "Are you going to tell Maisie?"
I let out of huff of air. "I don't know. I don't think so... For some reason I don't want to. Not yet, anyway. I think she'd laugh and wouldn't believe me anyway."
Even more than that, I felt convinced that Maisie would be unpleasant to Misty. I can't imagine how she could, or what she would do, but I had that feeling... "It just doesn't seem like a good idea."
Susan smiled a little at that; she liked being my sole confidant.
I added, "It's too bad in a way, because Misty likes the way they fixed up my room."
Speak of the devil! Maisie came trotting up to our table as I spoke, and she caught the tail end of my sentence.
"Yeah, we did a good job on your room, Princess. Me and your Mom." She chewed some food with her mouth open, grinning.
"Oh, gross, Maisie!" I said. "Chew with your mom closed!"
"My mom?" Maisie repeated with a smirk. She indulged in some more open-mouthed chewing, just to bug me. Then, she connected. "Oh, I get it!" she said. "Very interesting, Miss Donner. You don't like the fact that I'm spending time with your mother, and that I get along with her better than you do."
"What!?" I said. "That SO not true!"
"It was a Freudian slip, Marce," she said, still chewing with her mouth open. "You said mom instead of mother — I mean, mouth — because it bothers you."
I gave a snort of disgust.
Sister Honoraria suddenly appeared out of nowhere. "Margaret, young ladies do not chew with a slack jaw, nor do they talk with their mouths full of food," she admonished.
Maisie's mouth snapped snut.
"No, sister," she replied in a muffled voice. "Sorry, sister."
The nun sniffed and walked off. I smiled a superior smile, and Maisie made a defiant face at me, wagging her head as she mouthed a silent nyah, nyah, nyah, still displaying her half-chewed food.
"Oh, jeez," I said, and tossed an empty paper cup at her head, but in a half-affectionate way.
Maisie didn't move, and the cup made a satisfyingly hollow boink! as it bounced off her forehead.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Mom sighed. "You have to get that operation soon," she said. "You really forget that you're not a girl, don't you?"
"Yeah," I admitted glumly.
Tuesday night at dinner Dad announced that our internet connection was up. I was halfway out of my seat before Mom stopped me. "First, finish your dinner," she commanded.
"Sorry, I wanted to catch up on email."
"Remember the rule," Dad said. "The computer goes off at eleven."
"Which is only eight o'clock in California," I whined.
"You'll have to make do," he said, smiling. "And don't forget about your homework."
"Oh!" I said. "Changing subject: can Suze come for a sleepover in two weeks? Friday, the 22nd?"
Dad stopped his fork in midair. Mom got a strange look, and — after a long pause and a quick look at Dad — she said, "That's just before Christmas. Won't her family miss her?"
"Her family's Chinese. They don't celebrate Christmas. They've never even had a Christmas tree. Please? It's just one night, and then on Saturday morning she'll go home. Can she come? She never gets out of her house, and that's the earliest we can do it."
Dad and Mom looked at each other, and Dad cleared his throat. "Where would she sleep?"
"In my bed, with me... oh!" Now I saw the problem.
Mom sighed. "You have to get that operation soon," she said. "You really forget that you're not a girl, don't you?"
"Yeah," I admitted glumly. "I didn't even think about that part... but if I wear something that kind of hides everything–" I guestured vaguely.
Dad interrupted by putting up his hands. "Could we not discuss lingerie at the dinner table, please?" His face was red.
Lingerie? I echoed silently.
He went on, "Also, there's the fact that you are a boy, at least where it counts. How do we know nothing's going to happen between you and Susan? How am I to know that's not what you have in mind in the first place?
"Even if it's *not* what you have in mind, you seem to have a talent for letting things happen... in a big way! Can you imagine what sort of disaster we'd have on our hands? How could we possibly explain to her parents?"
"It won't happen," I said, my face burning. "Nothing will happen. She's a girl." That statement seemed to explain everything, at least to me, but Dad's expression hadn't changed. So I went on, to try and make him get it: "So... I'm... She... It's not... I'm not... I don't... I'm..."
Why was I getting so tongue-tied? It was really pretty simple. I stopped for a moment, took a long breath and let it out. "I like boys, Dad. I don't like girls that way. I just like boys."
It was like (conversationally) dropping a stone into a well. I just let what I said go, and sat there waiting, listening, for a sound to come back... or at least for Dad's *face* to say something I could understand.
Mom was waiting, too, to give Dad a chance to respond. She, at least, was smiling, and at last she spoke.
"Boys, mmm?" she buzzed. "And boys like you, too, don't they?"
I raised my eyebrows. Could the tide be turning?
Dad was blushing, and started busily re-arranging his plate and fork and knife. Mom and I sat in silence until he stopped and looked up.
After he took a few tentative breaths, he quietly asked me, "Have you ever fantasized about Susan? Wondered what she looked like naked? Anything like that?"
"No!" I said, laughing.
It never occurred to me until he asked, but it was true: "I don't think I've ever thought about any girl that way."
My parents looked at me and then at each other. Then Mom shrugged and said, "They could each sleep in their own sleeping bag..."
My face lit up.
Dad considered, chewing. "That might work," he said. "But one condition: you have to tell her that 'skin condition' story that we used for your gym class."
"Oh, Dad!" I groaned.
"It will cover a multitude of sins," he explained.
"Yeah, but it's gross!" I protested.
Mom gave me a look that said, Let it slide for now — I'll talk to your father later. I was surprised, but gave her a secret smile in reply.
Then Mom said, taking Dad's hard-line tone, "You have to get changed in the bathroom or in that little changing room."
"Yes, no changing together, or showering together, or sleeping together, or anything like that."
"And you have to leave your bedroom door open."
I was about to wail a loud what!? but they dropped a heavy ultimatum on it:
Mom said, "It's that or no sleepover."
Dad said, "Take it or leave it."
I took it. I took it and tried to not resent it. At least Susan was coming. I had to keep reminding myself of that.
The next ten minutes of the meal passed in silence, except for the sounds of eating. I know it was ten minutes, because I was watching the clock.
At last, Mom, without raising her eyes from her plate, said, "You know, I was thinking... what you said about Susan's family never having had a tree... and I thought: What if we put the two sleeping bags on the rug in the living room, next to the Christmas tree? We can put some padding underneath them, of course..."
My mouth opened in a silent oh!
"... but it might be nice for both you, and you could leave the tree on all night."
"That would be perfect!" I enthused.
Dad, on the other hand, looked at Mom and kept on chewing. I still couldn't read his face.
Mom continued, "That way, you don't have to leave your bedroom door open — which would seem odd on a sleepover — because your father or I could see you from the top of the stairs, if we really needed to..." She said that last part in a way that suggested that there really was no need.
Dad nodded, swallowed, said, "That would work."
A big smile broke out on my face.
Then Mom rounded it off with this: "And since the girls would be so easy to, ah, supervise, I think we might spare Marcie the embarrassment of the skin-condition story."
Dad turned quite red and cleared his throat. "I guess so," he admitted. Then to me he said, "I'm sorry, kiddo. You understand, don't you, that the point wasn't to embarrass you, it was just that I — ah — the —"
He wasn't quite sure how to go on, so Mom put her hand on his arm and said, "It's okay, honey. She gets it."
I smiled and nodded and said, "Thanks!"
After dinner I tore upstairs and jumped on the computer. There were emails from everybody in Tierson! As I was reading and smiling and laughing, I became aware of a cute pony-tailed head looking over my shoulder. I turned to look, and it was Misty.
Who else could it be?
I still don't know why she doesn't scare me, or freak me out, or creep me out.
It's probably because she's just like any other girl from school.
Except that she's dead and can walk through walls... and can never change her outfit.
Aside from that, though, she's pretty normal.
"What 'cha doing?" she asked.
"Looking at my email," I replied.
"Email? What's email? Can I watch?"
Having her watch slowed me down, but I didn't mind. She had a bazillion questions. Thankfully, she didn't ask what the internet was, or how email worked. Once she got the idea that it was like ordinary mail (put in the address, hit SEND and away it went!), and that the "letters" were squeezed in and out through the "telephone" wire, her technical curiosity was satisfied.
"It's like a fax without paper," she concluded.
"I guess," I replied. Then, realizing that her idea let me off the hook, I said, "Yes, yes, you're right."
But then, once those technical details were out of the way, I had to tell her about life in Tierson, and who my friends were. One email that was new to me was an old one from Jerry (sent before we broke up): it had a link to the photo of the two of us at the mall: him in his Giants shirt, me in my Dodgers shirt, and his arm was around me.
And, by the way, my breasts are not as big as they look in the photo! Was it the shirt that made them look that way? Had I been photoshopped?
I made the mistake of asking Misty, who with casual, ruthless honesty confirmed that, yes, my breasts were much smaller in real life than they were in the picture (thank you very much!) and what in the world did "photoshopped" mean?
It turned out to be a shorter explanation than I expected. I said, "It's a program for manipulating pictures–" and she cut me off.
"Okay, okay, I get it," she said. "But... with this internet thing, can anybody see that picture? Or only people who have your email?"
"Anybody in the world," I sighed. "They can even buy a poster of it and hang it on their wall. See?"
I showed her how the online shopping cart works, and as I did a warning bell went off in my head. I hope I wasn't letting myself in for a world of trouble with this. I didn't want a ghost-girl going on a wild internet-shopping spree while I was at school or asleep.
"You didn't see my password, did you?" I asked her.
"Your what?" she asked.
"Never mind."
Misty went back to studying Jerry's picture, and nodded. "He looks nice."
"Yeah," I sighed. "He is nice."
She turned to me with a cute little smile and said, "Can I ask you something?"
Hoo boy! I thought. Here comes some embarrassingly intimate question about me and Jerry, like whether we ever–
Misty gave a silent laugh, then asked, "Can *I* get an email account?"
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"You want an email account? Ha– Who w-would you wr-write to?"
"My sister," she said, as if that were obvious. Then, grinning, she added, "You know, Mrs. Wix."
Now, Misty really had me frightened.
"You want an email account? Ha– Who w-would you wr-write to?"
"My sister," she said, as if that were obvious. Then, grinning, she added, "You know, Mrs. Wix."
"Oh, Misty, I don't know if that's a good idea. I think they could tell where the emails came from."
"So?"
"I mean, they could see that they came from this computer, and they would think that *I* sent them!"
"Oh," Misty said thoughtfully. "Well, what if I sent them while you were in school?"
I just wilted; I went limp. What was I supposed to do? If she really wanted to do it, I couldn't stop her. I could lock the computer, but she could easily get my login password just by watching me type it. I'd never even know she was there.
"Can't you write a letter?" I asked. "With a pen and paper? I can mail it for you."
She wrinkled her nose. "Pen and paper is so last century! Email is way cooler! I could even do that chat thing with her!"
I groaned.
"I could!"
Suze's jaw hung open. "And then what happened?"
"I made her promise not to do anything without me."
"Do you think she will? Not do anything?"
I bit my lip. "I hope so."
"Why didn't you bring the network cable with you to school? Then she couldn't send email no matter what."
"Ooh, that's a great idea!" Then I realized: "She could just take Dad's cable."
Suze grinned.
"Or she could even use Dad's computer. He doesn't use a password."
Suze chuckled. "Don't worry. Even if she does get an email account, or gets into yours, there's no way she can send email to Mrs. Wix. Mrs. Wix doesn't have an email account. She doesn't even have a computer at home."
"How do you know?"
"Wix said so. Every so often she makes a point of it." With a fair imitation of Mrs. Wix, Susan said, "I still prefer to write with pen and pay-pah."
"Oooh! Thank goodness!" I said, letting all my breath out in relief.
Miss Overmore happened to wander by our table and greeted us. "Hello, girls. I'm the cafeteria monitor today. What fun! Just think: all that schooling, all that work, for this." She laughed good naturedly.
"Miss Overmore?" I ventured. "You knew Misty Sabatino. Was she very smart?"
Her smile fell and her pretty eyes narrowed. "Why are you asking about Misty Sabatino?"
"I live in her house now," I said. "I mean, we just moved into Villa Sabatino, and I was curious about her."
"Hmm," she said. She repeated my question, "Was she smart?" and glanced at Susan. "Let's just say that she was not brilliant like our Susan here. She was... ah, she was more like you."
I didn't know whether that was an insult or a compliment, but I did see that Miss Overmore looked angry.
She continued, "Hers was a tragic story, and one that I don't like to revisit. If you have other questions, you could ask her sister." The last word was spoken with a sneer.
I decided to play dumb. "Her sister?"
"Your Mrs. Wix. She was Misty Sabatino's sister." She did a quick check in her memory and said, "I'm quite sure I told you that already." She fixed me with a suspicious look.
I was about to protest, because she hadn't exactly said that, but stopped short because of a weird change that came over Ms. Overmore.
Her face abruptly dropped its scowl. She smiled a beautiful, sunny smile, said, "Good day, girls!" and walked off with a swish, as though our conversation had never occurred.
A chill ran through me.
"Oooh, that was freaky," Susan commented under her breath.
When I got home, there were balled-up papers all over my desk. The trash can was full to overflowing, and there were wads of paper on the floor.
It looked like Misty had gone though an entire pack of paper or more, and crumpled it up, sheet by sheet.
"What the–" I began, and started to unfold one of the wrinkled balls.
"Don't look at it!" Misty said. "Writing with a pen sucks! It's way too hard! I need to use the computer!"
"Sorry," I told her. "I didn't know. But why would the keyboard be any easier?"
She huffed with impatience and irritation. "IF I write with a PEN, I have to concentrate on HOLDING the thing AND writing well AND what I'm trying to say all at the same time! If I forget about the pen, it falls out of my hand! If I concentrate too hard on holding the pen, I make mistakes in what I write! If I think too hard about what I'm saying, I write all messy, or I drop the pen!
"If I could just use the keyboard, all I'd have to do is hit one key at a time, and I'd be able to go back if I made mistakes. If I didn't pay attention, nothing would happen, so nothing would get messed up."
I looked at the sea of wasted paper. "Even if you're not good at writing, you're good at crumpling," I offered.
"Ha, ha," Misty said. "That's so funny, I forgot to laugh."
"Sorry." Then I thought about what she'd said. "I guess you're right about the keyboard." I sighed. "Okay, I can show you how to open a document and save it. After you finish the letter, we can print it out."
She nodded. "And then would you mail it for me?"
I nodded. "Yeah." As freaky as that could be... what the heck. "Yes, I will. Oh, hey, I found out that Mrs. Wix doesn't have email, by the way."
She shrugged, and absentmindedly blew a few stray hairs out of her face.
I froze. Ghosts don't breathe, right? So how did she... I was going to ask her, but it was clear from her face that she'd had a long, frustrating day, and somehow I knew she didn't feel like answering questions.
In fact, the news that her sister didn't have email, just seemed like one more thing gone wrong. Poor Misty!
By anyway... yay! One landmine avoided! Could you imagine if Mrs. Wix — or worse, Ms. Overmore — started getting emails from Misty? From their old friend or twin sister — who just happened to be dead?
Everyone would think I'd done it as a sick prank.
Still, I have to say, even with the danger of her going wild on the internet, it was great having Misty around. She was always ready to chat, and I could tell her anything.
Well, almost anything. I didn't tell her about my big I-used-to-be-a-boy secret, but I told her everything else: about Jerry and Eden, about Maisie and her mother, about Sister Honoraria and her policeman brother...
She, in her turn, told me about when she was at BYHS, and story after story about her Maisie (Mrs. Wix) and Yvette (Ms. Overmore) when they were teenagers. The three of them were great friends, and did all kinds of crazy things together.
Two things in particular astonished me to no end: that Misty and Mrs. Wix called Ms. Overmore "the third twin" and that Mrs. Wix was one of the most popular girls in school.
"...if not THE most popular!" Misty complained. "She used to sing and draw... people would go on and on about her lovely voice and her beautiful pictures... I was the quiet twin... all I could do was dance... and she was the one with all the boyfriends!"
"Really?" I asked in utter disbelief. It was hard to reconcile Misty's stories with the now-frumpy Mrs. Wix, but I had to believe her.
"Wow," I said without thinking. "What could have happened to her to make her the way she is now?"
"Uh," Misty replied, pointing out the obvious, "I died."
"Oh," I said, embarrassed beyond degree.
But Misty laughed, told me not to worry about it, and immediately launched into another long, breathless story.
It was like having an older sister. She was easier to be with than Maisie — a lot easier — and she could do such cool things. She showed me one now.
"Hey, watch this!" she said. "I did this by accident earlier, but now I can do it on purpose."
She stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth to help her concentrate, and then she picked up the pen. She held it and shook it slightly a couple of times.
"Uh... uh... oh...," she said, with apparent effort. Her eyes widened, then: "There! Okay!"
She extended her arm toward me, as if she was giving me the pen. "Here: try to take it."
I reached for the pen, but my hand went right through it. "Whoa! Cool!" I said, a bit louder than I intended.
"Isn't that cool?" she asked proudly.
"Very cool," I agreed, chuckling. I moved my hand through the pen several times. It looked solid, but it wasn't there. Misty giggled.
Then I remembered a question: "Hey, Misty, I wanted to ask you something. Do you ever sleep?"
She thought for a moment, as if the question had never occurred to her. "No," she said. "At least, I don't think so. I kind of go off sometimes... and then when I, uh... well, the next thing I know, it's tomorrow or the day after or whatever. I guess that's kinda like sleeping."
"Do you dream when that happens?"
"No, it's just... nothing."
Suddenly, my bedroom door flew open. Misty vanished immediately. Mom stood in the doorway, her face pale and full of concern. I was on my feet in the middle of the room with my hand up, reaching for the pen, which still hung in midair. I put my fingers in front of it, to make it look as though I was holding it. Silently I prayed that Misty didn't let go.
"Marcie, who were you talking to?" Mom asked. "Is someone else in this room?" She glanced at my arm, but didn't comment on my unnatural pose. I stuck my other arm under my elbow, to prop it up.
"Uh..." I began, but got distracted by the pen. It was halfway through my index finger, so I pulled back a little and cupped my palm underneath it. It must have looked strange. I hoped Misty would have the sense to let it fall into my hand.
"I was..." I ventured, and at that moment the pen tipped and hung for a moment, passing straight through my wrist. Full of alarm, I couldn't help but look at it. Most of the pen was above my hand, but about a third was sticking out though the back of my wrist, the part facing my mother.
There was no way she could miss it. In fact, she gaped and pointed. Then the pen fell with a loud clatter to the floor.
"Jeez Louise!" Mom shouted. "How the– what the– that–"
"Sorry," Misty whispered. "I dropped it."
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"Okay," I said. "Mom, she's going to try to appear to you, but DON'T scream. It scares her."
"It scares her?" Mom repeated, incredulous.
Mom stood in the doorway, holding her breath. Her eyes went from the pen on the floor to my hand, which was still hanging stupidly in the air.
I brought my hands down in front of me and pushed my face into a smile... tried to appear all innocent and casual. My smile was kind of shaky, though, and I must have looked very guilty.
At least I had enough sense to keep my mouth shut... to wait for Mom to speak first. What kind of story could I tell, after all, if I didn't know how much she'd seen and heard?
But she wasn't talking either. At least, at first. Maybe she decided she'd imagined everything, or seen it wrong. Or maybe she was afraid she'd lost her mind, and didn't want her suspicions confirmed.
In any case, she didn't ask about the pen passing through my hand or Misty's stage whisper. Her eyes scanned the mass of crumpled papers that covered the desk and the floor around it. I'm sure they added to her confusion, but she didn't ask about them, either.
I realized, with some alarm, that she'd probably heard Misty crumpling papers all afternoon, if not all day.
With her face deathly white, Mom moved quickly into the room. She looked behind me, in my closet, under my bed, in back of the chairs, under the desk. She lifted the curtains, she looked out the windows, and then she stuck her head into my dressing room.
"Where is she?" she asked, and her look was wild, almost feral. "Who is in here with you?"
I licked my lips, unsure how much to say. "What did you hear?" I asked.
That brought her down to earth. She gave me the wrong-answerlook, and in a no-nonsense voice told me, "No, Marcie, that's not the way it works. I'm your mother. You tell me. You tell me now."
"No, Mom, for real: It was just me talking."
"No," she said. "I heard you and another girl."
"Oh yeah! That was Eden," I lied. "We were doing an internet chat."
"She's still in school," Mom countered. "It's not three o'clock yet in California."
"Oh," I said. Now I was stumped. For a second I was tempted to say I was practicing ventriloquism.
Afterward, I wondered why I didn't just say I was talking to Maisie on the phone. It would have been the easiest excuse. But it didn't occur to me.
Then I looked at my mother's face and realized that she wasn't angry. Not really. She looked more frightened than anything else. Her face was still a scary white, as if she was about to faint, and her shoulders, arms, and face were so tense I could almost feel an electric buzz coming off her.
Now, there was no doubt: I was sure she'd seen Misty's trick with the pen, and heard Misty's whispered "sorry"...
And it struck me that Mom was playing a you-first game with me, too: she wasn't going to risk sounding like a looney.
Even so, she really wanted to know what was going on. She was suffering, so I had to let her off the hook.
My shoulders fell. "Okay," I admitted. "It was Misty."
"Misty who?"
"Misty Sabatino. She's a ghost. She died here thirteen years ago, on the day I was born."
Mom's face turned even more impossibly white. Now I was *really* afraid she was going to faint. Or have a heart attack. In either case, I had to be ready to catch her if she fell.
"What does she look like?" she whispered.
"She's a little taller than me, bare feet, workout clothes, brown hair pulled back in a scrunchie..."
"So she's real," Mom said, in a barely audible voice.
"You've seen her?"
She nodded and gestured vaguely with her hands. "Glances. I'd see her from the corner of my eye, but when I'd turn she'd be gone." She looked very intently into my face. "This isn't a joke or a trick, right? This isn't some prank that you and Maisie dreamed up, is it? Because if it is..."
I shook my head no.
She drew a long breath and let it out. "You really have seen her and talked to her?"
"Yes, Mom."
"That's who you've been talking to?"
"Yes."
"That night, when I thought you were on the phone..."
"Yes."
Instinctively I took her hands in mine. First, because she was driving me crazy, waving them around all out of control, and second, because I'd never seen her so agitated. It was pretty scary.
I turned my head and addressed the room. "Misty? Are you still here?"
A soft voice came to my left ear. "I'm right behind you. What do you want me to do?"
"Can you appear, for my mother?"
Mom's eyes darted around nervously, as if a bat were flapping around the ceiling.
"I'll appear to her," Misty told me, "but tell her NOT to scream. I hate that."
"Okay," I said. "Mom, she's going to try to appear to you, but DON'T scream. It scares her."
"It scares her?" Mom repeated, incredulous.
Behind Mom's back, over her shoulder, I saw Misty fade into view. She was sitting in one of my armchairs, by the front windows.
On my cue, Mom turned slowly around. When she saw Misty, she completely spazzed. Her arms and legs jerked and flailed as if she was having a fit. Still — I have to hand it to her — she didn't scream.
After she got her nerves under control, she spoke. "Your name is Misty?"
Misty smiled and nodded. Sitting in that big chair, both feet on the floor, with her big eyes, pony tail, and bright smile, she reminded me of a little girl posing for a portrait.
"Can I touch you?" Mom asked, and Misty nodded. Mom gingerly poked her with one finger, then said, "How do I know you're not just a real girl? How do I know this isn't one big joke at my expense?"
In answer, Misty made an odd face for a second, as if she was doing difficult sums in her head, then told Mom, "Try and touch me now."
Mom cried out in astonishment and delight when her hand passed right through Misty's head and shoulders. Laughing, she swept her hands through Misty's arms and legs, and then boldly stuck her hand deep into Misty's belly. "I can feel the chair behind you!"
With a huge grin, Misty faded slowly until she completely disappeared.
Mom's head jerked all around as she asked, "Where'd she go? Where'd she go?" like it was a game of hide-and-seek. Misty reappeared, walking in through the (closed) door of my dressing room.
"Wow!" Mom shouted, enormously impressed.
Misty looked quite pleased and proud of herself. She'd never had such an appreciative audience, or such a great opportunity to show off her ghostly skills.
And strange to say, after all that, Mom was tremendously relieved.
"Oh, my goodness!" she cried. "I'd hear creaks and footsteps and a girl's voice, and I'd tell myself it was the house settling; that I wasn't losing my mind! When I'd half-see you, I'd say it was in my imagination. And, here, all this time, it was only a ghost!"
At that, the three of us started laughing. Only a ghost? Only a ghost? Only a GHOST?
Mom suggested that we move downstairs to the kitchen, where we sat around the table.
I'm always a little nervous when my mother meets my friends, but this time beat them all. Mom babbled at Misty for 40 minutes straight.
She kept offering her things to eat and drink ("Can I get you a soda?"), which Misty couldn't, and each time Mom would say, "Oh, I forgot!" and Misty would say, "That's okay."
It happened, like, ten times! It was so exasperating that I put a sandwich on a plate, poured some Coke in a glass, and set it in front of Misty.
"Honey," Mom said, as though *I* were some kind of idiot, "You know she can't eat or drink."
"Yes, Mom!" I replied. "*I* know that! I did it so YOU would quit asking her if she wants something!"
"Oh!" she said. Misty smiled and Mom started giggling.
I told Mom in a sentence or two how Misty died. The thing that amazed her the most was the fact that Misty was Mrs. Wix's identical twin. She only met Mrs. Wix once (or twice at most!), and still she insisted on looking for a resemblance. At last I told her, "Mom, let it go!"
One thing we all agreed on, was that we wouldn't tell Dad. Misty was sure that he couldn't see her or hear her at all.
"Oh, and don't tell Maisie, either," I said.
"Why not?" Mom asked.
"She scares me," Misty said. "And she can't see me, anyway."
"She scares you?" Mom asked. "Why?"
"I think she's mean," Misty replied. "And she smokes."
"She smokes?" Mom repeated.
I cut in. "Oh, Mom! Didn't you know? Her own mother knows. Maisie is my friend. I like her and everything, but she can be hard to be around. And she can be a merciless tease. Don't tell her about Misty, please?"
When Mom hesitated, I said, "If she finds out, I'm sure she'll do something bad. Something mean. I don't know what or how, but I'm sure."
"So am I," Misty said.
Mom looked from me to Misty and back, then shrugged. "Okay. Maisie won't know. What about Susan?"
"Oh, her I like!" Misty said. "And Marcie already told her!"
"How do you know that?" I asked.
She looked coy. "Sometimes I go to your cafeteria," she confessed.
"You spy on me?"
Misty nodded shamelessly. "What else am I supposed to do? Watch TV?"
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Mom gave me a tight hug and said, "My gosh, Marcie! Now I'm having adventures, just like you!"
I rolled my eyes, and she burst out laughing.
"How do you get to school?" Mom asked Misty. "Do you walk, or fly, or...?"
Misty giggled. "Fly? No! I just think about Marcie in a certain way, and then I end up wherever she is."
"Really?" I asked. "Can you do that with anybody?"
"Anybody I know, I guess," she said. "Sometimes it doesn't work, but usually it does."
A light went on in my head. "Can you go to Susan's house and try to appear to her?" I asked. "She'd really like to see you."
"Okay," Misty said brightly. "I'll be right back." With that, she faded out.
"Are you sure that's a good idea, Marcie?" my mother asked. "Susan could get a nasty fright."
"Believe me, nothing rattles Susan. If you put a bomb next to her she would look it over and try to find the OFF switch."
Mom drew a deep breath and smiled. Then she gave me a tight hug and said, "My gosh, Marcie! Now I'm having adventures, just like you!"
I rolled my eyes, and she burst out laughing.
Misty didn't come back right away. It wasn't until almost an hour later, when Mom called to me from the kitchen. "She's back!"
I ran down the stairs. Misty was so excited that her hands were waving and she was jumping like a little girl. "She could see me! She could see me! And she knew who I was! She recognized me right away!"
"Was she frightened?" Mom asked.
"No! Not at all! She just looked up and said, 'You must be Misty Sabatino' – as if she was expecting me!"
"Yeah, Susan is super calm," I said. "Nothing surprises her."
"You know what she said?" Misty asked. "She said that she should change her name to something that starts with an M."
"Why?" I asked, frowning.
"Because there's Marcie, Maisie, Misty, ...., and Susan."
"Oh, I see," I said. How weird. Usually Suze didn't say anything that dumb.
"Duh!" Susan said at lunch on Thursday. "Of course I don't! The point is, I proved that it happened!"
"How?" I asked.
"I sent you a message," Susan explained patiently. "Something you couldn't expect me to say, and something you couldn't receive any other way."
"Huh." She was right. "Did you think of it just then? in that moment?"
"No," she said, as if it were obvious. "I was ready, in case it happened. Now we know that none of us imagined her."
"Wow, Suze. You really are smart."
Susan stifled a yawn.
"Why are you so tired?"
"Because after you fell asleep, Misty came to my house and woke me up. She talked my head off. It was like she swallowed a radio. My eyes were rolling in my head, I was so tired."
"Why didn't you tell her to let you sleep?"
"Well, I did in the end, but it was so interesting talking to her! I've never met a ghost before. Oh, and I gave her that letter."
"What letter?"
"The one from the newspaper, about how she died. I don't know if it was a good idea, but it got her to go back home and let me fall asleep."
She groaned. "I could fall asleep right now." With that, she lay her head on the table.
Maisie came bounding up at the point and dropped her tray with a crash. Susan winced, but kept her head down. Miraculously, nothing spilled, but Maisie's soup splashed and narrowly missed my books.
"Hey, watch it!" I cried.
"Oooh, sorry, Princess," she cooed.
"What is it with you?" I asked. "You're acting more and more like a boy!"
"That's strange, coming from you," she countered.
I eyed her suspiciously. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She started eating, again chewing with her mouth open. "What do you think it means?" she asked.
"It means that you think that teasing me is funny," I said.
"Oh, sorry," she said in an exaggerated way. "I just thought you might miss your old days in Tarhent, back when you were Mark."
"Oh, brother," I said crossly. If she kept this up, I was going to go to the library.
Suddenly I got a wiff of cigarette smoke from her direction. Susan's head came up at the same moment, and she looked directly at Maisie. She must have smelled it too.
"Maisie," I asked, "Are you smoking more than usual?"
"Yeah, so?"
"No offense," Susan offered, "but you reek of it."
That brought Maisie down to earth. She closed her mouth as she chewed. She seemed to be mulling it over. Then she asked in a quiet voice, "Do you think your mother will smell it?"
"Yeah!" Suze and I said with one voice.
I looked at her and considered for a moment. My mother was the only adult with whom Maisie had a positive relationship. And it meant a lot to her. "Just air out your uniform tonight," I told her. "If it still smells of smoke tomorrow, we can try switching clothes before you go with my mother... though I'm not sure I could fit into your things."
Maisie smiled, and for once I thought she was going to say something nice. Instead she said, "Thanks, Marky, but I don't wear boy's clothes."
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"Remind me why we're friends with Maisie," I said to Susan.
"She does have her moods, doesn't she?"
Maisie never made it to lunch on Friday. I don't know why. Maybe she just didn't eat. She never eats very much anyway.
"Remind me why we're friends with Maisie," I said to Susan.
"She does have her moods, doesn't she?"
"Lately she's been so weird, so hostile..."
"She's been acting like a boy, like you said yesterday."
"But today—"
"Did she talk to you today?"
"No. You?"
"Not at all. Are you guys still doing the mom swap today?"
I sighed. "Yeah. This is supposed to be the last one."
"It really bothers you, doesn't it?" Suze asked. She crunched into a celery stick.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I don't know. It's like... I know it's good for Maisie to have a positive relationship with an adult..."
"Meaning your mom."
"Right. And it's great that I don't have to do all that work around the house..."
"You lazy thing!"
"Hmmph! But it seems like Maisie's been meaner to me since it started."
It was weird. It began more or less as a joke, when I saw Maisie laughing and having fun with my mother. Then, I thought it would be nice for Maisie, who has so much that's bad in her life... plus, Ida is about the coolest adult I've met, and I get to spend time with her.
I guess I expected Maisie to be happier, or better, or nicer... or at least grateful! Instead, she's gone from friendly teasing to being pushy and rough and rude... and just downright hostile.
Susan mused, "Maybe Maisie wishes she could take your place. I wonder whether psychologists have a word for this? It isn't sibling rivalry... it's more like family envy or... what could they call it?"
"Oh, Suze! It doesn't matter what anybody calls it!"
"Sorry," she said, and mentally filed the question away, so she could think about it later. "Anyway," she went on, "It could be that after living in your house, in your life, she might hate her own life even more than before. Maybe she resents the way you relate to your mother. I mean, that you don't have a problem with your mother. Or even with her mother, for that matter."
"I don't know..."
"Just think: at the end of each weekend away, she goes from fun, relationship, caring, smiles, back to–"
"Back to one of her two hells," I said, finishing the thought as Maisie would have.
Susan sighed. "But you know what's weird? *I* envy Maisie. I would switch places with either of you in a heartbeat. I love my family and all that, but you guys have this total freedom, while I live in permanent lockdown."
"You would switch places with Maisie?" I asked. "Is it really that bad at your house?"
She sighed. "No, I guess not. I wouldn't want to be Maisie. She is so messed up. And I could never give up my family."
"No, me neither," I said.
The two of us ate in silence for about twenty seconds, when I said, "The thing is, I keep feeling that something bad is coming. Like Maisie is going to knife me in the back somehow."
Susan laughed. "What do think she'll do? Kill you and take your place? Like in a Lifetime-television-for-women movie?"
"Yeah," I replied. "Something like that."
"Oooh, creepy!" she giggled.
Susan obviously thought I was joking or exaggerating, but I wasn't. At the same time, I didn't like badmouthing Maisie. She *is* my friend, in spite of the way she's behaving now. So I shook off my negative thoughts with a shudder and followed Susan to the library.
At the end of the day, I was standing my by my locker, struggling with my stuff. I probably should have set something down, so I could arrange things better, but instead I clung to my weekend bag with two fingers. I didn't have my backpack — Mom had put it in the laundry and forgot to dry it in time, so all my books and papers were stacked in my arms, and they tended to slide in different directions.
The arrangement was pretty awkward, but I thought I could make it outside to the car. I shut the locker by leaning my back against it. At that precise moment, Maisie came tearing down the hall. Quite purposefully, she knocked the whole pile out of my arms, sending my belongings flying halfway across the hall. Without looking back or saying a word, she ran out the front door.
"Maisie!" I shouted angrily after her, but she didn't stop, turn, or even seem to hear me.
She picked the worst possible moment to do it, too. An instant later, the Friday stampede was unleashed. Every girl in the school had only one thing in mind: GET OUT THE DOOR. And nothing could stand in their way: it was a flood of blue-skirted balls of energy with legs — and hard, sensible shoes.
Each time I crouched to pick up a book or paper, some girl would nearly fall over me, or at least bump into me. Sometimes they kicked me, or kicked my things away. It didn't matter whether it was on purpose or by accident. The point is, it was overwhelming.
Girls kept shouting, "Watch out!" as if it were my fault. I didn't see who, but someone else tried (unsuccessfully) to knock my books down again. A few girls from my senior gym class came strolling down in a group. At first they stopped and gathered up everything of mine. I was grateful and relieved, until they pitched all of it as far from me as they could, or tucked my books into places I couldn't quite reach. It wasn't until virtually everyone had left that I was able to find everything. Plus, I had to do a fair bit of jumping to get the books in high places.
They set my weekend bag on top of the lockers, just out of my reach, but after I'd whacked it a bit, one of the handles dropped far enough that I could jump, grab it, and pull the whole bag down on my head.
The cover had come off my Algebra book, and the others looked a bit worse for wear. All of my papers had footprints on them. I didn't think girls could be so mean!
Still, aside from the one book, nothing was broken... just dirty, and I could dust them all off at Ida's house.
By the time I got outside, Maisie and my mother were long gone. Ida was the only mother left. "Your mom wanted to say goodbye," Ida told me, "but you took so long to come out. Are you okay?"
In answer, I threw my things into the back seat, and hugged Ida around her waist. She put one hand between my shoulders and the other on the top of my head and held me. She didn't say anything or ask anything, and she didn't move or try to end the embrace. She just held me.
When I felt a little better, I stepped back. Looking into her face, I said, "Thanks."
"For what?" she smiled, and ran her hand through my hair. "Listen, how about we stop at the grocery store first and pick up some food. Okay? I've been looking forward to your cooking all week!"
"Great!" I replied. "I already worked out the weekend menu and the shopping list."
She chuckled and walked around to the driver's side. As I opened my door, I had the feeling someone was watching me. I looked up, directly into the eyes — or rather, the dark glasses, of a man. He was sitting behind the wheel of a white panel truck, which was parked across the street.
He turned his head away slowly, started the truck, and drove off. Wherever he was going, he wasn't in a hurry. I stood next to Ida's car and watched the van until it went down the block and took a right turn. It gave me an uneasy feeling for some reason, but at least they were heading away from us, away from the direction we were going.
"Everything okay?" Ida called from inside the car.
"Oh, yeah," I replied, and climbed in.
As we walked from the car to the grocery store, my cell phone rang. The caller ID told me it was Maisie.
"Hey, Maze," I said. "What's up?" I'd been happily chatting with Ida, and had forgotten for a moment about the books and Maisie's hostility.
"You tell me," she said, in a low, poisonous voice.
"What do you mean?" I asked, my blood chilling.
"Who are you?" she asked.
My face grew hot. "You know who I am. You called me. Maisie, what's this about?"
"Do you remember Miriam Clegg?"
I stood stock still, frozen in fear. Miriam was a girl from Tarhent, a girl from my block, a girl I knew since kindergarden. If Maisie knew Miriam, then she probably knew that I used to be a boy.
Ida didn't realize that I'd stopped, and she kept on walking.
"Sounds like you do remember. Did you know that Miriam is a friend of mine? I just finished talking with her. It was a *very* interesting conversation. I asked her if she knew you, and she did. Well, she knew Mark. But it turns out that Mark wasn't a tomboy, Mark was just a regular boy-boy, wasn't he?"
"Oh," I said in a small voice.
Ida had almost reached the door of the supermarket. I felt cold and small and far away.
"Yeah, oh. So what are you, Mark? Some kind of freak? A boy, dressed like a girl? A pansy? A sissy?"
"Oh, Maisie!" I cried in distress.
Ida heard me and turned back to look. Now that she saw how far behind I was, she stopped to let me catch up. I heard a car take a sharp corner behind me, but I didn't turn to see.
"You sound like a girl, and you look like a girl, but you're not a girl. You disgust me. You make me want to throw up. I wish I could kill—"
I didn't hear the rest, because a pair of rough hands grabbed me from behind and yanked me into the back of a van. "Go! Go! Go!" a voice shouted, and the van took off. The last thing I saw before the door slammed shut was Ida's face, contorted in a mask of fear, horror, and helplessness.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"Hoo, boy," I said. "You got the wrong girl!"
"I'm SO sure," he said sarcastically.
There were two men: one driving the van and the other, the one who'd grabbed me. He took my phone, turned it off, and dropped it into my purse, which he tossed aside.
As soon as he did that, something clicked inside me. I had to move. I had to get away.
He was still behind me, and I was almost on my back, so I brought up my left leg as hard as I could and kicked him in the face with my shin. It hurt a lot, but from the way he cursed, I was pretty sure it hurt him more than it hurt me. I looked around me for something heavy to throw, but the only thing I found was a roll of duct tape, so I grabbed it and threw it as hard as I could at the back of the driver's head.
"Ow!" he shouted, and the van swerved. The tires squealed and we pitched to the right for a few moments, until the driver got the van back under control. He called to his accomplice, "Tie her up! Keep her quiet back there!"
Quiet? I hadn't thought of that. I opened my mouth and let out the loudest, highest scream I had. I jumped to my feet and turned to face my abductor, who (surprisingly) had his hands over his ears. I balled up my fists and started pounding on his head with all my might, and kicked him as much as I could without falling down. It was hard to do any of this in the back of a moving vehicle, but I began to feel that I was getting the better of him, and my hopes were high of getting away.
That is, until the driver slammed on the brakes.
I fell forward, hurting my hip, and narrowly missed banging my head on the wheel well. I heard the driver scrabbling as he fished for the roll of tape I'd thrown. One he had it in hand, he jumped into the back. I bit and fought and shrieked and cursed and struggled and squirmed, but in the end the two of them were too strong for me. Soon I was trussed up and had a piece of duct tape over my mouth.
That done, the driver got back behind the wheel and resumed driving.
A few minutes later, we pulled into a garage-like building and stopped. When they opened the side door, I saw that we were right up against another van, whose side door was already open. I was clumsily lifted into it by the man who'd grabbed me, while the driver gave a careful look around the first van. He picked up my purse, some cigarette butts and some other trash, which he tossed into the new van. Then he slid the door shut, climbed behind the wheel, and we were off again.
Now that we'd changed vehicles and I was settled, the driver took it easy. He drove slowly, without any haste or hurry. No doubt, he wanted to avoid attracting attention. I couldn't hear any people outside, pedestrians or other cars, so there was little point in kicking up some noise.
The man in back with me lit a cigarette. It was noxious, stinky, and stale smelling, but while he and the driver relaxed, I tried to consider my options.
This van was even dirtier and older than the other one, and there was a old, filthy, oil-stained curtain behind the front seats. There was no chance that anyone could see me from the outside. And no one would be looking for me in this van: the police would be looking for the white one... which was probably stolen in the first place. So, unless the driver did something stupid to make the police stop us, I couldn't expect any help from outside.
As far as getting myself free, I doubted that I could get out of the tape. At least, not any time soon. If they left me alone, I'd try... probably I could find something, some sharp edge that could rip the tape, at least a little, and get a tear started. In the meantime, while they were with me, it was better to be quiet, to let them think I'd given up... that I was docile... maybe they'd think it was safe to take the tape off.
So... where were they taking me? I couldn't see through the back windows. They were a translucent milky-white. I had no clue as to where we were. I didn't know the area anyway. I couldn't hear anything but traffic sounds, the noise of the van engine, and the bumps we drove over.
I'd gotten several good looks at both men, and mentally tried to compose a description. The one in back with me was bald, and the other had medium brown hair... they could be brothers... the driver would have to be the older brother. They were average height, average weight, average build... what a crappy description! I'd have to work on that.
It struck me how calm I felt. Maybe this was why so many strange things happened to me... my first reaction was never fear or panic... Susan was like this in ordinary life, but I guess I'm cool in a crisis... and this qualified as a crisis.
Soon the traffic sounds died away, and I figured it might be safe to try to talk with the bald guy. I needed to find out what was going on. Why had they taken me? It didn't make sense, especially when you considered how they'd switched vans. This was an organized effort; it wasn't a casual, opportunistic thing.
Lying still, and with as calm a face as I could manage, I made muffled sounds at him. I didn't know what to say, so I just made noises, hoping he'd be curious. He looked at me a bit, then a light seemed to go on. He said, "Oh, I get it! You want a smoke!"
My first reaction was yuck! no! but then I figured, if it gets this tape off my mouth, sure! so I nodded my head enthusiastically.
He fished in my purse, which confused me for a moment. "Looks like you're all out," he sighed. "I'll give you one of mine, but you can't make a habit of it. Maybe we can pick your brand up later."
The van was moving more slowly now and bouncing much more. We were probably on a dirt road or a old road, but in any case it was a bad road. My head banged against the bare metal floor.
"Hey, sorry!" the driver called. "Big pothole!"
The bald one knelt down and took hold of the tape on my face. Before he took it off, he cautioned me: "If you scream, no one's going to hear you anyway, but I will slap you as hard as I can. Do you understand? No screaming. It goes right to my nerves."
I nodded, and he ripped the tape off.
Oooch! It hurt! It took all I could do to not scream. I screwed my eyes and mouth shut as tight as I could, and stiffened my entire body. Ow! Jeez! Ow! On TV it never looks like it hurts! Thank God I was wearing lip gloss! Otherwise I'm sure the tape would have ripped chunks off my lips.
When the pain passed, I ran my tongue over my lips to check them. They didn't feel damaged. I worked my jaw around a bit. "Did the tape mark my face?" I asked.
He smiled. "You've got a little of the sticky stuff on you, where the, uh, edges were. That's all." He pointed to his cheek, to show where the tape was on mine.
Then he put a filterless cigarette in my mouth and lit it. Remembering my first experience with Maisie, I was careful to not inhale. I just puffed.
He watched me and laughed. "Kids!" he said. "Pretending to smoke."
"Can you let my hands go?" I asked, and as I did the cigarette slipped down toward the corner of my mouth, dangling dangerously. I was afraid it might fall into my clothes.
He clenched his own cigarette with his lips as he spoke. "No funny stuff," he said, and I nodded. After straightening the cigarette in my mouth, he sat me up, and with a few rips freed my arms. I leaned back against the wheel well and took the cigarette out of my mouth. My legs were still taped together. For a moment, I felt like a mermaid.
"So what is this about?" I asked. "What's the big idea?"
His first reaction was a startled "What?" — as if he had no idea what I was talking about. Then, getting it: "Oh! Oh, yeah, yeah!" He rubbed his hands together. "Your daddy's gonna pay a big bucks to get you back! That's the idea. Big bucks! We're gonna be rich!" He chuckled with joy and rubbed his thumb against his fingers: money.
Daddy? Big bucks? There was no way my father could pay a... My jaw fell as the realization hit me, and it hit me hard.
Oh, my God! They thought I was Maisie!
"Hoo, boy," I said. "You got the wrong girl!"
"I'm SO sure," he said sarcastically.
I took another puff of the cigarette, and with an effort managed to keep from coughing. Cigarettes don't smell good anyway, but these stank in a way that was exotically, particularly foul. "What kind of cigarettes are these?" I asked him.
"Gauloise," he said proudly. "Do you like them?"
"I guess it's an acquired taste," I replied, which struck him as funny.
He laughed with a strange, simple delight, and actually slapped his knee. I guess that was good for me.
I told him, "You know something? You don't seem like a bad guy."
"You're right. I'm not a bad guy. I'm a nice guy."
"No, no, I don't mean that way. I mean 'bad guy' as in 'crook'."
"Oh, I getcha! A bad guy: black hat, sinister, evil. No, no, that's not us! This is just a little job, a good opportunity. Easy money, lots of money, and nobody gets hurt."
I gave him a disbelieving look.
He scoffed and said, "What, you? Nobody's hurt you, have they?"
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
No doubt my uniform stank of smoke and was dirty from rolling around in the filth back here. Couldn't they have cleaned the vans before they abducted me? I wished I had a change of clothes. I wished I'd had a little warning! If I knew I was going to be kidnapped, I would have worn jeans, for one thing.
"Nobody's hurt me!?" I repeated, incredulous. "You've kidnapped me, just for starters!"
He put his hands up defensively. "Whoa, whoa," he said. "Down with the high-pitched voice and the finger-pointing! If you start complaining and whining and getting all high-pitched with us, my brother's going to make me put the tape back over your mouth. For good. Believe me. You're much better off to just go with the flow. Trust me: there's a good plan in place here. Soon you'll be back in your rich little house with your rich little blonde mommy, and everyone will be happy."
I stubbed my cigarette out on the steel floor of the van. No doubt my uniform stank of smoke and was dirty from rolling around in the filth back here. Couldn't they have cleaned the vans before they abducted me? I wished I had a change of clothes. I wished I'd had a little warning! If I knew I was going to be kidnapped, I would have worn jeans, for one thing.
My conversation with Susan came back to me: What if they killed me? What if I died wearing my BYHS uniform? I'd be stuck wearing it for all eternity. Oh, lord! And I thought Misty looked goofy in those workout duds. That's what I get for laughing at someone else's misfortune! Maybe I could ask the kidnappers to get me a change of clothes? As a last request? Something clean, at least? I sighed. Probably not. Why would they bother?
Still, I would ask them, if it came to it.
What a fate that would be! Me, as a ghostly teenager, stuck, until the end of time, in a hideous school uniform. AND NOT ONLY THAT: a filthy school uniform that stank unbearably. Would living people be able to smell me? Would *I* have to smell me? Forever? That would be the worst! And I wouldn't be able to wash it or change it. No baths or showers...
No one would want to talk to a ghost like that... except maybe a lonely, hormonal, geeky, teenage boy.
Unbidden, a picture of just such a boy leaped into my mind. I had to cover my eyes with my hands... it was just too horrible.
I sighed. It was not the best prospect for an afterlife.
Shaking off my morbid thoughts, I tried to shift my thoughts to my present situation.
I wondered: Would they have a toothbrush for me? How long would they keep me prisoner? Would I be able to take a shower?
Just about the stupidest thing I could do would be to tell them I wasn't Maisie. There was no telling what they would they do when they found out they had the wrong girl. I didn't want to imagine.
The only sensible thing to do, was to be to pretend to be Maisie, and look for a chance to escape.
My companion-abductor was smoking yet another of his stanky cigarettes.
"Can I ask you something?"
"No more cigarettes, if that's your question. I'm running low."
"That's not my question. But now that you mention it, why are you running low? If you knew you were kidnapping me, why didn't you get some extra, ahead of time?"
"Oh," he said with disdain. "A Monday-morning quarterback! Everything's easy, as long as somebody else is doing it! Well, maybe I was busy doing other stuff. Did you ever think of that? We had a lot of things to think about. I suppose you think you could have done a better job."
I bit my tongue. It was not a good question to answer, so I returned to my original question. "No, what I wanted to know is this: I've seen your face and your brother's face. Aren't you worried that I could identify you?"
"No," he said proudly. "We look like everybody. What are you going to say? 'Average height, average weight, average build, average looking, no distinguishing marks'?"
He was right. What could I say about them?
"That's why we were chosen, because we're average. And when this is all over, we're going to be far, far away from here. Nobody's ever going to see us again. So, you can look at us all you want, not that you're going to see us all that much." He laughed.
''Chosen?" I repeated. "Chosen by whom?"
The driver called out, "That's enough talking back there!"
My bald companion raised his eyebrows and made the motion of zipping his lips. I nodded and kept quiet. My legs were still bound. I thought about freeing them, but didn't. Even though it would give me a chance to run when the van opened, they'd expect it, and my running would make them more vigilant. If I left the tape on, it would make me seem more passive, and they might be more likely to let their guard down later.
So, I arranged my skirt as demurely as I could and tried to keep my head from knocking against anything as we continued down the bad, bumpy road.
Eventually the van stopped. The driver got out and opened the side door. He looked at me for a moment, then reached in to pick me up. Just before he put his arms under me, he said, "If you scream, if you scratch, hit, or bite me, I will drop you. Hard. Got it?"
I nodded.
I'm not saying I'm heavy — I'm not — but I was surprised at how easily he picked me up. He must be awfully strong, because I felt weightless in his arms. The man carried me with no effort whatsoever.
As he took me toward a dilapidated cabin, I tried to take in as much as possible.
First of all, we were deep in the woods. And I mean deep. We were on a hill, so I could see for quite some distance, but there was nothing but trees, all the way to the horizon.
"It's not the end of the world," the bald man quipped, "but you can see it from here!"
The driver frowned at his brother's attempt at humor. Then he pointed out to me, "Look all around you. There are no neighbors. None at all. You can scream your head off, and no one will hear you. But don't. Especially while I'm carrying you, or I'll drop you butt-first in the mud. And you wouldn't like that, because this lovely place here doesn't doesn't have a shower." He chuckled. "It doesn't even have running water!"
"Oh, boy," I said. "What fun." I wasn't sure how stinky I was now, but I was sure I'd be a lot stinkier before this was over.
"Yeah," he agreed. "You can take a shower when you go back home. You can even take two."
He grinned, but in a good-natured way, which was puzzling, but a little encouraging. I doubted that either of these men were capable of hurting me. I mean, I know that they kidnapped me, but I didn't think they could do me any bodily harm, let alone kill me. Oddly enough, I actually felt safe in this man's arms.
You're fooling yourself! a voice in my head cautioned, but I didn't think so.
There was a lot of snow on the ground, but not under the pine trees. There, the ground was covered with brown pine needle, pine cones, and scrubby plants.
I hung my head back to look down the road we'd come. My captor didn't seem to mind that I got my bearings. I guess he figured it would keep me from running away. Or maybe he liked the view and wanted me to enjoy it. Who knows? He actually turned around so I could get the whole panorama. I straightened my head and saw why there were so many bumps on the ride up here: the "road" was a long, packed-dirt trail with two deep ruts from truck tires.
The van, which was dark green, was parked in a clearing. There was room for a few more cars or trucks.
The only other thing to see was the small, two-story cabin standing nearby. Judging from how it looked outside, it was a filthy rat trap. My skin crawled at the sight of it.
"Tain't much, but it'll be home for a spell," the bald man laughed in a put-on hillbilly accent.
He ran ahead and held the door open as his brother carried me inside. The moment we entered, my nostrils were hit by an odor that I knew instantly, even though I'd never smelled it before: it was the scent of mice. Lots of mice. I wanted to cry, but I held it in, pushed it down.
The ground floor was one big room, with a living area on the left and a kitchen on the right, divided by a set of stairs. It might have been nice, long ago, when it was first built, but I wouldn't bet on it.
My captor carried me up the stairs. At the top was a tiny, windowless landing with a door open on the left and a door closed on the right. He carried me into the room on the left and gently set me down on the dirty floor.
"Ugh," I said. "Do you have a broom and a mop I can borrow?"
He laughed. "There's no such thing in the place, as you can see. Don't let that worry you, though. You won't be here that long."
In a glance, I took the room in. It was small, and had a single window. There was no glass in the window, and three boards were screwed into the frame. The gaps between the boards were too small for me to squeeze through.
In one corner was a sleeping bag, four six-packs of 2-liter water bottles, and a cardboard box full of snack bars and packaged sandwiches, the kind you can buy from a vending machine.
The only piece of "furniture" was in the corner by the window: it was a big white plastic bucket, like the kind you see in restaurant kitchens. Next to it was a roll of plastic bags and a 12-pack of toilet paper.
"You can line the can with the bags. Then tie 'em and toss 'em out the window," he said.
"Oh, gross!" I protested. "You have got to be kidding me!"
He didn't give any answer, other than a shrug. Then he walked out of the room, shut the door, and locked it. He took the key out of the lock and went downstairs.
I sat there for a while and listened, but there was nothing to hear but the wind in the trees and the occasional voices of my captors below.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Grabbing one of the boards with both hands, I climbed and got both my feet up on the wall. Straddling the board, and hanging like a spider, I pulled with all my might. Nothing happened. I tried a series of tugs, but still nothing. There was no "give" and no hope that I could get a board loose.
I got back down and after a few deep breaths I gave the lowest board the mightiest kick I had...
It didn't take long to get my legs free. I set the tape carefully aside in case it might be useful later. Then, before anything else, I had to pee, but wanted to avoid using the disgusting bucket. So I used my last residue of boyness and stood at the window. It was gross, but well, it was the world of nature out there.
Afterward I realized it was a bad idea. It could have been a shortcut to being found out. Although my kidnappers didn't seem violent or evil, there was no telling what they'd do once they realized I wasn't Maisie and that my father couldn't pay the sort of ransom they expected.
In my head I ran through all the relatives I knew. No one in my family — no aunt, uncle, grandmother, cousin — had any real money, the kind of money these men were expecting. There were no riches in the Donner clan. Beyond my family, there was no reason to expect Maisie's father to pay a penny for me. And Ida? I knew from my time with her that she was fairly economical. She may have enough money to stay at home, but it didn't look like she had anything to spare beyond that.
I went back to the window and studied the frame, in the hopes of finding something I could use as a tool or a weapon: loose wood, glass shards, nails... But there was nothing. It was clean. They may not have swept the floor, but they did clear away anything that could help me. And the boards, which prevented me from climbing out, were tightly screwed into the frame.
Grabbing one of the boards with both hands, I climbed and got both my feet up on the wall. Straddling the board, and hanging like a spider, I pulled with all my might. Nothing happened. I tried a series of tugs, but still nothing. There was no "give" and no hope that I could get a board loose.
I got back down and after a few deep breaths I gave the lowest board the mightiest kick I had...
... and saw stars. It was like kicking solid metal. I didn't know it at the time, but the wood was oak, and even with a hatchet I would have had difficulty.
Limping and whimpering, I checked the door. It was heavy, solid, and new. It was the same dense, unbreakable wood as the bars on the windows. This time, I didn't try to kick.
I had nothing to try to pick the lock with — not that I have any idea how it's done, but I would have given it a try.
Someone had recently moved the hinges to the outside, so I couldn't just pull the pins and open the door that way.
What did that leave? The walls: I hoped for plasterboard. If the walls were plasterboard, I could bust through between the studs, but no. These walls were made of wood. Solid. The place was old and disgusting, but it was built to last.
Conclusions? No obvious way out. Nothing to make a weapon from, except maybe a half-empty water bottle that I could swing like a club... but from the look of things, they didn't plan on coming in here until the ransom was paid, if then.
Trust me, there's a good plan in place, the bald one had said.
If I was my captors, I thought, I'd take the ransom money and tell my parents where to find me. In fact, they could go away right now and leave me here. They didn't need to guard me.
Just after I had that thought, soft footsteps came slowly up the stairs, and a timid knock at the door. "Who's there?" I called. What else was I supposed to say?
It was the bald one. "Hey, uh, girl in there. I'm sorry. I can't get you any cigarettes. We can't let you play with fire. You'll have to go cold turkey for a day or so. Sorry! But, oh, hey, maybe it's time you quit! I wish that *I* could quit. Something to think about, anyway."
"Hey," I called back, "I have any idea!"
"What's that?"
"I can lock you in here, and you can go cold turkey. This could be your chance to quit smoking for good!"
"Ha ha," he said, a little amused. "Good try. If this was a silly movie, I might be dumb enough, but it's not. Anyway, I'm sorry."
Then he went back downstairs. As his footsteps retreated, I heard the van engine start and drive off. So I was alone with the bald one.
I knelt at the window and looked outside for something to help me. I doubted than anyone would hear me if I called. There was no point in yelling, unless they both left.
As the sun dropped lower in the sky, my heart fell with it. What would the kidnappers do when they found out who I was? I began to cry silently. For the first time in my life, I was alone. Really alone. I thought about Maisie, and pushed the horrible things she'd said out of my mind. They didn't matter now. If I was here, at least Maisie wasn't. But I was here. Alone.
This is how Maisie feels all the time, I thought, and the tears came pouring out of me.
I knew that Ida and my parents would do whatever they could to help me. It might not be enough, though. I might die. I might. I didn't want to, but I might. I had to do whatever I could to not die, to get away, to save myself.
When it got dark, a sliver of moon came up and saved me from total darkness. I took off my coat and shoes and unrolled the sleeping bag. I didn't think I could sleep, but after eating one of the horrible sandwiches and drinking a little water, I went out like a light.
I dreamt a crazy dream that had everybody in it: Eden, Jerry, Aunt Jane and Denise. Cassie was there, Jerry's big sister, and somehow she made me feel safe. I was wearing my Dodgers shirt, and I was happy. It was a long dream, and a complicated dream, and it seemed so real, that when I woke up I had no idea where I was at all.
After a few moments it came seeping back into my memory: the abduction, the vans, the nasty cigarettes, the mistaken identity, the possibility of death.
I didn't feel like an "action hero" in that moment. Not at all. And Nancy Drew, I wasn't.
I was lying in a cheap sleeping bag on a dirty floor beneath a window with no glass in it. Three strong boards were screwed in tight to the window frame. The sun was shining and the birds were singing, and there was a big stain on the ceiling.
Even though I had to pee again, I wrapped the sleeping bag closer around me and shivered. There was no way to shut the damn window, and it was cold. Was there any heat in this house? It seemed warmer last night.
As I shivered and squirmed some warmth into the bag, my eyes were glued to the stain on the ceiling. There wasn't much else to look at.
I wasn't thinking, exactly, but something in my head was slowly analyzing: ''Stain... water... stain... water... leak... erosion... water stain... decay..." and I had a mental picture of my fingers picking apart old rotten plasterboard. And what made plasterboard old and rotten? Water.
I slid out of the sleeping bag, and shaking in the cold, pulled on my coat and shoes. My shoes, like the rest of my clothes, were disgusting. Me, my hair, and everything I was wearing felt funky, stiff, and stinky, but there was nothing I could do about it. There was nothing else to wear. I so wanted a shower!
The memory of the phone call with Maisie came flying back into my mind, but again I pushed it aside. As bad, as hurtful as what she'd said had been, my current situation was far worse.
By leaning against the side wall, I was able to climb the boards in the window and reach the corner of the ceiling. As I'd imagined, the plasterboard was brittle and easy to pick apart. It was disgusting, too, and I wondered what horrible junk was above it. I couldn't help but imagine mouse-droppings, old hair, centuries of dirt and dust mixed with nameless disgustfulness. I steeled myself and shoved my hand through, and soon made a little hole. It wasn't as gross as I expected it to be. The hard part was keeping the stuff that fell, from going into my face and hair.
Spitting, I wondered whether I could make a head-covering and makeshift gloves from the plastic bags, but instead of getting down to try it, I kept on working. It was slow going, but the progress was very real.
However, before the hole was big enough for me to squeeze through, I heard a terrible sound. It was the sound of a car bouncing along the potholes in the road. I climbed down to listen. It wasn't the van. I knew the sound of the van, and I knew the van was parked out front. I'd heard it come back last night after dark.
Whoever was coming was driving way too fast for that road. The car's suspension was knocking against the car... if those are the right words. Anyway, he was in too much of a hurry, and he was pushing his car too hard.
Once he arrived at the clearing and cut the engine, the car door opened with a creak and shut with a bang.
A voice bellowed, "Idiots!"
The sound was like the growl of an animal... hungry, fierce, and wild.
It made my hair stand on end, and somehow was familiar. I couldn't place it, though. I knew I'd heard the voice before, but couldn't imagine where. My heart began pounding. This had to be the boss, the one who'd "chosen" my abductors, and he probably knew that they'd taken the wrong girl.
I looked at the ceiling. One or two good rips, and I'd have a hole big enough to get through. But once inside the attic space, what would I do? Where would I go? It wasn't much of an escape plan, but at this point, it was my only option.
Still, my curiosity got the better of me, and I quietly went to the door and listened. It wasn't hard. No one was whispering.
"You jackasses! You half-wits!" the new voice shouted. "You took the wrong girl! You've ruined everything! A perfect plan, a SIMPLE plan, and you two simpletons had to screw it up!"
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Her brow wrinkled. She looked hurt and offended, and she started to fade away.
Alarmed, I said, "No, no! Misty, don't go anywhere!"
"But she was with her mother," the driver protested. "The car was right, the school was right, the mother was right."
"Yeah," the bald one added. "The blonde mommy picked up her at school. They hugged!"
"The Beale girl and a friend did some sort of mom-swap this weekend," the new voice explained. "You grabbed the friend."
"What are you talking about? What the hell is a mom-swap?"
"It doesn't matter. What *does* matter is that you got the wrong girl!"
"Maybe her parents will pay–"
"Nothing like the Beale girl's parents. They're beyond rich."
"So, who is this one?"
"That, I don't know. Let's go see."
"How could you not know? I mean, you're a–"
"Quiet!" the voice commanded. "Little ears can hear."
"Huh?" the bald one asked. Then, "Oh, oh, I get it! The girl has little ears."
I heard a loud sigh from the third man.
Three sets of footsteps climbed the stairs and stopped in front of my door. "Wait a minute," the new voice said, "let me get this mask on," and some fumbling followed.
I backed into the corner farthest from the door and picked up a half-empty water bottle. It was my only defense. At worst, I could use it as club to hit them with.
As I clutched the bottle to my chest, I realized there was plaster and other dirt on my hands and arms, but at the moment it didn't matter.
The key turned in the lock and the door opened. A tall, broad-shouldered figure in a ski mask ducked through the doorway and stepped inside. The moment I saw him, I knew who he was, mask or no mask: the voice, the way he talked... everything clicked.
A wave of gooseflesh shot all the way from my hips to my ears. My heart was pounding before, but now it went into overdrive.
"You!" he and I cried in the same moment.
It was Sister Honororia's brother, the policeman.
I was horrified. I was trembling. There was no worse person for him to be. No one on earth. The two of us gaped at each other in silence. He knew who I was, and he knew that I knew who he was.
He swore, stepped out of the room, and locked it.
It was the worst, most blackest moment of my life. I hope I am never that frightened, ever again. My mind went entirely blank, and I crawled on hands and knees to the door to listen. I didn't even remember getting down on the floor.
It sounded like the men had stopped halfway down the stairs to argue.
"... You two have to disappear!" the policeman was saying.
"With what money?" the driver shouted. "We don't have any money to go anywhere! That's why we did this job! If we had money, we wouldn't have broken the law!"
"Money or no money, you two are out of here! Don't you get it? This has gone as badly as it can go, and we have to cut our losses NOW."
"What about the girl?" the bald one asked. "Do we let her go?"
"Are you kidding?" the policeman scoffed. "She knows who I am. She can identify me. She has to go!"
"You mean, go with us?" the bald one asked. "I'm not dragging a kid along!"
"What, are you stupid? I'm not asking you to adopt her! I'm telling you we have to kill her! There are two shovels out back. Go to the woods and dig a deep hole. As deep as you can. Deeper than six feet, if possible."
"I'm not killing anyone, especially a kid," the driver said. "Frank isn't either. We didn't sign up for that. We won't let you kill her, either."
"And why are there two shovels out back?" the bald one shouted. "You were going to kill her all along, weren't you?"
"SHUT THE HELL UP!" the policeman shouted.
Suddenly I was aware of a presence next to me. A cute, smiling, pony-tailed head... It was Misty! She was imitating me, crouched down on hands and knees. Of course, she was wearing her workout clothes, and her ponytail hung straight down behind her.
"Misty!" I cried. I was never so glad to see anyone! I tried to hug her, but although she looked solid, my hands passed right through her body.
"Hi," she said, smiling brightly. "I missed you, too! I was wondering where you were. Why are we on hands and knees? Are you playing some kind of game?"
"No, Misty! It's not a game! I've been kidnapped! Can you tell my mother where I am?"
She looked confused. "No...," she said. "I can't. I don't know where you are! I just thought of you and then I was here. We could be anywhere for all I know. But I can tell her you're okay."
If I could grab her, I would have shaken her. "Misty, I'm not okay! Can't you get it?"
Her brow wrinkled. She looked hurt and offended, and she started to fade away.
Alarmed, I said, "No, no! Misty, don't go anywhere!"
When she first appeared, crouching next to me, she looked as real as I am. Now she was half-transparent. I could still see her, but I could also see the room behind her, through her. The thought of losing her frightened me, but it also gave me an idea.
"Misty! Misty, listen: Can you get me out of here? Can you make me pass through the door? Can you make me invisible?"
She shook her head sadly. "No. Sorry. No offense, but you're too big. I can only do that with little stuff, like pens and papers and things. And even that's hard."
My mind was racing. "Okay! Listen: My purse is just outside, in a van parked out front. Can you go down and get it for me? Or at least get me my cell phone?"
"Yeah, I think so," she said uncertainly. For some reason, it didn't sound as though she wanted to. "Why can't you get it yourself?"
Was she being deliberately stupid? I couldn't understand what was going on with her. "Misty, I've been kidnapped. I'm locked in this horrible room. This is like a prison cell. I can't get out."
She looked around, taking in the room, her lips wrinkling in distaste. "Why would anybody kidnap you?" she asked.
"Because they think I'm Maisie."
"But Maisie's at your house."
"I know. We did the mom swap again."
"Why would they kidnap Maisie?"
I bit my lip. This was going nowhere fast, but I had to humor her: she was my only hope.
"Maisie's father is rich. They figure he'll pay a huge ransom."
"Won't he pay a ransom for you?"
"No. Why would he?"
"Won't your father pay?"
"We don't have the kind of money they want."
"Hmmph," she said, and seemed to be thinking.
I couldn't wait any longer for her to connect the dots. I burst out, "Misty, please! Go get my phone! You have to help me! I need your help! These guys want to kill me, do you understand? They have shovels out back — they're going to dig a hole and murder me! You're my only hope. You're the only one who can help me. There is no one else!"
I was begging her, but she wasn't reacting at all. I wasn't getting through, and couldn't understand why.
She hesitated, sucked her lips in, and sat down on the floor, crossing her legs. She was calm and quiet. She didn't look at me, and she wasn't smiling any more.
Then Misty tilted her head to one side and looked me in the face.
"Marcie," she said softly. "I know this is hard for you... but if they kill you, you'll be dead, like me. Being dead's not so bad... Once you get used to it, anyway. And I can help you with that! We'll be friends – better friends than we are now. And you could still talk to your mother."
Her face had a serious, unsmiling set, but just under the surface her quiet excitement rippled and simmered, like a fever.
"Think of the fun things we could do together, Marcie! All kinds of cool, spooky things!"
Her eyes were the biggest they'd ever been, and her face lit up with an unearthly smile. She looked like a child, dreaming of Christmas morning, and the one gift she wanted — the one she wanted most of all — was a ghostly playfriend just like me.
"Oh, my God," I whispered.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"Misty," I said, as calmly as I could, "can you smell me?"
"Smell you? Yes, of course I can smell you. You really need a bath."
My breath caught in my throat. I was horrified. Misty smiled in a friendly way as she watched my expression change.
"No, Misty, no!" I cried. "I don't want to die! I don't want to die today!"
She frowned, as she would at a disobedient child. "Marcie, you don't know what it's like. I think you'll like it. And we can be together. We can be BFF: best friends forever, right?"
"Oh, Misty! I can *wait* to find out what it's like, believe me! Besides, we wouldn't be together! I wouldn't be at your house! I'd be stuck in this dirty, disgusting shack!" She looked around the room and made a face. "AND... I'd have to wear this ugly school uniform! It would UCF: ugly clothes forever!"
Her mouth twisted, and she looked at what I was wearing.
"And how do you know, if I'm a ghost, that you'd be able to find me? You said you don't know where we are!"
"I'd just think of you..."
"But have you ever done that with a ghost? Thought about another ghost and just gone to them? Maybe it only works with living people!"
She frowned. "I don't know any other ghosts. But, anyway, it ought to work."
"If it doesn't, I'll be alone here, and you'll be alone back home! Besides that, how do you know that I'd even be a ghost?"
She blushed slightly. "I have a feeling," she said. "I'm pretty sure you will be. I mean, you can see me; I can talk to you. We have some kind of connection."
"Oh!" I growled in frustration. I wondered for a fraction of an instant whether the men downstairs could hear at least my side of the argument, but they were still shouting at each other. Honestly, I didn't care if anyone could hear me at this point.
"Misty, look: YOU might be ready to take the chance that I'll be a ghost who can hang around with you, but I'm not! What if it doesn't work? Then you lose one of the few people who can see and hear you... and I lose everything!"
I thought I was making a strong case... heck, it wasn't just strong, it was air tight! But Misty wasn't buying it.
She just sat there, staring at me, knowing that all she had to do was wait...
I looked into her eyes as I wracked my brain, trying to find something to say, some way to convince her to help me... But the only one time I felt that I'd reached her at all was when I mentioned the clothes.
"Misty," I said, making a huge effort to stay calm, "can you smell me?"
"Smell you? Of course I can smell you. You really need a bath!"
"I know that I do. But I can't have one. They won't let me. Misty, I want you to tell me something: When I die, will I still smell bad? Will I be stinky forever?"
Her gaze never left my face, but she didn't answer. Maybe she didn't know, but if she did, she wasn't telling. I had the distinct feeling that I would smell bad forever. And if she was going to hang around me after I was dead, she was going to be smelling it!
"And Misty, here's something else to think about: We're almost the same size. If I die, would you want to swap clothes sometimes?"
Her face wrinkled into a grimace of disgust.
"Misty, listen to me: if I die in these clothes, dirty like this, smelling like this, I will never be able to wash. Ever. Not me, not my clothes. I will wear these nasty rags for all time. When you were alive, you wore a uniform like this once. Did you like it?"
Again she twisted her mouth to the side, and looked over at the window. "No," she admitted.
"Did you ever wear one for two days straight? Dirty like this?"
She took a deep breath. At last, it seemed I was getting through.
Her eyes flitted over my outfit, and I could see that finally she was wrestling with herself. She looked at my face, then at my uniform, as if they represented the two sides of her dilemma.
I couldn't believe it! My only hope of staying alive was a ghost, and she liked the idea of my being dead! I had to convince a dead girl to keep me alive, and the deciding factor was going to be my clothes!
I gave it one last shot: "I'm *begging* you, Misty. Don't stick me with these ugly clothes for all eternity, please! They're not even clean!"
"You could take them off before they kill you..." she started to say, then thought better of it.
My ghostly friend was silent for a space. Then her face fell into a sad, resigned look. She stared at the floor and she heaved a heavy sigh. After a leaden, sullen, "Okay," she faded out.
In spite of my fear, shock, and desperation, I found myself wondering how Misty could sigh if she didn't breathe. Ghosts don't breathe, do they? I realized I'd had this question a couple times before. At some point, I had to ask her.
In the meantime, my captors' argument had shifted to the ground floor. Aside from that movement, it didn't sound like they were getting anywhere.
In a minute or less, an unsmiling Misty returned with my cell. I switched it on, wondering why phones take forever to come up, and praying that the men didn't hear the loud, stupid startup music.
While waiting to see how strong the signal was, I noticed a strange symbol that usually I ignored. "GPS!" I softly exclaimed.
"What's that?" Misty asked.
"It's a locator. It lets people see where the phone is. The police will be able to find me!"
The phone had a strong signal. There must be a tower nearby, or on a hill or whatever. I called 911. It took a little work to convince the operator that I really was Marcie Donner. She already knew my name and that I'd been kidnapped. I explained about the GPS.
"I'm going to leave my phone on so you can find me," I told her, "but I have to hide it so the kidnappers don't find it. If they find the phone, they'll turn it off. So I'm not going to be able to talk to you, and I'm going to turn the sound way down. So PLEASE DON'T TALK, okay?"
As if she hadn't heard me, the operator replied, "Marcie? Marcie? I'm going to ask you to stay on the line. Please stay on the line with me. I need you to stay on the line..." Instead, I turned the volume as low as possible, and put the phone inside the sleeping bag to muffle the sound.
I returned to the door to listen. The argument had gotten more heated. There were blows and thuds and scuffling. The driver shouted, "No! No! Don't do it!" almost like a scream. Furniture was knocked over and heavy objects were thrown. I flinched with each bang and crash, as though I was the one being struck.
I know that my words can't communicate the horror of listening to the fight downstairs. It may not sound like much, the way I describe it like, but it was like listening to the end of the world. Things were wildly out of control down there, and I was scared nearly out of my wits. Do you know why? Because all of that violence, once it finished downstairs, was going to come upstairs for me.
At last, there was a gun shot, a sickening thud, some scuffling, a gun shot, and a second lifeless thud. Then silence.
My blood froze inside of me. There was no way on earth that anyone could reach me in time. Now that the two brothers were dead, there was no one left to defend me.
"Misty, please don't leave me," I whispered. "I don't want to be alone when this happens."
She nodded in a cold, almost clinical way, and stood next to me, watching. Now she was perfectly solid, like a real live person. For a moment, she put her hand in mine, and squeezed it.
I could almost feel what was going through her head. She knew there was a strong chance that soon I'd be walking through walls, too. At the same time, she must have seen – or at least known – that a lot of people had died during the time she was dead, yet she was still alone. She was hoping the two of us could be ghosts together, but she'd probably been disappointed many times before.
I'd already told the 911 operator that Honororia's brother was the bad guy, so even if he killed me, they would know who'd done it. It was a small consolation, but at least he wouldn't get away with my murder, and now the murders of the two brothers.
He came upstairs, unlocked the door, and walked inside. Misty was standing next to me, but he didn't see her.
"He looks familiar," Misty said. I didn't reply.
He motioned with his gun, and said, "Let's go downstairs." He grinned. "It's kind of a mess, but don't worry. It's going to get messier."
I walked slowly toward him, looking for some sort of opening, for something I could do, but there was nothing. If I tried to hit or kick him, he'd bring the gun down on my head. I descended the stairs ahead of him. All the furniture was up-ended. Some of it was broken. There were knickknacks and books and things thrown everywhere. Worst of all were the bodies of the two brothers. My stomach heaved and I wretched loudly. The two men were lying in their own blood. Even worse, blood was still pouring from their wounds. I tried to looked away, but the man pushed me and I had to grab the stair rail to keep from falling.
He shoved me toward the kitchen, where things were slightly cleaner. "Have a seat," he said, and he used his foot to turn a kitchen chair upright for me. He straightened another for himself, still using his feet, and sat down near me, facing me. Not close enough for me to hit or kick him, but he had longer arms and legs, so even if I couldn't reach him, he could easily grab me. He seemed relaxed... happy, even.
"I need a story here," he said. "and I think I have it... almost. Because, see, I was never here. Eventually someone's going to find you three, and it has to look like you killed each other."
He smiled and leaned back. "What I'm thinking is that somehow... doesn't matter how... you got hold of a gun. You heard the two of them fighting... probably when they realized they got the wrong girl. You came down the stairs, see? and you shot the two of them from up there." He pointed. "That explains why the angle is high, get it? Then, hmm..."
He turned his head as he pondered, and glanced at the front door. The bald brother was lying face down, one arm reaching for the door. He was obviously trying to get outside when he was shot. "Ah – oh, now I got it! You shot him, see? but you didn't realize that you hadn't quite killed him. Right! So he's lying there, and you don't know it, but he's not dead. You go out the door, and he shoots you from behind, from the floor. Yeah! That way, I can let you run from me, and it will look good." He grinned at his invention. "If you're really fast," he laughed, "you might even get away! I could count to five or even ten. Maybe even fifteen. Give you a sporting chance."
"I won't run," I told him.
He shrugged. "Facing the house works too," he said.
"I won't stand up," I replied.
He thought for a moment and shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Sitting, lying, it will all work. Even if I have to knock you out first and then shoot you. I can make it all work." He looked at me and smiled. "If you walk out the door, though, you get to go out as a hero. Isn't that important to you?"
I frowned at him and shook my head. What in the world was he talking about? I didn't care about being a hero.
"People will say, What a brave girl! If only this-or-that, she'd still be alive. Still, she did what she could. That's what you want, isn't it? Have people think you're strong and fearless? The girl crime-fighter?"
I shook my head.
He shrugged, smiled, and continued.
"After that, all I have to do is put a gun in your hand and one in Frank's hand and fire them so you both get gun residue on you. Then I'm clear."
"What about your tire marks outside?" I asked.
He nodded approvingly at me. "Not bad. Good thinking. Maybe you would have made a good detective, if you'd lived." He laughed. "It's Frank's car. I'm just going to drive it back to his house. The tire tracks won't mean a thing."
I suddenly realized that Misty was gone. She hadn't followed us downstairs. A chill fell over me, and the cold coming through the open front door seemed to pass into my bones.
"I've covered every angle," he gloated. "In half an hour, I'll be home free. I'll have to work up a new plan for the money, but I can do it. I've got time. And here..." he glanced over the wreckage, "it will be an unfortunate, but very closed case."
"It won't work," I mumbled.
"What?" he asked in a patronizing tone, "I didn't hear."
"It won't work," I said, after clearing my throat. "I called 911 and told them you're involved."
His eyes widened. "You're lying," he said. "There's no way!" Still, he turned his head to the side when he looked at me. I knew he wasn't sure.
"Believe what you like," I told him.
He studied my face, weighing the possibilities, and said, "Your phone is in your purse, in the van, outside."
I looked him in the eyes, but didn't respond.
"You couldn't get to it," he said, but I saw his certainty crack.
I smiled.
"Shit!" he barked, and jumped to his feet. He paced back and forth for a moment, then shouted, "Up!"
We walked upstairs, back to my prison cell. He scanned the room, but saw nothing. He listened, and heard — as I did — the 911 operator's little voice chirping. His eyes stopped on the sleeping bag. He pushed me into a corner, far from the door, and still pointing his gun at me, stuck his hand into the sleeping bag. In a moment, he fished out the phone.
His eyes widened as he saw 911 on the display. The call was still active, and the woman's tiny voice was asking, "Marcie? Are you still there? Marcie, answer me! Are you all right? Marcie? Marcie?"
He hung up the phone and turned it off. Holstering his gun at the back of his belt, he took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped his prints off the cell. Then he dropped it back into the sleeping bag.
"You're done," I said to him. My face went all jerky, and my arms and legs were spazzing.
"So are you," he sneered, and reached for his gun.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
I sat down on a tree stump, away from the action. My cell phone battery was dead, and I still hadn't called my parents. And I was cold. Really cold. So cold that I wasn't trembling anymore. My energy was utterly depleted.
A police detective approached me, a woman, and she asked, "Is anybody helping you? Are you okay?"
Sister Honororia's brother looked startled, as he groped for his gun and didn't seem to find it. He looked on the floor and patted himself down in back. He took the sleeping bag and shook it hard. My phone clattered out, but there was no sign of his weapon.
A soft whisper came to my right ear. "It's kind of heavy, but I got his gun. Here it is," Misty said, as she pressed it against my back. I quickly reached behind me and grabbed it.
I had never so much as touched a gun before. Misty was right, it was heavy. One thing I did know about guns was that they have a safety mechanism. On the side of the gun I saw a button with red on its side. Did that mean that the safety was on, or off? I figured red meant danger. I was betting it was off, ready to shoot.
"How the hell did you get that?" he said. "Nobody moves that fast! Give it here."
"No," I said. "I'm going to hang on to it." I slid a little toward the door.
He smiled. He didn't look scared at all. In fact, he seemed to relish the situation. "No, you're going to give it to me, one way or another. You're not going to shoot me. You're a good girl. Good girls don't play with guns." He straightened up to his full height, which was well over six feet.
"Sit down," I told him. I meant for it to sound like an order, but it came out like a request. It didn't matter how it sounded, because he didn't sit down.
What I wanted to do was to lock him in the room and go for help. If he reached me, if he grabbed me, he'd overpower me. I took another big step toward the door. Unfortunately, there was no way I could get out the door, close it, and lock it unless he sat down.
Of course, he knew that, too. Even if I left the room and shut the door, as soon as I got busy with the lock, he'd come crashing through. I doubted I could even get *that* far.
He took a short, slow, easy step toward me. "You can't fire that gun anyway," he told me. "The safety's on. Look at the side."
I ignored what he said. I knew he wanted to confuse me so I'd take the gun off him for a moment. By now, the situation was perfectly clear: he wasn't going to cooperate and he wasn't going to let me leave the room. I didn't want to do it, but I had no choice. I planted my two feet square on the floor, and tightened my grip on the gun.
"Another step, and I shoot," I told him. I was pretty sure I was going to have to shoot. He, on the other hand, was pretty sure I wouldn't, so he smiled and took another step. Can't say I didn't warn him!
Before I had a chance for second thoughts, I stiffened my arms, aimed for his left foot, and pulled the trigger.
The shot sounded like a huge explosion, and the recoil made me dance back and bang into the wall behind me. But the important thing was done: he fell down, and I kept my death grip on the gun. Before he could move again, I was out the door, pushing it shut behind me, and with trembling hands, I locked it. I pulled the key from the lock, but couldn't hang on to it. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter.
Then my nerves kicked in, freaking me out, making my body spazz and jerk.
My arms were shaking like mad. I knelt down to try to pick up the key. My right hand was locked around the gun, and I couldn't let go. My hand was shaking already, but I shook it even more, hoping the gun would fall, but it was stuck there. With the heel of my left hand I pried my fingers off the gun, and finally it clattered to the floor. It took both hands to pick up the key. My arms were jerking out of control, and my fingers wouldn't open or close. I started to cry with the effort of shoving the key into the small pocket on my skirt. I couldn't do it, so, still crying, I swept it down the stairs with the side of my hand, and got a splinter in the process.
Once that was done, I managed to pick up the gun by pressing it between my palms. My fingers had quit working entirely, and my elbows had minds of their own. I started running, and clumsily fell flat on the stairs, face down. The gun fell away below, I didn't see where, and I bumped down a few steps. I couldn't tell whether I'd hurt myself.
Moaning, I brought up my hands, but they still weren't working. They were like two catcher's mitts at the ends of my arms, and my legs weren't much use, either. If I could only get out of the cabin, I was sure I'd be better. At a loss, I turned on my side and slowly slid headfirst the rest of the way down the stairs. Once at the bottom, with the help of the banister, I managed to work my way to my feet.
My stomach twisted at the sight of the two brothers, and this time, my insides didn't stop churning until I vomited behind an overturned table. I think I was crying... I remember that my face was soaking wet.
Partly because I had so much trouble standing, and partly so I wouldn't have to look at the blood, I pressed my face against the wall and slid my way around the perimeter of the room until I reached the front door. Just as the smell of the blood was beginning to register and set off alarm bells in my stomach, I stumbled outside.
I could barely walk, my legs were shaking so hard. The air was cold, very cold. The humidity must have been two or three hundred percent, because the cold soaked deep into my bones. My knees were literally knocking. In the background I could hear Honororia's brother bellowing and cursing, but the sound seemed to come from ten thousand miles away.
There was the van, and a smaller car. I got my purse from the van, and decided I'd go with the car. Unfortunately, it had three pedals, and I couldn't figure out which pedal did what, and I couldn't get it to start. Each time I turned the key, the car shuddered, choked, and died. The motor would only make one jerky turn, then stop.
So I got in the van and took a deep breath. "You can do it," I told myself out loud. Then I looked at the dashboard. It was a complicated mess of dials and switches that made absolutely no sense at all. I wasn't even sure how to turn on the radio. Plus, it stank of old oil and dirt and God knows what. Still, it had only two pedals, so there was less to think about. The main thing is to stay calm, a little voice inside told me, but I wasn't calm. I was a thousand miles away from calm.
I wished I had my cell phone, but that was still upstairs, with my prisoner. I gripped the steering wheel, and realized that my fingers were working again. I took some deep breaths. Then I took some slow breaths. "You can do this," I said out loud. "You can. You know you can. You have to."
Suddenly Misty faded into the passenger seat. She looked all excited and giggly, and completely oblivious to my shattered state of mind. She actually laughed and said, "Hey! Looking for this?" and held up my cell phone.
"Oh, thank God!" I cried. "Misty, you're a life saver!"
"Wow!" she gushed. "What a day! This is intense! This is GREAT! It's like a MOVIE! Oh, my God! More stuff has happened today than in all the years I've been dead!"
"Good," I said, "I'm glad you're having a good time."
In spite of all that had happened, she almost made me want to laugh. Almost. "Oh, Misty," I sighed. "Thanks. I'd be dead now, too, if I wasn't for you!"
She grinned happily and made some goofy faces at me, dancing in her seat and drumming with her feet. What a nut!
I dialed 911 again and put them on speaker so I wouldn't have to hold the phone. The same operator answered. She told me that the police were on their way and said, "Please stay on the line."
"This time I can," I replied, and at her prompting, I told her the whole story. As I talked, I took the keys from the van and the car and started walking down the road, away from the cabin. If the police were coming, I wanted to meet them sooner than later, and I thought that walking might warm me up. Misty disappeared somewhere along the way, and after about ten minutes, a police car came bouncing toward me. Two others followed, and soon the bad cop was handcuffed inside an ambulance. The small space in front of the cabin was full of police vehicles and flashing lights.
I sat down on a tree stump, away from the action. My cell phone battery was dead, and I still hadn't called my parents. And I was cold. Really cold. So cold that I wasn't trembling anymore. My energy was utterly depleted, and my mind was empty.
A police detective approached me, a woman, and she asked, "Is anybody helping you? Are you okay?"
In a tired voice I said, "Apart from freezing, stinking like a horse, and wearing an outfit that I hate, I'm fine. Is there any way I could get out of here?"
She grinned and said, "Come with me. I've got a car with heated seats. AND nobody's blocking me. Let's get the hell on out of here, girl!" She talked into a walkie-talkie as she led me away. Once we drove off, I was going to ask if I could borrow her phone, but without meaning to, I fell sound asleep and didn't wake up until she stopped at the end of my street.
"Holy crap!" I whispered. Even from where we were I could see the lights and cameras of the news crews. A bright light illuminated a tall woman with blonde hair who posed in front of my house and spoke into a microphone.
"Is there any way we can get in through the back?" the detective asked. It turned out that there was. She parked on the street behind mine, and we snuck through my backyard to the kitchen door.
After the hugs and tears and questions, I turned to my mother and said, "Mom, I need to take a long, hot shower now, but first, I have to ask you to do something for me. Something really important. You have to swear that you'll do it."
Frowning, she asked, "What do you want me to do?"
"Burn these clothes," I said. "I never want to see them, ever again."
Mom was stunned and began to reply. I cut her off.
"I've never been more serious." I told her. "I want you to burn them tonight, in the back yard. The shoes, the coat — everything."
I wasn't sure that I'd convinced Mom, but Theresa, the detective, laughed and said (with a wink at me) that she needed to take it all as evidence.
"That would be great, as long as I never get them back," I told her. "Promise me I'll never get them back."
I dropped my coat into a big plastic bag. I emptied my purse and threw that in, too. It had grease and dirt on it from the floors of the vans.
Once in the bathroom, I stripped out of those horrible, funky clothes and shoved them into the bag. They felt so scummy and disgusting that I could hardly bear to touch them. I put my shoes in a smaller bag, and threw it on top of the other clothes. It was too bad — it was a pair I really liked, the first pair of shoes that bought with Ida, but there was no way that any of those clothes would ever touch my body again.
I opened the bathroom door a crack, and handed the bag to my mother.
"Seriously, Mom," I said. "Make sure Theresa takes it all. Far far away."
A shower never felt so good. The heat, the steam, the clean water... it was exactly what I needed. As I stood there, finally relaxing, my mind went to Maisie, my next big problem. Soon I'd have to deal with what Maisie knew about me, but at the moment it didn't seem important or even that difficult. I was alive. That's what mattered. And I was clean. Best of all, I wasn't a ghost in a BYHS uniform, glued to a ratty shack in the woods.
I kind of expected Misty to show up, but I guess she respected my privacy in the bathroom. At least I hoped so.
No, even that didn't matter. She could pop up anywhere and everywhere. I owed her my life. I owed her everything.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
"Talk to her?" Maisie laughed. "Are you kidding? Are you out of your mind? Her brother tries to kill you, and you want to talk to her? What is there to talk about?"
I had to tell my story over and over, to the police, to my parents, to the press, to people I knew... of course I didn't mention Misty, except when I was talking to my mother and Susan. It wasn't hard to leave the ghostly girl out: I just fudged the story a bit... about the cell phone: I said that it was in an inside coat pocket all along, but I didn't realize it... There's this little pocket I don't usually use... I must have stuck the phone there during the struggle in the van.
Then, about the gun: I said that I skipped forward quickly and quietly and took it from the back of the bad guy's belt. That's what *he* thought happened, anyway, so I just went along with his story. Everybody believed it and said what a brave, foolhardy girl I was.
My parents kept me home from school... it was the last four days before the Christmas holidays, anyway. Each night Susan called and the two of us picked the kidnapping apart. I cried sometimes, and freaked out a few times, but Suze stayed calm and talked me through things in her rational way... But, yes, Susan actually got to use the phone! Her parents gave her that leeway because they very kindly thought I needed the emotional support. And I did. It turned out her grandparents had weighed in heavily on the issue of giving Suze more freedom so she could be with me.
And I did finally get to keep an appointment with my new therapist, too, which helped, but that's a whole 'nother story.
So anyway, Friday, the day of the sleepover, Susan came over in the early afternoon. Mom set up a little campsite in the living room, underneath the Christmas tree. Suze and I giggled and talked in our sleeping bags until my bleary-eyed father came to ask pity on his weary bones.
"Let an old man get his sleep," he told us. "Keep it down to a dull roar."
Misty wasn't there, though, which was strange. We called to her and looked for her all through the house. We didn't find her and she didn't appear.
Maisie was gone as well. When I was kidnapped, it was clear from the ransom request that Maisie was the intended target. Her father came in a private jet and whisked her away to California, saying she'd be safer with him. She was supposed to go there for the Christmas holidays, anyway.
So Maisie hadn't had a chance to tell my secret to anyone.
"Aren't you going to call her?" Susan asked, not knowing. "I can't believe you haven't called her already."
"I have to get my courage up," I said, and told her how Maisie had knocked my books down last Friday.
"Why would she do that?" Susan asked.
"I have no idea," I honestly admitted. It happened before she talked to Miriam Clegg, so she couldn't have known about my boyhood at that point.
Or maybe she didn't know for sure? No, given the venom she spewed when she did know, I think she would have confronted me right away, then and there in the school hallway, for maximum effect. I think she knew there was something behind the "Mark" story, something that I wasn't saying, and she tried to tease it out of me. I'm sure she'd heard the name "Mark Donner" before ... I know it rang a bell for her.
Maisie isn't stupid; she could see there was a secret in my Marky past ... it was probably the reason she called Miriam ... to get some clues, to figure it out ... Although, maybe something clicked for her just before she knocked my books down? I don't know.
"I think it's what we were saying the other day," Susan concluded, "this mom-swap that you guys did, aggravated her whole mother issue."
"Yeah," I agreed, "and now she's with her father-issue. I have to call her."
I did. I really did have to call her. Whatever she knew about me, however she felt about me, I had to call. Yes, she'd been mean ... even vicious. I couldn't pretend that she hadn't hurt me, but I wasn't ready to give up on that bony little devil. As evil as she'd been, a memory kept coming back to me: the memory of the time when she cried in my arms. I could see it, as if it happened yesterday. I can still feel the shock of that moment, when I put my arm around her, of feeling her ribs right there under her skin. She was drowning in her aloneness and clutching me as if I were her only hope.
I don't want to sound melodramatic, but in that moment, I looked into the abyss: the boundless emotional vacuum in that little girl's soul. After seeing that, I couldn't just walk away.
Also, I think I was still a little stunned and shocked from the kidnapping, and that took a lot of the sting out what Maisie had said. It made it seem unreal, from another world, almost as if it hadn't happened. I doubted that I'd feel that way forever, but for right now I could still think about Maisie without getting angry or scared.
If she was still my friend, I couldn't let her down. She could be frightened about the kidnapping, she could be alone and in agony because of her dad... whatever it was, if she needed me, I had to be there.
I had to call to see whether we could still be friends. I had to give her one more chance.
At the same time, friend or not, I wasn't going to let her abuse me any more. If she was going to be nasty to me, or if she was going to tell people about me, I'd have to deal with it, but that would be the end of our friendship ... if it wasn't over already.
The next day, Saturday, after lunch, after Susan gave me a big smiling hug and a "Thanks!" to me and Mom, she left, and I went and stood by the phone, just looking at it.
"Calling Maisie?" Mom asked.
"Yeah," I said. "How did you know?"
She shrugged. "I don't know ... just guessing. I'm surprised that she hasn't call you ... but I suppose she couldn't get through, the way the phone's been ringing off the hook."
"I guess," I said. "Hey, Mom. Have you seen Misty since ... since I got back?"
"No, not at all. Have you?"
"Nope. I'd like to see her, and thank her."
"I would too. I'm so glad and grateful that she was there for you. She's a real friend, and a brave girl, just like you."
With that, Mom turned and left. I heard her sniff and saw her wipe her cheek with the back of her hand. Oh, Mom!
Now that I was finally by myself, I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Then, before I had a chance for second thoughts, before I lost my nerve, I pulled out the number Ida had given me, picked up the handset, and started punching numbers. Inside, part of me was protesting, screaming, ''Don't call her! You don't even know what to say! She's not going to talk to you! Hang up! She'll be nasty and negative..."
I ignored it and listened as the call connected.
Her phone rang three times before she picked up. She didn't say anything, not even hello.
"Maisie?" I asked, in an uncertain voice. "Hello?" Had I dialed the right number? "Are you there, Maisie?"
"Mar-ceeee?" she cried, in a long, piercing screech. I froze. What did that screech mean? Was it a good screech or a bad screech? "I can't believe you called me!" she wailed, and began sobbing uncontrollably. "After what I said to you!"
"Maisie, are you alright?"
"No, no, I'm not alright! I'm here with my horrible father and his horrible girlfriend with her fake blonde hair, her fake tan, her fake smile, and her huge fake tits! I'm in hell!" she gasped a few breaths, then, just as I was about to speak, she went on.
"I was so horrible to you, and I'm sorry! I said I wanted to kill you, and then you almost DIED! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm so so so sorry!"
"Oh, Maisie," I said, tears coming to my own eyes, "It wasn't your fault. It was Sister Honororia's stupid brother who did it."
"He did it?" she asked, with genuine surprise.
"Yes," I said. "Didn't you see the newspapers or the TV?"
"No," she said, calming down a bit. "It was too scary. And my stupid father wouldn't let me. But then, oh, yeah, the police here told me his name — they showed me his picture — but it didn't mean anything to me. I didn't realize it was him! Because he never really had a name, you know? He was always just Sister Honoraria's brother. You know what I mean. And I don't think I ever saw him, except that one time, from the back. And they didn't tell me he was a cop. How weird!" She sniffed a bit. "What about the nun? Is she going to jail too?"
"No," I scoffed. "She had nothing to do with it!"
"How do you know?"
"She would never do something like that!"
"Huh," Maisie said. "Could of fooled me."
I took a deep breath and blew it all out. Looked like there was something else I had to do. Resigned, I said, "I guess I should go talk to her."
"Talk to her?" Maisie laughed. "Are you kidding? Are you out of your mind? Her brother tries to kill you, and you want to talk to her? What is there to talk about?
"I know you, Marcie, you're not going to go to tell her off, which is what you *should* do. You should tell her ... you should tell her ..." Maisie floundered for a bit, trying to find a negative message I could give to the nun.
"Maisie–" I began, but she interrupted.
"So why are you going? What are you going to do? What are you going to say? Are you going to ask her if she's alright? After *her* ordeal?" She barked a few short laughs. "Oh, that would be rich." She laughed alone for a bit, but then she got it: "Oh, wait a minute! That is why you want to see her, isn't it! You want to go and see whether Sister Honoraria is okay!"
"Yes," I said. It didn't seem strange to me at all. I couldn't explain my reasons. I just knew I had to do it.
Maisie was silent for a few moments as the dots connected in her own mind. Then she saw it. "Oh," she said softly. "That's why you called me, too."
"Well, yeah, Maisie, you're my friend."
"Even after what I said to you? What I did to you?"
"Well, yeah, it was mean, what you did," I answered. "but I care about what happens to you."
"Oh, man!" she groaned. "Listen. I didn't tell anybody. About you. About Mark. Not even Miriam Clegg. I just asked her if she knew you."
"Oh," I said. It was nice to know, but somehow it didn't seem important. (At that moment, anyway. Afterward, I was pretty glad.)
"So," she said, with an air of settling back for a long conversation. "Do you want to tell me the story? Do you trust me? I mean, not the kidnapping, but the Mark story."
Oh, Maisie, I thought, I don't trust you, but I'm going to tell you anyway.
"Hey!" she cried out. "Is *that* why you see a therapist? I knew it was the Mark thing! Didn't I say so?"
"I guess," I conceded.
"So, spill!" she commanded.
I let out a big gust of air. "Okay, it all started last September. I missed the first two days of school..."
"Why?"
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
The old story of the scorpion and the frog came to mind. Maisie would be the scorpion... striking out at people is part of her nature. Maybe someday she could heal and change. Maybe. In a way, it didn't matter, because I knew that from now on, at least a part of me would always have an eye on her, ever vigilant. I'd been stung already, and I wasn't going to get stung again.
I didn't tell Maisie every single thing, but I gave her the big picture of how Mark became Marcie.
We talked and talked. It brought me back to when we'd first met in the railroad-station restaurant, when the two of us went off by ourselves and got to know each other. Back then, it was easy. There was no teasing. It was just two girls getting to know each other.
It was that way again, but different. There'd been a crisis, a cataclysm, a meltdown, and we weren't the same two people any more. We knew each other before everything happened, but "before" was gone, now. It would never come back.
How was I different? I guess I had a bit more backbone. And Maisie? Maisie was — what's the word? — not shy... subdued, maybe?
Then the word came to me: tentative. We were both being tentative with each other. Why? In my case, it was simple: she'd hurt me and I knew she might hurt me again.
For Maisie, it was something else. No, I take that back: it was practically everything. Once again, someone had been out to hurt her. Specifically her. Only her. The kidnappers didn't want me, they wanted Maisie. Just for money. And once they got their money, she would have been killed. From the very beginning, that was the idea: she was meant to die, along with the two brothers.
Maisie got that. She understood the intention. No one needed to spell it out: Once again, just for her, the world was not a safe place.
It wasn't as though someone was trying to kill Maisie. It was worse than that. It was that she didn't matter. Maisie knew that her death was just incidental to the plan. She was expendable.
Yes, she was lucky: she wasn't hurt — not physically anyway. And yet, even though the blow missed her, it struck her anyway.
And in the midst of all that, she'd lashed out and hurt me. Me, one of the few people who puts up with her, who for some insane reason wants to be with her, to be her friend.
Maisie was vulnerable and afraid. Someone had tried to kidnap and kill her. She became a virtual prisoner in her father's house, and she had no one she could call. She knew she'd hurt me, she knew she'd given me enough reason to hate her forever. And she knew she might hurt me again if she wasn't careful.
It's like the old story of the scorpion and the frog, with Maisie as the scorpion. Striking out at people is part of her nature. Maybe someday she'll heal and change. Maybe. In a way, it doesn't matter, because I know that from now on, at least a part of me will always have an eye on her, ever vigilant. I've been stung already, and I won't be stung again.
She didn't tease me, not even a little. I think she finally realized what she stood to lose. I'm glad she didn't start, because I would have had to finally put my foot down. I had a little speech prepared for her, about how easily her teasing had turned mean, and how destructive it can be to a friendship.
I had a couple speeches ready, depending on which direction the conversation took, but thankfully I didn't get to use any of them. I didn't need to.
The fact that she'd wished me dead, and then I'd almost died... it was too much for her.
It was almost too much for me, too, but the thing is... I'm better equipped to handle the hurt than she is. I can't forget what she did — and I won't forget. I know that Maisie is capable of that, and much, much worse. If I shut her out of my life for good, I'd be perfectly justified.
But I won't. Not now, anyway.
And not because she needs me, and not because I should. And not because she's alone and I feel sorry for her, or because I'm such a good person. I do feel sorry for her, but that's not the reason.
It's because Maisie is my friend.
Mrs. Earshon had said that Maisie's heart is broken, and she was right. More than that, I think Maisie had her soul ripped out of her. I don't know if she'll ever get over the things that happen to her.
What I do know is that I'm not Maisie. I have a good life, and a good family, and I *can* get over it. For as long as I can be friends with Maisie, I *will* be friends with Maisie.
After we talked out my story, I listened to hers. She told me about her father. Even when I filtered out Maisie's exaggerations, he still sounded like a complete and very pompous jerk.
But, oddly — and this was SO not Maisie — she didn't linger on the subject. Usually, she loved to heap abuse on someone she despised. This time, she didn't.
Instead, she switched over to tell me about her father's new girlfriend, Chrissie, who seemed to spend a lot of time with Maisie. In spite of what Maisie said at the beginning of the call, this woman didn't sound half bad, and I said as much to Maisie.
"Yeah, I guess she's okay," Maisie admitted. "I shouldn't have said that stuff before, about her being all fake. She's not. At least, I think she's not. Aside from those gigantic breasts, she's okay. She actually listens to me when I talk. She's only the second — I mean, the third adult to do that."
"Who were the other two?"
"The first was a lawyer, but he got paid for it, so I don't know if that counts. The second was your mother... will you tell her I said hello? And the third is Chrissie. She's going to take me shopping for clothes later. When my father scooped me up, he didn't let me pack my bags, so I don't have anything to wear out here, except the stuff I brought to your house and my stupid school uniform."
"Wow, clothes shopping!" I laughed. "That'll be new for you!"
"Yeah," she admitted. "And Chrissie knows how to put things together in a way that I like."
"I'm glad," I told her.
"You're glad she knows how to put clothes together?"
"No," I said. "That's not what I meant, but it doesn't matter."
When she finally finished telling me about things she'd done with Chrissie, things Chrissie had said, things Chrissie had worn, we hung up. It had gone much better than I expected. I didn't have to be hard with Maisie, not this time anyway. And I was glad she had a friend out in California, or at least someone who seemed to be looking out for her.
I took a little bathroom break, and then I called the school. I expected to get a message machine that would give me another number to call, but instead Sister Honororia herself answered the phone. She told me that she was in her office "cleaning up" and that she was at my disposal, so after checking with Mom, I told her I'd be right over.
"Sister, do you mind if I don't wear my uniform?" I asked.
She gave a humorless bark. "Marcie, at this point, you could come in your bathrobe. Don't worry about the uniform."
Mom was silent on the drive over. While we were stopped at a traffic light, she turned and looked into my eyes. I don't know what she thought I was going to do when I saw the nun, but she didn't ask. She just smiled and said, "I hope you know how proud of you I am."
I fumbled for a tissue. She handed me one.
When we pulled up in front of the school, I said, "Mom, do you mind if I go in there alone?"
"No," she said, "If you're sure."
"I can call you when I'm done."
"I'd rather wait out here," she said. "I'll listen to the radio and think for a bit." She reached over and squeezed my hand.
I got out of the car and walked toward the school building. When I was halfway to the front door, Sister herself opened it, and ushered me in.
"I'm so glad you're alright," she said. "You are alright, aren't you?"
"Yes, sister," I replied, and we went into her office.
Another nun served us tea and cookies, and then left.
Sister Honororia spoke first. "Marcie, I can't tell you how mortified I am by my brother's behavior. I'd long suspected, and sometimes known, that he was... not always honest or faithful in his duties... but... he is my older brother, and in spite of the fact that he and I are adults... grown up... he was always... dominant. I should have known better and resisted. If I'd followed my instincts and spoken to him, dealt with him, long ago, perhaps even when he and I were children, none of what happened to you would have occurred."
"It isn't your fault, sister," I said.
She ignored my remark and went on. "I won't bore you with the history of my life with my brother, except to tell you that one of the reasons I became a nun was to escape his influence. That's not to say that I don't have a true vocation, but my brother was always a bully and a totalitarian.
"When he became a policeman, I hoped that his profession would channel and discipline his harmful and controlling tendencies. Instead, I think, he made it a playground for his vices.
"Selfishly, I hoped and expected that when I took my vows, I'd be sent far away, as a missionary nun. I wanted to go to Africa, to Gambia or Somalia. I thought I could help the poor. But that didn't happen. I didn't see how a willingness to take the worst job could have been denied, but it was. Apparently my skills, whatever they are, were more in demand right here in Flickerbridge.
"I should have realized, when I couldn't run away, when the one thing I wanted most was denied me... I should have looked for a reason. All these years I've resented the fact that I couldn't escape from my brother, but now I finally see–" her voice broke a little here, and she set down her teacup "–I see, with painful clarity, that God kept me here for a reason."
She took a few difficult breaths and calmed herself. Then she went on. "God kept me here because I, and no one else, should have stood in my brother's way. I should have drawn a line. I should have told him when he was wrong. There were times when I could — when I should have spoken to his superiors. I should have made it clear when he overstepped his bounds, and forced him to face the consequences."
She put her hands in her lap and looked at me. "However... I didn't do my job. I didn't do any of that. Not even once. Not even a little. I failed at the one thing, the only thing, that God has ever asked of me." Tears rolled down her face. "And so it fell on you. I'm sorry, Marcie. I'm sorry with all my heart."
"But sister," I protested, "it's really not your fault. You didn't do anything."
"No, Marcie. It is my fault. It's my fault for exactly that reason: I didn't do anything."
She looked at me in silence for a moment, then said, "And now, I can't help but think back to our first meeting. I asked you whether you were clever or good."
I smiled.
She continued, "And you said you might be both. How right you were. How right you were."
She sighed and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "So! Are you coming back in January?"
"To school, you mean?"
"Yes, will you still be a BYHS student?"
"Oh," I said thoughtfully. I hadn't considered. When I first came here, I couldn't wait to leave, to go to public school, but now I felt... a part of the place. The thought of leaving never crossed my mind. "I'll be here, sister. I couldn't leave my friends."
"Yes, your friends. Susan... and Maisie, for whom you almost died. At my brother's hand..." The nun's face wrinkled up into a small, tight ball, and she began to cry. But only for a moment. "I'm sorry."
She took a quick breath and composed herself. Then she sipped some tea to steady herself before she spoke again.
"Well, Marcie, there is one more thing I want to tell you, and then I should let you go. It's a bit of news that I'm glad I'll be able to tell you myself. It's fitting that you should be the first student to hear. I'm leaving BYHS. In January, you'll have a new principal. I've already resigned from my post. After what's happened, in good conscience I couldn't possibly stay on."
"Oh, no!" I cried.
Her head jerked up at my sudden outburst, and slowly a half-smile appeared on her face.
"My, my," she said. "I certainly didn't expect that! Genuine dismay? Well, Marcie, that's a moment I'll treasure."
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
In the late Christmas afternoon I was in my room, sitting in a chair, hugging my knees and feeling glad to be clean and warm, when I heard two women talking outside. It sounded like friendly banter, but it never stopped or let up. I figured that the two were walking slowly, but they never seemed to move on. And they didn't quit jabbering for an instant. Finally, out of curiosity, I looked out the window.
The next day was Sunday, and the day after that was Christmas. It didn't snow. All we had for snow was the same old dirty snow that had been on the ground since my arrival. I didn't mind. I'd never seen snow on Christmas, so even if it was off-white, vanilla-and-chocolate, it was still the whitest Christmas I'd ever had.
We opened presents and had the big midday meal. Mom wouldn't let me help for some reason, but she wanted me to sit in the kitchen so she could see me. Not to be left out, Dad sat next to me at the kitchen table, and the two of us watched my mother bustle around. Occasionally she gave us little tastes of one thing and another. When all the dishes were happily cooking, the three of us set the dining room table.
I know the word nice is way overused. I use it too much, I'm sure, but that was how it was. The three of us, at home, fully and finally settled in our new house in our new town. We'd gotten through two major holidays here in Flickerbridge and so many changes. It was nice... yes, nice to take a breather.
In the late Christmas afternoon I was in my room, sitting in a chair, hugging my knees and feeling glad to be clean and warm, when I heard two women talking outside. It sounded like friendly banter, but it never stopped or let up. I figured that the two were walking slowly, but they never seemed to move on. And they didn't quit jabbering for an instant. Finally, out of curiosity, I looked out the window.
Mrs. Wix and Ms. Overmore were standing in front of my house. Together! There couldn't have been a less likely couple. The moment I recognized them, they looked up and saw my face in the window. My brow wrinkled in confusion at their apparent friendliness, and my mouth hung stupidly open. They both smiled and waved. I waved back, a bit confused, and ran downstairs when they started up the steps to my front door.
As I barreled down the stairs, I yelled to my mother, "Mom! Mzwixenovermore are here!"
My mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands and saying, "Marcie, slow down. Where's the fire? The way you pounded down the stairs, I almost thought you'd fallen and rolled all the way down. And gracious, I didn't understand a *word* of what you said. Oh! Is someone at the door?"
I opened it to find Ms. Overmore smiling quietly and Mrs. Wix positively beaming.
And they were so different... changed. It wasn't just that they were glad or happy, something was *gone*... something had left them. Something bad and heavy, and their faces looked soft, relaxed, and most of all, relieved.
Transfigured is too strong a word, but it was something like that, particularly for Mrs. Wix. I had never realized how hangdog she usually looked: so dowdy, so down, so... crushed, plain, and sad. Now she looked ten years younger, and her face was almost... beautiful. For the first time ever, she looked like Misty. I knew they were identical twins, but now Mrs. Wix finally looked the part.
After Christmas greetings were exchanged, and Mom asked "Won't you come in?" I took their coats, and the four of us sat around the dining-room table. I don't know where Dad was, and I don't know why we were sitting at the table. It seemed like a meeting. It felt like a meeting. I half expected Mrs. Wix to begin things by saying, "I guess you're wondering why I called you all here."
Instead, Mom offered tea.
Mrs. Wix glanced at Ms. Overmore, then replied, "That would be nice, but could we talk a little first?"
Then she pushed an elegantly wrapped package across the table to me. It was obviously a book, but the wrapping paper and ribbon were the most beautiful and elaborate I'd ever seen. The paper was gold-colored and heavy, and had a soft marbling in different shades of gold. It was lightly embossed with curved designs that felt like a smooth secret under my fingertips. The ribbon was a heavy, stiff material, and there was wire in the edges to make it keep its shape. The ribbon was nearly transparent, and the colors were dark burgundy edged with gold. As I carefully undid the wrapping, Mrs. Wix said, "It's from Misty."
"Misty?" I repeated cautiously, trying to not catch my mother's glance.
"Yes, my sister Misty," Mrs. Wix replied. She spoke with a bold self-assurance. "We know that she spoke to both of you, and she said she was with you when you were kidnapped. It's true, isn't it?"
The two women looked expectantly at Mom and me, so I nodded. They smiled knowingly, and Mrs. Wix gestured to my gift, urging me to open it more quickly.
I didn't want to spoil the wrapping, though! Making an effort not to rush, I lifted the taped edges as carefully as I could, to avoid tearing the paper. When I finally got it open, I said, "Wow! Cool!"
And it was cool. It was a beautiful leather-bound copy of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.
"A little hokey," Mrs. Wix admitted, "but she thought it was appropriate. You know, Christmas miracles and all."
I opened the inside cover, and saw the inscription "To Marcie Donner, Thanks! From Misty Sabatino, Christmas 2006" written in large, awkward letters.
"It took her forever to write. She said you'd understand how much effort it took," Mrs. Wix said. "I thought she was going to bite her tongue off." She imitated the way Misty stuck her tongue from the corner of her mouth to help her concentrate, and she and Ms. Overmore giggled. "She inscribed one for Susan as well. The two of you have matching gifts, just so you know."
"Thanks so much," I said. "But where is Misty?"
"She moved on," both women said together, and they laughed again. I wouldn't have been surprised if they shouted "Jinx!" but they didn't.
"What happened," Ms. Overmore told me, "is that after the police came and you were safe, Misty realized that it was wrong of her to hang around. I don't mean there at the cabin, but here... among the living." She hesitated a moment. "She realized it was wrong of her to hope that you would be..." – she hesitated again – "another teenage ghost she could be friends with."
Ms. Overmore glanced at me and Mom to see what effect this had on us, but I'd already told Mom the whole story. "I know she wanted that," I offered. "She's been alone for thirteen years." The two women shifted uncomfortably.
Then Ms. Overmore picked up the story again: "When you told Misty that you might not be a ghost when you died, she knew that you were right, and she began to wonder why. From the time she died, she never met another ghost. Not even one. So many people that she knew and didn't know had passed on, and none of them became ghosts.
"And so she thought, something must be keeping me here, and immediately she knew what it was. There was a piece of unresolved business that Misty needed to fix. It wasn't Misty's problem, really, but... See, when Misty died, so many people — myself included — thought she'd committed suicide. The nuns, of course, with the help of the police, immediately tried to cover it up–"
I couldn't help but interrupt. "But why? Why did they do that?"
Ms. Overmore replied, "There's a lot of shame associated with... that sort of death, and for Catholics, it's a mortal sin. And, ah" — she glanced at Mrs. Wix for a moment, then said, "The Sabatino family had given a lot of money to the school, and I guess Sister Honoraria felt that she owed them. You see, if Misty was a suicide, she couldn't have a Christian burial."
Mrs. Wix's mouth twitched, but she looked down and didn't say anything. Ms. Overmore touched her friend's arm and said, "Sorry."
Mrs. Wix roused herself, lifted her head, and said, "It's okay. Go on."
"Misty didn't know any of that. I guess she was still in shock from having died and discovering she was now a ghost. And so, even if she'd known that she was here for a reason, she had no way of finding out what that reason was. Until Susan gave her that letter." Ms. Overmore cleared her throat. "In fact, I was wondering how in the world she found that letter. Misty didn't know. Can you tell me?"
"What letter?" Mom asked.
I told my mother and the two teachers about the yearbook, the librarian's lie, and Susan's research.
Ms. Overmore bit her lip as she listened. After I finished talking, she said, "I knew that Susan was bright, but that was an amazing piece of deduction, especially for someone her age."
"She's brilliant," Mrs. Wix commented.
"And she was exactly right," Ms. Overmore added. Then she picked up the story. "I was so angry at the lies, at the face that everyone put on it." She sighed loudly and paused for a moment. "I *did* write that letter. I worked very hard on it, and no one in thirteen years ever knew that it was me who wrote it. Yes, Susan was right about everything: I *did* blame Maisie – my Maisie" (she gestured to Mrs. Wix) "for Misty's death, for exactly the reasons that Susan said."
Mrs. Wix took up the story. "Misty went to Yvette's house – you know I mean Ms. Overmore – and talked to her."
Ms. Overmore said, "It was three days before she convinced me that I wasn't losing my mind and that I'd been wrong about her death." She smiled at me. "You should have seen me at school. I was a total wreck. In any case, once Misty managed to show me that she was real, she was finally able to tell me how she died. She had a sensitivity to the weight-loss pills. She died from side effects, not from an overdose."
"And then she came to me," Mrs. Wix said, picking up the story, "and got me to call Yvette. She had an idea from something that Susan had done, she said. Susan sent you some sort of message through Misty? Anyway, Misty figured that if I called Yvette and told her certain things, then she would know for sure that Misty had really talked to her." Tears came to her eyes, but she didn't cry. She said, "Yvette came to my house, and Misty sat down with us. The three of us talked the entire night. It was such a shock when the sun came up."
"Once the two of us talked, once that wall of resentment and blame and guilt came down," Ms. Overmore said, "Misty was able to move on."
"What was it like?" I asked.
"When she moved on?" Mrs. Wix asked. "Oh," she said, blinking back some tears. "It was like when someone says goodbye and leaves. She was there with us, talking. When we finished, she said goodbye and she was gone."
We were silent for a few moments, then Mrs. Wix smiled at me and said, "She asked me to tell you that she won't have to wear those stupid workout clothes any more."
"Oh, good," I replied, with a laugh. "But I'll miss her! She was a good friend. She was like an older sister to me."
"Well, we miss her too!" Mrs. Wix said with a sob, and soon the four of us were bawling our eyes out. Of course, Dad picked exactly that moment to walk back in, and the look of confusion on his face was priceless. We four women looked up at his helpless bewilderment, and soon we were laughing harder than we'd been crying the moment before.
© 2007 Kaleigh Way
Our two visitors started shifting anxiously in their seats. I couldn't imagine what was on their minds.
"Uh, one reason we came over—"
"...if you don't mind..."
Maybe Misty had warned Mrs. Wix and Ms. Overmore that my Dad didn't know about her, but in any case, as soon as they saw him, the two immediately switched gears.
Mrs. Wix told my father about Sister Honororia's leaving – which he already knew — and said it was because of her brother's role in my kidnapping. He already knew that, too, but it left him to infer that our crying had something to do with... well, with something, somewhere in that bundle of information. At least he could feel that we didn't need him to do anything.
Still, the next thing she said was a total surprise. She told us that Ms. Overmore was going to be the new principal! "She'll be the first principal who isn't a nun in the history of the school!" Mrs. Wix announced proudly.
Ms. Overmore, in her turn, as part of the new old-friends mutual-admiration society, said, "They did ask you first, though."
"And you said no?" I asked.
Mrs. Wix smiled. "I'm taking a sabbatical year. I need some time to look at my life. I've been so closed up and inside myself ever since Misty died — which means my whole adult life. You may not realize this, Marcie, but I'm still pretty young, and I've been hiding under a rock all these years. I've got to shake myself! I need to go places and do things."
"You need to get your groove back, girl!" Ms. Overmore joked.
"Well, good for you!" I said. (It seemed like the right thing to say.)
Mom said some encouraging things as well, and then our two visitors started shifting anxiously in their seats. I couldn't imagine what was on their minds.
"Uh, one reason we came over—"
"...if you don't mind..."
"We were hoping you'd let us see the house a little bit..."
"...if we're not intruding."
My mother was only too happy to oblige. She explained, much to my embarrassment, that Maisie — my Maisie — — had done a great deal of the work, and pointed out many specific examples.
The room they mainly wanted to see, it turned out, was my bedroom. They oohed and aahed, and loved everything. "It's so different from how it used to be!" Mrs. Wix exclaimed. "This used to be our room — Misty's and mine — and now one girl lives in it alone!"
"The three of us spent hours here – years," Ms. Overmore declared. "A lot of it camped on the floor of the dressing room."
They were both astonished at how small the dressing room was. They both declared that they "remembered it being much larger."
After the tour, we had a late cup of tea, and then our visitors took their leave.
"I'm so glad you knew Misty," Mrs. Wix told me, her eyes shining. "She was a lovely person, a wonderful sister, and a very good friend. Now, thanks to you and Susan she's moved on to a better place, and Yvette and I have patched up a good old friendship gone bad." She gave me an awkward, if enthusiastic, hug, followed by a kiss on both cheeks from Ms. Overmore.
The two went off, arm in arm, into the Christmas evening.
Mom put her arms around me, apparently oblivious to the cold outside air. She rested her chin on the top of my head and started talking, "Oh, Marcie. Life has been one crazy adventure after another ever since you became a girl. As frightening and stressful as it gets, though, I don't know whether I'd want it any other way. I mean, look at all the good you've done," and she gestured with her hand at the retreating figures of my high-school teachers. "Even though you were in awful danger, you kept your head and came through, and put a bad man behind bars, where he belongs."
I heaved a big sigh, and said, "Yeah, but this time really did it for me. I am SO through with any kind of action or adventures. From now on I'm going to live a quiet life, and REALLY keep a low profile for once."
Mom held me in silence for a moment, then I realized she was shaking. I turned my head and saw that she was stifling a laugh. When I frowned in distress, the laugh just burst out of her.
"Oh, Marcie! I'll believe that when I see it!"
I rolled my eyes. Mothers!
© 2007 by Kaleigh Way
Marcie apparently escapes on a South-Sea sailing adventure with a group of Dutch cheerleaders.
copyright © 2008 Kaleigh Way — All Rights Reserved
This is really the story of a vacation I took in the South Seas, or mostly the story of my South-Sea vacation. Susan would say that it's ostensibly about my vacation. Don't worry if you don't know what "ostensibly" means... it will all become clear once I get underway.
Today is Wednesday. It's two days after Christmas. It's a week and a half since I was kidnapped and escaped.
Now I'm prisoner again, this time in my own house.
Don't worry, though — I won't be a prisoner for long. I'm going to get away pretty quickly. I've just got to tell you a couple of things... a couple of unpleasant things... that happened before my vacation started. You need to hear about them, or you won't understand what came after.
I've already told the story of my kidnapping; I'm not going to tell it again. This time I have a much stranger story — or maybe a couple of stories — to tell. They're all clumped together and connected, and it's very confusing. I'm pretty sure that it all makes sense in the end, but you have to know the whole story first...
Keep in mind that while I'm telling this story — or these stories — to you, I'm also trying to get the facts straight in my own head, and get it all written down before I forget any of the details.
This is really the story of a vacation I took in the South Seas, or mostly the story of my South-Sea vacation. Susan would say that it's ostensibly about my vacation.
Don't worry if you don't know what "ostensibly" means... it will all become clear once I get underway.
Unfortunately, before I can take off on my vacation, and tell you how and why I got to sail on the other side of the earth, I have to tell you about the mess here at home.
Let's start with Christmas.
Christmas was great. Christmas was mess-free. Christmas had snow, presents, unexpected happy surprises... It was peaceful and wonderful. My family and I finally felt settled and at home in our new house here in Flickerbridge, New Jersey. I was still more than a little freaked by what happened to me, but I was coping. I had help, professional help, help from friends like Susan (and even Maisie), and Mom and Dad were great.
The world and I were returning to normal. It was Christmas, after all! Full of hope and joy, turkey and mistletoe, glad tidings and jingle bells. Love, love, love. Peace on earth, goodwill to men.
At least, that was how it was until the day after Christmas. On that day, Christmas was officially over, and whatever it is that keeps the world sane and safe, broke down and fell to pieces. All the shattered pieces came and landed on my lawn.
My house was under siege.
I couldn't even peek out the window. Not even a tiny, tiny bit. Not even half an eyeball. If I did, lights would snap on and cameras would swivel, straining to catch any glimpse of me, even if it was just my eye or part of my cheek.
All the curtains were drawn, and all the gaps where the curtains met were covered with black plastic sheets. Well, okay, they're really garbage bags that Dad taped to the glass. The point is, no one could look in and no one could look out. A little sun seeped in at the edges, but we had a light on in every room. We didn't dare go out... well, Dad went out this morning: he had to go to work. I wanted to watch as he braved the crowd of reporters and cameramen, but there was no place that I could. He called later to say that it wasn't too bad; they didn't jostle him or block his car or anything like that. It was just a barrage of shouts, questions, flashbulbs, and bright lights.
We even had to unplug the phone. Luckily, during the first wave of reporters, Dad had picked up three throwaway cell phones, and that's what we used. Back then, during the first wave, we hadn't needed them, but we sure needed them now.
See, what happened is that when I escaped from the kidnappers, reporters came. They swarmed for three days, then left. That was the first wave. It was a little alarming, but thankfully brief, and I thought (with some relief) that my time in the media spotlight was over.
Once the reporters left, giving no indication that they'd ever be back, we had a quiet, peaceful Christmas. I was looking forward to the week ahead; I didn't have to go back to school until January 8, and I really needed that time to recover. My nerves were shot, and I'm only thirteen years old! I had some extra sessions scheduled with Mr. Angle, my therapist, and for once I was looking forward to seeing him.
In case you're wondering why the reporters came back and why there were so many more of them the second time — well, I had the same question, and I was going to ask Ms. Gifford when I saw her. Grace Gifford is the District Attorney, and I had an appointment with her that morning at ten.
Okay: deep breath! Let me get my bearings before we go on. I'm trying to get to the vacation as quick as I can... so what's still in the way? (1) I have to tell you what Ms. Gifford said, (2) I have to tell you about the secret passage, and (3) you need to know about the horrible dinner that Ida cooked.
Once I cover those three things, we'll be good to go — ready for the plane; ready to leave Flickerbridge far behind.
SO...
Mom was holding together pretty well. Not great, but she hadn't quite flipped all the way out. It seemed like all her tension and nervousness went into her hair. She looked half-crazed, but she behaved quite calmly.
However, she told Ms. Gifford, in a voice verging on hysteria, that there was NO WAY she could drive through the pack of reporters at our house and then through the second pack at the courthouse. She couldn't, and she wouldn't.
How could you blame her? Could you imagine my mother behind the wheel, me next to her, and nothing outside the car windows but a mass of shouting bodies? How would she know if she'd hit one of the them, or run over three or four?
Apparently Ms. Gifford couldn't blame Mom, either. She told her that a police car would pick us up and take us home.
Getting out of the house wasn't too hard. Two tall policemen flanked us, and warned us to keep our eyes straight ahead. "Don't listen to anything they say," one of them cautioned. "Tune them out. Just look straight ahead and concentrate on getting into the car."
The police cruiser brought us through a back entrance to the courthouse, so we bypassed the media circus on the front steps. As we waited for the elevator, Mom kept looking over her shoulder nervously. I just watched the floor indicator, with one hand on my stomach as the elevator inched nearer.
When at last we arrived in Ms. Gifford's office, she was at the window, peeking through the curtains.
"I've never seen so many reporters in my entire life!" she exclaimed, by way of greeting. "They're like a flock of sheep out there! Did you manage to get through okay?"
I shrugged. Mom just sighed.
We all sat down. Ms. Gifford clasped her hands on top of her desk and grinned at me. "Don't worry," she said. "It won't last forever. Just think: for celebrities, it's like this every single day."
"Yikes!" I commented. "That must be awful."
She froze for a minute and looked at me.
In that moment I understood: she was lapping it up. She loved the attention. Dad told me later that it was probably good for her career.
For me, it was a very different matter, and for Mom, it was just plain hell.
Ms. Gifford straighted her posture and got very business-like. "Marcie, let's talk about what's going to happen today. We're going to take your deposition. All that means is that you answer questions about what happened to you. I'll ask some questions and the defense will ask some questions. All that's expected of you is that you tell the truth."
"Fine," I said.
"This is important, so don't let yourself be rushed or get flustered. If you need to pause and collect yourself, do it. Remember: you'll be under oath, and your testimony today will be used during the trial."
"What?" I said. "I don't understand. Isn't this the trial? Isn't the trial today? I thought the indictment was the start of the trial."
She smiled. "No, Marcie. The indictment is the presentation of the charges. The trial probably won't happen until the summer. Right now we have to build the case and prepare for trial. The defense and I have a lot to do before then. It's even possible that we won't go to trial. They could agree to a deal, or plead out..." She stopped and took a breath.
"Okay, I get it," I told her.
We talked a bit more, and then went to a small meeting room, where we did the deposition. It took a long time. We broke for lunch and went back to it, and it wasn't until three in the afternoon that everyone agreed we were finished.
We went back to Ms. Gifford's office, and she asked her assistant to call for our ride home.
"Now, Marcie," she said, "your mother tells me that you don't have school next week. I hope I'm not out of line suggesting this, but if you have a relative in another state — a grandparent, an aunt or uncle, a close friend — anyone you could stay with, NOW is a good time to go. And by 'now' I mean today or tomorrow. Go away if you can. Get away, as far from Flickerbridge as you can go.
"You still have to get over what happened to you, and that's going to be hard with reporters dogging your footsteps. You should take off somewhere, go someplace, while you still can. Once the trial starts, you won't be able to leave town, so... in the meantime, you ought to jump at any chance to travel that you can find. Go somewhere that you can relax, and not look over your shoulder.
"A lot of the reporters are just here for the arraignment, so the crowd will thin in two or three days, but they won't all go, and once the trial starts, they'll all come back. Unless, of course, another big story knocks us out of the spotlight. But I doubt that's going to happen. So, Marcie, you and your mother better get used to it: you're going to be in the news for a long time to come."
"Why?" I asked. "Why is this such a big story? Doesn't this sort of thing happen all the time?"
Ms. Gifford's face went white for a moment. "All the time?" she repeated. "No, thank God! It doesn't happen all the time! Good lord!
"Marcie, this is a *very* unusual case. To start off with, a kidnapping is always shocking news. Kidnapping a minor is even worse. Thankfully, you got off without a scratch, but because you did, everybody wants to see and hear the brave girl and find out how she got through her ordeal. Understand? Already, just with that, you have a story.
"Then you get a twist: the real target was another girl, who happens to be your best friend. Add to that, the fact that this girl is an heiress, a skinny, blonde, thirteen-year-old with a trust fund. A future Paris Hilton? Now, it's even more of a story.
"Add to that, the fact that the kidnapper is Robert Strange, a police officer with more than 20 years of service.
"Add to that, the fact that Officer Strange is the brother of Mary Beth Strange, also known as Sister Honoraria, a person of high standing in our community, AND the principal of the high school that both girls attend."
Mary Beth Strange? I silently echoed. *That's* her real name?
"Then, add to everything I've said so far," she continued, making a motion with her hands as if she was gathering all those facts into a huge pile on top of her desk, "the fact that the girl who was kidnapped is a sort of teenage action heroette, who recently foiled a bank robbery — in which, incidentally, Officer Strange was also involved!
"If all of that wasn't enough, just consider the fact that you escaped your kidnappers by shooting your captor with his own gun — a man nearly twice your size — after which you locked *him* in the cell where he kept *you* prisoner, and then called 911, just as cool as you please!"
"I wasn't so cool," I said, cringing, and my face going pale. "I was scared to death." As I spoke, I had a vivid flash of myself, emerging from the cabin, filthy, trembling from the cold, teeth chattering, my hands barely working, and my knees knocking so hard that I could barely stand.
"It doesn't sound that way on the 911 tapes. You told the operator what to do; she didn't tell you."
Ms. Gifford took a deep breath. "Of course, there's more. Much, much more."
My eyes bugged. More? More about me?
Ms. Gifford paused and looked Mom and me in the face. "I'm not sure when this is going to become public knowledge... probably in a day or two, but neither of you should disclose it or make any comment on it. Understand? This is strictly in confidence.
"It turns out that Officer Strange has been abusing his power ever since he joined the force. Extortion, bribes, connections to organized crime... money laundering... even gun-running! Can you believe that? Gun-running in Flickerbridge!? It's like a dozen episodes of Law And Order rolled into one, in our quiet little New Jersey town! I've had to hire temporary staffers to keep up with all the paperwork!
"Once it became clear that this bad boy is definitely going to jail, people began to come forward. They're not afraid of reprisals any more, or they're emboldened by your example, or both, but in any case not a day goes by without some one, two, or three people coming forward to lodge a new complaint against that man.
"So," she concluded, "This is a story with legs. This is a story that seems to have no end. The more they look at the crook, the more bad things... shocking things... criminal things, they find. The more they look at you, the more amazing and heroic things they find. You were a busy girl back in California, too, apparently. Surprisingly, and most apropos, you aided in the capture of two kidnappers, one of them a wanted criminal."
She blew out the rest of her breath, and leaned back in her chair. "Don't be surprised if someone wants to make a movie about all this. Lifetime-television-for-women, most likely."
"What?" I said, going white again.
She looked at me in surprise. "Wouldn't you like that? Hell, I know *I* would! I'd have thought that any teenage girl would love to have a movie made about her!"
"Uh, not me," I stuttered.
"Really? You've never thought about which actress could play you? I have! I'm thinking Rose McGowan... for me, I mean — you know, Paige from Charmed? A lot of people tell me there's a resemblance."
"Um..."
"Just imagine, maybe your favorite actress could play you. Up on the big screen, or on TV! Wouldn't that be the coolest thing?"
"I guess," I said, feeling a bit faint.
"Marcie, are you all right?" she asked, concern in her voice.
"I don't know," I told her. "I'm seriously thinking about passing out."
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"No, it wasn't that..." I hesitated. "It was Ms. Gifford..."
I wasn't sure how much I wanted to say. The real reason I was upset was all the media attention... what it might lead to. What it would have to lead to, if it kept up. If the reporters started looking into my life, they'd find out pretty quickly that I used to be a boy.
I didn't pass out, but I was pretty freaked.
Ms. Gifford seemed to think she could talk me into liking the idea of my-life-as-a-movie, but the more she talked about it, the more my anxiety grew.
Finally, she understood that she was only making things worse by talking about it. The tipping point must have been when I shrieked, "Can you PLEASE stop talking about a movie of my life?"
She was puzzled and a little shocked, but she dropped the subject.
"Okay," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
"Can we go home now?" I asked.
"Are you going to be alright?" she asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
"Probably," I said, putting my hand on my stomach. "I don't know. Can I get back to you on that?"
When we got off the elevator into the parking garage, we saw a familiar face.
"Theresa!" I cried, delighted to see her. "What are you doing here?" In case you don't remember, Theresa was the detective who took me home after the kidnapping.
She was wearing a very cool dark-gray pantsuit with a black blouse. "I'm your ride home," she told me. "Do you mind?"
"Heck, no!" I said. It's funny... I only met her that one time, but I feel so much affection for her, as if we were old friends.
"Good," she said. "I was in the building because I had to give testimony, and when I heard you needed a ride, I volunteered. Couldn't pass up the chance to see my favorite teenage crime-fighter!"
"Oh," I said, pulling back into myself a bit, as if her last few words had exposed a wound. I thought she didn't notice... she didn't seem to notice. But then, after greeting my mother, she looked down at me, and pulled me into a hug. I grabbed her tight and held on.
"Don't worry," she said. "You'll be okay, kid."
I sucked the tears back inside of me before they had a chance to come out, and smiled at Theresa. Gesturing with her arm, she said, "Come on, my car's over here."
While we crossed the garage, Mom whispered to me, "Why don't you sit in front, with Theresa?"
We pulled out of the dimly lit garage, back into daylight. Once we were underway, Theresa asked, "Was it difficult? You had your deposition today, right?"
"Yes, I had my deposition, but no, it wasn't hard." I said. Then, as an afterthought, "Well, sometimes it wasn't hard."
"It upset you," she offered.
"No, it wasn't that..." I hesitated. "It was Ms. Gifford..."
I wasn't sure how much I wanted to say. The real reason I was upset was all the media attention... what it might lead to. What it would have to lead to, if it kept up. Once the reporters started looking into my life, they'd find out pretty quickly that I used to be a boy.
"Grace?" Theresa asked, puzzled. "She didn't do something to upset or offend you, did she?"
"No, not really... not directly."
Theresa gave me a quick look, and a smile that said, You don't have to talk if you don't want to. But if you *do* want to talk, I'm listening.
Encouraged, I went on, "She kept talking about someone making a movie of my life."
"And that's what upset you?"
"Yes."
Theresa again kept silent. It was my choice to go on talking, or just shut up. I went on.
"I was afraid... I am afraid that all the reporters and other people might start digging into my life... and..." Then I stopped, because beyond that point, lay Mark, the boy I used to be.
"You're afraid they might find something that could embarrass you," Theresa offered.
"Yes," I said, happy to leave it at that.
"I understand," Theresa said.
Do you? I thought. How could you possibly understand?
Mom interrupted at that point. "Theresa, please don't take this the wrong way, because I know you're very capable... but there's only one of you, and there are so many reporters and cameramen back at the house... and..."
Theresa smiled. "I understand, Mrs. D," she replied. "Don't worry: I'm not going to be alone. A patrol car's meeting us at your house, and two big, burly friends of mine will make sure that nobody gets near either one of you."
"Oh, thanks!" Mom breathed a huge sigh of relief and sank back in her seat.
Theresa looked into the rear-view mirror at my mother's face for a long moment, then glanced at me. "Do you guys mind if I come in for a sec when we get to your place? There's something I want to talk to you about." She followed this with a reassuring smile directed at me.
"Yes, of course," Mom said. "You don't mind, do you, Marcie?"
"No," I said, smiling. "She's my favorite police detective."
"I'm the only police detective you know," Theresa countered, and I laughed.
Mom made us tea. The three of us sat at the kitchen table. Theresa cupped her hands around the hot mug, looking down at it. Her mouth was working slightly, as if she trying to figure out the best way to say something. Then she looked at Mom and me, and stretched her hand toward me, palm up. I put my hand in hers. It was warm, nearly hot, from the tea. She squeezed my hand, and kept hold of it.
"What I'm going to tell you," she began, "is something that Grace Gifford doesn't know yet. I've decided to tell her tomorrow. I wanted to tell you first.
"Sometimes I have to work for the district attorney... investigating, doing background checks, stuff like that." She paused for a moment, then said, "I think I know what's worrying you, Marcie: why you're afraid of the reporters... and why the idea of a movie scares you."
I stiffened, and she felt it through my arm, so she gripped my hand a little tighter.
"You're afraid they're going to find out about Mark," she said in an even tone, looking me straight in the eyes.
"But... how..." I faltered.
"You're the chief witness for the prosecution," Theresa explained. "Grace wanted to be sure that she didn't get any surprises. Imagine if you were sitting in the witness chair and she found out that you'd shot someone else in the foot two years ago."
"Is that legal?" Mom asked. "I mean, poking around in someone else's life like that?"
"I didn't want to do it. I often hate doing it," Theresa replied, "but the D.A. really needs to know. By the way, I was pretty impressed with some of the things you did back in Tierson. It was kind of odd when there was nothing before that."
I actually began shaking as I said, "So, if you know, tomorrow Ms. Gifford will know... then the papers will know—"
"Hold on there," Theresa said. "The papers, the media won't automatically know, and Ms. Gifford can't tell them. I'm just letting you know that *I* found out, and it wasn't hard. If the media starts taking a close look at you, it won't take them long to find out."
I looked at her wild-eyed. I heard her, but what she said didn't help. "It will be on TV," I continued. "My school will know, and Dad's job will know..."
"Everybody could potentially know," Theresa said, cutting it short. "Right."
"I kind of thought," I said, beginning to cry, "that I could just quietly be a girl, and no one would ever know... that I was... that I used to be... a boy."
To my surprise, Theresa didn't seem very sympathetic. She sipped her tea and waited for me to stop crying. Mom was also quiet, watching to see how things played out between me and the police detective. Neither of them spoke, neither moved to comfort me. So, it was a bit strange: it was like crying on a stage, with people just watching, interested but not involved. I cried quietly for maybe a half a minute, then stopped.
Mom said, "Theresa? I've never known your last name."
"Dandino. Do you want my badge number, too?"
"No," Mom replied quietly. "I was just curious."
"Marcie," Theresa said to me. "Listen to me. I've seen a lot of horrible things in my short career, and I've sat at a lot of kitchen tables, stood at a lot of front doors, and had to give some pretty bad news to some pretty nice people. And, quite frankly, I understand that you're upset, but this is really nothing. I'm not saying you're not entitled to have yourself a good cry, but then you've got to straighten your shoulders and go on. There are a lot of people a lot worse off than you. Remember that. You're young and healthy and attractive. You have a nice house, a nice family, and everybody thinks the world of you. Life goes on, you know? You're not the first transkid in Flickerbridge, and you won't be the last. At least you had a shot at nobody knowing who you used to be, but all the others had to change on the spot, in their schools, with the people who've known them their whole life.
"Maybe you ought to get in touch with them, find out what's it like. Realize that you're not the only one in your situation."
"Were any of those children — the ones you just mentioned — outed on national TV?" Mom asked.
Theresa froze for a moment, then admitted, "No, none of them have."
Mom nodded. She didn't need to say the rest: So it's not "nothing."
Theresa drank the rest of her tea, and said, "I just wanted to give you the heads-up, so you'd know it was coming, and not be taken by surprise."
"We appreciate that," Mom told her. "Thanks."
"If there's anything I can do," Theresa said, "call me. I don't know that there's anything I can do, but here's my card." She stood up and set a business card on the table. "Sorry to bring bad news, but anyway... just keep one thing in mind, Marcie: you're going to be alright. Remember that."
I sat in the kitchen alone while Mom made a phone call to Dad. I wasn't sure what to think. I had no idea how anyone would react. I guess I'd see tonight, when I'd tell Ida. She was one of the people closest to me. And I'd have to tell Susan. And the people back in Tierson: Eden, Jerry — oh, my God! Jerry. How would *he* take it? At least he wouldn't be able to break up with me over it — we'd already done that. Still, I had to tell him before he heard it from someone else. Even if it made him hate me. Would it make him hate me?
Mom came back to the kitchen with her cell phone in her hand. She'd never really been comfortable with one, and she held it as if it was going to bite her or explode or both. "Your father wants to talk to you," she said.
I put the phone to my ear. "Dad?"
"How are you doing, kid?" he asked.
"I'm alright," I said. "I'll be alright."
"Remember, your Mom and I are always behind you, with you, wherever we need to be, okay? We'll get through this together, alright?"
"Okay," I said, sniffling.
"Listen," he said. "I have to tell you something that has to remain a family secret."
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"You cannot tell anyone, not even a hint. Do you understand?"
"I guess," I said hesitantly. I was mightily confused.
"Don't guess," he insisted. "Tell me you understand: this has to be a secret between you, me, and your mother. No one else. No one else on earth."
"Okay," I said. I still had no idea what he was talking about.
He took a deep breath. "Marcie, do you remember hearing that our house has a bomb shelter?"
"Yes," I said, "but it's walled off. We can't get into it."
"Right," he said. "That's not exactly true. In fact, it's not true at all. There's a secret door in the basement that your mother is going to show you tonight."
"Why?" I asked, more than bewildered.
He ignored my question. "I don't want you going down there, or taking your friends down there. Especially boy friends. Is that understood?"
"Yes, but why?"
"Your mother is worried about getting past the reporters tonight, when you leave to go to Ida's. She imagines — and she's probably right — that they're going to dog your steps all the way to Ida's house–"
"So what's that got to do with a bomb shelter?" I asked, bewildered.
"Here's the thing." He hesitated. "The bomb shelter has a second entrance, or second exit, however you want to put it. There's a secret way in and out of the house."
"NO WAY!" I shouted.
"Jeez! My ears, Marcie!"
"Sorry!"
"It's okay. Anyway, it comes out in a little stone outbuilding behind the hedge out back."
"Cool! But that's not our property, is it?"
"It is. We have an easement on the lot behind ours, and this is why."
"What's an easement?"
"Ask your mother later. I don't have time to explain. But listen to me, Marcie. I don't want you using the secret entrance at all, except for emergencies, and your mother feels that tonight qualifies. Each time you use it, you increase the chance of it being discovered, so it's better not to use it at all."
"Okay," I agreed. I was nearly jumping out of my skin. I couldn't wait to get down there and check it out!
"Once it's discovered, it's not a secret any more."
"Got it," I replied.
"Sounds like this bit of news has cheered you up a little," he commented.
"Yeah, just a little bit," I laughed. "Are you going to meet us at Ida's, Dad?"
"No," he said. "I'm going to camp out in a hotel near work tonight. Maybe tomorrow as well. We've got a lot going on, and running the gauntlet of those reporters morning and night would wear me thin.
"Oh, and one more thing: Did your mother talk to you about visiting my sister Jane until school starts?"
"No, she didn't!" I said. "Aunt Jane?" At first I was excited by the prospect, but then remembered that in a few days everyone in Tierson would probably know about Mark. Oh, well. Aunt Jane, Denise, and Alice already knew about me, and they were still my friends. I had the feeling that Eden and Carla would be okay... I stopped thinking about it right there. I didn't want to think about it any more. Not right now, anyway.
"We agree that it's a good idea for you to get away. If not with Jane, well, we have plenty of other relatives that would love to see you."
Would they? I wondered, blushing. Still... after that talk with Theresa, I wasn't feeling so... afraid and inadequate. Now I was curious. I wanted to see who would still want me, who'd be on my side, once they found out.
"We'll work something out, and we'll work it out soon, hopefully tonight." Dad said. "Now maybe you and your mother should go down to the basement and clean the secret passage: knock down the cobwebs, scare away the mice."
"Yick," I said.
"Everything has its price, Marcie," Dad said.
"Yeah," I said, "I know. Still, a secret passage!"
"Yeah," Dad laughed. "I know. It's a hoot, isn't it?"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"But what if it isn't?" I asked her. "What if it's not going to be alright?"
She took a deep breath and said, "Then we deal with it. Whatever that means."
There were no mice, or rats, or snakes, or people living in the secret passage, but it was dank and creepy. There were dim lights spaced along the way, which Dad had replaced when we first moved in. Mom told me that Dad had also cleaned it a little: just enough so that he and the building inspector could get in there.
At that time, Mom couldn't bear to even look inside, and Dad had taken an hour-long shower afterward.
Here is how the secret part of the house is set up: It's hidden behind the north wall of the basement. This wall, which is at the back of the house, is full of built-in cabinets and bookcases, made of thick, heavy wood. It's very solid stuff. You can knock on it all day, and never hear a hollow sound. Knock, and it sounds like there's concrete behind.
This is how you get inside: You open one of the lower cabinets and — crouching down — you reach inside, all the way to the back, inside the top, on the right. When your fingers find a metal ring (you can't see it by looking), you pull on that ring until you hear a springy plonk!, which is the sound of the catch releasing. Then you stand up, put both hands on the bookcase, and push.
The bookcase is on a track with rollers. It slides backward, into the wall.
Once you step through, you find yourself in an entryway. Straight ahead is the tunnel that leads outside. To the left is the huge heavy door to the bomb shelter.
"Let's leave the bomb shelter for another time," Mom said. "It's a huge room, and it's a mess. Someday we'll have to clean in there." She shuddered. "You can have a look tomorrow, if you like, but right now we have to clean this passage. We don't want to go to Ida's all covered in cobwebs!"
We'd put on our oldest clothes and tied big kerchiefs over our heads. Well, they weren't really kerchiefs. Mom cut up an old sheet, so the pieces would be long enough to hang down our backs. We didn't want any spiders (or worse) dropping down our necks!
Then, donning filter masks, rubber gloves, and safety glasses (you never know!) we attacked the tunnel. Before I went in, I tried to hang a can of bug killer on my belt, or stick it into my waist, but it didn't work. In the end I had to settle for leaving it on the floor behind me, and moving it with me as I went along.
The way we worked was this: I took an old broom, and walked step by step down the tunnel, swinging at all the webs and dirt. When I'd come upon a spider or other creepy thing, I'd bathe it with bug killer, until it ran off. Mom followed behind with the wet/dry vac.
Every so often my broom would get so hopelessly and disgustingly covered with spider silk and greasy dust, that I'd go back to Mom and have her vacuum it off.
We had to empty the vacuum cleaner three times. Yuck, yuck, yuck! Each time it was full of grossly compressed disgustingness mixed with greasy dust. I wanted to close my eyes when I touched it, but at the same time I wanted my eyes open to be sure that none of the dead spiders jumped out and ran inside my clothes.
Even though all we did was swing a broom and vacuum, getting to the end of the passage took a lot longer than I expected. When we finally reached the stop of the stairs that led outside, we had just enough time to quickly shower and change.
Once we were clean and dressed, we draped new pieces of sheet cloth over our heads, took a deep breath, and went inside.
The passageway was only wide enough for one person, so Mom led the way. At the end of the long, arched passage, was a set of stone steps with an iron gate at the top. The gate opened inward, and was secured by a chain and padlock.
Mom opened the gate, and let me go through. Then she took a small flashlight from her purse, switched it on, and handed it to me. She went back down the stairs, turned off the lights, and came running back up to join me. Now we were both standing inside the stone outbuilding.
"Your father grilled me on how to do this," she explained, as she replaced the chain and padlock. Then she turned to the door leading outside. It had a deadbolt lock, which she opened, and the two of us stepped into the cold evening air. There were no footprints on the ground where we were: it was a space between two hedges. Mom pushed the door closed, and relocked the deadbolt.
"Turn off the flashlight," she whispered. I did, and handed it to her. Then crunching through the snow, we made our escape through the driveway of the neighbors in back of us.
Once we reached the sidewalk, Mom slipped her arm through mine and smiled. I could feel the tension draining out of her.
"Oh!" she breathed. "We're free! At least for a little while, anyway. It's so nice to get away from those reporters and the cameras and the lights! I don't know how celebrities do it... I don't know how they can even live, if it's anything like this!"
"Yeah," I said. I was happy for her.
At the same time, my worries about the future were sitting in my stomach, gnawing at me. I knew how badly Mom had been freaking out, so I wanted her to enjoy this evening. I tried to banish the worry from my face. I decided to hide it from her, at least for tonight.
But she saw it. Even here, under the pale glow of the street light, she saw it, and the Mom in her rose to meet it. "Don't worry, Marcie," she said in a gentle voice. "It's going to be alright."
"But what if it isn't?" I asked her. "What if it's not going to be alright?"
She took a deep breath and said, "Then we deal with it. Whatever that means."
We started walking, very slowly, and after a few paces I said, "What about school? What happens when they find out?"
"Ah, school," Mom said in a funny tone. "Honey, I have a confession to make. When we came here from California, your father and I were pretty, um, well... frightened by all the things that happened to you... and so... we thought..."
"Oh, you didn't!" I said, as a sense of outrage rose in me.
Mom drew in a breath and gave me a concerned look.
"You did, didn't you? You already told the school!"
"Before you even came to New Jersey — yes, we did. I'm sorry."
"But why?"
"Well, we couldn't deceive them. The legal risk was just too great... also, we thought that if you thought that you might be discovered, it would make you more cautious..."
I twisted my mouth in chagrin. "You figured I'd keep a low profile."
She didn't laugh. She said, "Yes, that's what we thought. At least, that's what *I* thought. Are you angry with me?"
I walked a few steps, thinking. I wanted to be angry with her, but somehow I couldn't work myself into it. She walked beside me, quietly waiting for my verdict. "No," I said. "I'm not angry. I'm kind of glad I didn't know. Do all the teachers know?"
"Yes. The teachers, the staff, the administration. You're not the first... girl like you to go there, as it turns out."
"Really?"
"Yes, but they wouldn't tell me more. Obviously, they couldn't violate the confidentiality of the other girl..."
The *other* girl? Does that mean there's another girl like me at BYHS, right now? I filed that thought away for the future.
"I'm sorry we deceived you, honey. I'd understand if you were angry."
I took a few more steps, breathing the cold night air. So... the school knew. So what? "No," I said. "I'm glad. At least that's *one* telling out of the way. So... what about Dad's job?"
Mom gave a short laugh. "Well, there, I think, it won't be such a surprise. They already went through the Mark-to-Marcie switch once already. Some of them might have guessed... or at least suspect..."
That made sense. "I have to tell Susan," I said. "Maybe I could walk over tomorrow morning–" I stopped. I'd have a flock of reporters behind me if I did.
"You can't use the secret entrance," Mom said. "This is a special occasion — we needed to get away."
"I can call her," I said.
Mom knew that Maisie already knows... so, who's next?
"Oh, Mom," I said quietly. "I decided that I want to tell Ida tonight. Is that okay? What do you think?"
Mom bit her lower lip and looked at me.
"Oh, Mom!" I said, crossly. "Who else did you tell?" I was beginning to feel a little cheated. All this time, I'd been burdened with a secret, and now I couldn't even tell it, because everyone already knew! "Does every-frickin-body in Flickerbridge know about me?"
"Watch your language, young lady," she cautioned.
"Frickin's not bad," I said.
"It's too close to what you really mean," she said.
I sighed.
"Anyway...," Mom continued, "to answer your question, everybody in Flickerbridge doesn't know. Only Ida. When you went to sleep over at her house, I *had* to tell her."
"What did she say?"
"She took it in stride. I mean, she saw the moving men unload all those Mark boxes, and she knew I hid them in the basement. So..."
"Do all our relatives know?"
"Pretty much. All the relatives we could think of."
I didn't ask how they took the news. I could wait to find out.
All in all, it seemed like nearly everyone had already been told. Like I said, I felt cheated. I didn't get to tell it. Oh, well.
The only ones left to hear were the girls in my school, the people in my town, and the people who watch TV or read newspapers. I'd have to settle for that.
When Ida opened the door, her mouth fell open in astonishment. She let us come inside, then ducked out to look up and down the street.
"How did you get here?" she asked in a tone of surprise. "I expected a whole herd of people on your heels!"
Mom said, grinning, "We asked them politely to give us some space. We told them when we'd be back, and asked them to watch the house while we were gone."
Ida laughed. "Oh, you did not!"
"Okay," Mom agreed, as if she'd been joking. "Marcie is friends with a police detective named Theresa. She picked us up and dropped us a couple of blocks from here, so we could walk a little bit. It's the first time we've been able to stretch our legs since it all began."
"Oh, you poor things!" Ida said. "Here, let me get your coats."
"Mmm," Mom said. "Something smells good."
"Yes," Ida said proudly. "I've cooked dinner!"
"You did?" I asked, incredulous.
"Yes, I did!" Ida laughed. "I'm so proud of myself! I hope that you're both hungry."
As a matter of fact, we were. I almost told her that we'd worked up an appetite cleaning the secret passage, but Mom jumped in ahead of me and said that we did some heavy housecleaning, just to keep busy.
"Well, great! We can sit right down. I didn't make any hors d'oeuvres... I didn't get *that* ambitious. But I was SO embarrassed by... you know, when Marcie came over here and whipped up those delicious meals, just like that, like it was nothing... and I thought... well, I just HAVE to try. So, I apologize for making you two my guinea pigs. You have to tell me if it's bad! If it is, if it's terrible, we'll just toss it out and order in. Okay? So have a seat, and I'll serve up the dinner!"
Mom and I took our seats in the dining room. The table was nicely set, with a white tablecloth and napkins, crystal glasses, fine cutlery. There were two red candles on the table, and a bouquet of pink roses.
"This is beautiful, Ida!" Mom called. "It's so elegant!"
"Thank you very much," Ida gushed, as she returned with two plates. One for me, one for my mother. Then she went back to the kitchen for her own plate and a bottle of white wine. She poured a glass for herself and one for Mom, then poured water into mine.
"To good friends," she said, raising her glass. We all clinked and took a sip. While Mom oohed and aahed about the wine, I tried to figure out exactly what was on my plate. The green stuff had to be peas in some sort of greenish... pea sauce. But the other two things? One was a light gray. The other was a brownish gray, and had a distant resemblance to meat of some kind.
"Oh, salt and pepper!" Ida said, suddenly missing them. She ran into the kitchen.
"Mom," I whispered. "What is the gray thing?"
She glanced at me, a smile at the corner of her lips. "Which one?"
Ida returned before I could answer. I poked at the light-gray lump experimentally with my fork. Maybe it's mashed potatoes? Hard mashed potatoes?
"Oh, and there's homemade cheesecake for dessert!" Ida announced, her face a little flushed. "It wasn't *that* hard to make."
"Cheesecake is one of my favorite desserts," Mom said. "I'm sure it will be delicious."
I was still busy trying to figure out what was on my plate. Ida caught my look, and said, "Oh, no! Don't tell me you don't like liver! I should have asked! Maisie hates it, but I love it. I eat it every chance I get..."
"Oh, no," Mom assured her. "Marcie and I love liver. Don't you, hon?"
"Is that what that is?" I exclaimed. Then, realizing how it sounded, I added lamely, "I thought it was beef or something."
Ida recited the menu: "Chicken liver, mashed potatoes, peas."
Mashed potatoes, ha! I was right! That took care of the the two gray lumps. Great! Now that I knew what everything was, all I had to do was eat it. I looked it over and swallowed hard. There was no bread on the table, so I took another sip of water.
I wanted to make an excuse about having eaten a big lunch — Mom told me later that she'd had the same thought — but we'd both already declared that we had huge appetites.
And unfortunately for me, it was true: I was VERY hungry. Very, very hungry, *and* I didn't want to offend Ida.
So I started with the potatoes. Potatoes are the simplest thing. How can you go wrong with potatoes?
Ida had found the way. They weren't completely cooked. They were still crunchy and raw in parts, and they weren't entirely mashed. I took my knife and cut the lumps into the smallest pieces possible. Mom gave me a kick under the table and a warning look. I mixed in some butter and salt.
My plan was to line my stomach with the potatoes, then force down the liver, and drop the peas on top. How bad could it be?
After a few forkfuls of potato, I had to give it up. It was mighty tough eating. So I took a big bite of the liver. Ida was watching, so I smiled and made a MMM-mmm sound.
I love liver, but there is thing I call the Liver Limit. When you're eating liver — even if you like liver — at some point it begins to taste very mealy, like liver-flavored sand, or an edible concrete. Once you hit that point, you really need to stop, because you've hit the liver limit. It probably depends on the quality of the liver and how it's cooked. The way Mom cooks it, it's never mealy.
Ida's liver, on the other hand, started out mealy and just kept going. Sometimes nuts and apples get mealy. Maybe they dry up and get old, and when you put them in your mouth they break down to a sandy loam that sits on your tongue and doesn't want to be swallowed. Bah! That's what this was like. And if it was bad in my mouth, my throat and esophagus were not pleased with it, either. I managed to choke down three gobbets before I drained my glass of water. I noticed that Mom was cutting hers into itsy-bitsy pieces, and that she took a tiny sip of wine after each one. It seemed to be helping her.
"Um... do you think I could try some wine?" I asked, in a timid voice.
Ida smiled. "Oh, no, hon. Your body can't metabolize it yet. It would be like poison to you."
"Oh, okay," I said. But this dinner, on the other hand?
Alright. No help there. My stomach fluttered for a moment. It was trying to tell me something, and I wish now that I'd listened. I had a heavy feeling in my entire body, and involuntarily I sat up very straight in my chair. Was something going to happen? I waited, tense and anxious.
Then, suddenly... it passed. Maybe the food slid down my intestine or into my legs or something. I don't know. But once it happened, I was able to pick up my fork and begin again.
This time, I started with the liver, and made it disappear. I wondered what I'd been fussing about. The peas? Okay, so they were mushy. And the green sauce tasted like... hmm. I dipped some of the potatoes into it and ate it that way. It had a strange tang, like... hmm... like... oh! Like that strange orange drink, Tang!
I finished everything on my plate, which pleased Ida no end, and astonished my mother. She blinked at me but said nothing. I shrugged and told her, "I was hungry," while Ida was in the kitchen getting the cheesecake.
We could hear Ida singing to herself as she cut the cake. My stomach gave an ominous rumble. Mom closed her eyes, and I knew she was trying not to laugh. After a deep breath, she opened her eyes and put her finger to her lips.
"I wasn't going to say anything," I told her.
Ida returned with a large piece of cheesecake for me, and smaller slices for herself and for Mom.
Well, it looked like cheesecake. I took a bite. It didn't seem to taste like anything at all, but I still was pretty hungry, so I packed it away.
"Marcie, you certainly have a big appetite tonight," Ida observed.
"Oh, Ida," Mom put in, "I don't know what I'm going to do with this girl."
"What?" I asked. "What did I do?"
"To start with," Mom replied, "You forgot your shovel."
Ida started giggling.
"Oh, Mom!" I groaned. "Not this again!"
"Are you going to tell Ida that you liked her food? How would you even know? It sailed past your tongue so fast, you couldn't possibly have tasted it."
I sighed. I also noticed that Ida didn't try to bail me out, so it must have been true. At the same time I realized that Mom was trying to cover for the fact that she'd eaten so little.
In any case, we retired to the living room, where the women sipped coffee and chatted. I flipped through some of Ida's clothes catalogs. Every so often I'd show something to Ida and Mom.
Everything was quiet and relaxed. It was nice here... just the three of us. Dad was lucky he'd hadn't come; he would have been uncomfortable as the only man. I turned my head and looked out the window, knowing that at home I wouldn't be able to. I wondered whether Mom and I could stay the night...
Then, suddenly, Mom stood up and said, "Ida, excuse me, I need the little girls' room. That coffee went right through me." She hurried out. It was odd. For some reason, I looked at the clock. It was five minutes to eight.
Ida came and sat next to me. We talked about clothes, turned the pages together... we finished the catalog... and Mom was still gone. Ida glanced at the clock and said nothing.
"Maybe she fell in," I suggested, and we giggled.
Finally, after thirty minutes, Mom returned. Ida moved back to her armchair, and the two women left me to the catalogs.
That's when my torment began. Silently but forcibly, I felt the contents of my stomach turn over. It was like someone went in with the heavy machinery, the earthmovers. I had to keep myself from gasping, because I had an abdominal pain like I've never felt before — it was worse than appendicitis.
A sweat broke across my forehead. I put both hands on my belly. It was hard, like a beach ball full of lead. The pain was so bad that I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, Ida was gone. I heard her in the kitchen, doing something with the coffee cups.
"Mom," I whispered, "We have to get out of here as soon as possible."
"Don't be impatient, honey, ..." Mom began, but I cut her off.
"This cheesecake is going to tear a hole through my stomach," I told her, "and I don't know what will happen when it does. We've got to LEAVE. I am NOT kidding."
Another spasm hit me. I clutched my gut with both hands and softly cried, "Ah-hoo-eee!"
Mom said, "Don't be so dramatic. We'll leave soon, but I don't want to be rude to Ida."
"Okay," I whispered, "but if I explode into tiny pieces, don't say I didn't warn you."
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
I felt like a pregnant woman. I held my stomach (which felt enormous) with both hands, and took small, waddling steps toward the kitchen. With every step, I let out a little grunt, groan, or whimper.
Mom picked up a magazine, crossed her legs, and started reading. I couldn't believe it! I was in deep digestive agony, and she thought I was being dramatic.
Ida was still pottering around the kitchen, singing to herself. Groaning, I raised myself to my feet, hoping that maybe if I moved a little, things might get better inside of me.
I felt like a pregnant woman. I held my stomach (which seemed enormous) with both hands, and took small, waddling steps toward the kitchen. With every step, I let out a little grunt, groan, or whimper.
"Oh, stop it," my mother told me in a low, unsympathetic voice.
I stopped moving and looked down at her. "If I wasn't in so much pain," I told her, "I'd have something to say to you. But I am, so I don't."
My mother wasn't really listening, so she didn't get it. She turned a blank face toward me and asked, "What did you say?"
"Forget it," I groaned, and went back to my waddling.
When I finally arrived at the kitchen, Ida was just closing the refrigerator.
"Watcha doin'?" I asked. "Do you need any help?" I hoped with all my heart that she didn't, because at that moment, standing and talking to her was all I could manage.
"Well," she replied, "I was just about to wrap up that cheesecake so you could take it home with you. You polished off your piece like it was nothing, and I don't dare keep it in the house, or I'll blow up like a balloon."
While I, on the other hand, will blow up like an oil refinery, I thought, but of course I didn't say it. I just smiled and felt a bead of sweat run down the full length of my spine.
"I'll just wrap it up and put it in a bag for you two," she continued. "You go on back with your mother and I'll join you in a moment."
I worked my way back to the couch. Mom was still reading.
"Mom... MOM!" I whispered. "Can you help me? I can't bend. Will you help lower me down to the couch?"
She scoffed, but rose to her feet and held one of my arms so that I could ease down, like a plank, to rest diagonally with my feet on the floor and my head on the arm of the couch.
"Thanks," I sighed. "Ach... that cheesecake... it's like concrete that expands."
Mom gave me a warning look.
"I won't say anything!" I protested.
"You don't have to," she replied, drily. Then she went back to her chair.
I began to do Lamaze-style breathing. It seemed to help. Mom shot me a look, so I quit.
Ida walked in, smiling, and set a little carrying bag by the front door. She tilted her head to the same angle as mine, and asked, "Are you comfy there? You don't look comfortable."
"Oh," I groaned, "That dinner of yours made me SO sleepy. I can hardly stay up."
"I'm glad," she said.
Mom clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Ida, I'm sorry to eat and run, but this one has been complaining about being tired all the time you were in the kitchen. I better take her home and put her to bed."
"That's alright," said Ida. "I'm glad you two could make it."
After some hugs, and compliments on the dinner, Mom and I were alone again, and walking home. Mom carried the cheesecake. I carried my poor bloated belly.
We walked in silence, until we passed a trash can. I heard Ida's cheesecake fall heavily inside as Mom let go of the bag, and I wished I could drop my inner cheesecake as easily as that.
I sighed heavily. "Oh, Mom," I groaned, "that cheesecake is really killing me! Maybe we should go to the emergency room!"
She scoffed. "There was nothing wrong with that cheesecake! I feel perfectly fine."
"You only had two bites! AND you were in the bathroom for a half an hour!"
She was silent for a time, then admitted, "That cheesecake... it did have a taste like — what's that stuff you use for patching walls? Spackle."
I couldn't laugh, I was in such desperate pain.
"Mom, what was that tang in the... the pea sauce? There was this kind of sharp taste..."
"I don't know... I was thinking about that. Honestly, I think she used some sort of oil, some sort of very old oil, in there. When oil gets old, it gets rancid. And the... liver..." Mom belched slightly and excused herself. "I'm not saying it had gone bad, but today might have been the very last day that it could have been served."
At the thought of the liver, I whimpered slightly. I put my hand to my stomach, which by now seemed as large as a weather balloon. From deep inside, near the tops of my legs, came a roiling and gurgling sound that didn't promise anything good. Massive, hot, acidic bubbles churned up from below, broke through the tectonic plate of cheesecake, and erupted in an abrupt, rock-shivering belch.
"Oh, really, Marcie!" Mom protested. "Next time, if you can't hold it in, at least have the decency to turn your head!"
It smelled terrible. If I wasn't afraid of letting go of my stomach, I would have waved it away from my face.
A wave of desperation and nausea washed over me. My salivary glands kicked into overdrive. Involuntarily, I clutched my stomach tighter with both hands and shouted, "Mom, I have to get home, quick!"
And I took off, running.
"Marcie!" Mom called from behind me. "Marcie, wait!"
But I didn't wait. I couldn't wait. Something bad — something VERY bad — was about to happen, and I wanted it to happen at home, not on some stranger's lawn.
I kept running, like a mad juggernaut. The whole time, bubbles of gas noisily made their way through my internal plumbing. I whimpered like Maria Carey's falsetto, but I kept my face pointed home, and kept my legs moving.
It was difficult, because each jarring footstep shook the dangerous mixture inside me, making an explosion increasingly imminent. At the same time, I knew that standing still was no solution: the explosion could come anyway, anytime. I felt like a volcano packed with nitroglycerine — and a tactical nuke buried far down below the magma and the nitro. And a couple sticks of dynamite, too, tossed in like cinnamon sticks. Shaken, stirred, and set afire.
I heard my mother's voice from a half block behind me: "Not that way, Marcie! We can't go in the front door! All the reporters are that way!"
"I don't care!" I shouted. "It's the shortest way! I have to go!"
When I was two houses from home, I stopped to catch my breath. For the moment, there was silence in my inner world, and I looked ahead of me. The reporters were camped all around, waiting, chatting with each other, smoking cigarettes, standing on our lawn and in our driveway. It was insane.
Some calculating part of me realized that all of them thought I was inside the house, so I had the element of surprise in spades.
Mom caught up with me. She, too, was out of breath.
"I can't go round the block, Mom," I told her. "I can't. I have to get inside as quick as I can."
"Alright," she said.
"Look," I told her, "They all think we're inside. We can walk up along the curb, and if anyone recognizes us, we can make a run for it. They won't expect it, so they won't react in time."
Mom nodded. "Slow, then fast. We can make it." She got her keys in hand, and put the front-door key between thumb and forefinger. "Ready?"
I nodded. She took my arm, and the two of us walked up the street as naturally as we could. It was working: you could see the reporters actively ignoring us. It must be something they learn, to avoid being bothered when they're out on the job.
It was like being invisible. To them, we were just another pair of curiosity seekers: they filtered us out of their awareness. No one recognized us, no one bothered to look.
In fact, none of the reporters or cameramen even looked at each other. Weird. It was as though each news station was pretending to be the only ones there.
We stopped in front of our steps, the ones that go up the lawn to the front door. It looked far, especially with the toxic load I was carrying.
Mom gave me a grim look, clutched the front-door key firmly, and said, "Let's go."
When our feet touched the first step, there were slight tremors in the camp. A few people stirred, as if they were waking up.
Still, in their estimation we were probably just neighbors. The neighbors had been nice, dropping off food, even flowers, or just stopping by to wish us well, to welcome us to the neighborhood. Then there was the bonus (for our neighbor) of a possible few moments on television... sometimes a mini-interview. (Oh, yes, they just moved in, but they're the *nicest* people! And it's shocking what happened to that girl!)
We were halfway to the door, but no one stirred. We still hadn't registered in their minds. I felt as if everyone was asleep, in a fog, or frozen in suspended animation. But then, something happened to wake them up.
A low rumble rocked my inner world. It was part of my body's early warning system. Just as I passed a cameraman who slouched in a lawn chair, a powerfully evil and noxious gas slid silently out of me. From the burn and smell of it, I imagined it to be a sulphurous yellow, and the man cried out in offended surprise.
What he actually said was, "Hazmat!" (It took me a while to figure it out.)
When she heard him cry out, Mom thought we'd been recognized, and in a bound she was at the door. I'd swear she cleared six yards in that jump! In a single stroke, she had the key in the lock and the door open. I hurried after her, and when I got close enough, she grabbed my arm and propelled me inside. I looked back toward the lawn, and saw shocked faces, like people disturbed in their sleep, and some of them fumbled uselessly with their cameras, but none of them got there in time.
Mom slammed the door and noisily locked it.
"Wow, Mom!" I said, well and fully impressed. "That was amazing! I didn't know you could move that fast! Really!"
I would have gone on, but she turned to me, trembling and breathing hard. She was scared.
"Mom...," I began, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry this is so hard for you..."
She cut me short. "I thought you were desperate for the bathroom," she said.
Right on cue, the cheesecake-rock twisted inside me. Even Mom was alarmed when she saw the face I made.
I tore off my coat and boots and stumbled to the bathroom, dropping clothes along the way.
After forty minutes of agony, I finally felt some degree of inner peace, and Mom helped me get upstairs.
Halfway up, I stopped and told her, "Mom, I think I understand the pain of childbirth."
She bit her tongue.
Later, after she'd tucked me in, given me some cool water to drink, and fluffed my pillow, she sat on the edge of my bed.
"Oh, Marcie," she sighed. "What a life we live!" But she smiled as she said it. "Are you feeling better?"
"Yes," I said. "I think I got it all out of my system." I lay still a moment, mentally searching my body, seeking out the spots where the cheesecake could still be hiding, but there didn't seem to be any trace of it left.
I looked at Mom. She seemed a bit more relaxed.
"Hey, Mom," I asked her, "How come the cheesecake didn't get to you?"
"It did," she replied. "But remember, I only had two bites. You ate a very large piece. You practically swallowed it whole. AND you ate every bite of Ida's dinner. I only picked. Maybe the wine helped, too. The alcohol might have killed or neutralized whatever made you sick."
I chuckled. "AND you spent some time in the bathroom."
She sighed. "Marcie, do we have to talk about that? You're not nine years old, you know. Besides, I wanted to talk to you about something else–"
"Oh, that reminds me! Remember how you said you told Ida, because I stayed overnight? Does that mean you told Susan's parents, too? 'Cause she stayed over here?"
"Ah," Mom said, as she adjusted to the abrupt change in topic. "No, we didn't tell Susan's parents. For one thing, we never talked to them directly — in fact, I don't know whether they even speak English. Besides that, given your emotional state at the time, we just wanted her to be here with you.
"I hope it won't become a problem. At the time it seemed like the right thing to do."
I murmured in agreement. We'd have to see. I'd tell Susan tomorrow, and then we'd take it from there.
"ANYWAY," Mom continued, "As I was saying–"
"Did I interrupt?" I asked.
"Yes," Mom replied, "and you've just done it again. As I was saying... Ms. Gifford was right about your getting away. I talked to your father about it earlier, and he agrees. He said he'd call your Aunt Jane tonight, so we'll see in the morning if you can stay with her... unless there's somewhere else you'd rather be? Someone else you'd rather stay with?"
"Maisie?" I ventured.
"Could you stay with her?" Mom asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I could ask. I don't know what it would be like."
"You'd be safe there," Mom offered.
"Yeah, that's for sure." Maisie's father lived in Llewellyn, a gated community. The press had never seen Maisie, because they couldn't get in. If I was there, no one could see me, either. "I wonder if Susan could come with me," I mused.
"There's a thought," Mom said with a smile. "We can find out all of that tomorrow, and see how soon we can slip you out of here. I'm hoping you can go tomorrow... get you out of here as soon as possible."
"Tomorrow?" I repeated.
"Try to see if you can come up with any other relatives or friends that would be good possibilities. There's my sister..."
I stiffened.
"She's not so bad," Mom said reproachfully.
"Didn't she do all kinds of mean things to you when you were growing up? She was always whacking your butt and bossing you around, wasn't she?"
"Well, yes, but that's what older sisters do. You're lucky you're an only child." As she spoke, Mom gave me a strange look.
"What does that look mean?" I asked her.
"What look?" she asked.
"Do I have a brother or sister off somewhere that I don't know about?"
"No, honey. No evil twin, either. There's just you; you're the only one."
"Good," I said, and burrowed down into the covers. I only meant to blink, but it turned into a long one: my eyes were closed for several seconds. I almost drifted off.
"You look exhausted," Mom said.
"Yes," I mumbled. "That cheesecake really took its toll on me."
"Alright," Mom said, turning off the light. "We'll figure out where you're going tomorrow. Have a good rest. Sweet dreams!"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
Cameras flashed, and the crowd surged forward around her. I had to move fast, or they were going to cut me off.
"Get out of the way!" I shouted. "Can't any of you jackasses help her? What's wrong with you? She might be hurt!"
When I woke up, the sun was shining. In fact, it was pouring into my room as if it were midsummer rather than midwinter.
I blinked at the brightness, and moved my tongue around the inside of my mouth. It was dry, very dry. My tongue felt like a rough, old, dry scrap of burlap.
I didn't move for a while. I felt empty inside, thankfully. All the cheesecake had gone away. I wasn't hungry, or even all that thirsty, but I did have to pee.
If it wasn't for that, I would have stayed where I was. Staring at the ceiling was all the self-improvement I needed at the moment. And yet... Maybe nature makes us pee so we don't sleep our lives away, I reflected.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and looked around the room.
The clock said one, which meant it was already afternoon. I'd slept for 13 hours! Maybe more... I didn't feel like doing the clock-math at the moment.
When my feet touched the floor, I looked down at myself. Were these really the pajamas I wore last night? I searched my memory, but couldn't even remember getting into bed. The pajamas were white with pictures of tiny red apples, like polka-dots. Did I even own a pair of pajamas like these? They were cute — a little *too* cute — and they did have a bright-white newness... Mom must have bought them recently and helped me into them last night, while I was too ill to notice and protest.
There was a big blank in my memory. I could remember saying something to Mom on the stairs... I remembered her talking about my going away... but nothing else.
I had been really sick last night.
But now... What was the deal with the sunlight? All my curtains were open. Why would Mom do that? We'd been keeping them closed so the press couldn't see in, and here Mom had thrown them as wide as they could go.
I suppose it wouldn't have been hard for her to open them without being seen from below...
And the sunshine was nice... it was just a bit much for someone still waking up.
I blinked and wished for sunglasses. All this brightness seemed like the wrong way to go. Considering how badly I felt last night, wouldn't Mom want me to sleep late? After all, I was on vacation, and it wasn't like we could go anywhere, or had anything to do.
I closed my eyes, but the intense brightness shone right through my eyelids.
It was nice and too much at the same time.
Okay, okay...
By now my brain was slowly kicking into gear, putting two and two together: Sunshine, open curtains... Mom must want me to get up, but didn't want to actually wake me.
And *that* probably meant that she and Dad had found a place for me to go, to get away from here.
I stood up, and felt very light, like a helium balloon. I liked the feeling. Until I began to feel light-headed. I took a few deep breaths...
... which only made things worse. I sat back down heavily on the bed.
I rubbed my nose and cleared my throat. As if that was her cue, Mom walked in.
"Hello, Sleeping Beauty," she said. "Are you feeling better?"
"Yes," I said. "I guess. I'm cheesecake-free, at any rate."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that!" she replied, with a huge smile. "Do you see what a beautiful day it is?"
"Yes," I replied, "blindingly beautiful."
"I just couldn't resist," she gushed. "I can't open the curtains downstairs, but I opened them in every room upstairs."
"Great, Mom," I murmured, still not fully awake. Still, even in my stupor, I could see that Mom was acting very suspiciously. "What's up?" I asked her. "You look awfully happy."
"I may be!" she said, in a mysterious tone. "I just may BE awfully happy. Do you feel up to breakfast?"
"I dunno. Maybe just my tea and some toast."
"I can bring it up to you. Why don't you take a bath? It'll help you feel better."
"Okay," I agreed, and was just asking myself which to do first, when Mom cut into my thoughts.
"You can have your breakfast in the tub. How's that sound?"
"Luxurious," I replied. What had gotten into Mom? She was more puzzling by the minute. "Um, Mom, I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but seriously: what's going on? I mean, like, who are you, and what have you done with my mother?"
She laughed lightly. "Listen, I'll start the bath and go down to make your breakfast. Then, when I bring it up, we can talk. Okay?"
"Okay."
She left to forestall any more questions. I rubbed my eyes and stood again. This time I wasn't dizzy, so I softly padded into the bathroom, where I studied myself carefully in the mirror. "Time to take inventory," I announced. My hair... it looked slept on. "Slept-on hair, check," I said. "Sleepy eyes, check." I opened my mouth, checked my teeth, and breathed into my palm. "Morning mouth, check." Then I felt my breasts. "One pair boobies, check." I slid my hands down behind me. "One pair buttocks, check." I pulled on my ears, scanned my face for pimples (none!) and got undressed. "Optional extra equipment, check."
The water was good and hot, and I could taste the bath salts. Nasty, but good for the skin. And the bath felt SO good. After ten minutes, Mom came in with a tray, which she set on the floor next to the tub, then went out to get a chair for herself.
The word breakfast made my digestive system cry out in alarm, but the reality of it was very soothing. Toast was exactly what my tummy could handle, and the tea restored me to life.
While Mom was away, getting her chair, I draped my washcloth over my private area because... well, because it's private! If I'd had the operation, I wouldn't have minded Mom seeing me naked, but as I was, it was a thing I wanted to keep to myself.
She settled her chair between the sink and the bathroom door, sat herself down, and looked me over. "You look a lot better than you did last night," she said.
"I *feel* a lot better, too."
"You look relaxed."
"So do you, Mom."
She smiled. "Stop saying what I'm saying," she joked.
I laughed and came back: "*You* stop saying what I'm saying."
Then she told me, "You know, I'm thinking that you got sick last night because of all the tension here."
"Really?"
"Yes, you kept holding your stomach, all the time we were at the courthouse."
"Oh, was that yesterday? It seems like weeks ago!"
"Mmm. It was yesterday."
I sat up, gobbled down half a piece of toast, and took tiny sips of tea. Tension? *Mom* was the tense one, not me.
"Anyway, Mom, that terrible food made me sick, not tension. I'm not tense."
"I think you are," she insisted. "Just think about all that's happened to you in the last four months: you decided to become a girl, you had a serious operation — AND the appendectomy — you moved twice... no, THREE times, started two new schools, plus all the crazy things that happened, to say nothing of the... ah... recent... business..."
"The kidnapping," I supplied.
"Yes. And now, the press is camped outside, night and day..."
I sighed. It would be nice to just shut it all off for a while. "I hope I *can* get away, like Ms. Gifford said."
"Good!" Mom said. "I was going to suggest exactly that."
"Well, yeah, I know," I said. "We talked about this last night."
"No," Mom said. "This is different. This is new."
I frowned. Was she making any sense?
"How would you like to go a South-Sea island?" she asked. "A place like Tahiti or Bora Bora?"
I scoffed, "Is Bora Bora even a real place?"
Then I took another look at her face. "Mom, are you kidding?"
She smiled.
"You're NOT kidding!? This is for real? A South-Sea island!?"
"No, I'm not kidding! Isn't it the wildest thing? Your father called this morning with an offer that came through Rhonda Means." [Rhonda Means is my father's boss.]. "If it wasn't for *that* — I mean, if it hadn't come through *her* — I don't think we'd consider it at all, but both your father and I think it's a great opportunity for you. That is, of course, if you're willing to go."
"So what exactly is the offer?"
"Well! It turns out that when Rhonda was your age, she went to a Catholic girls school, too, and this one, I forget its name — Saint Doma or Dooma or something —" she waved her hand dismissively "—anyway, some of the girls from that school are going on a team-building vacation for a week, going sailing in the South Seas. They'll fly to Hawaii, and from there to some little island, and get on a sailing ship. Does that sound like fun?"
I scratched my forehead. "What does it all have to do with me?" I asked.
"One of the girls got sick and can't go. When she saw you on TV, she thought you might want to get away... well, one thing led to another... Rhonda's a very active fund raiser for the school, and one of the organizers of the trip called her."
"Why?" I asked. This sounded kind of suspicious to me.
"The newspapers mentioned where your father works, so this man... person... organizer called Ms. Means and asked if she knew him.
"Anyway, the long and the short of it is, you're invited! What do you think about that?"
"I'm... I'm touched," I said. To think that a girl who didn't even know me would want me to have her vacation... "Can I really go?"
"Yes!"
"What do I have to do?"
"Just be ready when they come to pick you up!"
"When?"
"They're going to come by at six to pick you up."
"At six? Tonight? That's only four hours away!"
"It's five hours away," Mom replied calmly. "Don't worry! I already packed your bag. I did it while you were sleeping. They gave me a list of things to bring, so it's not as though you would have packed anything different..."
"It's so sudden..."
"Yes, it is, but we agreed last night that you need to get away today. The reporters won't be able to follow you, and once you're gone, maybe they'll all leave. By the time you come back, hopefully something else will be the top story, and we can all get back to our humdrum, ordinary lives again."
I hesitated. I was sure there were dozens of reasons that I shouldn't go, but my brain jammed... I couldn't think of what those reasons were.
The main problem was that it was happening so darn quickly... I wanted some time to think!
"You should go, honey! Just think: sunshine, fresh air, warm sand, blue water..."
"Okay, okay," I said, "I'm sold!"
Then after a moment: "Wait a minute... blue water?" That didn't sound right.
I looked at the What To Bring list, and checked the bag Mom had packed. I found the sunblock that she forgot, and a big blue jar of skin cream.
Then I took a smaller, carry-on bag and added a few things, like sunglasses and a set of lighter clothes that I'd need when we landed.
There was still enough room in the bag to slip in a notebook, two pens, and two magazines: Redbook and Cosmo.
Once I was ready, I called my father to say goodbye. While I was on the phone with him, I saw my mother across the room, fiddling with my carry-on. I couldn't see what she was up to, so I made a mental note to check the bag before I left the house.
"Try and have a good time," Dad said. "Leave the craziness here: don't bring it with you in your head. Try to forget your regular life and enjoy the new experiences."
I bit my tongue. It was always cute when Dad got philosophical, but rather than tease him, I said, "Thanks, Dad. I'll try."
"Have fun," he said. "That's the only requirement. Okay?"
Mom and I had an early dinner together. She was so excited, you'd think she was the one who was going! Flitting around like a crazy bird, she fussed over everything.
After dinner, the two of us sat in chairs by the window. I know it was silly, since the drapes were closed. We couldn't look out (on account of the press), but what else could we do?
"I'm so excited!" Mom gushed. "I've got gooseflesh! I'm SO nervous! Aren't *you* nervous, Marcie?"
"No," I said, "I think you're using up all the nervousness for both of us."
She laughed and ran over to hug me. She was beginning to worry me: she was too wound up! Mom was so over-the-top that it made me calm and cautious. I felt like I had to keep my eye on her.
"Are you sure you're going to be alright while I'm gone?" I asked her. The woman was positively giddy.
She laughed as if I'd said the funniest thing in the world. "Yes, MOM!" she cried, and let off a stream of giggles. I shook my head.
Then it hit me. "Hey!" I said. "You're not glad that I'm leaving, are you? Is that why you're acting all silly and happy?"
Her eyes got as big as they could go. "Oh, no, honey! I'm going to MISS you! It's just that I'm so GLAD for you—"
"Okay, okay," I said, dismissively. "It's alright. I don't mind."
She scoffed. "Honestly, Marcie! Your own mother! I have never—"
Whatever she was about to say next was canceled by the bell. I mean, the doorbell rang and interrupted her. Mom dashed to answer it, and I heard a strange, creaky, young girl's voice ask, "Does Marcie Donner live here?"
Mom invited her in, and I walked over to meet her. The girl was short — about five-two — had long, straight brown hair, and brown eyes. She was thin, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. And, she had a very friendly smile.
"Hello," she said to me in her funny little voice. In a sudden flash, I knew what her voice reminded me of. Do you remember the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz? "All in good time, my little pretty!" Well, imagine what her voice would have sounded like when she was a teen, and that was the sound of my visitor's voice.
Except that this girl had nothing wicked about her: she was sweet and funny and cute, and I liked her right away. She looked a little nerdy, but she was *very* self-assured.
She introduced herself in a single breath: "My name is Hedwig Wetherwax. I know it's an odd name, so please call me Wiggy. Everybody does, and I know it's a funny nickname, but it's a lot better than Hedwig."
"Wiggy?" I repeated. It was about the only word I caught from her rapid-fire delivery. The way she talked, piling words pell mell on top of each other, made it hard to take in what she said. She talked faster than I could hear! I mean, faster than I could listen.
"That's me!" she agreed. "You must be Marcie." She pumped my hand the way you'd jack up a tire.
She was, in a word, quirky, but I liked her right off.
Wiggy took another breath and fired off another salvo: "I must tell you that I'm not typical of the girls who'll be on this trip. I don't know how much you've been told—"
"Almost nothing," I said, managing to fire a few words into the stream.
"Ah," she said, stopping for a moment. "Well!" Now that I'd interrupted her momentum, she was at a loss. She turned her shoulders to the left and right a couple of times. She smiled, thought for a moment, found her place, and began again.
"They're cheerleaders," she said, as if that explained everything. "I can give you the lowdown in the car."
I gave Mom one last hug. She glanced at Wiggy and smiled at me. "She's nice," I whispered. "I like her."
"Good," Mom replied, her eyes twinkling.
"Don't laugh at her," I whispered. "At least she's not a cheerleader!"
Mom hugged me again. Wiggy boldly pulled open the front door.
At first, the sight was overwhelming: our walk was crowded with cameras and lights and sprinkled with microphones.
My first thought was of the Oscars and the red carpet. My second thought was about how I was dressed.
Wiggy stood directly in front of me, so no one could see me — at least, they couldn't see my face.
She looked down at the expectant crowd, put her hands on her skinny hips, and in a loud, high, squeaky voice, that little girl bellowed, "ALL RIGHT! BACK IT UP! That's right! I'm talking to YOU! Back it up there! People coming through!"
And oddly enough, wildly enough, they backed up! The reporters cleared the walk, so we could leave.
"It's like Moses and the Red Sea," I told Mom.
"I wonder whether *I* can do that?" Mom mused.
Wiggy turned, picked up my carry-on bag, and stepped outside. She walked directly into the bright lights, the flashing lights, the shouts and questions, as if was something she did it every day of the week.
I followed with my heavy bag, more than a little disoriented. It seemed like Wiggy was in charge — and not just of me, but of everything.
"Where are you going, girls?" was the question that echoed and re-echoed in the many voices around us. "When are you coming back?"
"Coming through!" Wiggy squeaked. "No comment! Nothing-to-say-at-this-time! Coming through!"
I looked up at the reporters. Their heads were jerking back and forth between Wiggy and me. They weren't sure where to look or who to talk to. Who was this pipsqueak, who had suddenly taken charge?
When we got to the top of the stairs, I could see a sleek black car waiting for us. It would have been easier if he'd pulled into the driveway, I thought, the way the police did. But, oh, well! In a few minutes we'd be away from here.
Wiggy paused at the top of the steps, and turned, one hand holding my bag, the other on her hip.
"We're leaving!" she announced, but I never found out what more she intended to say. She lost her footing and tumbled down the stairs. It was more of a bumpety-bump-bump than a roll, and it hurt just to see it. My carry-on bag rolled down after her, and landed on her stomach when she stopped at the bottom.
"Ooof!" she grunted when it hit her.
Cameras flashed, and the crowd surged forward around her. I had to move fast, or they were going to cut me off.
"Get out of the way!" I shouted. "Can't any of you jackasses help her? What's wrong with you? She might be hurt!"
I fought my way through, pushing some of the cameras roughly out of the way, and hitting people right and left with my suitcase.
By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs, Wiggy was on her feet and straightening her glasses nervously.
"I'm okay," she said in a small voice.
"Let's get in the car and get the hell out of here," I told her, and that's exactly what we did.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
She paused, aghast at a sudden thought. "You're not a cheerleader, are you?"
"No," I said. "Never have been, never will be."
"Oh, good!" she cried, with obvious and immense relief. "I mean... not that there's anything wrong with cheerleaders!"
"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked her for the third time.
"Yeah," she pouted, stretching the "yeah" into two long syllables. "I'm fine. I always do things like that. I think I have everything in hand, and then I just spazz out. Sorry."
"Why are you sorry?" I asked her. "You saved me from that crowd of hyenas. It was amazing, the way you bossed them around. Even my mother was impressed."
"Really?" she said, brightening up. "Thanks! It's nice of you to say that!"
I was going to say that I wasn't being "nice," it was just the plain truth, but she spoke first.
"Do you mind checking my clothes again, to make sure nothing's ripped or raggedy or ruined?"
"Sure," I smiled, and Wiggy got up, awkwardly half-standing inside the car, turning every which way.
"You're good!" I announced, after brushing off an imaginary bit of dirt.
"Thanks," she smiled.
"So...," I prompted, "Cheerleaders?"
"Oh, yeah!" she said, remembering. "This trip is for the cheerleaders, and no, I am not a cheerleader." She paused, aghast at a sudden thought. "You're not a cheerleader, are you?"
"No," I said. "Never have been, never will be."
"Oh, good!" she cried, with obvious and immense relief. "I mean... not that there's anything wrong with cheerleaders! One wouldn't want to stereotype!"
"Of course not," I agreed.
"But they are so stupid," Wiggy confided in a low tone. She peered over the top of her glasses to see whether the driver heard. He wasn't listening. "I mean..." she huffed.
While she was talking, Wiggy pulled a piece of paper from her bag. She glanced at it before she handed it to me. "Anyway," she said, "here is the roster."
Across the top, in big dark letters, were the words: THE AMAZONS.
"Amazons?" I asked.
"It's the name of the squad," Wiggy explained. "National small-squad champs. Small squads are up to ten members. We have nine."
"Does that count you?"
"Pull-eeze! I'm the manager! Do I look like a cheerleader?"
"Oh! But, hey — aren't you guys from an all-girl school? Who do you cheer for?"
"Yes, we're from St. Oda's, and yes, it's an all-girl school. The Amazons cheer for St. Servaas', which is a all-boy school."
"Okay," I said. Then I looked over the roster Wiggy had given me, and here is what it said:
Captain: Mirina Manley
Tilda Knickerbocker (Knickers)
Iske Hoogaboom (Boogers)
Renske Onderdonk (Donkey)
Katrien Keese (Cakey)
Jetske de Graaf (Graffy)
Veerle de Groot (Grooty)
Romy Wubbels (Bubbles)
Belle Dubois (Ding-Dong)Manager: Hedwig Wetherwax (Wiggy)
I felt a bit disoriented, reading that list. First of all, the names where unlike anything I'd ever seen before. Most of them, anyway. And then...
"Wiggy, these things in parentheses... are they..."
"Nicknames? Yes."
"But... but... these nicknames aren't just bad... they're mean!"
Wiggy shrugged. "It's part of being on the team. Mirina gives everybody a nickname, and it's like, uh... a red badge of courage, or something."
"Ugh. And how come Mirina doesn't have a nickname? Is she special?"
Wiggy pursed her lips. "Yes, Mirinia is special. I'd better give you the lowdown on *her* before we get to the airport." She glanced at her watch.
"I mean...," I went on, scanning the list again, "the only half-way normal nickname on here is Bubbles. No offense."
"None taken. Ironically, Bubbles is the only one who won't be here," Wiggy told me. "She's the one who got sick and had the idea of your going instead."
"Hmm. Can you give me her address, so I can write her a nice thank-you note?"
"Sure." She smiled. "So, anyway, about Mirina. Everything begins with Mirina, everything revolves around Mirina..."
"Why?" What was odd was that Wiggy wasn't complaining or mocking. She was just describing.
"She had the idea for the cheerleading squad in the first place. She had the idea that it stay a small squad, so it could compete against small squads. She had the idea for the name, and her father is the one who supports the team."
"Supports as in gives money?"
Wiggy gave an emphatic "Yes!" She gestured at the car, which was quite luxurious and roomy. "He's paying for this car, for example. He's paying for the trip. He plays for the uniforms (plural), the workout clothes, the jackets, transportation, special coaches, everything."
"Wow."
"Yes. And let me tell you, 'wow' doesn't begin to cover it. As long as Mirina is captain of the team, the money keeps coming, for pretty much anything we can justify as cheer-related."
"And is Mirina any good?"
"As a cheerleader? Yes, she's very good. And she's a natural leader. I mean, like I said, she's not smart, but she knows how to get people to do what she wants."
"And why are *you* involved, Wiggy?"
"Me?" she smiled coyly. "I'm involved because I've found a way to get something out of it."
"And that is?"
She smirked a little. "This is just between us, right? Well, I'm the manager, which means I get to book competitions. I find them, and I book them. If I can, I send us to places that *I* want to go, and I schedule side-trips to see the things that I want to see. I tell the cheerleaders that the side-trips are the educational or cultural part of the trip, so they think it's the school's idea."
"And so?"
"Well! It makes them not want to go! They usually skip the side-trips, and I get to go by myself!"
I pictured Wiggy being driven somewhere in a car just like this, a doorman helping her out, Wiggy eating an elegant lunch, going to a show...
"And it turns out that I need a very slick computer to keep track of equipment, bookkeeping, the schedule... and morpegs."
"Morpegs?"
"M-M-O-R-P-G? Massive Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games," she laughed.
"What do online games have to do with cheerleading?" I asked, more than a little confused.
"Nothing!" she said, tossing her head a little. "It's what *I* get out of cheerleading."
"Oh!" I said. "Now I get it!"
"Yes," she agreed. "But like I said: don't tell anyone."
"I won't," I laughed. I was really beginning to like Wiggy. "But, wait... there was something I wanted to ask you, Wiggy... it was... oh, yeah! Does Mirina have a nickname? Or is she too special?"
"No," Wiggy smiled. "She has many nicknames, all variants of the same idea, and she hates them all, so you could say she has the *worst* nickname.
"Her last name is Manley, so we call her her manliness, or the manly one, or the manly girl, but mostly we call her your manliness or her manliness."
"And is she manly?" I asked.
"She was born Manley," Wiggy giggled. "But no, she's not manly at all. She's very girly. She hates the manly thing, but she can't really object, because she gave those nasty nicknames to everybody else."
"Yeah," I said. "I don't think I can call a girl Donkey or Boogers." I looked at the list again. "The name 'Knickers' isn't so bad..."
Wiggy giggled like mad. "You know what? Knickers means 'panties' in England."
"Really?" I asked. "Why?"
Wiggy shrugged.
"Do the girls know that?"
"No," Wiggy replied, "they have no idea. Which reminds me: I keep looking for a competition in the UK that we could go to, but it never works out. But, listen, don't ever call them the girls. You always have to refer to them as The Amazons, or just Amazons, or you'll get a lecture."
"Okay," I agreed. It seemed like a small price to pay for such an expensive trip.
"Anyway," Wiggy said, "The girls will *want* you to call them by those nicknames. Mirina's probably going to give you one, too, come to think of it."
"Hey," I said, gently teasing, "You just called them 'girls'."
"Yeah," she agreed, "but not to their faces. I only do that when I'm mad at them."
By the time we reached the airport, Wiggy and I were talking like old friends. The poor driver had to put up with our shrieks of laughter and my cries of astonishment.
Wiggy gave me the lowdown on all of the girls, but I kept mixing them up. I did get a few salient points, though: Graffy and Grooty looked like twins, although they weren't related. All of the girls were extremely feminine, tall, blonde, and slim. "You and me," Wiggy said, gesturing between us, "we'll be like what's wrong with this picture when we stand next to them."
She explained that all the names were Dutch. "Everybody's of Dutch descent where we come from. Graffy and Grooty speak Dutch, and Cakey can understand it. Ding-Dong says she understands it, but that is yet to be demonstrated."
"And Ding-Dong is the dumb one?" I asked. Then I blushed. "I'm really embarrassed, talking about them like this, and using those awful nicknames."
Wiggy waved my objection aside. "Once you meet them, you'll see. They don't care. But yeah, Ding-Dong is naive to a point that... defies belief. Sometimes, she makes Forrest Gump seem like Einstein."
I made a face. It seemed unnecessarily cruel. Wiggy caught my expression. "I'm not being mean!" she said. "I love her to bits. She's the sweetest thing. But sometimes she makes me want to tear my hair out."
After that, we were silent for a spell. Then Wiggy began shifting around, as if she was uncomfortable. I began to wonder if she needed the bathroom, but at last she came out with it. "Marcie, I want to ask you something. It's kind of a favor, and it's a little embarrassing." She glanced at the driver and frowned.
When she didn't continue, I asked, "What is it?"
"Well, there are a lot of rooms on this ship we're going on... most of the them are for two people..."
"Are there any singles?" I asked.
She faltered. I figured that she was building up to ask if I'd room with her, but I have some privacy issues that I'm sure you can understand.
"No," she said. "There are two four-bunk rooms, and the cheerleaders will take those. The rest are all doubles.
"Anyway, there are two teachers and you and me. The four of us could each have our own room if we wanted, but..." she began twisting the heck out of a piece of cloth she was holding.
She let out a little huff of breath, and confessed everything. "Look, Marcie, I'm afraid to sleep by myself. I mean, in a room by myself. And I'm shy, so I don't like getting changed in front of other people...
"Every time we go on these trips, I'm the odd man out. I always end up in a room by myself, and I hate it! The chaperones always want their own rooms, so... We stay in these fantastic hotels, but I can't sleep! I sit in a chair all night, wrapped in a blanket with all the lights on and the TV going. It's exhausting!
"I know I'm a little neurotic, maybe, but... anyway... what I'm asking is, will you please room with me? I'll give you whatever space you need... it's just that at night, when we sleep, I want to know that somebody else is in the room with me. Will you? Please, please, please?"
I said, "Yes." If she didn't want to change in front of me, it would be easy for me to not change in front of her. Besides, if it didn't work out, I could always take one of the empty rooms.
She squealed in delight. "Oooh! Thank you thank you thank you!" She jumped to the seat next to me and squeezed me tight. I started laughing.
"I'm SO glad! I'm so relieved! Oh, my goodness! I was afraid I wouldn't get to sleep for the whole entire trip!"
"I'm glad you're so happy," I said, smiling.
"I am!" she replied. Then she stopped abruptly and looked me in the eye. With intense seriousness she said, "Don't tell the girls anything I said about being afraid, etc., etc. Okay?"
"Okay," I agreed. "Mum's the word."
When we arrived at the airport, we easily found the Amazons: they'd taken over a sitting area near the ticket counters. As Wiggy and I walked up, we saw a boy and two men trip over some bags and go sprawling because they were staring at the pack of young blondes.
If I was a boy, I'd have been staring, too. They were all beautiful, tall, slim, poised...
At the same time, they were all very nice, and — excepting Mirina — didn't seem vain at all.
Wiggy hurried through the introductions. In addition to the eight Amazons, there were two teachers, also blonde and good looking, but with a few more years and a few more pounds than the girls. I knew I'd have to learn the names all over again. The only ones I got were Ding-Dong, who seemed very sweet, and Grooty and Graffy, who were unbelievably identical! ("They're lucky they don't look like either of their fathers!" Wiggy whispered to me with a smirk. I thought about that remark for a long time after, and I'm still not convinced that it makes any sense.)
Of course, Mirina stood out, but I'll talk about her in a moment. She welcomed me with a smile and said, "We're all very glad that you could come with us."
In the meantime, Wiggy fished in her bag, which was like a small, flat version of a postman's pouch. She pulled out a folder and said, "Let's talk inside. We have to check in and get through security." Then she turned and started walking toward the check-in line.
Everyone, teachers included, trooped behind her.
The line was unbelievably short. There were only two people in front of us. I noticed that it was the line for first-class passengers, which made me raise my eyebrows, but I didn't say anything. Mirina's father must be loaded! If he could spring for a trip like this...
The girls chatted with me and each other while we waited. Wiggy looked in her folder, which had everyone's tickets and various printed lists. She glanced the faces of all the ticket agents and swallowed. The look on her face reminded me of the look she had as she bumped down the stairs. Although she was acting as the adult for everyone in our group, I realized that her confidence level was not as high as she wanted us all to think.
Even though Wiggy is two years older than me, she's two inches shorter, and right now she really looked like a little girl.
"Hey, Marcie?" she asked in a soft voice that no one else could hear, "Do you want to sit next to me on the plane?"
"Yes," I replied, "I was hoping I could."
When I said that, a smile lit up her face. "Okay, good! I'm going to check in everybody else first, and you and me last, okay?"
I nodded. Just before our turn came, Wiggy turned to the Amazons and said, "I'll call you up in pairs. Just stay in line until I call you. Have your photo ids ready. If another ticket agent is free, let the people behind pass you."
All the girls and the two teachers nodded.
"Come with me?" Wiggy asked shyly. And so I did. The two of us went to the counter.
"Hi," Wiggy said. "We're a group of twelve, and I'd like to check everyone in in pairs, if that's alright."
"Are you all first-class passengers?"
"Yes," Wiggy replied without looking up. Then, glancing over her shoulder, she said, "Graffy and Grooty."
As the two girls trotted obediently to the counter, Wiggy stood on tiptoe and placed their tickets in front of the agent.
"These two would like to sit together, and—" consulting her sheet, she said, "Ms. de Groot would like the window."
And so it went. She called everyone up, pair by pair, announced their seating preference, and confirmed that vegetarian meals had been ordered for two of our party. All of them seemed quite used to having Wiggy direct them about. They waited exactly where she told them to wait, until all of us had been checked in.
She led the way through security, and then to the gate.
Once there, the Amazons took over a section of the waiting area, spread out their belongings, and sat down.
"Wiggy, now what do we do?" Ding-Dong asked.
"We wait until they start boarding the plane," Wiggy replied.
"How will we know?" Ding-Dong continued.
"It will be in about twenty minutes," Wiggy said. "I'll tell you when. Don't worry."
Mirina waited a moment, to be sure that Wiggy was finished, then she smiled at me.
"Now, Marcie, I'm sure that Wiggy told you something about the Amazons on your way here," she said. "But now it's time that *I* took over."
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"Um, I'm okay," she said with a puzzled frown. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you dressed?"
"I don't know," I replied. "I've been asking myself the same question."
At that, Nina burst into laughter. "Oh, Marcie, you are so funny!"
"We are the Amazons," Mirina said. "Our motto is that we are the best that life has to offer."
She paused, waiting for my reaction. At first, I was simply shocked. Then, I was appalled. And finally, I realized that *that* was the reaction Mirina was after. She gave her eyebrows a bounce and smiled.
"You think I'm being awful," Mirina continued, watching my face as she spoke. "But I assure you it's not a declaration based in vanity or delusion. We know that there are girls who are more beautiful than us, more graceful than us, more intelligent than us." At that last phrase, she looked at Wiggy, who had her head down as she looked through her bag.
Wiggy later told me that she'd heard this speech a thousand times. In fact, thinking back, I remembered that as Mirina spoke, all of the Amazons had a sort of expressionless look. Now (having heard the speech a dozen times myself) I know they were trying to hide their boredom.
"The point is, we are striving to be the best. It's our goal in training, and our motivation when we compete. We don't compete to win; we win as a by-product of our excellence."
Knickers — who I later found is Mirina's lieutenant — added, "And so, we're national champs!"
"Yes," Mirina coolly acknowledged. "We won this year's national small-squad competition. This trip is our reward, as well as a team-building activity."
"Great," I commented. "Congratulations. And thanks for including me. I really appreciate it."
"You ought to thank Bubbles, who couldn't come," Mirina replied. "She was the one who thought of you, and graciously gave up her place for you."
"Oh, I will," I said, fumbling for words and glowing red with embarrassment. "I already asked Wiggy for her address."
I *had* — you know I had — but even so, Mirina made me feel like a mannerless clod — as thought I'd have never thought of thanking Bubbles myself.
"Yes, Wiggy," Mirina echoed. "I'm happy to see that you and she have hit it off so well. Of course, we're all glad that you can be here and enjoy this little vacation, but there will be some activities and events that are strictly for Amazons. Since you're not one of us, you won't be allowed to participate. You and Wiggy can keep each other company."
"She's not *too* full of herself, is she?" I said in a undertone to Wiggy, once we were settled on the plane. Wiggy had chosen the last two seats on the left in first class. No one was behind us, and no Amazons were in front of us. Clever girl! She also asked whether I "minded" sitting by window. Minded? Ha! I was glad to!
Wiggy shrugged. She was busy, gently scratching her head in a thorough and business-like way. "Everybody's got their quirks. Even you. Even me."
"I guess."
She twisted up her mouth and eyed me critically. "You look exhausted, Marcie. If you fall asleep, do you want me to wake you up for meals or anything?"
"No," I said, as I experimented with my seat. "How much does this seat recline? Whoa!" The back of the seat went down so far it was like lying in bed. As the back went down, the leg rest came up. "Oh! There's a leg rest? Wow, this is luxury!"
Wiggy grinned. "The Amazons always fly first class."
"Lucky you," I said. "But, if I fall asleep — no, don't wake me up for anything until we land. I'm sorry I won't be sociable, but I had a rough night last night."
"It sounds like you've had a rough couple weeks," she commented.
"I guess," I said, and unleashed a huge yawn. "Sorry!"
"No problem," she smiled. "We'll have plenty of time to get acquainted on the ship and the island."
"Is there an island?" I asked.
"Yeah! Oh, that's right, you don't know anything about the trip!"
"I know that we change planes in Hawaii, right?"
"Yes."
"Ummm," I said, wrapping my blanket around me. "That's all I need to know for now."
"Sweet dreams," Wiggy said. "Oh, you know what? I'll wake you before we start to land, so you have time to go the bathroom before they make us stay in our seats."
"Ah," I said, smiling, "I can see you're a seasoned traveler."
She nodded knowingly, then said, "Night-night!"
I closed my eyes, and immediately felt myself sinking. From that point on, there was no turning back: I couldn't have opened my eyes if I wanted to.
I sank down as if I weighed a thousand pounds and the seat was made of foam... I sank through clouds... real clouds, then clouds of mashed potatoes, of whipped cream and huge sheets of sheer shining silk, milky fog, beds of tofu that bent and broke and disappeared beneath me... endless miles of foam... foam like the bubbles in a bubble bath... endless thick, foamy piles of tiny bubbles...
A soft, silent whiteness in infinite supply...
I kept on sinking, down, down, down, into the milky silence, lit by a diffuse glow from somewhere far above. There were sounds — brief, muted — like flashing thoughts that left no trace.
Then came another sound... a gentle, constant sound... like the sound of the ocean: the roar of waves as they approached, soft thunder as they broke nearby and continued breaking and falling all along the beach, reducing at last to a soft, effervescent hiss. Over and over, waves rolled in and broke and hissed, in perfect rhythm as I breathed in and out.
I'd never fallen asleep this way: knowing that I was drifting deeper and deeper into slumber; watching one world let go of me and another world wrap itself around me.
For a moment, I was still aware of myself in my seat on the airplane, fully reclined with my feet up, wrapped in a light woolen blanket with a pillow under my head. I heard Wiggy turn the page of a magazine. I pictured her next to me, legs tucked underneath her, wire-rimmed glasses on her nose, lips pursed in thought.
We're already roommates, I thought, with me asleep like this.
I snuggled, burrowing deeper into the seat with my shoulders and hips, and out of me came a long, deeply satisfied sigh. For the first time in weeks and weeks, I relaxed. I let go. I let go of everything... and God! I was SO tired. Mom had been right about my tension... I felt its grip on me loosening... the tightness began to thaw and melt...
All the things that bothered me, all the things that worried me, all the things that frightened me... they all fell away. I dropped them out the window of the plane and watched them fall. They disappeared into the clouds below us.
Finally, I was gone: far from Flickerbridge, far from flashing cameras, bright lights, shouted questions, and reporters. Far from Grace Gifford and her favorite actress. Far away from Officer Strange and the bad things that had happened to me.
I escaped.
When you're asleep, you're not aware of time. It passes, it doesn't pass, it's all the same. I'd fallen into deep, unconscious, undreaming sleep, and had no idea how long I'd been out. Five minutes? Five hours? Five days? Five years? An instant, an eternity. When you're asleep, you can't tell.
As I slowly came to, as I woke up, groggy, everything was different.
I don't know how I could tell. My eyes were still closed, but... something — the world — had changed.
For one thing, my blanket was gone. As I groped for it, I realized that my arms were bare. Had I rolled up my sleeves in my sleep?
I ran my hands up my arms to pull my sleeves back down. My fingers slid all the way up to my shoulders. My sleeves were entirely gone, and at my shoulders I found lace!
Shocked, I opened my eyes and looked down at myself. My clothes were completely different! Rather than a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved top, I was dressed in a well-worn, long but sleeveless nightgown. It was white and clean, but soft from countless years of wear. Here and there were holes, some mended, some not. Looks like I'm wearing Cinderella's hand-me-downs, I said to myself.
My clothes were not the only thing that changed: I was no longer lying on my airplane seat. I was on a couch. A couch I knew, but couldn't place at the moment.
And in front of me stood a Christmas tree...
I wasn't on the plane any more, that was for sure. What was going on? Had I blacked out? Had they carried me from the plane, unconscious, to this house, to this room?
But wait... I know this place... I know it very well!
Although I'd never seen it with a Christmas tree before...
The room was a living room. And not just any living room, but the living room of the Auburn's house, in Tierson, California!
Whoa! Now this was a mystery! The last thing I knew, I was on a plane to Hawaii, sitting in first class next to Wiggy, with eight of the Amazons and two of their teachers.
Here I was, apparently a single moment later, waking up in the living room of my old boyfriend's house, dressed in a old nightgown. I ran my hand through my hair. Even without a mirror, I could tell it had that slept-on look. I sat up and wondered what day it was.
From the sun's angle through the living-room windows, I figured it was morning, maybe about nine o'clock. There were sounds in the kitchen, and I could hear Mrs. Auburn talking. I couldn't make out what she was saying, but I didn't hear anyone answer her, so she had to be talking on the phone.
I took a deep breath and tried to search my memory. Had I slept here last night? It sure looked that way, but why would I do that? And why on the couch? And yet, if I *had* slept on the couch, why weren't there any sheets or blankets? I shivered a little, for no particular reason.
Just then, Nina Auburn walked in from the kitchen. She was wearing a cute dress, but she looked a little over-dressed: Her dress was white with light blue trim, and its skirt belled out as though she was wearing petticoats.
"Hi, Nina," I said. "How's my favorite little girl?"
"Um, I'm okay," she said with a puzzled frown. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you dressed?"
"I don't know," I replied. "I've been asking myself the same question."
At that, Nina burst into laughter. "Oh, Marcie, you are so funny!"
"Thanks, I guess."
Now that I was more awake, I was more alarmed. Nina obviously wasn't completely surprised to see me in her house. Which meant — if this wasn't a dream... if this was really happening — I must have had a memory lapse. For the moment, I couldn't think of any other explanation. But what an alarming thought!
Then again, the lapse, the forgetting... it might only be temporary... I *had* just woken up... It would probably all come back to me in a little bit. I decided to act natural and try to go along with whatever happened, and see where that took me. I wasn't in danger; I was with people I knew and liked and trusted. If I had some sort of problem, I'm sure they'd tell me.
So why didn't I remember?
Nina's eyes twinkled as she looked at the old nightgown I was wearing. "You really like that old thing, don't you?"
I plucked at the soft, worn fabric. It seemed very comfortable and familiar... like something I half-remembered. "Yeah, I guess."
"Mom says that one day that nightgown will get so old, it will fall to pieces while you're wearing it. Can that really happen? Can clothes get so old that they fall apart? All at once?"
This was odd: why would Mrs. Auburn comment on my nightgown? Then I remembered: it wasn't my nightgown. "Um... I don't think so, Nina. I think they'd wear and rip and get little holes here and there."
Nina stuck her finger through a hole in the cloth, near my belly button. "Like this?"
I paused and considered how to react. I like Nina. She's a nice little girl, but I found her gesture a little too familiar. Gently I took her hand and pulled it away from my stomach.
She didn't seem to mind my gesture... she just took her hand back. Then she smiled and asked me quietly, "Marcie, seriously! Why aren't you ready? Why are you still in your night clothes?"
"I don't know... I guess... um... well, I don't know where my day-clothes are, for starters. Do you know?"
Nina grinned. It seemed like everything I said this morning made her laugh. "Your day-clothes? Do you mean your best dress? How could you not know where it is? Did Cassie hide it, so you'd get in trouble? If she did, Mom is going to be so mad! I mean, mad at her, not at you."
Hide my dress? Why would Cassie hide my dress? And why wasn't I wearing it, in the first place? I looked around the room, hoping to find something... anything... that might explain my predicament. Nina was a smart ten-year-old, but I was beginning to feel that I could talk to her all day without ever getting a clue as to what was going on.
I decided to use a direct approach.
"Nina, what's going on?"
She gave me a puzzled look. "What are you talking about? What's going on with what?"
"How long have I—"
At just that moment, Cassie descended the stairs. When she saw me, her eyes nearly popped out of her head.
"What are you doing?" she demanded. "What is wrong with you?"
"I don't know," I replied truthfully, but my response seemed to increase her indignation.
Cassie walked around the couch until she was almost directly in front of me. Taking a handful of my hair, she said, in a tone of shocked disbelief, "You haven't even taken a shower!" Then her eyes went to my nightgown. "And you're not only not dressed, you're wearing that ratty old nightgown! When are you going to throw that thing away?"
I was speechless for a moment, and searched for some kind of answer. "I wasn't sure if the shower was free," I told her.
"Oh!" she gasped, in a tone that said I can't believe what an IDIOT you are! Cassie glanced at the kitchen. Mrs. Auburn hadn't yet appeared. It sounded like she was still on the phone.
"Come with me," Cassie hissed, and grabbed my arm. She pulled me off the couch and toward the stairs.
"Ouch! You're hurting me!" I told her.
"Shut up, you knucklehead! I'm *helping* you! Mom is going to flip if she sees you like this!"
There didn't seem to be anything else to do but follow. I probably should have been getting ready, not sleeping on the couch.
I noticed that Cassie, like Nina, was dressed up. Cassie was wearing her SBD: her Simple Black Dress. Still, for a simple dress, it was fairly sophisticated. I didn't have a lot of time to study her outfit, though, because once we got upstairs, she roughly pushed me into one of the bedrooms, but kept her grip on my arm.
It was obvious a girl's room. I assumed it was Cassie's, since I'd seen Nina's room and it was nothing like this.
Like I said, it was a girl's room, but it was messy. There were clothes and books and shoes and... things... everywhere. There was so much disorder, it was hard to walk or find a place to stand. I couldn't believe a girly girl like her could live in a room like this. The walls were white and a little dirty in places, and in one corner I saw some sticks for field hockey and lacrosse.
I stumbled on the piles of clothes and shoes as Cassie propelled me toward a door. She didn't stop or even slow up, so I had to dance a bit to keep my footing.
Cassie, still holding my arm, opened the door. It led to a shared bathroom. The door on the other end of the bathroom was open into another girl's room. I couldn't see much of it, but it was more the sort of room I imagined Cassie would have. Three girls? I asked myself.
Somehow I understood that — for some reason — I was staying with the Auburns. This messy room had to be an extra room, a guest room. Maybe some other girl, a fourth girl, was staying in this room?
I couldn't quite put it together.
Cassie opened the hand that gripped my arm, and used it to give me a shove toward the bathroom. "Shower," she commanded.
I looked at her fearfully. She didn't seem to be going anywhere, and that was a problem. There was no way I was going to undress in front of her.
"I will," I said, "as soon as you leave."
Cassie frowned. "You should have taken a shower hours ago. I want to see you get in there and start washing!"
"No," I protested. "I need my privacy."
"OH!" she shouted. "Why are you always such an idiot!?"
"What did *I* do?" I demanded. "Why are you treating me like this? And what do you mean, always?"
Cassie rolled her eyes, as if to say I don't have time for this!, and with a resounding smack!, she slapped me on the butt!
"Eee-ow!" I cried in pain and surprise. "Have you lost your mind?"
"GET-IN-THE-SHOWER!" Cassie barked, and moved to slap me on the hindquarters a second time. I quickly shifted and put my backside out of her reach, carefully covering both cheeks with my hands.
She feinted left, then right, and suddenly grabbed my nightgown near my hips with both hands. Working her fingers, she was rapidly gathering the length of it into her fists. I looked down and saw the hemline flying up my legs. She was going to pull the nightgown right off me!
I grabbed her hands and pushed down. I had to keep myself covered! "Stop!" I shouted. "What are you doing!?"
She set her teeth and pulled on my clothes. "I'm trying to get you ready! What is WRONG with you!?"
Cassie was pulling up. I was pushing down. She wanted to grab as much nightgown as she could. I tried to open her hands so she'd drop what she'd taken. She wanted the nightgown off over my head. I wanted it covering me up. She held my nightgown, I held her wrists. She pulled, I pushed, both of us straining with with all of our strength.
I took a step to try to get away, and the two of us began moving, with heavy, awkward steps, through the cluttered room, locked in our vertical tug-of-war. Grunting and struggling, we must have made quite a picture: Cassie, dressed to the nines, hair and makeup just so; me, in a worn old nightgown, no makeup, hair like a rat's nest. Nina watched wide-eyed, but I had the strange feeling that she'd seen this sort of battle before. She moved to the relative safety of the hallway.
"Cassie! CASSIE! Stop!" I cried, as I tried to get away from her and keep her from pulling off my clothes.
"You have to get ready!" she hotly insisted. "I should just rip this stupid thing off you!"
"Stop! Stop! STOP!" I cried. "Are you CRAZY?"
"Crazy!?" she repeated in disbelief. "You're calling ME crazy? Have you looked in the mirror lately?"
We shifted across the room, which was a difficult thing in itself. A lot of my struggle was just to keep upright. There were so many piles of clothes and... well, junk, on the floor, that it was hard to not trip and fall over. Clearly, Cassie was aiming at that. She was pushing me, so I was moving backward, and had to keep turning my head this way and that. Cassie wanted me to fall. If I fell, I was pretty sure she'd get my nightgown off.
Every so often, she let go of the nightgown to deliver a stinging slap to my derriere. I couldn't let go of the gown to cover my butt! My face was red with exertion and embarrassment. I had no idea why we were fighting, but this was a fight I could not afford to lose.
Unfortunately, Cassie was bigger and stronger than me. She's an attractive girl — she could easily be a model — and was quite feminine in every way, but she also has muscles and determination. If this contest went on much longer, I was sure she would win. What could I do?
I tried to beg. "Cassie... Cassie," I gasped. "Just let me go into the bathroom and shut the door and I'll get right into the shower. Okay?"
"No!" she replied, "I don't believe you! You'll lock yourself in there and stare at yourself in the mirror for an hour! I want to see... uh! you... uh! uh! — get this stupid thing OFF! I want to see you in the shower, washing!" (The uhs were failed attempts to swat my backside.)
Things was getting both desperate and ridiculous. It suddenly struck me that my only hope was to go for broke and try to tackle her. Maybe if I could get on top of her, I could pin her down and reason with her? Was there a way I could put her own dress and hair in peril, and turn the tables?
While I tried to come up with a strategy, Cassie got a few more cracks in. My derriere was beginning to sting. By now, I had enough. Time to use my secret weapon.
I took a big deep breath and let out my loudest, highest, most piercing scream. Wide-eyed, Cassie froze.
I thought I'd won, until Mrs. Auburn's voice came from the doorway.
"Girls! What in the world are you doing?"
Wide-eyed, wild, and panting, I looked into her face.
Cassie, I noticed, still looked perfect, and Nina was peeking around her mother.
"Oh, Marcie!" Mrs. Auburn said, shaking her head. "What in the world am I going to do with you?"
I was never less prepared to answer a question.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
I closed my eyes and relaxed. It was the first moment since I'd awoken that no one wanted anything from me. No one asked me any questions, no one wondered why I wasn't "ready," no one was smacking me on the butt. Of course, I wondered how Cassie dared to do such a thing, but thinking about it didn't help me understand.
"I was trying to get her ready," Cassie explained. Nina said nothing.
Mrs. Auburn sighed as she looked at me. I must have been quite a sight. My hair was a mess. I probably needed a shower, and I was wearing an old, worn nightgown, most of which was gathered in my fists. I opened my hands and let it fall into place, covering my bare legs.
"Come here, you," Mrs. Auburn said, in a voice that seemed more tired and sad than angry or frustrated. "Why aren't you ready?"
"I don't know," I said softly.
She looked at me reproachfully and sniffed. "I think you can get by without a shower, but we need to do something about that hair." Looking down, beside her, she said, "Nina, would you get Marcie's shampoo and conditioner? Cassie, will you pick out something for her to wear? Get everything together: dress, shoes, underwear... and lay it out on—" she glanced around the messy room and sighed once again. "Lay it out on my bed."
Nina came up and handed her mother the hair products. Mrs. Auburn thanked her and said, "Now will you go find the hair dryer and a brush? Bring them down to the kitchen." Then, after giving me a look that told me she'd brook no nonsense, she turned and walked down the stairs. Meek, wordless, I followed her all the way to the kitchen. Once there, she pulled a chair over to the sink.
"Oh," she said, looking around and missing something. She looked up and called out, "Nina? Will you bring me two big towels? Please?"
I stood there before her, in that ragged, old nightgown. I still had no idea why I was here, what was going on, what we were "getting ready" for. A word came into mind: forlorn. I was forlorn! I was sure that if I looked for the word in the dictionary, next to the definition would be a little picture of me, with my slept-on hair and hole-full gown.
I had nothing but questions.
How had I gotten here? Why didn't I remember anything? Why was everyone treating me so strangely? They all seemed to think I belonged there, somehow.
And where was Jerry?
Then, I realized that I hadn't seen Mr. Auburn, either. Jerry must be off with his father somewhere.
"Sit down," Mrs. Auburn gently commanded. As I did, she scooped my hair into the sink. I tipped my head backward so that my face was looking upward into hers. All my uncertainty and confusion was written there, plain as day, for her to read.
And she did read it. She gave another sigh, much heavier and deeper than before, and said, half-hurt, half-reproachful, "Marcie, you break my heart when you look at me like that."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not mad at you. I just wish you'd gotten ready by yourself. We still have time, if we keep moving." She listened for Nina's footsteps, but they didn't come, so she turned on the water, adjusted the spray, and waited for the water to heat up.
"Do you know who I was talking to on the phone?" I shook my head no. "I was talking to my sister Julia. She's very ill." Mrs. Auburn took a deep breath and made an effort to kept herself from crying.
"Is she sick?" I asked.
"Yes," she breathed. "Very sick. She has cancer."
"Is it bad?"
"They don't know yet," she replied. We heard Nina's pounding footsteps on the stairs, so Mrs. Auburn quickly dried her eyes. "Not a word to the girls, alright? It's just between us. I don't want to ruin the day."
"Okay," I agreed, and she gave me a weak smile. She took the towels from Nina, arranged one under my neck, and began washing my hair.
I closed my eyes and relaxed. It was the first moment since I'd awoken that no one wanted anything from me. No one asked me any questions, no one wondered why I wasn't "ready," no one was smacking me on the butt. Of course, I wondered how Cassie dared to do such a thing, but thinking about it didn't help me understand.
I tried to relax, clear my mind, and enjoy the shampoo.
"I always loved doing this," Mrs. Auburn said.
"Mmm," I agreed.
After two applications of shampoo, she worked the conditioner into my hair, combing it through. Then, the final rinse, and soon I was sitting up as she towel-dried my hair.
"This is the nicest thing that's happened to me today," I told her.
"Hmm," she replied. "Well, we're not done yet." It sounded like a threat.
Nina sat down as if she had a ringside seat at a show.
Mrs. Auburn dried her hands, plugged in the hair drier, and put the hair brush in easy reach.
"All right, now," she warned me. "Just remember that you could have done this yourself hours ago, so you have nothing to complain about. Understand? And I don't want to hear any yelling."
Nina big-eyed, got her fingers ready to stick in her ears. I smiled at her, and her eyes grew even bigger.
Mrs. Auburn turned on the hair drier, grabbed the brush, and went to town on my head, brushing and pulling without any grace or pity. I was beginning to wonder whether I was better off with Cassie.
"Ow!" I shouted, as the brush grabbed a knot of hair and ripped it free. Then, a moment later, as another knot came free, I added, "Oooch! That hurts!"
"You have to learn to brush your hair," she countered. "Every day! Otherwise you get knots. Like this one!" She tugged and tugged and brought tears to my eyes.
What in the world was going on this house?
"Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!" I said. "You're burning me with that hair dryer! Can I do it myself? Eee-yow!"
"Too late!" Mrs. Auburn said. "If you like, I can let Cassie finish."
"No!" I protested. "I'll stick with you."
"Smart girl."
I looked at Nina. She wasn't laughing. She seemed to be studying a bizarre anthropological ritual. She shrugged at me and smiled, but kept her fingers in her ears. I smiled back.
She sat there until the very end, which was the moment Mrs. Auburn turned off the hair drier. "Thanks!" I said, as I jumped from the chair and ran up the stairs.
Mrs. Auburn had told Cassie to lay my clothes out on her bed. It was easy to tell which room to go to: Cassie was standing at the door of one, and she said, "It's all ready for you, Princess Marcelline." Her face didn't give her away, but I knew she was waiting for me to pass so she could give me another swat. I covered my bottom with both hands, and walked through the door turning, so I faced her the whole time.
In the room, which was clearly the master bedroom — Mr. and Mrs. Auburn's bedroom — a lovely blue dress was lying on the bed. It was a nice acqua color, with long sleeves. Cassie had chosen a pair of dark blue shoes to go with it.
"Nice," I said. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," she said, with surprising civility. "Hey, your hair looks good."
"Oh, thanks," I said, smiling. I turned to look at myself in the mirror, and as my hand went toward my head...
Whack! another slap landed on my behind.
"Cassie," I said, trying to keep my temper... but she was already gone. Finally alone, I quickly changed, and went downstairs to join the others.
Well... the story could go on like this for days, couldn't it? I'll try to cut to the chase.
What everyone was getting ready for, it turned out, was a portrait. Mr. Auburn arrived from work (he'd taken part of the day off), and we piled into their car. Mrs. Auburn had Nina sit between Cassie and me "so they don't fight."
I was already puzzled by... by everything so far, but that one just went over the top for me. "Why would we fight?" I asked. "I don't want to fight."
Mrs. Auburn replied, "Marcie, don't even start!" in a tone that sealed my lips for the rest of the ride. Cassie gave me a superior smirk.
God! And to think there were times when I'd actually wished I could be *part* of this family!
In any case, the day went on. We had a picture taken: Mr. and Mrs. Auburn with Cassie, Nina, and me. I hung back each time, since of course I didn't belong, but they always pulled me in and sat me in the photo. I couldn't understand why they wanted me there, but clearly everyone agreed that they did, so I went along.
I still didn't remember a thing; had no idea what was going on or why I was here. However, the general idea seemed to be that Jerry and I had traded places, similar to the way that Maisie and I had done our mom-swap. This time, however, it was a full-on family swap.
Everyone certainly treated me as though I was part of the family, and no one mentioned Jerry at all. At times I wondered whether this was a bizarre new reality show, but I couldn't catch even the smallest glimpse of cameras or microphones.
At the same time, the idea that I might be on TV kept me quiet. I didn't want to have a memory lapse on national TV. I imagined a couple of teenage girls saying: Oh my God! Did you see it last night? That Marcie girl didn't know what was going on! It was like she forgot everything! What a goof she is!
After the photo, we went out to lunch together. I found myself sitting next to Mr. Auburn.
"You're awfully quiet today," he observed, with a twinkle in his eye.
"I told her about Julia," Mrs. Auburn told him in a low tone. He nodded.
"Try not to worry, kiddo," he told me. "We don't know much yet."
Of course, Cassie hadn't missed any of this, and soon Mrs. Auburn, against her will, was telling the girls about their aunt's illness.
"I didn't want to tell you before your trip," she told Cassie, "because I didn't want you to worry."
Cassie chewed her lip, and Nina looked to me, so I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
I wanted, in all honesty, to tell them that I wasn't quiet because I was sad about this Julia person, but I had enough tact to know that it would have been the worst thing to say. Instead, I accepted it as the cover to my confusion.
When we got back to the Auburn's house, Mr. Auburn (who still thought I was sad about Mrs. Auburn's sister) took me aside and said, "Would you like to go for a walk with me in an hour or so? If you want to talk, we can talk. If you don't want to talk, we can just walk. How does that sound?"
"That sounds good," I replied, smiling. It did sound good. I like Mr. Auburn. Even though he can be a terrible tease, I trust him. I decided right then that I was going to tell him about my difficulty and find out what was going on.
I trudged up the stairs. Nina and Cassie were behind me, and I felt my spider-sense tingling. I had to protect my backside from Cassie. So, once I got upstairs, I put my back to the wall. She smiled. She knew why I was doing it.
"Well?" Cassie asked. "Aren't you going to get changed?"
"Yes," I replied. "I'd like to."
"So, do it."
"I will." It was then that I realized I had no idea where my clothes were. Except for the old nightgown, which I'd left in Mrs. Auburn's room, but I couldn't wear that.
Cassie studied my face. "What's with you?" she asked. "Usually you can't wait to get out of that dress."
Now that she mentioned it, the dress was a bit uncomfortable. "I don't know what to wear," I told her lamely.
"How about jeans and a t-shirt?" she suggested.
"Okay," I agreed without moving. Nina stood there, too, watching me. My behavior must have seemed quite odd to them, but I just didn't know what to do. In this situation I couldn't just follow along, and I had no idea what to do next.
Cassie gave me a funny look and said, "Do you know, if you want to actually get your clothes to change into, you have to go into your room?"
"My room?" I asked blankly. Cassie responded by pointing to the messy room I'd been in earlier, the one where we'd fought over the nightgown.
I entered the room, hands carefully covering my derriere. "If this is my room," I wondered aloud, "who made this mess?" I shook my head, perplexed.
Cassie and Nina, who thought I was joking, burst out laughing behind me. "It must have been your evil twin," Cassie replied with a grin.
I looked at her expression. Was she joking? At this point, anything seemed possible.
Then I broke down. "Oh, my God," I sighed. I couldn't pretend any more. I had to come clean.
Cassie looked at me with concern. She wasn't teasing when she asked, "Are you alright?"
"I don't know," I replied. "I'm wondering whether this is all a dream, or maybe if I've lost my mind."
She relaxed her concern and smiled. "Well, if that's all it is...," she replied, "You might have lost your mind, but I'm sure this isn't a dream."
"Yeah," I countered, "but, you could say that, even if this is a dream."
"Okay," she agreed, nodding, giving me the point, and she began looking around my room. Her eye stopped on my window, and she walked over to it. Looking outside, she moved around for a bit. It seemed like she was looking for something, and then she found it.
"Look," she said, smiling. "Come over here and I'll prove to you that this isn't a dream."
When I didn't move, she beckoned with her hand. "Come on, come over here," she coaxed, so I went over. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Do you see that little bush over there?"
I could see it, just barely. I moved a little closer to her, and she moved back to make space for me. "Yeah, I see it now," I told her.
"Okay. Now: can you see what's behind the bush?"
"No..." I began, and then — I bent forward slightly, trying to get a better look. I still didn't see anything. The bush was in a funny spot, and I could barely see it from the window, let alone whatever was behind it. So I bent a little more and turned my head...
At that same moment, I felt Cassie's hand leave my shoulder.
Suddenly, in a flash, I knew what was coming. I leaped back, facing her. Her right hand was raised.
"I knew it!" I said. "You were going to slap my butt again! Why do you keep doing that?"
She shrugged. "Because I can? Because it never gets old?"
"Hey, news flash!" I retorted. "It just got old! It's official! Cut it out! It hurts!"
Mr. Auburn called up from downstairs. "What's going on up there? Is everyone okay?"
"Yeah, Dad!" Cassie called. "We're just playing. Everybody's fine."
I went over to the bed, shoved aside a pile of clothes, and sat down. I put my face in my hands. It was just too much. It was all too much.
"Marcie, what's wrong?" Cassie's voice was full of concern. "Seriously now: Talk to me."
I sniffed and said, "I don't know what's going on. I don't know why I'm here. I don't understand anything."
"What don't you understand?"
"Anything! How did I get here?"
"Oh, come on. Are you serious? Do you want me to ask Mom to explain how babies are made?"
"No, not that!" I spat. "I mean TODAY. I woke up on the couch downstairs... in that nightgown..."
I hesitated, not sure how much to say, but heavily burdened. I wanted to unload my distress, and so I looked up at the two girls to see if I could dump it all on them. They both stood there, listening, concerned and frightened. Well, a little frightened, anyway. And I didn't want that. I didn't want them worrying on my account.
As they waited for my next words, I drew a few ragged breaths and thought for a moment.
Was there an easier way to find out what was going on? Maybe there was... I thought for a moment, then took a different tack. I sniffed and wiped a tear from the corner of my eye, then asked them, "Can you tell me just one thing? Where's Jerry?"
"Jerry?" Cassie repeated, as if she had no idea who or what I was talking about.
But Nina got it in one. Her eyebrows arched, her mouth formed a perfect oh!, and she murmured, "Uh-oh!" in a soft little voice.
Cassie looked from her to me, and her to me again, and then she got it, too.
"Oh, crap!" she whispered. Then swallowing hard, she looked me straight in the eye and said, "Wait a minute. Don't tell me: you think you're Marcie Donner, don't you?"
"Well, yeah!" I responded. "Who else would I be?"
"Uh, try Marcie Auburn?"
"WHAT!?"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
Cassie came close, and knelt in front of me. "Listen to me, and listen to me good. Whatever you believe right now, whoever you think you are, for Mom–" she grimaced for a moment "–for Mrs. Auburn, you have to at least *pretend* to be her daughter, okay? If you don't, if you say that you forgot, or that your last name is Donner, she will flip right out. And believe me, she does not need that right now. So, until we can straighten out all the stuff that you don't remember, can you play along and be Juliette Auburn's daughter?"
"She forgot again," Nina said.
"Oh, no!" Cassie cried. "That explains why you were acting like such a doofus! I mean, more than usual."
"Thanks a lot," I said. "But anyway, I'm not Marcie Auburn. How could I be?"
Cassie came close, and knelt in front of me. "Listen to me, and listen to me good. Whatever you believe right now, whoever you think you are, for Mom–" she grimaced for a moment "–for Mrs. Auburn, you have to at least *pretend* to be her daughter, okay? If you don't, if you say that you forgot, or that your last name is Donner, she will flip right out. And believe me, she does not need that right now. So, until we can straighten out all the stuff that you don't remember, can you play along and be Juliette Auburn's daughter?"
"Your mother's name is Juliette?" I asked.
"Your mother's name is Juliette. Got it? Will you at least play along? Call her Mom? Okay?
"You can talk about this to me and Nina and Dad — Mr. Auburn. But *not* to anybody else, or you could end up in the loony bin. Okay? Please trust me, this once."
"Okay," I said. "I'll trust you IF you quit swatting my buns."
"Fine," she said. "Until you remember, no swats."
She sat back on her heels and turned to look at Nina. "Maybe this time *you* should tell her the story, because she isn't going to believe me."
"Is it long?" I asked. "Because I'm going for a walk with your– with Dad in an hour."
"Oh, good," Cassie said. "He thinks you're all bummed out about Aunt Julia... but you don't even know who she is, do you?" I shook my head. "She's Mom's identical twin. So, as you can guess, they're *very* close."
I swallowed hard.
Cassie said, "Let's quick get changed, and meet back here. Then, Nina, you can give her the rundown so that she's got some idea before she talks with Dad."
Nina ran to her room. Cassie picked out a pair of jeans and a top for me. "These are your faves," she told me, and the moment I touched them I knew that I *did* like them.
"Thanks," I said. "Looks like I wear them a lot."
Cassie rolled her eyes. "You have a TON of really nice clothes," she told me, "but you wear the same old things over and over."
"I do?"
"Yes, you do."
With that, she left and I got changed.
As I did, I made a discovery: I'm a girl! A real girl. I suppose I should have noticed before, but what with all the... I mean, I was so disoriented... anyway, I didn't notice! But now I was noticing, believe me! Yes, I was girl in every way, in every part! All the way, through and through. I pulled down my underwear to look, and was stunned. I was real down there, too!
I would have spent more time checking myself out, but I heard Nina coming back, so I quickly finished changing. I was still zipping up when she appeared at my door.
"Hi," I said. "Do I really live in this mess?"
"Yes," she said. "You're the messy one. I think Mom's given up trying to get you to clean."
I looked around at the white walls and the windowless curtains. "And how come the room is so bare? Why isn't it more... girly?"
"You can never make up your mind what color you want or what drapes you want. Mom wants to choose, and Cassie would choose, but you say that *you* want to pick your own stuff, and you don't trust Cassie."
"Hmmph," I said. "And how come Cassie is always fighting with me?"
Her eyes opened as high as they could go. "Um, you fight with her, too. The two of you are always fighting."
"Why?"
She frowned and stared at me. "Because you're sisters." Then, remembering, she said, "Oh, but you forgot..."
"I forgot what? And where is Jerry?"
"Wait," she said. "Wait until Cassie comes."
"Alright," I said. "In the meantime, I'm going to start picking up this mess." I bent down and scooped up the biggest pile of dirty clothes. Then I looked around for a place to put it. There really wasn't any. Nina smiled, and I dropped the clothes back on the floor.
"Why don't we get some garbage bags?" she suggested. "Then you can bring 'em down to the basement and start washing them."
"Okay," I agreed.
"Cassie's going to take a while anyway."
We went down to the kitchen, and Nina grabbed a box of trash bags from under the sink.
"What are you girls up to?" Mrs. Auburn asked.
"I'm cleaning my room," I said. "Oh, and... uh... Mom... I give up on decorating my room. I'll never decide. So, if you want to pick... whatever color you want, I'll paint it."
She looked stunned. "Am I hearing right?"
"And for drapes and everything... whatever you want is good for me."
"Oh," she said, as if she couldn't believe it. She turned to Mr. Auburn and said, "Pinch me."
"You're not dreaming," he replied.
"Can I take your car to get some paint?" she asked him. He laughed and nodded. "Best to strike while the iron's hot," she said. "Before she changes her mind."
"I won't change my mind," I said.
Nina and I went back upstairs, and she helped me sort the clothes and stuff them into bags.
When Cassie came in, she said, "Can you do that and listen at the same time?"
"Almost done," I replied.
"Nina, stop doing that," Cassie said. "Sit with me on the bed and tell Marcie all about herself."
The two of them sat down. I quickly ferreted out the last of the dirty clothes and stuffed them in a bag. Then I sat on the floor, ready to listen.
"Okay," Nina began. "See... Where Dad works there's this machine. It's a time machine, and he went back—"
"Wait," I interrupted, shaking my head. "There is NO WAY—"
"No," Cassie said. "You wait. Just listen, and then when you go for a walk with Dad, you can talk about it. For now, just keep your trap shut."
I frowned, but closed my mouth.
"So anyway," the little girl went on, swinging her legs as she spoke, "He went back in time and switched you and Jerry when you were in the... um... in the two mothers' bellies—"
I was about to open my mouth again, but Cassie gave me a fierce look, so I shut it.
"And that's why you grew up as Marcie Auburn, and he grew up as Jerry Donner."
"So where is Jerry now?"
"In New Jersey, with his family, in Frickenitch."
"Flickerbridge," I corrected.
I didn't believe it at all. There was no way on earth that what she was telling me was true. I knew it was impossible, but I also knew that what was between my legs was impossible, so I listened.
For sure, what she was telling me was all a crock, but I was sure that eventually I'd find out the truth.
Cassie jumped in. "See, the last thing you remember is being on a plane, right? With a girl named Piggy?"
"Wiggy," I corrected.
"Whatever," she went on. "Anyway, that's when Dad hit the button, and everything rewound."
"The whole world?" I asked, incredulous. This story was beyond ridiculous. "If that were true, everybody would know what was going to happen next."
"No," Nina said. "The only people that remember are you, me, Cassie, and the two fathers: Dad and Mr. Donner."
"What about the mothers?" I asked.
"They didn't want to remember," Cassie explained. "Don't ask me why; I don't know."
"And how come nobody else remembers? And how come *I* forget, if this is true?"
"Nobody remembers because that's the way the machine works. Dad can explain, I guess. But I don't know why you forget. It used to happen, like, once a year when you were little, but since then it happens less and less often. The last time was just before school started, in September. But the time before that, you were nine or ten."
"What about Jerry? Does he remember?"
Cassie smirked when I mentioned his name. "No, he doesn't remember. He didn't want to."
"So why are you smiling like that?"
"You don't remember?"
I shook my head.
"Because when he came here, to stay with his Aunt Jane, the two of you were all over each other."
I turned red.
"Mom had a BIG talk with you... you don't remember?"
"It will come back to you," Nina threw in.
"Yeah," Cassie agreed. "Some time tonight or tomorrow you'll start to remember. When you were really little, you'd forget for days, but now, it's shorter. In September, it only lasted a couple of hours.
"Anyway, back to you and Jerry... Mom wanted to send you away with Aunt Julia, or to an all-girls school or something. She even thought about putting you on the pill."
"The pill?" I repeated, going white.
"She didn't want you to be a teen mother. Then you had to do that stupid fake-baby thing for Home Ec., and it seemed to help a little."
"Really?"
"There were times I thought we'd have to spray you two with a firehose to get you apart—"
Nina turned red and said, "If you two are going to talk like this, I'm going to leave."
"Sorry, Nina," I said, blushing myself.
"You were broken-hearted when he moved," Cassie said, pretending to pout with sadness. She wiped away an imaginary tear.
Ignoring the big-sisterly meanness of her remark, I asked, "So do I have a boyfriend now?"
"Not really," Cassie replied. "You keep that poor John Martin dangling..."
"I do?"
"Yes. You should either go out with him or dump him, but you let him run after you like a sick puppy..."
"Okay, okay!" Nina said, standing. "I'm leaving!"
"Wait, wait," I said, and Nina sat back down. "What about all the things I did, like climbing the building, and catching the baby, and running after the kidnappers..."
"Oh, yeah," Cassie said, remembering. "Um... you didn't do those things. You made sure they didn't happen. Like with Cory... I think you went and reminded him about his backpack or something. And the baby..."
"You got the conductor to make the mother sit in the closed car," Nina said. "So the baby didn't fall off the train."
"And the kidnappers..."
Nina looked uncomfortable. "You called 911 and said there were suspicious men outside the school, and you told them that the police were coming."
"So they got away?"
"Yes, but they didn't take that girl."
"Oh," I said.
"But now we're almost caught up," Cassie said. "Pretty soon, everything is going to be new."
"Yeah," Nina said. "I'm glad, 'cause it's been really weird, knowing what was going to happen."
Cassie shrugged. "It's had its upside, too." She stood up.
"So!" she said, "that's enough to get you going. Dad can tell you the rest. I have things to do. Come on, Nina, let's let Marcie dig through this stuff."
"Oh, wait!" I said. "Am I friends with Eden and Carla?"
Cassie laughed. "Oh, yeah! Eden's your best friend, and you and Carla are teammates."
"Teammates?"
Cassie pointed to the sticks in the corner of the room. "Field hockey? Lacrosse? You're fast, and Carla's strong. Neither of you are the best player on the team, but you're good. Your coach loves you."
"Coach?" I repeated, searching my memory. "Ms. Price?"
Cassie nodded, and the two girls left me to my work.
I looked through the closet. It was true: I did have a lot of nice clothes, but they looked as if I never wore them.
I pulled the sheets off the bed and carried them down with the other dirty stuff, and started a white load. Then I returned to the room, took another garbage bag and started throwing things away: old papers, wrappers from sports bars, empty Gatorade bottles... "What a pig I must be," I said aloud. Soon one bag was full, and I started on a second.
Next, I gathered all the books from the floor and from my desk, and organized them in the bookcase, tossing out piles of paper that I'd left on the shelves. While I was busy doing that, Mr. Auburn knocked gently on the door.
"Hello," he said. "Oh, look at that! There's a floor in this room! And a rug! I forgot all about that rug, I haven't seen it in ages!"
I laughed, and realized that it was the first time I'd laughed since I... well, since I woke up here. He smiled.
"Ready for our walk?" he asked. "Cassie told me what you girls were talking about. I'm sure you have a lot of questions."
"Yes," I replied. "Just let me get my shoes on."
"Based on past experience," he said, "I think I know what your first couple of questions are going to be: the first one is always Is there really a time machine?"
"Is there?" I asked.
"Yes and no," he said. "It's not a time machine, in the classic sense of the term. You can't get inside and go back in time. And it doesn't go forward at all. There are machines that do, but I don't think any of them are around right now."
I shook my head.
"Yes, I know," he said. "It's unbelievable. I can't go into a lot of detail, but it came from the future. We don't know how it works, but what it does is that it lets you look into the past and change small things."
"Like an embryo in a mother's womb?" I asked.
He coughed and said, "I know. Talk about unethical... Sometimes I can hardly believe I did this to my own family and to... well, to yours."
I looked at him.
"Oh, and there's something else," he went on. "I didn't know until I talked to... your... father, but... I had no idea that you weren't born a girl. I was able to change that when I moved you into your mother's womb."
"You mean Mrs. Auburn's womb."
"I hope you'll call her Mom to her face," he said.
"Oh!" I said suddenly. "How come the mother's didn't want to remember how everything used to be?"
"I don't know," he said. "I've thought about it a lot, but of course there's no way to ask them... I have a theory, though, that it was the only way they could go through with it. To ask a mother to give up her child... it's unthinkable."
"And yet, they thought it," I said.
"Yes, but you know... there is a reset button."
"Really?"
"Yes. If I hit it, everything will go back to the moment before it all changed. You'd be on that plane to... where was it? Hawaii?" I nodded. "With whats-her-name... Piggy?"
"Wiggy," I corrected.
"So, if things had gone horribly wrong, if everyone was terribly unhappy, I could always hit the button and send things back the way they were. Except—" he looked at his watch. "Huh. Maybe that explains why you forgot..."
"What?" I asked.
"You know, I honestly forgot, but we're getting close to the day when I pushed the button. I mean the first time around, while you were still Marcie Donner. Maybe this will be the last time you forget. Let's hope so, anyway."
"Why do I forget?" I asked.
"I don't know," he replied. "No one at work has any idea, either. But it *has* gotten less and less frequent, and your forgetting lasts less and less time. I think that sometime, tonight or early tomorrow, it will all come back to you. Not all at once, but enough for government work." He gave a wry smile.
"I'm sorry," he told me. "It was an experiment that I probably shouldn't have done, but it seems — aside from your occasional memory lapse — that everyone is happier this way."
I thought about my new anatomy, and nodded.
"Listen," he said. "I can still hit the reset button. It's the big UNDO. Like I said, you'd find yourself as Marcie Donner, back on that plane to Hawaii, and we'd have Jerry back. I'm guessing that maybe there's a month or so left when I can use the reset. After that, there's some kind of dissipation or degradation of the, uh, reset buffer, and once that happens, you can't go back. We'll all be stuck this way. So, if you feel like going back to way things used to be, let me know and we'll talk."
"And you'll push the button?"
"We'll talk about it," he replied.
"Okay," I said.
"And one more thing," he said, as he stopped and turned me to face him. I noticed that we were back in front of the Auburns' house — our house. It hadn't been a long walk, and now it was over. "I love being your father. It's wonderful having you as a daughter. I know that you and Cassie fight like crazy sometimes, but that's what siblings do. I think we have a great family."
"I think so, too," I said. I don't know what I based that on, but I believed it completely.
Then he opened his arms and gave me a fatherly hug that made me feel like I was in the right place in the world.
It was all crazy, and, honestly, the business with the time-machine was pure hokum. I didn't buy it.
There had to be a logical, reasonable explanation, and eventually I'd find it. Maybe I just imagined that I was Marcie Donner. Maybe it was all a dream, and my family — the Auburns — were humoring me now, trying to ease me through... whatever it was that was happening to me.
As we walked into the house, I thought, Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe Marcie Donner was a dream. Still, what's happening right now seems so real! No: it didn't *seem* real. It WAS real.
In that moment, I made my big decision: No matter what's going on here, no matter what the explanation is, I like this! I like being Marcie Auburn! Whatever's behind this, whatever the truth is, I'll let it go for now. I'm going to live this life, and I'm going to live it as well and as deeply as I can.
What else could I do, after all?
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"It isn't pink," she said defensively. "I know you don't like pink, so I didn't get pink. It's Peach Puff."
I went to the basement to check on my laundry. The white load was ready for the drier, so I started a dark load. That left enough for a third, mixed load. I didn't look forward to the ironing that would follow, but I still felt enough like a guest that I didn't want to weigh on my hostess, Mrs. Auburn. I mean, Mom.
As I worked, I thought about the time machine...
It had to be complete nonsense. As I went over the conversations we had, I realized that the Auburns didn't make any effort at all to convince me that the time machine was real... which struck me as evidence that the whole business was a very flimsy lie.
Maybe it was *supposed* to be a flimsy lie, so that I'd quickly see through it and get to the real truth.
Which was? I shook my head.
At the same time, I was sure and for certain a biological girl. How could I explain that?
AND, things were beginning to come back to me. I knew at once where the laundry detergent, softener, etc. were, and where I'd find the iron and ironing board.
It was nothing earth-shaking, but it was a start.
After that, I went into the kitchen, and — just for the hell of it, just to feel liked I lived in this house, I yanked open the refrigerator door and looked inside. Somehow, something in me was saying that's mine! that's mine! but I wasn't sure which articles of food or drink it was talking about.
So I shut the door and went upstairs to my room.
And there was Mom, in an old pair of highwater jeans and a oversized t-shirt. She was putting her hair up under a baseball cap. Everything in the room was covered with drop cloths, and the furniture had been pulled away from the walls.
"Wow," I commented. "You didn't waste any time! Do you want some help?"
She hesitated and looked at me. "Waste time?" she echoed, "Honey, I've been waiting to do this since you were eight years old."
"Really?"
"Yes! This room hasn't been painted in all that time! That's why it's so dingy! I don't know how you could stand it."
"I don't know either," I said. "I guess I couldn't decide on a color."
"Anyway," she half-interrupted, "I want to get it done before you change your mind or have second thoughts. And no — since you ask — I don't want any help. I'd rather you go away and let me do it. Why don't you call Eden and see if you can stay over there tonight?"
"You could stay in my room with me," Nina offered.
"Um," I said. It was clear that Mrs. Auburn — I mean, Mom — didn't want me underfoot. But I was worried about seeing Eden while I still didn't remember everything. "I'll stay with Nina," I said.
"Yay!" Nina cried.
"Okay," Mom said, with a look of great uncertainty and mistrust. "Well, why don't the two of you go off and... do something. Anything, as long as it's not right here."
"You could read to me," Nina said.
"Okay," I said. "Pick a book." She lifted the drop cloth that covered my bookcase, and dug around for a moment.
"So...," I said, looking at the can of paint in the middle of my floor. "What color did you get?"
"Marcie," she said, "Why don't you let me surprise you?"
"I won't change my mind!" I told her. "I swear!"
With great misgivings, she opened the can, and the color was...
"Pink!?" I cried in horror. Oh, brother! I suddenly remembered something: I remembered why I'd never let my mother choose the color of my bedroom.
"It isn't pink," she said defensively. "I *know* that you don't like pink, so I didn't get pink. It's Peach Puff."
"Okay," I said, trying to remember my promise. Whatever it was *called*, it was still pink. I hated it. I was sure I'd hate it for a long time to come.
"It will look different on the wall," Mom promised.
"Good," I said.
Nina emerged at that moment with a book in her hands. "Why don't we go downstairs and read?" I told her.
"Why don't you do that?" Mom told us. "That's a good idea. And don't come back up for a while. For a *long* while."
As we turned to go, Mrs. Auburn said, "Marcie? If you really don't like it, you can pick a new color, and I'll help you paint it, okay? Just give it a week, and then you can change it. If you want."
I nodded and smiled. "I appreciate it, Mom. The room really needs a lot of help. I'm going to try to keep it cleaner from now on."
She gave a cautious look, as if I've heard *that* before collided with the desire to not discourage me. She bit her tongue and said nothing.
I figured I'd throw her a bone: "Oh, and I'll throw out that old nightgown of mine."
She gave me a sheepish grin. "I already did," she confessed.
"Oh, well, uh, thanks," I replied.
Nina and I went downstairs and sat on the couch.
"Okay, so what is this book?" I asked.
"It's one of yours," she said, and handed me a well-worn copy of — what? Princess Marcelline, and other transgendered fairy tales, retold by Kaleigh Way.
"What the heck is this?" I asked her.
"It used to be your favorite book," she said. "I think because of the title."
Nina took the book from me, and turned the pages until she found the one she wanted to hear. "Read me this one."
"Please?"
"Please."
"Okay." I cleared my throat, and was about to begin, when Nina stopped me.
"Hey, you know why Mom says you can change the color?"
"Why?"
"Because she knows you won't."
I looked at Nina in silence. She grinned and shrugged and pointed at the book.
I cleared my throat a second time and started to read.
The Puir Laddie And His Godmother
"Oh, wait," said Nina. "What's a puir laddie?"
"I think it means poor boy," I told her. "I think it's Scottish."
"Why doesn't it just say 'poor boy', then?"
"I guess it sounds better," I replied, and shook the book so I could get on with it.
There was a time, oh so long ago, when your grandfather's grandfather's grandfather knew a man who knew a man who told the story of a poor couple who lived far off in a great forest.
The wife, as it happened, gave birth to a lovely baby boy, but the family was so poor that they couldn't get the laddie christened. You see, the parson didn't baptize babies just for the fun of it: he wanted his fee, and he wanted it first, so that he wouldn't go to all the trouble of sprinkling water on a child and THEN find out there was no money in it for him.
If there was any way of undoing a christening once it had been done, then the parson might have changed his tune, but as things stood there was nothing for it: the poor couple had to find the money, or the baby would remain unchristened.
And so, in the space of a single day, the father took himself from house to house and asked every soul he knew if they might be a godparent to his son. All were willing enough to stand, but not one of them felt the need to pay the fee.
At last, when there was no one left to ask, the poor fellow made his way home.
As he followed the path through the woods, he came upon a lovely lady dressed in fine clothes, who looked oh-so good and kind, through and through. She offered to get the baby christened, but after that, she said, she must keep the child as her own.
The father answered, "Fair enough, but I must ask my wife what she thinks about it."
When he got home and told her, his wife said, "No!"
The next day, the husband thought that someone might have changed their mind, and might say yes after they'd slept on the matter. But though he begged and prayed, he found no help.
Once again, on the way home, he met the lovely lady, who looked so sweet and good, and she made the same offer as the day before.
With a heavy heart, the man went home and told his wife how things had gone, and she said, "Husband, it's a hard lot we've been given, but try again tomorrow, just one more day. If no one will stand for the soul of our puir wee bairn, we must let the lady have her way, if she truly is as good and kind as you say."
The third day the man went out to ask again, but it was worse than the day before. And yet he tried with all his heart, and once again asked every single person that he knew, low and high, far and near, for a third and final time, but no one would do what he asked.
So, on the way home, when he met the lady again, he gave his word that she could have the child if only she would have him christened at the font.
The next day she came to the poor little cottage, along with two strong men to serve as godfathers. She took the baby and carried him straight to the church, where he was christened. After that, she took him to her own house, and treated the boy as if he were her very own son.
Time passed, and the boy grew, until he was nearly half-ways to being a handsome young fellow.
Then the day came when his foster-mother told him, "I must go on a journey. I'll return in a few days. While I'm gone, you may go anywhere in this house except for these three rooms." And she showed him which rooms she meant.
As you might guess, the moment his foster-mother was gone out of sight, the boy could bear it no longer, and he opened the first door, but just a wee little bit! just a crack! just a sliver! And when he did — POP! out flew a star.
I stopped at that point and looked at Nina, who giggled. "Go on," she urged.
When his foster-mother came back, she was very vexed to find that the star had flown off, and she got so angry that she threatened to send the boy away. But the child begged her, and promised and swore that he'd never do the like again, and so she let him stay.
Sure enough, time passed, and the foster-mother found that she had to go off on another journey, and just as before she made the laddie promise to stay away from the other two rooms, the rooms in which he'd never been. He promised that he would, and told her he'd be good as good, but as soon as he was left alone he began to think and wonder what on earth could be in the second room! At last he could stand it no longer, so he put his foot against the door, and pulled it just a crack, just enough to peep inside, when POP! out flew the Moon.
Nina erupted in a fountain of giggles.
"Nina, really," I said. "The Moon?"
"I like the POPs!" she said, smiling. "Come on, keep reading, keep reading!"
This time, when the foster-mother came home and saw what the boy had done, she fell into a deep sadness, and said, "There's nothing for it, my boy. You cannot stay with me a moment longer." But the lad wept so bitterly, and begged so earnestly, that when he asked her with all his heart to forgive him this time, too, she told him he could stay.
"Let me guess what happens next," I told Nina. "She goes on another trip."
Nina smiled impishly. "Maybe," she said. "But maybe not! Go on! Keep reading! Let's see!"
Time passed, and once again the foster-mother had to go away. This time she spoke quite seriously to the laddie, and told him he was old enough to understand, and that promises were made to be kept, and so on and so forth. She told him to be sure not to try, or even think of trying, to go into, or even to peep, through the smallest crack of the third and final room.
The boy promised quite sincerely, but the moment he was left alone, he ran to the door of the third room and put his ear against it. He didn't hear a thing. He wondered whether he could climb up and look through the window, but there was no way it could be done. He went off and did his level best to keep himself busy, but his thoughts kept drifting back upstairs to that little room.
At last he sighed and told himself, "I've learned my lesson with the first two doors! I won't make the same mistake again! This time I'm SURE I can make the teeniest tiniest wee little crack of a crack, and then I'll slam it shut. Nothing will come sailing out this time! See if it won't! Come on, then, my lad, buck up! Let's see what's hidden in that room! I'm sure I can do it, and my lady will never know!"
The boy pushed and pulled on the door at the same time, and tried to be as clever as clever could be. Still — as I'm sure you've already guessed — the moment he saw the smallest sliver of light — POP! out flew the Sun.
"Oh, Nina!" I cried. "The Sun? How could it be the Sun? If the Sun was locked up in a room, there wouldn't be any Sun in the sky! It would be night all the time!"
Nina guffawed. "Maybe this was back in the days *before* the Sun was in the sky."
I sighed. "There never was such a time," I told her.
"Just go on!" she said, tapping the open page. "Let's see what the mother does. Do you think she'll forgive him?"
I supposed she would, but I read on anyway.
Well, this time when the foster-mother returned, she was truly downcast, and when the laddie saw her face, he realized what an awful thing he'd done.
"You have cut me to the heart, my son," she said, and a tear ran down her face. "I have no more grace to give you. This time you must truly go. You cannot stay a moment longer."
The boy understood that now she would not bend, but still he wept and pleaded. He apologized, but it did no good. And promise? He could not: there was nothing left to promise; there were no more doors to open; he'd done all the wrong he could possibly do.
"Though it hurts me to do so, I must punish you as I send you away!" his foster-mother told him, "And yet, because I love you, you may choose your punishment yourself: you can either be the loveliest woman on earth, and not able to speak, or keep your speech and be the ugliest of men. Whichever fate you choose, away from me you must go."
The lad said, "Well, I'm sure I don't want to be ugly!" So he turned at once into a wondrously beautiful girl, but from that day onward, she was mute as a stone.
The girl left the house and went walking and wandering, and soon she came to a path through a forest. The farther she went along the path, the more distant the end seemed to be.
At last evening came, and in the darkness she climbed a tree, which grew over a spring, and arranged herself in a way that she could sleep without falling.
Close by the spring stood a castle, and each morning from that castle came a maid to draw water to make the Prince's tea. The maid came just below the tree in which the girl was sleeping.
When she bent to draw the water, the maid saw the girl's lovely face reflected and thought it was her own. She tossed away the pitcher and ran home, saying, "If I'm that pretty, I'm far too good to be fetching water!"
So another maid had to go, but the same thing happened to her: She, too, came back without the pitcher, saying, "I didn't know I was such a ravishing treasure! I'm far too beautiful to be fetching water!"
"Nina, come on!" I protested. "These girls are too stupid! Nobody could believe they'd never seen their reflection before! If there was a monkey in the tree–"
"Okay, okay!" she said. "You always stop there, anyway."
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"All the girls had odd names... Dutch names. They were odd for Americans, but maybe quite normal for Dutch girls."
Nina nodded. "Did they all have blond hair and wooden shoes?"
"I always stop there?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "I don't know how the rest of the story goes."
"I'm sorry," I said, turning back to the story. "I'll finish it. There wasn't much left anyway."
"No," she said. "Why don't you read your favorite story?"
"Which one is that?"
"See if you can guess," she said, and smiled.
I closed the book and was about to turn to the table of contents, when I looked again at the cover: Princess Marcelline. I remembered that Cassie had called me that name earlier, and I smiled. Nina smiled as well, and I knew that I'd hit the right one. It was the first story in the book.
"Ready?" I asked Nina.
"Ready," she agreed, but then stopped me. "I have a question. You know that girl on the plane?"
"What plane?"
"When you were going to Hawaii?" I nodded. "Why did you call her Piggy?"
"I didn't call her Piggy. Her friends called her Wiggy."
"Why? Did she wear a wig?"
"No." I smiled. I had liked Wiggy, and I wish I'd gotten to know her better. Now it would never happen. I wouldn't even get to meet her. "It was short for Hedwig."
"Head-wig?" Nina repeated in disbelief. "Like a wig for your head?"
"No," I said. "It's kind of an old-fashioned name. Actually, all the girls had odd names... Dutch names. They were odd for Americans, but maybe quite normal for Dutch girls."
Nina nodded. "Did they all have blond hair and wooden shoes?"
"Yes to the blond hair, but no to the wooden shoes. They were cheerleaders."
"Hmmph."
"They all had terrible nicknames, like Donkey and Ding-Dong... I forget the others."
Nina smiled but didn't laugh. "Okay, I'm ready for the story now."
There was once a king and queen who had only one child, a daughter. She was a beautiful, brave, and lively girl, and her name was Marcelline. Each day when she woke, she was given a lovely new dress, sometimes silk, sometimes gold brocade, sometimes velvet or satin, but all her fine clothes never made her vain or haughty. She spent her mornings with her tutors, and her afternoons were spent helping and working near her mother the Queen, who loved her dearly. At lunch time there were always bowls overflowing with sweets and more than twenty kinds of jam.
Certainly, she was the happiest princess in all the world.
At the same time, at that same court, there was a very rich old maid, the Duchess Grognon, who lived a life of torment. But not because she was ill or helpless or ugly. She was none of those things. Her health was good, her will was strong. Her home was a large, imposing castle. She possessed all manner of riches in abundance: gold, silver, jewels, art, furniture, and clothes. She wanted for nothing, but she was never happy, because her heart was full of jealousy. And since her heart was full to the brim with jealousy, envy, and greed, there was no room for love or joy or simple happiness.
In addition, the Duchess Grognon was sensitive to a fault: she was quick to feel offended, slow to forgive, and boundless in her hate.
In times past, the Duchess was greatly admired and praised for her beauty, but in recent years the meanness in her heart began to show upon her face. Many noblemen had come to woo her, but quit as soon as they glimpsed her hard, ungracious character.
As the Duchess grew to be more and more of a monster in her heart, she came to hate the Princess Marcelline with a deep and deadly hatred. She left the court because she was tired of hearing Marcelline's praises sung, and kept to her own castle, just a little way off. When anyone paid her a visit, if they made the mistake of mentioning the Princess' charms, the Duchess would fly into a rage shouting, "It's a lie! It's all one great lie! The girl is neither pretty nor clever nor good! Why, I have more charm in the smallest toe of my left foot than she has in her whole foolish body!"
And then it happened that the Queen fell ill and died.
"Do you know what I think?" Nina interjected. "I think the Duchess Grow-non poisoned the Queen."
"Maybe," I said. "But the book doesn't say."
Princess Marcelline felt as if she, too, might die of grief at having lost so good a mother. The King himself fell into deep distress for the loss of such a wife. For nearly a year he kept to the palace until he was so thin, distracted, and pale that his doctors began to fear for his health. They ordered him to go outside, to get some air, and find a way to amuse himself. So one day he mounted his horse and went riding.
He had not ridden far, but the day was intensely hot, so when he spied a great castle nearby, he entered its courtyard to rest in its shade.
The castle belonged to none other than the Duchess Grognon, and as soon as she heard of the King's arrival, she came down herself to receive him.
She told the King that the coolest place in the castle was in her great arched cellar. It was very clean, and she begged him to accompany her.
"Oooh! She's going to lock the King in the cellar!"
"Why would she do that?"
"Because she's evil!"
"People don't just lock people up for no reason," I said.
"Maybe she doesn't like boys," Nina offered.
"The story doesn't say that," I said again. "Let's go on."
The King went along, and everything was just as she had said. While they took some refreshment in the cool cellar, the King couldn't help but notice the many barrels, stacked one above another. He quickly calculated that there must be 200 in all.
"Is all that wine for you, my lady?" he jested, but she replied, "Yes, my lord, for myself alone. But I would be delighted to share it with you. Which wine do you prefer? Saint Laurent, Hermitage, Pouilly Fuisse, Champagne..."
"Since you offer me the choice," the King answered, "I must say that there is nothing I enjoy so much as a glass of Champagne."
"Now she's going to poison him!" Nina said, all big-eyed.
"Wait and see," I said.
Grognon took a little hammer and tip-tapped on the barrel. Out fell a bushel of golden coins!
"How strange!" she said, with a little smile. "I'd better try another!"
She went to a second barrel, and tip-tap! out flowed a stream of pearls.
"Extraordinary!" she murmured with a larger smile, "I can't understand this at all!"
On she passed to a third barrel, and this time her tip-tap brought forth so many diamonds, in all sizes and colors, that they covered her feet.
"Your majesty!" she cried, "I'm completely mystified. Someone must have made off with all my wine and left these knicknacks in its place!"
"Knicknacks?" the King echoed in astonishment.
"Trifles, then?"
"Trifles?" he repeated, "Madam, you call these trifles? With these, could you buy all of Paris, ten times over!" He raised his eyes and looked around him. "And these other barrels..." he scarcely dared finish the thought.
"My lord," she confessed, "all of these barrels are packed to the brim with gold and jewels. If you like them, you may have them all, if only you will marry me."
"Ha!" cried Nina. "Marry her? No way!"
As much as I liked Nina, I was getting a little irritated at her constant interruptions. This time I didn't reply. I just went on reading.
"Marry you, madam!" cried the King, "I will do so with the greatest pleasure! Tomorrow, if you like!" For the King loved nothing more than money.
"There is one other thing," Grognan told him. "If I marry you, you must promise me that I'll have full authority over your daughter, as if she were my own child. She must look to me for everything. You must leave all control of her to me."
"She will be entirely under your authority," the King promised, as he looked around at the barrels loaded with jewels. "So I promise, and so I vow. Here is my hand, and with it, my heart."
She put her hand in his, and when they left the room of treasures, Grognon locked it and handed him the key.
When he returned to his palace, Marcelline ran to meet him, and asked if he had good luck in the hunt.
"I daresay!" he replied. "I caught a dove, alive, in my bare hands!"
"Did you?" she replied, astonished. "Give it to me, then, and I shall feed it."
"I can't do that," he laughed. "What I really meant, is that I'm getting married, to none other than the Duchess Grognon!"
"Grognon!?" the Princess cried, and without thinking said, "You call her a dove? I'd call her an old bat!"
Nina laughed loudly.
"Hold your tongue!" the King told her in an angry tone. "She will be my wife and my queen, and I want you to love and respect her, as if she were your own mother. Go now and get dressed, for I wish to visit her with all the court in train, this very day."
The Princess obediently returned to her room, but she wept the entire way.
When her nurse saw the girl's distress, she asked what ever could be wrong.
"Oh, nurse, I've tried, but I cannot stop crying. The King my father, has decided to marry. Now I will have a step-mother, and that alone is hard enough to bear. What makes it worse is this: the creature he has chosen is my worst enemy, the hideous Grognon. How can I see a monster like her occupy the place where my mother has been? How can I show any affection for a woman who, I'm sure, would rejoice to see me dead?"
"Princess," the nurse replied, "you must understand that your high birth requires you to set a high example. As your father must often sacrifice his own will for the good of his people, so you must sacrifice yourself to please your father. You must maintain your dignity, and not let Grognon see how much this marriage dismays you."
The Princess didn't like this idea at all, but in the end the nurse convinced her, and she resolved to put a good face on the matter. Then she dressed in a golden gown and green robe. She left her hair free to fall softly on her shoulders, and on her head she wore a crown of roses and jasmines. When she was ready, she looked so fair you would never guess how great a sadness lay in her heart.
Nina sighed heavily.
"Nina," I said. "I've read this story to you before, haven't I?"
"Yes," she replied, "but I don't exactly remember what happens. It's kind of complicated and long."
Long? I echoed mentally. Then I glanced ahead and saw that it *was* a long story.
"We probably won't read it all today," Nina informed me.
"Okay," I said. "Let's see how far we can get."
Grognon, too, was preparing herself: she dyed her hair to make it blacker, and powdered her face to make it whiter. She put on a lovely dress of amaranth satin lined with blue and trimmed with violet ribbons. She decided to ride out to receive the King on horseback, for she'd heard the queens of Spain always did so.
Marcelline, once she was ready, found that the King was still busy preparing. She had nothing else to do but wait, so she went by herself into the garden. She found a lonely spot where she could sit down unobserved, and there she began to weep. She sighed and sobbed until she could cry no more.
When at last she began to calm herself, she looked up and saw a page coming toward her. He was dressed in green, and wore white feathers in his cap. Best of all, he had the most handsome face in the entire world. Kneeling before her, he said, "Princess, the King awaits you."
Her heart trembled at his voice, and she asked, "How long have you been one of the King's pages?"
"I am no page of his," the young man answered. "I am yours, and desire no other service."
"Mine?" she answered, astonished. "But I have never seen you before this moment."
"Oh, Princess!" he cried—
"He wants to get all kissy-face with her," Nina put in.
"Yes, I'm sure he does," I replied. "But he's only a page, so he can't."
"Could she have his head cut off?"
"Yes, I suppose...," I answered, and I began to think what *I* might do, if I were the Princess Marcelline, and had a handsome page in my service...
"Earth to Marcie!" Nina called. "Hello-oh! What about the story?"
"Oh, Princess!" he declared, "I had not dared until now to make myself known to you, but this coming marriage threatens to bring great evil upon you, and so I had to act! I had hoped that my constancy and devotion in service would reveal my love to you, but—"
"What!" cried the Princess. "A page declares his love to me! Such audacity! I am not yet reduced to such an extremity!"
"Fear not, fair Marcelline," the young man replied in a tone of great respect and tenderness. "I am Percinet, a prince well known for his wealth and accomplishments. I have loved you for a long time, and would have approached you earlier, but could not while you mourned your mother, the Queen.
"I thought to enter your service as a page, and win your affections and your heart. It was a bold and, yes, audacious plan, but now, I believe I can be of real help to you. The coming of Grognon puts you in real danger, and I will do all that I can to protect you from her schemes. I shall stand by your side today in this livery, and hope I may be of use to you. Now that you know who I am, please do not send me away."
As he spoke, Marcelline was both charmed and embarrassed. She had seen and admired Percinet's portrait, but now she knew it had not done him justice.
She replied, "So... you are Percinet. I have longed to meet you, for I've heard marvellous things told about you. Please do stay, and be the guardian of my safety."
"Hmm," I said, suspiciously.
"What's wrong?" Nina asked.
"This guy wants to hang around her, and she lets him, just like that!"
"He's a prince!"
"Still, she doesn't know him. And, he might wonder... does she really like him, or is he just handy, in case Grognon tries to hurt her?"
Nina said, "I don't think he'll mind being handy."
"No, I suppose not."
They returned to the palace, where Percinet had already prepared a fine horse for the Princess to mount. The horse was a little spirited, so her page — the brave Percinet — took it by the bridle and led it.
When the King and his court met Grognon on the road, the Duchess quickly observed that while her own horse was very fine, Princess Marcelline's horse was even finer. The King, who had many things to think about, didn't notice, but the eyes of everyone were on Marcelline and her handsome page.
Grognon greeted the King, saying, "Why should that girl have a horse so much better than mine? Am I truly to be Queen? I'm sure that I'd be better off turning back to my own castle, rather than allow you to treat me with such disdain."
The King immediately told Marcelline to dismount, and begged Grognon to take the better horse. The King's gentlemen came forward, and lifted her from one horse to other, but still she was not pleased, and muttered under her breath. The King asked what was the matter.
"As I shall be mistress of you all," she replied, "I will have the page in green come forward and hold the bridle of my horse, as he did when the girl was riding it."
Percinet looked at the Princess, and she looked at him, but neither said a word. Percinet obeyed, and walked before Grognon's horse, holding the bridle. The Duchess was enormously pleased to be the center of attention, and she told herself, "Certainly that silly Princess is choking with envy of me now."
Then, just when all seemed peaceful, and decorum had been restored, the beautiful horse began to rear and to buck. Percinet did all he could to keep the horse in check, but the horse managed to strike him in the chest, and the poor Prince fell to the ground.
Once the bridle fell free from the Prince's hand, the horse ran off, with the frightened Grognon still on his back. She clung to the saddle and the mane as well as she could, and cried for help at the top of her lungs. At last she fell, but her foot caught in the stirrup, and before it came free, the horse dragged her through mud and bushes and even over stones. When at long last they found her, she was bruised in every part, and had scratches all over her. She had a great lump on her head, and her arm was broken in two places. Her hat was deep inside a hedge, and her shoes were on the other side of a great ditch. She looked like a bundle of sticks and dirty rags, and nothing like a bride.
They carried her as gently as they could to the castle, and the best doctors were sent for.
And yet and still, though she barely had the strength to speak, she never stopped complaining. "This is one of Marcelline's tricks!" she said. "She brought that vicious horse on purpose, first to show me up, then to make me jealous, and finally to have it kill me. A great wrong has been done to me. To me, a harmless and generous woman! If the King does not set this right, I shall return to my castle! He shall never see me again!"
"The King should just let her go," Nina said.
"I don't think he will," I told her. "He wants her money."
She shook her head. "But that lady is so bad! He should put her in the dungeon. Then he could still have all her money, but he wouldn't have to marry her."
I wanted to point out how wrong that would be, but at the moment I couldn't think why.
When the King heard what Grognon said, his heart went out to the barrels packed with jewels and gold. As he thought about what had happened that day, he convinced himself that Grognon was correct, and that his daughter had done a great wrong. He ran to Grognon's bedside and begged her to stay. He swore that the moment she named a fitting punishment for the offense Marcelline had committed, he would have it carried out immediately.
Grognon replied, "That is not enough. I will deal with the girl myself. But do not worry. I'll treat the girl with both justice and mercy."
The King thanked her and made many promises. The moment he left, Grognon sent for Marcelline. The Princess grew pale and trembled with a mortal fear. She looked everywhere for Percinet, but as he was injured, he could not come, and so she sadly made her way to Grognon's chamber, alone.
"If I was that Princess, I'd jump out a window and run away!" Nina told me. "What would you do, Marcie?"
I looked at Nina, considering, as I rubbed the page between forefinger and thumb, getting ready to turn.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"All of your life, even when you were a child, I've heard people say how brave and clever you are. Well! I've never believed it, and I don't believe it now! I've never seen any proof! All I see is a spoiled little, vain little, empty-headed girl. Still, now's the test! Now we'll see whether I am right or you are wrong."
"Isn't that the same thing?" Nina asked.
"If I was that princess," I said, "I would go to Grognon and see what she wanted."
Nina was appalled. "She'd want to kill you, that's what she'd want!"
"Maybe," I replied.
"Oh, Marcie!" Nina said. "You would do that, and you'd think it was brave, but it wouldn't be!"
"No?"
"No, it would be stupid!"
I smiled at Nina and said, "Well, let's see what Princess Marcelline will do."
Nina gave me a look of concern. "She's going to do something brave and dumb, just like you would do."
My shoulders slumped. "So you *do* know this story!"
She hedged and squirmed in an I-don't-know-maybe way, saying, "I don't remember everything..."
"Okay," I said. "Let's go on." *I* wanted to find out what the Princess was going to do.
The moment Marcelline entered Grognon's chamber, the door was shut and four of Grognon's women threw themselves upon her. As quickly as it takes to say it, they had the poor Princess trussed up, good and tight: she was bound and gagged, unable to move or to cry out.
"Now, Princess," Grognon sneered from her bed, "All of your life, even when you were a child, I've heard people say how brave and clever you are. Well! I've never believed it, and I don't believe it now! I've never seen any proof! All I see is a spoiled little, vain little, empty-headed girl. Still, now's the test! Now we'll see whether I am right or you are wrong."
"Isn't that the same thing?" Nina asked.
"Yes it is," I agreed.
"Come, my friend," Grognon called, "I have need of thee," and soon there appeared a fairy, who looked upon Grognon's wounds and wept with compassion.
"Who has done this to you?" the fairy demanded. "Tell me, and I shall turn them into a toad or a pig, or any loathsome thing you like!"
"No," Grognon protested, with great insincerity. "That would be harsh and unforgiving. I have an idea that is much more suitable and noble."
The fairy paused, and looked behind her, only to see Marcelline pleading with her eyes.
"Who is this girl?" the fairy asked. "And why is she—"
"She is the author of my misery," Grognon told her. "My greatest enemy. Consumed by her jealousy of me, she bewitches men with her supposed beauty, and drives them to do me harm."
The fairy's eyes flashed fire, and poor Marcelline feared that the next moment would be her last.
"I've thought of a fitting punishment," Grognon went on. "Nothing that will harm her. On the contrary, it might help her learn the error of her ways."
"What a great heart you have!" the deceived fairy cried.
"Strip her of her riches, of her title, of her name, and most of all, strip her of her feminine wiles. Let her be a peasant boy, who must labor for his bread."
The fairy was delighted at the apparent justice of Grognon's request.
"Simple work shall teach her honesty," Grognon explained, "and a humble station will teach her humility."
"I shall do as you ask, my good friend," the fairy replied, "and I shall do more: I shall carry the girl so far from here that she will never find her way back."
"Thank you, my friend," the hypocritcal Grognon said. "And now, you must excuse me... my strength is failing, and I must rest."
"I shall take this miscreant away at once," the fairy told her. "And carry out your noble request."
"Thank you," Grognon said. "There remains only one thing to tell: A word of caution. Do not listen to a word she says. The girl is full of lies, and is an artful deceiver."
The fairy laughed. "Never fear!" she replied, and with a wave of her wand, she and Marcelline were gone.
In the next instant, Marcelline found herself in the middle of a great forest. The cloths that stopped her mouth and bound her hands and feet where gone. The fairy stood before her.
Marcelline tried to speak, to protest her treatment and to tell the fairy the truth of what happened between herself and Grognon. But when she opened her pretty mouth, no sound came out.
The fairy spoke to her. "I have placed a charm upon you so that you cannot speak in my presence. You are fortunate that the Duchess Grognon is so merciful and kind, for I am not. I would gladly lay the worst of punishments upon you. Instead, you have been given the chance to redeem yourself. I hope you will use your new life wisely, though I doubt you will."
With a wave of the fairy's wand, Marcelline's tresses fell away, along with her soft and lovely clothes. In their place came boots, pants, shirt, coat, and hat — all rough, coarse, sturdy stuff. In place of the bright colors she was used to wearing, her new clothes were dull brown and faded white. They were old and worn, but they were clean.
They were the clothes of a man.
The fairy held up a small mirror so Marcelline could see herself. In the reflection Marcelline beheld a handsome young man, dressed as a laborer. When her face showed astonishment and dismay, so did the young man's face.
"I could have made you ugly," the fairy said, "but for a vain thing like yourself that might have been too much to bear. Farewell!"
And with that, the fairy vanished, leaving behind the hand-mirror and a much-distraught young man.
I paused, and sat there thinking. Nina waited, then said, "Hey, the story doesn't end there. Why aren't you reading?"
"I was thinking," I said.
"Are you thinking what the princess will do next?"
"No, I was thinking what *I* was going to do next," I replied. "I need to talk to Cassie."
"Hmmph. Maybe you should stick the book into the back of your pants, in case she swats you."
"I don't think she will," I said, smiling.
"You never do," Nina laughed.
"Hmmph," I said. "Listen, I'll be back soon. Okay?"
I walked up the stairs slowly. Something was coming together in my mind: a realization was forming, but it wasn't quite clear yet. Back when I was Marcie Donner, I was interested in girly things: I read Cosmo, I made friends with Ida so I could learn about clothes and shoes and makeup. My bedroom was a teenage girl's dream, with its cool colors and furniture, and I always tried to make the best choice of what to wear.
Now, as Marcie Auburn, I seemed to be very different: my room had no color. It was very spartan, and at the same time it was a mess. As far as I could tell, I wore the same clothes, over and over, until they fell apart or someone else threw them away. I didn't wear makeup, and I played sports.
It didn't make sense.
I went to the door of Cassie's room, which was open, and knocked. Her room was a stark contrast to mine: the walls were a very light color somewhere between lavender and blue, and the furniture was light, natural wood. It was elegant; it was together; it worked. I knew that she'd done it all herself, made all the choices, and that the room perfectly reflected who she was: a intelligent, organized, young woman with taste. Cassie didn't look up. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking intently at a list that she held in her hand.
For some reason I found myself saying, "Dilly-dilly."
Cassie rolled her eyes. "Of all the things to remember, you have to remember that?"
I shrugged. "What does it mean?"
She gestured toward the walls. "The color is Lavender Blue. You know the song?"
"Oh, oh, I get it now." I laughed. Mom used to sing it to us when we were small.
"That would be a good thing to forget," she told me. "So what's up?"
"Can you help me with something?" I asked.
She hesitated. "It depends on what it is. I'm sorry, but I don't have a lot of time to tell you the stuff you don't remember. Trust me, it will all come back to you."
"No, it isn't that...," I said.
Cassie looked at me. She was obviously biting her tongue, trying to be patient. She knew I had a problem, but she was busy with something of her own.
"I don't dress very well do I?"
"No," was her curt reply.
"I wear the same junk over and over?"
"Yeah. So?"
"I want to change. I want to dress better. Will you help me pick my clothes for a while? Until I get it?"
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes moved around as she thought. At last she said, "I don't know. Maybe. I can't help you now, though, because I have to get ready for my trip."
"What trip?"
She looked irritated at my not knowing, then said, "I got accepted to Princeton, and I'm going to New Jersey tomorrow for a visit," she said. "I'm going to be there over New Years, and part of next week."
"Oh, yeah," I said, remembering. "Jerry told me. Congratulations."
She stiffened. "You need to remember to not say things like that."
"Okay. I'm sorry."
Cassie scratched her nose. "Listen: After Mom is done with your room, why don't you ask your friend Eden to come over? She knows how to dress, and she'd probably love to help you go through your things and shop with you. Plus, she'd be more patient than I ever would."
"And she won't smack my ass," I interjected.
Cassie laughed. "Yeah, that too. Anyway, one word of advice: DON'T ask Mom for help. She'll have you dressing like Nina, and everyone will laugh at you."
"Okay, thanks," I said.
She smiled. "I won't be here much longer. Around September, I'll go away to college, and then you'll be the big sister here at home. In the meantime, I'll try not to pick on you any more. I've got to grow up, and I want you to have some good memories of me before I go."
I smiled back at her. "But I do have good memories of you, already."
She laughed. "Wait until you start remembering," she said. "I think I'll sleep with my door locked until I'm sure you've calmed down."
I frowned. "Okay," I said. "I don't think it will be that way, though."
She chuckled and stood up, stretching her arms. "You used to be an only child," she said. "Only-childs are weak." As she talked, I was aware that she was getting into position to give me a swat, so I backed into the hallway. "See?" she said. "You're learning. Come here and give me a hug." She held her arms open, and I was torn between suspicion and wanting a hug.
Suspicion won out. "No, thanks," I told her. "I'm good."
"Smart girl," she commented. "Now go. I gotta pack."
I went to my own bedroom door, which was shut. I could hear Mom still working in there, and some half-remembered sense warned me it was better to stay away until she was done.
After using the bathroom in the master bedroom (my parents' room, I told myself, trying to get used to saying the words), I noticed that it was only three in the afternoon. It surprised me, because it seemed like an incredibly long day so far!
I went back downstairs, expecting to get back to Princess Marcelline, but on the way down I heard the theme song to Hannah Montana. I realized I'd have to wait to find out about the Princess, and decided that it was a good time to call Eden.
I didn't feel entirely ready for the call, since there was so much I didn't yet remember. Still, I reflected, unless Eden had drastically changed, it wouldn't be a problem.
Things were starting to come back to me, but I wasn't really remembering them. For instance, I wanted the phone, and found myself walking into the kitchen, turning right, and picking it off the wall. Just as I'd done countless times before in my life. And Eden's number, well, I knew that anyway, but my finger punched it out just like it does every day.
Eden's mother answered, which surprised me, because I thought she'd still be at work. (See? I remembered that, too!) So, when Eden got on the line, I asked why her mother was home.
"She took the week off," she said. "I told you."
Well, I guess I don't remember everything.
"So, hey: guess what?" I asked her.
"Um, let's see... your mother is painting your bedroom?"
"How did you know?"
"Your mother was SO excited that you finally let her do it, that she called my mother." She giggled. "So you decided that pink is your color?"
I sighed. "She *says* it's not pink. It's Peach Puff."
"And that kind of looks like... something like... pink, right?"
"Yeah," I sighed.
"Face it, Marcie," Eden said. "I have bad news for you: You might be turning into a girly girl."
A girly girl? There it was again. "Actually, Eden, that's the reason I'm calling. Do you think you could help me with my clothes?"
"Help you? With clothes?" she repeated as it registered. Then she shrieked, "Are you kidding!? I'd LOVE to! Do you mean, like go through your stuff... and—" here she sounded cautious "—and, like, throw some things away..."
"Yes," I said. "We have to throw away all the old, crappy stuff, and figure out what works and what I need."
"Oh, my God!" Eden said. "What happened to you!? Are you sure I'm talking to Marcie Auburn? The girl who wears the same old clothes every day?"
"I don't wear the same thing every day!" I protested. "And they're not old, they're just comfortable..." I trailed off. Obviously this was a well-worn track in my brain. One that I had to let go of. "Yes, Eden, I have to reform. I realized that I live like a... like a..."
"Like a BOY," Eden said. "You live like a boy! You know you do! You have a messy room, you don't care about your clothes..."
"Okay, okay," I said. "Don't push it. I want to change, and I want your help. But don't lecture me, okay?"
"Alright," she agreed. "So when can we start?"
I looked up at the ceiling, as if I could see my mother singing to herself as she ran the paint roller.
The pink paint roller.
"As soon as the paint dries," I said.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"Yeah, but," Eden countered, "— and not that I want to talk you out of it or anything — you know that you don't have to do girly stuff to be a girl. You of all people should know that."
I knocked on my bedroom door.
Mom answered from inside, "Don't open the door! I'm right behind it with a tray full of paint!"
"Okay," I replied. "How's it going?"
"It looks really nice, Marcie! I think you're going to like it!"
I figured a deliberate lie was the best way to go: "I think so too, Mom."
I listened to the rhythmic back-and-forth sound of the paint roller. "Mom, do you mind if I go to Eden's house? Or I could stay here and help, if you want."
The roller stopped. "No, no. Why don't you go to Eden's? That's a good idea. If you want to stay over, that's fine, too."
"You really want to get rid of me, don't you?" I joked.
At that, I heard some scrabbling noises, and the door jerked open. Mrs. Auburn's face — I mean, Mom's face — had a dash of pink — I mean, Peach Puff — on her nose. She wore a baseball cap backward on her head and an anxious look on her face.
"Mom, with that hat, you look like a rapper!" I joked, trying not to look at the pinkness behind her.
"Marcie," she said, "I don't want to get rid of you. You're my daughter, and I love you. I just want you to go away until I'm done."
I laughed, but there was still enough Marcie Donner in me to see that she was right. If I stayed and kept looking at that little-girl pink, I'd start flipping out. Then I had a sudden thought: Would I start yelling? That was followed by another thought: Why would I ever think that?
So I asked, "Mom, do I ever yell?"
She took a deep breath and considered her words carefully. "Sometimes you do get a bit out of control." She bit her lip. "I think those sports, and hanging around with Carla Richio, brings out your aggression."
"Oh," I said. My eyes kept drifting over her shoulder toward the pink glow, so she looked back at the walls she'd already done.
"It really is pink, isn't it?" she said, finally owning up to it.
For some reason, I felt myself getting a little angry, but I managed to smile and say, "No, it's Peach Puff."
Mom looked into my face. "Maybe I should have picked something calming, like green."
"No," I countered. "Maybe I need a little pink in my life. But, Mom? The curtains don't have any ruffles or frills, do they?"
"No," she said in a cautious tone, "They're just plain white curtains. I showed them to once, don't you remember?"
"Oh, yeah," I said, although I didn't remember at all.
She laughed. "You have no idea which curtains I'm talking about, do you?"
"No."
"Go to Eden's," she said. "Have fun."
"You, too," I said. "Oh, can I get in there and get a sweater?"
"I can hand you one," she said. "There isn't a lot of room to move around here."
"Could you pass me a skirt, too?" I asked.
"A skirt?" she repeated, as if she wasn't sure she'd heard right. Then, in a hopeful tone she added, "Something nice?"
"Surprise me," I said.
"Okay," she agreed. "You're sure surprising *me*."
As I walked toward Eden's house, I pondered the "girly" thing: There seemed to be a very big difference between Marcie Auburn and Marcie Donner.
The biggest difference between the two Marcies, the anatomical difference, I didn't mind at all. In fact, I loved it!
But the rest of me, the personality, the orientation toward life, the... I don't know what to call it... was confusing.
When I was Mark Donner, I was a nice guy, but fairly colorless... almost non-existent. At least that's how other people described me: as just there.
As Marcie Donner, I was a whole 'nother thing entirely. I had friends, adventures... but most of all, I loved being a girl. The clothes, the shoes, Cosmo... and boys.
Now it seemed that I was somebody else all over again. Marcie Auburn was, well, a jock. She played sports. Okay, I could live with that. But apparently she didn't care about clothes — and, by the way, I was NOT thrilled about her hair.
Plus, she was messy... my God, that room! And why didn't she paint it? White walls, that badly needed a fresh coat, at least a coat of that colorless white, if not a real color. Didn't she have any taste?
It was hard to put together. Marcie Auburn was supposed to be me, wasn't she?
Maybe I was just contrary. If I was a boy, instead of being active and strong, I was passive and dull. When I was a T-girl, I was super-active and girly. Now that I was born a girl, I acted like a boy.
"Almost full circle," I said aloud. "What a revolting development!"
As I spoke, I heard a bicycle coming up behind me in the street. The boy who was riding gave a ring-ring! with his bell to make me look his way. He turned his head to glance at me, turned back forward, did a double take, spazzed out and fell off his bike!
I ran over to help him. His legs were tangled up in the bike frame, and he was moving awkwardly so at first I couldn't see whether he was hurt. He needed to separate himself from the bike, but I couldn't help there: I wasn't sure where to take hold of the bike. It was sort of chain-upward, and I didn't want to get any oil or dirt on me. "Are you okay?" I asked.
Instead of answering, he gaped at me, eyes opened wide in surprise, his mouth hanging open. He stopped struggling, and now that I was standing close to him, I saw two things right away: one, that he wasn't hurt, and two... he was looking right up my skirt.
"Okay, John," I said. "I think you got the picture. That's enough." Because guess who it was: John Martin.
"Sorry," he replied awkwardly. "It's just that you don't usually wear a skirt."
"Maybe this is why," I told him. "Will you please get up off the ground!?" I backed over to the sidewalk, to change his viewing angle. Now he couldn't see any higher than my knees.
He extricated himself from the bike, stood up, and leaned the thing against a tree.
"I'm sorry, Marcie...," he began.
"It's okay," I said, smiling. "I'm sorry I made you fall off your bike."
"Yeah. Next time you wear a skirt, you ought to send out a bulletin... a warning, I mean," he joked.
"I think you're the only one I need to warn," I countered. His face brightened up at that, and I remembered what Cassie had said about the way I keep him dangling. So I thought Why not? He's a good looking guy, and as far as I remembered he was pretty nice... and he really did like me...
"So, John Martin," I continued, poking him in the chest lightly with my forefinger, "I'm warning you: I'm going to be wearing skirts more often. A lot more often. So watch out."
"I'll stay off my bike," he grinned.
"Just stay off the ground," I countered. We both laughed, and he walked with me to Eden's house. I asked about his Christmas, and kept him talking about himself. It was nice to listen to him, and it seemed to make him happy. Above all, I felt his sense of relief: he finally felt that I liked him, that he had a chance.
At one point, he nervously asked whether I'd see a movie with him tomorrow, and I said yes. He tried to stay cool, but I saw his excitement build inside him like a head of steam.
When we got to Eden's house, I touched his hand and said, "See you tomorrow, John."
The look on his face was priceless. That tiny touch seemed to make him so happy! Oh, you poor schmuck, you've got it bad, I thought as I walked to the door.
NOT that I think he's a schmuck! He's a nice guy; I like him. But I'd never been with someone who was so head-over-heels for me.
Eden smirked as she closed her front door behind me. "So...," she said, in an insinuating tone, glad to be on the very cusp of a bit of juicy news, "you've finally succumbed to John Martin's charms, have you?"
"I guess," I said coyly.
"So, spill!" she cried. "How did it happen?"
"Let her take her coat off, Eden," her mother said, as she came down the hall toward us. "Then I'll make some hot chocolate for the two of you... with whipped cream."
I glanced at Eden, and she knew what I knew, which was this: Mrs. Hensel wanted to listen in. Then, once she was sure she had the whole story, she'd call my mother with it.
"Well, you know," Eden told me once, in her mother's defense, "she's new to the neighborhood. She wants to make friends, too." And that was true: the Hensels had only moved here last September, about the time that Jerry moved in with his Aunt Jane.
Pretty soon we were in the kitchen, and I had the two of them laughing about John's fall from his bike.
"You know, what John said is true," Mrs. Hensel commented, "You never do wear skirts. What prompted you to wear one today?"
"Hmm," I said, looking at Eden to bring her into the joke, "I guess was inspired when I saw the way Mom was painting my room."
Eden hid her smirk pretty well, but Mrs. Hensel didn't buy it. "Just because I'm not a teenager doesn't make me stupid," she told me with a grin. "I know you don't like pink, and watching someone paint always makes *me* want to put on my oldest clothes."
"Okay," I said, more honestly this time. "It's kind of like this: I woke up this morning not feeling quite myself, and I figured it was a chance to try to do things differently."
"Hmmph," she said, nodding. Then, figuring she had a full enough load of gossip, she told us, "Alright, girls, I have to go upstairs and do a few things in my room. See you in a bit."
She's calling your mother, Eden mouthed when her mother's back was turned. I rolled my eyes and smiled.
"Tell my Mom I said hi," I called after her.
"Okay, I wi—" Mrs. Hensel stopped and turned back to look at me. "You girls!" she said. "Who ever said I was calling your mother?"
We giggled and she left.
"So, really," Eden asked, after her mother was out of earshot. "What's the deal? Why do you want to wear skirts and all that? It's not for John, is it?"
I shrugged. "I figure, if I can't do girly stuff, what's the point of being a girl?"
"Yeah, but," Eden countered, "— and not that I want to talk you out of it or anything — but you don't have to do girly stuff to be a girl. You of all people should know that."
"I know," I said, "but I feel like... the way I've been living, I might as well be a boy."
"Jerry Donner didn't feel that way," she teased, and I turned a ripe-apple red. "Wow! You know, I was really worried about you when he was here."
"Why?" I asked.
"It was too intense," she said with a frown. "I told you this before. You just lost all sense of proportion! It was like you wanted to spend every minute with him, like nothing else mattered but him, and... oh! Let me put it this way: you were crazier about him than John Martin is about you. Maybe ten times crazier. Maybe more."
"No," I said. "It was different. Jerry was crazy about me too. Wasn't he?"
"I guess. But I thought you were going to get carried away..."
"I know, I know... you thought I'd do something stupid. Well, I didn't. But anyway... enough about me! What about you and Cory? How's that going?"
Eden frowned a little. "It's okay. He's okay. Things are good, but I think I'm ready for a new boyfriend."
"Why?"
"Because... he's nice and everything, but he sweats like crazy, even when it's cold out! And he's really affectionate, but, you know, I started thinking I should carry a bath towel with me so he can dry off before he touches me."
"Oh, yick, Eden!"
"Yeah, I know. The thing is, I like him, and he likes me... really, the only problem is the perspiration." She sighed loudly. "Man!"
"Maybe he should carry a towel," I suggested.
"Yeah, maybe that would do it," she said, but she didn't sound convinced.
While I was walking home, I thought some more about Marcie Auburn's life. One big way that it was different is that it was so ordinary. Apparently, crazy things didn't happen to her. At least, not so far. And yeah, okay — aside from the time-travel business, which I still don't believe. Although, without it, I was at a loss to explain my physical change.
I still suspected that this whole experience was a dream or hallucination. A sudden thought hit me, and I stopped dead in my tracks: What if, when I was on the plane... when I had that feeling that I was sinking and falling, well... what if the plane had crashed? I could be a coma, in a hospital bed someplace, and dreaming this whole thing. Maybe that's why it all seemed so real, because I wasn't just asleep. I was way, way down, deeper than just plain sleep.
Still, I believed in what was happening enough to not do anything crazy. I wasn't going to step in front of a train or jump off a building, just to see if it would wake me up. Chances are, I would simply die or be badly hurt. It was a crazy risk that I wouldn't take.
Instead, I was going to do the only thing that I could do. I was going to live this Marcie Auburn life, and make it my own. I didn't really feel like I was Marcie Auburn, though. It was more like I'd been *dropped* into her life. Well, Marcie Auburn, I told her in my mind, move over, because I'm taking over, and I'm making some changes.
When I got home, I'd start writing a list. For now, I could keep it in my head: so far I only had a few changes, and they were pretty obvious:
Three things: it was enough of a list for now.
I went back to thinking about the metaphysical nature of my new life. Was it real? I had to act as if it was. If it wasn't real, was it going to stay the way it was now?
Then I had a thought that stopped me dead in my tracks: If all this wasn't real, what would happen when I fell asleep tonight? Would it all disappear, or change?
I took a deep breath and started walking again. For a moment, I thought I might try to stay awake as along as possible, to prolong this experience. Then I realized that it was a crazy idea. I'd just have to go to bed and hope I woke up in the same place as I am now.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"I always thought you liked me."
She scoffed. "It isn't about like or not-like. It's about how things are supposed to be. I'm afraid that if you *think* you're Marcie Donner you're going to start to *act* like Marcie Donner."
When I got home, we had dinner. Mr. Auburn — Dad — was very happy and affectionate... to all of us, but to me in particular. Mom insisted that I stay out of my bedroom until tomorrow.
"I have the window open in there, cold as it is outside. The paint needs to try, and all those fumes have to go out. And keep in mind," she informed me, "the color will look different when it's dry." I bit my tongue and nodded, smiling.
Nina was very quiet for some reason. So was Cassie, but I knew what was happening there. She was nervous about her trip tomorrow. Dad had taken the day off so he could drive her to the airport.
"Are we all going?" I asked.
"Yes," Mom said. "This is a big day for your sister. It's not every day that someone from our sleepy little town goes to Princeton!"
"Good," I said, "I was hoping we would." Somehow I knew that Marcie Auburn wouldn't want to go, so I wanted to make it clear that *I* did. Cassie — miracle of miracles! — gave me a small thank-you smile, and I felt good. It was nice to be part of this family.
Was it nicer than being Marcie Donner?
Well, yes, I was certainly beginning to think so.
After dinner, I helped my mother clear the table and load the dishwasher. "Marcie," she said cautiously, "I put some of your things in Nina's room: a nightgown — a new nightgown, now that the, um, old one of yours is finally gone — and some clothes for tomorrow. I thought it would be nice if we all got a little dressed up when we see your sister off."
"It *would* be nice," I said, "thanks, Mom." And I went on pre-rinsing a pot.
She came up behind me and gave me a hug. "I don't know what's happened to you, Marcie Auburn, but I really like it! Today you've just been so... agreeable, and it's such a welcome change!"
Whoa! I was beginning to get the idea that Marcie Auburn was a bit of a jerk. So, without turning, still rinsing the pot, I said, "Mom, I'm sorry I've been so difficult. I'm trying to make some changes."
"I love you just the way you are, dear," she said. "It's just that you're so different from your sisters."
Then she added, "Change is good, though. Change is good."
Nina continued to keep to herself, doing her own little things. I was curious to know what was going to happen to Princess Marcelline, and had expected to finish reading Nina the story. But it didn't happen.
She remained distant all the way up to bedtime. When she went to bed, I climbed in with her, even though it was early. I was pretty tired.
Nina has a queen-sized bed, and she was all the way over on the other side of it, as far from me as she could get.
"Nina, what's wrong?" I asked.
"I don't want to talk about it," she said.
"Do you not want me to be here?"
"Yes," she said. "I want you to be here."
"Are you mad at me? Is it because I went out before I finished reading you that story?"
"No, it's not that."
I looked at her serious little face. She kept her eyes steadfastly on the ceiling, so all I could see was her profile, with her cute little nose and tiny chin. She really was an adorable child.
As I looked at the way she lay, with her arms across her chest, it suddenly came to me. "Nina, are you afraid of me?"
She shot a glance at me, then returned her gaze to the ceiling.
"Why, Nina? How you could ever be afraid of me? I've never hurt you, have I?"
"No," she said. "But I'm afraid..." — here she began to cry softly — "... that when Cassie leaves... that you..." — but she couldn't go on.
"Come here," I said, trying to take her in my arms, but she shook her head no, so I backed off. "When Cassie leaves..." I repeated, puzzled. "What's going to happen when Cassie leaves?"
Then, my butt's visceral memory understood. "Nina, are you afraid that when Cassie leaves, that I'm going to start picking on you?"
Tearfully, she nodded.
"Like swatting you on the butt and being bossy?"
Again, she nodded.
"I'm not going to do any of that!" I told her.
"But you always say that that's what older sisters do!" she told me, tears flowing down her cheeks. "Cassie and Mom say so, too!"
"Oh, you little thing!" I told her. "It's not like a rule or anything! Cassie does that because she's Cassie. I'm the middle sister, so I'm different. I will *never* be mean to you the way Cassie is to me."
"You won't?"
"No, of course not! How could I be mean to you?"
"Do you promise?" She turned her big puppy-dog eyes to me, and I had to struggle to keep from smiling. She's just so cute!
"Yes," I said in the most serious voice I could manage. "I promise."
At last, Nina smiled.
"Now do you want to put your head on my shoulder?" I asked her.
She nodded, still smiling, and slid right up next to me, and that's where she stayed all night.
I woke up before Nina. She was still glued to me. My right arm was asleep, and her little hand gripped my left arm. After carefully prying myself loose, I quietly made my way out of the room. I desperately need to pee!
Cassie's room is right across from Nina's, and her door was open. Cassie stood there, barefoot, but otherwise fully dressed. I had the distinct impression that she was waiting for me.
She didn't say anything. She just watched me, as if she was waiting for something.
I gave her a tentative smile and asked, "Can I use your bathroom?"
"Sure," she said, and stepped aside to let me enter.
I made my way past her, watching to be sure she didn't swat me (which she didn't), and trying to read her mood (which I couldn't).
When I came out of the little room, she was still waiting for me, watching me, still with that unreadable face.
"What's up?" I asked her.
In an impassive voice, she announced, "I'm going to cancel my trip. I have to."
"Why?" I asked.
"How can I leave when you're like this?" she replied. "I can see you still think you're Marcie Donner."
"No, I don't," I lied. "I'm remembering all kinds of stuff, all the time. I know who I am."
Her eyes roamed over my face, I knew she saw Marcie Donner written everywhere.
"Cassie, please don't cancel your trip. And especially don't do it because of *me*."
"I have to. I don't have a choice."
No choice? what was *that* supposed to mean? "Sure you do. Listen: I've forgotten who I am before—"
"Yeah, but this time is different. This time, for some reason, I'm afraid that you're going to be stuck like this."
"Stuck like what?"
"Stuck thinking you're Marcie Donner."
"But — what difference does it make? Aren't we the same person? Marcie Auburn, Marcie Donner: We're both the same Marcie, right?"
"No," she replied immediately. "You're not. The big difference is that you are not an only child. You had a big sister to watch out for you, and to learn from."
"I guess," I said, with a shrug.
"I know," she said. "I'm older: I had to work everything out for myself. You had it easy."
"Because I had you," I said, finishing her sentence.
"Right," she replied, ignoring my light sarcasm.
I was silent for a moment, then said, "So... let's say — for the sake of argument — that I don't forget that I'm Marcie Donner. What's so bad about that? I always thought you liked me."
She scoffed. "It isn't about like or not-like. It's about how things are supposed to be. I'm afraid that if you *think* you're Marcie Donner you're going to start to *act* like Marcie Donner."
"And would that be a bad thing?"
"Yes!" her eyes flashed fire. "You're a member of this family. You are my little sister, and you can't behave like... you have to behave like..." — she searched for the right words — "you have to behave in a appropriate way."
"What!?" I cried. "What are you saying? When have I ever been 'inappropriate'?" When she didn't reply, I asked, "Are you afraid that I'm going to embarrass you?"
"Yes," she said quietly. "Marcie Donner was always doing crazy things, dangerous things. That was fine when you were just Jerry's girlfriend, but now that you're in this family, it won't fly. I won't have it."
"Oh! I don't believe this!" I fumed. "You won't have it? Look: I'm trying to be a good sister to you. I'm trying to fit in. I'm even trying to be more like you! What in the world do you want? Do you want me to go on being the messy, sporty one?"
She shrugged. "That's up to you. But it has worked so far."
I was angry, but my brain was still churning. "And that stuff about canceling your trip: were you serious? What are you going to stay home to do?"
"Keep an eye on you."
I gaped at her, astonished. "That's ridiculous! Who do you think you are?"
"It's not ridiculous. It's my job."
"What about our parents?" I countered. "I always thought it was *their* job."
"Mom doesn't know about you, and Dad's a man. He doesn't always understand."
I growled in frustration. "I'm not your responsibility!" I told her.
"Yes, you are! I'm the oldest! That *makes* you my responsibility, whether I want you to be or not! I have to see you through to the other side of this thing."
"Okay. Then tell me this: How am I different from Marcie Auburn? Aside from that benefit-of-your-experience stuff?"
"Don't minimize that!" she said with a scowl. "It made you a better person. Marcie Donner grew up wild, practically without supervision. Like I said, you had the benefit of my guidance."
"Oh, brother!"
"You did! Who do you think suggested finding ways around your heroics? I'm the one who told you you could *prevent* things from happening. *I* gave you that idea."
"You did?" I asked. "I don't believe it!"
"Yes, I did!" she nearly shouted. "And did you ever say thank you?"
"I don't know! Did I? Was I supposed to?"
"No! You NEVER said it. Not once! And, yes, you were supposed to! All this time, I've been holding everything together, making everything work. Now, when we're just about to start the new part of our lives, the part that we don't know, who comes back to haunt us, but Marcie Freakin' Donner!"
I didn't know what to say. I was upset, and I felt that Cassie wasn't being straight with me.
While I stood in confused silence, Cassie changed tactics. She sat on the edge of her bed and, gently taking my arm, had me sit next to her. In a soft voice, she said, "Listen to me: you are *not* Marcie Donner. You have to get that into your head. She was a different person."
She was a hero, a voice inside me said.
"She did dangerous, reckless things," Cassie went on.
She helped people, the voice told me.
"And do you know what Marcie Donner wanted, but never had?" Cassie asked.
"No. What?"
"She wanted to keep a low profile."
"Oh!" I said in surprise. It was true: I'd always talked about it, but it never happened.
"Now, Marcie, you finally have a low profile. You have a quiet life, in a good family that loves you."
The little voice in my head didn't have an answer. Cassie was right.
"You like being Marcie Auburn, don't you?" she asked.
I nodded.
"You don't need to have adventures, do you?"
"I guess not."
"No, you don't," she said, with a smile, and smoothed my hair with her hand. "Maybe I can go on my trip after all." She took my hands in hers. "I *can* go, if I know that you're not going to do anything crazy."
I laughed. "I won't," I promised.
"No wall-climbing? No jumping on cars?"
I shook my head smiling. "No and no."
"No shooting people in the foot?"
Shooting people in the foot...
When she said that last phrase, my jaw fell open. Until that moment, she had me. I was convinced. But that single phrase unlocked a series of memories that painfully unwound in my head.
The events of the last few weeks went spinning backward in my brain: I saw myself stumbling from the cabin, dirty, trembling, and cold. I saw the two brothers, lying on the ground... I felt my fingers squeezing the trigger, and the pain in my shoulder as the recoil bounced me against the wall. I saw Ida's frightened face as the van door closed... and felt the impact of Maisie throwing my books to the ground...
It was the last time I ever saw her... and she was running away from me.
"What's wrong?" Cassie asked, with some impatience. "What is that look?"
"Oh my God, Cassie! Oh, my God!" I breathed, in a frozen panic. "What happened to Maisie?"
"Maisie?" Cassie asked. Then she paled as well. "The rich kid?" She knew exactly what I was talking about.
I began to feel frantic. "This time, they must have taken her! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!" Why hadn't I thought of this earlier? It must have already happened!
"Calm down, Marcie," Cassie said. "It couldn't have happened this time. It would have been on the news."
My mind was racing. I'd been so caught up in figuring out what was happening to me... I'd forgotten what was going on in the life I left.
The kidnappers had taken me by mistake because Maisie and I had done the Mom-swap. This time, Maisie would be with her mother! This time, Maisie would be the one taken, and she wouldn't have Misty — or anyone else — to help her.
"Marcie... Marcie! Listen to me," Cassie said. She was holding me by the shoulders. "Focus. We can look on the web and see. I'm telling you, I don't think it happened."
"Why wouldn't it happen?" I asked.
Cassie looked around the room. After murmuring, "I already packed it, but... whatever...," she proceeded to unpack and set up her laptop. She was silent while the machine slowly booted. I was in agony.
Cassie typed "maisie beale kidnap" into the search engine, and got no results. She also tried "maisie beale" and "flickerbridge" but found nothing. She even tried "margaret beale." Still nothing. We tried a few other searches, but didn't find anything like the events I'd lived through before.
"I can't believe that nobody thought about this," I said.
"Not everything is the same," Cassie told me. "Maybe it won't happen."
"Could it happen later?" I asked. "Later than it happened the first time?"
"I suppose," she admitted.
"Then I have to call her!"
"Call her? And tell her what?" Cassie demanded. "You can't call her! Think about it: what exactly are you going to say? What kind of warning are you going to give? What can you tell her that she'd believe?"
I sat down at the computer and typed "robert strange" but got nothing.
"You know what else?" Cassie continued. "She doesn't know you! She has NO IDEA who you are! You two never met!"
"Damn!" I said. Tears of desperate frustration sprang to my eyes. "I don't know what to do!"
"You can't do anything," Cassie told me.
"I wish I could talk to Susan," I said. "She'd know what to do."
"Susan?"
"She was friends with me and Maisie in—"
Cassie cut me off. "You don't know her, either!"
I tried to think. Was anyone here in Tierson who could help?
Cassie was probably the only person who could help, but she was determined not to.
Then I thought of Aunt Jane... I mean, Jane Donner, Jerry's aunt. She was clever. She'd probably have an idea. Plus, she was crazy enough to listen to me.
"Oh, no!" Cassie said. "I know that look!" She growled in frustration. "And this has to happen right when I'm going away!"
She blew out a big breath and set her teeth. "Listen to me, and listen to me good: YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING. You can't! If you try, people are going to think you're nuts, and you won't be able to help! Do you understand? You will get yourself in all kinds of trouble! This is *exactly* what I was talking about!"
I looked at her with fierce determination. There was no way on earth I could let this go. "I have to do something, and you have to help me," I told her. "You're the only one who can."
"No, I'm not," she countered. "There's Dad, and I'm going to tell him. Somebody's got to keep an eye on you while I'm away. Somebody has to keep you from doing something crazy."
There wasn't a whole lot of time before we had to leave for the airport, but while Mom helped Nina get ready, Dad heard me out. Cassie sat quietly by. I could see she was nervous. I knew she was nervous about her trip, but I was sure — in spite of what she said — that she was also concerned about Maisie. AND, she was worried that I was going to do something stupid.
"Okay," Dad said when I'd finished. "There is somebody else who might be able to do something—"
"Mr. Donner!" Cassie cried, getting it.
"Yes," Dad said. "Mr. Donner. He's in a much better position to help. I'm going to call him right now." Turning to me, he said, "And you, young lady: don't do anything without me, okay? I mean that: don't do anything at all. We'll take care of this, but we'll take care of it together. Alright?"
"Oh, thank God!" Cassie said, greatly relieved, after Dad left the room.
I frowned at Cassie. She was really bugging me. A lot. She'd been bugging me ever since this problem began, but up to now, my attention was focused on Maisie. Now that Dad was trying to deal with the problem, I could try to deal with Cassie. I looked at her, but she wasn't looking at me.
"You don't have to keep an eye on me," I told her.
She sighed, as if I'd said the stupidest thing in the world. "Yes, I do," she said in a flat tone, as if she was stating a simple, obvious fact. "I *do* have to keep an eye on you."
"I'm not your responsibility," I informed her.
"We went over this before," she reminded me. "This is the natural order of things. I'm the oldest. You're my little sister, and that makes me responsible for you. I have to make sure you don't embarrass me or the family, or even yourself."
I opened my mouth. I felt the steam building up inside, getting ready to power whatever I was going to say. What was I going to say? I didn't know, but I was pretty sure that all I had to do was open my mouth, and the words would take care of themselves. Marcie Auburn must have had this conversation many, many times with her controlling older sister. But whatever it was she would have said, I didn't get to say it.
Mom, who had heard the last few shots in our exchange, swiftly came into the room. She said, "Stop right there, the both of you. Stop right now! Not another word. Not another word! This is a special day, and I will *not* have the two of you fighting!"
"I wasn't fi—" Cassie began, but Mom hushed her with a gesture.
"She thinks that SHE—" I started to explain, but Mom stopped me.
"Not another word, I said! Marcie, why don't you get dressed and go downstairs? You can read to Nina while you wait. Cassie, you stay here. I want a little mother-daughter time—"
"—with your favorite daughter?" Cassie finished, and gave me a provoking look.
"With my oldest daughter," Mom corrected, and shooed me out of the room.
As I came down the stairs, I saw that someone had lit the Christmas tree — probably Mom. Nina was sitting on the couch. I smiled and sat next to her.
"Is something bad happening?" she asked.
"No," I said. "Believe it or not, Cassie is actually helping me with something."
"Huh."
"We have a nice family, don't we?" I said.
"Yes," she replied, and snuggled up close to me. I put my arm around her.
It was a curious sensation. There are different kinds of hugs and embraces. When Mom hugged me yesterday, it was affection: a mother's love for her daughter. It was affection, yes, but at the same time, there was an element of caution, of reserve, because... well, the whole mother-daughter thing is complicated, and even a simple hug can have all sorts of issues tucked inside it.
Here, with Nina, it was something else entirely. Her closeness to me was simple trust and acceptance. There was no caution or reserve.
You couldn't use words like openness or vulnerability. I mean, she *was* those things, but to describe her that way, to use those words, puts an spin on something that's pristine, uncorrupted, not mixed with anything. Using one of those words to describe a state like that, makes it sound intentional rather than... well, rather than the essence of being a child.
While I sat on that couch, surprised and touched by the depth of Nina's trust and confidence in me, I felt a pain in my soul that reached out through everything — through the roof and the sky, arching like a prayer right through heaven itself, and touching back down in Flickerbridge, to a skinny, friendless girl in mortal peril.
There was nothing I could do to save her. Nothing I could do but wait.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
When I'd told her the basic story, I asked, "Do you believe me?"
"Well, no," she said. "It's impossible."
Nina and I sat on the couch, sitting as close as two people can sit. We both needed reassurance: me, because of Maisie's danger, and Nina, because her big sister was going away for the first time.
"You know she'll only be gone a few days, don't you?" I told her.
"Yes," she said, "but Mom says that after the summer, Cassie will go away to college and she won't live here any more."
I wasn't sure what to say. So I tried asking, "Will you miss her?"
Nina shrugged. Then she smiled at me. "She won't be whacking your butt anymore!"
"No," I agreed. "Thank goodness for that. There'll be no more butt-whacking in this house!"
Nina laughed.
"Do you want me to read to you?" I asked.
"No, thank you."
So we sat in silence until Dad returned with Cassie in tow. "Nina, honey," he said, "I need Marcie for a minute. Can you spare her?"
He drew Cassie and me into the kitchen. "Okay," he said. "I just talked to Art Donner. He's going to call me later when he's able to talk freely, but he did let me know that he's dealing with the problem. He found a way to warn Maisie's mother. In fact, Maisie is with her father now, which—"
I broke down in a visible display of relief. "So, she's safe," I said.
"Yes," he agreed. "We're going to talk again about the rest of it... whether the threat still exists, and all that."
"Do you know whether that policeman is still on the force?" I asked.
"I couldn't ask. He couldn't talk."
"Okay, good," Cassie said, breathing a sigh of relief as she looked at me. "One less thing to worry about."
I knew she meant me, but I bit my tongue and said nothing.
"Can I call him?" I asked. I didn't even mean to ask. The question just popped out of me.
Cassie's eyes grew as large as saucers.
"Call who?" Dad asked. "Do you mean, can you call Mr. Donner?"
"You might get his wife," Cassie smirked.
"Would that be a problem?" I asked. Cassie guffawed in response.
"Well," Dad replied, obviously trying to be diplomatic, "As much as she loved you when you were her daughter, right now... well, let's just say that you are *not* her favorite person."
I frowned, not understanding.
Cassie grinning, took a different tack: "Now, you're the crazy girl that used to date her son! The son she had to fly all the way to California to save!" she cackled.
"To save?" I repeated. "To save from what?"
"From you!" Cassie laughed.
"Alright," Dad put in. "That's enough."
"Was I really that bad?" I asked.
"Why don't you give Mrs. Donner a call and find out?" Cassie teased.
"Don't call the Donners," Dad told me. "It's a bad idea. A really bad idea. Wait a couple of days, and if you still want to talk to him, I'll call and set up a time when he can call you. Okay?"
"Alright," I agreed.
"Oh, and don't call Jerry, either," he cautioned. "Or his mother will start World War Three."
When Dad and Cassie left the room, I sank down on a kitchen chair. So... I said to myself, life — or what seems like life — goes on.
Everything was better now, I guess, but my nerves were still jangling. Maisie was safe; that was the main thing.
That business about my parents — I mean, the Donners — was pretty disturbing, though. I still didn't remember dating Jerry Donner. If his mother had come to Tierson to "save" him from me, I must have had some interactions with her, too, which I didn't yet remember.
Oh, well. One thing at a time.
Feeling at loose ends, I took Mom's kitchen notepad and a pen. After scribbling aimlessly for a minute, I tore off a clean sheet. I was suddenly inspired to make a list.
I made a list of all possible explanations for this "Marcie Auburn" experience:
I re-read the list, and crossed off the reality-show explanation. It didn't account for my anatomical changes.
I *almost* crossed off the dream explanation. The problem with that one, is that everything makes too much sense. There's none of the bizarre, alogical quality that dreams have. It just keeps going on and on in the same way — but dreams tend to change, don't they?
And another thing: I've fallen asleep and woken up in this dream! In fact, it started off with me waking up. I've always heard that you can't die in your dreams, but can you fall asleep in your dream? Can you dream in a dream?
Plus, pinching myself wouldn't work. If *that* would wake me, Cassie's swats would have woken me right away. Unless...
What if I was asleep or in a coma, and something was happening in the real world, but it turns into something else in my dream? What if somebody is trying to wake me up... or something in my bed is pinching me... and whatever it is, the dream turns it into Cassie giving me a crack on the backside.
No... that didn't make any sense.
Nothing did, really.
When it was time to leave for the airport, I folded up the list and stuck it in my bag.
As I watched the uninspiring scenery go past, I tried to think about my list, but there was nothing left for me to think.
I wished for the umpteenth time that I could talk to Susan about it.
And then I thought: Maybe I *can* talk to Susan! I do know her number, after all.
But... would her parents let me talk to her? They didn't usually let her use the phone.
And if I could talk to her, what would I say?
I could tell her that I heard how smart she is, and lay out the problem for her. Or something. But then again, it probably didn't matter how I began... Susan was absolutely unflappable. She was never surprised by anything...
If I could talk to her, I was sure she'd listen.
Right now, though, we were in a car on the way to the airport. Cassie had to catch her plane.
Well, I could wait a couple of hours. After I got back home, as soon as I possibly could, I'd call Susan and find out what she thought.
Once I made that decision, I saw Cassie looking at me with disapproval. I gave her a mind your own business face and resolved in my heart NOT to give in, not to be denied a chance to figure this whole mess out.
She turned her head away and looked out the window. Good. One big sister, out of the picture. At least temporarily.
The phone rang twice before someone picked it up. "Hello?" It was Susan!
"Hello, is this Susan Ash?" I asked, knowing full well it was her.
"Yes. Who's speaking?"
"Hi, my name is Marcie uh-Auburn, and I'm calling from California."
"What are you calling about?"
I sighed. "I have a problem, and I think that you're the only person who can help me."
Unbelievably, she listened to my whole story, interrupting only to clarify a point here and there.
When I got to the end, I asked her, "Do you believe me?"
"Well, no," she said. "It's impossible."
"Well, I have to find some kind of explanation," I told her, with some desperation. "Have I lost my mind?"
"I can't tell you that," she replied, "but just based on this one phone call, you don't sound crazy. The story you tell is crazy, but at least it holds together."
"So what do you think happened to me?"
"I think that you are Marcie Auburn, and that you've always been Marcie Auburn. Your memories of Marcie Donner aren't real. That's the simplest, most likely explanation."
"Then how come my sisters have those same memories?"
"You've probably told them the same stories in the past."
That stopped me. I hadn't thought of that. But... "Yes, but, Susan, how do I know your phone number?"
"You could have looked it up. You said your old boyfriend is here in Flickerbridge. Maybe you're looking for a way to stay connected with him."
I fell silent, looking for another question to pull her to my side, to validate the whole Marcie Donner business, but I drew a blank.
"Look," she said. "I don't know you, and I don't want to hurt your feelings. I'm not a psychologist or a scientist. I'm just a fourteen-year-old girl."
"I know," I said, "but you're the smartest person I know!"
"Oh!" she said, quite surprised.
Then something came to me. "Hey," I said. "Did you figure out the business with Misty Sabatino yet?"
"Misty what-now?"
"Misty Sabatino. Mrs. Wix and Ms. Overmore went to BYHS together. They were really good friends–"
"No way!"
"–until Mrs. Wix's twin sister, Misty died. You figured out how she died, and that Ms. Overmore blamed Mrs. Wix."
"Whoa! Whoa!" she said. "This is too creepy! I'm sorry, but now you're just getting weird. I think I'd better hang up!"
"No, no, wait, wait!" I said. "At least, tell me what you think about what I said! Please? Tell me honestly. Don't hold back."
She took a deep breath and let it out. "Okay. But remember: I'm not a doctor or a psychologist or anything like that. I'm just a kid, so I could easily be completely wrong. But this is how it sounds to me: I don't think your family is telling you everything. I think that you have some kind of condition that makes you lose your memory."
"Condition?" I repeated.
"But, um... there's one thing you said that doesn't fit. They told you that you forget less and less, right?"
"Yes, why?"
"I don't understand that part," she said. "I'd expect it to happen more and more. You should ask about that."
I blanched. "Why?"
"Because... because... never mind. Just listen: Maybe I'm wrong about the medical condition. In fact, there's another possibility. Now that I think about it, it's a lot more likely. I think that you have a highly developed imagination — more than most people — and that you built an very elaborate — and really remarkable — fantasy about being Marcie Donner.
"Maybe your should think about being a writer? You could write stories about this Marcie Donner."
"No," I said, feeling tired.
"Anyway, your family said that the forgetfulness will fade. Maybe, in the meantime, they're just humoring you with that wacky time-machine story, and–"
"But if they're humoring me, why are they using such a stupid, unbelievable story? Couldn't they come up with something better, if it's just a lie?"
"Maybe they didn't come up with it," she replied.
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe you came up with it," she suggested. "It sounds like they're repeating back to you, stories that you've told them."
"Oh," I said. It felt like I was collapsing, like a balloon with the air let out.
After a bit of silence, Susan asked, "Are you going to be alright, Marcie?"
"Yes, I guess so," I replied.
"Well, it was nice talking to you," she said. "I hope it helped. But I'd better go now. My parents will be home soon, and they don't like me using the phone."
I knew that, but I didn't say so.
"Thanks, Susan," I said. "Can I just ask you one more thing? Have I ever called you before?"
"No," she said. "First time, ever."
"Okay," I said. "Well, thanks so much."
I sat on the floor for a while, hugging my knees, and thinking. It still wasn't right. I still didn't have the answer. Even Susan's explanations didn't fit.
Even if I somehow looked up her phone number, how would I know she went to BYHS? She seemed to know the names Wix and Overmore, and she was friends with Maisie. Also, I *had* known how smart she is. How can you explain that?
As I went over the conversation in my mind, one thing stuck out: the one thing Susan said she didn't understand. She thought I should be losing my memory more often, not less often. AND she said that my family wasn't telling me the whole truth.
I swallowed hard and tried to keep from feeling overwhelmed. If you looked up the word lost in the dictionary, would you see a little picture of me, next to the definition, hunkered on the floor in my worn-out jeans?
Time to get a grip, I told myself, Marcie Whoever-You-Are. There had to be something else I could do; someone else I could talk to.
And then it came to me: there *was* someone I could talk to.
I got up and made my way downstairs. Mom was in the kitchen, with her glasses on, flipping through an issue of Martha Stewart Living.
"Mom?" I asked, and chewed my lip.
She pulled off her glasses and looked at me. "What's wrong, honey?"
"You know how I used to forget who I was, when I was little?"
She went white for a moment. "It's not happening again, is it?"
"No," I lied. "But what I want to know is: did you ever find out why?"
"No, we didn't," she said. "In the end, everyone concluded — I mean the doctors and specialists concluded — that you have an very active imagination." She smiled. "More than one person suggested that you become a writer."
"Oh," I sighed, crumbling a little. *Again* with the "writer" business! As if I was making it all up...
"Come here," Mom said gently, pulling a kitchen stool in front of her own, and patting the seat. I sat down before her. She took my hands in hers.
"Tell me what's bothering you," she said.
"Is something wrong with me?" I asked, and tears came rolling down my face. "Is something wrong in my head?"
"No, honey, nothing's wrong with you! I just told you that!"
"Are you sure?" I demanded. "Would you tell me if there was?"
"Listen to me," she said, "We had so many tests run... so many doctors, tests, scans, machines... your father used every connection he has in the world of science and medicine to find out what made you forget, but no one ever found the least little thing wrong with you. No one. Every doctor, every specialist said you were a perfectly healthy young girl.
"And yes, I would tell you. Now, I would tell you."
"Now?" I echoed. "Why now?"
In answer, her eyes welled up with tears.
"Oh, I get it," I breathed. "Aunt Julia."
She nodded, and lost herself in a flood of tears. Automatically, I stood up and went to her, wrapping my arms around her. She clutched me the way that Maisie had, so long ago, and cried with the desperation of the lost. My own eyes and face were wet, but she was the one in need right now.
She needed me, so I was there. As I held her, I knew that I'd be okay. I *knew* that. I'm Marcie Whoever-The-Hell-I-Am, I told myself. I can take it. I can deal with it. Holding on her, letting her cry, somehow made me feel... I don't know. It made me feel like who I am. It made me feel like I was in the right place, helping.
When she came back to herself, when she'd collected herself, Mom sniffed and looked for tissues. I grabbed the box and put it near her.
"Thanks, hon," she said. "You've always been such a strong girl."
I didn't answer. I just took a tissue myself. I wasn't surprised to see that I was trembling, and so I took a few deep breaths.
"You know," she said, "When you were a little girl, and you'd forget who you were, you would always say that your name was Marcie Donner." She shook her head. "It was the darndest thing: Marcie Donner, Marcie Donner, every single time. I never knew where you ever heard that name! I just figured you made it up. And then, last September, when that Donner boy showed up, and you... latched onto him... well! I thought you really were going to end up being Marcie Donner." She sniffed, gave a weak smile, and chuckled to herself. "That was so strange. It was my little Twilight Zone moment."
"Hmmph," I said, in a noncommittal tone.
She blew her nose and looked at the floor for a few beats. "Listen," she told me in a very quiet voice. "Your aunt is in the hospital."
"When did this happen?" I asked.
"Yesterday morning," she said. "When I was on the phone with her, she was calling me from the hospital. She was already there when we were getting ready for the picture yesterday. She was there for some tests, and they decided to admit her right away."
"So she's really sick," I said.
"Yes," Mom replied in a whisper. "I didn't say anything because Cassie was about to leave... I didn't want her to put off her trip."
"I understand," I said.
"Would you like to come to the hospital with me now?" she asked. "I'd like it if you'd come with me."
"What about Nina?" I asked. "You don't want to bring her, do you?"
"She's having a play day at Jackie's house. It's just you and me."
"Sure, I'll come with you," I told her.
"Thanks," Mom said, and gave me a hug.
"But first," I said, "can we get out of these wet clothes?"
She laughed and wiped her eyes.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"Do you know why you're my favorite niece? It's because you're the one who's awake. You're the one who sees every situation as though it's new. You can take something ordinary and find what's extraordinary in it, and you can fall into the strangest, most unexpected situations, and act as though you know what's going on."
As we approached the hospital bed, I had the strangest feeling... a sort of surreal vertigo... not that the world was spinning, just reality itself.
The reason? The woman in the hospital bed looked exactly like the woman walking next to me. It was an uncanny mirror-like effect.
I knew they were twins, identical twins, but I'd never seen them together before — at least, not that I could recall.
"Hi, Aunt Julia," I said shyly.
"Marcie!" she said with a smile. "My favorite niece!"
"You shouldn't say that," Mom gently chided, but Julia pshawed the objection aside. When I got close to the bed, Julia took my hand and held it while she and my mother talked.
They talked about family members I either didn't know or couldn't remember. They talked about their mother, and "what she had." They reminded each other of the medical history of various female members of the Branch family... because, if I haven't mentioned it, my mother's maiden name is Branch. My aunt never married, so her name still is Julia Branch.
During this whole conversation, Julia's eyes never left my mother's face, but she held my hand firmly, and she caressed the back of my hand with her thumb.
I used the time to study the two faces, to listen to the two voices, to notice the two sets of mannerisms. I'd never been with a pair with twins before; I'd never watched twins interact. Identical is a strange word to use about two people, because they were and they weren't. Right away I noticed the physical differences, and knew that I'd never mix them up. Juliette's face was wider, while Julia had a sharper, more aggressively intelligent look. Juliette's hands looked softer and gentler, while Julia's were bonier and — I don't know why this word came to mind, but — more searching. I felt as though she could read my mood through her thumb as it rode across the back of my hand.
After they'd talked for a bit and agreed on the high points of the family medical history, my mother straightened up and tried to unobtrusively wipe away a tear. She said, "Alright. I'm going to go talk with your doctor. Marcie, you can stay and keep your aunt company for a bit. Will you?"
"Sure," I said.
"She'll be fine," my aunt told her, and Mom, smiling uncertainly, left the room, nearly colliding with the door frame as she exited.
"Poor thing," Julia said. "She's worried to death."
"Aren't you worried?" I asked Julia, with some surprise.
"No," she said smiling. "I'm not. Maybe because it's happening to me. I know how it's going to play out." With her eyes, she indicated a chair behind me. "Pull that chair over, will you? Sit with me for a spell. I want to talk with you."
After I got settled, she looked into my eyes and said, "Don't tell anyone, Marcie, but this is it for me. This is the end."
"Did the doctors tell you that?"
"No. It isn't something the doctors did or didn't say. It's something that I know. Can you understand that?"
"I don't know," I told her.
"Okay," she replied. "Then just listen. Sometimes, it isn't hard to be the one who goes. It's much harder to be the one who's left behind. Do you know what I mean?"
"You're talking about Mom," I said.
"Right," she said. "She's going to feel so alone soon, and I want you to help her. I want you watch over her, take care of her."
"Why me?" I asked. I didn't mean to ask it. Really I didn't. It just came out. But honestly, Why me? I was the middle child, I was the stranger. I was the one who popped into this family out of nowhere.
And, if that crazy time-machine story was true, I could disappear tomorrow, or the day after. Who'd take care of Mom then?
And if the time-machine story wasn't true, then something was wrong with me. How could I take care of someone else if I had to be cared for myself?
"Why you?" she echoed. "Because you're the best suited. Cassie is smart and caring, but she's all wrapped up in her own life, and she's about to blast off into college life. Nina's too little. Your father... well, he's a man, and he won't always understand...
"Do you know why you're my favorite niece?" She smiled a proud, affectionate smile at me.
"No," I said, and thought to myself, Lady, I barely know who you *are*.
"It's because you're the one who's awake. You're the one who sees every situation as though it's new. You can take something ordinary and find what's extraordinary in it, and you can fall into the strangest, most unexpected situations, and act like you know exactly what's going on."
I sighed.
"You know it's true," she continued. "Everyone else is asleep! Everyone is locked into their habits... habits of seeing, habits of believing... they do the same things every day, and they think that it's real. It's not. It's all just a game; rules and conventions that people more or less agree upon..."
She stopped abruptly. I waited a few moments, but she didn't continue.
"Are you alright, Aunt Julia?" I asked her. "Are you tired?"
"Tired? No," she replied. As she spoke, a small, square light began to blink behind her, in the wall console, above the head of her bed.
"Aunt Julia?" I asked. "What's that red blinking light for?"
She turned her head to look. "Oh, that's just a warning."
"A warning? For what?" I asked, as I stood to get a better look. The light was flashing red once a second, and as I moved my head closer, I realized that it had the image of a tiny open hand. "It looks like the DON'T WALK signal at a crosswalk," I said, puzzled. "What could it mean?"
"It means, don't walk," Julia laughed. "What else could it mean?"
I frowned and looked into her face. "No, seriously," I said. "What does it mean? Do you know? Is is something bad?"
"Yes, I know what it means, and no, it's nothing bad, but it might be a problem for *you*."
"For me? Why would it be a problem for me?"
She grinned as if it were the greatest joke. "Because, now that that light is flashing, you won't be able to go to the bathroom until you leave the hospital."
I was flabbergasted. "Aunt Julia, admit it: you don't know what that light is for."
She began giggling, and put her hand on my shoulder. "Listen to me, Marcie. I have to tell you something important. It's about lambing."
"Lambing?" I asked. I'd never heard the word before. "Is that like, making lambs?"
She found this almost hysterically funny. "No," she replied. "Lambing is like down."
"Down?" I repeated.
"Down," she said. "You know what down means, don't you?"
"Sure," I said. "You get down off a duck."
Aunt Julia convulsed with laughter at my response, and as she laughed, she pushed my shoulder gently back and forth. "Ha-ha," she said, between her giggles. "Boo-boo. Ha-ha, boo-boo!"
Oh, man! What in the world was going on? "Aunt Julia, please talk normally," I said. "I don't know what the joke is, but you're beginning to make me feel like I'm going crazy." I began to wonder whether she had a brain tumor, and it was affecting her... well, her brain!
At that moment, I heard the sound of a vacuum cleaner — a VERY LOUD vacuum cleaner — in the hall outside. It got even louder when a cleaning lady walked into the room, dragging the vacuum behind her. It was an enormous thing, the size of an oil drum.
"Could you do that later?" I asked, over the din.
"It's all right," Aunt Julia said. "She has to do that. Marcie, look! Ha-ha, boo-boo!" Julia pointed to the TV, which had the sound turned off. On the screen was the face of a clown, a close-up of his white-mouthed face, orange wig, and red nose. He was saying something. The words appeared on the left of the screen in big letters as he spoke, one syllable at a time:
HA
HA
BOO
BOO
The cleaning lady looked up, too. "Yes," she said, as if she knew the program well. "Ha-ha, boo-boo."
"Oh, is that what you were talking about?" I asked Aunt Julia. "I don't know this show. Is this something you watch?"
The cleaning lady gave my aunt a very severe look. "If she wants to use the bathroom," she said, referring to me, "She'll have to wait until she leaves the hospital."
"I'm trying to tell her," my aunt said.
"Is there something wrong with the bathrooms here?" I asked.
"No," the cleaning lady said. "Of course not. You just can't use them."
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Marcie," my aunt replied. "It's for the lambing."
"Lambing?" I repeated. "I've never heard of lambing! There's no such thing! And there is nothing on a lamb that's anything like a duck! I'm sorry, but I'm getting really frustrated here. If this is a joke, I wish you'd stop, because it isn't funny."
The cleaning lady gave me a look of great disapproval, which I returned with interest. Who was *she*, to look at me like that?
"Do you mind?" I asked her, "Could you either shut off that vacuum cleaner, or take it out of the room?" After all, she was just standing still, glaring at me, not cleaning at all.
Aunt Julia was nearly overcome with laughter. "Oh, Marcie, you're killing me," she gasped.
When she caught her breath, she shook my shoulder and said, "Wear lambing and ha-ha, boo-boo. Wear lambing!"
But when she spoke, her voice was strange. It had a squeaky, quirky quality that I'd heard before... I knew that voice. It reminded me of the voice of the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz, but without the wickedness. It sounded...
It sounded like Wiggy! Wiggy Wetherwax!
"Wear lambing soon," she repeated, and I as I turned my head to look at her, I somehow opened my eyes, and there was Wiggy, giggling like an idiot. A flight attendant stood behind her, looking very annoyed.
"If she's going to use the bathroom, she's going to have to go right now. Otherwise, she'll have to wait until she gets into the terminal."
"I know," Wiggy said, "I think she's finally awake."
"Awake?" I repeated.
"Yes, Marcie, we're landing in Honolulu," and she burst into giggles. "Or ha-ha boo-boo, to you!" She nearly lost herself in a fit of giggles.
"You slept through the whole flight," she explained, "but they're going to start the landing sequence soon. If you need to go to the bathroom, you have to go right now."
"Yeah, yeah, I do have to go," I said, utterly disoriented, but very aware of my bladder. I began to struggle into a standing position, but something was holding me back.
"Oops!" Wiggy told me, "Careful! You need to undo your seat belt first!"
"Oh, yeah, I'm on it," I told her.
"Okay," she said, scratching her head and fighting back a smile, "Do you need a hand?"
"No, I'm good," I replied, and stumbled down the aisle toward the toilet.
Marcie Donner, I thought, as I sat on the funky plastic seat. I'm Marcie Donner again. Marcie Donner, Marcie Donner. I felt terrible, as though I hadn't bathed for a week, and the smell of the airplane bathroom didn't help.
Someone knocked on the door and said, "You've got to come out now. The captain's turned on the FASTEN SEATBELTS sign, and you have to return to your seat."
"Coming," I mumbled, but I guess she didn't hear because she knocked again and repeated the message.
I made myself presentable and opened the door. As soon as I did, the flight attendant repeated the message a *third* time, walked me back to my seat, and stayed with me until I fastened my seatbelt.
"Wow, she really likes me, doesn't she?" I remarked to Wiggy, who giggled.
"Do you know what happened?" she replied. "She was trying to be nice. Because you slept through the entire flight, she knew you'd need to pee. So when it was almost time to make everybody stay in their seats, she came by to wake you up."
"Oh," I said. "That was nice."
Wiggy giggled some more. "But it was impossible to wake you up! Everything we said or did, you answered in your sleep. You told her—" she couldn't talk for laughing "—you told her—" she wiped her eyes "— you told her to shut off her vacuum cleaner. Whew!" She sniffed and snorted, trying to smother her giggles. "You said, DO YOU MIND?" The man sitting in front of her sighed loudly and shifted noisily in his seat.
"Oh, yeah," I said. "I dreamt she was a cleaning lady with this huge vacuum cleaner." Then I realized. "Oh! The vacuum cleaner was the sound of the plane."
"And you said something about getting down off a truck."
"No, off a duck. You get down off a duck. I thought you were talking about lambing. You said that lambing is like down."
Wiggy smiled. I think she was pretty much laughed out, and I didn't think it was all so funny.
"The best of all was when you said ha-ha boo-boo." Wiggy abrupted snorted with laughter. The man in front of us turned and gave us a very irritated look.
"Sorry," we both said.
"And hey," I said to Wiggy, "speaking of sorry, I'm sorry I was such bad company. But I was just exhausted. And I had the weirdest dream!"
"It sounded like it," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"You were tossing and turning a lot. And every now and then, you said a few things."
"Like what?"
She blew out a breath. "Let's see. At one point you said Pink!? and another time you said, News Flash: It just got old! A few times you said ow!, like something stuck you, and near the end you cried a little bit."
"Oh," I said, shaking my head.
"I'm not surprised," Wiggy said. "After all you've been through? It would be odd if you didn't have strange dreams for a while."
Then she thought for a moment. "Oh, there was one thing you said that I wanted to ask you about. You said, These girls are so stupid!"
"Did I?"
"Yes, and I wanted to ask you: were you talking about the Amazons?"
"The Amazons?" I repeated, as the blonde cheerleaders came back into my memory. "Oh, no, it wasn't them at all. It was these girls in a fairy tale..."
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
As I shuffled along behind the gloriously beautiful Amazons, I said to myself, I need a bath and I look awful. And *that* means I'm awake. I stink; therefore, I am.
During the landing sequence I told Wiggy my dream, and she remarked on the places when I'd said something out loud.
Obviously, I had to leave out the rather essential part about changing sexes, which became difficult once Wiggy began asking questions.
"So in this dream," she said, "Your mother — I mean your mother in real life — didn't like you because of the way you were all over Jerry."
"Right," I said.
"And your dream mother, Mrs. Auburn, thought about putting you on the pill?"
"Right again."
"So," Wiggy said, bringing her eyebrows into an inquisitive frown, "How come that didn't happen in real life?"
"What?" I blurted out.
"I mean, if you two were so hot for each other, how come your real-life mother didn't want to put you on the pill, and all the other stuff?"
"Uh," I said, caught at a loss. I was about to point out that my mother *had* flown to California and *did* put me in an all-girls school, but...
Seeing my discomfort, Wiggy immediately backed off. "Hey, I'm sorry, Marcie! I didn't mean to get so personal... just forget I asked. It's no big deal."
"Thanks," I said, and added, "I'm still waking up. My brain's a little addled."
She smiled sympathetically. "Not sure who you are yet?"
"No, for sure," I said, and gave a weak laugh.
She immediately changed gears, and told me the plot of the in-flight movie, which I'd missed.
As we left the plane and entered the terminal, I was still disoriented. I couldn't seem to wake myself up; I walked, I hugged my carry-on to my chest, as if it were a baby, but I felt as if I were still wrapped in my bedclothes. It felt like the middle of the night. I'd slept nearly fourteen hours, but I still felt groggy... ready for bed.
I haven't traveled much, and time zones... forget it! I had enough trouble with the three-hour difference between California and New Jersey. Now, it was just after three in the morning in Honolulu, which meant it was nine in the morning in Flickerbridge, New Jersey. I'd slept "all night" — so why did I feel so out of it?
The Marcie Auburn experience had something to do with it, I'm sure. It really marked me... like I said before, it didn't just seem real, it was real... at least, at the time.
In comparison, I could see that reality — real reality, waking reality — is different. Right now, ironically, it was fuzzier and more confusing than the dream had been. In some ways it was more unpleasant: My mouth was dry and had a bad taste; I was achy and stiff, and my shoes were really tight for some reason. Plus, I suspected that my hair didn't look quite the way it was supposed to.
As I shuffled along behind the gloriously beautiful Amazons, I said to myself, I need a bath and I look awful. And *that* means I'm awake. I stink; therefore, I am.
After that thought came another: I don't *really* stink, do I? I judicious and discretely sniffed at myself and decided that I was fine. I smelled like any other teenage girl.
I raised my head and looked outside the big terminal windows. It was dark, dark, dark. Still night time. The world was asleep, and here I was shuffling through a airport. I should be asleep, too.
If I was an adult, I'd be wishing for a cup of coffee.
My brain was functioning at a minimal level, just enough to allow me to move my legs and not fall over. As far as awareness of my surroundings... well, like I had said, it was minimal: I just kept dragging myself behind the pack of blonde heads, and that worked well enough for me.
Until...
A slim man in a suit slammed into me with his hard, bony shoulder, and jolted me out of my dull, mindless shuffle. I swear, I never knew that a shoulder could be so bony, hard, and hurtful!
"Ouch!" I cried. I wanted to say more, but my brain wasn't quite up to it yet. It happened so unexpectedly! I turned to look at the culprit, but he didn't stop. He just kept on moving, in a hurry to get... well, probably to catch a flight.
Then, one of the Amazons, Donkey, appeared out of nowhere and slammed the man with *her* shoulder at least as hard as he'd slammed me.
It not only broke his stride, it knocked him sideways a few steps. He stumbled, but recovered, and he kept on going. He didn't even turn! Donkey called something after him — something uncomplimentary, I'm sure, and then she ran up alongside me.
"Are you alright there, Marcie? Did that jerk hurt you?"
"No, I don't think so," I said, "it was more of a surprise than anything else."
"Oh, good," she said. "Anyway, I tried to give at least as good as you got."
"I appreciate it," I said, smiling. "It was nice of you."
"Hey," she said, putting her arm around my shoulders, "We take care of our own. When Mirina saw how out of it you are, she asked me to shadow you, to make sure nothing happened."
I was astonished and touched. "That was really nice!" I said. "I have to thank her. And thank YOU, too!"
"No," she said. "Don't say anything. Mirina likes to think of herself as the godfather type, you know? Behind the scenes, pulling the strings? She only comes out front when she has to. At least, that's what she thinks she does."
"Okay," I said. "Well, anyway, thanks again."
Donkey smiled and gave me a hug. She stayed at my side until we reached the spot where the Amazons had gathered.
As we approached, Wiggy was pulling a second folder from her bag. I figured it held the tickets for the second flight.
"Okay," she squeaked. "Listen up! We're going to check in for the second flight. If anyone has to go to the bathroom, now's the time to go. We'll wait for you." No one moved. "Okay, then: all you need to do right now is get out your passport and hang onto it. I'll call you up, one at a time, once we get to the counter."
Obediently, all the girls and the two teachers dug into their bags. I took a breath to rouse myself from my mental fog, and opened my own handbag, which oddly seemed half-open already.
I reached for my wallet. It was a big one, big enough to fit my passport... but it was gone!
Quickly, jerkily, I shot my hand into every corner of my bag, but my wallet wasn't there!
Immediately, I recalled the impact of the slim man's shoulder, and knew what happened. I lifted my head, and looked into Wiggy's eyes.
The look on my face must have startled her, because she looked a bit frightened.
"That man," I said, "the man who bumped into me — he stole my passport!"
Donkey's jaw fell.
By some strange instinct, I turned and spotted him across the terminal. He was so far away, he looked about four inches tall. "Call Security," I told Wiggy, and set off running.
I realized I was still clutching my carry-on bag to my chest, but it was too late to drop it now.
The thief was easy to see. He was walking slowly. I figured he was looking for a new prey, and I was right. As soon as he spotted his next victim, he changed direction and headed directly toward her. It was easy to see who he'd chosen and why. This woman looked distracted, as I must have done: She was staring at something while she walked.
By now, I was much closer, and when the thief picked up his pace, so did I.
I knew what he was going to do. Once he built up to ramming speed, he was going to hit the woman with his shoulder, and lift her wallet right out of her purse.
The woman he'd chosen was a well-dressed, dark-haired woman in her early thirties. She continued to stare upward at something... maybe she was a little lost, but in any case she didn't see the man bearing down on her.
But more important than that, he didn't see *me*.
I kicked into high gear, and came round the woman on the other side. I wanted to catch the thief after the snatch.
And that's just what happened.
He was so intent on lifting her wallet that he was completely unaware of me. He was moving fast, but I was moving faster.
When he plowed into the woman with his shoulder, I saw his hand slip into her handbag, and slide out clutching her billfold.
"Ooof!" she cried in surprise.
As he'd done with me, he didn't turn his head. He acted as if he wasn't aware of the impact.
In an inspired moment, I took my carry-on bag in my fists and threw it on the floor in front of him.
He tried to step over it, but his left foot caught in the handle, and he stumbled. If he hadn't been moving so fast, he could have kept on going, but his momentum carried him forward. He couldn't free his foot, and so he fell. He came down hard, with a thump!, and his chest and chin hit the stone floor. I ran up and planted my foot on his left upper arm, just below the shoulder, so he couldn't get up. I leaned into him with all my weight.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Donkey running toward me, but she was still a long way off.
The dark-haired woman turned to face me, shocked and frightened at what I had done.
"This man just stole your purse," I told her. "This man just stole your purse!"
She didn't or couldn't understand me. She looked at me with utter incomprehension, paralyzed by the sudden violence.
I looked over my shoulder again at Donkey, who suddenly stopped running and pointed behind me.
As she did, a pair of strong hands grabbed my upper arms and lifted me off the thief. "That's enough of that, young lady," a strong masculine voice said from behind me. "I saw what you did! I saw it, and you're in trouble now!"
Donkey came trotting up. The man on the ground twisted his head and looked up at me. "That little tramp!" he hissed, "Did you see what she did? She attacked me! She made me fall! I hope you're going to arrest her! She better not make me miss my plane! I'm telling you: someone is going to have a big lawsuit on their hands!"
In spite of knowing that I was right, what he said frightened me. I had to hope that the truth of the situation would save me.
Then I noticed that while he spoke, he was shifting the woman's billfold into a pocket inside his jacket. He'd stayed on the ground so that his body would cover what he was doing.
But I guess it didn't work as well he thought.
Once he'd tucked the newly-stolen wallet away, the man on the ground began to gather himself so he could stand. But before he could, the woman he'd robbed stepped up and planted her foot on the thief's right shoulder, and leaned into it hard, pinning him to the ground once again.
"Put that girl down!" she told the security guard in a commanding tone. "This man stole my wallet, and that girl tried to *stop* him! Put her down, I said! PUT HER DOWN!"
Slowly, uncertainly, the security guard lowered my feet to the floor, and — a little at a time — loosened his grip on my arms. I guess he wanted to see whether I was going to run away.
Donkey, grinning, and glad to get into the act, came up and put her foot on the poor thief's other shoulder. His head was turned in her direction, and he glanced up at her in alarm.
"It's a good thing I'm wearing jeans," she informed him. "Otherwise, I'd have to poke your eyes out."
In the midst of all this, a little girl's voice broke through. She said, "Look, Mommy! It's the girl from TV! It's the girl from TV!" The mother dragged the struggling girl off, but the damage had been done.
The woman who'd been robbed stared at me. Then the light went on. Her mouth fell open, and she cried out, "Oh, my God! You're the girl who was kidnapped, aren't you! You're... Mar... Mar... you're Marcie Donner, aren't you!"
"Oh, boy!" I said.
"This is victor-charlie-niner," the security guard said into his walkie-talkie, "I need backup near the north escalator in terminal C, do you copy?"
A crowd began to gather. Some were there to see the man on the floor, and some were there to see "the girl from TV" — me, although it was obvious from their comments (like, "Which one is she?") that most of them had no clear idea who I was. And *that* was a good thing.
Once the other security guards arrived, we were escorted into an ugly, windowless office. Donkey followed at a safe distance with my carry-on bag. She didn't want to be "escorted" as well.
As the office door closed, she called to me, "Don't worry, Marcie! We have a couple hours before the flight. Wiggy will take care of everything!"
One of the guards stood at the door, to make sure no one could leave. A man in a suit sat behind a desk and asked for an explanation.
The thief leapt to his feet and launched a tirade of accusations against me, against the woman he'd robbed, and at "that rude blonde girl, who seems to have conveniently disappeared."
The man behind the desk let him carry on for a bit, then indicated that he'd heard enough. He asked me for my story, which I told as quickly and as simply as possible. The thief kept interrupting with exclamations such as "What a lie!" and "Why, I've never seen this girl before in my life!"
Next, he asked the woman for her story, and I realized that he saved her for last. Now that I had a chance to really look at her, I understood why.
First of all, she was a good-looking woman. She had a vague resemblance to Jennifer Garner, and she was dressed like a business executive, in a white blouse and a black suit. Her skirt came to her knees. Even dressed as she was, you could see she had a great figure and nice legs, and the man behind the desk understood all that and yet was fairly discrete in his appreciation of those facts.
Her hair, on the other hand, was nothing to write home about — it was short and needed some help, but... nobody's perfect, and she was traveling, and anyway we weren't here about that.
Second of all, she had more credibility than either me or the thief. She was obviously a victim. No one accused her of anything.
While she spoke, the thief didn't dare interrupt her, and in the end, he was forced to empty his pockets and his bag. In all, he had were seven wallets from seven women.
After a bit of paperwork, I emerged from the office with *my* wallet and all its contents, and was greeted by a series of flashes from a half-dozen cameras, professional and otherwise. A reporter button-holed me and started asking questions.
I wanted to cry. I needed to go to the bathroom. I didn't know what to say.
Wiggy sidled up next to me and gently wrapped her hands around my arm. "We can get you out of this," she whispered.
I looked at her with pleading eyes. "You can?"
"Yes," she replied softly. "Just tell the reporter that you're here with the Amazons, and make him look at Mirina." She smiled a crafty smile and with an almost imperceptible nod pointed to Mirina with her chin.
I turned back to face the reporter, and saw Mirina standing behind him. She looked absolutely stunning, literally head-turningly lovely, and the rest of the Amazons were lined up a few yards behind her.
"So what brings you to Honolulu?" the reporter asked me again.
"Um, I'm here with the Amazons," I told him, and gestured to Mirina.
He turned to glance at Mirina, then turned back to me — but only for a moment. He did a double take. Mirina smiled at him, and he completely turned his back to me. His entire manner changed. She began to talk, and he was all ears. In just a few seconds, he forgot all about me.
Amused, surprised, and relieved, I turned to Wiggy, who was laughing silently. She gestured with her head to say Let's get while the gettin's good! and the two of us slipped off.
Wiggy led me away to a safe distance, still holding my arm, and we turned back to see Mirina leading the reporter and his photographer to the group of Amazons.
"Thank God!" I said. "That's amazing!"
"Hey," Wiggy said, "Sometimes NOT being blonde and gorgeous is the best talent you can have."
"Yeah," I said. "And you know what else? I really need to find a bathroom, quick!"
Wiggy chuckled and pointed, and we zoomed off, arm in arm.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
In any case... I had a bigger shock waiting for me.
We settled into our seats. Once again, Wiggy and I were together, and once again she'd given me the window.
"Are you going to sleep through this flight, too?" she asked. "You still look kind of sleepy."
"No," I replied. "It's a short flight anyway, right?"
"Compared to the last one, yeah. It's five and a half hours. And the sun is up."
I looked out the window. We were flying over the ocean. There was nothing to see but water. "For some reason I'm still sleepy," I agreed, "but I don't think I could fall asleep; I'm a little afraid to."
She laughed. "Afraid you might end up back in California, with that girl smacking your butt?"
"Maybe," I said.
Her eyes twinkled as she looked at me. Then she said, "That dream really shook you up, didn't it?"
"Yes," I said.
"It didn't sound so bad, though," she said. "It sounded like a lot of it was wish-fulfillment, you know? Like, you said you wished you were a part of that family, and you liked living back there in California, and all that."
"Yeah, but Jerry wasn't there," I objected. "He was the big reason I liked that family."
"Right," Wiggy agreed, "BUT, if he had been there, he would have been your brother, which would make the whole, um, romantic thing impossible."
"Yuck!"
"Yep," she agreed. "And you REALLY wanted and needed to get away from Frickenitch..."
"Flickerbridge," I corrected.
"Sorry! Flickerbridge... so in your dream you got as geographically far from New Jersey as you could get."
I listened to the whine of the jet, and said, "But I'm doing that in real life, now. I'm going farther... Wiggy!" I said in a melodramatic voice, "I'm going farther than I ever dreamed of!"
She rolled her eyes and smiled.
"You know, Wiggy, the problem with the dream wasn't what it was about. That's not what upset me. The reason it shook me up was because it was so real."
She shrugged. "Dreams can be that way," she said. "But they alway fade away."
"So what did you do while I was asleep?" I asked.
"I read Lord Of The Flies," she replied. "We have to read it for school. Have you read it?" I shook my head. "No? Well, don't. What an awful book! It isn't even written well!"
"I think I might have seen the movie," I told her.
She nodded. "It's one of those cases where the movie is better than the book. You know, they make high-school students read that thing, but there's NOTHING TO LEARN in it! I'm convinced that the only reason they make us read it is because it's short."
Not having read it, I couldn't really comment.
Wiggy went on, "What else did I do? I slept some. A little. There was a meal, a movie, another movie, another meal..." She shrugged.
"So, now that you read that book, are you out of stuff to read? Because I have some magazines that I brought..."
"Let's see what you've got," she said.
I reached down and pulled my bag from under the seat. Once it was between my feet, I tugged the zipper open, and found...
"What is that?" Wiggy asked. "A present? Who is it for?"
It sure looked like one: gift-wrapped, with a ribbon and a bow... and a card addressed to me.
Wiggy spotted the name on the card. "Oh, it's for you!"
In a flash of memory, I saw my mother fiddling with my bag while I was on the phone with Dad. Until now, I hadn't had a chance to see what she'd done.
"Oh, yeah, my mother must have stuck this in," I told Wiggy.
"Ooh!" she said in an excited voice, like a little girl. "Open it! Open it! I LOVE presents!"
"Okay," I said, smiling at her child-like enthusiasm. "Do *you* want to open it?"
Her eyes goggled. "Can I?" she asked in breathless disbelief. "Can I really?"
"Sure," I shrugged, and as I handed her the packet I said, "It feels like a book. Maybe it's something you'd like to read."
She gave a quiet squeal of excitement, and looked at it lying in her lap. Her hands were poised in the air as if she hardly dared touch it. The wrapping paper was gold-colored, with the words Merry Christmas! printed all over it. The ribbon was red, tied in shoelace bow.
First, she pulled off the card, opened it, and read it aloud. Luckily, I was the only one who could hear her.
"Dear Marcie," she read, "I meant this to be a Christmas present, but it didn't arrive in time. Now, it's your bon voyage gift. I hope you enjoy reading about other girls like you! Love, Mom."
My jaw dropped, and I froze like a statue. "Other girls like you"? Mom! How could you!? I thought. Are you trying to out me to all the girls on the trip?
"Girls like you?" Wiggy repeated, wondering what it could possibly signify, but she didn't look at me as she said it. Her eyes were on the book, which still lay wrapped in her lap. She was one of those people who take forever to unwrap a gift.
I wanted to grab it away from her and stuff it into my bag. Once we landed, I could toss it, unopened, into the first trash can we came across.
On the other hand, I could just ask Wiggy to give it back, to not open it. I'm sure if I told her that it was something personal and embarrassing, she'd understand.
Somehow, I didn't do either of those things. I could have, but I didn't.
Maybe I let her open it because I was still tired and disoriented. Maybe I let her open it because I'd been thinking so much and so hard about being outed on national TV. It hadn't happened, of course, but it probably would. And so... I don't know. Somehow it seemed connected.
Maybe I was curious to see how Wiggy would react.
Please understand: I didn't want her to know. At the same time, I could have stopped her. But I didn't.
In any case... I had a bigger shock waiting for me.
With an excited smile on her cute little face, Wiggy tore the paper off.
And what did she find, but a brand new copy of Princess Marcelline!
"So you're transgendered?" Wiggy asked, in the quietest, most discrete voice imaginable.
I nodded.
"You don't want to be a boy, do you?" she asked, her brow wrinkling in incomprehension.
"No!" I said. "No way!"
"Oh," she said, the light dawning, "You used to be a boy?"
"Yeah," I admitted, in the quietest possible voice.
She nodded, and I could almost hear the gears whirring inside her head as all the recalibrations took place.
"So...," she said, almost to herself, as her mental data shifted and realigned, "That explains the dream..."
"Wiggy," I said, "If you don't want me to be your roommate, I—"
"No!" she said, with sudden force. She gripped my arm. "No, I want you to be my roommate! I need you to be my roommate." Her eyes searched my face. "You still want to be my roommate, don't you?"
"Yes," I said, "I just thought—"
"To me," she said, "everything is the same as before." She looked at the book, which was still in her lap, resting in the nest of ripped wrapping paper. "I like you. You just have an... um... interesting... uh, history."
Then she looked up and smiled at me. "I can't believe your mother would send this with you on the trip, though! Was she trying to out you to all of us?"
I blushed. "I wondered the same thing," I replied, "but I don't think so. Sometimes she just doesn't think."
Wiggy nodded, and said, "Mothers," as if that explained everything. And I guess it did. "Well, I won't tell the other girls," she confided. "As far as I'm concerned, it's *your* business."
"Thanks," I said.
Her eyes returned to the book. "Do you mind if I look at this for a bit?"
"No, go ahead," I said. "But can I tell you something weird? In my dream, I had that book already. But I swear I've never seen it or heard of it before."
She gave me a look full of doubt. "You must have. You must have. You might have seen it from the corner of your eye. You weren't aware of it, but your brain registered it. Your subconscious probably made all kinds of elaborate connections, and figured out that this is what your mother stuck in the bag."
"Yeah, but, in my dream I read two of the stories in that book. What if in real life the stories are the same?"
She looked at me and frowned for a moment. "I don't know," she replied. "But Let's see if the stories are even in here."
"Okay, well the first one was called The Puir Laddie And His Godmother."
She gave me a glance that said, Are you for real?. Aloud she said, "I doubt there's any such story... with a crazy name like that? 'Puir' isn't even a word."
I didn't reply. She opened to the table of contents. "Nope," she announced. "No godmothers, no laddies, no puir anything. See?"
I looked, and she was right. "Weird," I commented.
"No," she replied. "NOT weird. It would have been weird if the story *was* here."
"I guess," I said.
"What was the other story?"
"Princess Marcelline," I said.
"Well, duh," she replied. "That's the title. You know that one's there."
"Let me see how the story goes," I said, grabbing the book. I quickly scanned the pages, up to the point where I'd stopped reading to Nina. "It's the same!" I said, dumbfounded. "It's the same story I read in my dream!"
"So?" Wiggy retorted. "That doesn't mean anything."
"It doesn't?" I asked in astonishment. It sure meant something to me!
"No," she insisted. "Look." She took the book from me, closed it, and pointed to the cover. "See this word? Retold. That means that this lady took some fairy tale that already exists and changed it around a little. You probably heard it or read it, but you forgot."
"No," I said. "The story was so bizarre! How could I forget something so bizarre?"
"We forget all kinds of things," Wiggy replied. "Otherwise we'd go crazy from having too much stuff in our heads."
"No way," I retorted.
"Yes, way," she replied. "Did you ever hear of Remembrance Of Things Past? It's a novel. Well, it's seven books long, and it's full of stuff that this guy forgot about completely."
"If he forgot it, how did he write about it?" I asked.
"Ah!" she laughed. "He dips this... kind of cookie called a madeleine into some tea, and the smell makes him remember it all."
"Oh, brother!" I scoffed. "Like that could happen!"
Wiggy chuckled.
After the steward had distributed the snacks, I noticed that Wiggy was staring at something as she munched her peanuts. So I asked her what she was looking at.
"It's Cakey and Ding-Dong," she said. "They're sitting together, and they're talking."
"Is that bad?"
She twisted up her mouth. "I don't know. I guess if you can't *hear* them, it's not bad."
"Can you hear them?"
"No, but I can *see* them, so I know what they're up to...
"Oh, hey!" she exclaimed, interrupting herself. "I didn't tell you! Cakey and Ding-Dong are *not* natural blondes. Isn't that scandalous?" She giggled.
"They're not?"
"No! And everyone knows. Not just the Amazons, but the whole school. But... everybody pretends that they are. Somehow, the entire school has forgotten... and if their roots get dark for a few days, every month or so... well, it's just one of the mysteries of nature."
I chuckled.
"So," she quipped, "they're actually on our side of the hair-color divide. The traitors!
"Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yeah! Cakey, I have to warn you, is a HUGE practical joker. She can drive people right up the wall, and she's made Mirina loose her cool in a big way more than once. One of her favorite things to do is to get Ding-Dong talking, and that's what she's doing now."
"Is that a bad thing?"
Wiggy made a face like you don't want to know!. "The bad thing is that — especially if she has no idea what in the world she's talking about — she will go on forever. And I mean, forever. It's like she's reading an imaginary encyclopedia where all the facts are completely wrong." Wiggy shook her head. "One thing Cakey loves to do — and I'm sure she'll try it on you — is that she sits down with you and Ding-Dong, and says something to set Ding-Dong off. You know, something Ding-Dong doesn't understand. Then, once Ding-Dong gets going, Cakey gets up and walks away, leaving you holding the bag, so to speak."
"Ah," I said.
"One day, after we talked about Jackie Onassis in class, Cakey and Ding-Dong sat down at lunch with me. That alone should have made me suspicious, but then Cakey wondered whether, when Jackie O. was First Lady, whether the taxpayers paid for all her clothes."
"Did they?" I asked.
"Who knows?" she replied hotly, "Who cares? The point is, that Ding-Dong went on for fifty minutes on the subject. First she explained why the taxpayers must have paid for them, then she changed her mind and went on about why they couldn't have paid for them. Then she ran through some other daffy things that, even if I *wanted* to listen to, I couldn't, because my brain went into overload and shut off for the rest of the day.
"The thing to do," Wiggy said, "if you see it coming, is to leave before Cakey does. Then she'll be the one stuck listening to Ding-Dong."
"I'll try to watch for that," I said. "Hey, you don't want to look at that book any more, do you?"
"Uh, no," she said, handing me Princess Marcelline. I began to shove it roughly back into my carry-on, so Wiggy said, "Oh, I thought you asked for it because you wanted to *read* it."
"No," I replied. "I want to BURY the Princess in the bottom of my suitcase. She can stay there until I get home."
Wiggy popped another peanut into her mouth.
"Maybe I can throw her overboard while we're on the boat," I groused, as I settled the book on the very bottom of the bag.
"Oh!" she said. "That reminds me! The trip! I haven't told you our itinerary."
"That's right!" I agreed. "You said something about an island?"
"Yup! So, we land in Bora Bora around lunchtime today, which is Friday, in case you forgot. Then we get on the boat, which is a big sailing ship, and we'll spend three nights onboard. Monday, which is New Years Day, we'll land on this little island where we'll stay for three days and three nights. Then, back on the boat for a day and a half, and on Friday after lunch we take the flight back to Honolulu. We'll be back home on Saturday evening."
"And then we have one day to recover before school starts on Monday."
"Unfortunately, yes."
"That's a lot," I said. "It doesn't sound like it will all fit in the time we have."
"Oh, it does," she said, and showed me a calendar. "See? One day plane, three days boat, three days island, two days boat, one day plane. More or less."
I had to agree. It all worked, at least on paper.
"What if there's a storm or something?" I asked.
"Or if the boat gets a flat tire?" she joked.
"No, really."
"Well, as far as we can plan, everything ought to work. If there are unforeseen difficulties, we'll just have to deal with them. I mean, it's not hurricane season. The boat makes this trip a lot, and they're used to having passengers who don't know anything about sailing, so... you know, everything should be fine. And if it's not, we'll deal with it."
"Okay," I said. "I just don't want to get stranded on Gilligan's Island, you know?"
"Well," she quipped with an impish grin, "Let's see what the sailors look like before we rule that out!"
"Good point, Wiggy! Good point!"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"Journey To The Center Of The Earth," I read aloud. "Ding-Dong, you know that book is science fiction, don't you?"
"Well, sure," she replied. "But don't you know that science fiction becomes science fact?"
I didn't sleep at all on the second flight. We did take off while it was still dark, but technically it was already morning. They served us breakfast, and everybody else was awake, so how could I sleep? Instead, I had a good time, looking out the window (once the sun came up), searching for boats below, and chatting with Wiggy.
Plus, I was finally awake. No more fuzzy-headed confusion! And — after my long, death-like sleep — I felt pretty good.
The Amazons, on the other hand, were going stir-crazy. The fourteen-hour flight from Newark to Honolulu was long, but it was doable. On that flight, the girls who could sleep, slept. The others watched the movies, amused themselves, or *tried* to sleep.
Now, we had another flight to endure, from Honolulu to Papeete — five and a half hours. And after that, one last flight, from Papeete to Bora Bora — only about a half hour. Paradoxically, even though each flight was shorter than the one before, each flight was harder to take.
In the middle of the Honolulu-Papeete flight, Mirina organized an exercise and stretching session: she and Knickers cleared the floor in front of their seats, and Boogers and Donkey put their seat backs straight up so that there was space, and we each took turns doing the bicycle. You know, shoulders on the floor, legs in the air, pedalling air and all that. She also had us do in-seat stretches. As hokey as it sounds, I actually liked it, and it made me feel good.
Wiggy told me that on the earlier flight Mirina had the girls stretching and exercising every three hours, if they were awake. At odd intervals, she had Graffy and Grooty remind everyone to hydrate.
As much as I dislike bossy people, I appreciated what she did. It wasn't fun, and Mirina didn't insult our intelligence by trying to make it seem like fun. With her no-nonsense, businesslike manner, Mirina overcame my unwillingness, and afterward I was glad she did. What Wiggy had said of her was true: Mirina is a natural leader. It's easy for her to get people to do things.
And she herself did everything she asked the others to do. When Graffy or Grooty said to hydrate, she drank some water. When it was her turn to bicycle, she got down on the floor and bicycled.
I had a great time with Wiggy. She and I got along as if we were old friends, but even so, at one point we got so bored and talked out, that she pulled out my fairy-tale book and buried herself in the window seat to read it. Occasionally she'd laugh or chuckle, but I didn't bother to ask why. I didn't feel like talking about transgendered-ness. The Amazons were roving the aisles, and the chance of being overheard was very high.
Wiggy was very discrete. She had the seat reclined, and her knees up. The way she held the book in her lap, her legs and her blanket hid the cover entirely. And since we (once again) were sitting in the last row (of first class!), no one could look over her shoulder.
While Wiggy explored the world of fairy-tale transformations, I flipped through the pages of Cosmo, looking for fashion enlightenment.
Every so often Ding-Dong came dancing up the aisle with a fresh bit of misinformation, courtesy of Cakey.
"Hey, did you know that Bora Bora has a national anthem?" she asked me.
"No, I didn't."
"You've probably heard it — that's the funny thing!" And she began to softly sing,
Bora Bora, Bora Bora
It's an island in the ocean.
Independent, something-something
And they call it Bora Bora.
"You've heard it, right?" Ding-Dong asked, with a child-like smile.
I struggled not to laugh, but Wiggy said, without looking up, "Ding-Dong, that's the Yale fight song."
"Really?" she said, astonished. "Yale uses that song? I have to go tell Cakey!" and she was gone.
"Oh, my God!" Wiggy sighed. "I hope you realize: this is only the beginning."
"It's kind of cute," I said.
"Yeah," she said. "One time is cute. The second time you still smile... but you have to realize that Cakey is behind each one of these trips, and she'll keep sending Ding-Dong over, until she drives us out of our freakin' minds."
I laughed.
"At least she knows that Yale is a school, and not a lock company," Wiggy commented. "At least, I hope she knows."
The next time Ding-Dong came back she had a book in her hand, with her forefinger inserted as a bookmark.
"Hey, Wiggy," she said, "The center of the Earth: hot... or not?"
"Hot," Wiggy said. "Some scientists think it's hotter than the Sun."
Ding-Dong laughed. "That's ridiculous!" she said. "If the center of the Earth was hotter than the Sun, we wouldn't be able to live here! There wouldn't be any water! The whole planet would look like a burned-up tennis ball!"
Wiggy looked at Ding-Dong in silence for a moment, weighing her options. This time she said, "Okay, then, it's cold."
"Well," Ding-Dong replied, "It can't actually be cold, but it's not hot."
"How do you know this?" I asked her.
"I'm reading this book," she said, and showed me the spine.
"Journey To The Center Of The Earth?" I read aloud. "Jules Verne? Ding-Dong, you know that book is science fiction, don't you?"
"Well, sure," she replied. "But don't you know that science fiction becomes science fact?"
Wiggy opened and closed her mouth three times, but she didn't say anything.
I said, "Thank you for sharing that with us, Ding-Dong," and she skipped happily back to Cakey.
Every so often the girl would return to share some other amazing gem from her reading, or to ask for clarification of something she didn't understand.
"Did you know that underground, everything is lit by electricity?" she asked me.
"Well, sure, it would have to be," I joked. "Otherwise, it would be dark."
"So you think that it's real, then?" she asked.
"Well, sure," I said. "How could it be otherwise? If you didn't have electric light, you'd have to have candles or gas lamps..."
"Which could cause an explosion," she put in.
"Yeah, I guess so," I replied.
"Thanks!" she said, and ran off again.
"What was that about?" I asked Wiggy, who shrugged.
At long last, all three flights were over. By then, we ALL felt crappy, unglamorous, and achy, but all our discomforts were forgotten when we looked out the windows of the plane.
I expected Bora Bora Airport to be pretty much like any airport. Maybe a little smaller, but an airport nonetheless.
Instead, it was a tiny island. And it was HOT. As soon as they opened the door of the plane, the tropical air came rushing in. Once we got outside, though, the ocean breeze cooled us off quite nicely.
It was just after lunch, so the sun was high in the sky. Everything was bright; there were no shadows. There was literally not a single cloud in the blue, endless sky.
I have to admit that I haven't traveled much, but I figured airports would be pretty much the same everywhere: You know, the airplane rolls up to the gate, an accordian-like thing comes out, and you walk through it, directly into the air-conditioned building.
Well, in Bora Bora, it wasn't anything like that. When we landed, the stewardess just popped open the door and unfolded a set of stairs. When we exited the plane, we just walked down directly to the runway! We stood right on the ground, right next to the plane! And just a few steps away, some men were opening the belly of the plane and unloading the luggage, right before our eyes.
That was my first surprise. I never in my life expected to stand on an airport runway. People only do that in adventure films.
My second — much bigger surprise — was the airport itself. It was beautiful! Up till now, I thought that Sacramento Airport in California was the nicest, cleanest airport in the world. But Bora Bora had Sacramento beat to sticks.
Do you know why? It's because it's a tiny island! And not only that, it's a tiny island in the South Pacific! You can see the whole thing, almost without turning your head.
The runway was bordered with white sand, palm trees, and deep-green bushes with bright red flowers.
AND, instead of busses and taxis waiting to carry the passengers away, there was a boat! It was a kind of water taxi.
"Is that our boat?" Ding-Dong asked.
"No," Wiggy said, "Ours is the wooden one, behind it."
"Oh!" Ding-Dong cried, with obvious disappointment. "Is that the boat we're spending our vacation in?"
"No, Ding-Dong. Remember: you've seen pictures. Our boat is over 100 feet long. It's too big to tie up to this tiny, little dock. We have to take that boat, which is a longboat, out to our ship."
"You say it's a long boat," Ding-Dong countered, "but *I* don't think it's very long. There isn't enough room for all of us to sit — or even stand — and there's no room for our luggage. Unless that boat has, like, an underwater compartment."
Wiggy regarded Ding-Dong for a moment. "An underwater compartment? You mean like a luggage area underwater?"
"Yes."
"Well, it doesn't have one. All the boat is right there. It's what you see. There's no hidden underwater basement."
"Don't worry," Cakey told her. "Wiggy will work it out."
In fact, Wiggy, after looking over the situation, went over to the men unloading the plane and spoke to them briefly. Then she walked to the dock and waved to the sailor in the longboat, who waved back. At that point, the man in charge of the water taxi began to ask her questions while gesturing at the rest of us.
"I wonder what they're saying," I said, but I didn't really wonder. It was just something to say.
"If you were over there, you could hear them," Mirina pointed out. "Why don't you go keep Wiggy company? Give her your support."
"Uh, oh, yeah," I said stupidly, and went to join Wiggy on the dock.
She smiled and said, "Hi. I'm glad you came over. I was beginning to feel alone."
I gave her a grin of encouragement. Again Wiggy had that look: the look of a slightly overwhelmed little girl. It was amazing the way this group of people, including two adults, expected Wiggy to handle everything for them. They acted as though she was the only adult.
"We'll be off in a minute, miss!" the water-taxi man called.
"Thanks!" Wiggy called back. Then to me she said, "As soon as they go, our boat can pull up."
A light breeze kicked up, flowing gently over my hair and clothes and skin. I could feel the sun all over me, even through my clothes.
"Isn't it wonderful here?" Wiggy sighed. "This is the nicest place I've ever been, and we haven't even left the airport yet!"
I laughed, but my laugh was covered by the bark of the water-taxi's horn. It made me and Wiggy jump. The taxi's motor revved up, the ropes were cast off, and after some preliminary chugging, the taxi moved off with a rhythmic a-puttputtputt-putt a-puttputtputt-putt.
Behind us, the airport men rolled up a big cart. They blocked the wheels and began unloading our luggage onto the dock.
As they piled up the bags, the longboat glided in.
"Ahoy there," called one of the women from the boat.
"Ahoy yourself," Wiggy called back, smiling. "Are you from the Seward?"
"That we are," the redhead replied.
"They're both women," I whispered to Wiggy.
"I noticed," she whispered back.
The second woman, the one who hadn't spoken, had gathered some rope in her hands. Wiggy opened her hands, and the woman tossed it to her. Wiggy immediately and deftly wound the rope around some hooks, and pulled it fast.
"Well done!" the woman complimented. Wiggy smiled and moved to tie off the rope at the other end of the boat.
"Looks like we have a sailor in our midst," the redhead said, stepping from the boat. "My name's Flannery and that one's Riley. What's yours?"
"I'm Wiggy and this is Marcie," Wiggy replied, shaking hands.
"Wiggy?" Flannery repeated.
"It's short for Hedwig," she explained. "I'm Hedwig Wetherwax."
"Ah," Flannery observed. "That name sure is a mouthful. Wiggy it is, then!"
"I should tell you," Wiggy went on, "that all the girls — except Marcie here — have strange nicknames."
Flannery shrugged. Riley grinned and asked, "Do the teachers have nicknames, too?"
Wiggy gave a cute conspiratorial smile and said, "Of course! But they don't know. Ms. Popken is Poppy, and Ms. Takkebos is Bossy."
"Oh, dear," Flannery laughed. "Poppy and Bossy, are they? It's going to be hard to call 'em by their real names now."
"So how are we going to do this?" Wiggy asked. "Those are the passengers and these are the bags."
"That pack of blondes, eh?" Flannery asked. "And I suppose them two are the chaperones?" She indicated the two teachers, who stood a bit apart.
Wiggy nodded. "Do you think you can take all eight cheerleaders at once?"
"Oh, they're cheerleaders, are they?" Flannery laughed. "Well, lar-dee-dar!"
Riley chuckled.
"Don't underestimate them," Wiggy said in a quiet voice.
Flannery stopped laughing.
"Sorry," she said. "No offense meant." She considered a moment, looking at the girls, the luggage, the boat, and finally, at Riley.
"What we can do is this," she proposed. "I could take the eight of them, and one teacher. Riley can stay here with you two, the other teacher, and the luggage. Then, I'll come back for you two, the teacher, the luggage and Riley. How's that sound?"
Riley shrugged, and Wiggy agreed. She signalled the Amazons to come, and they trooped over to hear the plan.
"It's going to take two trips to get all of us and our luggage to the Seward," Wiggy explained. "Flannery's going to take the Amazons and one of the teachers first, then come for the rest of us and the luggage."
The girls and teachers all nodded.
"Amazons, are you?" Flannery asked, musing.
"Is that a problem?" Mirina asked.
"Oh, no! Heaven forbid!" Flannery replied. "It's just that our Captain fancies herself an Amazon. Does the name Blackett mean anything to yous?"
Everyone shook their heads in the negative, which Flannery found surprising, but she left the topic there.
"Any questions?" Wiggy asked.
Ding-Dong raised her hand. "Did you say she was taking us to the sewer?" she asked cautiously. "Because, if you did, I'm not sure that I want to go."
Wiggy's jaw worked for a moment, and Flannery fought down a laugh, but when Wiggy said, "Yes, Ding-Dong, I did say that. We're going to the sewer." Flannery succumbed to a coughing fit, and Ding-Dong's jaw fell open in horror.
Soon enough, the eight girls and one of the teachers were safely aboard. Cakey managed to convince Ding-Dong that she could at least come and see, before she made up her mind.
Wiggy and I cast off the ropes, and the longboat's motor carried it away.
"This is going to be one interesting trip," Riley commented, and Wiggy and I laughed in agreement.
"Oh!" Wiggy said. "I — uh, we — were wondering: are there any handsome sailors on board?"
"I was wondering that myself!" Ms. Popken, the teacher, agreed with a broad smile.
Riley grinned. "I think we're *all* handsome," she replied.
"You know what I mean," Wiggy countered. "I'm talking about the men! Or boys! Or anything in-between."
"Didn't you know?" Riley asked, with some surprise. "There are no men on board. The crew is all women, and so are you. There aren't going to be any men at all on this trip!"
"Are you kidding me?" Wiggy cried.
"No, I'm not kidding," the woman replied. "No men. Nary a one."
Ms. Popken swore heavily in her disappointment, which made Wiggy and me bust up in hysterics.
Poppy, mightily embarrassed, said nothing at first, but when we couldn't stop giggling, she said, "Come on now, girls, it wasn't *that* funny!"
"Yep," Riley said. "It's going to be an in-ter-est-ing trip!"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"Well, then, Ding-Dong Belle Dubois," the Captain replied, "In answer to your question, a boat is just a little thing. You can play with a boat in your bathtub. The Seward is a SHIP, and don't you forget it!"
Ms. Popken gave Wiggy and me a look. "Now, girls, please don't take this question in the wrong way, though I'm sure you will." Turning to Riley, she asked, "If there aren't any men, is there at least any alcohol on board?"
A slow smile spread over Riley's face. "You know, it's funny that you ask. Usually we'd stock up before a trip, but this time, since nearly all the passengers are underage, we only have a few bottles of wine... enough for a glass or two a day for each adult, and no more. The Captain's set a strict limit."
"How is that funny?" Poppy asked, a little annoyed.
"It's funny because until yesterday we had cases and cases of Scotch."
"Whisky?"
Riley nodded. "Whisky and haggis."
"Haggis?" Poppy asked. "What sort of drink is that? Is it a liqueur?"
Riley began laughing.
"No, it's a kind of exotic Scottish sausage. See, we had this group who wanted to have a Burns Night later in the month, and they had Scotch and haggis sent on ahead. But then there were some... problems —" she broke off, laughing again.
"What happened?" Wiggy asked.
"Oh, I can't tell you," she said. "Can't tell other clients' business. Well, okay... since you've twisted my arm, I'll tell you. They argued with the Captain... about the price — after the deal was closed — and about sword dancing."
"Sword dancing?" I asked.
Grinning, Riley waved her arms as if she had a sword in each hand, and cocking her legs, danced a little jig. "They wanted to have a girl who danced with a pair of swords, but the Captain wouldn't have it. It's traditional — but, as the Captain said, it's not traditional on a sailing ship.
"Anyway, I suspect there was more to it than all that, but in the end we had to send back all the whisky. They told us we could keep the haggis. We couldn't ship it to the United States anyway. It's illegal."
Miss Popken looked profoundly disappointed, disinterested, and maybe even disgusted.
"Why is it illegal?" Wiggy asked.
Riley shrugged. "Fear of the unknown, I suppose."
"Can we try it?" I asked.
"You can all try it," Riley promised. "Some of the crew like it, but it's a bit too, uh, flavorful for me."
When we were done talking about haggis, Wiggy began to pepper Riley with questions about the longboat.
"I saw you have a motor on the longboat," she asked. "Do you ever row it?"
"No," Riley said. "We don't bother. Some passengers have tried, but it takes too many people... and they have to know how to row together. Usually they start smacking each other's oars, and quit. Although we did have one group that was able to make it go for a bit."
"Is it a lot of work?" I asked.
"No, it's just that have to know how to work together."
"So if one or two people need to run ashore, they couldn't just row..." she seemed disappointed.
"If somebody really wanted to row," Riley interrupted, "They could take the dory."
"You have a dory?" Wiggy squeaked in excitement.
"What's a dory?" I asked.
"It's a little rowboat," Wiggy replied. "I have a dory back home! One of my father's friends made it for me!"
"What kind?" Riley asked.
"Swampscott," Wiggy replied.
Poppy and I looked at each other and shrugged. I guess there were two of us who didn't know boats — thank goodness!
"Do you think I could try the dory a bit?" Wiggy asked. "I've won some rowing contests."
"Have you really?" Riley said. "When we get to the island you can do a bit of rowing, but the Captain wants to get underway as soon as possible." Wiggy nodded, and Riley continued, "So where did you do your rowing?"
"Every summer we go to Port Hatchapee, down the shore*," Wiggy replied.
They talked distances and rowing speeds for a bit, and when the sea talk went beyond incomprehensible and verged on boring, Poppy and I tuned it out.
We walked to the end of the dock together and jumped down to the beach. At the same moment, we both knelt and took a handful the supernaturally fine sand.
"I've never felt sand this soft," Poppy said in a subdued voice.
"And it's so incredibly white," I added.
All around us fell the hushed rumble and hiss of the surf.
We looked up at the sky and at the sea. Mom was right: the sea was blue here. And the sky was not the same sky I saw at home, not even in California. It was a different blue.
"It's a tropical blue," Poppy said, reminding me of the color Mom and Maisie had chosen for my bedroom walls.
"Yes, it is," I agreed. Now, my bedroom would always remind me of this place. Echoing what Wiggy said earlier, I said, "So far in my life, the most beautiful place I've been is Bora Bora Airport!"
The wind gave us a soft lick, and Poppy said, "Yes, Marcie, it is beautiful, isn't it? I still can't believe I'm really here!"
"I'm so glad to be warm after all that snow," I commented, and she sighed happily in agreement.
Just then the longboat pulled into view.
Wiggy and Riley tied it to the dock, and the five of us formed a line to pass the luggage up to Flannery, who arranged them in the boat.
By the time we got underway, we were all very red and very hot.
"Hope you girls brought your sunblock and your hats," Flannery commented. She yanked the ripcord and brought the motor to life. The boat slid away from the dock. The land fell away behind us.
Now we were starting our adventure at sea. Wiggy squeezed my arm in silent excitement.
The moment we emerged from the airport's cove, the ship came into view.
"Whoa!" I exclaimed in amazement. "It's like a pirate ship!"
"Somebody always says that," Flannery commented. "What was that girl's name? Ding-Dong? She said it on the first trip out."
I blushed at the comparison, and Riley laughed.
"Don't let Flannery bother you," Riley told me. "You're right: it does look like a pirate ship. That sort of ship is called a brigantine, because it's got two masts and it's square rigged."
"Square rigged?" I repeated.
"It means the sails are square," Riley replied.
"That's not what it means," Flannery contradicted.
Riley shrugged. "It's close enough."
Flannery spat into the water, which shocked me. I'd never seen a woman spit before. I wasn't sure what to make of Flannery. She seemed friendly enough, but maybe she was touchy about nautical terms? I guessed I might have a better idea in a few days.
As we got closer, we came around the tail-end of the ship and saw its name written in large script across the stern: Seward's Folly. Wiggy read it aloud and began to laugh.
"Why is that funny?" Flannery asked. "Every so often somebody laughs, but I never get the joke."
"It's what people used to call Alaska," Wiggy told her. "A man named Seward bought Alaska from Russia. At the time, people thought it was worthless, so they called it Seward's Folly."
"And this Seward fellow had the money to do that?" Flannery asked.
"No," replied Wiggy, "He was Secretary of State."
"Hmmph," Flannery grunted.
"I guess your Mr. Seward figured it would be a funny name," I put in.
"I guess," Flannery agreed. "Looky here: what we're going to do is get you passengers aboard and then Riley and me'll work the luggage up."
And that's what we did. We had to climb a ladder fixed to the side of the boat. Riley helped from below, and two sailors (both women, of course) helped from above. They didn't really need to. It wasn't hard. Even Poppy made it up without a problem.
"Good," one of the sailors commented when the three of us were aboard. "The Captain's been itching to give her welcome-aboard speech. Mind you don't laugh unless you're good and sure that she's joking."
We sat on the deck next to Graffy and Grooty, and the instant our butts touched down, Captain Blackett launched into her speech, and this is what she said:
"In the first place, I've heard some of you talking, and you've been calling this old tub a boat.
"When I heard that, I shut my eyes so I wouldn't see the culprit, because nothing makes my blood boil like hearing this lovely lady called a boat." She pronounced the word boat as if it were something dirty.
"If it's not a boat, what is it?" Ding-Dong asked in a puzzled tone.
The Captain stared at Ding-Dong as if she was amazed. Captain Blackett was a good-looking woman with sunbleached red hair, and freckled pale skin. In spite of her lack of tan, you could see she was always in the sun. She was an outdoorsy type of woman, with a loose red shirt, large plaid shorts, and sandals on her feet. Her eyebrows and the hair on her arms were bleached blonde by the sun. She wore a very faded sky-blue baseball cap on her head.
And she obviously wasn't used to being interrupted. "What's your name, girl?" she asked.
"Ding-Dong Dubois," came the perky reply.
"Ding-Dong Dubois!" the captain repeated in an incredulous tone. "Did your parents give you that name?"
"No," Ding-Dong laughed. "My real name is Belle."
"Well, then, Ding-Dong Belle Dubois," the captain replied, "In answer to your question, a boat is just a little thing. You can play with a boat in your bathtub. The Seward is a SHIP, and don't you forget it!
"If I hear ANYONE call this ship a boat, I'll throw that person to the sharks. I'll tie you to a rope and drag you in our wake for a day, just to teach you!"
At that, Cakey couldn't help it: I don't know what she was thinking, but she cracked a little smile. The Captain saw it.
"You, girl, what's your name?"
"Cakey Keese."
"Cakey Keese," the captain repeated cautiously. "And your real name?"
"Katrien."
"Katrien Cakey Keese," the captain said, as if she was memorizing it. "I can see you're a mischief-maker, aren't you, Katrien Cakey Keese?"
Cakey's eyebrows went up, but she didn't reply.
"Don't joke with me, girls," the captain told us all. "This isn't the place for practical jokes. Rule number one: don't pretend to be in danger if you're not. And for God's sake, don't shout 'Man overboard' unless somebody's actually fallen overboard. Life on board is a good life, but there are times — and I hope to God we won't have any of those times — but there are times when the only difference between living and dying will be doing what I say.
"Which brings me to rule number two: if I give you an order, girls, I want you to hop to it and not ask me why. If a member of the crew asks you something, as they tell you it's Captain's Orders, I want you to do it. If you don't like it, if you wonder why, you can ask questions later, but when you hear an order, you do what you're asked, then and there.
"Can you promise me, girls? Will you do that for me?"
We sat in silence, glancing at each other, so the Captain bellowed, "WILL YOU DO THAT FOR ME, GIRLS?"
"Yes!" we responded as one.
"That's great," she said in an unconvinced tone. "Just because of that, and to show you that we're all friends, I'm going to let you all call me by my first name." She smiled to herself, and looked down at Ding-Dong. "Can you guess what my first name is, Ding-Dong Belle Dubois?"
"Captain?" Ding-Dong offered meekly.
"That's right!" the Captain roared. "It's Captain! When you speak to me, no matter who you are, no matter what's afoot, you'll address me as Captain, or you won't speak to me at all. It's my name, it's my title, it's my function, all rolled up into one.
"So, welcome aboard, girls! Now, I'm going back to the business of running this ship. We've got to get underway, so I'm turning you over to Shaylen, my first officer. She's going to run through some safety instructions, and if you don't listen up and pay close attention, you'll be hearing from me.
"Before I go, are there any questions?"
Ding-Dong was the only one to raise her hand. The captain waited, but no one else put their hand up, so she nodded to the girl.
"Will we be sailing around Cape Horn?" Ding-Dong asked.
"Good lord!" exclaimed the Captain. "We'd better not! Anything else?"
There were no more questions, so the Captain strode off, and Shaylen came forward. She was a dark young woman, with a dark tan, and dark brown hair tied in a pony tail. She was likeable and friendly, and seemed to know our names already. Shaylen ran through the safety protocols, pointed out the emergency equipment, and told us what to do if anyone was hurt or fell overboard...
She quizzed us a bit, and when she was satisfied, she nodded to another sailor, saying, "Tell the Captain we're ready to get underway."
The other girl turned her head and bellowed, "Ready to get underway!" Someone further along repeated the cry, and so did a third.
"Now," Shaylen told us, "your bags are over there. However, I strongly suggest that first you go below and choose your rooms, and then come back for your luggage. There's not a lot of room to maneuver down there, so the picking will go a lot easier if you're not holding your bags.
"After that, you're free to wander about, and if we're still hauling up the sails, you could give us a hand. When all that's done, we'll meet me back here, and I'll show you where lunch can be found. All right? All right!" We stood looking at her a moment, so she said, "Go now, shoo! Pick your rooms, stow your bags!"
We made our way downstairs — I mean, below. The room choice wasn't hard. Everyone except me had already studied the ship's layout, and knew where they were headed. The eight Amazons took the two four-bed cabins, which were in the middle of the ship. The two teachers each took a room in the back, or aft, and Wiggy and I took the foremost cabin. It wasn't very big, so we stored a lot of our belongings in the room across the hall. The outer wall curved out so that the ceiling was slightly bigger than the floor.
The beds were bunks, one above the other, and because of the curve of the wall, the higher bed was set further back than the lower. That meant that Wiggy, who took the upper bunk, could look down at me just by turning her head.
"It's not bad, is it?" Wiggy asked, a bit anxiously. I think she was still afraid I'd want my own room.
"It's fine," I said, and to reassure her I added, "I think we'll be quite comfy here."
At that, she gave a relieved smile.
"Once I get used to this rocking," I added.
Wiggy laughed. "Oh, yeah. Soon you'll hardly notice. But I'll tell you one thing, it makes it a lot easier to sleep!"
"Oh, good," I replied, as the left side of the room rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
"Let's go up on deck and help them haul out the sheets!" Wiggy enthused.
"And change the beds?" I asked, tongue in cheek.
Wiggy paused, unsure whether I was serious.
"I'm joking!" I laughed. "Let's get this old tub sailing!"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
Donkey put in, "What is the poop deck, anyway? I mean, really?"
Wiggy and I were back on deck before any of the Amazons, and we helped the crew raise the sails. It wasn't hard. We just stood where they told us, and pulled down a rope hand over hand until it stopped. Then we'd move to another spot, pull down another rope, and so on.
After we'd repeated the process a couple times, there were no more sails to raise.
"How many sails are there?" I asked Flannery.
"Twelve sails. 7000 square feet of total sail area," she replied, without looking at me.
Once all the sails were up, the ship began moving quickly. Most of the sails were tight and full of wind, but every so often one of them would let out a loud crack! as the wind whipped it.
"Hey, Riley," I asked, "How come I can feel the breeze, when the wind is pushing the boat?"
She gave me a quizzical look before replying. "Two things," she said. "One, the wind blows in different directions, and it changes a lot. Two, we're not going *faster* than the wind. Even after it pushes the ship, it still has enough left over to mess up your hair."
Embarrassed, I thanked her and went off to join Shaylen and the others behind the main mast.
When I got to the little group, I found that everyone was silently watching Ding-Dong do a funny little shuffling dance.
Shaylen, amused, asked, "Do you have a little problem, Belle?"
"It's Ding-Dong," she corrected, "and yes, I do. I have to go to the poop deck! Bad!"
Shaylen told Ding-Dong (and the rest of us) where the various facilities were found onboard, and Ding-Dong quickly disappeared below.
Mirina, in a suspicious tone, asked, "Cakey, did you tell her to say that?"
Cakey gave her best "innocent" look, and asked, "Moi?"
Donkey put in, "What is the poop deck, anyway? I mean, really?"
Shaylen pointed behind us. "It's that raised deck in the stern. It's the roof for the cabins on this level, which — on this ship — includes the dining room, where there's food waiting for us. You can have a late lunch if you're hungry, or a snack if you're not. But let's wait until Ding-Dong gets back.
"In the meantime, are there any other questions about the ship, or nautical terms that I can explain?"
"Yes," said Donkey. "This fore and aft stuff. Why don't you just say front and back?"
Shaylen shrugged. "Tradition, I guess. But I think if I did say front and back, it would mix people up."
"I mix up fore and aft," said Donkey. "And stern, too."
"Think of before and after," Shaylen suggested. "And imagine the Captain on the poop deck, looking stern."
Donkey grinned. "Got it."
"What about Avast, ye landlubbers!" Graffy asked.
"And Belay that!" Grooty added.
"You know what landlubbers are, right?" Shaylen asked.
"We're landlubbers," Boogers replied.
Shaylen nodded. "Avast means stop. Belay means to fasten a rope without tying it."
"How do you do that?" Grooty queried.
"You wrap the rope in a certain way. You don't want to tie a knot — they take forever to undo. Because of that, sailors have found ways to securely bind and unbind ropes quickly. Just like your friend Wiggy did, when she tied up the boat at the dock."
Wiggy blushed as everyone looked at her.
At that point, Ding-Dong emerged from below, smiling. "I don't know why you call it a poop deck," she said. "A deck is a whole floor. The poop deck is just a little room." She shook her head, amused at what she took to be silly nautical slang.
Shaylen opened her mouth to speak, but decided to let it go. Instead she took us to dining room, where we had a light lunch.
We chatted and laughed. The entire time we ate, the ship was gently rocking. I felt myself relaxing into the rhythm. "I'm so glad I came," I told Wiggy. "I'm so glad you let me come."
When nearly everyone was done eating, Riley came in to get herself a drink.
"We're well underway," she said. "We've got a strong wind, and it looks like we'll make good time."
There was a question I wanted to ask, so I swallowed my half-chewed mouthful, and forced it down with a few gulps of water. "Why was the captain so anxious to get underway?"
Riley and Shaylen glanced at each other, and the way they did brought all the Amazons, Ding-Dong included, to attention.
"Well, part of the reason is that we're heading east," Riley said. "The prevailing winds are westerly. So the trip out is a little longer and a bit trickier than the trip back." She looked at Shaylen the whole time she was speaking.
"You can tell them," Shaylen said. "Captain's just being prudent, that's all."
Riley shrugged.
"See, there's a big storm up north of us," Shaylen explained, "There's a very small chance it could come this way. It isn't likely, but the Captain doesn't like to take chances, even small chances, so she wants to run to the island as soon as possible."
"Are we in any danger?" Cakey asked.
"No," Shaylen said. "You can all see the sky and the sea. If a storm was coming, you'd see and feel it. We're always listening to the weather service, and even if the storm did decide to blow down this way, we'd make straight for the nearest port and wait it out in safety. We don't take chances with our passengers. We don't take chances with ourselves, and we don't take chances with the Seward."
Cakey asked, "Can't tropical storms come up quickly? Faster than we could get to port?"
"Cakey!" Mirina scolded, "Don't ask for misfortune!"
I didn't understand what Mirina meant, so I gave Wiggy a quizzical look. She muttered, "I'll explain later," so I nodded.
Cakey shot a glance at Mirina, and in a soft voice to Shaylen asked, "Can they?"
Mirina looked quite angry at Cakey for repeating her question.
I could see Shaylen was puzzled by Mirina's reaction as well. To Cakey she said, "In the old days, before radar, radio, and good weather forecasting, a storm *could* break on a ship with very little warning. Back then, almost any ship asail would be hard pressed to outrun a real tropical storm."
"It would be all batten down the hatches! and tie yourself to the mast!" Ding-Dong enthused.
Shaylen stared at her. "Hopefully, it would never come to that!
"As I was saying: Nowadays, we know about storms from far off. The weather service tracks tropical storms as they form, and they have a pretty accurate idea of where they're going. Also, along our route, we're never far from an island, and if it's prudent to take shelter, we'll take shelter, regardless of our schedule.
"Our top priority is getting you girls home safe. Every decision is made with that in mind.
"AND the storm is heading this way" — she swept her left hand up and off to the right — "and we're heading this way." She swept her other hand down and left. "Okay?"
Everybody nodded, and Shaylen smiled. After all, the sun was shining, the sky was blue, the sea was calm, and the wind was steady. The boat was moving quickly, and gently rocking as she went. We had nothing to worry about.
When we left the dining room, Wiggy said to me, "Let's go up on the poop deck."
Giggling about "poop," the two of us climbed the ladder-like stairs together. The normal way to climb would be for one to go first and the other to follow. After all, the stairs were narrow. But we each took hold of a rope rail, Wiggy on the left, me on the right, and scaled the stairs as if we were scaling a mountain, side by side.
At first we thought that the small deck in the stern was empty, but what did we find?
"Look," Wiggy whispered, "It's the Captain, looking stern." In fact, it *was* the Captain, and she *was* looking stern — that is, rearward. She had her back to us, but turned in surprise when I giggled at Wiggy's remark.
"Sorry, Captain!" we said together, and started back down the ladder/stairs.
She beckoned and said, "Come ahead, girls, come ahead." She smiled, and leaned against the rail. "Believe it or not, I was just thinking of you two."
"Us? Why?" I asked, as we went over to join her.
"Because I've met all the others but you. So, one of you is Hedwig Wetherwax—"
"That's me," Wiggy said. "Call me Wiggy."
"Wiggy? Alright then: Hedwig Wiggy Wetherwax." The Captain really *was* memorizing names. To me, he said, "Then that makes you Romy Wubbels. Do you have a nickname, too?"
"Romy?" I repeated, confused.
"Bubbles," Wiggy said to me, by way of explanation.
"Romy Bubbles Wubbels," the Captain said, shaking her head. "You girls are the worst bunch for nicknames that I've ever met. Bubbles Wubbels?"
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I can't say I was thinking, but something inside me hesitated. I guess I was tempted for a moment by the possibility of being someone else. Only for a moment, though...
Wiggy glanced at me, expecting me to correct the Captain's mistake and introduce myself.
"Let's sit down," the Captain said. She bent her legs and settled on the deck. We followed suit. "I also wanted to meet you two because I was curious," she continued. "You two are different from the others. You're the only ones who aren't blonde and tall, and I suspect — all blonde jokes aside — that you two represent the brains of the bunch."
"Mirina's smart, too," Wiggy said, "but—"
"She's the leader, isn't she?" the Captain interrupted. "Captain of the squad?"
Wiggy nodded. "Yes, but—"
"Being leader doesn't make her smart," the Captain said. "I'm not Captain because I'm the smartest of the crew. I'm Captain because I make decisions when they need to be made and make sure my orders are carried out."
"Mirina's that way," Wiggy affirmed. "But—"
"And I've got a particular skill set," the Captain added. "So, you two: where do you fit in this hootenanny?"
"I'm the manager for the Amazons," Wiggy told her. "I take care of the schedules, the equipment, the books, and so on."
"The purser," the Captain said. Wiggy shrugged.
"And you?" the Captain asked me.
"The girls asked me to come along because one of the Amazons got sick at the last minute."
"Ah. You're not one of the Amazons? But your name was on the list they sent."
"I sent that list," Wiggy answered, "but she isn't Bubbles — uh, Romy. She's Marcie Donner."
"Marcie Donner," the Captain repeated. "And your nickname would be..."
"Marcie *is* a nickname," I told her, "for Marcella."
"Bubbles got sick," Wiggy said, "And she had the idea that Marcie could go in her place."
"That was nice of her. But why Marcie? I mean, no offense, but they could have chosen any girl in school, right? Why did they choose you?"
Wiggy and I briefly told her about the kidnapping, the media attention, and how Bubbles had gotten the idea that I needed a break.
The Captain was quite surprised. "I don't follow the news," she said. "I follow the weather. That's usually all the news I need. So I had no idea. I'm sorry that all that had to happen to you, Marcie, but I'm sure that Bubbles was right: a trip at sea will put you right, like nothing else can. You can't be sad at sea; you can't be down when you're under sail."
I didn't know what to say, except to thank her, which I did. But the Captain's expression belied what she said: She didn't look exactly sad, but she didn't look very happy, either. Maybe a bit worried? I was sure that she'd come up on the poop deck to be alone.
After a chatting a little bit more, she excused herself, and left.
"Hey, Marcie," Wiggy laughed, "Now we have the poop deck all to ourselves."
"That'll be convenient when we need to poop," I said, but neither of us laughed. I guess the poop jokes had already gotten old.
"Oh!" I said, suddenly remembering, "What was that thing Mirina said, when Cakey asked about the storm coming? Something about 'asking for misfortune'?"
"Oh, yeah. That is Mirina's one superstition. She thinks that bad things happen to people because they have bad thoughts. So if lightning strikes your house, it's because you were thinking and talking about lightning."
"Oh, brother!" I scoffed. "So, it's like I was kidnapped because I thought about being kidnapped?"
Wiggy shrugged. "That's what Mirina would think."
"That's crazy! I'm absolutely, positively sure that I didn't think about kidnapping, talk about kidnapping, or even DREAM about kidnapping!"
"Yeah, well, it doesn't make any difference. She believes it. So if she hears anybody talking about trouble or misfortune or sickness or anything like that, she comes down hard and makes them stop."
I thought about it for a minute, then asked, "And what does she say when bad things happen to her?"
Wiggy thought for a minute, too. "I don't know," she replied. "I can't remember the last time something bad happened to her." She thought some more. "And I don't remember her ever being sick."
"Hmmph," I said. I shifted a bit and lay down on my back in the sun. I slid over so that one of the sails shaded my face.
"I told you before," Wiggy said, as she lay down next to me and moved her face into the shadow. "Everybody has their quirks. Even me, even you. Even Captain Blackett."
"Aye, matey," I growled in agreement in my best pirate voice. "Even the coal-black heart of Cap'n Blackett! Arr!"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
Ding-Dong cried out in alarm, and shouted, "Captain! Captain! Look! It's a shark! There's a shark following the boat!"
Although we soon quit giggling every time the poop deck was mentioned, we all followed Ding-Dong's lead in calling the bathroom "the poop deck" — much to the crew's annoyance.
So what did we call the real poop deck? We called it "the real poop deck."
There wasn't a lot to do onboard other than shower, walk around in bathing suits, sun ourselves, read... but no one was bored. We could all feel ourselves ratcheting down to the slower, more natural way of life. I found that I went for long spells, completely unaware of the constant rocking of the boat. I mean, ship. When I did feel it, I found that I liked it, especially when it was time to sleep.
There was plenty of food, especially fruit, and the meals were very good. After each meal we went to compliment Tipper, the cook, who was quite pleased by our appreciation for her efforts. The kitchen (I mean, galley) was absolutely the hottest room, so that Tipper, even when she wasn't cooking, had the reddest cheeks of anyone. "Over time, those cheeks have been boiled permanently red like a lobster's tail," the Captain remarked.
Mirina organized stretching and exercise sessions twice a day: one just before dawn, and the second, just after sunset. Wiggy and I, the two teachers, and some of the sailors, joined in the stretches, but none of us could keep up with the Amazons once the more aerobic exercises began.
Riley was the only non-Amazon who lasted for the whole morning session, but she was too sore to even watch in the evening.
The first day was the most incredibly peaceful and relaxing day I've had. Maybe the most peaceful and relaxing day of my entire life!
"I told you," the Captain said, smiling. "Nothing can set you right the way the sea can. She's the mother of all life, and when you're at sea, you're lying in her arms."
Only two things that happened that day were worthy of remark.
The first came in mid-afternoon. Ding-Dong cried out in alarm, and shouted, "Captain! Captain! Look! It's a shark! There's a shark following the boat!"
"In the first place," Flannery said, prying Ding-Dong's fingers off her arm, "I'm not the Captain, and it's a lucky thing for you I'm not! This tub's a ship, not a boat! Get it through your head, girl! If the Captain heard you say that, she'd throw you to that fish down there — which, by the way, is NOT a shark. That there's a marlin."
"A what?" asked Ding-Dong. "Is a marlin a kind of shark? I thought a marlin was an old-time actor."
Flannery shook her head. "Don't talk crazy, girl. That fish is a marlin."
"So a marlin is a kind of shark?" Ding-Dong repeated. "Are they more or less dangerous than a regular shark?"
Flannery was not in the least amused. "Listen to me, girl: A marlin is a marlin; a shark is a shark. And never the twain shall meet! End of story!"
"How do you know?" Ding-Dong persisted, but Flannery had had enough. She turned and walked away.
Riley leaned over the side. "She's right, Ding-Dong. No sharks today. It's a just a friendly marlin."
Mirina saw and heard it all. "Ding-Dong," she scolded, "Don't court misfortune. If you start imagining bad things, bad things are going to happen."
"Sorry," Ding-Dong said, red-faced.
The second thing happened at about nine o'clock that night. It would have been dark out, but a quarter moon lit the surface of the sea.
Wiggy and I were sitting on deck with Graffy and Grooty, leaning against the side and looking at the stars. Grooty wanted to find the Southern Cross, but we hadn't been able to pick it out it yet.
Shaylen suddenly ran to us in a state of excitement.
"Come on quick, girls! Some dolphins are racing alongside the ship!"
The four of us ran to the starboard side and leaned over the rail.
There were three of them, swimming just a few yards from the side of the ship. We were going fast — I don't know how fast, but the dophins easily matched our speed.
"Wow!" I shouted. "That's amazing! I've never even SEEN dolphins before!"
"Quiet," Shaylen told me in a soft voice. "Stay quiet or you'll scare them off."
It was hard to see how the dolphins were moving. I mean, I know they wave their tails and use their bodies, but I couldn't see any of that. All I could see was their backs, the outlines of their noses, and the blowhole. It seemed impossible that they could keep up with us without making any apparent effort.
We watched in silence for about fifteen or twenty minutes, until the dophins disappeared. One moment they were there; the next moment they were gone. They didn't come back.
"You girls are lucky," Shaylen told us. "You don't always get to see dolphins."
"Could we maybe see a whale?" Ding-Dong asked in a shy tone.
"Maybe," Shaylen said. "We might see one or two tomorrow, if we're lucky. It's actually easier to see them than to see dolphins. A captain on another ship spotted some yesterday, and we'll be passing that point in the morning."
Most of us went to bed soon after, and we all slept deeply and well.
We woke in the morning to the ship's familiar gentle rocking, but something was different: it was gentler than usual.
"We're not moving," Wiggy observed, so the two of us went up to the deck barefoot, in our pajamas, to find out what was going on.
"Pajamas, is it?" said the Captain. "I don't mind you walking around in bathing suits, but I draw the line at nightwear." She was smiling, so I wasn't sure whether she was joking.
"We were just curious..." I began.
"The ship's not moving," Wiggy said, finishing the thought.
"No, it's not," the Captain said. "We're way ahead of schedule, so I thought we could stop here a bit. Let you girls have a deep-ocean swim."
"Oh!" Wiggy cried, delighted. Her face lit up and she asked, "Could I row the dory for a bit? Just around the ship?"
"That sounds more like punishment than fun," the Captain laughed. She was in a very good mood this morning.
"No, I love rowing!" Wiggy declared. "I've won some contests."
"Contests?" the Captain asked. "What, like races?"
"Long-distance rowing," Wiggy said. "Races that last an entire day."
"Are you kidding me?" the Captain responded. "A little slip of a girl like you, rowing all day?"
"You take breaks," Wiggy said, "and there are safety precautions... people following and all that."
The Captain nodded, impressed. "Well, sure you can take the dory, but there are conditions. One, you can't go alone. Two, you stay near the ship, and three, make sure one of my sailors checks that you've tied it up right when you're done."
"Great! It's a deal!" Wiggy enthused.
Over breakfast, Shaylen explained to us and to the Amazons that we were well ahead of schedule. "We're very close to the island," she said. "We've made excellent time. If you like, we can press on. We'd arrive before nightfall, and you could sleep on the island — if that's what you want.
"OR," she continued, with a great big smile, "We could goof around here until you're tired of swimming, and then go look for whales. After that we could find a nice spot to stop and swim some more. Then we'd sail all night and land at the island in the morning!"
Everyone liked the second idea better, and soon we were all in bathing suits, jumping and diving off every part of the ship possible. Graffy and Grooty, after doing some amazing dives off the side of the ship, wanted to climb the mast and dive from there. The Captain immediately squelched that idea.
"NOBODY climbs the mast," she said with great finality. "Unless I specifically order it, NOBODY goes aloft."
"But why?" Graffy demanded. "It would be the coolest thing!"
"Because, for one thing, it's dangerous. You could fall. Remember that the ship's not standing still. You could aim to dive in the sea, and find yourself diving deep into the deck, or the railing. For another thing, you can't because I say you can't. I'm the Captain; what I say goes. If you don't like it, you can stay below for the rest of the trip, and I'm not fooling.
"For once and for all: NOBODY goes aloft. Nobody climbs the masts or the halyards or the jibs. Nobody."
Sulkily, Graffy turned away. Grooty whispered something to her, and after a glance at the water, the pair launched themselves from the deck into the air, over the rail and down, head first, into the ocean.
I ran to the rail, but there was nothing to see at first but the rings of bubbles where they'd entered the water. They must have gone deeply down, because it was a long time before they emerged, shaking back their long, blonde hair. They turned their backs to the ship and swam away with powerful, easy strokes. We all watched as they got smaller and smaller in the distance. I'd never seen anyone swim so far.
The Captain looked concerned. Mirina said, "Graffy and Grooty are the best swimmers of us all. If our school had a swim team..."
Flannery interrupted, "You want me to call them back, Captain?"
"No," she said. "Keep an eye on 'em. A close eye. I don't want any blonde heads disappearing."
"I could go after them in the dory," Wiggy offered.
"No," the Captain said. "That might push them farther off. Give them a little time. Let's see if they don't come back by themselves."
It was easy to see that the Captain was nervous and trying not to show it.
A few moments passed, and Flannery announced, "Cap'n, they're coming back."
"Good," she sighed. "Will you continue to keep an eye on them, Flannery? And all the girls? You, Shaylen, will you use your people skills, the ones that I don't have, and ask that pair to keep close to the ship from now on?"
"Aye-aye, Cap'n," Shaylen replied.
"Well done," the Captain said, and walked away.
Wiggy finally got a chance to row the dory, and she asked me to come along.
"Okay," I said, "but I don't know how to row."
"You don't need to," Wiggy replied. "I need you to be my passenger, and I want you to be with me. I like rowing, but I don't like being alone."
"Okay," I agreed. "So how do we get in? Do we jump into the dory from the side into the boat? I mean, ship?"
Wiggy giggled. "You're kidding, right?"
"Since you put it that way," I said, "Yes, I was kidding." (But I wasn't.)
After Wiggy explained what we were going to do, the two of us jumped off the side, feet first, into the water. Then we swam around behind the boat. There was a platform there, just above water level, and Wiggy climbed up. I pushed the dory over to her, and held it against the platform as she undid the knot. Then she fastened the loose end to the ship, and held the dory as I climbed in. It wasn't easy, and in between my second and third tries Wiggy said, "You *can* come up on the platform here and just step in."
"No, I've got it," I said, and heaved myself inside the little boat. Once I settled myself at one end, Wiggy stepped inside and sat down facing me.
She pushed off from the platform and worked the oars into the oarlocks.
I looked back at the ship and said, "We were lucky that little platform was at water level just when we wanted to go."
Wiggy glanced at the platform, then back at me, but she didn't say anything. She didn't need to. I reddened and said, "That platform's always at water level, right?"
"That's right, Ding-Dong," she laughed.
"Ooh! That's mean!" I cried, and as she laughed, I added, "Doubly mean!"
Wiggy moved the oars back and forth, making the dory shift a little bit. She suddenly seemed quite at home, as if she belonged exactly there, in a little dory on the water. The dory and the oars seemed to be a part of her. She gave a gentle pull on the oars, easily and efficiently, and we moved quite a bit each time she pulled.
"Why is it *doubly* mean?" Wiggy asked.
"Because it's mean to me and mean to Ding-Dong," I replied.
"Huh," she responded. "I guess you're right. Do you think I'm mean to Ding-Dong?"
"Um... no. But I don't think you're very patient with her."
"Yeah," she agreed, "but I've known her a lot longer than you have, and she has driven me up the wall and over it more times than I can count."
"But a lot of that is Cakey's fault, isn't it?"
"Probably. Maybe Ding-Dong wouldn't be such a pest if Cakey didn't always set her up."
We'd already gone half the length of the ship. "How come you have to row backwards?" I asked.
"It's easier to pull than to push," Wiggy explained. "But watch this: this is one of the cool things about dories like this one." With a few movements of the oars, we came about. Now *I* had my back to the sun, and Wiggy began pushing on the oars. "See? Not all boats can go so easily in both directions, but this one can. It's useful in awkward places, but even so..." She repeated the movements she'd made a few moments ago, and we came about again. Wiggy had her back to the sun, and she returned to pulling on the oars. "Pulling always beats pushing."
Now we came under the prow of the ship. It was interesting to see it from this angle, and I looked up at the... ah...
"What's that long stick called?" I asked Wiggy. "The cowcatcher?"
"That's the bowsprit," Wiggy said. "It's just there to hold the sails. It's not for jabbing things or for pushing things out of the way."
When we came round the ship to the shady side, we saw several of the Amazons and sailors in the water. One of the teachers, Bossy, was also in the water, doggy paddling with a serious expression on her face. Several sailors watched from the side, and when they saw Wiggy's performance, they began to call to her.
"Hey, did the Captain make you do that for punishment? What did you do?"
"Look at that girl go! Hey, hey! Go, Wiggy!"
"When we get underway, you can race the Seward! What do you say?"
"Watch your heads, Amazons!" Wiggy called in warning, but she steered clear of the swimmers, and asked me to warn her if anyone got in front of us. "Watch the sides, too," she said. "I don't want to whack somebody in the head with an oar."
Graffy and Grooty swam up, one on each side of us, and began rocking the dory to try and tip us over.
"Good luck with that," Wiggy laughed, and in fact, they couldn't tip us. "Dorys are hard to tip," she explained.
But while we were tipping and shaking, Cakey snuck in and made off with one of the oars. Wiggy didn't find it at all funny, and shouted at Cakey to bring it back.
"Don't worry, Wiggsy," Graffy (or Grooty?) told her. "We'll get it back for you." The pair swiftly overtook the laughing Cakey. She knew she couldn't get away from the stronger swimmers, so she did her best to keep the oar from them. She wrapped her arms and legs around it, but not for long.
Graffy and Grooty didn't go for subtle means: Cakey was wearing a tie-side bikini, so they untied it, and would have pulled it away from her, but it turned out not to be necessary.
Red-faced and angry, Cakey gave up the oar and clutched at her swimsuit. She turned her back to us, and (with some difficulty) straightened out her bathing suit while treading water. A few times her head went under, and she came up spluttering. If she had more breath, I'm sure she would have been swearing.
"Wow, you don't fool around, do you?" I observed, when one of the pair handed Wiggy the oar.
"You wanted the oar back, didn't you?" she said. "Cakey would have kept it going as long as she could."
"I'll be careful not cross you two," I told them. I said it as a joke, but thankfully, my two swimsuits were both one-piecers.
The pair of blondes laughed and swam away.
Wiggy took a few more turns around the ship. Then she tied it up, and the two of us swam for a bit. I'm not much of a swimmer, but I was surprised to see that Wiggy wasn't either. She was more comfortable *in* a boat than out of it.
Riley dove from the side, and went to check the dory.
"Did I tie it up alright?" Wiggy asked, when Riley returned.
"You know you did," smiled Riley, and she climbed onto the ladder.
"Hey, Riley," I called, "you were right!"
"About what?" she asked, pausing on the ladder.
"You *are* a handsome sailor!" I laughed.
Riley waggled her butt, grinning. Then she licked her forefinger and touched herself ouch! as if she were sizzling.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"It's not a joke," Cakey said, and there was enough alarm in her tone that Wiggy and I ran to the rail to see. I could see Cakey's entire body under the water, but no sign of Ding-Dong. Cakey looked scared. "She's been under a long time. She said she wanted to touch the bottom."
At lunch time, we all climbed aboard. The sails were raised, and off the boat flew, in search of whales.
Wiggy and I served ourselves some cold rice salad and cheese. Our hair, like our bathing suits, was still wet, but rapidly drying. Everyone was laughing, and for once I wasn't the only one packing the food away.
Cakey, with a sullen look, sat down opposite us. I noticed that her swimsuit was dry.
"Hey, Cakey, nice suit!" I complimented. She stuck out her tongue at me.
"What?" I asked.
"Notice that her new bathing suit has no ties?" Wiggy observed in a wicked tone.
"Ohhh!" I said, getting it.
"I'm not getting caught *that* way twice!" Cakey declared.
"Good for you!" Wiggy replied in a saucy voice, and I busted up laughing.
Cakey frowned. "It was just a stupid oar," she said. "You guys can't take a joke. I don't know why you got so upset over it."
"We weren't upset," I told her. "Graffy and Grooty volunteered to get the oar back. We didn't even ask them."
"Hmmph!" Cakey said.
Wiggy shrugged. "It's not a big deal, Cakey. We're all girls here."
"Oh, yeah? How would you like it if it happened to you?"
"Um," Wiggy replied feebly, reddening. I remembered her "privacy issues" — we'd been taking turns leaving the room when the other had to change clothes. I also turned a little red. I wouldn't want to be caught that way, either.
"Not to change the subject," I said, "but look over there: Shaylen's talking to Graffy and Grooty."
Wiggy and Cakey glanced over. Graffy and Grooty looked embarrassed and penitent.
"Good," Cakey said. "It looks like they're getting in trouble. What did they do?"
"They swam way out from the ship, 'cause they were mad at the Captain," I replied, and told her the story. Cakey listened without comment.
As she sat there, her brown eyes darted everywhere, and I had my first chance to get a good look at the girl. In many ways she didn't look like the other Amazons. In the first place, her blonde hair didn't look natural. I could easily imagine her as a brunette, and thought she'd look much prettier that way. Also, at least at that moment, her posture wasn't so good. Her shoulders were slumped forward, so her upper back was rounded. When she saw that I was looking at her, she straightened up. In that moment she suddenly reminded me of someone... an actress. Then it hit me: "Famke Janssen." I said aloud.
"Huh?" Cakey said.
"You look like Famke Janssen. You know, the woman who played Jean Grey in X-Men?"
"Didn't see it," Cakey replied.
"Except that you're a lot younger," I told her.
"And Janssen's a brunette," Wiggy added in an innocent tone.
Cakey regarded the two of us for a moment. "I think I must have sat at the wrong table," she said at last.
"Give me a break," Wiggy groaned. "We're just teasing you!"
At that moment, Ding-Dong arrived with a plate full of food. When she asked, "Is this the brunette table?" I wondered just how much she'd heard.
Cakey turned her eyes toward Ding-Dong in silent rebuke, but when their eyes met, Ding-Dong burst into laughter. Cakey, unwillingly at first, began to smile, and then she laughed, too.
After she sat down, Ding-Dong leaned forward, and told me in a stage whisper, "Marcie, I have to let you in on a deep, *dark* secret: Cakey and I aren't natural blondes!"
"No way!" I cried, feigning ignorance, but Wiggy, Cakey, and I exchanged a three-way glance, and we all fell to laughing.
"We're not natural blondes, either," I told Ding-Dong, while gesturing at me and Wiggy.
"You are all such idiots!" Cakey said, at once angry, laughing, and affectionate.
"Nobody cares!" Wiggy declared. "It's, like, part of the cheerleader uniform."
Cakey shrugged. "I have to find a better color, though, or give it up. This stuff burns the heck out of my hair. Conditioners and hair treatments don't repair it. They can't."
From there, we launched into a discussion of hair products. I wished aloud I had a copy of Allure with me.
"Why?" Ding-Dong asked.
"Because they have lists of best products and recommendations," I said, "and they always show the affordable ones."
That started a discussion, mainly between me and Ding-Dong, comparing women's magazines.
"Oh, God, Wiggy," Cakey said, "There's two of them now. I don't know if I can take it."
Ding-Dong and I looked at each other, face to face, eyes to eyes, and for a few strange moments, I felt as if I were looking in a mirror. Not that I look anything like Ding-Dong — not at all! And of course I'm not as naive and clueless as she is. What it *was* was the feeling of a kindred spirit: someone with the same interests, the same outlook on the world, the same attitudes. If we were six years old, I would have said, "Do you want to be my best friend?" and she would have said, "Yes."
But we weren't six years old. Still, I wanted to say something, so out came the first thing that popped into my head. I said, "Ding-Dong, do you want to be my best friend?"
And she said, "Yes."
As Wiggy and I emerged from the dining room onto the deck, I began with "You know... what I said to Ding-Dong there..." and Wiggy cut in, "No, it's alright. I understand."
"No, wait," I said. "Let me talk. I don't want to get things all messed up so early in the trip. I want to be your friend. I like you a lot. I hope we can be friends forever."
"Really?" Wiggy said, lifting her eyes to meet mine. I saw a cloud reflected in the right lens of her wire-rimmed glasses. She squinted at me and smiled.
"Of course I do! You're absolutely the coolest person I know! I don't ever want to lose touch with you, and I want to hang out with you the whole trip!"
"Good," she said. "Great! I feel that way too. I thought we clicked pretty quickly."
"We did. We do."
"Good," she said. "Can I give you a hug?" We hugged quickly, then she cleared her throat and said, "I understand about Ding-Dong. It seems like you share some interests, and I guess — except for her being such a dimwit — you two are pretty similar. You both have that same mercilessly positive what-do-you-call-it outlook on life."
"We're optimists?" I suggested.
"No, that's not it," she replied. "What is the word? Oh, I know! Pollyanna! You two are both such Pollyannas! That's what makes you similar!" She actually guffawed after she said it!
"Pollyanna!?" I cried. "I am so NOT a Pollyanna! Take it back!"
"No," she squealed, giggling, and I chased her all over the deck. She kept shouting, "Pollyanna!" and I kept saying, "Take it back!" If I had a pillow, I would have walloped her with it.
We kept it up until Flannery grabbed each of us around the waist and hauled us into a corner. "That's enough," she said, and she wasn't smiling. At all. "We don't have time for horseplay. The pair of you just sit there until you cool off. No running, no shouting. No getting in the way."
"What's the problem?" Wiggy said. "We were just running around."
"We could go for a swim," I suggested. "Then we'd be out of the way."
"No swimming," Flannery said. "We have to get underway, and quick."
"Why?" Wiggy asked.
Flannery grimaced. "A storm's coming. So sit there until I tell you. We need to do a head count." She went to the side and called, "Everybody, out of the water! Out of the water, Captain's orders! Now, girls, now!"
We heard Cakey's voice reply, "Ding-Dong just went underwater. I have to wait for her."
"I don't see her," Flannery said. "Remember what the Captain said: no jokes, no tricks. Come on up out of there."
"It's not a joke," Cakey said, and there was enough alarm in her tone that Wiggy and I jumped up and ran to the rail to see. I looked as well as I could. I could see Cakey's entire body under the water, but I didn't see any sign of Ding-Dong. Cakey looked scared. "She's been under a long time. She said she wanted to touch the bottom."
Flannery's face spasmed in disbelief. "Is that girl a complete idiot?" she cried. "It's at least 2000, maybe 3000 feet right here. There's no way—"
But Cakey wasn't listening. Suddenly her head gave a jerk and she said, "I see her! She's coming back up! Here she comes!"
Sure enough, a shadow appeared deep below the surface, and quickly grew. Soon we could make out the blonde head, and see the arms and legs churning and flailing. She was coming up as fast as she could possibly go.
At last, Ding-Dong's head broke the surface, and she gave the loudest gasp I've ever heard. It sounded like a backward shriek, as she sucked all the air possible through her mouth, down into her lungs. Cakey helped her stay afloat, but not very well.
Graffy and Grooty flew through the air in a pair of graceful dives and came up on both sides of the girls. "We got her," one of them told Cakey. "It's okay. You're going to be alright, Ding-Dong."
Ding-Dong was still gasping. The twin blondes turned her face away from the ship, and towed her back to the ladder. By this time, Flannery was in the water, too, and several sailors were perched on the ladder. They made a human chain and somehow managed to pass Ding-Dong up the ladder and onto the deck. Soon, she was wrapped in a blanket, shivering and smiling.
Flannery relaxed for a moment, and gave Ding-Dong's head a playful push. "You silly thing!" she said. "Do you have a turnip for a brain? How could you ever think you could possibly touch bottom in this much water?"
"Oh, I always do that, wherever I swim," the girl replied. "I tried it this morning, but I didn't do a good enough jump, so I had to come back up."
"And today?" Flannery prompted, smiling in spite of herself.
"I touched bottom," Ding-Dong replied, as if the answer was obvious.
"No," Flannery countered.
"Yes," Ding-Dong said. "I jumped feet first, with my body perfectly stiff, so I went down, down, down. I went down so far, it began to get dark. And then, my feet landed on something solid. I looked up at the surface, and it was far, far away. Then I pushed off with my feet and came back up."
"It must have been a fish," one of the sailors commented.
"That's your theory," Ding-Dong told her.
Flannery straightened up. "Okay, that's enough. We need to do a head count."
"They're all here," Riley told her.
"Good," Flannery said. "Everybody needs to stay on board now. No more swimming, rowing, nothing, until further notice. Captain's orders. We've got to get underway, and fast. There's a storm we've been tracking, and it's decided to turn down and head in this direction. It's pretty far off, but the Captain's being prudent. She wants to make a run for the island.
"I suggest that you all take your showers as quickly as you can. We might have some rough sailing, and if we do, you don't want to get tossed around inside the head."
"The head?" Ding-Dong queried.
"She means the poop deck," Cakey explained, and bit her lip so she wouldn't laugh.
Flannery ignored it. "One more thing: as you know, tonight is New Years. If we can, we'll celebrate at midnight. But if things get busy, we'll have to put off the celebration until tomorrow. That's all. Any questions?"
There were no questions, not even from Ding-Dong, who was still busy shivering inside the blanket. We all went below, and as we stood in the crowded hallway, Mirina assigned shower times.
We continued to stand there, one wet mess, just looking at each other. No one seemed to want to move.
"So!" Donkey said, to break the silence, "No whales today!"
"Maybe Ding-Dong landed on a whale," someone offered.
Ding-Dong's eyes lit up. "Oh, Wiggy!" she cried. "Do you think that's possible? Could I have landed on a whale when I thought I touched bottom?"
"I don't know," Wiggy replied. "Anything's possible."
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
We didn't have any reason to worry... until just before sundown, when the barometer dropped like a rock. This is how it happened.
In spite of the crew's obvious nervousness, none of us girls took the threat of the storm seriously.
For one thing, the sky was clear. There were one or two small clouds, but they were fluffy, white, and harmless as lambs.
For another, the sea was calm. There were little whitecaps everywhere — but whitecaps aren't waves, they're little would-be waves.
And lastly, the Captain and the crew had told us many times before not to worry. They had stressed that our safety was their main concern; that if there was even a hint of danger, we'd make straight for port.
So we took the bustle and seriousness of the crew as a reaction to the Captain's excessive caution.
We didn't have any reason to worry... until just before sundown, when the barometer dropped like a rock. This is how it happened:
We were all on deck, lazing around, trying to stay out of the way. It was hard, though, because every place we sat or lay down, someone told us to move so they could do some urgent work. In the end, all of us passengers (the ten girls and two teachers) gathered on the poop deck, because it was the only place where we could be outside and out of the way.
Ding-Dong had just said, "Does it seem like every ten minutes one of the sailors comes to check on us?" when boom! everything changed.
Well, it wasn't actually a boom. It was the opposite of boom, whatever that is. Everybody felt it. It was like something suddenly went away — you know? The way things change just before a thunderstorm?
One of the deckhands, a girl named Brina, happened to be nearby, and I said, "Wow! What just happened?"
She gave me a serious look and said, "The barometer fell. Storm's coming. You girls might think about getting below." Then she quickly descended the stairs.
Even Ding-Dong knew what "the barometer fell" meant. Heck, even *I* knew what it meant. Nobody laughed or joked, but still we weren't worried. We knew the island wasn't far off; we would be there by nightfall, and night was falling soon.
Then the clouds came gliding in: heavy, black, wide sheets — no, not sheets — They were blankets: big, thick, heavy blankets. You could see they were loaded with rain, and carrying a heavy charge of lightning and thunder. They were ready to let it all go and dump it down on us.
I've never seen clouds move so quickly. It was like those films where they speed up natural processes: where you can watch a flower blossom in less than a minute, or crowds of people sweep through Grand Central Station in seconds, as if they were an army of ants jazzed up on caffeine.
One moment, there were no clouds. The next moment, they swept up from the horizon at a hundred miles an hour. They came over us, they kept on going, and more clouds flowed in their wake. Soon the whole sky was full and black, getting blacker by the minute.
Cakey said, "I'm going downstairs," and Ding-Dong said, "I'm with you."
Before either of them had a chance to move, a huge rain drop fell from the sky. We saw it come sailing down until it hit the center of the poop deck with a resounding SMACK! The message was unmistakable: the gauntlet had been thrown down. What was our response? We screamed like a pack of girls and got the hell on out of there.
Luckily no one was hurt in the rush from the poop deck. We did manage to just get inside just as the floodgates opened and water came ripping down. Well, most of us managed to get in. Donkey and Boogers were at the rear of the pack, and the two them were absolutely drenched in a matter of seconds. There wasn't a dry spot on them! They had to change every piece of clothing, down to their underwear, and their hair was wet and scraggly.
After they changed, the two of them sat in a corner brushing their hair.
We all gathered — the ten girls and the two teachers — in the dining room. It was the biggest place we could all be together.
"Think good thoughts, girls," Mirina instructed.
In spite of her admonition, we all chattered about our situation. We speculated about how far we were from the island, and whether we'd be safe once we got there. Every one of us dredged up the tiniest scrap of nautical science the sailors had told us, and tried to piece together some sort of coherent assessment. We discussed what the Captain might be thinking or doing, whether another port was nearby, and how quickly the storm would blow over.
We played board games and card games. From the darkness outside, you'd think it was ten or eleven at night, but it was only 5:15. Wiggy, Cakey, Ding-Dong and me made ourselves some hot cocoa and sat around a table, telling each other the stories of our lives.
It was scary and exciting, but scary the way a roller-coaster is scary: no matter how frightened you feel, you know that the ride will end and you'll be fine. You'll emerge exhilarated, with your hair thrown every which way, but happy, safe, unscathed. Our mood was a lot like it would have been if we were telling ghost stories around a fire. Spooky, but fun.
At about seven o'clock Shaylen came in to talk with us. She took off her rain hat and slipped out of her slicker. Her shirt was wet all around her neck and shoulders. "Do you want something to drink?" I asked her. It was the first time I'd ever seen Shaylen without a smile on her face.
"Hot tea would be nice. Thanks, Marcie." There was a hot water tap at the bar, so in a few moments I handed a steaming cup to her. She sat on a table where she could see all our faces and we could all see her.
"All right, then. Everybody here?" She counted silently and nodded. "Good. I came in to give you an update. You can see we've got a storm blowing, and it's a bad one, but I've seen worse. We've got a good ship, a good crew, and a good captain, and we're going to get through all right."
Cakey said, "I thought you told us that if things looked bad, we'd make for the nearest port."
"I did say that." Shaylen admitted. "And right now the nearest port is Muktaphala."
"That's our island, right?" Wiggy asked.
"Right."
"So...," I ventured, "is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"
"It's a good thing," Shaylen said, "because we're still on course. We're about three hours from Muktaphala, considering present conditions. The problem is, once get get to the island, we'd have a hard time securing the ship."
"Why?" Cakey asked.
"Because Muktaphala is a coral island. There's a reef around it. With the the wind and the sea as rough as they are, we'd risk running against up the reef, and damaging both the reef and the hull. We're better off sailing out the storm, even if it means overshooting the island. The storm will let up by morning. Then we can come about and sail to the island easy."
There was silence for a spell. Then Mirina spoke. "It sounds like you've got things well in hand, Shaylen."
"Thanks, Mirina, I think we do." Shaylen looked down for a moment, and puffed up her cheeks while she ran through her thoughts: had she covered everything?
"Oh, there is one more thing. I just have to warn you, girls, it's going to be a bumpy ride tonight. When the wind kicks up, or if the sea goes one way and the wind goes another, you're all going to feel it." As if to illustrate her point, the ship lurched beneath us. There were a few shrieks of surprise, and two drinks went over, but we all laughed afterward. Shaylen smiled.
"I'm glad you're laughing," she told us. "You're one of the best groups we've had aboard. I know tonight is New Years, and we were going to celebrate, but we'll hold off until tomorrow. If you want to stay up tonight, you're welcome to stay here. Tipper's going to make sure we don't starve tonight: we'll have plenty to eat or to snack on. If you want to rest, you can either keep to the lower bunks, or rig up the nets to keep you from falling. All right? Any questions?"
She waited. "No one? All right, then. I've got to get back to work."
"Thank you, Shaylen," Mirina said, speaking for us all.
After the sailor donned her slicker and left, Knickers said, "I don't know about you, but I'm going to stay up all night! I've always wanted to, and now's the perfect chance. Besides, it's New Years!"
"Yeah, I've never stayed up all night either!" Graffy (or Grooty) agreed. There was a general chorus of agreement.
Ding-Dong asked, "Should we put our pajamas on?"
"No, why?" Knickers asked.
Ding-Dong shrugged.
"It's not a sleepover," Knickers said, laughing. "It's a— it's a— it's the opposite of a sleepover... it's a stay-up-a-thon!"
"We could drink coffee," Cakey proposed.
"We could prop our eyelids open with toothpicks, like that mouse in the cartoon," Ding-Dong put in.
"Does anybody know how to make coffee?" Donkey asked.
"We could go ask Tipper," Cakey proposed, and off we trooped — all ten of us — to the tiny galley, where we were surprised to find Tipper hard at work. She was preparing food for the crew, and she seemed relieved to see us. Since she was so obviously overwhelmed, we set to work to help. Most of us, that is. The teachers returned to the dining room, but the rest of us fit in where we could.
Tipper had a lot to do. She was making an enormous quantity of stew, and was trying to make sandwiches at the same time. "That way, if the crew — or you girls — want something hot, it's ready. Or if they want something quick, they can grab a sandwich and some fruit."
Mirina quickly took over. She moved the sandwich preparation and the chopping and peeling operations to the dining room. Graffy, Grooty, and Donkey carried things back and forth, and Wiggy and I washed pots and trays and knives and things.
"Ooh, girls," Donkey told us, "soon you'll have rosy red-apple cheeks like Tipper!" I was pretty sure she was right. The dishwasher, which was a little steaming box of steel, soon had the pair of us dripping with sweat and steam.
Occasionally the boat would abruptly lurch. Usually it was just a surprise, but one of the lurches made me bump my head, and Donkey very nearly lost a tray loaded with chopped onions.
When we were done preparing the food and wrapping the sandwiches, we ate some cold rice salad Tipper had prepared earlier. Then she showed us how to make coffee. We each did our best to swallow a cup — more as a dare than anything else.
We all expected the coffee to magically keep us awake all night, but it didn't. One by one we put our heads on the tables and fell asleep.
I don't know how long we slept, but we we were shaken rudely awake. Nobody fell, but we all woke up a little confused. It was still dark outside, still raining, but it felt like a giant hand had taken hold of the ship and was shaking it like a toy. Not a gentle, rythmic shake, either: it was a random, jerky shake, and it wasn't pleasant.
By some kind of instinct, we all gripped the tables at once, and it was a good thing we did. The entire room heaved to one side and we felt the boat being pounded on the stern.
It was as if the giant hand had turned the boat on its side and was smacking it on the butt.
Finally there was a loud CRACK, followed by a few smaller ones. They sounded like explosions, or claps of thunder. A few moments later, the boat righted itself.
I looked at the clock. It was just about midnight. New Years! My head was so foggy, I couldn't think! Explosions... New Years... was that what it was?
We were all sort of groaning — mostly in protest at having been awakened. All the girls were in a fog, a scary fog. The boat was still shaking, but not as badly as before.
About five minutes later, Captain Blackett stepped into the room, rain streaming off her rain gear. She shut the door behind her. Her expression was grim.
"Girls! Wake up!" she shouted. "I need your complete attention! Something serious has happened: we've lost the rudder."
"Where did you last see it?" a sleepy Ding-Dong asked.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"Remember, girls, what I told you when you first came onboard. If we're all going to get through this, we've got to stick together, help one another, and you've got do what you're told. If you want to ask questions or discuss things, or if think you've got a better idea, leave it till tomorrow. We've got to move fast."
The Captain stared at Ding-Dong, who was rubbing her eyes. I can still remember the look on the Captain's face. She blinked, and a drop of water fell from her eyelash while another fell from her nose. She wasn't angry with Ding-Dong or impatient. She looked tired, and the worried look I'd seen before was there in full force.
Then it hit me: I knew why she was worried. She was responsible for a boatload of teenagers! That would have been stress enough already, but now things had taken a nasty turn.
"Ding-Dong," she said gently, "without the rudder, we can't steer the ship."
"But don't you have a steering wheel?" the girl countered.
It was a bad moment to be naive. Captain Blackett drew a deep breath, but before she could speak, Cakey said, "Belle, keep quiet."
Ding-Dong glanced at her, understood, and fell silent.
"Without the rudder," the Captain continued, "we're at the mercy of the weather. Between the wind and the waves — and I'm not trying to scare you, girls — but without the rudder, the ship could be torn apart."
Her eyes scanned our faces, and she saw we understood.
"The good news is that the storm has blown us near Muktaphala, our destination. So what we're going to do is put you passengers ashore, and then we'll do our best to anchor the ship and make her fast. Then we'll join you.
"The rain's let up a bit, so we've got to move quickly. I'm glad you're all dressed, because you've got to come now, just as you are. We'll bring some slickers and life jackets in here and suit you up. Flannery's going to take you girls ashore first, the ten of you, and show you where to shelter. Then she'll be back for your teachers and some of the rest of us. In three trips, we'll all be ashore."
"I could row some people ashore in the dory," Wiggy offered.
"I can't risk losing you," the captain said. "You'll sit in the longboat with the others.
"I'm going back on deck. Shaylen is on her way with the slickers. Remember, girls, what I told you when you first came aboard. If we're going to get through this, we've got to stick together, help one another, and you've got to do what you're told. If you want to ask questions or discuss things, or think you've got a better idea, leave it till tomorrow. We've got to move quickly."
The Captain left after holding the door open for Shaylen and Brina, who entered carrying a load of slickers.
They handed them out, and we put them on in silence. I looked at Bossy and Poppy, the teachers. They were plainly frightened at being left behind.
Speaking for myself, the whole business had an air of unreality. I did what I was told: slipped my arms into the slicker, fastened it in front, pulled up the hood, and made it tight. Shaylen did a head count, then led us to the ladder. Brina brought up the rear.
We made our way down the ladder and into the longboat. Flannery sat in the end, near the motor. I supposed it was Flannery; I couldn't see her face in the darkness and rain. Two other sailors perched at the bottom of the ladder to help us into the boat.
Once the ten of us were packed in, Flannery took off. The longboat rose and fell in a sickening motion through the choppy waves. She cut across the rear of the Seward, and though I looked, I couldn't see any damage. It was pretty dark, though.
We continued to climb and drop through the darkness. I wondered how Flannery could possibly know where she was going at all. She had a searchlight, which she seemed to aim at random.
After what seemed like a half an hour (but was nowhere near that long, as Wiggy told me later), we pulled up to a dock. Wiggy jumped out and quickly tied up the boat. We all climbed onto the dock.
I don't know whether I can communicate exactly what I felt in that moment. All that I could see was whatever Flannery happened to light with her beam. Outside of that was total darkness. I had no idea where we were or whether we were safe. We could have been on the backside of the Moon, for all I knew. But I had to believe we'd be all right.
Flannery led us to a cave not far from shore. Yes, a cave! But there was a big wooden table by the door, and in one of its drawers she found three flashlights, the kind with a handle you pump to make electricity.
"I don't have time to show you around, girls," she said. "I've got to go back and bring the others. Take your slickers off and hang 'em in there" — she gestured to a dark, empty doorway — "and if you need the head, it's out here." She stepped back into the rain and pointed with her light at a latrine-like structure a few yards away.
"Stay in the cave until we come," she commanded. "If anybody needs the toilet, somebody go with them. Stick together, stay inside, wait for us. Clear?"
"Clear," we all repeated.
Flannery did another head count and walked back to the longboat.
As we slipped out of our life jackets, Mirina announced, "If anyone needs to go to the bathroom, now would be a good time, before we take our slickers off."
Not everyone needed to go, but we all trooped out together and checked out the latrine. There were three little booths, and they weren't as stinky as we expected. Since we had three lights, only two girls could go at a time, while the third light stayed outside. I was one of the last to pee, and it was definitely not the high point of my life. There was rain water everywhere and no room to move with the bulky slicker on. I'd wondered why all the girls ahead of me took so long, but now I understood: there was barely enough room to turn around! And of course there was no paper. Not that it would have helped, in that sodden place.
We returned to the cave and hung up our life jackets and slickers in the place Flannery showed us. It turned out to be a room cut out of the rock: an actual cloakroom, and there was no shortage of hooks. We found a pair of boots on the floor and some jackets were already hanging there. We also found a fourth flashlight, which Knickers quickly pumped up.
"That's pretty weird," I commented. "A cloakroom in a cave? It looks like somebody cut this room out of the rock. It's a lot of trouble to go to, unless..."
"... unless you're living in the cave," Wiggy said, finishing the thought. "I guess most of the time you could live outdoors, so this is probably an emergency shelter, don't you think?"
"Let's see how big it is, then," Cakey proposed, and the ten of us shuffled our way deeper into the darkness. We made a very compact group.
The first thing we discovered was that the cave, as big as it was, was only an entryway. At the back, in the far right corner, was a door: a metal door, like you might find in any ordinary building. It wasn't locked, so we pushed it open and went inside. We found ourselves in another large room with two sets of tables and chairs and a small bookcase crammed full of books. It was very dry and fairly clean, and — to our surprise — not at all stuffy.
Mirina sniffed. "The air smells pretty fresh in here."
"I see you've still got that cat," Cakey crowed, imitating an old TV commercial. "And George hasn't given up those nasty cigars."
"Hopefully it won't get stuffy later," Wiggy added. "Still, it's only one night. I hope."
There was also a very large pantry toward the front of the room, which had a cage-like door. It also wasn't locked, so we took a look inside. Right away, we found a fifth flashlight, which Donkey grabbed and started pumping.
The pantry was full of cans and containers of emergency food, two huge barrels of water (which we found to be drinkable), wool blankets, a large first aid kit, and other supplies, including a number of cigarette lighters and short fat candles.
We put a candle on each of the tables and lit them. Then we came to the end of the cave: two large dormitory rooms, filled with beds, ten in each room. There were no mattresses, sheets, or pillows, but the bed itself was of a hammocky canvas, and wasn't too uncomfortable. I noticed a slight draft: fresh air was coming from somewhere in each of the dorm rooms.
"Twenty beds," Wiggy said. "Ten girls, two teachers, thirteen crew: we're five beds short."
"It's just for one night," Mirina told her. "We'll make do."
Wiggy shrugged.
We each ate an energy bar and drank a glass of water. Then we settled around the tables, or sat on the floor and waited.
"It's been a half hour already," Wiggy observed, looking at her watch. "I want to go the mouth of the cave and see if I can see anything."
"Marcie, go with her," Mirina commanded.
"I was going to anyway," I told her, a little miffed at being told.
"Nobody goes anywhere alone," Mirina announced to everyone. "Go at least in pairs. One light, two girls."
"We're coming, too," Cakey said, and she and Ding-Dong stood up together. The four of us returned to the cave's entryway.
"I don't see a thing," Ding-Dong declared.
"Let's turn off the flashlights for a moment," Wiggy suggested, "and see whether we can see the ship's lights." She snapped her flashlight off, and Cakey followed suit. The four of us gazed into the black rain. The roar of the water falling from the sky was so loud that we couldn't hear the sea.
None of us spoke; there wasn't any need. We didn't see a light. We couldn't see anything. Cakey snapped her light back on. "Let's go to the dock," she proposed, so we put on our slickers and went.
It was probably a bad idea, because we had a hard time finding it at first. We followed the shoreline too far one way, then turned back. I was a little afraid that we wouldn't be able to find the cave, either, but at last we found the dock. It was empty, so from there we followed the path back to the cave.
"Anybody need the bathroom?" Wiggy asked. We all shook our heads.
While we hung our slickers in the cloakroom, Wiggy examined the items that were already there when we'd first arrived.
"These are man's clothes," she said, shining her light on the large pair of boots and a huge coat.
"A big man," Ding-Dong said.
"A cave man," Cakey quipped, and we all laughed.
"Don't tell Mirina that!" I laughed, "or when a real cave man comes, she'll say it's our fault!"
The girls smiled but didn't laugh.
"What do you think happened, Wiggy?" Cakey asked.
"I don't know," Wiggy replied.
"Why was the Captain so upset about the rudder?" Ding-Dong asked. "The boat will just float around, right? Why should it break?"
"Because if the wind's blowing one way and the current's going another, it can damage the ship," Wiggy replied. "If you've got a rudder you can point the ship in the right direction so you're not caught between the two forces."
"Sounds tricky," I said.
"What if Flannery's boat went over?" Cakey asked. "Then the adults would be stuck on the ship."
"Not really," Wiggy said. "They have the dory and there are the emergency rafts, remember?"
"Could they get to shore in those?" Cakey wondered.
Wiggy shrugged. "I think so. I hope so."
I shivered.
"Cold?" Ding-Dong asked.
"No," I said. "It was just a... a shiver. I'm fine."
She smiled at me.
"Maybe we'd better get back inside," Wiggy said. "We've been gone 40 minutes. They've got to be wondering. Oh, I'm going to leave my light out here so they can find it when they come." She opened the first drawer of the rough wooden table, and put it inside.
Marina and Knickers were waiting up for us. The others had gone to bed. We told them what little we knew, and even Mirina paled at the realization that the adults might not make it ashore.
"I've got to sleep now," Wiggy said. "I'm exhausted."
Ding-Dong, Cakey, and I echoed the sentiment, and Mirina said, "That's a good idea. We'll wake up if they come anyway."
Leaving one candle burning, we settled into the empty bunks, and fell deeply, soundly asleep.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
Wiggy growled in anger and frustration, "Arrgh! ARRGH! I am going to KILL Belle Dubois! I'm going to kill her! I swear!"
The next day we all slept late, waking up just before noon. The darkness and quiet of our cave dormitory played a big part, I'm sure. Boogers discovered that many of the emergency foods were self-heating, so we had a hot breakfast of styrofoam eggs, chewy sausage, and leathery toast, washed down with powdered orange juice.
Cakey quickly discovered that the "orange juice" was more palatable if you dumped the powder in your mouth first and chewed, and drank a glass of water as a chaser.
"Tomorrow we can try the oatmeal," Boogers declared.
"Whoo boy!" Donkey sneered.
"At least it's food," Knickers chided. "We won't starve before we're rescued."
And that was the extent of our public discussion of the situation. Given Mirina's phobia for mentioning bad news, we could only say that the adults were safe and sound "somewhere" and that they were no doubt working out our salvation.
After breakfast, Cakey, Ding-Dong, Wiggy, and I went to sit at the cave mouth. Wiggy retrieved her flashlight, and the four of us sat with our backs to the wall. It was still dark outside, as dark as night, even though it was only an hour past midday. The rain still fell heavily.
"It's like a tropical rain," Ding-Dong observed, without the slightest trace of irony.
"Damn it!" Wiggy said. "We can't even see if the ship's still there! I wish this rain would stop!"
"It can't rain forever," Cakey offered.
"No, but it can rain for days," Wiggy replied.
"I wish we could build a fire," Ding-Dong sighed. "It would make it seem more homey."
"In this heat?" Wiggy said. "We'd be roasted and boiled at the same time!"
"I wish I had my luggage," Ding-Dong went on, as if Wiggy hadn't spoken. "There are two things in there that I really want."
A long silence followed, and when at last I realized that Ding-Dong was finished speaking, I demanded, "Ding-Dong! What are the two things?"
"What two things?"
"The two things that you want from your luggage!"
"Oh! Well, the first thing is my book: Journey To The Center Of The Earth. I didn't get to finish it, so please don't tell me how it ends."
"Have no fear," I told her. "I haven't read it."
"Me, neither," Cakey and Wiggy added.
Another silence followed.
"Ding-Dong," I called.
"Who's there?" she replied, with a giggle.
"What's the second thing?"
"What's the second thing who?" she replied, as if it were a knock-knock joke.
I groaned, and to my astonishment, another silence followed.
"Ding-Dong, what's the second thing?" I asked, and to forestall the inevitable question, I added, "I mean, the second thing you want from your luggage?" I was beginning to understand Wiggy's impatience.
"Oh, well... the first thing is my book..."
"We know that!"
"And the second thing is my cell phone."
Cakey rolled her eyes. "Ding-Dong, you're not going to get a signal out here."
"How do you know?"
Wiggy sighed. "Because your cell phone is a regular, plain old cell phone. You have to be a near a tower for it to work. You'd have a chance if you had a satellite phone, but you don't."
"How do you know I don't have a satellite phone?"
Wiggy replied, "Do you know if you have a satellite phone?"
"No, but—"
"Then you don't. If you had a satellite phone, you'd know it."
"Hmmph," Ding-Dong said. "You don't need to be such a smarty-pants, Hedwig Wetherwax. If I had my cell phone, I would give it a try. And until I do, I'm going to keep thinking about it."
"You do that," Wiggy replied.
"I will," Ding-Dong told her, "and if we get rescued because of my cell phone, you will owe me a big apology."
"If we're rescued because of your cell phone," Wiggy declared, "I will kiss your feet and bleach your hair for you."
When she heard that, Ding-Dong's mouth fell open. "Oh, my God! I just thought! Cakey, if we're here long enough, you and I will turn brunette!"
Cakey smiled ruefully.
I said, "I don't think we'd be here that long. The ship must have sent a distress signal, right?"
Wiggy shrugged. "It should have. Nobody's going to find us — or the adults — in this rain, though."
We fell silent once more, this time at the thought of the adults adrift at sea in a little raft.
When we returned to the Great Room (which was how we dubbed the room with the tables and chairs), we found the other girls playing games. Graffy and Grooty were playing backgammon, and the other four were playing a card game. I noticed they weren't using all the cards in the deck, so I asked what they were playing.
"Klaverjassen," Donkey replied, "Do you know how to play?"
"No," I said, "I never heard of it."
"Ah," Donkey observed, as she fixed her gaze pointedly on Boogers, who was sitting across from her. "So you're not the ONLY ONE who doesn't know how to play!"
"Hey!" Boogers protested. "I know how to play!"
"Then why do you ignore my signals?"
"Maybe you don't know how to signal! I said we should play Bonking, but you wouldn't!"
Donkey let out a soft raspberry, and Knickers said, "Let's just play, shall we?"
In the meanwhile, Cakey had begun unloading the bookcase. "Why are you doing that?" I asked her.
"It's a mess, and there's all kinds of papers and things stuffed in here," she replied. "It looks like a lot of it is trash, but they did find the cards and the backgammon set in here."
The four of us sat down and sorted through it all. We found another deck of cards and a tiny chess set, but the rest (apart from the books) was all trash, so we added it to the bag of breakfast remains.
"We'll have to figure out a system of trash disposal," Ding-Dong observed. "We don't want it to smell up the place, but at the same time we don't want to attract bears or raccoons."
"Yes, those tropical bears have a nasty bite," Wiggy observed, tongue in cheek. "Once the weather clears up we'll explore the island. I don't think it's very big."
"Oh, look!" I cried. "Here's one of your two things, Ding-Dong!" With that, I handed her a copy of Jules Verne's Journey To The Center Of The Earth.
"Thank you, Marcie!" she said, and gave me a hug. "Wishes do come true! Now let's see about the cell phone!"
We managed to occupy ourselves the rest of the day. We had lunch, we had a snack, we had dinner. Boogers informed us that there were 24 different kinds of emergency meals (not counting the breakfast varieties), so each of us tried a different one at lunch and dinner. They weren't horrible; no one complained. The meals that weren't self-heating required boiling water. For that, we carried a little propane stove to the entryway and boiled two pots of water for the meals and for tea.
Boogers began, "I figured how many days we can last, just living off this emergency stuff—" but Mirina cut her off.
"Boogers, don't court misfortune! All will be well: we're going to be rescued."
Boogers fell silent, and after a few moments Knickers changed the subject.
Mirina continued with the morning and evening stretching and exercise sessions. Wiggy and I joined in, and lasted for about a quarter of the aerobic part. I got pretty sweaty, and everyone was pretty stinky after the second session.
"We could wash in the rain," Ding-Dong proposed. "There are small bars of castile soap in the pantry. It's good for your skin, and — even if it's not great for your hair, it's mild enough to use as shampoo."
"That's a good idea," Donkey agreed, "but then we'd have to put the same stinky clothes back on."
"We could go naked," Ding-Dong offered with a shrug. "We're all girls here."
Cakey turned a deep red. "I'm sure the sailors will love that when they come to our rescue."
Donkey gave Cakey an impatient look. "Get over yourself, Cakey! We've all seen you in the shower. You have a nice body; you have nothing to be ashamed of!"
Cakey frowned. "I don't like people seeing me naked."
"Me neither," I put in.
"So? You two can keep your clothes on, then!" Donkey replied. "Be stinky if you want!"
"Girls!" Mirina said. "Cakey is right. Help is on the way. There's no need to go native. We'll be rescued as soon as the weather clears."
"Could we just jump fully clothed into the ocean?" I asked. "Then our bodies and clothes will get clean together."
"No," Wiggy said, "we'd be all salty. Our clothes will get stiff, and chafe us."
"We could wash in the ocean with that soap," I offered.
"No," Ding-Dong said. "Soap doesn't work in salty water."
"That's crazy," I scoffed. "How could it not?"
"She's right," Wiggy admitted. "Soap doesn't foam in salty water; you can't clean anything with soap and sea water. If there was some detergent, we could use that, but not soap."
"There's no detergent," Boogers announced. "I did a very thorough inventory."
Ding-Dong put her finger on her chin as a signal that she was thinking. After a few moments, she said, "Here's an idea: it's warm outside, even in the rain, and it's light and dark at the same time."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Wiggy demanded impatiently.
"I mean," Ding-Dong explained patiently, "that it's light enough that we don't need flashlights, but it's dark enough that no one could see us, even through a telescope."
"So?"
"So," Ding-Dong continued, "anyone who wants to get clean can take a bar of soap, go out in the rain, take a shower and wash your clothes. All you have to do is find a clean place to hang your stuff. Once everything's clean, we can carry it back here to dry, or put it back on, if we have privacy issues." At that last phrase, she looked at Cakey, Wiggy, and me.
"That's actually a good idea," Wiggy admitted.
"The are two things to add," Mirina said. "One is, keep together. The other is, keep in sight of the cave. We don't anyone getting lost."
Cakey slid on her butt over to Wiggy and me. "Can we three go together? We can change with our backs to each other, so we'll have privacy and not be alone at the same time."
"Works for me," Wiggy said with a shrug, and the two girls looked to me. I could see from Wiggy's expression that she understood my issue and my danger, and somehow she worked an it'll be fine into the way she raised her left eyebrow.
I nodded. "Works for me, too," I said. "But no peeking!" They laughed, as if I was joking, but I sensed that in some way the three of us were in the same boat.
We each took a bar of soap and stepped into the entryway, where all our shoes stood neatly lined up at the far wall. Outside, the rain was still falling heavily. A few seconds out there would be equal to an hour under a normal shower.
Ding-Dong brought along one of the wool blankets. She folded it into a long, narrow rectangle, which she set on the floor to the far left of the cave opening, at the very edge between wet and dry. "Don't step on this," she warned everyone.
"What's it for?" Cakey asked.
"Here's how it will work," Ding-Dong explained. "First, we walk fully clothed into the rain, so we and our clothes get soaked. Then we come inside, soap up the clothes and take them off. Then we soap up our bodies and heads, walk back into the rain and rinse off. We come back in, work the soap into our clothes, take them outside and rinse them off."
"That's a little complicated," Donkey observed, blinking.
"Just follow me," Ding-Dong replied.
"And the blanket?" Cakey prompted.
"Oh! Once we're all washed, we can sit on that and wash our feet."
Everyone nodded in approval. Mirina said, "I think we'll have to do this in two or three shifts."
"How did you figure all this out?" Wiggy asked Ding-Dong in an amazed tone.
"You're not the only one who's had outdoor adventures, Hedwig Wetherwax," Ding-Dong replied, with a smug smile.
"I have to say, I'm impressed," Wiggy admitted.
"Yeah, way to go, Ding-Dong," I added.
Cakey announced, "Wiggy, Marcie, and I are going to find a more private place to clean up."
"Don't forget to wash your feet before you come back in," Mirina cautioned.
"You know we will," Cakey replied in an irritated tone.
Wiggy, Cakey, and I made our way out of the cave. We were utterly soaked, through and through, the instant we set foot in the rain. Wiggy turned left, following a path that sloped gently upward. Soon we came to a cleared area where there were picnic tables. We gathered under a tree, out of the rain.
"How are we going to work this?" I asked.
"We can do a modified Ding-Dong method," Wiggy proposed. "Let's soap up our clothes now. We can strip to our underwear, work the soap into the clothes, and lay them out on the tables. We're all okay with underwear, right?"
Cakey and I nodded hesitantly.
It seemed like the stupidest thing to do, rub the bar of soap all over our tops and shorts, but we did it, and soon our clothes were lying in the rain on the picnic tables. Cakey and I stood in the shelter of the tree as Wiggy took her shower first. We heard her fumbling quickly and swearing lightly as she soaped. Then, when she stepped into the rain to rinse off, she growled in anger and frustration, "Arrgh! ARRGH! I am going to KILL Belle Dubois! I'm going to kill her! I swear!"
"What's wrong?" Cakey called.
"Can we turn?" I asked.
"Wait!" Wiggy said. A moment later, she added, "Wait." Then at last she said, "Okay, look. Look at my hair!"
We turned, and Wiggy, dressed only in her underwear, pointed to her head. Her hair looked like a wet rat's nest. "Castile soap," she explained. "It's still SOAP! Do you know why you don't wash your hair with soap?"
"No, why?" I asked.
"Oh!" she growled. "Look, Ding-Dong Two, look! This is why! It ties your hair up in knots." Then, relenting a bit, she told me, "Sorry. I'm sorry I called you Ding-Dong... again. I'm just so MAD at her!"
"Yeah, but Wiggy," Cakey said. "We're all going to have hair like that, and it's going to be worse for the girls with really long hair, like Boogers and Mirina."
I pictured Boogers — who was beyond doubt the prettiest of the Amazons — her perfect, shiny hair turned into a single unmanageable knot. "Whoa!" I breathed.
"Besides," Cakey continued, "it's better than being stinky."
That stopped Wiggy cold. "Oh, did I stink?" she asked shyly.
"Do you want to smell mine?" Cakey offered, lifting a tress toward Wiggy.
"No thanks!"
It had been difficult to take off our wet clothes, but it was much worse putting them back on. Instead of sliding smoothly up our legs or down our backs, they clung and bunched and felt icky and wrong. Still, no one complained: we were all doing the same icky thing.
"Man!" Wiggy said, "I don't know if I'll be able to deal with this for days or weeks or months."
"Or years," Cakey threw in. We all glanced at each other.
"So you don't think we'll be rescued soon, either?" Wiggy asked her.
"No, but I think I have that feeling because I read that stupid book for school on the plane..."
"Lord Of The Flies," they said together, disgustedly.
"What a crappy book," Cakey commented.
"A total waste," Wiggy agreed.
"And you know what else?" Cakey asked.
"What?"
"If we *do* get stuck on this island, Mirina will say it's our fault, because we read that stupid book!"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"I'm not going to put cooking oil on my head," Donkey said. "I'll break out in a thousand zits and smell like french fries."
"The boys will love that," Ding-Dong joked. "They'll all be sniffing after you."
We spent the evening picking the knots out of each other's hair. As with everything else the Amazons did, they did it in an organized way.
Mirina perched on a table, and pulled a chair in front of her. She motioned Knickers to sit down, and began working her way silently from the ends of Knickers' long hair, gently untangling and untying.
Boogers, following Mirina's example, sat on the table and began working on Boogers. Graffy and Grooty paired up in the same way.
"I have an idea," said Ding-Dong. "What if we gang up on each other? Three of us can work on one, and it will go faster."
"It will be the same amount of ti—" Wiggy began, but Cakey and I both shot her a look, so she stopped.
"Why don't you go first, Ding-Dong?" I offered. "You have the longest hair."
Cakey sat on the table behind her, and Wiggy and I each took a side.
"Work from the ends to the scalp," Boogers said. "Otherwise you make the knots and snarls bigger."
We worked in silence for about twenty seconds, and then the chatter began.
"I can't believe that nobody — not even one girl — has a brush or a comb!" Knickers declared.
"What — does that mean we're not feminine or something?" Graffy countered.
"No, it's just that we all have long hair — except Marcie and Wiggy. It's normal to carry a brush."
"None of us has a cell phone, either," Ding-Dong pointed out.
"A lot of good a cell phone would do us here," Graffy countered.
Ding-Dong turned her head toward Graffy and was about to reply, when Cakey said, "Ding-Dong, quit moving your head!"
After a pause, Boogers called out, "You know, there is oil in the pantry, if anyone wants to use it."
Cakey frowned. "What are you saying, Boogers? To put the oil on our hair?"
"Cooking oil?" Donkey cried. "Yuck-o!"
"Oil is good for your hair! What do you think is in those detangling sprays? Magic water? It's oil. People pay good money for hot-oil treatments on their hair. We could heat it up on the little stove."
"We could deep-fry our hair," Cakey put in. "Make it crispy on the outside—"
"—and moist and meaty inside," Ding-Dong finished.
"You girls don't know what you're talking about," Boogers replied. "Sometimes at home I put olive oil on my hair."
"And then you wash it out, right?"
"No. I leave it in."
"You do have really nice hair," I admitted.
"Thanks," Boogers said. "The oil makes it soft, too!"
"I'm not going to put cooking oil on my head," Donkey said. "I'll break out in a thousand zits and smell like french fries."
"The boys will love that," Ding-Dong joked. "They'll all be sniffing after you."
"Oh, yeah," Cakey laughed. She pretended to sniff and sniff at Ding-Dong's hair, and said in a her best boy voice, "Hey, honey, ooh! You smell so—" sniff! sniff! "—Mmmm... makes me hungry! You smell... You smell so SEXY, baby!"
Everybody broke up laughing, repeating the joke. When it finally died down, Boogers said — a little sadly — "So I guess no one is trying the oil," which it set us off laughing again.
"Are *you* going to put the cooking oil on your head?" Donkey challenged.
"Well, no..." Boogers said, shyly. "I just thought someone else might..."
A chorus of NOs closed the discussion.
Although everyone did their best to put a good face on our situation, we didn't need to talk to know how each other felt. The cave was dry and well-appointed, "as far as caves go," as Ding-Dong put it, but at the same time it was creepy. The sense of being underground was a bit oppressive. Thank goodness the ceilings were high, or else I think we'd all have gone a bit claustrophobic.
I wasn't wearing a watch, and I was trying to not ask the time every five minutes, but I couldn't help glancing at Wiggy's watch when most of us went to lie down for bed. It was only 8:30. There wasn't anything else to do but go to sleep.
When Ding-Dong said, "Going to bed early will make the morning come faster," I thought, She really *is* a Pollyanna, isn't she? but at the same time, I knew I would have said it if she hadn't.
Since we were still in our underwear, Wiggy, Cakey, and I slept in the other dorm room, which was slightly cooler. Ding-Dong slept with us for solidarity.
Wiggy woke me at six the next morning, and handed me my clothes. They were stiff, but dry. I slipped them on and quietly joined Wiggy, Cakey, and Ding-Dong in the Great Room. They were already dressed and waiting. The rest of the Amazons were still asleep. Wiggy put a finger to her lips and pointed to the door. I nodded, and the four of us slipped outside without making a sound.
The air was fresh and clean. It was still dark outside, but I could tell from the silence that the rain had finally stopped. Wiggy led us from the cave and said, "It's a hour before sunrise. Pretty soon we should be able to see what's what."
I looked up into the dark, starry sky. It was a relief to be able to look up without flinching; to feel fresh air on my skin, rather than water. "Thank God the rain stopped!"
"You said it," Cakey agreed.
"Why did we get up so early?" I asked.
"I couldn't sleep," Wiggy replied tersely. "Listen: if we follow that path over there, and keep to the right, it will take us to the top of a hill. From there, we can see the ocean to the east, and see if the boat is there."
"How do you know all that?" I asked.
"Know what?" Wiggy asked, stiffening slightly. "That the boat's to the east? I heard Flannery say that we had to keep due west to get through the coral and land on the island."
"No," I said. "About the path and the hill."
"Oh," she said. I wished it was light enough to see her face. She was silent for a few moments, then answered, "I saw a map of the island before we left. I have a good memory for maps."
I didn't pursue it, but it didn't sound quite right. Maybe it was something she'd tell me later, when Cakey and Ding-Dong weren't around, so I mentally filed it away.
Wiggy went back inside the cave's entryway and took two flashlights from the drawer in the table. She handed one to Cakey, and started pumping the handle to charge hers.
"I think we only need one," Cakey said. "The sun's coming up soon."
"They're not heavy," Wiggy told her, "and it's not far. Maybe the last girl in line would like a light."
"I'll take it," Ding-Dong said. "I can be the last girl in line."
We quietly and slowly made our way through the tropical darkness and near-total silence.
"Not even the birds are awake yet," Ding-Dong commented, in a low voice.
After five or ten minutes, Wiggy said, "This must be it." She and Ding-Dong shined their lights around at the trees and rocks.
"Maybe we should sit down," I suggested. "That looks like the edge of the hill."
"We'll just be careful not to step over the edge," Wiggy replied. "Besides, I'm not sure I want to sit on the ground in the dark."
"We should have waited," Cakey said. "We can't see a thing, and there won't be any light for another twenty minutes."
"We wait down there, we wait up here," Wiggy replied. "What's the difference?"
"It's clean down there, and we know what we're sitting on. We could even light a candle."
"We're here now," Wiggy told her. "If you want, you have enough time to go down and come back again, for all the good it'll do you, but I'm staying here. I'm going crazy not knowing! I don't understand why the adults didn't come ashore. Even if they had to abandon ship, they had the dory and the life rafts, and — except for Bossy and Poppy — they're all sailors. They could have rowed ashore."
"What if the boat went over and they didn't have a compass?" Ding-Dong asked. "Then they wouldn't know which way to go."
Wiggy searched in silence for an answer, but found none.
"Could they have GPS?" Cakey offered.
"I don't know," Wiggy sighed. "I suppose. I guess they'd have to, but then... if they do, why aren't they here?"
We were silent for a bit. The thought of the adults lost at sea — or worse, dead — was a little too somber for the four of us in the still-dark morning. I moved closer to the others. Cakey put her arm around my shoulders.
At last, Wiggy said, "The Captain would have known which way the wind was blowing. She'd know the directions, so she'd know which way to go."
No one replied. I voiced the silent wish, Dear God, I hope so! and tried to stifle the scenarios that jumped into my mind... scenarios in which the boat got blown so far, or the wind changed, or a dozen other things that could happen to leave the adults adrift at sea with no clue as to which way to go.
"At least now the storm is over," Ding-Dong said. "Help is on the way. They'll find us and they'll find the adults."
After that, we tried to make conversation until the world began to light up and the birds began to chatter. The instant there was a bit of light, Wiggy cried out, "Look! The boat is there!"
I didn't see it at first, but soon we all did. "HEY! WE'RE HERE!" we cried, shouting and waving.
"It's so far away," I said, "I can't make out whether anyone's on deck."
"Me neither," said Ding-Dong, "and I have really sharp eyes."
"Let's go back and tell Mirina," Cakey proposed.
The others were awake, and unwillingly eating gummy oatmeal and flappy, chewy french toast when we entered. No one had a problem leaving the unappetizing food behind, and soon the ten of us were crowded on the hill.
Mirina said, "Am I wrong, or do I see the longboat tied up behind?"
Wiggy strained to see. "Maybe."
"Yes, it is!" Ding-Dong confirmed. "Is that a good thing?"
"We need to get it," Mirina said, "and see whether the adults are still on the ship."
I thought it was odd that she put the two things in the order she did. It sounded like Mirina didn't think the adults were onboard. It sure didn't look as if they were.
"How are going to do that?" Cakey asked. "Wiggy's the only one who knows anything about boats."
"And I can't swim that far," Wiggy put in.
"No, *you* can't, but Graffy and Grooty can," Mirina replied. Then, looking to the pair for confirmation, "Can you swim that far, and tow Wiggy in a life jacket?"
"Oh, no!" Wiggy protested, but Graffy and Grooty said, "Sure," and "Piece of cake."
"You have to go, Wiggy," Mirina said. "You know you do. Bring that boat back here, and show Cakey how to run it."
Why? I thought, but I didn't ask out loud. It turned out (just so you don't wonder) that Mirina, in spite of her prohibition about thinking bad thoughts, had had quite a few bad thoughts of her own. She'd already figured out that the ship had been abandoned, and that the adults were gone.
We returned to the beach, near the dock, and Mirina took Graffy, Grooty, and Wiggy aside for a private conversation before they left for the ship.
Graffy and Grooty were calm, almost business-like. They didn't have any qualms or fears about what they were about to do. I couldn't imagine anyone swimming that far.
Knickers brought a life jacket for poor Wiggy, who looked scared to death. "Put your glasses in your pocket, Wiggy," Mirina instructed. "You don't want to lose them."
Fumbling and sniffing, Wiggy took off her glasses and clumsily closed them up. She put them into her shirt pocket, and buttoned it closed. Knickers helped her into the life jacket, and made sure it wasn't pressing on the glasses.
Graffy and Grooty threw off their clothes. "Take your shoes off and come into the water, Wiggy," one of them said, and they led the poor girl backwards into the cove. The water soaked her shorts, then her shirt, and then the twin blondes towed her out to sea.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
We waited... and waited... and waited. Then, at nearly the same moment, the longboat appeared at the end of the cove, and a red flare shot up into the sky from behind the hill.
"What does that mean?" Cakey asked.
We all watched as Graffy and Grooty swam off, towing Wiggy between them. It seemed so effortless on the swimmers' part, and so frightening for Wiggy. She told me afterward that it was made worse by the fact that she couldn't see anything. I waved and waved to her until she was out of sight, but she hadn't seen me at all.
Once the swimmers disappeared around the hill, Cakey said, "Ding-Dong, let's run to the top of hill and watch them!"
"No," Mirina said. "Everybody stays here." And she fixed her eyes on the sky.
"Why?" Cakey demanded. "Are you watching for something?"
"Yes," Mirina told her. "There's a flare gun in the emergency supplies. I'm watching for Graffy's signal."
We waited... and waited... and waited. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.
Then, at nearly the same moment, the longboat appeared at the end of the cove, and a red flare shot up into the sky from behind the hill.
"What does that mean?" Cakey asked.
"It means that the adults are gone," Mirina replied. "There was no one left on board." Turning to face us, she clapped her hands for attention.
"Listen, girls!" she said. "There are no adults on board. I'm sure we'll find out more details soon, but that's all we know for now. Right now, we need to unload the ship. First of all, we need our own luggage."
There was a general murmur of agreement. "When Wiggy gets here, she'll show Cakey how to run the motorboat, and she'll take all you girls back, except for me and Knickers."
"Why?" Cakey asked.
"Cakey, you're going to be running back and forth with piles of stuff. You don't want to unload it yourself, do you? Knickers and I will unload and carry stuff up to the cave.
"So! First priority: ALL our luggage. Pack up everything that belongs to us and bring it ashore. Second: whatever's useful. Boogers, I want you to evaluate the food situation. Wiggy will decide the rest. She knows boats; she knows what we'll need. Ding-Dong, I want you to help Wiggy — but don't drive her crazy."
Ding-Dong nodded. "Okay."
"Now," Mirina continued, "Life jackets, everyone! Marcie, will you bring one for Cakey?"
I nodded. As I ran off, Mirina spoke very seriously with Cakey, who nodded as she listened.
When we returned to the dock with our life jackets, we found Cakey sitting in the stern of the longboat, her hand on the tiller. Wiggy was explaining things to her, pointing to various parts of the engine. I tossed Cakey's life jacket into the boat.
Mirina caught me by the arm. "Marcie, as soon as you get to the ship, will you pack up all of your things and Wiggy's, and bring the bags up on deck? Then stay with Wiggy and help her. Try to keep Ding-Dong's feet on the ground. Okay?"
"Okay," I agreed, and Mirina gave me a smile. It was funny, but that little moment made me feel important, like I was a key part of what was going on. Wiggy was right about Mirina: she knew how to make people do things. At the same time, I didn't feel like she was bossy or taking advantage of me. I knew that she'd be back here, unloading and hauling everything that we loaded on the other side.
I was the one of the last to get into the longboat, so I had to sit near the front. Donkey was the very last, and as she stepped in, Wiggy called to her from the other end. "Donkey, can you cast off that end? Try to look at way it's tied up, and see if you can make it fast the same way when we get to the ship. Okay?"
"Okay!"
After we cast off, Cakey had to pull the ripcord three times to get the engine started. Red-faced, she steered us away from the dock and into the center of the cove. Occasionally Wiggy would say something to her or point to something, and Cakey would nod. When we left the cove, Wiggy had her come about twice so she could be sure Cakey knew where to enter the cove on the way back. If she came in at the wrong place, she'd run up on the reef, and the hull could be damaged.
When we pulled up to the side of the Seward, Donkey tied off one end of the boat, and Wiggy showed Cakey how to tie off the other end.
"Marcie," she called to me, as the other girls climbed the ladder. "Will you pack my bag and yours and bring them on deck?"
"I was going to," I said. "Then Mirina told me to stick with you."
"Oh, good!" she said, with a relieved smile.
Graffy and Grooty were waiting on deck. "We found them, Wiggy!" They told her, as they waggled some walkie-talkies.
"How many are there?" she asked.
"Four, so far."
"Okay," Wiggy told them. "You two keep one, give me one, and give Cakey two. Tell her the second one is for Her Manliness."
It had been a long time since I'd heard Mirina's nickname — I had to think for a moment who it was. Wiggy gave me a what are you still doing here? glance. I took off below deck to pack our bags.
It didn't take long to pack. The hard part was lugging the heavier bags up the steep, narrow stairs.
Ding-Dong and I finished in the same moment, and together we went to find Wiggy, leaving the other girls to load the luggage into the longboat.
We found her in the wheelhouse, looking at the instruments. Suddenly, her walkie-talkie crackled. "Wiggy, this is Grooty. We found the soap."
"Wiggy here. How much did you find?"
"A case and a half. It's all little bottles."
"Bring it all on deck. We're taking it. Did you find any fuel yet?"
"Negative."
"Keep looking. It's the most important thing. Wiggy out."
"Very efficient," I commented.
"We have to be," Wiggy said, without looking up. "We need the fuel for the longboat's motor, so if you happen to see any, tell me."
"Maybe they didn't keep any," Ding-Dong suggested. Wiggy lifted her head, and looked ready to blast Ding-Dong with her anger. Ding-Dong threw up her hands defensively. "All I mean is, they might take it out of the Seward's tank when they need it. The Seward has a motor too, right?"
"Oh," Wiggy said, relenting. "I hadn't thought of that."
Wiggy picked up her walkie-talkie and began talking to Grooty.
"How did you come up with that?" I whispered to Ding-Dong.
She glanced at Wiggy and whispered back, "It's what my Dad does with the lawnmower. He doesn't want to store the gas in a can, so he siphons it from his car when he needs to cut the grass."
Wiggy said into her walkie-talkie, "Well, come up here and I'll *tell* you what a siphon looks like, then! We need to find one. Wiggy out."
"Why is it so important?" I asked.
"Cause the longboat's motor's gonna run out soon, that's why," Wiggy said, a bit exasperated. "Okay. Here's the next important thing: the radios." She indicated each instrument with a tap of her hand as she named it: "Radio, radio, GPS. Radar. Fax machine. Radio, radio."
"They have four radios?" I asked.
"Yes, and none of them work! None of the electronic stuff will even turn on! There's a laptop over there... it's dead, too."
"Okay," Ding-Dong said. "One step at a time: is there power?" She pointed up to a light in the ceiling, which was on. "Yes. We should check that the instruments are plugged in."
"You can try that with the laptop," Wiggy replied, "but the instruments don't have plugs; they're wired in. They're hooked up."
"Maybe we ought to follow the wires?" I suggested. "Could they have a different power supply from the lights?"
Wiggy, pale-faced, looked at the two of us. "Do either of you know anything about electronics or electricity?"
"What's the difference?" Ding-Dong asked.
I glanced at her and quickly replied, "No, we don't."
The walkie-talkie crackled. "Cakey here. Donkey and I are taking the first load back."
Wiggy replied, "No. Donkey has to stay. Cakey, do you or Donkey know anything about electricity and electronics?"
"Me, no," Cakey replied. "Hang on." After a few moments, she added, "Donkey says don't use a hairdrier in the shower. That's all she knows. But Wiggy—"
"What?"
"I'm afraid to go back by myself. What if something goes wrong?"
"Okay, Donkey can go, but bring Knickers and The Manley One back when you come, okay?"
"Will do. We're going now."
We could hear the sound of the longboat's motor start up, then grow fainter as Cakey rode away.
Now that the conversation with Cakey was over, Wiggy stood stock still, looking at the floor. Ding-Dong and I glanced at each other, but before either of us spoke, Graffy and Grooty came into the wheelhouse, grinning broadly.
"So, Wiggy," Grooty said, "What's this siphon thing look like?"
"Hang on," Wiggy said. "Ding-Dong can tell you in a minute. Do either of you know anything about electricity?"
The blonde pair shook their heads.
Wiggy sighed. "Okay. After Ding-Dong tells you about the siphon, go see how Boogers is doing, and ask her if she knows about electricity."
"Why is that important?"
"I'll tell you later," Wiggy replied, biting her lip. "Right now you have to look for fuel, a siphon, a gas can. And if you can find any kind of communication device: walkie-talkies, radios, satellite phones, whatever, bring it to me. And tools. Any kind of tool." Then she turned away to look at the instruments.
After Ding-Dong finished explaining what a siphon was and what it might look like, Graffy and Grooty left. Ding-Dong walked to one of the radios. She grabbed a little black knob, turned it, and pulled it off.
"This fuse is blown," she observed, holding it up to the light. "Maybe all we need is new fuses."
We found that some of the other instruments also had fuses, and that they, too, had blown. We began searching for replacements.
"The other fuses are probably hidden, like behind," Ding-Dong said. "Could there be a panel, so one of us could get back there?"
While Wiggy and I searched for fuses, Ding-Dong found a sliding panel. She opened it and looked inside. "Is there a flashlight?" she asked. "I can't see anything in there."
"I don't know," Wiggy said. "We'll look."
"Wiggy," I said, "I know we're in a bad spot, but why are you so frantic?"
She gulped and said, "Am I frantic? I thought I was being surprisingly calm."
Ding-Dong looked up from where she was sitting on the floor. "Yeah, Wigs, it seems like you're in a big rush."
"Okay," Wiggy said, explaining. "All the instruments and the radios are dead. We don't know why."
"Maybe they were struck by lightning," Ding-Dong offered.
Wiggy looked at her in silence for a moment. Then at long last she said, "Maybe. In any case, we can't call for help, and we don't know whether the Captain did."
"All right," I said. "But people know where we are, right?"
"I guess so," Wiggy said. "But no one is going to miss us before Friday, when we're supposed to get on the plane. I figure that Saturday's the earliest we could be rescued."
"Okay," I said, "So that's only... what day is today?"
"Tuesday," Wiggy said nervously.
"So it's four days—"
"Five, counting today," Wiggy quickly contradicted. "And if they don't come until Sunday, it's six."
"All right," I said. "But in the meantime, we have food, a place to sleep..."
"Castile soap," Ding-Dong offered, with a smile, but Wiggy didn't react.
I'd seen Wiggy with her lost-little-girl look before, but right now her expression when way beyond lost. She looked really, seriously frightened. Terrorized.
Then I had a thought: maybe this was an extension of her fear of sleeping alone?
"Wiggy," I said, "We're all here. We're all in this together."
"We could even stay on the boat, if you'd feel safer," Ding-Dong suggested.
"No, we can't stay on the ship," Wiggy countered. "We have to get off this thing as soon as we can."
"Why?" I demanded. Her irrationality was beginning to try my patience. "Are you afraid the storm will come back?"
"No," she said. "I'm afraid that the tide will come in. The ship's hung up on the coral reef. The hull has a great big hole, and I'm afraid that high tide could lift the ship loose and sink it."
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"What would Captain Janeway do?" Ding-Dong asked.
"Oh, Ding-Dong," Wiggy sighed.
"No, seriously. She'd increase hull integrity. Can we do that?"
"Mirina saw the damage from the hill," Wiggy explained nervously. "That's why she wants to unload the ship."
"All right," I said. "When's high tide?"
"I don't know," Wiggy said. "It changes, but it ought to be around noon."
"And right now it's what?"
She glanced at her watch. "Nine." She gulped and trembled slightly.
"It's going to be okay, Wiggy," I said. "If the ship starts moving, we'll get into the longboat."
Wiggy, her face as white as a sheet, looked at me and said nothing.
Ding-Dong said, "Okay, girls, let's concentrate on the task at hand. We only have a little time, so let's do all we came to do!" When Wiggy didn't move, she reached forward tentatively and took Wiggy's walkie-talkie.
She didn't talk into it. She just held it as if it somehow gave her authority. "Look," Ding-Dong said. "We could spend our whole time trying to figure the radios out. What we ought to do is *first* get everything off the boat we need, and *then* try to fix a radio in the time we have left. Maybe we can pull one out of this dashboard-thingy.
"But first, we need to unload. We ought to get out one of the rafts, if there still is one, and blow it up."
"Why?" Wiggy asked.
"Because Cakey can tow it behind the motorboat. With all that extra storage, we might only need one more trip back with the stuff."
"Good idea," Wiggy and I admitted.
"AND we three ought to go over the boat from bottom to top, and search super-well and super-carefully because we know what we're looking for, and the other girls don't."
"Right," I said, though I wasn't so sure *I* knew what we really needed.
"Okay," Wiggy said. "But it's a ship, not a boat."
We went up on deck, and Wiggy took a quick look at the things the girls were piling up to bring ashore. Then we went down, down to the lowest deck where there was water. Wiggy showed us where the hull was smashed in. It didn't look so bad to me.
"What would Captain Janeway do?" Ding-Dong asked.
"Oh, Ding-Dong," Wiggy sighed.
"No, seriously. She'd increase hull integrity. Can we do that?"
"Who's Captain Janeway?" I asked.
"Star Trek: Voyager," Ding-Dong replied. "So can we?"
"No," Wiggy said, rubbing her face. "We'd have to be outside and we'd have to have something to patch it with. Plus, it's stuck on the coral, so we'd have no room to work. If it comes off the coral, it'll take on water and start to sink. And I don't know whether we can stand on the coral."
"We might be able to patch it faster than it can sink."
"Ding-Dong," Wiggy said, "we have to keep moving. We'll keep what you said in mind, but I don't think it's feasible."
The three of us went through every inch of the ship. We piled the things we found (tools, lights, emergency equipment, compass, binoculars) on the steps, and Graffy and Grooty carried them up on deck. We never found a gas can or a siphon, even though we searched every cupboard and opened every door.
When Mirina came on board she examined the hull damage. She took Wiggy aside, talked to her for a bit, and somehow calmed her down. She worked and searched and carried and made everyone else do the same. By ten thirty we'd stripped the ship of everything we thought could be useful to us.
At one point the two of us were standing on deck together. The wind gently tousled our hair and clothes. I said, "Mirina, why are we taking everything? I mean, we have to be rescued by Sunday at the latest, right?"
"We're just being prudent, Marcie," she replied. "Because you never know." After a moment she said, "Ding-Dong told me about the radios. Can you show me where they are?"
We went into the wheelhouse. I pointed the four radios out and explained about the fuses. Her eyes ran around the room, and at last she got on hands and knees and crept into a corner under a table. After a few grunts and bangs, she emerged with a small plastic tackle box. "I guess you didn't look in here, right?" she said. She opened the box and lo and behold there were fuses of various sizes, along with wires and connectors and assorted tools.
Wiggy and Ding-Dong came in at that point. "We're ready to go back," Wiggy announced. "Cakey's here and there's nothing else to bring ashore." You could see she was anxious to get off the ship.
Mirina nodded. She was thinking. "Wiggy," she said. "Can the four of us fit in the dory?"
Wiggy's eyes opened a bit. "Easily."
Mirina thought some more. "Okay. This is what we'll do. Cakey and the others will return to shore. We'll get the dory and bring it round to the ladder. The four of us will do one last, quick, thorough look over the ship, to make sure we didn't miss anything. Then we'll take the radios out and bring them ashore."
"They won't work without power," Wiggy pointed out.
"I saw some big batteries, like car batteries, down below. We can take one of them in a plastic bag."
"It might not be the right voltage," Wiggy said, "or amps or something."
"WIGGY!" Mirina shouted. "Stop! Okay, chances are it won't work, but what if it does? What if we have one chance in a million, and hit it? We have to try!"
Wiggy's eyes welled up with tears. They spilled down her cheeks. First came one sob, and then another. Soon she was crying openly, like a little girl who wanted her mother.
Mirina looked at Ding-Dong. "Send the other girls ashore," she told her. To Wiggy she said, "Come here, you silly goose! Come here, zusje."
The taller girl swept her hair behind her shoulders and wrapped her arms around the crying girl. Ding-Dong left, and I stood there not knowing what to do with myself. Wiggy cried on and on, while Mirina clucked and cooed like a mother bird.
"I can't do it!" Wiggy cried.
"Yes, you can," Mirina said soothingly. "We'll all help."
"I'm afraid!" Wiggy wailed.
"It'll be alright," Mirina told her in a soft voice.
"What if it isn't?" Wiggy demanded, still sobbing. "What if nobody knows where we are?"
Mirina didn't respond. She glanced at me, almost as if to see whether I'd heard. Then she lowered her eyes again and held Wiggy for a time in silence.
At long last, she put her hands on Wiggy's shoulders and stepped back, so they could look each other in the face. "Wiggy, listen. I know it's hard. I know it's especially hard for you, but you know things, you can do things, that the other girls can't do. You know this."
Wiggy sniffed. She wasn't crying any more. I saw a box of tissues on the table, so I handed her a few. She drew a ragged breath and blew her nose.
"I'm sorry, Mirina," she said. "Sometimes it's just too much..." and she started crying again.
"Okay, Wiggy, okay," Mirina said. I could see her patience was nearing an end. "Come on, my little pet, my petje."
Wiggy giggled a little in spite of herself.
"Wiggy, come on," I said. "If we get the radios out, we can go ashore."
Wiggy gave one or two more sniffs, grabbed two more tissues, and let out a huge groan of a sigh. "Okay," she said. "Has Cakey gone yet?"
As if in answer, we heard the motor start up.
"First of all, let's get the dory ready," she said. "If the ship starts moving, we want to be ready."
Forty minutes later, we were still struggling with the radios. We'd tried popping in new fuses, but they didn't change anything. The radios were still dead. Ding-Dong did her best to bring them to life, but nothing seemed to work.
"There are, like, a gazillion wires here," I said from inside the crawl space. "How can a thing have so many wires? It's just a radio."
"Don't worry about that," Mirina said. "Just follow each wire, one at a time."
I could see that Mirina and Wiggy were both on edge. It was probably the pressure of being in charge, of having to be the adults, so to speak. They both seemed at their limits. In spite of the sun we'd all gotten, their faces looked pale. They seemed shocked, overwhelmed. As far as getting the radios out, I was doing most of the work, and it wasn't going well. We'd sent nearly all the tools ashore, and there wasn't even a screwdriver to undo the screws holding the radios in.
"Look," I began. I was going to tell them we needed to give it up, when the ship suddenly, but very gently, rocked.
Wiggy swore. "Let's go," she said. "It's moving."
Mirina didn't argue. The four of us made way for the ladder. Just as we exited the wheelhouse, the walkie-talkie crackled to life.
"Wiggy? Mirina? This is Cakey. We're out of gas."
"Hang on," Mirina replied. "We have to abandon ship. It's moving. I'll call you right back."
In a matter of moments, we were down the ladder, in the dory, casting off. Wiggy gave a few pulls on the oars, and we were well away from the ship. It was visibly rocking. I had nothing to compare the sea level to, but obviously the tide was coming in.
"Is the anchor down?" I asked.
"Yes," Wiggy replied. "You can see the chain right there." She pointed.
"Hang on," Mirina interrupted. "Cakey, Mirina here. How far are you from shore?"
"Uh, too far to walk," Cakey replied. "I don't know. Far, not far. Graffy and Grooty tried to tow us in, but they couldn't."
"All right," Mirina replied. "Any girls who can swim ashore should do so. Cakey, you stay in the boat. We're on our way. Mirina out."
To Wiggy she said, "Do you think you can tow the motorboat with this dory?"
"And the raft?" Wiggy said. "I don't know. I do have an idea, though. It depends on how far they are from shore. We'll see. If I can't tow them, maybe we can run a rope from the boat to the shore and pull them in."
"So, wait a minute," I said. "About the ship: If the anchor is down, the boat — the ship — will stay where it is."
"Yeah," Wiggy replied. "Maybe forever. But we're not going back on board. It's too dangerous."
While Wiggy talked, she pulled at the oars. Again, I was amazed to see how natural she seemed in a boat. She rowed as if it was no effort at all. She seemed calmer, too, as if being in the rowboat, out on the water, made everything right with the world.
Still, she shook her head, and in her small squeaky voice, said, "Mirina, what are we going to do?"
Mirina, whose eyes were scanning the ocean in every direction, said, "We don't lose heart."
"And then?"
"We put our stuff away in the cave, and then we explore the island."
"Mirina, you know what I mean!"
"I do know what you mean, Wiggy. None of us know how long we'll be on the island, so we have to get organized. But the adults, they might be on the island. If they are, we have to find them. Maybe they came ashore on a different part."
"But Flannery told me that the reef is only open at this one point, at the cove."
As Wiggy spoke, we rounded the hill and came in sight of the cove. The longboat, with the raft behind, was sitting in the middle of the water. Cakey, alone in the boat, waved to us. I waved back.
"Wiggy," Mirina said in a low, serious voice, "listen to me. Do you know anything about coral reefs?"
"No," she admitted.
"Neither do I. We can imagine all sorts of things. Maybe they could walk across it. Maybe a wave could carry them over and leave them ashore. Maybe when the tide is high, they could simply row above it. We don't know."
Wiggy didn't answer.
Mirina went on. "We have to do what we can. The next step is to explore the island. We need to know where we are. We need to see if the adults are here with us."
"Okay," Wiggy agreed.
There was something in the way they talked that bothered me. There was something that they weren't telling. I had to get Wiggy alone and find out what it was. There wasn't any reason to think we'd be on the island, even in the worst case, for more than a week. But the two of them talked as if we could be here much longer. Mirina was obviously preparing for what could be a long haul. It wasn't just "prudence."
And another thing: She'd seen the hull damage from the hill, but hadn't told anyone but Wiggy. A chill ran through me. That was why Wiggy was so scared, when Graffy and Grooty towed her out to sea! But Graffy and Grooty had no idea of the danger that they'd been in — we'd *all* been in. None of us had!
So: lesson learned? Mirina didn't always tell the truth. I mean, the whole truth. It was easier to get us aboard when we thought it was just a lark. If the girls had known the danger, they probably would have gone anyway. I know I would have. But then, it would have been our own choice, not Mirina's.
As Wiggy pulled us up next to Cakey, I thought, I have to keep an eye on the Manley One. I've got to get Wiggy to tell me what's going on.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"They have to look for us," I said. "Once they miss us, once we're not on the flight, people will start looking."
"Somewhere in the South Pacific," Wiggy said.
"Hey, I'm stuck," Cakey said, smiling. "I got a flat tire. At least we got the big loads ashore before we ran out of gas."
"Yes, good work," Mirina said. "It was lucky Ding-Dong had the idea of the raft."
Wiggy frowned in disapproval. "I could have brought it all in the dory. These boats are made for stuff like this."
"Can you tow me, Wiggsy?" Cakey asked.
"Maybe," Wiggy said, "let's have a go." She switched places with Mirina so she could get in the tail-end of the boat, and took the end of the rope from Cakey.
"Do you need me, Hedwig?" Mirina said. "I'm thinking I could make the boat lighter by swimming ashore. Make your job easier."
"Go ahead," Wiggy replied, and Mirina slipped into the water. I expected the boat to tip a lot, but it hardly moved at all.
Wiggy tied up the boats, and got back to the oars. "I can swim to shore, too, if you like," Cakey offered. Wiggy shrugged, and Cakey dove in.
"Do you want me to go, too?" I asked.
"No," she said. "Please stay. I don't want to be alone." She moved back to the middle of the boat. "Can you sit there, so I can see you?" she asked.
I got into the back of the boat, and she picked up the oars.
"You and Mirina aren't telling everything, are you?" I asked.
"No, we're not," Wiggy admitted readily in a low voice, "but can I tell you later? Voices carry on the water."
I nodded.
"Don't worry," she said, "I'll tell you everything. I'll go crazy if I can't talk to somebody about it."
"Maybe we can be one of the search teams," I suggested.
She nodded, and pulled at the oars.
"Is it hard?" I asked. "I mean towing the boat."
"It's not so bad," she said. "I think it would be easier if the whole load was in here, but it's okay."
"Why didn't they try to row the longboat ashore?" I asked.
"We couldn't find the oars," she said. "Now it's completely useless, unless by some miracle we find gasoline on the island."
"Maybe we could make a sail for it," I suggested.
Wiggy's face grew dark. "You're starting to sound like Ding-Dong," she said.
I didn't answer at first. I just looked at her. When she didn't look up, I said, "I wish you wouldn't do that."
At that, her head jerked up. She was startled and embarrassed. "Sorry!" she squeaked. "I don't mean it."
"Ding-Dong actually had a lot of smart ideas back there."
"I know."
"She helped a lot."
"I know." Wiggy was very embarrassed now. "I'm sorry. It's just the pressure. I feel like it's all on me."
An hour later we were all moving again. We formed four teams, each with a walkie-talkie. Mirina, Graffy, and Grooty were one team. Knickers, Cakey, and Ding-Dong were the second. They each took one of the paths leading away from the cave. Wiggy and I took the dory so we could circle the island. Mirina gave me a pair of binoculars, and cautioned me to never take the cord off my neck.
"If you hand them to Wiggy," the Manley One instructed, "make sure you don't hold them over the water. Hold them over the boat, in case they drop."
"Okay," I agreed, more than a little irritated. I wanted to tell her that I'm not a child, but I bit my tongue and kept quiet.
Boogers had brought the food ashore, and decided to cook the haggis. Apparently the meal was going to be elaborate (by camp standards) so she stayed behind to prepare it. Donkey stayed with her, mainly so she wouldn't be alone, but also to help gather wood for the fire and haul water.
One of the first things that we found, even before the exploring began, was a fresh-water spring. I say "we" found it, but it was actually Ding-Dong. She wondered how the barrels of water in the cave's pantry got filled. "They're too heavy to move," she kept saying, and at last, after some crawling and wiggling and nearly losing one of the flashlights, she discovered that there was a water faucet behind the barrels. A hose was attached to it.
Thinking that the faucet had to be fed by a spring or a water tank, she took Cakey with her to look at the hill above the cave. Pretty quickly they heard water falling, and lo and behold there was a fresh-water pool with a spring bubbling above it. The runoff from the pool ran down the stony hill and disappeared in the shubbery.
"The spring has to be capped somewhere above the pool," Ding-Dong said, pointing. "Or maybe there are two springs."
"Can we swim in it?" Graffy asked.
"I think we might want to use it for washing," Wiggy said.
"We can do both!" Ding-Dong proposed. "If we dam up the water over there, it will make a second pool."
Everyone groaned at the impracticality of it, and Mirina said, "Girls, we have to start searching. We have to find the adults, if they're on the island."
"How would they have gotten ashore?" Cakey asked. "We have the longboat."
"One of the rafts was missing," Mirina said. "You know that."
"Why would they get in a raft, when they could use a motorboat?" Cakey asked.
Mirina turned to Wiggy for an explanation.
Wiggy shrugged. "I have no idea. If it was me, I'd have put everyone in the dory."
"Oh! You think that silly dory is magical!" Boogers scoffed.
"It's made for ocean rowing," Wiggy retorted. "It's almost impossible to tip over!"
"Okay," Mirina interrupted, putting up her hands. "We're wasting time. We're wasting sunlight. Does anyone know when the sun sets?"
"About six," Wiggy replied.
"That gives us four or five hours of exploring. Less, really, because we have to get back to camp before dark. Each team, take a flashlight. And watch the time. Make sure you leave enough time to get back to camp before the sun goes down."
"So...," I began, as Wiggy gently pulled at the oars, "Do you really have no idea why the adults would take a raft?"
"No. No idea."
"Maybe they had to abandon ship while Flannery was bringing us ashore..."
"But then what happened to Flannery?"
"She climbed in the raft with them?"
"No. That doesn't make sense. She could have towed them ashore. But instead, she tied up the longboat..."
"So she must have got back onboard."
"Maybe she got back on the ship, and then they hit the reef. Then they all got in a raft."
"No," Wiggy insisted. "They would have gotten in the longboat."
"Maybe somebody came and took them away?" I suggested.
"Like who? A flying saucer?" Wiggy's eyes scanned the shore, reminding me to do the same. "Besides," she continued, "If somebody took them, why is the raft missing?"
"Maybe they got in the raft and someone picked them up?"
"They why wouldn't they come for us?"
We were silent for a while. Then I said, "Maybe they got in the raft and the raft went down. Or they were lost at sea."
Wiggy didn't answer. Nervously, I covered my eyes with the binoculars, and looked at the island. "There's a volcano," I observed. "Or a mountain, at least."
"It's a volcano," Wiggy said.
"Do you think we're in danger?" I asked. "I see smoke, like steam, coming out around the base and partway up the side."
"I don't know," she replied.
She rowed in silence. At last, I asked her, "Wiggy, what aren't you telling me? Is there some kind of secret here?"
Wiggy stopped rowing. She pulled the oars inside the boat and let go of them. Then she crumpled up into a ball, burying her face into her hands. She drove her elbows down between her knees. She cried, her whole body shaking. I moved closer, kneeling on the hard, uncomfortable floor, and tried to put my arms around her.
"Wiggy, what's wrong? Wiggy, tell me... Come on, Wiggy, get a hold of yourself. Tell me what's wrong."
At any other time, I would have let her cry. I would have just held her and waited. This time, I couldn't wait. To the truth, I was more than a little scared. Here we were, two girls in the middle of the ocean in a little boat. I don't know how to row. I could swim to some extent. I wasn't sure I could swim all the way to shore. I didn't know whether even Graffy and Grooty could swim this far.
And while Wiggy cried, the current was moving the boat. Not quickly, and not a lot, but it was moving. I didn't want Wiggy to cry for very long.
"Wiggy, please," I begged. "Tell me what's wrong."
Gasping for breath, she said, "Okay." She snivelled, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, which she cleaned by waving it in the water. She rubbed her face and gulped a few backward sobs.
"The thing is," she said, "I don't know whether anyone knows where we are."
"Didn't you plan this trip?" I asked.
"No, not really. I had to go through Mirina's father's secretary, and she's great and everything, but she has a million things to do. So, she booked the tickets, and signed up the Seward, but I don't know how many details she had.
"When she told me we were going to be on an island, I asked her, Which island? and she said, Does it matter?
"Each time I talked to her, I tried to insist, but she said she didn't know."
"She didn't know!?" I repeated.
"Yeah," Wiggy replied. "I'm hoping that it was just an adult brushing off a child, you know? And that she DOES know and has it written down somewhere."
"Somebody in the company that runs the ship must know."
Wiggy scoffed. "I think we've met everyone in that company."
"No," I countered. "Somebody has to run the office, take phone calls and stuff."
"Yeah, somebody," she said. "Does that somebody know where we went?"
"Don't they have to?" I replied.
"I don't know," she countered. "Do they?"
I blew out a big breath. "So, potentially nobody knows where we are."
Wiggy nodded. "Except the adults, who are now missing."
"They have to look for us," I said. "Once they miss us, once we're not on the flight, people will start looking."
"Somewhere in the South Pacific," Wiggy said, and gestured with her chin at the vast empty ocean. "We could be anywhere. They never found Emilia Earheart."
She sighed and took up the oars again.
Something began wiggling around in my memory... something was bothering me. There was something else I meant to ask Wiggy... what was it?
"Oh!" It came back to me. "Wiggy, remember when we went up on the hill to look at the ship? You told me that you'd seen a map of the island before we left. How could you do that if you didn't know where we were going?"
She turned red and bit her lip. "Oh, yeah," she said softly. "Okay, look: I have a secret. I was going to tell you anyway, just... I was going to tell you later on.
"But listen to me, Marcie — this is a real secret. This is a big secret. You can't tell ANYBODY. You can't even hint at it. In fact, it's so serious that if you tell, then..." she hesitated a moment, weighing what she was about to say "... if you tell, then I'll tell your secret." She glanced at my crotch, as if her meaning wasn't obvious enough already.
I went white. I was stunned. "Wiggy!" I exclaimed. "You wouldn't!"
She looked uncomfortable. "I know," she said. "I wouldn't... so don't make me! I can't have anybody know!"
I couldn't speak, I was so upset. If I could have jumped out of the boat and swam ashore, I would have. I thought about doing it anyway. Maybe with the life jacket I was wearing, I could make it. Could I? Would I? Before I made up my mind, my eye fell on Wiggy, who looked miserable.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she said. "You *know* I won't tell! I'm just desperate!"
"Oh, Wiggy," I said. "Sometimes you're more than a little mean!"
"I don't mean to be!"
"You don't mean to be mean?"
"Don't be mad at me!" she pleaded. "Look: this is my secret. The first morning we were here, while it was still raining, I found a map of the island in the table, near the cave entrance. It was in a long plastic tube that hangs on the back of the table."
"So why didn't you tell anybody?"
She tapped her foot and looked uncertain. She opened her mouth twice before she actually began to speak. "Because I found a second map that shows where we are."
"You did? So where are we?"
"I don't know exactly, but there are some bigger islands, not far away. I'm pretty sure I can row to the closest one, and if I understand the map correctly, there should be people on it."
My eyes nearly popped out of my head. "So why won't you tell anybody?"
"Because I'm sure they wouldn't let me go."
"How far is it?"
Wiggy looked cagey. "I'm not going to say."
"You're not going to say? Well, how long would it take to row there?"
Again she gave me that cagey look. "I'm not going to say that, either."
"Why not? You told me everything else! Didn't you?"
"Yes, I did. But I know about rowing a dory in the open ocean. I've been in three long-distance contests. So I know what I can do. But you don't, and neither does anybody else."
"So?"
"So if I tell you how far it is, or how long it would take to get there, you'll start making calculations based on... based on nothing, and you'll try to second-guess me."
"Maybe that's a good thing," I offered.
"No," she said. "It's not. I can do it. If I talk about it, you and the others will stop me."
I looked at Wiggy's determined face. She set her jaw the way a little girl does when she's ready to dig her heels in. Whatever I said next, I had to be very careful.
"Wiggy, will you just promise me one thing?"
"What?" she asked in a cautious tone.
"Take me with you when you go?"
She shrieked with joy. She did a little seated victory dance, stamping her feet, wiggling her butt, and waggling the oars.
"Stop, Wiggy, stop!" I laughed. "You're getting me all wet!"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"I'm starving!" Donkey shouted. "Boogers, what does this haggis stuff taste like, anyway?"
"I don't know," the cook replied, "but we'll find out soon!"
"So you didn't tell anybody about the map of the island? Not even Her Manliness."
"No," Wiggy said. "But after I hid the big map, I put the map of the island back. Somebody else can find it. You can find it if you want."
"It would be handy," I said. I looked at the walkie-talkie. "I wish I could tell them about it now. It would help with the search."
"Yeah," Wiggy agreed. "But one thing I *do* know from the map is that the island really is surrounded by a coral reef. The only way to land is through the cove."
We completed our circuit around the island, but didn't see anyone, not even the Amazon search teams. Occasionally there'd be messages on the walkie-talkie, but nothing really important. Mirina suggested we keep their use to a minimum to conserve batteries.
Wiggy had been rowing pretty steadily, but by the time we got three-quarters of the way round the island, the sun dipped low in the sky. Wiggy started pulling harder. We didn't want to be out there in the dark.
"I underestimated," Wiggy told me, looking a little fearful. "I didn't take into account how far out we'd have to go to avoid the coral reef."
We reached the mouth of the cove as the sun was about to drop below the horizon. All the other girls were already in the camp. Ding-Dong and Cakey were waiting for us on the dock.
"You had us worried, girls!" Ding-Dong said.
"What did you do?" Cakey asked, half-joking. "Try to row to Hawaii?"
"No, just to Bora-Bora," Wiggy quipped, which set Ding-Dong off singing, Bora Bora, Bora Bora, it's an island in the ocean...
In spite of the heat, two fires were burning under two huge pots. Boogers had been busy. "One's for the haggis," she explained, pointing to one of the wildly boiling pots, "and the other's for the tubers."
"Tubers?" I repeated.
"Potatoes and turnips," she explained. "I found the directions for the haggis dinner. There's two things missing, though: cock-a-leekie soup and whisky."
Cakey stuck her tongue out in a gesture of disgust. "I won't miss them," she said.
Boogers was drenched with sweat from standing near the fires. "Whoo!" she cried as she mopped her face with a cloth. "Whatever we eat tomorrow, it's got to be something COLD!"
Just then, the darkness fell. It was instantly night. "Oh, my God!" Donkey shouted. "Who turned out the lights?"
It was something we had to get used to: once the sun set, it became dark instantly. There wasn't any fadeout; it was as though a switch had been thrown.
"We have to keep this in mind, girls," Mirina said. "We have to make sure everyone can reach camp before the sun sets. No one wants to be caught out in the dark."
"So did anybody find anything?" I asked.
"We're going to have dinner first, then each team will report," Mirina said. "Everyone needs full attention, and we'll be more relaxed if we've eaten."
"And I'm starving!" Donkey shouted. "Boogers, what does this haggis stuff taste like, anyway?"
"I don't know," the cook replied, "but we'll find out soon!"
Everyone joined in the remaining preparations. First, we had to fish out the little haggis sacks from the boiling water. We each took turns, because it was an infernally hot job, dipping strainers and sieves into the pot. The heat of the fire had a brutal intensity against our bare, sunburnt legs, and the steam up above threatened to parboil our faces.
We repeated the hellish fishing process with the tubers, separating the turnips from the potatoes.
Then came the hand-burning work of peeling the potatoes and turnips.
"Ouch!" I cried. "Boogers, how come you didn't peel them first, before you boiled them?"
"They have more flavor when you cook them in skins," she explained, blushing.
"We could feed these peels to the cute little piggies," Ding-Dong said.
"What piggies?" I asked.
"We'll talk about it later," she said, smiling at me and glancing at the Manley One.
The peeled tubers got tossed back into two empty pots where Boogers mashed them, mixing butter into the turnips and butter and milk into the potatoes.
"Anyone who likes milk ought to take a drink now," Boogers said. "It's warm already, so it's not going to stay good for long."
"I guess anyone who likes butter ought to take a bite now, too, huh?" Cakey joked.
"Anyone who likes butter thrown at their heads and mashed into their hair should speak up now," Boogers threatened, hefting the huge yellow chunk and looking directly at Cakey.
Cakey wisely didn't answer, but I could see she wanted to.
When at last it was time to serve up the plates, we were all ravenous. Each plate got a generous serving of turnips and potatoes. Then Boogers sliced open the little sacks that haggis comes in, and dumped the contents onto the plates.
"Woof!" Knickers cried in disappointment, holding her nose. "It smells like liver! Is it liver? Oh, God, it smells like liver!"
"I guess there's liver in it," Boogers admitted. "But liver's good for you."
"I like liver," I said, but my visceral memory gave a twinge. My mind shot back to the last time I had liver: those horrible, gray gobbets that Ida prepared. I shivered at the memory.
"If you like it, why did you shudder?" Knickers challenged.
"Come on, everybody," Boogers pleaded. "I've been working hard for hours. I've burnt myself everywhere and boiled myself alive. Give it a chance, please!"
"No more criticism," Mirina declared. "Next critic will be tomorrow's cook!"
"You put that milk on your mush and you eat it! Baah!" Cakey muttered, imitating an old Little Rascals episode.
"Cakey, what did you say?" Mirina asked.
"I'm just agreeing with you," Cakey replied. Ding-Dong tilted her head down so her hair hid her laughing smile.
The response to the dinner was divided. Everyone was grateful to Boogers for having spent so much time and effort cooking, and the mashed potatoes were highly praised.
A few of the girls, myself included, liked the haggis. It was pretty unusual, and "highly flavored" as Ding-Dong put it. No one complained, at least verbally.
"Is there supposed to be some kind of sauce for this?" Knickers asked. Her face was a picture. She hated it. It was clear. But she was trying to be brave and eat it all. "My parents always told me to leave a clean plate," she told me later. "But, oh! I don't think they knew there was such a... such a... food-thing in the world when they said it!"
"Sauce?" Cakey began, smiling a wicked smile, but Ding-Dong gave her a cautionary look that silenced her.
"According to the recipe, the only sauce for haggis is whisky," Boogers said. "But we're too young, and there wasn't any anyway."
As far as I could tell, Graffy, Grooty, Ding-Dong, Boogers, and me liked the haggis. Mirina and Donkey ate it, but without enthusiasm or comment. Knickers and Wiggy ate it as though it was punishment. I couldn't tell whether Cakey liked it. She seemed to take it as a comic platform, making all sorts of goofy faces and elaborate mimes when Mirina wasn't looking. It was hard to not giggle.
Everyone thanked Boogers for her efforts, and then Mirina, after throwing some more wood on the fire, took the floor.
"Okay, girls," she said, once again clapping her hands for attention. "Before we talk about what we saw today, there are a couple of topics I want to cover.
"The first is, we didn't explore the whole island. We know that. But we don't know exactly how big the island is—"
"Sure we do," Cakey interrupted. "Wiggy and Marcie went around it. They know."
"You're right," Mirina admitted. "But we have to work out... we have to figure out how our... how our walking relates to their rowing. You know what I mean."
"It's too bad we don't have a map," Ding-Dong said.
"Yes, it's true," Mirina agreed. "It would be extremely helpful. I guess we'll have to make our own map. But not right now. The thing is, without a map, we won't know how much of the island we've covered until we've seen it all."
I glanced at Wiggy, but she just looked back at me, expressionless. She wasn't going to say anything, and *I* wasn't going to say anything. I wasn't going to test her. I didn't need to find out how serious she was about outing me.
"Okay," Mirina continued. "Nobody, including Wiggy and Marcie, saw any sign of the adults."
"Do you think there'd be some sign where they went ashore?" Knickers asked. "I mean, something Wiggy and Marcie would have seen?"
"I guess so, but I don't know," Mirina said. "The fact is, none of us have seen any sign of them yet. So we have to keep looking until there's no place left to look."
"What could have happened to them?" Cakey asked. "We know they all got into one of the rafts, but we don't know why. Why didn't they come here? And shouldn't they be looking for us?"
"There are many questions," Mirina said. "There's a lot that we don't know. We can talk about those things, but for right now, we need to talk about some facts. Some things we know. The next topic I want to discuss is the volcano."
"Yes, there's steam coming up in different places," Graffy said. "Do you think the volcano could blow?"
"No," said Mirina and Ding-Dong together.
"Why not?" Grooty asked.
"Because—" Mirina and Ding-Dong began together. Ding-Dong deferred to Her Manliness.
Mirina said, "They wouldn't have brought us to an island with a live volcano."
"But they landed us here in a storm," Graffy retorted. "They didn't mean to put us here."
"No," Mirina contradicted. "They did mean to put us here. This was our planned destination."
"Oh, right," Graffy said, remembering. Turning to Ding-Dong, she asked, "Where you going to say something else?"
"Yes. We're not in any danger from the volcano. And we can be sure we're not in any danger because of the steam."
"What kind of sense does that make?" Wiggy challenged.
"It makes sense because of pressure," Ding-Dong replied. "The steam is seeping up gently, in a floaty way. If the volcano was going to blow, the lava would be pushing up, and that create more pressure. More pressure would make the steam come out in jets, like from a tea kettle or stronger. As long as it's coming up gently, it means there's no danger. No pressure, no danger."
Wiggy was stunned into silence.
"That makes sense," Graffy acknowledged, and the other girls nodded.
"How did you figure that out?" I whispered to Ding-Dong, who was sitting next to me.
"It's all in Jules Verne," she replied, "Journey to the Center of the Earth."
"Oh, jeez!" I exclaimed softly. "Don't tell Wiggy! Tell her you figured it out on your own, or that you saw it on the Discovery Channel or something."
"Okay," she replied brightly, with a shrug. Then she raised her hand, as if we were in school.
"What is it, Ding-Dong?" Mirina asked.
"Can we talk about the piggies?" she asked.
"What piggies?" someone asked.
Mirina frowned. "For a couple of minutes," she said. "But seriously, make it brief. I still have two important points to cover."
"Okay," Ding-Dong said. "When Cakey and Knickers and me were exploring, we heard all this noise. At first we thought it was wild monkeys or rats or something, but all of a sudden we found a whole bunch of tiny pigs! Piglets!"
The girls erupted in chatter.
"Like in Winnie-The-Pooh?"
"Like in Lord of the Flies?"
"How little?"
"Were they babies? How big were they?"
"No, they aren't babies!" Ding-Dong replied. "Well, some of them are babies, but they're all so SO cute! The littlest ones are like this—" She held her hands to show about eight inches of length "—and the biggest ones are like this—" She moved her hands to about fourteen inches. "I think they would make great pets! They scurry around like puppies, and they make the cutest little oinks and squealy noises!"
Wiggy burst into derisive laughter. The other girls threw questions at Ding-Dong in a flurry of excitement and happiness. I couldn't share either Wiggy's scorn or the other girls' enthusiasm. Little piglets? Pets? Had they forgotten our situation? That we needed to be rescued? That we had so many unanswered questions?
Wiggy wasn't talking. She shook her head and looked out to sea. I knew she was nervous and frightened, perhaps more than any of the other girls, and that was why she was getting to be so mean and irritable.
I sighed and looked into the mouth of the cave. If I squinted and tipped my head just the right way, I could see the end of the table and the black plastic tube hanging off the back of it. That was where Wiggy had found the maps. The map of the island, the map we all needed, was hidden in there now. I had to think of a way to tell someone, or to make someone else find it.
I never liked secrets. They make me uncomfortable. Of course, I have a secret of my own, but I wish I didn't. I wish I could be just like the other girls here, laughing and giggling over the piglets... not having to worry about being found out... not being the odd man out.
"Marcie," Mirina said in a low voice. Then just a wee bit louder, "Marcie?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin. While I was lost in my musings, Mirina had come over and crouched down in front of me on hands and knees. The other girls were still giggling around Ding-Dong, who described in great detail the antics of the wild piglets. Mirina continued, "What are you looking at, Marcie?"
"I, um, the table..." I said.
"What about the table?"
"Do you see that black thing on the back of it?" I felt like such a scum for lying to her, but at least she'd have the map. "I just noticed... there's like a black shadow, and I was wondering what it was."
Mirina's eyes focused like twin lasers on the map tube. I suddenly remembered what sharp eyes she has. Her mouth fell slightly open. "Oh, my G— that looks like a—" She gave me a quick pat on the leg. "Marcie, you're a genius!"
The next moment she was on her feet, running. I got up and ran after, and a few moments later the other girls followed suit.
Mirina was fast, and by the time I reached her, she was already pulling the map out of the tube. "It's a map!" she said. "Hey, quit blocking the light! It's a map of— a map of an island... oh, please let it..." across the top was written the name MUKTAPHALA "It is! Oh, my God! It's Muktaphala! This is a map of our island!"
Amidst the cries of amazement and celebration came Cakey's question. "How in the world did you find it, Mirina? Has that black tube been there all along?"
"Of course!" Mirina replied. "It had to be. I guess none of us had a reason to look behind the table, so none of us saw the tube. All these days, and nobody noticed. Then Marcie happened to be looking this way. She saw it and wondered what it was. And now, we have a map of the island! We can figure out what we've seen and... and... make better plans! This could help us find the adults and use the island better, until we're rescued!"
"That's great," Wiggy commented. "Good find, Marcie." She smiled at me in a smug we've got a secret smile, and for the first time I really wanted to smack her.
"Thanks, Wiggy," I replied drily. Cakey and Ding-Dong noticed the undercurrent, and their eyes darted back and forth between Wiggy and me, but they didn't say anything. We walked back to the fire. Mirina studied the map as she walked.
"We'll have to look this over in the morning, when it's light," she said. "But at this point..." — her eyes rapidly scanned the map — "I'm guessing that we've only seen a third of the island. Over here is where Knickers and the others were blocked by the volcano, and this is where me, Graffy and Grooty reached the other shore. There's another path here that we haven't seen..."
The girls crowded around her. Wiggy and I were too short to see through.
"Nice save," Wiggy said to me. "I felt bad about hiding it."
"Yeah!" I replied. "From now on, no more secrets!"
She froze for a minute, then looked me in the eyes. "We both have secrets, Marcie. You and me. Mirina, too. But it's important that nobody knows. Just we three."
I shivered for a moment.
Wiggy frowned at me. "Marcie, you don't think I'm being mean or weird do you?"
"No," I said, but I wasn't sure if I meant it. "I just hate secrets."
Wiggy shrugged and smiled, and in that moment I saw the old Wiggy. I smiled back, and she gave me a hug.
After the hug, as she let go, I said to her, "Wiggy! Are you going to tell me Mirina's secret?"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"There might be a man on the island," Mirina said quietly.
"A good-looking man?" Cakey laughed.
"You already know Mirina's secret," Wiggy told me. "It's our secret, too. You know."
"No, I don't know."
Wiggy put her hand on my upper arm and her mouth near my ear. "That nobody knows where we are."
While Wiggy was whispering to me, Mirina had rolled up the map and asked the girls to sit. Now that only three of us were standing, the whole group of girls saw me and Wiggy standing close, her head next to mine.
Mirina smiled. "I'm glad you two are friends again. It seemed like there was some... tension there earlier."
"Oh, yeah," I said, blushing.
Wiggy, equally embarrassed, took a step back. "I was just telling her something," she lamely explained.
"Did you tell her, I love you, Marcie, let's get kissy-wissy?" Knickers teased, and the other girls hooted and chuckled.
My face was burning red. I didn't want to look at Wiggy, but couldn't help but glance at her. Her cheeks were burning, too.
Mirina clapped her hands twice. "Come on, now girls! We're happy that Marcie and Wiggy made up, but let's sit down and have order. I still have two topics to cover."
Wiggy and I sat down next to each other between Cakey and Ding-Dong on one side and Graffy and Grooty on the other. We had to sit together; there was nowhere else to sit. Eight pairs of eyes watched our every move, as me and Wiggy, still blushing, sat down, crossed our legs, and awkward bumped each other with our knees. The silence and attention was embarrassing, and there really wasn't any reason for it. Wiggy is my friend: my best friend here. There's nothing more between us. We not girlfriends; we're just girls who are friends.
I knew that the Amazons knew that. They only wanted to tease us a little. So I gave Wiggy a nudge with my elbow, and she nudged me back. That was enough to break the spell.
"All right!" Mirina began. "The plan for tomorrow is this: in the morning, we relax." A cheer went up. "We swim, we eat, we sleep, whatever. Just remember: no girl goes anywhere alone. No girl does anything alone."
"Except in the bathroom!" Boogers put in, and everyone laughed.
"Even then," Mirina said, "her buddy has to wait for her."
"But not... we don't... we don't have to stand right outside those toilet... latrine... things, do we?"
"Of course not. The point is, someone must always know where you are. Someone must always see where you are. We can't afford to lose any one."
"Why would we lose anyone?"
Mirina's face twitched a bit. Once again I saw that look that she and Wiggy get from time to time, the look of a little girl trying bravely to act as the adult, but not quite feeling up to it.
"There might be a man on the island," she said quietly.
"A good-looking man?" Cakey laughed.
"I'm not joking," Mirina said. "We all saw the coat and the boots in the cave. Those are man's clothes, and they've obviously been used — used, worn by a man."
"Mirina," Wiggy cut in, "We all saw the coat and boots, yeah, but I also noticed that those clothes are old. They could have been hanging there for years!"
"Yes, and it was raining when we saw them," Ding-Dong added.
"And what the hell difference does that make?" Wiggy shot back in an irritated tone.
"Wiggy!" Mirina said, in a tone of caution.
Ding-Dong didn't speak. She looked mortally offended, and was clearly trying to keep her composure. I knew, just as everyone knew — except Wiggy — that Ding-Dong had had enough of Wiggy's condescension and distain. This time was the last straw.
Cakey understood what Ding-Dong was getting at, so she explained. "It makes a difference because if there *is* a man on the island, he would have wanted to wear his rain gear in the rain, not leave it hanging in the cave." She raised an eyebrow in Wiggy's direction. "That makes sense, doesn't it?" When Wiggy didn't answer, Cakey pressed the point. "What Belle said does make sense, doesn't it, Wiggy?"
"Yes," Wiggy grudgingly admitted.
"Look," Cakey said, speaking gently, as if walking on eggs. "Everybody knows that you're smart... and responsible. You plan everything... you do everything for us. We're all grateful. And we know that Belle irritates you sometimes." Ding-Dong glanced at Cakey and bristled a little, but she didn't say anything. Cakey turned to her friend and said, "I know a lot of that is my fault... I set you up sometimes... So, I'm sorry, too."
She turned back to Wiggy. "But you know that Ding-Dong has really come through, many times, since we got dumped on this island. She found the spring. She had the idea to use the raft to carry stuff. We wouldn't have gotten everything off the boat if it wasn't for her."
"Ship," Wiggy corrected.
"What?" Cakey asked. She wasn't sure she heard right.
"Ship," Wiggy repeated. "The Seward is a ship. Was a ship."
Silence descended on the group. Cakey took it in, fighting with her indignation, and shouted, "Fine! Ship! Ship! SHIP! Whatever! Just quit picking on Ding-Dong, will you? Leave Belle alone!"
Wiggy looked down, to hide her face. Then she shuffled awkwardly to her feet, hiding her tears with one hand. We all watched her in silence, unsure what she was about to do. Was she going to say something? Confess her own fears? Apologize to Ding-Dong? Cry out in anger and frustration?
It was none of that. She didn't say anything at all. Instead, Wiggy turned and abruptly ran off, into the night.
Mirina's jaw fell. Her face went white. Her arms shook uselessly for a moment, then she looked around her, as if searching for something. She found it. Bending down, she grabbed a flashlight and tossed it at me. "Marcie! Quick! Follow her! Two other girls with flashlights, follow Marcie! I don't want to lose anyone tonight!"
I jumped up and headed for the path Wiggy had taken, pumping the flashlight as I ran. As soon as I left the firelight, I came up against an apparent wall of darkness. I stopped and pumped the handle until the light came on. Then I kept on pumping for a bit to bring the charge up. As I did, Graffy and Grooty came running up to join me.
"Hi," I said gratefully.
"Come on," Graffy told me. "We'll all go find her together."
I hesitated, knowing what a fragile state Wiggy was in. "Um, listen... can you guys kind of follow me at a distance? I think it'll make it easier to talk to Wiggy. I'll stay on this path."
Grooty shined her light in my face. The twins glanced at each other, then gave silent shrugs of agreement.
"Thanks," I said. "Look: here's two signals. If I wave my light up and down like this, it means come join me. If I wave it back and forth like this, it means I found her and you can go back. Okay?"
Graffy frowned. "What do you mean, 'go back'? We're supposed to watch you."
"If I find Wiggy, you don't need to watch me. There'll be two of us, and we'll follow the path back to camp. I might need to talk to her for a bit."
The girls grudgingly agreed.
I turned away from them and took a few steps. It was like walking into a closet. The trees made a canopy above me, and darkness hung from the canopy, covering everything. The jungle had swallowed me up. There were plants on every side of me, brushing my legs and arms and dangling in my face. It was pretty unnerving. I caught myself taking shallow, claustrophobic breaths.
So I turned around.
In that direction I could see Graffy and Grooty, looking at me with puzzled expressions, and beyond them, in the clearing, the other girls gathered near the fire.
It was like night and day.
In the clearing were the fire and the girls, and behind them, the beach. Waves were breaking, wave upon wave. They must have been rolling in on all sides of the island, because even when I didn't see a wave breaking, I could hear the soft, constant rumble.
I turned around again, and faced the path. After fortifying myself with a deep breath, I stepped forward and found myself in a dark, silent world. Well, it would have been silent, if it weren't for the surf rolling and hissing in the background, like a massive white-noise machine.
I guess I expected crickets chirping or insects buzzing or owls hooting or something. Instead, there was nothing... except the eternal muffled thunder of surf in every direction. I kept walking, shining my light everywhere, pumping the handle every couple of steps. I didn't want it to cut out and leave me in the dark.
"Wiggy?" I called softly. The silence overawed me. It was hard to call her name. The foliage swallowed my calls like a heavy curtain. I licked my lips, cleared my throat, and shouted, "Wiggy! Wiggy, where are you?" and kept putting one foot in front of another.
She couldn't have stepped off the path, I told myself. The foliage is too thick. Plus, I thought — thinking for a moment the way Ding-Dong would have thought — there was no sign of breakage: if she pushed off the path, I'd see damage to the plants. Good thinking, Ding-Dong, I said, as though it was *her* idea.
I tried not to think, not to be afraid, not to feel alone. I reminded myself: I'm Marcie Donner. I've done harder things than this. I'm Marcie freakin' Donner.
"I'm Marcie Donner!" I shouted. And another voice inside me answered, Yes, right: I'm Marcie Donner, but what happened to me? Why have I become so passive! I've been just one of the girls, along for the ride. But was that a bad thing? Wiggy and Mirina and even Ding-Dong were doing more than me. Wasn't I supposed to be some sort of heroette? That's what Ms. Gifford had called me: a "teenage action heroette" — and she was a district attorney. She must know something about it.
So I squared my shoulders, and kept walking. "Wiggy! It's Marcie! Come on, I need to find you! Where are you, Wiggy?"
I walked for several minutes, putting one foot in front of the other, and forcing myself not to look back.
At last the path opened up and I saw her. She was sitting on a picnic table, under a tree. I recognized the place: it was where she and Cakey and I had taken our rain-shower together. Wiggy was perched on the table, her feet on the seat. She was hugging her knees and looked very scared. You could see she'd been crying — hard — but she wasn't crying now.
"Wiggy," I said, "Are you alright?"
"No," she said. "I'm not alright."
"Hang on a minute," I said, and turned back to face the way I'd come. Graffy and Grooty's light was visible down the path. They must have been fairly close. Otherwise, the plants would have hidden their light.
So now, what was the signal? I had to think for a minute: up and down meant "join me"; back and forth meant "Go away; I found her." I moved the light back and forth until they repeated the signal. Their light was obscured for a moment as they turned, and soon it went out.
"Who was that?" Wiggy asked.
"Graffy and Grooty. They were my backup."
Somehow I knew that Wiggy didn't want to be touched, and — as scared as she was in the dark — she wasn't ready to go back.
"Can I sit next to you, Wiggy?" I asked.
"Yes."
I sat down on the table with her, leaving about a foot of space between us.
"What are you thinking, Wiggy?"
"I'm such a failure, Marcie. I'm such a failure! I did SO MANY THINGS wrong!"
"What are you talking about?"
"I let everybody down, including you! *I* should have planned this trip. *I* should have handled the details! *I* would have made a real itinerary, and every parent would have had a copy. That's what I always do." She sniffed and wiped her nose. "Instead, I let somebody else do everything."
"An adult," I said. "You let an adult do it."
"An adult," she scoffed. "Do you know what an adult is? An adult is just a big kid. Being 'adult' doesn't mean anything! You take you or me or any of the girls here, or take any kid you know. Add a couple years, and poof! you have an adult. That's all. They'll still be the same inside. They could even be worse. Growing up doesn't automatically make you wise or responsible. Being older doesn't guarantee anything."
I was silent. I didn't know what to say, so I pumped the flashlight for a bit.
"*I* knew better. I did! I asked her What's the name of the island? Where is it? I needed to know; I should have insisted."
"Wiggy, it's not your fault. It isn't your responsibility."
"It is my responsibility! This is what I do! That's why I'm with the Amazons! It's not just so I can score a cool computer and take trips! I have a job to do!"
"Okay," I said, "Okay."
"It's not okay, Marcie. It's not. It's all wrong, and I have to fix it."
"What do you mean?" I asked, but I already knew what she meant.
"I have to get in the dory and go. I have to go get help. Otherwise, we will never be rescued."
"You don't know that, Wiggy."
"I *do* know that."
"You don't." I insisted. "You don't. You suspect. You think. But you don't know. None of us do."
"So what would it take for us to know? If we're still here next year, will we know then?"
"You don't have to be sarcastic, Wiggy. I'm on your side."
The sneer fell from her face. In a softer voice she said, "Sorry."
"Yeah, and you have to watch it with Ding-Dong—"
"I know, I know," she said, cutting me off. "It's just a habit. A bad habit. When we go back, I'll apologize. I'll work on it. I'll stop. I promise."
"Okay," I said. That was one thing settled. Now we had to deal with the other. I had to get a handle on Wiggy's idea of rowing away. For sure I couldn't make her give up the idea. As long we had the dory and were stuck on the island, she'd keep thinking about it, wanting to do it. I needed some way to keep her crazy feeling on a leash.
"Wiggy, about rowing away in the dory..." I felt her stiffen up, so I paused. I suddenly felt like one of those negotiators, you know? The people who talk somebody down off a ledge, or try to keep them from jumping off a bridge? I had to be really, really careful in what I said next, or I could lose her. If I lost her, if she didn't think she could trust me, she'd just get up early one morning — probably tomorrow morning — and leave without me. If she did that, I might never see her alive again.
So I said, "You will take me with you, right? Do you promise?" Even in the darkness, I could feel her relax.
"Yes, yes!" she said, and slid up close to give me a tight, breath-taking hug. "Yes, I'll take you with me! It'll be great! I've already drawn up a list of what we need... in my head, of course..."
"Of course, of course," I said. "In your head. But when do we leave? That's the question."
"Tomorrow," she replied. "First light."
"But, Wiggy," I said. "Suppose we *do* get rescued. Suppose somebody comes while you and me are out at sea. Then they'll have to do two rescues, and we'll kind of look like idiots."
Wiggy took it in. "Yeah, I guess," she admitted. "So what are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking this: if anybody does know where we are, they'll be here on Saturday, or Sunday at the latest. Right?"
"Right," she agreed. "If they know where we went, Sunday at the latest."
"So we go Monday... or Tuesday."
Wiggy took the flashlight from my hands and lit up my face with it. She looked at me in silence for a few moments. "You're not trying to slow me down, are you?" she asked.
"No, no, of course not!" I protested. Then, to sound more believable, I added, "Well, yes. Of course I'm trying to slow you down. We have to give some time, in case we get rescued. By Monday... or Tuesday... we'll know for sure if anyone knows where we are. *Then* we can go."
She looked at my face in the torchlight for a few silent moments. I waited in agony, trying desperately to keep my face from betraying the anxiety I felt.
"Okay," Wiggy agreed. "Monday. Monday morning."
"Or Tuesday," I added. "Tuesday's good, too."
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"We don't know," Mirina countered weakly.
"This is like your mystery man," Grooty told her, and Mirina's cheeks reddened. "You find a coat and boots, and woo! a scary bad man is on the island! He's coming to get you!"
Nobody could sleep late the next day, in spite of having the morning "off." Out came the bathing suits, the sunblock, the beach towels, and the sunglasses.
"All that we're missing are beach boys," Cakey commented.
Graffy added, "Cute little waiter-guys to bring us drinks," and Grooty continued, "and to rub sunblock on our backs and legs!"
Cakey lowered her voice so Mirina couldn't overhear. "Maybe we could get Mirina's mystery man to do it."
"Oh, Cakey!" Knickers cautioned. "He might be real! He might be dangerous!"
"Danger is my middle name," Cakey quipped.
Donkey said, "Katrien Danger Keese. It does have a ring to it."
"Seriously, girls," Knickers said, "Until we know we're the only ones here, we should be careful."
Cakey scoffed. "There is no man! It's only a pair of boots and a coat! There's no man!"
I turned to Wiggy, who was lying on her stomach. Squinting into the sun, she told me, "They can go on like this for days... and they probably will."
"In that case," I replied, "I'm going in the water."
The cove was shallow for a long way before it dropped off. As I waded out in the knee-depth water, I looked off to the end of the cove, where Graffy and Grooty were... treading water, or whatever they were doing. They weren't swimming. Their tiny blonde heads bobbed in the distance. How could they manage it? They were hanging out, chatting, with who knows how many feet of water below them. I'd never seen anyone so at ease in the water! Staying afloat is a constant effort for me; for those two it seems completely unconscious... as easy and simple as sitting in a chair.
As I watched, the twins turned and swam out of sight.
"I think they went to see what state the ship is in," Ding-Dong told me.
"What are you doing?" I asked her. She was kneeling in the water, sometimes on hands and knees. If she wasn't in the water, I'd think she was searching for a dropped contact lens.
"I'm looking for coral," she said. "I haven't found any though. You'd think with a reef all around, there'd be bits and pieces everywhere. There are a lot of pretty shells, but I'm leaving them where I find them."
"Maybe you need to look closer to the reef," I said. "If they're heavy, they're just going to drop straight down, right?"
"I guess," she agreed, straightening up. "Still, it helps pass the time."
I sat in the shallow water and splashed water on myself. "Can you imagine being able to swim the way Graffy and Grooty do?" I asked. "I can't believe they just go like that, not caring how deep it is. I'd be so afraid of sinking! Before they took off, the two of them were out there, just talking! Like they were sitting at a table on dry land — they didn't give a thought to how much ocean there is beneath them!"
"Yeah," Ding-Dong agreed. "They are pretty amazing. If you ask them, they could probably teach you while we're here. It will help pass the time, and it will make a great story after. You can tell people, Oh, yes, I learned how to swim when I was marooned on a desert island."
"With a pack of Amazons," I added. "Do you think this is this a desert island?"
"Oh, sure! Absolutely!" Ding-Dong answered. "If it isn't, it will be when I tell it!"
I laughed.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" Ding-Dong asked me.
"No. You?"
"No. You know, I feel like you could be my sister. I think you feel that way too."
"I do," I told her.
"Wiggy is your best friend, but I'm your sister," she said.
"Yeah," I agreed. "I like that."
Ding-Dong smiled, and dug her hand into the soft sand. "Ooh!" she said, startled. "What did I just find?" She felt her way around, wiggling her fingers, feeling out the edges of... whatever it was. Then she pulled it up. It appeared to be some kind of shell. She brushed it off at first, then washed the sand off in the water. Blinking in the sunlight, she studied the piece as she hobbled on her knees toward me. "Look at this," she said. "What do you think it is?"
"Some funny kind of shell," I guessed.
"What kind of shell could it be?" she wondered. It was triangular, a little less than an inch long, and very rough and irregular at the bottom. "I don't think it's a shell," she told me. "There's no place for something to live inside it." She dropped the thing in my hand, and shoved her hands back under the soft, wet sand. I turned it over and studied it from every side.
"For some reason it makes me think of dinosaurs," I said. "Maybe it's a dinosaur tooth."
Ding-Dong gave a little cry of excitement. "Hey, there's a whole bunch of them! Look!" She pulled up more of the triangular shapes. Some were smaller, but none where bigger than the first one she'd found. Their color varied: some were bone white, others gray, and some had yellow or golden patches encrusted on them. The rough base of the triangle was bigger on some, and some of the triangles had a slight curve.
"These aren't teeth," Ding-Dong said. "I think they're scales."
"Scales?" I repeated. "What kind of animal would have scales like that?"
"A turtle— a tortoise! A sea-tortoise. I think these are scales that fell off its, uh, shell!"
"No," I said.
Wiggy was too far away to hear what we were saying, but she must have known we were talking. She rolled on her back and sat up. Since she wasn't wearing her glasses, she squinted at me and Ding-Dong. Then she stood up and came splashing over, stooping a bit because she couldn't see.
"What are you girls arguing about?"
"We're not arguing," I said.
"I found all these," Ding-Dong said, proudly spreading some of her prizes across Wiggy's palm. "Marcie thinks they're dinosaur teeth." Wiggy picked one up and held it close to her eyes as Ding-Dong continued, "But *I* say they're tortoise scales. Sea-tortoise scales."
Wiggy snorted dismissively.
"Be nice, Wiggy," I cautioned.
"What are they?" Ding-Dong asked. "Do you know what they are?"
Wiggy bit her lip and fought off the smirk that was trying to come over her face. She held a few of the other samples very close to her eyes and looked them over carefully. "You can't guess what these are?" she asked. "It should be obvious."
"Obvious to you," I said.
"Okay, in the first place, they are teeth, but they aren't dinosaur teeth..."
"Why not?"
"What would they be doing in the sand? In the shallow sand? Do you think a T-Rex passed through here yesterday to visit his dentist?"
"Be nice," I reminded her.
She rolled her eyes. "I am being nice. In the second place, they can't be tortoise scales, because there's no such thing. Tortoises don't have scales."
"So what are they, Miss Hedwig Smarty-Pants Wetherwax?" Ding-Dong asked.
"They're shark teeth, hello!" Wiggy laughed. "You can find them on beaches all over the world. I never saw them in New Jersey, but my dad has some he got in California..."
"Shark teeth!?" Ding-Dong and I cried out together, and leaped from the water as if it was boiling.
"Calm down," Wiggy said. She was still standing in the shallows, not excited in the least. "Just because there are sharks' teeth doesn't mean there are sharks nearby. I don't think they could swim in this shallow water anyway."
"But Graffy and Grooty are out there!" Ding-Dong cried.
"Out where?" Wiggy asked.
"They swam out to the ship!"
"Oh, the idiots!" Wiggy said.
"What 'idiots'?" I asked her. "They didn't know."
Wiggy fell silent. Mirina came walking over, looking as if she'd stepped off the cover of a teen fashion magazine. Her bikini was a brilliant lime-green, and her blonde hair floated and flowed behind her. "What's going on?" she asked.
We quickly filled her in. Mirina gave an exclamation of dismay and covered her cheeks with her hands. "Oh, who is the fastest runner?" she asked, glancing around. "Cakey, oh, Cakey," Mirina called, "Get up, get up! You must run to the top of the hill and signal Graffy and Grooty to come back now! They swam to the ship, but there are sharks in the water!"
"There might be sharks," Wiggy added, in a low voice. Everyone ignored it. In any case, by the time she'd finished speaking, Cakey was gone. Her long legs carried her up the hill as her blonde ponytail bounced behind her.
"She could have been on the track team," Ding-Dong said.
"Someone should go after her," Mirina said, so I started running, too.
By the time I reached the top of the hill, panting and out of breath, Cakey was dangling over the precipice, clutching a tree limb with one arm as she strained to get a better view. "They were already on the way back," she told me. "They wouldn't have seen me anyway. As soon as they enter the cove, I'm going back down."
"Hokay," I huffed.
"I don't see any sharks, though," she said. "Who saw them?"
I held up a finger to signal that I needed a minute.
"Straighten up," Cakey said. "You'll get your breath back faster if you stand up straight."
"This is ridiculous!" Graffy protested. "We're on a tropical island and we can't swim? Isn't this supposed to be a vacation? What's the point of being here, then?"
"The point?" Mirina echoed. "The point is staying alive!"
"Och!" scoffed Grooty. "If we see a shark, we come out of the water! It's as simple as that!"
"Nobody actually saw a shark," Graffy pointed out. She grabbed a shark tooth from Ding-Dong's hand and pretended it was attacking her. "Help! Help! Shark-tooth attack! Shark-tooth attack!"
"It's not funny," Mirina told her.
"No, it's not!" Graffy said. "It's stupid! That's what it is! It's idiotic! And I'm tell you, we will go swimming! Every day!"
"If we see a shark, we'll get out," Grooty repeated.
"You can't outswim a shark," Mirina stated, and looked to Wiggy for confirmation.
Instead, Wiggy shrugged. "We haven't seen any sharks," she said.
"Thank you, Wiggy!" Grooty said.
"Look at these teeth!" Graffy continued. "They could be thousands of years old! They probably came from a *dead* shark."
"We don't know," Mirina countered weakly.
"This is like your mystery man," Grooty told her, and Mirina's cheeks reddened. "You find a coat and boots, and woo! a scary bad man is on the island! He's coming to get you!"
"We don't know," Mirina lamely repeated. "It could be."
"*I* haven't seen a shark," Graffy declared. "And I've been out there."
"Me, too," Grooty agreed. "Not a one!"
Mirina looked at them in silence. I hadn't seen her authority challenged before, and wondered what she would do.
What could she do? She stood there, at a loss. She had no power. She had no authority, other than her personality. Her position as Head Cheerleader... well, it meant *something*, but not enough for this situation. She had no way to stop them from swimming, no way to compel them or punish them.
So, she didn't try to dominate. In a small voice, like the voice of reason, she told them, "I just want to keep us safe. I want us all to get home alive and in one piece."
The twins looked at their feet and kicked a bit of sand. Mirina glanced at Wiggy, who thought for a moment.
"We could post a lookout when we swim," Wiggy proposed. The twins brightened up at that, and Mirina relaxed a little.
"We could make a big pool up by the spring," Ding-Dong offered. "It wouldn't be hard. All we have to do is move a few rocks and some sand. We could set up a shower, too."
That stopped everything. We all looked at each other, until Boogers asked, "Could we really? A shower?"
Ding-Dong had figured it out while she was up there before: there wasn't a lot of water coming out of the spring, but it collected in the pool. "So we already have a reservoir," she said.
Moving to the edge of the hill, she pointed to a dry area about ten feet below us. "That spot is dry right now, but it's a great big natural basin. What we need to do is direct the water this way," she walked to show us where it would go. "It doesn't need to be a lot of water, or have any pressure at all. Time will fill the basin. The water will run all night and all day.
"And that rock down there is the same soft rock as the cave, so it won't cut our feet. Once the water fills it up, we'll have a swimming pool."
"A kiddy pool," Grooty scoffed, but the others looked interested.
"So why isn't it full right now?" Knickers asked. "The rain should have filled it."
"Because there's a crack over there," Ding-Dong explained. "See it? We need to fill that crack... patch it, and then it will hold water."
"But look, Ding-Dong: the water runs that way," Boogers objected, pointing to runoff that disappeared into the shrubbery.
"It's no big deal to redirect it," Ding-Dong told her. "We do it up here, by the pool. We block that outlet, and unblock the way we want the water to go."
She made it all sound so simple and reasonable. Everyone, even Wiggy, nodded or voiced their approval.
"And the shower?" Boogers reminded her.
"Oh, yeah, right! The shower!" Ding-Dong enthused. "Come on down below, you have to see!"
Nimbly picking her way along the rocky slope, Ding-Dong led us down and around the back of the hill. "Look it!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it perfect? You can put your clothes over here. And for those girls who need their privacy, once you pass this rock, no one can see you, not even the man in the jungle."
Mirina cleared her throat.
"And here," she said, with the air of a real-estate agent selling a home, "is this tiny niche. It's the perfect place to set your soap! Your shampoo and conditioner, your razor and what-have-you can all go down here." She spread her palms as if to say, And that's it! then mimed taking a shower and shaving her legs.
"Where is the water supposed to come from?" Graffy asked.
"Up there," Ding-Dong said, pointing straight up to a pair of rocks that jutted out like a spout. "We only need to guide the water by making a little channel."
Ding-Dong brought us up back to the pool and showed us what work needed to be done. "If we don't take too much water for the swimming pool, we should have plenty of pressure for the shower. We can close off one or the other as needed, just by setting a rock in the proper channel, here or here!"
"It doesn't look so hard," Mirina commented. "Good thinking, Ding-Dong. We can work on this tomorrow. Today we still have some exploring that we must do."
"Wow, Ding-Dong!" Cakey said, "I'm seriously impressed! On this trip you've turned into a combination Robinson Crusoe and McGuyver!"
The other girls began to murmur their assent when Boogers let out a startled shriek.
"Ooh!" she shrieked, her eyes wide. "I accidentally stepped in the pool! The water's like ice!"
"I guess it's going to be a cold shower," Graffy smirked.
"I have an idea about that, too," Ding-Dong countered.
"I'm *so* sure!" Graffy scoffed.
"Give her a chance," Wiggy said. "She's been right on the money so far."
"Oh, Wiggy, you should talk!" Grooty countered. "When have you ever given Belle a chance?"
Wiggy reddened and didn't reply. Mirina clapped her hands and said, "Come on now, girls! Let's hear Ding-Dong's idea."
"We brought some black garbage bags from the ship," Ding-Dong said. "We can line the bottom of this pool with the bags."
"That's ridiculous," Graffy said. "What good will that do?"
"The black will absorb heat from the sun," Wiggy said. "It will heat up the water. Some, anyway. It's a good idea."
"We can line the channels with the bags, too," Ding-Dong continued. "It might make the work of redirecting easier, too."
Graffy and Grooty looked around, frowning, searching for a problem to point out or something to criticize. They didn't find any. Ding-Dong mouthed a silent thank you to Wiggy for her support. Wiggy smiled and shrugged.
"I guess that's it," Ding-Dong said.
"Maybe we should go have lunch," Boogers suggested.
"Before we go, girls, listen up!" Mirina called, craning her neck a bit so she could see everyone's faces. "We're all going to have our moments before this little adventure is over, when we get cranky or testy or irritable."
"Oh, no!" Knickers moaned. "I didn't think about that!"
Mirina glanced at her. "I'm just talking about the stress of being here and the difficulty of waiting to be rescued. The thing is, we have to stick together. Our biggest asset is each other, so we can't afford to snipe at each other and find fault. We all need to help, to do our part. Okay? So let's go to lunch!" She turned and led the way back down to the beach.
"I'm still going to swim," Graffy declared. "I don't care."
"Me, too," Grooty agreed. "What's the point of being shipwrecked if you can't eat coconuts and swim in a blue lagoon?"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"You know," Wiggy told me, "the way Robinson Crusoe realized he wasn't alone was that he found a footprint in the sand."
"That's kind of creepy," I said, looking around us.
On Wednesday and Thursday, with the help of the map, we finished exploring the island. In order to speed things up, we split into five teams of two. Wiggy and I were one of the teams.
"You know," Wiggy told me as we made our way along the northern edge of the island, "Robinson Crusoe realized he wasn't alone when he found a footprint in the sand."
"That's kind of creepy," I said, looking around us.
She laughed. "Don't worry! There's nobody here but us chickens!"
We trudged along the beaten path, occasionally pushing a frond or branch out of the way. "Hey, Wiggy," I said, "doesn't it seem like somebody maintains these paths? I mean, there used to be a walking path in the woods behind my uncle's house. Every so often he'd to go along with a pair of clippers to keep it clear. But the summer when he died, the path closed up pretty quickly. A year later you couldn't tell that there'd ever been a path there."
"Huh," she commented. After a bit of thought she said, "I think the crew or somebody must have fixed things up before we came. You know, checked the supplies in the cave, cleared the brush off the paths, etc., etc."
"Makes sense," I said.
As we walked, the ever-present roar of the surf rose and fell gently all around us. Aside from that and the occasional chirp of the tree-frogs, there was nothing else to hear. The air was warm and clean, and even if it was hot — especially in direct sunlight — there was a constant cooling breeze.
"It's like paradise here," I said.
"Paradise Prison," Wiggy replied.
"Oh, come on," I protested.
"I can't stop thinking that I should just get in the dory and leave," she said. "I need to go for help."
"You promised you'd wait," I reminded her.
"Yeah," she agreed.
"AND you promised you'd take me with you," I added.
"I will," she said, almost sullenly. "Look, I will, okay? I will! I'll wait. I want to take you with me. I really need to take you with me, 'cause it isn't smart to go alone. Even if I do all the rowing, it will still be easier with two. So don't worry: I won't leave without you."
"Wiggy?"
"What?"
"If the other island is so close, how come we can't see it?"
She stopped walking. "You don't know which direction to look," she replied. "I've seen it. Even though I knew which way to look, it took me a while to pick it out."
"Can you show me?"
Her eyes narrowed. "I think I want to keep that part secret, too. It's important that you don't start second-guessing me."
I sighed. She was so difficult on this topic! The problem was, that she was right: I *was* second-guessing her. I didn't want her to go at all. As smart as she was, and however experienced she might be in a rowboat, she'd still only be a little girl in a rowboat, somewhere in the biggest ocean in the world.
For sure, she wouldn't be any safer with me along, in spite of what she said. What kind of backup would I be? What if the boat tipped over? What if we lost an oar? What if we lost both oars?
There were too many unknowns; too many things we couldn't know for sure. What if Wiggy had read the map wrong? What if the other island wasn't even there, or wasn't inhabited? What if the current was against us, or we lost our way?
The worse part was, if we made a mistake, we weren't likely to get a second try.
So far, I'd gotten her to wait until Monday. Maybe I could push her to Tuesday. In the meantime, I had to find a way to make her wait even longer. I needed to find reasons to make her stay.
What I really needed was help, I thought, and it suddenly occurred to me that I could take Cakey into my confidence. Cakey was clever and tricky: she might come up with a dozen ways to slow Wiggy down without giving the game away. In fact, that sounded like a really good idea.
"You're awfully quiet," Wiggy said. "What are you thinking about?"
"Rowing away from here," I told her truthfully. "Hey, how will we carry water to drink in the dory?"
Wiggy's face brightened. "I've thought about that! And I have a great solution! Listen—"
I did listen, and I heard something that pricked my ears up. I stopped stock still and grabbed Wiggy's arm. "Shh, Wiggy! Do you hear that?" The sound was still soft and maybe far-off, but in the near-silence of the island I could hear it. It was a strange, quick, pattering sound. It had to be an animal, or a person. Whatever it was, it was running.
"I don't—" she began, but I cut her off.
"There's something coming this way!" I hissed. "It's some kind of animal, heading straight for us! Whatever it is, it's really fast!"
Very quickly the sound had gotten louder, and now Wiggy heard it as well. It rose from a distant patter to a rumble, and the rumble grew into a roar as it grew closer. By the sound of it, it wasn't alone. It could have been a herd of... some kind of animal... or maybe a group of men, running barefoot through the heavy plant growth around us. Because of the bushes and leaves and plants, we couldn't see very far. Whatever it was would right on top of us before we'd get any visual warning. Besides that, the sound was so muffled and dampened by the thick bushes and trees, it was hard to tell exactly which direction the thing or things were coming from, and how close or far they were.
"What on earth is it?" Wiggy asked, wild-eyed.
I looked around for something to defend us with, and found nothing better than an old broken stick, and a sharp rock. I grabbed one in each hand, and got ready.
"Whatever it is," I said, "We have to hit it hard as soon as it comes out. We have to make sure *we* hurt it first, before it hits us. Remember, Wiggy: Aim for the soft parts!"
Wiggy nodded, and picked up a stick and stone for herself. I stepped a little ahead of her, to make sure I had a clean shot at it.
As the monster — or whatever it was — approached closer and closer, making more and more noise, our minds filled with all sorts of images: gigantic animals, headhunters, wild boars, buffalo, rhinos... who knew what! My heart kicked up a few notches. I raised my head. I felt incredibly alert, as scared and as ready as I could be. But one thing was for sure: whatever it was, I was going to leave my mark on it.
Soon we heard branches snapping, and a huge crash! among the bushes, followed quickly by another. We both jumped, startled. Wiggy fumbled and dropped her makeshift weapons. She squeaked in terror, and scrambled to pick them up again. I squeezed both hands to get a better grip on my own rock and stick. By now I was sure that the animal, whatever it was, was *big*. It was leaping and bounding toward us, overcoming every obstacle with its powerful, violent strength.
"MAR-CEEEEE!" screamed Wiggy, "I'm scared! I'm scared! We're going to die! We're going to DIE! What is it? What is it?"
With a final boom! the shrubbery parted, and an enormous rock came crashing through. It crossed the path a few feet ahead of us, covered us with the dust that followed in its wake, and bounded down the hill into the sea.
At first, the two of us gaped like idiots, astounded, shocked, dusty, and speechless.
Then Wiggy began to laugh. She laughed and laughed until the tears ran from her eyes and she had to pull off her glasses. "A rock!" she cried. "All that noise, and it was only a rock!"
I laughed too: but only a little bit. I gave a relieved hah!, glad that we hadn't been torn apart by a ravenous beast. My adrenaline rush had left me a little shaky; I was still a bit unnerved by the experience, and had to ramp back down to normal.
"Aim for the soft parts!" Wiggy repeated, chuckling and clutching her sides. "Oof! I almost wet myself when that thing rolled out of the bushes! I thought we were going to get eaten alive!"
"It's lucky the rock didn't hit us," I told her. "It would have been as good as being eaten alive. Or being hit by a car."
"Whew!" she said, getting a grip on herself.
"We have to warn the others," I said.
"Watch for falling rocks," Wiggy said. "Look both ways before crossing the street!" and she burst out laughing again.
"I'm glad you're so tickled by our brush with death," I told her, picking up the walkie-talkie.
"Oh, Marcie!" she laughed. "I'll show you 'tickled'" and she stuck her wiggling fingers into my armpit.
"Ooh, stop!" I said, jumping back a step. "No, really! Stop! I'm not ticklish, Wiggy, I'm not! Quit it! I'm— Eeee!"
"I'm just aiming for your soft parts," Wiggy teased. "Tickle, tickle, tickle!"
By Thursday evening, we knew for certain that the adults hadn't made it to the island. We'd covered every inch, followed every path, and looked in every corner. (As much as islands have corners!)
Now, we not only knew that they weren't on the island, we also knew that they hadn't been rescued either. The proof of that was the fact that we were still stuck on our island. If Captain Blackett or anyone in her crew had reached safety and civilization, the first thing they would have done was send someone to pick us up. Since that hadn't happened, we knew that the adults were still lost.
We had to hope that they'd found their way to one of the many islands that dotted the South Pacific. Hopefully, they'd find food and water. Maybe not piled neatly in a cave as we'd found, but we had to believe that those resourceful women would find a way to survive.
Wiggy and I never said so, but neither of us expected to find the adults on our island. After the two of us had circled the island in the dory, I felt sure that we were alone. I expected that once the Amazons reached the same realization, that they'd be depressed and sad.
But I was wrong. Oddly enough, everyone (including me) was quite excited — and even happy — once we were sure.
Maybe it was because at least one question had been settled. Maybe it was because we could quit waiting for an adult to come and take charge: we knew at last that *we* were in charge; that we had to plan and carry out everything.
Until we were rescued, anyway.
Ding-Dong spent Thursday morning attempting to re-route the water from the spring's pool. It was much harder than she expected. Cakey, Wiggy, and I helped, carrying rocks and moving dirt and sand. With the few tools we'd brought from the ship we tried to dig water channels in the rock.
Unfortunately, it didn't work.
We were able to get the water running toward the shower-shelf, but the flow was so strong that the water overshot the shelf and flew into the jungle below. Ding-Dong tried to enlarge the channel or make it deeper, but that only made it worse. With all her fiddling, a rock came loose, opening a gap that was impossible to close.
Impossible, at least, for four girls without the proper tools and materials.
Water poured down the side of the hill and broke into a dozen useless rills and dribbles. The water in our original pool — our reservoir — dropped rapidly to about half it's former level.
"Don't give up, Belle," Cakey told her. "It's a good idea. You just need to think it out a little more."
"Eh, it doesn't matter," Ding-Dong said, brushing off her disappointment. "We're getting rescued in a day or two anyway. Right?"
"Right!" we all answered, although Wiggy's answer was an unconvinced grunt.
In any case, the question of bathing got answered in a completely different and quite novel way. Graffy and Grooty, while exploring a rocky cliff on the western side of the island, found a set of waterspouts.
On a plateau overlooking the ocean, they found some small holes in the ground. When Grooty got down on hands and knees to look inside, jets of water unexpectedly struck her in the stomach and face. She fell over, stunned, and lost one of the walkie-talkies and a flashlight down the holes.
Graffy had been quite frightened, thinking her twin was badly hurt, but after lying on the ground panting for several minutes, Grooty was fine.
"It just knocked the wind out of me," the girl told us later.
It didn't take long to understand the phenomenon: there were fissures and tunnels that ran through the rock cliff. Any time a wave struck the face of the cliff, water filled the empty spaces and shot out the waterspouts.
Once you understood the principle, it was easy to know when a spout was going to blow. All you had to do was watch for the waves or listen for the gurgles that came from the holes.
Two of the spouts, it turned out, regularly shot enough water in the air to completely drench a body.
And so, on Friday morning, we all made our way to the spouts, and took our showers.
One of the things we'd taken from the ship was soap: a special soap that works in salt water. With it, we were able to clean our hair and bodies, and rinse quite conveniently as the jets fell to earth. The soap left our skin — and even our hair! — soft and clean, and no horrible tangles.
Cakey, Wiggy, and I bathed last, not looking at each other, and not removing our underwear.
It was weird, I admit, but I was grateful for Cakey and Wiggy's modesty or insecurity or whatever it was. At least I wasn't alone in not wanting to be seen naked. Their pudor gave me a perfect cover.
Looking back on the whole experience, Friday was our most peaceful, fun, relaxing day of all the time we spent on the island. By then, we'd explored it all. We knew we were alone there. Today was the day we'd be missed; today we were expected on the flight from Bora Bora. Tomorrow we'd be rescued. All we needed to do was wait.
But the waiting... well, that didn't start until tomorrow, Saturday. Today, if it hadn't been for the shipwreck, we would have been at sea, returning to Bora Bora.
"What time was our flight today?" I asked Wiggy as we returned from the waterspouts.
She glanced at her watch. "It was a little after lunch... 12:20. We still have a couple of hours to make it," she joked.
I almost wanted to ask Wiggy how soon she thought we'd be rescued. It was everyone else's favorite topic of discussion. However, I knew it would set her off, so I didn't say it.
In the afternoon we gathered coconuts and piled them near the cave. We went with Ding-Dong to find the pigs. They were even smaller and cuter than she'd said. We oohed and cooed over them, giving them names, watching from a distance, but when we moved closer to see if we could pet one, they all ran off, squealing and oinking in a terrifying explosion of porcine terror. It was a little funny to see those tiny bodies falling over each other, rushing to get away, but the noise was deafening and left us speechless.
After that, we couldn't find the pigs again.
Some of the girls put on their bathing suits and went to play under the waterspouts. At first, Graffy and Grooty were in a snit because they couldn't swim, but Wiggy managed to convince Mirina that we could take turns on Shark Watch. One or two girls could watch the entrance to the cove, and bang on a pot with a stick if a shark was seen.
After about a half an hour the watch was discontinued, and anyone who wanted to swim, swam. In spite of their bravado, Graffy and Grooty stayed in the cove, and didn't venture out to the open sea.
Before sunset, we all trooped up to the waterspouts to take our evening showers, and everyone without exception went to bed as soon as it got dark.
We were tired, sure, but we also wanted to get up as early as possible.
After all, tomorrow was Saturday, and Saturday we might get rescued.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"Hey, you two," Mirina said. "What are you conspiring about, this early in the morning? Wiggy, you're not about to sail off in your magical dinghy, are you?"
The next day, Saturday, was the first day we could be rescued. We all got up early and took another shower. Then we all got dressed and waited.
Nobody left the camp except that every so often a couple of girls would go to the top of the hill to see whether there was anything to be seen.
There was nothing. No boat, no plane, no helicopter. Nothing.
The day passed slowly, but no one lost heart. Wiggy was a bit tense, but not more than usual.
"One more day," she whispered to me as we got ready for bed. "Tomorrow I'll gather all the supplies so we can be ready for first light Monday."
"Okay," I answered, and lay down on my bunk. We were still sleeping inside the cave. One reason was that it was so comfortable. There were beds, cool air, and it was clean. The other reason was that Mirina never got over the feeling that a man was wandering around the island, and she felt safer with all of us together in the cave.
Sunday passed in the same way, although we all began feeling restless. Since everyone wanted to be there when help arrived, no one left the camp. As a result, we were immensely bored.
We took turns trying to open the coconuts we'd gathered. Donkey smashed one violently against a pointed rock. The green skin crumpled and the white insides showed.
"What did you do that for?" Boogers demanded.
"I thought coconuts were supposed to be hard," Donkey replied. "I thought it would crack open, not smash like a pumpkin! And aren't coconuts supposed to be brown? Are the ones you see in stores toasted or dried or something?"
Nobody knew.
"I mean," Donkey went on, "these things are green. Doesn't that mean they aren't ripe yet?"
"Maybe they aren't coconuts," Ding-Dong offered.
"No," Boogers contradicted. "They came from the coconut trees, so they MUST be coconuts."
"Those are palm trees," Ding-Ding said. "Right? Do coconuts grow on palm trees? Why do they call them palm trees then?"
"Dates grow on palm trees, too," Cakey threw in, with a mischievous grin.
"Oh, you girls!" Boogers exclaimed in exasperation. "Let me see one of those things. I just thought it would be fun to try to open them. I didn't expect it to turn into a big federal case!"
Boogers selected one of the coconuts and balanced it atop one of the picnic tables. Then she took the biggest kitchen knife we had, and asked Donkey, "Will you hold this coconut still for me?"
At first she tried to slice it the way you'd slice an apple. Then she tried to cut it as if it was a loaf of bread. Athough she succeeded in making cuts into the skin, the knife kept slipping away from her. I could hardly bear to watch.
"Oh, Boogers, be careful!" I cried. "The way you two are standing, you could stab Donkey in the stomach!"
Boogers stopped and said, "This stupid knife isn't going to do it anyway. Stand back, Donkey, I'm going to try something different." She put down the knife and picked up a heavy meat cleaver. Twice she buried the cleaver deep in the fruit and needed Donkey's help to pull it out, but at last she managed to separate the coconut into two halves. All the coconut milk was lost as it flowed through the table onto the ground.
"Och!" Mirina cried out in an irritated voice. "You girls are making a mess! All that sticky sweet stuff is going to attract bugs!"
"We're leaving tomorrow anyway," Knickers retorted. "Nature will clean it up."
"No, I'll do it!" Mirina replied, and jumped to her feet. She took a small pot, dipped it in the ocean, and poured the salty water all over the table.
"It's not working," Knickers pointed out, putting her tongue in her cheek.
Mirina touched her hand to the mixture. She sighed. "It's too oily," she declared. "I need some..." She hesitated... "some cleaner..." She huffed distractedly. "... and something to wipe with..." Then at last she said, "Whatever! Just leave it!" and went to wash her hands with soap.
Boogers, undeterred, took a selection of knives and another coconut. With a great deal of difficulty, she managed to peel the green skin off half a coconut. Then she carefully carved away at the white meat until she created a tiny opening to the hollow center. "Aha!" she exclaimed, and put the opening to her lips.
After a few deep sips, she set it down. Her face was wet with the oily liquid. "It's good, girls! It's very good! It's like lemonade!"
Soon we were all at work, each girl with her coconut, carving, whittling, and at long last drinking.
I liked it, but it was so rich I couldn't drink much.
In the evening a light rain came up, so we retired early.
Wiggy shook me awake and beckoned me to follow. I heard the rain before we reached the mouth of the cave.
"It's still raining," she said.
I looked out, and (still half asleep) said, "It's not so bad. I think I see light over there. It's probably going to clear up." Then I kicked myself. Wiggy clearly didn't want to go in the rain. So what was I doing? Talking her into going? I wondered whether I could take back what I'd said. Turned out, I didn't need to.
"Yeah," Wiggy said, "it probably is clearing up, but there's no point in taking unnecessary chances. We're not going today. We'll go first thing tomorrow, weather permitting."
As quiet as we'd been, our exit had woken Mirina, and she emerged, still dressed in her pajamas. She joined us at the cave mouth. In an unexpectedly affectionate moment, she gathered Wiggy and me to her, putting her arms on our shoulders.
"Hey, you two," she said. "What are you conspiring about, this early in the morning? Wiggy, you're not about to sail off in your magical dinghy, are you?"
Wiggy stiffened for a moment, and I thought (gratefully) that the game was up, but Mirina was only joking. She never thought for a moment that Wiggy would be mad enough to take such a tiny boat into the world's largest sea.
"It's a dory, not a dinghy," Wiggy told her, "and I'd be rowing, not sailing."
"Oh, Hedwig, I'm only teasing you. Lighten up. Listen. The girls need us to be calm." Her eyes drifted to me. "You too, Miss Action Hero. Today, especially if it rains, we'll all be bouncing off the walls. The three of us need to keep a lid on things." When Mirina finished speaking, a shudder ran through her, and she let go of us, taking a few steps back.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Oh," she said. "I had the weirdest dream last night. That's what woke me up, really. Otherwise I wouldn't have seen the two of you sneaking out." She drew one deep breath, then another. "It was really disturbing. And the worst part was that it seemed so real."
"Do you want to tell us about it?" I offered.
Before going on, Mirina looked around her, as if someone might be listening. Then she went to the table, took a flashlight and turned its beam outside, using it to look in every spot that we could see.
"Okay," she said. "In my dream, we were all here on island, all us girls. Except that Romy was here instead of you, Marcie." (Romy is the girl who gave up her place for me.)
"So what was the scary part?" Wiggy asked.
"There was a boy on the island," Mirina answered.
"A boy?" Wiggy echoed in a questioning tone. "Not the man..." she gestured to the cloakroom "... they guy who left his coat and boats here?"
"No, it was a boy, our age, and he was on the island too."
"Was he bad?" I asked.
"No, he just didn't belong here," she replied. When she said that, a chill ran through me.
"So what else happened?" I asked.
She shrugged. "Nothing, I guess."
"That doesn't sound scary at all," Wiggy scoffed. "A boy? And what — did he have cooties?" she laughed a little.
"You laugh, Hedwig, you laugh," Mirina said. "I can't explain why it was frightening; that's the way dreams are." She shook her head. "It was very disturbing." She closed her eyes for a moment. "Oh, girls, I'm so tired! I'm going back to bed. It's still too early."
"Good night," I said, and Wiggy wished her "Sweet dreams," with a smirk that Mirina didn't see.
After Her Manliness was gone, I said to Wiggy, "You didn't tell her, did you?"
"Tell her what?" she replied.
"About me!"
"About you?" She furrowed her brow, not understanding. Then she got it: "Oh! About you! About you being a boy? The boy of her dreams?" She cackled and grabbed my arm, gently waggling it. "Of course not! Why would I do that? Oh, Marcie! You're my best friend here! I could never do that!"
"Okay," I said.
She scoffed at me. "Your secret's safe. Nobody's going to guess, and I'm not going to tell!"
"You said you would, if I told about the dory..."
She scoffed again. "As if! I just wanted you to know how serious my secret was!"
"Okay," I said, not entirely reassured.
Wiggy looked into the light rain outside. "Let's go back to bed," she said. "Mirina's right: it is too early."
By breakfast time the rain had gone and the sky was clear. The air had a wonderful freshness. Ding-Dong made real coffee, and it was pretty good.
"I made it cowboy style," she explained. "You boil the water, dump in the coffee, return to a boil, then take it off the heat. When the grounds settle, it's ready to drink."
"I like it," I said. "I never thought I'd ever drink black coffee."
She smiled and sipped her own. As I sat next to Ding-Dong, I thought how much I'd miss them all, but particularly Ding-Dong, when this was all over.
"We can write," she said. "We can email and phone and chat."
"How did you know what I was thinking?" I asked, astonished.
"I was thinking it too," she replied, her eyes twinkling.
Of course, Monday passed and still we weren't rescued. The realization that we could be on the island for a very long time began to sink in.
Spontaneously the girls gathered an enormous quantity of wood, and once the sun went down, they lit a bonfire. No one said so, but it was obviously a signal. It probably would have been more effective if it were up on top of the hill, but I didn't say so. It seemed more of an emotional signal than a physical one.
We sat at a distance (it was a VERY hot fire) and discussed the rescue. Everyone kept dancing around the obvious conclusion — that no one knew where we were — but no one said it out loud. Not yet.
Maybe someone would come to rescue us tomorrow. But tomorrow Wiggy and I would be gone, off in the crazy dory, out on the open sea.
I wanted to go; I didn't want to go. But one thing was sure: I couldn't tell anyone. Still, what if it worked? You've done crazier things, Marcie, and you've always come through, I told myself. Could I trust in my uncanny luck? Did I have some sort of indestructible karma? Who knows? I thought about the kidnapping... being a prisoner... confronting Officer Strange... I came through all that. I didn't just survive, either. I got out.
That experience left a black, bitter mark on my soul, but at the same time it gave me courage. I knew I could come through again, and again. In some crazy way (and I knew it was crazy, even at the time) I knew I'd come through now. If I went with Wiggy, we'd come through. We'd get help, and we'd all be rescued.
Besides, I knew that Wiggy would go with or without me. If I made her go alone, I could never forgive myself. And if I told the others and stopped her from going, she'd never forgive me.
With all the back and forth inside my head, I knew I had to delay Wiggy as long as I could... my rational brain knew I had to keep her on the island.
But another part of me was ready to go. As insane, desperate, and frightening as her idea was — that two teenage girls could go to sea in a dory and find help on another island — somehow, in spite of all my mental reservations, I knew deep down inside of me... I *knew* it would work. I don't know why.
Probably I felt that way because of Wiggy herself. I knew she was half-crazed with the fear of being stuck here forever. Plus, she was riddled with guilt. She truly believed it was her fault that no one knew where were were.
At the same time, I'd seen Wiggy in action. I remembered how she parted the sea of journalists at my house, and the way she shepherded us through the journey here.
Of course, I'd seen her other side as well: the little lost girl. I'd seen her that way on the ship before it sank.
In fact, I saw that little lost girl the very first time I met her, right after she'd pushed back the journalists. She'd fallen down the icy steps, and I had to fight my way though the crowd to help her up.
Maybe that was a model or a metaphor for how things would go in the dory. She had the plan, the drive, the power. I was the one who could step up to protect the little lost girl in her. That much, I could handle. I couldn't help her with the boat, or the rowing, or with knowing the way. All I had to do — all that I could do — was hold her hand, bring her down to earth. If we worked together, we'd be fine.
I looked at the girls around the fire, and saw Wiggy sitting next to Mirina. I smiled at her and she smiled back. I guess she was comforted by knowing we were leaving the next day.
Since I was lost in my musings, I hadn't noticed when it began, but Ding-Dong was telling the story of Journey To The Center of the Earth. Surprisingly, the other girls seemed quite interested. She told the story from a peculiar angle, though. Right now she was spending a lot of time on the love story between a boy named Axel and a girl named Grauben.
"He didn't want to go on the expedition because he wanted to stay and marry Grauben," Ding-Dong was saying.
"Didn't Grauben go along?" Cakey asked.
"No," Ding-Dong replied. "She stayed behind. I think she had some job in another town or something."
"Are you sure her name was Grauben?" Donkey asked. "I thought her name was Gertrude."
"Gertrude was the duck!" Boogers replied. "Everybody knows that!"
"There was no duck," Ding-Dong contradicted. "And nobody in the book is named Gertrude."
Everyone began speaking at once, but in the end it was established that Gertrude the duck was a later addition to a cartoon version of the story.
Once that point was settled, Ding-Dong went on to describe the guide, a man named Hans. "He was tall and strong, and very still. He almost never spoke, but he had these dreamy sea-blue eyes, and long red hair that fell all the way down to his shoulders."
"Hmmph!" snorted Knickers. "Blue eyes and long red hair? I don't know whether I'd like that! Long red hair? On a boy?"
"On a *man*," Cakey corrected.
"Oh, but you would like it," Ding-Dong went on. "Hans was quiet, and masterful, and strong. He was always calm and tranquil, and he always knew what to do. Oh! And I almost forgot! He had broad shoulders."
I won't bore you with the whole of Ding-Dong's recitation. She concentrated heavily on the relationships between the characters and very little on the plot, yet in the end she managed to convey the basic idea: that the travelers went underground in Iceland and emerged in Italy.
Even though her narrative was emotionally biased, continually interrupted, and almost completely without a story line, it was pretty easy to understand. What I found difficult to understand was the attention that all the girls gave her. It was beyond polite; they seemed genuinely interested.
At last the clue came when Donkey asked, "But Ding-Dong, I don't understand how this helps us. We're not in Iceland."
"No," Ding-Dong replied, "but we have a volcano!"
And then I understood: Ding-Dong was proposing the volcano as a way off the island. In her book, there was a path underground that led from a dead volcano all the way to Sicily. She imagined that if we descended into the earth the same way the characters in her book had done, we would likewise come to a happy exit in some civilized country.
"Oh, no, Belle, no," Donkey objected. "You never said we'd have to go into the volcano."
Other objections followed. Ding-Dong tried to answer them all, but it was pretty clear that none of the girls were ready to climb underground for any reason. Ding-Dong rose to her feet to argue better, and I slipped over to Wiggy's side.
"I'm surprised you're not saying anything," I told her in a teasing tone.
"I don't need to," she answered. "We have our own way out."
"Right," I said. "Is everything ready?"
"Yes," she replied. There's just one thing we'll have to do on the water, and that's to rig a canopy so we don't get sunburnt. Still, that's not a big deal."
I nodded.
The girls were still arguing over Ding-Dong's radical plan. Boogers, rolling her eyes incredulously, separated herself and came over.
"Do you two want to open a couple of coconuts with me?" she asked.
Wiggy shook her head no, but I said, "Sure, let's do it."
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
I sat down with my back to the rock wall and put my hands on my belly.
"Oh, Lord," I said, "let this baby be a small one and make it come out easy." Then I drifted back to sleep.
In the middle of the night — I don't know when exactly — my stomach woke me with its pre-volcanic rumblings. Maybe it wasn't my stomach... it could have been some deeper part of my inner plumbing, but something wasn't right down there.
Everyone else was asleep, although how they could sleep with the noise I my guts were making, I don't know. I felt as though I was pregnant with twins... twin lizards or twin monkeys, or maybe a lizard and a monkey, or a dog and a bear, but whatever the two things were, they were fighting it out inside my belly, no holds barred.
It reminded me of nothing so much as the night I came from Ida's house after eating her awful dinner. That cheesecake... and the liver...
Oh! Don't remind me!
A noise came out of me like a low voice shouting boo wow! drawing the wow part out long, for emphasis. It made me jump, and I felt it coming. I glanced around at the other girls, but they were still sleeping. By the light of the candle in the next room I could make out their sleeping forms, and no one was moving. All there was to hear were the soft, gentle sounds of blonde cheerleaders sleeping. They even sounded girly in their sleep. It was all too cute.
Although I knew it wasn't cold, I wrapped myself in my blanket and made my way to the mouth of the cave. There, I'd be free to wimper and burp and possibly break wind without disturbing the other girls. And if I needed the bathroom, it would be closer at hand.
We'd left a candle burning in the entryway, in case our rescuers came by night. By its light I found one of the flashlights and pumped it up. Then I sat down with my back to the rock wall and put my hands on my belly.
"Oh, Lord," I said, "let this baby be a small one and make it come out easy." Then I drifted back to sleep.
After what seemed like months, or even years, had passed over the earth, I felt someone shaking me awake. It was Wiggy.
"Marcie!" she hissed, "What are you doing out here? I brought your clothes. They're in the boat; you can get changed there. Come on, now, everything's ready."
"Okay," I said. "Oooh!"
"What's the matter?"
"My stomach, my head. I don't feel so good."
Wiggy touched my forehead. She swore. "You've got a fever, Marcie! You're sick! Now I can't take you! Oh, no, oh no! I don't want to go alone!"
"Then don't go alone," I said. "Wait until I'm better. We might get rescued in the meantime."
She hesitated, but only for a moment. "No," she said. "We know that nobody's coming. Another day of waiting is another day wasted. I should have gone before."
"Then take me, Wiggy, take me," I said. "I'll be fine. It'll pass. Come on! I'll sleep a little more and it will pass."
She wrestled with herself in silence for a few moments. I added, "At the very worst, you won't be alone."
"Okay," she said, and helped me to my feet.
I hurried along as quickly as I could, feeling bloated and ill. It was like being pregnant with a full toxic load of fermented coconut juice. It sloshed and churned within me.
When we got halfway to the dock, a light snapped on behind us and caught us in its beam. Mirina's voice called out, "Where are you two going? Wiggy, Marcie, stop! Hey! I said STOP!"
"Oh, that's all we need," Wiggy said, stepping up the pace. "Look, Marcie, I..."
"Don't leave without me, Wiggy! Don't do it! I don't want you to go alone!"
"Move a little faster, or I'll have to!" she replied. "If I stop now, Mirina will make sure that I *never* go!"
I huffed and puffed, and tried to move faster without shaking the volatile mixture within me.
"Oh, hurry up, can't you?" Wiggy cried. We were still a few yards from the dock.
Behind us, I heard Mirina calling into the cave for help. Then she came running after us.
"I gotta go!" Wiggy said, in a fearful voice. "Sorry, Marcie!"
"No, no!" I cried, and then a sharp pain shot through the inside of me like a blade of white blazing fire. I couldn't speak or walk or even see. To make a long story short, I turned and vomited like a fire hose. Sorry to be disgusting, but once it started, it kept on coming. I had no control. I fell to my knees.
I felt Mirina's hand touch me on the shoulder. "I'll be back for you," she said, and then I heard her feet as she ran on the dock.
"Wiggy! Where on earth do you think you're going?"
"I'm going to get help," Wiggy answered. Her paddles softly splashed. "I left a note on the table. I found another map. There's an island nearby, Mirina. I can row there and get us help."
"Wiggy, you can't do it! Come back! It's crazy!"
"I can do it! I know I can!" Her paddling continued, and her voice grew fainter.
"Oh, Wiggy, don't," Mirina pleaded. "Don't. We have to stay together. I need you. The girls need you. Marcie needs you, too. I'm begging you, Wiggy. Don't do this. You could die!"
"I'm sorry, Mirina," Wiggy replied, "Read my note. I'm sure this is the only way. No one knows where we are. If I don't go and get some help, we could be stuck here forever."
"Not forever! Wiggy! Wiggy!" And then one last desperate wail: "WIGGY!"
At that point I fell to the ground. I curled up inside myself and faded to black.
I don't think I was tired. I actually felt pretty good when I'd gone to be the night before. Boogers had noticed that my coconut was a bit softer than the rest, and after I'd drunk all its milk she told me that it smelled bad.
"Why did you drink that, Marcie? Ooh! It smells like it's gone off."
"I couldn't find the expiration date," I joked.
Still, I hadn't noticed any smell. There was a slight tang in the taste, but what do I know about coconut milk?
And, there were no immediately side effects. Boogers figured that if I was going to get food poisoning, I'd get it in a half hour.
But she was wrong. It came several hours later, some time late in the night.
Now... I was still sick. Wiggy said I had a fever. Mirina said she'd come back for me. She wanted to stop Wiggy first, to talk some sense into her, but there was no stopping that girl. She must have jumped in the boat and started rowing. In the dark. I'm sure we would have waited for first light, but Mirina's arrival pushed Wiggy to start earlier.
Now she'd be alone, in the open Pacific. Dear God, I hope she knows what she's doing.
Then there came a whoosh! in my left ear, and suddenly I relaxed all over. I didn't feel sick any more. But I wasn't awake. I must have been asleep and dreaming, knowing I was dreaming. I looked at my hands, at my clothes... I was still wearing the same clothes.
This is how that Marcie Auburn business started, I told myself, so I quickly did an anatomical inventory. Yup: I was still Marcie Donner.
In my dream I was in a black space. There was nothing there, only me. I could see myself, but I *was* myself at the same time. I stood up and walked. I felt myself walking and saw myself walking at the same time.
There was nothing to see and nowhere to go. "This is a hell of a dream," I said out loud, and I sat down on the ground and waited. "I could do this awake!" I called, to whoever was in charge. What else could I do? Was there anything I could do? What would I do, if I could do something in this dream? I would get into someone else's dream, tell someone where we are, that we're on this island, and that Wiggy is out at sea in a tiny boat.
If I could only go home, or go anywhere just for a moment, I'd give the message, tell them we're on Muktaphala — hoping they'd remember the name was enough, and that the name would be enough.
Oh, and I'd have to tell them about the adults. They needed rescuing, too.
But how could I go anywhere?
Maybe in this dream world I could tell someone else, like my mother or father. Could they hear me in their dreams?
But how could I do that?
Maybe I could tell Brenda Earshon, the psychic. Could I call to her? Would she hear me?
For a while I shouted into the darkness, calling someone... anyone... but there was no one there. I could tell no one was listening.
In my dream I got tired, so I lay down on the ground. I lay down on the ground, and in my dream I slept.
Then it was day. I was lying on something soft and covered by a soft blanket. I heard a woman sigh.
My eyes didn't open yet. I just lay still, unmoving. I took inventory. There was no hurry. First of all, I was soaked in sweat. I was wearing my pajamas. I was lying in a bed, a real bed, not a camp bed. I was on dry land, not in a cave, not on a ship. I was in a room, and there was sunlight everywhere. It was morning, I think.
My fever had broken. That's why I was so sweaty. I felt better now. Weak, but no longer sick.
And I knew the sound of that sigh. It was my mother.
"Mom?" I asked, experimentally.
"I'm right here, honey," she replied.
"Oh, how did I get here?" I asked.
"Now, that's a story," she said, "but don't worry about that now."
"So we were rescued?" I asked. Stupid question. Of course we were rescued.
Mom laughed. "Rescued? I guess you could say that."
I sat up with a start. "Where's Wiggy?" I asked her.
"Right here, honey, right here, at home," Mom answered.
"Wiggy's here?" I asked. "Why isn't she at her house?"
"Marcie, what are you talking about?"
"What am I talking about? What do you think I'm talking about?" I demanded.
"I thought you asked Where are we?"
"No, I asked Where's Wiggy? Do you know? Is she alright?"
Mom furrowed her brow, not understanding. "Who's Wiggy?" she asked. "Is she one of your teddy bears?"
"No, Mom, no! Wiggy! Wiggy! You know, the short girl with glasses and the funny creaky voice? The one who made all the reporters get out of the way?"
My mother shrugged helplessly.
"Wiggy! You know her! She's the one who came to take me to the airport, for the flight to Hawaii!"
"Oh, that Wiggy!" Mom said, laughing.
"Finally! Now do you know who I'm talking about?"
"No, honey. I don't know any Wiggy. It must have been a dream you had."
"No," I said. "No. It wasn't a dream. Wiggy came here. You met her. We went to an island in the South Pacific with a bunch of cheerleaders — the Amazons — from the high school that Mrs. Means went to. St. Oda's. Oh, come on, Mom, you know this."
My mother, highly amused, shook her head.
"So was it Hawaii, or the South Pacific?" she asked.
"It was both. We flew from Newark to Hawaii, and from there to... uh, someplace that starts with Pa— Pa-something, and then to Bora Bora, and from there we took a sailing ship to Muktaphala."
"Honey, I don't even think Bora Bora is a real place," Mom said. "It's just a funny name they say on TV."
"I know it's real," I shot back, "because I've been there!"
"All right," Mom said, "all right. Calm down, now. Don't get all excited. You've been sick, and you still need to rest."
"I can't rest," I said. "I have to know about the other girls, that they're alright, too."
"It's okay," she said. "I'll call their mothers and let you know."
"Don't humor me, Mom. How can you call them if you don't believe they exist?"
I cast around for something to do... someone to call. Then it hit me: Rhonda Means! I had to call Rhonda Means, my father's boss! She would know Mirina's father, and through her I could find out everything.
"What are you thinking?" Mom asked cautiously. "I don't like that look on your face."
I looked behind her at my bedroom windows, the ones that overlook the front yard.
And in the front yard, there would be an army of reporters! They would know everything! They'd know I went away, they'd want details... I could tell them my story if they, in return, would tell me what happened with the girls and the crew.
I jumped out of bed and ran to the window. The front yard was empty.
"Where are the reporters?" I asked, astonished.
"You almost sound disappointed," Mom replied. "They all left yesterday. Mrs. Gifford called and told me why, but I didn't get it, it went in one ear and out the other."
"Mom!" I cried in disappointment. "How can you not know? Are they down at the courthouse?"
"No, I think they're gone from there, too. You could call Mrs. Gifford if you want to know why. Of course she wants to talk to you, and she was really put out when I told her you were sick."
"But... but..."
"Marcie, when she called, I had something urgent to do, and I couldn't listen. I was just so thankful that they left! I'm sure your father knows the reason."
"Is he here?"
"No, he's at work."
I sighed. It was just impossible. This was worse than being Marcie Auburn. At least there I had a half a dozen reasons to explain what was happening. Here it was all just a dream? That made no sense. No sense at all.
"Mom," I said. "I can't believe that all I experienced on that island was only a dream. It was too real."
"Sometimes dreams seem very real," she offered, while guiding me back to my bed.
I sat on the edge of the mattress. She sat in a chair, facing me. "But, Mom, I did things, I met people. I *learned* things and *experienced* things that I don't know anything about in real life. It had to have happened."
"Mmm," she said. "And how long were you on this island?"
I counted in my head. "Almost eight days."
She nodded. "Eight days. Did you get a tan while you were there? Did you get sunburned?"
I laughed. "Sure, we were outside all the time!"
She picked up my pale arm and said, "Oh, I see."
Stunned, I rolled up the leg of my pajamas, and saw smooth, pale skin. "What happened to it?" I asked. "Mom, how long was I asleep?"
"Well, you woke up a few times briefly yesterday, to go to the bathroom, but I don't think you were really there... you still had the fever..."
I waved my hands impatiently.
"All right, missy! Let's say you slept all day yesterday. So it's..." she looked at the ceiling while she calculated mentally "... you've been asleep for 30-something hours, give or take."
My mouth fell open. "Since I got back?"
"Since *we* got back."
"What do mean we?" I asked.
"I mean that since you and I got back from Ida's house, you've been sleeping. You were sick, you had a fever."
"No," I said.
"Yes," she replied.
"What day is today?"
"It's Friday."
"Friday? It can't be Friday! What's today's date?"
"December 29th."
"No, no, no! When Wiggy left the island, it was Monday, a week after New Years! And now it's Friday? How much school have I missed?"
My mother reached out to touch my forehead. "You haven't missed any school. New Year's is this Monday, and school starts a week after that."
"But Wiggy, Mom! Wiggy! Where is Wiggy?"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
Mom froze. "Marcie Auburn?" she repeated cautiously. "Is there something you want to tell me, Marcie? You're not planning on eloping, are you? You're too young to get married... in fact, even if you were old enough, I don't think you could get married."
I gave Mom a quick overview of my experiences with the Amazons. She didn't buy it, and continued to insist that — in spite of the sense of reality and level of detail — my travels and adventures with Wiggy and the Amazons was nothing but a fever dream.
I couldn't accept it, and I didn't accept it.
"This is the whole Marcie Auburn thing all over again!" I exclaimed aloud.
Mom froze. "Marcie Auburn?" she repeated cautiously. "Is there something you want to tell me, Marcie? You're not planning on eloping, are you? You're too young to get married... even with parental consent — which you can count on NOT having, by the way. In fact, even if you were old enough, I don't think you could get married."
"Oh, Mom!" I groaned. "I'm not getting married! Jerry's going out with Eden, anyway. I had a dream that I was Marcie Auburn. That's what I was talking about."
"So in this dream, you were married to Jerry?"
"No." I looked at her, remembering a feeling from that dream. My own mother was willing to trade me for a child from another family. "He and I switched families. He was Jerry Donner and I was Marcie Auburn."
"Oh!" Mom said, surprised. Then, musing aloud she said, "Well, it might be nice to have a boy in the family."
I let out a long, slow breath. She caught my expression.
"Marcie, you know how I love you — and how I love the way you are! I could never give you up or trade you away! It's just that it would be nice to have a boy around as well."
"I guess," I said.
"Or do you think you'd rather have a sister?" she asked me.
"What? I don't know. A big sister or a little sister?"
"It would have to be a little sister, wouldn't it?"
A bit confused, I shook my head. "Are you trying to tell me something, Mom?"
"No," she said, but it sounded like yes.
I let out another huff of air. As if things weren't complicated enough!
"I guess you're used to being an only child..." Mom murmured.
But I wasn't listening. My mind was racing through everything that had happened: Talking to Mrs. Gifford... taking the secret tunnel out of the house...
"Hey, Mom!" I interrupted. "The secret tunnel is real, right? We *did* do that, didn't we?"
"What? Oh, yes. That's how we went to Ida's."
Next came the dinner at Ida's... I knew *that* was real. Then, getting sick... meeting Wiggy...
Suddenly a memory flashed into my mind: Just before I left the house with Wiggy, Mom was shoving that book of fairy tales into my bag. That stupid book! The book was there when I was on the plane with Wiggy. It was also in my dream of Marcie Auburn. Was there really such a book? Did my mother shove it into my bag? Did anything like that happen?
Again, I interrupted my mother: "Mom, did you buy me a book of fairy tales?"
"When? When you were little? I'm sure I did."
"No, I mean recently... now. As a Christmas present."
"No..." she answered, cautiously. "Did you *want* a book of fairy tales?"
"No," I answered crossly. "I just want to know whether you bought me one: a book of transgendered fairy tales."
Mom was thoroughly puzzled. "I don't even know if there IS such a thing, Marcie. Do you want me to find one for you?"
"No!" I exclaimed. "I only want to know if you bought me one already, and shoved it into my suitcase!"
She didn't answer right away. She looked at me, considering what to say. At last, she told me, "Marcie, I know that you've been sick. You've had a high fever and imagined all sorts of things... you think you've been away somewhere, but believe me, none of that happened. I'm going to go downstairs and get you some nice broth to drink and some dry toast to eat, and a big cup of tea. And while I do that, you can try to wake up and come to terms with the fact that we are living in the here and now. If you don't believe *me*, you can ask your father when he comes home."
With that, she turned and left, before I had a chance to say anything more.
Once she was gone, my eye fell on my computer. I ran to my desk and turned it on. "Come on, come on!" I urged, coaxing it through the boot process. At last, when I was logged in, I opened a web browser and googled PRINCESS MARCELLINE. Everything I found was about a Princess Marcelline Czartoryska. She was a friend and pupil of Chopin. That was all. There was nothing about a fairy tale by that name.
I tried to remember the name of the author. It was something weird... Kay... Kay-something... Then it came to me. I googled for KALEIGH WAY. A lot of irrelevant results came up, but the only "Kaleigh Way" I found was a road somewhere in Texas.
What did it mean? Did I imagine all of that? It just couldn't be possible.
I stood up, feeling slightly light-headed, and looked at my face in the mirror. Mom was right: I didn't have a sunburn, or even a tan. I looked pretty pale... weak and washed-out.
Downstairs, I heard the phone ring twice. Mom's voice was just barely audible as she spoke to whoever was calling. Probably Ida.
After putting on my slippers and picking up my robe, I went to the bathroom and then washed my face. Wrapping the robe around me, I went downstairs, leaning on the rail as I descended. There wasn't any reason I couldn't eat downstairs.
As I got closer to the kitchen, I could smell the chicken broth. It had a strong effect on my stomach, but still I thought I could eat it. I remembered the tang of that bad coconut milk, and put both hands on my stomach. How could I possibly remember an imaginary taste?
"Feeling any better?" Mom asked.
"Yes, a little." I dropped into a kitchen chair, crossed my arms on the table, and lay my head down, turning it sideways so I could watch my mother as she poured a huge mug of tea. "Isn't it early in the morning for broth?" I asked.
"Usually it would be, but you haven't had any food for more than a day," she replied, and arranged the mugs of soup and tea next to a plate of plain, cold toast.
I picked up one of the triangles and took a tiny bite off the corner. I chewed and chewed and chewed before I washed it down with a small sip of tea.
"Oh, dear," Mom said. "If only you could eat that way all the time! Instead of shoveling it in, like you usually do."
"Mmmph," I grunted.
"Well!" Mom began, with a big smile, "I just had an interesting phone call. You'll never guess who's coming to see you today!"
"Uh, Wiggy?"
"No," Mom said in a firm tone. "Wiggy is not a real person."
"Ms. Gifford?"
"No."
"Theresa?"
"Who?"
"Theresa Dandino, the police detective."
"No."
I sighed. "I give up."
Mom gave a satisified chuckle. "I knew you couldn't guess. Cassie Auburn just called. She's in New Jersey to look at Princeton, and while she's on this side of the country, she thought she'd look you up!"
"Oh, my God!" I cried, and for a moment, I tried to remember whether I *really* knew she was coming, or only dreamed that I knew. Then it came back to me: Jerry had told me. The last time he and I spoke, when he broke up with me, he said that Cassie might come.
"Wow," I said. "When will she be here?"
"Today," Mom replied. "I told you. She'll be here for lunch, and if you feel up to it, you could bundle up and take her for a walk." She felt my forehead and cheek with the back of her hand. "If you feel up to it. I don't want you catching a cold when you've just gotten over a fever."
"Mmm," I said. "I think it might be a good idea. I'll take a shower after I finish eating." I took a deep sip of the broth. It was good. A healthy glow from the broth went all through me, even down my arms and legs. "Mom, my compliments to the chef. This broth is really the right stuff."
When Cassie arrived, I was surprised to see that she looked pretty much the way she had in my dream. Then I remembered it was only a month or so since I'd last seen her: the day before Thanksgiving.
In contrast to my "Marcie Auburn" dream, Cassie was smiling and happy to see me. Before she even took her coat off, she opened her arms to give me a big hug. Although I had a strong instinct to protect my butt, I suppressed it and hugged her as warmly as she hugged me.
Mom made one lunch for me, and another for Cassie and herself. My meal was pretty bland: poached chicken, white rice with nothing on it, and more chicken broth with crackers.
She and Cassie ate a very elaborate chef salad and a leek and potato soup.
"I think this soup is too creamy for you," Mom told me. "Tomorrow you can have some if you like."
"Cock-a-leeky soup," I said, remembering Booger's discussion of the Burns Night dinner: haggis, potatoes, turnips... and cock-a-leeky soup.
"Oh, that's a Scottish dish, isn't it?" my mother asked. "What put that in your mind?"
"We were supposed to eat it one night," I said, and my voice trailed off.
Cassie gave me a puzzled look.
"Who was supposed to eat it?" Mom asked.
I bit my lower lip. "The Amazons," I said in a low voice.
"Ah," Mom said.
"Who are the Amazons?" Cassie asked, as she lifted her spoon to her lips.
"They're cheerleaders," I said.
"In a dream," my mother added.
I looked down and didn't say anything. Cassie gave my mother a questioning glance.
Mom explained about the dinner with Ida... the food poisoning... my fever... and finished up by saying, "And so, Marcie ended up having a very elaborate dream. It was so real to her that she got upset with me this morning because I hadn't bought her some book..."
"No, I didn't want you to buy the book," I said hotly. "In the dream... or whatever it was... you bought the book and stuck it in my luggage! That was the problem!"
"Well, I'm sure I'm sorry," my mother laughed, tongue in cheek. "I won't do it again! I promise!"
At Cassie's prompting, I told the story as briefly as I could. I left out a lot. I had to. I didn't say anything about the Marcie Auburn episode, and I didn't explain why the business with the book bothered me so.
"Wow!" Cassie exclaimed. "The way you tell it, it sounds like it really happened to you!"
"It did!" I replied.
"Honey..." Mom began, but I cut her off.
"I can't explain it," I said, "but I refuse to believe that it was all a dream! I learned things! I did things! I went places and met people!"
"Imaginary people," Mom put in.
"No!" I said. "Real people! As real as you and me!"
Mom didn't answer. She bit her tongue as I sat steaming. My heart was racing, and I felt a little feverish again. I took a few breaths to try to calm down, and then a few sips of broth. I sniffed and looked at them both.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I just can't understand... it wasn't a dream... I'm sure it wasn't."
Mom nodded and shrugged. I think she put my outburst down to my being sick.
Cassie tried to gloss over it by asking, "Marcie, your mother said you might feel up to taking a walk with me. You can show me the sights."
I thought for an instant about the reporters outside. Then I remembered that they'd all gone. I made a mental note to ask Ms. Gifford what had happened, why they'd gone. Or I could just wait and see if my father knew... But for right now, it would be good to get some air... to get out of the house.
"Yes," I said. "It would be nice. I need to get out and move a little bit. I'm kind of achy from spending all that time in bed."
"Okay, good," Cassie replied. She reached over and covered my hand with hers. "I'm really happy I could come up and see you."
"I'm happy to see you, too," I replied, feeling a bit bashful and awkward. I liked Cassie, but usually she was such an incredible tease. Now that she was being so nice, I felt a bit strange, as if the ground had shifted. Still, it was much better this way.
"You know, my brother was an idiot to let you go," she went on. "I liked having you in the family." She laughed and looked at my mother. "Maybe we should set up a trade: you Donners could take Jerry, and my family will take Marcie."
"Hmm," my mother said in a mock-serious tone. "I'll have to talk that over with my husband. Can I get back to you on that?"
"Why certainly," Cassie replied, and the two of them laughed as if it were the greatest joke in the world.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"How can it be more or less? She either did or she didn't."
"I think Mirina meant to do it, but when she actually did do it, she didn't mean to. It was an accident."
"Oh, Belle! What kind of sense does *that* make?"
"So... how do you like New Jersey?" Cassie asked me, once we were out of sight of my house. "Do you have a new boyfriend yet?" Before I could answer she added, "Oh— do you *really* go to an all-girls school? That just seems so out-of-character for you."
"Um... it's been wild," I said, answering her first question.
"Oh, I know about all the crazy stuff," she said. "I read the news every day. It's amazing to see someone I know written up so much! You just go from one adventure to the next! Oh, hey! Is that Missy girl really super-rich?"
"Maisie," I corrected. "I guess so... She has a... trust fund. Her father is rich." This wasn't really something I wanted to talk about.
"Hmmph," Cassie said. "Look at all this snow! That's going to take some getting used to. There's NEVER snow in Tierson. So anyway, maybe I'll meet this Maisie girl, now that I'll be on this side of the country."
"Will you? Are you definitely going to Princeton?"
"Definitely. I'm going down there tonight." Cassie turned to me and smiled. Then she yawned, and as she did, she raised one of her hands behind her head. Instinctively I covered my butt with both hands. Cassie looked at me with a puzzled smile.
"Why did you do that?" she asked.
"I thought you were going to whack me on the butt," I confessed, feeling foolish and embarrassed.
"Why would I do that?" she retorted.
I sighed heavily. "It's another crazy story."
"Everything with you is a crazy story! So tell me! This ought to be a good one."
"First, can I ask you what your father does for a living?"
"What my father does? What does that— okay, okay: he's a research scientist. I can't tell you what he works on, because he can't tell us. It's all top-secret stuff."
"Oh," I said, disappointed.
"Why is that bad?" she asked.
"I was hoping you'd say he was a shoe salesman or something."
"What!? Why?"
I told her the story of my time as Marcie Auburn. She laughed a good deal, and her eyebrows bounced up in astonishment more than once. When I was finished, she said, "That's pretty weird. You had two dreams... in one night, or whatever... that seemed like they were real. That's pretty odd."
"No," I said. "They didn't seem like they were real. They were real." I sighed. "I mean, it was as real as this here, now. There was no way to tell it apart."
"Apart from what?"
"Apart from ordinary reality."
"Well," she said, "If it really had happened, I'd be one of the few people who'd know, right? But none of that stuff happened, ever. AND my mother isn't a twin. I don't have an Aunt Julia."
"Is your mother named Juliette?"
"Yes, but that's the *only* thing in your dream that was right. Like, the way you describe the bedrooms is all wrong. The only one you got right is Nina's. You make it sound like the second floor has all these rooms coming off a tiny hallway, but it isn't like that. And everything is in a different place than where you think. For instance, the laundry isn't in the basement, because we don't have a basement."
Cassie shifted so she could walk on the snow. It crunched softly beneath her boots. She went on talking. "And my bedroom... There is no bathroom off my bedroom, and the walls aren't lavender. They're cream. And what else? Oh, yeah! My mother is actually quite good at decorating and at choosing clothes, so that's wrong, too. If I tell her what you dreamt about her, she'd be SO offended!"
Then she gave me a funny glance. "And speaking of offended... Do you really think, if I was your older sister, that I would be so mean to you?"
I didn't look up. "It was just a dream," I said.
Cassie laughed. "I ought to whack your butt for thinking that I'd whack your butt."
I lifted my head, which suddenly seemed very heavy, so I could look at her. Her laughing expression quickly fell away and was replaced by a look of concern.
"I think we'd better head back," she said. "All of a sudden you don't look so good."
In fact, my energy was fading. I wanted to get back into bed. By the time we got to my house, I realized that I'd taken her arm at some point and was leaning heavily upon it.
Once we were inside Cassie passed me to my mother, who held me up by squeezing me to her with one arm. Cassie said a worried goodbye. She wanted to give me a hug, but Mom cautioned against it.
"You don't want to catch what she's got," Mom said. "And don't worry — she'll be fine."
"I'll be back sometime next summer," she said. "Bye, Marcie. Thanks for lunch, Mrs. Donner."
Mom closed the door and said to me, "Oh, little girl, you better get back upstairs and into bed! You look awful."
"I feel awful," I said.
"I shouldn't have pushed you to go out," Mom told me as she touched my cheek. "You're burning up again."
My legs felt like lead as I slowly climbed the stairs. Mom helped me undress, and I slid under the covers without putting my pajamas on. "I'll put them on later, when I have the energy," I said.
I closed my eyes and was out like a light.
The last time I fell asleep, back on the island... I didn't really fall asleep. I fainted, or lost consciousness or something. That time, I found myself in darkness and silence.
This time, in my dreamworld, there was no darkness and no silence. Instead, there was light: a fuzzy, diffuse yellow-white light. And there wasn't noise exactly: there was a sound. It was the sound of a female voice talking... talking and talking... like someone talking on the phone... or reading a story aloud... but I couldn't make out the words.
Ba ba bababa beeba, she was saying. Bee bee boh boh bu. Mmmmm machuchi cha.
"Where am I?" I muttered to myself. The voice seemed to hear and understand, because she answered me.
"Bay bay bay," she told me. "Nnnn kay kay. Mimph mee."
I understood the last two words: with me. I drew a deep breath, and fell into a heavy sleep.
Consciousness came back slowly. The air was dry and cool. I was lying on a camp bed covered by a rough blanket that chafed my breasts.
I was back on the island.
Mirina's voice asked, "Is ha— Did the fever break?"
A hand touched my forehead and cheek, and Ding-Dong answered, "Yes. I think she's waking up."
"She—" scoffed Mirina, but Ding-Dong shushed her.
When Mirina's footsteps exited the cave, I half-opened my eyes. "Where am I?" I murmured.
"You're in the cave, in the the cage," Ding-Dong said. "With me."
"Oh, okay," I said, and lifted my head enough to sip the water she offered. "What happened to my clothes?"
"Oh," Ding-Dong replied sadly, "It's yucky. You threw up and fell into your... your sick... uh, you know."
"Yuck," I breathed.
"So Mirina and Knickers took your clothes off, and that's when we found out..."
My eyes snapped open. "Oh, no," I said.
"It's okay," Ding-Dong said. "Nobody judges you."
"Really?" I asked. I propped myself up on one elbow and looked around. The two of us were inside the pantry, in the cave. The two barrels of water stood in the corner, and shelves full of supplies filled the walls. Metal bars separated us from the great room in the cave. "Do you think I could have some of my clothes? This blanket chafes like mad."
"Oh, sure," Ding-Dong replied. "Your bags are right here." She helped me slide my legs off the edge of the bed. Then she heaved me up to a sitting position. I carefully covered my lap and legs with the blanket.
"Whoo," I said. "I think I'm okay now." But when I bent to look in my bag, the room turned into a tilt-a-whirl. The floor became the ceiling, the walls shot beneath me, and everything — shelves, barrels, bars — spun all around me. I wasn't sure where I'd land if I fell.
"Whoa whoa whoa!" Ding-Dong exclaimed. She caught me by the arms and helped me lie back down.
"Sorry!" she said. "It looked like you were going to dive head-first into the floor!"
"The room started spinning," I gasped. I gripped the sides of the bed as it pitched and rolled beneath me. It felt as if were back on ship, in the storm. "Are we moving, Ding-Dong? Is it an earthquake or something?"
"No," she said. "Everything is standing still. Take some deep breaths, and maybe it'll pass."
Gritting my teeth, I took a few experimental breaths, and tried letting go of the bed. I opened my eyes, and gradually the movement stopped.
"If you tell me what you want from your bag I can get it for you," Ding-Dong offered.
"Pajamas," I whispered. A few moments later she helped me slip them on, being careful not to disturb the blanket covering me. She slid my pajama bottoms up as high as my knees, and I brought them up the rest of the way.
"Thanks," I told her. She dabbed at my face with a wet towel. As she did, I realized I was soaked with perspiration.
Exhausted, I let go and went falling down the well of darkness. In an instant, I was asleep again.
The next time I woke up, I asked, "Am I still on the island?"
"Yes," Ding-Dong replied. "We're not rescued yet."
"Is there any news of Wiggy?"
"No." She paused. "Marcie, you really should have told somebody."
"Yeah, I know," I admitted.
"Mirina is furious."
"I bet."
"She's scared, too. Scared for Wiggy."
"Yeah." I wasn't completely registering everything Ding-Dong said. I mean, I knew what she was saying, but I felt so physically awful that it was just a bunch of words to me... Until she said one thing that broke through.
"Wiggy could be dead, Marcie. Do you realize that?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. A vivid mental picture came to me of Wiggy struggling in the middle of the ocean. It was like a scene from a movie: Wiggy, seen from above, fighting, splashing, reaching for something... try to grasp something solid, but finding only water. Nothing but her face and arms, and her face... terrified, desperate, losing...
Wiggy... dead? If she was, it was all my fault. I should have told someone... Cakey, Mirina, even Ding-Dong. I could have sabotaged the dory so she couldn't leave. I could have hacked some giant holes in the thing and blamed it on Mirina's mystery man.
After all, wasn't *I* Mirina's mystery man?
I groaned and struggled to get out of bed. It was difficult.
"What are you doing?" Ding-Dong asked.
"I'm trying to get up," I told her. "I need to go to the bathroom."
"Oh," Ding-Dong said, though it sounded more like oh, no. "Uh, Marcie, is it number one or number two?"
"What difference does it make?"
"It makes a big difference," she said with a sigh. "Well, either way, we have to put a plastic bag in that can in the corner and—"
"You're kidding me!" I protested. Shades of my kidnapping! "Why can't we just go out to the latrine, or the port-a-potty, or whatever you want to call it? If you help me a little I can make it."
"We can't go because we're locked in here," Ding-Dong said.
"What?"
"When Mirina found out that you're a... that you have the, um, boy thing down there, then... well, she was already mad about Wiggy taking off in the dory..."
"So she locked me in here?"
Ding-Dong shrugged. "More or less."
"How can it be more or less? She either did or she didn't."
"I think she meant to do it, but when she actually did do it, she didn't mean to. It was an accident."
"Oh, Belle! What kind of sense does *that* make?"
"I was in here, carrying your bags in, and Marina was fiddling with the latch. Then, all of a sudden, she broke it."
"She broke the lock?"
Belle nodded. "And now she can't get it open."
"So that's why you're in here with me."
"Right."
"And nobody can fix the lock."
"Mirina doesn't want anybody to. Yet, anyway."
I huffed, "I thought you said that no one judged me."
"Well... I know that *I* don't..."
I looked into her anxious face. How could I be angry with her? Mirina, the others, I'd have to see about later, once I felt better. For now, it was just me and Ding-Dong. "Thanks, Belle." I said, and she squeezed my hand.
After a moment of silence, I used the can while Belle stood facing the opposite corner with her hands over her ears. I tied the bag off and set it outside the bars. Then I lay back down on the bed and closed my eyes.
"Hey," Ding-Dong said softly. "I hope you don't mind, but I read your book. You were asleep for a long time, and I had nothing to do."
"Oh, the fairy tales? Did you like it?"
"It was pretty strange. All those boys turning into girls. It got to be a little repetitious."
"I didn't read it."
"Did they give that to you when you, you know, changed?" she asked.
They? "No, my mother bought it for me for Christmas."
We were silent again, and then a thought occurred to me. "Ding-Dong? Belle? You know the title story? Princess Marcellina? How does it come out? I read it up to the point where she becomes a boy."
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "That was the weirdest one! It was SO complicated! I don't even remember. If you want, I can read it to you."
"Okay," I agreed. "That might be nice."
"It will help pass the time," she said.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"Anyway, Percinet wants to marry her, but she won't because of her... problem, you know." Ding-Dong looked at me pointedly.
"I get it," I said.
"Where did you leave off?" Ding-Dong asked. "I don't want to start from the beginning; the story is way too long."
"Where I left off, the fairy turned her into a boy, handed her a mirror, and disappeared."
Ding-Dong flipped through the pages until she found the place, and began reading.
The Princess sat on the ground beneath a tree and stayed there for a long time in stunned silence. She studied herself in the mirror. She looked at her arms, legs, and feet. She felt her chest and hips. Everything had changed. She was a boy, and nothing but a boy: a peasant boy, a sturdy farm-working boy — a good-looking boy, in fact — but a boy nonetheless.
"Oh, wicked Grognon!" she cried—
"Blah blah blah," Ding-Dong said, interrupting the story. "She complains for a long time. Skipping over..."
Until now, the Princess had lived a life of ease. "It's clear that another life awaits me," she said, "unless and until this enchantment can be broken! Oh, that I had Percinet to help me!"
Unfortunately, in her present state, it was unlikely that Percinet would ever recognize her. "... if he could even find me!" she wailed. She collapsed beneath the tree and wept, disconsolate.
At last, however, her hunger and thirst overcame her sadness and dismay, and the boy-princess stood and began to walk.
As she walked, she reasoned with herself. "First of all," she reckoned, "I will need a name: Marcel will do quite nicely. Then I shall need employment, so I can feed and clothe myself. Finally, I must find my way to my father's kingdom and tell him what has happened!"
She decided that the easiest way to accomplish all her goals at once was to find a job at sea. "If only I can find a ship, bound for my father's land!" But first, she must needs find the sea.
Back at the castle, Percinet lay on a bed, slowly recovering from his wounds. He was not hurt gravely, but as yet he could neither sit up nor walk. Since his bed lay in the servant's quarters, he could not send word to anyone for help. He spent most of his days alone, excepting the moments when a fellow servant brought him food and gossip.
The first news he heard was that Grognon was anxiously following the progress of his recovery. She had never been served by such a handsome page, and she was looking forward to having him by her side at every possible moment. It was fortunate for Percinet that Grognon, too, was confined to her bed: otherwise, she would have been at his side, nursing and nagging him back to health. Thank goodness for small favors!
The second bit of news he received was that Princess Marcelline had been locked in the dungeon as punishment for the trick she supposedly played on Grognon, of giving her the much-too-spirited horse to ride.
The third thing he was told was that Princess Marcelline was so overcome with despair and guilt that she hung herself in the dungeon and was dead, mourned, and buried.
As he lay in dejection, cast down by the death of his one true love, he heard one last piece of information. It was told to him in a whisper, but as a sure and certain fact: His gossip let him know that the Princess had not died at all, but only disappeared, and that a log had been placed in a casket and buried in her grave.
Percinet sighed with impatience and regret. He needed to get word to his mother, who was a fairy, and could surely help him find the lost princess. However, everyone thought the poor boy was simply a servant, so he could do nothing but wait until he had the strength to leave the castle and journey home himself.
Marcel, the boy-princess walked and walked for a great long way. She drank water from a stream not far from the path, and ate berries and mushrooms, but she was very hungry.
She slept for a night beneath a tree, cold and afraid. When at last the sun woke her, she began to walk again.
At length, she came upon a road. Not knowing which way to go, she sniffed the breeze. Because the air was dry and warm, and smelt nothing like the sea, she turned and kept the wind at her back.
"Snore!" Ding-Dong commented. "She walks for a long way. Skipping over... She meets an old lady and tells her that he's looking for work."
"He?" I asked.
"The Princess," Ding-Dong clarified, and resumed the reading.
"You can work for my husband," the old woman said. "He is an ogre, but you mustn't take account of that. He's a gentle soul, and you'll find he's fair to a good worker."
"I am a good worker," Marcel promised. "But I need to find work upon the sea."
"I wish you luck with that!" the old woman laughed. "The sea is farther than than you can dream, my lad! You might walk for the rest of your life before you found the sea."
The boy looked so downcast at this remark that the old woman felt compelled to add, "And yet, my husband might find a way. He may know the means... There may be travelers... traders... We shall see."
With that vague promise, the boy-princess agreed to the bargain, and off the two went together.
As it happened, not only did the ogre live far from the sea, he lived halfway up a mountain, where he pastured cows and tended flocks of goats on the high grassy plains.
As Marcel and the old woman climbed, they came upon a beautiful blue belt, lying on the ground near the path.
"Oh, how lovely!" the boy-princess cried, forgetting for a moment that he was no longer a girl.
"Don't touch it!" the old woman warned. "It's likely bewitched. Leave it be! Come away! Come away, I say!"
And so the boy-princess left the lovely belt lying by the wayside, but she carried its image away in her mind.
Soon, when the old woman's age bore down upon her and she wearied of the climb, the two travelers stopped and sat beneath a scrub oak.
Marcel bethought himself of the blue belt, and decided to run back and take it. He told the old woman, "I have some business in the bushes yon." Instead, he snuck off down the hill and found the lovely belt still lying where he'd first seen it. He took it up, admired its beauty and workmanship — for it really was a fine thing — and fastened it round his waist.
Lo and behold! The instant the belt was closed round his waist, a change came over the boy. The old woman was right: the belt was bewitched! And what did it do, but change the boy back to the form of the beautiful Princess Marcelline.
Percinet at long last found the strength to rise from his bed. In the dark early morning, he saddled his horse with great difficulty and rode with great pain to his mother's castle. Once there, he fell from the horse and was carried to his bed. His injuries were seen to, and his mother set a charm to speed his healing.
"But you must lie still," she cautioned, "and let the charm do its work."
Soon enough Percinet was up and about, still weak, but quite definitely on the mend. In the meanwhile, his mother had searched the world with her fairy mirror but found no trace of the lovely lost princess.
After she had done all that she could do alone, she left Percinet to wander impatiently through her garden while she went to confer with her fairy brethren.
Princess Marcelline, with the help of her small mirror, examined herself as thoroughly as she could. She was pleased to discover that she was in every way her old self once again, from the soles of her feet to the ends of her soft, shining hair. Her clothes, on the other hand, were those of a peasant girl. There was nothing of a princess there; her outfit better suited a milkmaid than a lady of the court.
Still, it was a great improvement, and filled with delight, she skipped her way up the path to join the old woman beneath the tree. Once there, she told the hag that she'd met a peasant boy, who was running down the hill. "He said he was afraid to work for an ogre," the princess said, "So I hoped I could go in his place."
The old lady was more than pleased! Even though her ogre of a husband needed a young man to help with his herds, he would no doubt be happy to welcome a young and pretty girl.
You see, what the old woman said was true: the ogre treated fairly (and even kindly) any young man who labored hard and well. On the other hand, regarding the fairer sex, he was a true ogre indeed. He had a large, special pot, just the right size for a young pretty lady, and he would cook the princess into stew at the very first opportunity.
Of course, the old woman kept this fact to herself. She simply told the Princess that a warm welcome awaited her.
The house in the mountains was not much farther, and the two women reached it just as the sun fell from the sky. As you can imagine, the ogre was very glad to see their guest, and he laid a feast before her, thinking to fatten her up.
The Princess, for all her fine manners and good breeding, fell upon the food, for she was famished. After the girl had eaten her fill, the old woman led her to a neat little bedroom with a clean little bed. Once the Princess found herself alone, she found that the belt was too uncomfortable to wear throughout the night. And so, with great reluctance she unfastened it. Instantly she found herself transformed once again into the form of the peasant boy.
With a heavy sigh, she lay the belt lengthwise in the bed and fell asleep upon it.
The ogre waited until he heard the slow, sleeping breaths of his young guest. He crept into the bedroom, ready to toss the girl into a bag and pop her into his stew. Already the carrots and onions were aboil; all that was lacking was the delightful guest.
Imagine the ogre's surprise and disappointment when he found — in the place of a young, pert maiden — a robust young man! He called his wife, who recognized the lad, but had no explanation of how he'd gotten in, or where the girl had gone.
They quietly withdrew and went to bed mightly confused.
"Oof!" Ding-Dong complained, working her jaw to the right and left. "My mouth muscles hurt from all this reading."
"Sorry," I offered.
"Let me skip ahead," Ding-Dong said. "She milks the cows, she milks the goats. She works hard, so the ogre and his wife like her, but every night when the ogre goes to cut her head off, he finds the boy instead."
"Is the story much longer?" I asked. "It seems like it will never end!"
"Oh, don't worry, it ends," she said. "But yes, it is much longer."
"Then skip," I said.
"All right: finally one night the old lady peeks through a crack when the Princess goes to bed. Then she understands about the blue belt, and she tells the ogre. But they still don't know what to do. The ogre is afraid that if he boils the girl, she might turn into the boy, and if he boils her with the belt, the enchantment might go into the stew."
"So he's afraid he might turn into a girl when he eats it?"
"I guess. Anyway... Percinet's mother goes to talk with the other fairies, and she finds out about the spell on Marcelline. Now that she knows, she locates the Princess. She and Percinet rescue the girl just before the ogre decides to cook her anyway."
"Oh, man!" I said, shaking my head. "It's like they took every complication they could think of, and threw it into this story!"
"You know what's really weird? It says in the notes that this story comes from a French fairy tale, and that most of the crazy stuff is in the original."
"I can't imagine what *that* story could possibly be like," I said.
"Anyway, Percinet wants to marry her, but she won't because of her... problem, you know." Ding-Dong looked at me pointedly.
"I get it," I said, giving her the same pointed look.
"Plus, she wants to see what's happening back home, so they use his mother's magic mirror. Marcelline sees her father crying because he misses her, so she insists that Percinet take her there — back to her father's castle. Percinet gets all mad and doesn't want to do it, but in the end she convinces him.
"At first the King is all happy to see her, but Grognon says she's an imposter, and throws her in the dungeon again. This time she doesn't want to kill her. She decides to torment her instead. Grognon calls her fairy friend, but this time they argue. The fairy can't understand how the Princess changed back. Grognon is angry with the fairy for having failed her."
Belle turned pages, searching. "And then what happens? I forget... Oh! There is this nice little bit with the little people..." She placed a finger on the page and began reading again.
Grognon told the fairy, "This time I will keep the girl under my hand. I wish to punish her, and to have each day a difficult piece of work, which she will never be able to finish, so that I may beat her as much as I like. Help me to find these difficult tasks."
The fairy soon returned with a coil as large as a person, made of thread so fine that it broke if you barely breathed upon it. In addition, the thread was so tangled and knotted that it you couldn't see where it ended or began. Grognon was delighted. She sent for the Princess and told her, "Now, my dear, this job may be difficult for a ham-fisted girl like yourself, but it must be done. I want you to wind this thread for me into a proper ball, but if you break the least little bit of it, I will flay you alive with my own hands. You may take your time and start whenever you like, as long as the work is done by sundown."
Then, cackling like the old witch she was, Grognon locked the door with a triple lock, set two guards outside the door, and two outside the window.
"Ummph!" Belle groaned, massaging her jaw. "This story is too long! Anyway, she calls Percinet, who magically appears, and he does it with his magic wand."
"So he's magical now?"
"I guess he always was, but he was saving it."
"Belle, is it worth going on?"
"Oh, there's a cute part coming up... and don't you want to know how it ends?"
"I don't know... do I?"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
I sighed. "Does the story ever end?"
"Skip to the cute part, then," I told her.
"Okay," Belle said, glancing over the page. "Well, he asks her to marry him. She says no. He's mad and sad and put off, so he leaves. The fairy comes back, Grognon's all angry with her. She wants another impossible task, so the fairy gives her a barrel full of bird feathers for Marcelline to sort."
"And she calls on Percinet and he does it."
"Right. Oh, I forgot! When Grognon saw that Marcelline had wound up all the thread, she was furious, so she slapped her face and called her names. Then when she saw the feathers sorted, she didn't know what to do. So... here comes the cute part... Grognon flips out on the fairy and treats her really badly." She stopped for a moment. "Oh, the cute part isn't that she tries to hurt the fairy. It's this part about the tiny people. Here it comes."
The poor fairy was dreadfully puzzled by the girl's ability to finish each task. She was anxious to please her friend Grognon, but felt more than a little hurt by Grognon's angry outburst.
The fairy had a moment of inspiration, and she created a beautiful box. It was a bit large and awkwardly shaped, so that a girl could just manage to carry it.
"Here you are," the fairy said to Grognon. "Tell your girl to deliver this box somewhere, but not to open it under any circumstance. Believe me, after carrying this awkward thing a ways, she won't be able to resist. Then you'll be satisfied."
Grognon called Marcelline and told her, "Carry this box to my castle, and set it on the table in the entryway. But I forbid you, under pain of death, to look inside. Remember: not even the tiniest peek, or I'll have your head!"
Marcelline put on an old woolen cloak over her peasant garb and went out. Even dressed as she was, everyone she passed along the way was struck by her marvellous beauty. None of them doubted that she was some goddess in disguise, but she did not stop to talk with anyone.
After a very short time the box became quite heavy, and Marcelline set it down to rest. She sat on the ground near it, and suddenly felt a strong desire to open the box. "How could she ever know?" the Princess asked herself. "It's not as though I'd take anything out. What could possibly happen? I'll just pop it open and see what's inside."
Without another thought, she lifted the ornate lid. Immediately a great number of teeny, tiny, little men and women, no taller than your smallest finger, came climbing out. They carried musical instruments, little tables and chairs, and other miniature pieces of furniture. Some were cooks, some were musicians, and others were dressed as little lords and ladies.
While some of the mannikins chatted amongst themselves, others got busy cooking, arranging chairs, or tuning their instruments. Soon, the violins struck up a tune, and so began the prettiest ball you ever saw! The lords and ladies bowed and curtsied to one another, and danced with the most admirable grace.
Others cut capers, leaping and bounding to make their companions laugh. There was eating and drinking, and Marcelline seemed to see flirting and romance among the tiny beings. All the while the sweetest music played.
At first Marcelline was delighted and amused at this extraordinary affair, but soon she had enough. "I've got to finish my errand," she said aloud, and began to place the tiny people back in the box. However, the little things didn't want to go: as soon as she put them in, they climbed back out again. They shook their fists and stuck out their tongues at her. The musicians seized their instruments; the cooks picked up the food, and all ran away, as fast as their little legs would carry them.
She chased them into the woods, but as soon as she caught up with them, they ran back into the meadow.
Soon she realized the bitter truth. "I've fallen into Grognon's trap!" she cried, weeping. "All on account of my reckless curiosity!"
"That *was* cute," I admitted. "It would be nice to see just that part in a movie, I think."
"Yeah, I thought so too," Belle agreed. "Anyway, she calls Percinet, who uses his magic wand to put them all back inside. Then he carries the box for her and helps her deliver it. He almost convinces her to marry him, but you know..."
"She still has the same problem, I know," I said.
"Yes. Every night she has to take the blue belt off. She goes back to her castle, like an idiot. Grognon locks her up again. The fairy comes, and Grognon is furious! She starts beating the fairy, scratching and hitting her. She even tries to strangle her! So the fairy flies away."
I sighed. "Does the story ever end?"
"Yes," she replied. "Grognon tricks Marcelline into falling in a deep hole and she puts a heavy stone over the top. Percinet rescues her, and she finally agrees to marry him. They have a big wedding. All the fairies come, even the one who was Grognon's friend. She fixes Marcelline so she's a girl all the time, and she turns Grognon into a toad and throws her down a well."
"And that's it?" I asked.
"That's it," she said.
I sighed. "That is one long story."
"And there's no payoff at the end," Belle agreed. "She marries the guy, they're happily ever after and all, but..." She shook her head.
We were silent for a spell, then we drank some water. Belle began to talk. She told me about her family and their camping trips. She told me about her cousin's wedding and her uncle's funeral and what her mother said about her aunt...
I must have dozed at points, but I'm pretty sure Belle kept right on talking. Each time I'd drift up to consciousness, I'd hear a piece of whatever she was saying, and then I'd drift back down again.
One of the times when I drifted upward, I heard her laughing as she said, "... and then my mother said — oh, my God, it's too funny! — she said, Belle, I'm going to make your father sleep in the doghouse, and she pointed out the window and there was a REAL doghouse there! Isn't that funny?"
Dear God, I thought. She must know I'm not listening, right? I mean, I'm practically moribund. Without opening my eyes, I reached for the cup of water I'd been drinking, but couldn't find it. Belle's voice went on and on. As much as I love her, she was starting to get on my nerves. Now I understood why Wiggy was so hard on her.
Wiggy! I sat bolt upright. Where was Wiggy? How long had she been gone?
"Belle," I said, interrupting her, "What time is it? What day is it?"
"Um, I don't have a watch, but it must be sometime in the afternoon on Thursday."
"Thursday!?"
"Well, yeah. You've been asleep a long time. You were sick, you know."
"Oh, man!" I groaned.
"You don't need to go to the bathroom again, I hope," Ding-Dong said in a concerned tone.
"No," I said crossly. "I'm worried about Wiggy!"
"Oh!" she said, a little cross herself. "She's my friend, too, you know! We're *all* worried about Wiggy."
"Sorry," I said. "I'm trying to figure out whether she got where she was going. Look: she left early Tuesday, right? And she's afraid of the dark, so I don't think she'd plan on padding through the night."
Belle thought for a moment and said, "Yes, but... she was going to take you with her, wasn't she?"
"Yeah, so? I don't know how to row."
"No, but maybe you were supposed to be her night light."
My mouth dropped open in surprise. "No, no!" I cried out in dismay, and collapsed on the bed. Tears came to my eyes, but they didn't fall. God, I was still so weak! I barely had the strength to cry, let alone sob. The truth of what Belle suggested broke through me like a rock smashing through eggs.
Wiggy's voice echoed in my mind: I really need to take you with me, she'd said. But I didn't understand... I'd wondered what good I could do... but now, the way she said it... it reminded me of the day I met Wiggy, when she practically begged me to be her roommate:
I know I'm a little neurotic, maybe, but... what I'm asking is, will you please room with me? I'll give you whatever space you need... it's just that at night, when we sleep, I want to know that somebody else is in the room with me. Will you? Please, please, please?
Wiggy's voice echoed in my brain. Please, please, please? and I really need to take you with me. Oh, Jesus! She thought that *she* had let everyone down, but she was wrong. I really HAD let her down. I let her down big time. I should have stopped her. I should have told Cakey at least, or Mirina. I should have sabotaged that stupid dory!
Or, I should have gone with her. Sick as I was, I should have gotten into the stupid boat. Then at least, poor Wiggy wouldn't die alone.
No: if I was there, Wiggy wouldn't die. But I wasn't there.
Belle's hand was on my shoulder, and for once she was silent. She knew better than to tell me it would be all right. She couldn't bring herself to say it would all work out. This wasn't some stupid story, after all. This was real life. I couldn't call on some Percinet to rescue me with his magic wand.
There we were, two Pollyannas, knowing for once that everything was broken, upside down, all messed up, and that it might never be right again.
After a long, deep spell of crying, I stopped. I lay there on my stomach, staring at the floor, and Belle began to brush my hair. It felt nice. She still hadn't said a word, which was also nice. I raised myself up so I was sitting on the bunk with my back to her, and she kept on brushing, slowly and gently.
"Thanks, Belle," I said. "I can brush yours, for you, after."
"No, that's okay. You're still sick. You can hardly sit up."
She brushed in silence, running her hand softly behind the brush as it moved through my hair.
"Look," I said with a heavy sigh. "We might be stuck in the place forever."
"This place?" she repeated, and laughed. "Do you mean here in the pantry, or on the island?"
"Well, both, I guess."
"Och!" she scoffed. "We'll get out of this cage. Cakey will bust us out."
"Like Papillon?" I half-joked.
"Pappy who?" Belle asked.
"It was a movie about two guys who escaped from a desert island prison."
"Oh, look," Belle said, "Mirina is embarrassed. She is... well... she did freak out when she found out about your—" she waved her hand at me "—about your... you know... condition... but she doesn't really want you locked up."
Then she added, "And *I* sure as heck don't want to stay in here."
"What's Cakey waiting for, then? Why doesn't she bust us out now?"
Ding-Dong shrugged. "Maybe she's waiting till the other girls are ready."
I thought about it. I wasn't in a rush to get out of the cage. For one thing, I could barely raise myself out of bed. More importantly, I wasn't sure if I was ready to face the Amazons, now that they knew my secret. I felt pretty sure that they'd snub me. At least, they'd be uncomfortable around me. They might make me live apart from them. Could they? Would they? Maybe I'd sleep in the second room of beds, alone. Or outside? For the first time I was going to face someone knowing my secret. I'd been outed, big time.
For some reason I thought about school, and how ironic it was, in a way, that I go to an all-girls school. No one there knew about me. Well, none of the girls, anyway. Now here I was on an all-girl island, and they ALL knew about me.
"Okay, Belle," I said. "We'll get out of this cage. But then what? We could still be stuck on this island forever."
"Yeah," she acknowledged. "We could. I don't think we will, but we could. If we do get stuck here, we'll just have to make the best of it."
I lay back down again, and oddly, my first thought was about laundry. It wasn't such a big deal, really. We had plenty of fresh water and castille soap. I wondered whether the clothes I was sick on were clean, and if they were, who had cleaned them. I wondered whether we could get Belle's shower working, and whether the girls would accept me, the way they did before. How would they treat me?
"What are you thinking about?" Belle asked.
"I'm wondering how the other girls will treat me," I said.
She looked me in the face as she considered the question. "I don't know," she said. "Mirina freaked out. Graffy and Grooty got pretty weird about it. I'm pretty sure Donkey and Cakey still like you, and I'm sure that *I* do. The others... I don't know. Boogers... I guess she's kind of neutral."
I nodded. I hadn't expected such a specific answer, but it made me feel better. I was glad if Cakey was still my friend. She and Wiggy and Belle were the girls that I liked best here.
"Uh, Belle? When they undressed me, did everybody see me naked?"
Belle didn't answer at first. Then she said, "No, not everybody." After a pause she added, "Well, that's not exactly true. Yes. Everybody saw you naked."
The news didn't bother me as much as I thought it might, but as I lay there digesting it, Belle let out a chuckle.
"Oh, hey, you know a funny thing about that? Well, I thought it was funny. Mirina wanted to hold up that man's boot to your foot — you know the one in the entryway? — she wanted to see if it fit you."
"Oh, brother!" I said in disgust. "That would be real Cinderella story, wouldn't it?"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"I do have a talent for getting into strange situations," I admitted.
"I can see that!" Cakey replied, shaking the bars of my cage. "But don't worry. In the morning, as soon as the three of us are awake, I'm busting you guys out."
Boogers brought us dinner. She smiled at me, but didn't talk.
Cakey came to take the dirty dishes away.
"Hey, girls," she called as she sauntered into the cave. "How're you feeling, Marcie?"
"I'm getting there," I replied, as I scanned her face to search out her feelings.
"Good," she said. "Tomorrow morning I'm going to bust you guys out of there. Most of the girls are sleeping outside tonight. It's beautiful out, and — no offense — but I think they want to avoid you... a little."
I nodded, but didn't answer.
Cakey gripped the pantry's bars with both hands, and her look became stern. She said, "Marcie, I've gone over and over in my mind what I have to say to you." She looked me in the face. "The only way to say it is to come out straight and say it: You should have told somebody. If you and Wiggy were going to take off in that boat, you should have told somebody."
I swallowed hard.
She went on. "Do you know which direction she went?"
"No."
"Do you know how far this other island is supposed to be, or how long it would take to get there?"
"No. She wouldn't tell me. She said I'd second-guess her and make it harder."
"Yeah, she said the same thing in her stupid note. She was afraid we'd stop her." Cakey suddenly sniffed and kicked the bars violently. Belle and I jumped.
"She was right! We WOULD have stopped her! I would have cut that that stupid dory to pieces if I knew!"
I had a question, but was almost afraid to ask, Cakey was so angry and upset. Gently, tentatively, I said, "Cakey? Did anybody see which way she went?"
"We couldn't. I ran to the top of the hill and saw her go right, around to the back of the island. By the time I got to that side, I couldn't see her at all."
I must have looked as confused as I felt, because Cakey explained, "There isn't any place on the island high enough to look in every direction. We tried... *I* tried... but there are some parts of the coast where you can't see the ocean at all." She gestured to her right, saying, "If she went that way — and I think she did — we wouldn't be able to see her at all."
I shook my head. "When we talked about the other island, I asked her why I hadn't seen it. Said it was hard to see, even when you knew where to look."
"She didn't tell you where it was? Not even a hint? Did she at least point vaguely in some direction?"
"No," I said. "She didn't want me to know anything."
Cakey regarded me in silence. Then she said, "Marcie, I hope you know I'm your friend. But you also need to know that all of us are angry and upset about Wiggy, and it's hard to not blame you."
"I know," I said. I felt miserable. There was nothing I could say. Or was there? There was only one fact that mitigated my guilt in any way. I felt abject and craven saying it, but I told her, "Listen, Cakey. Wiggy knew about me... she knew my secret." I gestured vaguely toward my lap. "She found out on the plane because of a stupid note my mother left me."
"Oh, the one in the book?" Belle asked.
"Yeah," I said. "We were roommates because both of us wanted the same kind of privacy. Anyway... the thing is, when Wiggy told me her plan to leave, she threatened me. She said that if I told anyone about her plan, she'd tell everyone about me."
Cakey took it in silently, thinking. She nodded, and said, "I'll tell Mirina. I don't think it'll make any difference, though. Oh, did Mirina tell you her dream? The one about the boy on the island? Now she figures the dream was about you. She's saying that you don't belong here, and she's got a long list of what-ifs: what if Romy had come... what if somebody else had come... what if nobody had come in her place."
She swallowed hard. After a pause she said in a low voice, "In spite of all that, I think everybody knows that Wiggy would have taken off even if you weren't here at all."
I was trying not to cry, but tears rolled slowly down my cheeks. I wiped them with the back of my hand and sniffed.
Cakey went on. "About you... and your... your... the way you are... I think everybody has to get to know you again, you know what I mean? Up till now, everybody liked you. Now, they're hurt and shocked and scared... scared for Wiggy. Afraid she's... dead."
Belle quickly turned away and looked at the floor. Her hair fell around her face, hiding it, but I could see her tears dropping to the floor. Cakey and I turned a deathly pale.
"I think they're trying not to blame you, but it's hard. You're going to have to walk through the fire for a bit." When I looked up, shocked, she realized how it sounded. "I don't mean that literally. I mean, think about it. If she's dead, and you knew and could have stopped her... You're going to catch all kinds of hell, Marcie." She sniffed and gave me a tight-lipped, flat, attempt at a smile. "About the other thing... they just have to get over it... get used to... the new you. But with Wiggy gone, it hardly matters anyway."
Belle looked up. Her face was wet. "What are the girls saying about Marcie?"
"Mostly it's Mirina talking," Cakey said. "At first she just flipped out. She couldn't even touch you. Now, she's moved from there to being really, really pissed. She says that you deceived us... you deceived her, and she wouldn't have invited you on the trip if she knew who you really were."
"Oh God," I said, ruefully. Cakey gripped the bars, white knuckled, for a moment.
"Graffy and Grooty are sulking about it. They're really bugged. I think they have a *big* problem with it. The rest of the girls are okay, I guess. Knickers is just floored." In spite of everything, Cakey laughed. "She can't believe it. She's never heard of transsexuals before, and it's just impossible to her. The idea is crazy to her. It's like, you can't exist. She can't get her head around it. I think she believes that you're really just a girl and it's all some kind of weird mistake. But she likes you."
She sucked her lower lip for a moment, and added, "Oh, Donkey for some reason, thinks it's great. She says you're a hero and very brave, and stuff like that. Go figure."
She shrugged and managed a weak smile. "It's kind of like you farted in an elevator, you know? Nobody can pretend it didn't happen or that it wasn't you..." She paused. "That's not really a good example. There probably isn't one."
"I appreciate your telling me all that," I said.
"Hey, I'm your friend. I was pretty surprised, but I'm still your friend." A smile played around her lips. "I do have a mental picture of you that I'll never get out of my head." She grinned and shook her head. "Who knew, when we were shipwrecked, that anything like this would happen!" She laughed at her own joke, and even I smiled a little.
"I do have a talent for getting into strange situations," I admitted.
"I can see that!" Cakey replied, shaking the bars of my cage. "But don't worry. In the morning, as soon as the three of us are awake, I'm busting you guys out."
After the talk with Cakey, I felt better and worse. It was good to know that she was on my side. She and Belle and Donkey. At least I wouldn't be totally alone.
But Wiggy... oh, God! If there was ever a time to pray, it was now.
After Cakey left, Belle rehashed the whole conversation three times, trying to look at each statement from every possible angle. If I hadn't been so ill and so emotionally drained, I would have asked her politely to stop talking. But I didn't. Instead, I lay back and stopped listening to the words. I let the flow of her babetty babetty chatter flow through my ears without stopping at my brain. The sound wasn't exactly soothing, but somehow it kept the fear and the terror away for a while. It felt like a lifeline, like a radio from the mainland — something to hang onto when nothing else was there.
For a long time Belle babbled on and on, and I listened without listening. She didn't ask me questions or check that I was paying attention. She didn't look for any response or reaction from me. Maybe this was how she dealt with her nerves, her fear, her sense of loss.
As she spoke, I thought about home, about Mom and Dad. They had to know by now that we were missing. They must be frantic, I thought. They tend to worry about me even when nothing is happening, and now something really *is* happening. And yet I knew that somehow I'd get out... we'd get out, and all would be okay.
After a while, I realized that Belle had finished talking. I looked up at her and she looked down at me. It suddenly occurred to me to ask, "Where have you been sleeping while you've been stuck in here with me?"
"On the floor," she said. "I laid down a bunch of blankets and slept on top. Cakey tried to fold up one of the beds, but it wouldn't fit through the bars." Her eyes were drooping, her shoulders were slumped. She suddenly looked very tired.
"Listen, Belle, I'm awake now, and I think I'll be awake a long time. Let me give you the bed. I can bundle up on the floor. I don't think I can sleep any more."
"No," she said. "It's actually pretty comfortable. I like sleeping on the floor. Sometimes I do it at home. It drives my mother crazy."
I tried to insist, but she wouldn't give in.
"Besides, Marcie," she said, "you've been sweating like crazy on that bed, and no offense, but..."
"Okay, I get it," I said.
She changed into her pajamas, arranged her blankets, and blew out all the candles but one. She placed that one on top of the water barrel, behind a box, so it didn't give so much light. Then she lay down, turned on her side, and soon she was asleep, leaving me alone with myself.
Good God! I told myself. What a trip this had turned into! It was supposed to be a vacation. I was supposed get away from the reporters, away from the pressure, to somehow soften the effects of my trauma...
Tomorrow would be Friday, exactly four weeks since I was abducted. In my mind's eye I saw the scene again: me talking on my cell phone with Maisie... hands grabbing me from behind... Ida's terrified face as the van door closed. I shut my eyes and felt the world slip away, leaving me in a place of cold, dark terror.
I'd come on this trip to get away from all that, and now I find myself again a prisoner, peeing in a can in a corner. At least this time I have company, I told myself, opening my eyes to listen to Belle's soft breathing. As I listened, I had to smile. My sister. Belle really was like a sister to me.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
Hours must have passed... I had no way to tell... but Belle and I were awakened by excited calls from Cakey and Donkey.
"Girls! Belle! Marcie! Wake up! Wake up! We're rescued! Wiggy's here!"
If you spend much time in a place with no windows, where no light comes in from outside, your time-sense disconnects in a weird way. You can tell when a minute or two has passed, but unless you have a clock, an hour doesn't feel any different from two hours or four. Day and night are exactly alike. Hunger and sleepiness come upon you suddenly, without warning. When you wake up, you have no idea how long you've slept, or whether it's tomorrow already or still today.
When all of us girls slept together in the big dorm room in the cave, it was different because so many girls had watches and because all of us followed the same schedule.
Now there was only Belle and me, and neither of us had watches. I had to believe it was night, because Belle was sleeping. It didn't feel like night to me, and I wasn't sleepy at all. The cave was silent, except for the sound of Belle's breathing and her occasional murmur or sigh.
After a while I got tired of lying in bed, so I wrapped myself in my blanket and hunkered down on the floor. I was so bored that I finally picked up the book of fairy tales, but the light was too dim to read by. Plus, there were no pictures. Just page after page of words.
From where I was sitting I could look over my bed, out through the pantry's cage-like door into the great room of the cave. It was dark out there. None of the girls had bothered to leave a candle burning. No one was out there, and there was no one in the two dorm rooms beyond.
If I looked under my bed, I could see Belle sleeping. I lay on my side, using the book as a pillow, and watched her blanket rise and fall with her breath. I imagined how strange it would look if someone could see us from above: two girls lying on the floor, on either side of an empty bed.
I found to my surprise that Belle was right: sleeping on the floor *was* comfortable. I thought she was being polite or accommodating, but it was true. At least, *this* floor was comfortable. The cave was made of soft rock, soft to the touch, soft to walk upon, and — as Belle had discovered — soft to lie on.
Whatever time it was, it had to be very late or very early. There was nothing to do, nothing to hear, nothing to see... eventually I got tired of being awake and dozed off.
Hours must have passed... I had no way to tell... but Belle and I were awakened by excited calls from Cakey and Donkey.
"Girls! Belle! Marcie! Wake up! Wake up! We're rescued! Wiggy's here!"
I sat up, groggy, barely comprehending.
"Wiggy's here?" Belle asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes. "Really? Did she row back? Did she bring help?"
"She didn't row back!" Donkey answered scornfully, but then, happy and excited again, she said, "She came in a helicopter! With reporters!"
Now I was awake. "Reporters?" I echoed. "Oh, no!"
"Hey, they were looking for you, Marcie," Donkey explained. "After you stopped that thief in Hawaii, these two reporters were trying to find out where you went."
"So how did they find us?" I asked, as confused as I could be.
Cakey said, "Wiggy rowed to that island, and she found some people. They put out a call."
"They called reporters?" I asked dubiously.
"No, they called the search and rescue people."
"What about the adults?" Belle asked. "Did they find them?"
"Not yet," Cakey said, "I was just going to say that. They think the ship's crew ended up on some other island, 'cause there's, like, millions of them around here. So they sent the search and rescue people to look for them. The reporters heard the calls, and they volunteered to come pick us up."
"Lovely," I said.
"What's the problem?" Donkey asked.
"I came here to get away from reporters. Now they're going to be up close and personal." I blushed, but it was no time to be modest or ashamed. "Plus, they're going to find out about my secret."
Donkey scoffed. "What are you, crazy? Nobody's going to tell them."
"Give us a little credit, Marcie," Cakey said.
"What about Mirina?" I asked. "And Graffy and Grooty?"
"We stick together," Cakey informed me. "Nobody's going to tell on you. Not Mirina, not the twins, not nobody. No way. Okay?"
"All right," I said, hoping she was right.
"In fact," Cakey added, "Mirina's stalling the reporters, so they don't come in here before you're ready."
"Speaking of which — it's time to bust you out of there!" Donkey cried enthusiastically. "Let's do it!"
So saying, she placed a screwdriver against the latch and pounded it with a hammer. She was clearly enjoying herself, but the noise she made was deafening.
"Stop! Stop!" Cakey cried. "You're not getting anywhere that way! Put the screwdriver against the tumbler, here. Knock that out, and the door will open."
Without another thought, Donkey moved the screwdriver and gave a mighty blow with the hammer. A small piece broke off and flew directly into my face, striking my forehead.
"Sorry, Marcie, sorry!" Donkey called. "Did I hurt you? Maybe you two should move out of the way."
"Maybe *I* should do this," Cakey retorted. "Are you okay, Marcie?"
"Yeah," I said, and touched my forehead. "It didn't hurt, but why is my forehead wet? Am I bleeding?"
"No, you're not bleeding," Belle answered. "Your forehead isn't wet, either."
"Yes, it *is* wet," I insisted. "I can feel it." I looked at my hand. My fingertips glistened with water. I told the others, "Look at my hand. It's wet, too." Glancing around, I tried to find the little piece of latch, but didn't see it.
"You couldn't get wet from something off the door anyway," Cakey said. "Can you move out of the way now, so I can finish knocking this thing open?"
"Yeah, sure," I said, but I wanted to know where the water was coming from. I glanced up at the ceiling and saw a wet spot directly above my head. It looked like a paper-thin, upside-down puddle. As I watched, the puddle on the ceiling grew thicker for a moment as water gathered in its center. The center swelled until it hung like a sack, then turned to a pear shape. The stem grew longer until the drop let go, falling in slow motion until it landed, fat and full of wetness, directly on my right eye.
"Ack!" I spluttered, more from surprise than anything else.
Then came a very different surprise, one that made my heart fall within me. No, no, no! I cried in silent protest as a familiar voice whispered, "Sorry!" and a hand brushed the hair from my forehead. "I didn't mean to wake you."
Before I explain the voice and the hand, I have to explain something to you, the reader. At long last, I have to tell you exactly what's been going on.
I've been telling you this story... or this set of stories... without hinting at what's coming or how I got home. You must know that I did get home. Otherwise, how could I tell you this story?
At the very beginning, I told you this would all make sense in the end. At least, I think it does. I hope it does.
I also began by saying that I told you this story to try to get things straight in my own head. That's what this is all about.
After taking off with Wiggy and the Amazons, after my dream as Marcie Auburn, after being shipwrecked on the island, and dreaming that I woke up at home... and above all, because of the stupid fairy tale that followed me wherever I went, dreaming or waking... you wouldn't be surprised if I told you that I woke up somewhere else now.
You wouldn't be surprised, but I'm pretty sure you'd at least be irritated and out of all patience.
Well, if you are... take a number. You have to get in line behind me, because *I* cannot take any more.
You might feel cheated or angry if I woke up at home once again... but how do you think that *I* feel?
At this point, you may be "sick and tired" as my mother says, of me going back and forth, of changing from Marcie Donner to Marcie Auburn and back again, of being home but not really home, and of having dreams that are no different from waking reality...
However confused, bothered, or upset you find yourself — multiply that by a million and seventy and you'll get an idea of where I am.
And where am I now?
Instantly, of course, I knew: I was lying in my bed, in my room, at home.
My mother was standing over me.
"What hit me?" I asked.
"I was going to take your pulse," she explained, "and I accidentally dropped my watch. It just grazed your forehead; it didn't really hit you."
"Why was it wet?" I asked. As I spoke, I licked my lips and realized what an arid, dry mouth I had.
"I just washed my hands," she answered.
"Oh," I said, and fell silent.
By now I'd had my fill of wondering what was real. By now, I'd gone through it with the Auburn family, Belle, my mother and Cassie, and Belle a second time. This time, at least I wouldn't make a fool of myself.
"What day is it?" I asked.
"Friday."
"What's the date?"
"December 29th."
I let out something that was a mixture of a groan and a sigh. "Mom? I just had the strangest dream, and I'm not sure what was the dream and what was real. In fact, I'm not sure that I'm not still dreaming."
"Wait until you wake up a bit, and your head will clear," she counseled, but I knew from experience that *that* wouldn't work.
"Let me ask you," I said. "Did we go to Ida's house for dinner?"
"Did we ever! Cheesecake and liver... what a combination! She is *so* upset that her dinner made you sick."
"And the secret tunnel... is that real?"
"Yes, but remember: don't tell anyone!"
As if I would! "And then, after that, I've just been sick in bed? I didn't go anywhere? Nobody called to offer me a trip to the South Seas?"
Mom laughed. "Is that what you dreamed? A South-Sea vacation? Sounds like a wonderful dream."
"Oh, yeah," I said. "Just wonderful."
"I'm going to go downstairs and bring you up some food," she told me. "Some broth and tea and toast. How does that sound?"
"Perfect," I said. "I'm going to make my way to the bathroom."
"Can you handle that by yourself?"
"Yes, sure."
She waited to see me get to my feet and hobble a few steps. As I stood, I noticed that the curtains were open. Morning light gently filled the room.
"Mom? Are the reporters still outside?"
"No, thank goodness! Thursday afternoon they all went away: lock, stock, and cameras."
"Are they still in front of the courthouse?"
"No. Your father drove by last night, and there was no one there."
"What happened?"
"I don't know. Ms. Gifford called, but I was busy and couldn't really pay attention. I was just so relieved that they left! When your father comes home he can tell you all about it, or if you feel up to it, you could call Ms. Gifford and ask her. She does want to talk with you."
I nodded.
"But have something to eat first," she cautioned. "You need to get your strength up."
Mom waited as I shuffled toward the door. "You're sure you're alright by yourself?"
"Yes," I replied. "Oh, Mom! Two more things: Is Cassie Auburn coming to visit?"
"No," she said. "Why would she come here? Did you dream that, too?"
"No, Jerry told me. She's going to Princeton. She might stop by."
"Oh, that will be nice," Mom commented, but she didn't sound like she meant it. "What's the other thing you wanted to ask?"
"Did you buy me a book of fairy tales?"
"When you were little? Of course I did."
"No, now. For Christmas. A book of transgendered fairy tales."
"No, I didn't." Then, after a pause, "Did you want me to buy you a book like that for Christmas?"
"No, I—"
"Because, Marcie, I don't even know if there is such a book. Do you want me to look for one for you?"
"No, no," I said. "Please don't. It was just something I dreamed. I wondered whether it was real."
"No, it wasn't. But if you want—"
"No, I don't, Mom. Thanks. Forget about it. Seriously. Please forget I ever mentioned it. I don't want one. It was just a weird thing in my dream."
"Okay," she said, and seeing that I was done asking questions, she went downstairs.
I made it to the bathroom, slowly but without incident. While there, I did an anatomical inventory and found that I was still Marcie Donner, to all effects and purposes.
When Mom brought the food back up to me she said, "You have an appointment scheduled this afternoon with Mr. Angle. I've already told him that you probably won't make it, but he kept the hour open just in case. Shall I call and tell him you're not coming?"
"No," I said. An appointment with a therapist sounded exactly like what I needed. "No, please tell him that I'm coming. I want to go. I need to talk to him about something."
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"I suppose it wouldn't help if I told you that this isn't a dream?"
"No," I said, and for the first time since I awoke, I laughed. "Nobody in my dreams thought that I was dreaming."
"I understand that you're upset, Marcie," Mr. Angle was saying, "but you have to remember: it was only a dream."
"No," I countered, "you don't understand." Explaining the problem was much harder than I thought it would be. Especially to Mr. Angle. He was a therapist, for goodness sake! He was supposed to be a professional listener, wasn't he?
"I think I do understand," he insisted. "You had a long, disturbing dream. I'm not surprised — not surprised at all — and neither should you be. You suffered an enormous trauma... actually, a number of traumas, compressed into a very short space of time. And I'm not surprised that you fell ill, either. All of the stress of what happened — the kidnapping, your... confrontation with Officer Strange, your escape, the things you witnessed there — it weakened your defenses, psychologically and physically. That's why you got sick from that dinner, while your mother and Ida didn't."
"It isn't that..." I began, but he pressed on.
"It isn't only that. You've been through so many changes since last August. You moved... what? three times? You changed schools twice. You left your friends behind twice. Already that puts you high on the stress scale, and that's saying nothing about your... adventures, for lack of a better word OR your change in gender."
"But..."
He ignored my attempted interruption and bulldozed ahead. "You're young. You're resilient. You're more resilient than most people, even people your own age, but you're not indestructible. Things have a way of catching up with us. What happened to you is that your body needed to shut itself down to give your mind and your emotions some time to heal. Does that make sense to you?"
"But the dreams—"
"The dreams are a by-product of your mind, as it works its way through the things that happened to you. Some of it's wish fulfillment, like the Marcie Auburn episode—"
"Wish fulfillment?" I echoed, incredulous.
"Yes," he insisted. "In your dream you got to experience life as a girl, born into a family of girls, as opposed to being a boy and an only child."
"But I didn't *like* being her! She was a tomboy! She was messy! And she didn't care about people!"
"Apparently, subconsciously, you think that's how you would have turned out," he suggested.
I huffed in disagreement.
"Look," he said, "apart from the content of any of those dreams, you have to understand that it's just your mind at play. It's trying to integrate the shocks you've undergone... trying to digest your experiences."
"Okay," I said. "I get that. I really do. I understand! Okay? But there is ONE BIG THING that you're completely missing that bothers me more than any stupid dream!"
"And what is that?" he asked.
"Those dreams... or whatever they were... were REAL. No, wait — let me finish! I couldn't pinch myself to wake up. Nothing crazy happened, like in an ordinary dream. I even fell asleep and had dreams in the dreams! I went places and did things. I learned stuff that I never knew before, and I met people. Real people."
He opened his mouth to speak, but I said, "Wait. Please wait. If you don't get this before I leave, I'll—" I paused. Somehow I had to make it clear to him that something important was at stake here. Somehow I had to force him to see that he really didn't understand at all. Then it came to me: an ultimatum. "If you don't get what I'm try to tell you, I'll will leave and never come back. I'll get a new therapist, one who listens to what I'm saying. I'm trying to tell you something serious and important."
He closed his mouth and motioned for me to go on.
"The thing is, these dreams — or whatever they are — were not like dreams. They were like reality. They weren't even like reality: There was no difference between that experience and what's happening right now. Can you understand that? I woke up from one dream, but I was still dreaming another dream. Right now, I'm talking to you, but if all of a sudden I woke up someplace else, I wouldn't be surprised at all." I searched for more words to say... for a better way to convey my meaning, but there was nothing.
Mr. Angle remained silent for a few moments. He was waiting to see whether I was finished. Then he asked me, "In the first place, I apologize for making you feel that I wasn't listening. I'll do my best to never let you feel that way again."
"Thank you," I replied.
"As far as what you were saying... If you did suddenly wake up... and found that this session with me was only a dream... what would you do?"
I took breath and blew it out slowly. Oh, Lord. "What would I do?" I repeated. "I'd, uh—" gesturing vaguely, I searched for the words "—I'd deal with it, somehow. I'd get my bearings; figure out who I was and how I fit in and just... deal with it."
"Is that what you're doing now?" he asked gently.
"No," I replied, and began sniffling. Just before I wiped my nose with the back of my hand he placed a box of tissues next to me. I took one.
"Deal with it," he echoed. "Is that what you did... Did you do that... I mean, in your various dreams, did you have to figure out who you were and get your bearings?"
"I don't know... I guess... maybe."
"Could that possibly be your touchstone? I mean, could that be a way for you to understand that this is not a dream? If there's nothing you need to adjust to? That feeling would indicate that you're really awake."
"Not really," I said. "For instance, all the reporters are gone from in front of my house, and I don't know why. Do you?"
"No, I don't," he answered.
"So maybe that difference means that I'm in a dream."
"I see. I suppose it wouldn't help if I *told* you that this isn't a dream?"
"No," I said, and for the first time since I awoke, I laughed. "Nobody in my dreams thought that I was dreaming."
He smiled with obvious relief at my laughter. Then he said, "Unfortunately, Marcie, we're out of time, and I do have another client. Are you going to be alright?"
"Yes," I replied. "I think so."
"If you need to call me tonight, this weekend, any time, do it. Normally I wouldn't allow a client to call me in that way, but I'm concerned about you. I'm going to talk with your mother before you go."
"Oh, please don't," I said. "I'm not a fragile flower, really."
Even though Mr. Angle didn't really understand, talking with him made me feel a little better. Before my session with him, I felt a bit frantic. Maybe it the act of telling the story was the thing that helped. I think it did; I wondered if telling someone else would help me even more.
But who could I tell? I would talk to Belle or Wiggy, if they were real people. I thought about Googling their names, or looking to see if they were on MySpace.
Well, why not look? What could it hurt?
I sat down at the computer and searched for them. I searched for all the Amazons. I searched for their school, St. Oda's. I searched the our ship, the Seward's Folly, and for Captain Blackett.
Nothing. Well, not nothing, but not the people I was searching for.
I drummed my fingers lightly on the keyboard without typing anything. What else could I do?
One of my dreams came back to me: the last time I was at home. I could try those same searches again. I Googled PRINCESS MARCELLINE, and again came up with the friend and pupil of Chopin.
Then... what was that name again? KALEIGH WAY. I tried the search, and to my surprise I found her. And she *did* write transgendered fairy tales! I didn't know what to make of it. I glanced at some of the stories, and they were similar to the ones in the book: boys turning into girls, stories I didn't recognize...
I couldn't read them, though. I couldn't take them in. Too many words. It was too much for right now.
I searched a bit more, to see if she'd published any real books. She hadn't. So I went back to that website, "Big Closet / Top Shelf" and thought for a bit. I went to the bathroom. I went downstairs to the kitchen, where I heated up some broth and toasted some bread.
I sat at the table crunching and sipping, I decided to do it.
I decided to write an email to Kaleigh Way.
It was hard to begin. I started five times, and each time deleted what I'd written. It wasn't working.
Then I thought: just ask her about the fairy tale. And so I did. I gave her a quick sketch of the Princess Marcelline story, and asked her whether she knew it.
When I was done with that, I hit SEND.
After that, I began to worry that she'd think I was crazy. So I wrote another email to explain how I'd seen the book in the dream.
When that was sent, I began a third email, then a fourth, and then a fifth.
Once I got in the vein, I couldn't stop. I kept writing and writing and sending email after email to this lady I'd never met. After a while I didn't care what she thought or what she'd say back or even if she'd read them at all.
I was writing for me. I had to get it off my chest.
It was three-forty-five in the morning when I was finished, and well over a dozen emails sent. I'd told pretty much the whole story, the way you heard it here, and when I was done, I didn't care. The hell with Kaleigh Way. She could say nothing or whatever she wanted. I told my story, and that was that.
There was still some broth downstairs, so I heated some more, toasted more bread, and filled my belly with the warm, healing liquid and the dry crunchy bread.
At last, feeling better but decidedly stinky, I took a shower. Afterward I put on clean pajamas and dried my hair in the downstairs bathroom, so I wouldn't wake my parents.
I changed the sheets on my bed, and then felt my energy drain once again.
I got into bed and sank into my familiar, wonderful, very-own mattress, and closed my eyes.
In a moment, they snapped open again. What in the world had I done? Why had I written all those crazy things to a woman I didn't even know?
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
There was a new, unread email sitting in my inbox.
It was from Kaleigh Way.
When I woke the next morning, the first thought in my mind was the mess of emails I'd sent last night. I drew a deep breath. Did I have to be such an idiot? Why did I send those emails? Why didn't I wait and look at them the next day?
I mean, who in the world was Kaleigh Way, and why did I think she'd care about me?
Maybe after she read the first email, she'd delete the rest without reading them.
At the very least, she'd think I was mentally unbalanced. Why in the world did I spill my guts to a total stranger?
Still, there was nothing for it but to face the music. I sat down at my desk and woke up my computer.
There was a new, unread email sitting in my inbox.
It was from Kaleigh Way. My heart rate picked up a bit as I clicked to open the message. This is what it said:
Dear Marcie,
I was just about to get ready for bed when your email arrived — the first one, where you asked about the fairy tales. *That* question is easy to answer, and I'll tell you in a minute...
Just as I finished reading your message, your second email arrived. I have to tell you, I was exhausted last night, and really wanted to sleep, but once I started reading your story — I mean, what happened to you — I couldn't stop. The third email came, and the fourth, and so on...
I kept on reading, all the way to the end, and by that time, I was completely awake.
When I got to the end of your last email, my first thought was, Oh, you poor girl! and I had to write an answer tonight.
You asked whether I think you're crazy. Well, I don't have any training in medicine or psychology, but I *have* seen crazy people, and you don't sound like one of them.
By the way, I have heard of you. I saw you on the news, and after reading your emails, I googled you. You certainly lead an adventurous life. Your dreams — or whatever they were — don't seem much different from what usually happens to you.
Now let's talk about your questions. About the fairy tales: I don't know any story called Princess Marcelline, but I do know the story that you're talking about. It's actually *two* stories: most of what you told comes from Gracieuse and Percinet by Madame d'Aulnoy. It's a French fairy tale, which is to say, it's very long and very strange. The rest of the story, the part about the ogre and his wife, is from The Blue Belt, in the collection of Asbjá¸rnsen and Moe. You can find them both on the internet.
The funny thing is, I *did* want to use both of those stories, but they were too awkward to make something of. If you read the originals, you'll find interesting bits here and there, but they get tiresome.
In any case, I don't think it's odd that you knew my name or the stories. You could have heard of them somewhere. If all you want is a rational explanation, that's it.
However, I hope that's not what you're looking for.
I might be wrong in telling you this, but when it comes to the strange things that happen in life, I don't always care for rational explanations. It's just like sweeping dirt under a carpet. It's a way of pretending that it isn't there.
Ordinary life is much weirder and wonderful than we usually realize, and every so often the curtain lifts just a bit. We see something impossible, something that makes no sense... we see it, but we don't believe our eyes.
You reminded me of the Chinese sage who dreamt he was a butterfly. When he woke, he said, "Now I don't know whether I'm a man who dreamt he was a butterfly, or a butterfly who dreams he's a man."
I always thought that was a pretty stupid story, because it's so obvious when you're dreaming and when you're awake — right?
Now I think, maybe that man had an experience like yours...
And then we come to what is probably the most important question: Do the Amazons exist? I think they do.
I don't think you can go and find them, however. I think what will happen is that one day you'll meet a girl your age and she'll seem so familiar. You'll think you know her, and she'll have the same feeling. You'll ask yourself, Who does she remind me of? and finally you'll realize that it's Cakey, or Wiggy, or Belle. Of course, the name will probably be different, but the person will be the same.
And maybe that girl had the same dream that you had. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.
I think the worst thing you could do right now is to try to figure it out. Don't rush to conclusions. In this case, it might be better not to come to any conclusion at all. Just try to live with what happened to you. Be grateful that you met those girls, and for the experiences you had with them. Remember you might see them again some day. It sounds like the experience enriched your life, so don't throw it away by being overly skeptical.
And sure, it is hard to lose them as friends, even if they aren't "real." I'm much older than you, and I've seen precious people slip out of my life in various ways, and it's hard.
I don't know whether any of this helps. I hope so.
I'm glad you felt you could write to me, and please feel free to write again if you like.
You're a courageous girl, and you've dealt with challenges that would have swamped many (maybe even most) people. This is just one more you have to face.
Trust me, your uneasy feelings will fade. In the meantime, try to live with them. Don't try push them away.
All the best,
Kaleigh Way
After I was done reading, I shut the email and went down to breakfast. I made myself some tea and toast.
This morning, I felt a lot better. My stomach was finally back to normal. I was a little weak, but I wasn't lightheaded any more. My illness had passed.
And though I often catch myself wondering how Wiggy is doing, or wishing I could email Belle, I feel a lot better about the whole experience. That's the word I use to describe it: experience. You can call it a dream if you like. I don't care. Now that I told my story, I've gotten it off my chest.
As far as what Kaleigh Way wrote to me... well, it was nice of her to try, but she didn't really help. I think she may be a nice person, but she must be a little off her rocker.
(Don't tell her I said so!)
I'm glad that she listened to me, but I don't think I'll write her again.
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
Marcie struggles with her role of "action hero" — should she give it up and just be an ordinary girl? Is that even possible?
copyright © 2011, 2012 Kaleigh Way — All Rights Reserved
Worst than the inconvenience and the noise, was knowing how easily they could expose me. If they started digging into my life, even just a little, they'd soon find out that only five months ago I was a boy named Mark. And they wouldn't just know it, they'd make it national news.
The sun was setting on the last day of 2007, and I was feeling a whole lot better.
For one thing, I was hungry, and that meant that I was done being sick from food poisoning. I'd gone from sucking ice cubes to drinking only water to eating plain, unbuttered toast... and now my stomach was growling for real food. Thank goodness!
The second bit of good news was that all the reporters had disappeared from my front lawn. They had descended on us like a swarm of locusts. Dad couldn't go outside without them crowding all around him, jostling him, and shouting questions at him. One morning one of them accidentally hit him in the head with a camera, but he kept his anger and slowly eased his car through the crowd.
"You don't know what it took to not just plow them all down," he told my mother that night.
You couldn't peek out a window without every light and camera swivelling directly at you. Just knowing they were outside was nerve-wracking. Even with the windows closed, we could hear the buzz of their vans and their talking. They never stopped. All night long their intensely bright lights shone through our curtains.
Worst than the inconvenience and the noise, was knowing how easily they could expose me. If they started digging into my life, even just a little, they'd soon find out that only five months ago I was a boy named Mark. And they wouldn't just know it, they'd make it national news.
But yesterday brought a sea change. Just as suddenly as the reporters had appeared, they were gone. They all got on their cell phones and turned their backs to my house, and group by group they packed up their tripods, cameras and lights and drove off. The swarm had moved, and the silence was stunning.
I breathed a contented sigh and looked out the front window. It was so nice to have the curtains open again.
But were they all gone? I thought I saw some movement down past the slope of our front lawn, on the sidewalk, near the street.
I got up on my knees on the couch to see better, and yes, there was one reporter left. She looked kind of familiar... probably from a New Jersey cable station. She held a microphone in one hand and a clipboard in the other. The light was dimming, but I could see her lips moving as she read.
My stomach growled again.
"Hey, Mom," I called. "Can I have a mug of hot chocolate?"
"Hot chocolate?" she repeated, wiping her hands on a towel as she emerged from the kitchen. "Are you sure, honey? Do you know how much fat hot chocolate has?"
"I'm not worried about my weight," I replied, laughing.
"It's not your weight, it's your digestion," she countered. "You haven't eaten anything for days but toast. I'm not sure your stomach is ready for something that rich."
"It's what I want, though," I said.
"Mmm. Well! I understand cravings," Mom replied with a smile. "Alright, one mug of hot chocolate coming up."
An idea hit me. After a quick glance over my shoulder, I said, "Mom, can you make it two mugs?"
Her eyebrows went up as she followed my gaze outside. "Now, Marcie, I'm sure that's a bad idea. Talk about walking into a lion's den!"
In the end we compromised. Mom made me two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream, but I had to bundle up as if we lived at the South Pole.
Down the walk I went, in my slippery-soled fur-trimmed boots, Mom's extremely puffy down-filled coat, and her day-glo magenta scarf. Of course it all was topped off with an idiotic patchwork knit hat.
Maybe Mom's idea was that if I dressed like a clown, I'd be sure not to let myself get caught on camera.
The worst part of the hat was the top: it didn't have a pom-pom; that would have been bad enough. Instead, it had a weird flappy thing that looked like a knitted fish tail.
And the gloves made it hard to hold the mugs upright. The mugs kept wanting to tip forward, so I had to hold my hands at a precarious backward angle.
I swear, sometimes it seems that mothers live to make life difficult.
When I got to the top of the stairs, the reporter looked up in surprise.
"Hey! Are you Marcie Donner?" she called.
"Yes, I'm in here somewhere," I replied. "Uh, you want a mug of hot chocolate?"
"Oooh, I'd love one!" she cried. "I'm freezing out here!"
I stopped and looked down at her. "Would you mind coming up here to get it? The mugs keep slipping and I'm afraid I'll drop them both."
She set down her clipboard and mike and ran up the stairs. She took both mugs from me so I could sit down, and the two of us perched side by side at the top of the stairs. Before taking the mug back from her, I said, "Wait a minute... don't tell my mother this, but..." and pulled off both my gloves.
I was surprised by how strikingly beautiful the newswoman was. And her hair and makeup were perfect. Even more striking was seeing how tiny she was! She had to be at least four inches shorter than me. You wouldn't have known when you saw her on TV... and I saw why: she had a box to stand on while on camera!
I pretended to not notice it.
After I took a few sips and licked the whipped cream from my lips, I said to her, "Can I ask you something? Where did all the other reporters go?"
She laughed and said, "Do you miss them? Do you want me to call them back?"
"No! No way! No offense, but I'm glad they're gone. Look what they did to our front yard!" In fact, our yard was the only one on our street that wasn't covered in snow. Our yard had been trampled into mud, with an occasional tuft of grass showing here and there. I wondered whether the grass would come back in the spring.
"No," I continued, "I don't miss them. It's just so weird that they all disappeared like that."
"Welcome to the world of short news cycles," she laughed. "You've been bumped by bigger stories. Do you watch the news? Don't you know what's happening?" When I shrugged she told me, "Gerald Ford died; his funeral was yesterday. And Saddam Hussein was hanged yesterday."
"Yuck!" I reacted with distaste. "But they aren't all running off to cover those stories, are they?"
"No," she said, "but when a big story hits, it kind of clears the deck. All the smaller stories get swept away."
"When those big stories are over, will the reporters come back?"
"No," she smiled. "You've had your moment. You'll be old news... unless you shoot another bad guy."
"I don't plan on doing that again soon," I replied. "Or ever!"
We slurped some more chocolate. "So how come you're still here?"
"Oh," she replied with a sigh, "I managed to convince my boss that you're still a story. But I can only post one more piece and then I'm gone, too. In fact, I was just setting up to do it. Hey— would you mind, um..."
And so we clinked our chocolate mugs for the camera, pretending it was midnight. She asked me about my New Years resolutions. Without a moment's thought, with all my heart, I immediately replied, "I'm going to keep a low profile this year."
She laughed and said, "Good luck with that!"
Then she turned off the camera and the light. She packed up her gear, gave me a hug, and drove away.
Now the street was perfectly quiet and clear.
That night, New Years Eve, I slept through the fireworks and the horns and the cheering, but at 7:30 the next morning, the first morning of 2008, my eyes snapped open and I was wide awake. The house was quiet, but I heard a soft sound from somewhere downstairs. It sounded like someone crying.
I sat up and wiped the sleep from my eyes. I wrapped myself in my robe, stepped into my slippers, and padded down the stairs.
Even though I walked as quietly as I could, whoever was crying must have heard me, because they abruptly stopped sobbing and quickly began sniffing, blowing their nose, and clearing their throat.
Mom and Ida were sitting at the kitchen table. Neither was saying a word — which was very unusual — and both of them were smiling at me. Ida's smile was the brave smile that says I wasn't crying, but her red nose and eyes told me that she had.
Mom was smiling, too: the kind of smile that tells a child that everything's fine when it clearly isn't.
"Ida, what's wrong?" I asked.
She sniffed and opened her eyes wide, trying to keep the tears in. "Maisie's dad..." she began to say, then abruptly stopped. She swallowed hard and started blinking. Whatever it was, it was just too hard to say.
Mom stepped in and quietly told me, "Maisie's father won't let her come home. He's keeping her in California. Indefinitely."
I frowned. "Why not?"
Mom continued to speak in an undertone, as if Ida couldn't hear. "He says it's too dangerous."
"What!?"
"The kidnapping," Mom explained. "Maisie was the target. So he says she's safer out there. He lives in a gated community, remember?"
"But he can't do that!" I blurted out angrily. "Can he?"
"Not legally," Mom admitted. "Ida's taken it to family court, but..."
Ida took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back and tried to give her an encouraging smile.
"But the kidnapper is in jail," I protested.
"I know," Mom said. "It's just a matter of time before Maisie comes back, but she might not be here when school starts."
Ida me asked in a croaking voice if I could call Maisie and to see how she's doing, "... and if you could get any news."
"I'll call her later," I promised. "It's still early out there. It's like 4:30 in the morning for them."
Ida nodded mutely and sighed. Then she looked at my mother, then looked at me, and smiling shyly asked, "Does Marcie know the news yet?"
"What news?" I asked.
Mom grinned and replied, "I want to get some breakfast in her first." She stood up. "Do you want anything, Ida?"
"Just more tea."
After cooking some bacon, Mom cracked an egg into the pan and exclaimed in surprise. "Will you look at that! It's a double yolk!"
She showed it to Ida first, and the two women got this goofy Mommish isn't that significant! look on their faces. Then Mom turned the pan my way, to show me. They looked expectantly, as if it was a divine revelation.
"What?" I said, utterly bewildered. "Is that bad? Is it safe to eat?"
They both laughed. "Of course it's safe to eat!" Mom replied. "It's just... interesting."
"Does this have something to do with the news you have to tell me?" I asked. It was too early in the morning for guessing games.
"Maybe it does... and maybe it doesn't," Mom said in a mysterious tone, and the two women burst into laughter.
"Oh, just tell me!"
"After you eat, honey."
Ida smiled, and looking to change the subject asked, "When *does* school start? I don't remember offhand."
"It's next Monday," I told her.
"Why so late?"
"They can't start until after the Epiphany."
"Mmm," Mom said, licking some butter off her finger, "And what is the Epiphany?"
"Who the hell knows?" I joked.
"Marcie!" Mom scolded.
"Oh, it's some religious holiday."
"And what exactly does it celebrate?"
"Um..."
"Sounds like you should look it up today."
I didn't want to do that, so I told her, "Oh, I just remembered: it's for Saint Epiphany. It's her day."
Mom looked skeptical. "And what is she famous for?"
"Oh," I said, and casting around the kitchen for an answer. "She's the patron saint of tea."
"Hmmph," Mom replied, as she set my plate in front of me. "Well, I don't know what the right answer is, but I'm sure that what you said is wrong."
I shrugged and popped some bacon in my mouth. Bacon! It never tasted so good.
"So what will you do this week?" Ida asked me.
"I dunno," I sighed. "Maybe I'll get a job."
Ida brightened at that. "Oh, you know what? Tea! The Tea Shop on the Corner is looking for help. It's a cute place, you could go there. It's in the town center; you can walk from here."
"And what is it called?"
"The Tea Shop on the Corner."
"Yes, but what is its name?"
Ida laughed. "That *is* the name, Marcie: The Tea Shop on the Corner."
I set my fork down and wiped my plate with my toast. "Okay, Mom: *now* can you tell me the news? We're not moving again, are we? I'm not changing schools?"
"No, no, nothing like that. This is good news, happy news." She and Ida beamed at me. It made me pretty nervous.
"So?" I prompted her.
"I'm pregnant, Marcie."
My jaw fell open and hit the table.
"And I'm going to have twins."
My jaw hit the floor.
I sat there staring and didn't say a word. I couldn't comprehend it. At last, I managed to say, "But you can't! You're... you're not supposed to!"
She smiled and said, "What do you mean, I'm not supposed to? How old do you think I am, Marcie?"
"It's not that... it's just that..." I was at a loss for words. It didn't compute. "I mean... there's you, and me, and Dad. We're the Donner family. We're a family already. We don't need more."
"Well, now there will be two more." Mom was still smiling. It seemed like my shock and disbelief amused her a little.
"And when are you due?" Ida asked.
"June 3rd," Mom said. "They're going to be summer babies."
"Where will they go?" I asked. "Where are you going to put them?"
Mom laughed as if I'd said the funniest thing. "The room across from yours will be the nursery."
"Just think, Marcie," Ida said, giving my hand another squeeze, "You can have so much fun babysitting!"
I was speechless. What did we need a pair of babies for? Who ordered twins? For sure it wasn't me!
© 2011 by Kaleigh Way
There was still one more shot I had to fire. "Maze," I ventured, "Do you think this Chrissie might be a gold digger?"
"I dunno," she replied, and I could almost see her shrug. "I guess she'd *have* to be to put up with my dad. But anyway, she's good for him. He's not as much of an asshole when she's around. I think they might get married."
I sure wasn't going to tell Ida that last bit of news!
My mother told me that I looked pale before I left the house, and as I walked to Flickerbridge's town center, I felt pale. Being sick had taken a lot out of me.
I shook off the feeling of weakness, squared my shoulders, and walked a little taller. I was done feeling sick. I was fine, I just had to get my energy back. And though it was a colder than I would have liked, it was good to be outside and walking... especially after hearing my mother's news.
I huffed loudly in exasperation, and my breath floated up like a cloud in the icy air. Twins!
My mood lightened a little when I got to Flickerbridge center. It aimed at being quaint, but it was more cute in an old-timey way, with its faux gaslamps and dated architecture. All the buildings were only one or two stories. Most were in the Tudor style, with dark brown exposed beams and light cream stucco. The rest were brick, with decorative concrete elements, like arches and window frames.
The Tea Shop on the Corner was well named, for it stood on its own little corner, surrounded by grass, and dwarfed by an elm tree. In fact, it was because of the elm tree that I'd never noticed the store before. It hid half of the building. More than that, the building was nestled into the trees surrounding it that it simply blended in, and became part of the background. The path to the front door curved gently around the tree, and led to the arched doorway. It wasn't until you got around the tree that you could see the terra-cotta tile roof, which reminded me a little of home. You see that sort of roof more often in California than in New Jersey. To the right of the doorway was a large picture window, emblazoned with the shop's logo: the image showed a gigantic teapot sitting on the corner of two streets. The corner itself pointed straight at you, and the teapot's steaming spout pointed left, to the door. On the front of the teapot was the image of the elm tree. It was clever and nicely done, but I wondered how much business they had, since it was all so easy to miss.
A bell jangled as I went inside, and a girl looked up at me from behind the counter. There was no one else in the place except for a man who sat in the far left corner: a sandy-haired, good-looking man. He was talking very intently with a woman who sat with her back to me.
Clearly I couldn't interrupt that conversation, so I walked over to the girl. She seemed to be suspicious of me, and twice she shot sour looks at the people talking in the corner.
Still, there was no one else to ask, so when I reached the counter I said, "Hi, My name is Marcie Donner, and I'm looking for a job. I heard that you need help here."
She looked at me a moment without smiling, then said in a flat tone, "Oh yeah, we need help here all right."
I frowned and asked her, "What does that mean? Someone told me you need another person here. Are you saying you don't?" I looked over my shoulder at the empty shop.
"No," the girl said, "We really need help. Nobody's here right now—" she looked pointedly at the people at the table in the corner, as if to say that they were nobody "—but you just missed the crowd. You couldn't have got in the door if you came a little earlier."
"Oh!" I said, quite surprised. "Well, who can I talk to?"
"Aren't you talking to me?"
"I mean about the job."
"You can talk to my father." She nodded toward the corner. "That is, as soon as that woman is finished picking his bones."
She said it in voice just loud enough to be heard by the woman at the table, who turned her head slightly to look. Then she saw me, and did one of those foot-to-head sweeps, taking me in, and making me feel like a piece of merchandise.
I shifted uncomfortably and turned back to the girl. "So, I'm Marcie," I repeated. "What's your name?"
"I know who you are," she said. "We go to the same school. I'm Jordan." Then she turned her head to look at something and I saw her face in full profile.
That's when it clicked. I knew who she was. "I remember you!" I told her. "We had detention together last year. I didn't recognize you until I saw you in profile." Sounds stupid, I know, but we weren't allowed to speak or sit near each other, so I only saw her from the side.
Jordan laughed. It was such a relief to see that sullen face break into a smile, but it immediately vanished when the woman in the corner stood up. She held out her left hand, and Jordan's father nervously took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. Jordan reacted with with a scoff of disgust.
The two shook hands and the woman went to the door. She opened it, stopped and turned. "Goodbye, Jordan," she said, looking directly in the girl's eyes with an air of superiority. Jordan held the woman's gaze, unblinking, but didn't answer. The woman smiled and left.
"Jordan, you need to be polite with our customers," her father gently scolded.
"She's not a customer," Jordan countered. "She's a vulture."
He glanced at me and pressed his lips into a tight flat line. "Now is not the time for this, Jordan," he told her, and turned to me. "What can I do for you, Miss?"
"Sounds pretty weird," Maisie commented.
"It was very weird," I replied. "Do you know that Jordan girl? She's a sophmore."
"Never saw her that I know of," Maisie replied. "I don't know any sophmores. So did you get the job?"
"No," I said. "Or not yet. Her father said he had to wait and see how an investment turned out."
"When will that be?"
"He didn't say."
I heard Maisie bite into an apple on the other end of the line.
"So, Maze..." I began, gingerly dipping my toe in the water, "Is your father going to let you come back?"
"I dunno," she said, her mouth full of food.
I grimaced, and tried to ignore her crunching and eating noises.
"Do you care? Do you want to come back?"
"I dunno."
"You don't know?"
"No, I don't know," she repeated. "I miss you, but we talk on the phone. I kind of miss my mother, but don't tell her that. I don't miss Blessed Yvette and the nuns and the stupid uniforms."
"Oh, Maze!"
"It's nice out here! For one thing, it isn't cold. If you want to be cold, you have to go somewhere cold on purpose. My father is an ass, and I hate him, but I don't see him very much."
"So what do you do?"
"I told you about his girlfriend Chrissie, remember? She is so cool! She's with me all day... well, most days... until my father gets home. Then she's with him. I have some friends out here, but they're all still on vacation, until school starts."
"So... you go shopping with her? Is that what you do?"
"We did at first. We do sometimes. But you can only do so much shopping. Now we go on hikes, camping, stuff like that."
"You do?" It was hard to picture Maisie hiking.
"Yeah! It's great. I even put on some weight! Not a lot. I'm not a fatty like... well, I'm still my usual svelte self, but now I have some muscle."
I shook my head in disbelief. I didn't know what to say.
"Oh! and I quit smoking!" she announced.
"Really? That's great! How did you do it?"
"Oh, it just kind of happened. I guess being outdoors so much, and... oh, did I tell you I'm a vegan now?"
"A vegan? Is that like a vegetarian?"
"Yeah, kinda. Chrissie's vegan, so she got me into it. I'm even cooking!"
"Wow!"
"Yeah! I'm like a whole different person now."
"I was just gonna say that, Maze."
"Yeah. The only bad thing is that Chrissie is looking at schools for me. I was hoping to just stay home."
Aha! "You mean like boarding schools? Is she trying to get rid of you?"
"No!" Maisie scoffed. "You gotta quit watching those Lifetime for Women movies. She says it's gotta be somewhere close, so she can drive me. We go together, talk to teachers. She even talks to me about college, and what I want to be!"
Maisie crunched into her apple and chewed thoughtfully for a few moments.
"You know what? She is, like, the only adult who talks to me like a person, and actually listens to what I say!"
"Yeah..." I said vaguely. "I think you told me that..." I felt like I was losing ground. It sure didn't sound like Maisie was coming back, and it sure didn't sound like she wanted to come back! I pictured Ida and wondered what I'd be able to tell her.
And not only Ida... what about me? I could feel myself sinking in dismay. As difficult as she was, Maisie was the best friend I had since moving to New Jersey. Was I going to lose her so soon?
But I roused myself. There was still one more shot I had to fire. "Maze," I ventured, "Do you think this Chrissie might be a gold digger?"
"I dunno," she replied, and I could almost see her shrug. "I guess she'd have to be to like my father. But anyway, she's good for him. He's not as much of an asshole when she's around. I think they might get married."
I sure wasn't going to tell Ida that last bit of news!
And that was all I had to say, really... I felt pretty blown out by Maisie's breezy tone, and the big difference in her. She seemed healthy and happy. She seemed better out there. Could I really be selfish enough to want her to come back?
"So hey!" Maisie countered. "Enough about me! You gotta tell me what crazy stuff you've been up to! Taken out any more bad guys?"
"No, no bad guys, Maze. No nothing," I replied. "Aside from the job, and — oh!" I groaned, remembering that I hadn't told her: "My mother is pregnant."
Maisie replied with an expletive.
"With twins," I added.
Maisie doubled down on the expletives.
"My God, Marcie!" she said. "That is so messed up!"
"I know," I said.
"That is so wrong!" she went on. "You know what? I have seen this, and it is a raw deal. You should seriously consider running away from home."
"Oh, Maze, I wouldn't do that."
"I was only kidding. But seriously: You go from being an only child, which is fine, to being the oldest. Do you know what that means? It means that your parents expect you to work. Your life becomes a job."
I sighed heavily.
"It's not just babysitting. You have to be like a parent to the little monsters. It's just not fair."
I made a whining noise.
Maisie said, "Listen, next summer when the rug rats pop out, you should come out here. I can get my dad to fly you."
"Really?" I said, brightening.
"Oh yeah!" she said. "He'd do it. If Chrissie asked him, he would. And I can ask her to ask him."
"Wow, that would be great!" I said. A sense of relief and escape spread over me. I relaxed and smiled.
We chatted for a little while after that, and just before we hung up, Maisie asked me a question.
"Hey, Marce. I wanted to ask you... Have you, um, did you tell your... secret to anybody else?"
"My secret?"
"Yes, you know, your ex-Marky-ness?"
I blushed. "No. You're the only one who knows. I mean, aside from—"
She interrupted, "—aside from adults? 'Cause they don't count."
"Aside from adults, you're the only one who knows."
"Oh, cool! You didn't tell Susan?"
"No."
She was silent for a moment. "Listen, if you tell anyone else, will you let me know?"
I heard the longing in her voice, that need to feel an exclusive kind of friendship, and I wanted that too.
"I'll tell you. If I ever do, I'll let you know, but I doubt that it will happen."
"Good," she said, and I said, "Good," too.
Then we hung up, both of us in a much better mood than before.
I did a happy dance around the phone, laughing to myself. The summer of babies would turn into a summer of sun for me and Maisie. I'd escape from the crying and the diapers and the aren't they cute stuff.
And then the phone rang. I grabbed it, thinking it was Maisie calling back again. "Hallooo?" I said. "The Donner rezzy-dence."
"Marcie?" a man's voice asked. "This is Mr. Fisby, Jordan's dad. From the Tea Shop. Listen, I've gotten some... well, some unexpected funding. If you want to start work tomorrow, I'd be glad to have you. Can you come some time mid-morning so we can fill out your working papers?"
© 2011 by Kaleigh Way
She gave me a suspicious look. "You're not going to enter that goofy pageant, are you?"
I blushed. "Um, sure. Why not?"
Susan huffed loudly. "Why not? In the first place, it's degrading. I can't believe the school even does such a thing, in this day and age. In the second place, you can't win. And in the third place, you are not that kind of girl."
I worked every day until school started, four hours a day. Jordan was right: the place was incredibly busy. The hardest part was learning to describe all the teas. Mr Fisby made me taste them all, but they all seemed pretty much the same.
It was a good job. I was making money. Jordan worked hard and didn't complain, but she rarely spoke or smiled. I caught her staring at me a lot, but her face was so closed I couldn't read her expression. Was she mad at me for some reason? Did she not like me?
I felt a little less uncomfortable when I saw that she treated her father much the same way. It didn't seem to affect him, though. Her father pretty much ignored Jordan's sullen nature. He was all business, all about the customers and the shop, and when he spoke to her it was more like a boss speaking to an employee than a father speaking to his daughter.
Of course I didn't like seeing that... it kind of hurt, actually. It made me think of Maisie and her parents.
Then again, maybe Jordan just didn't like working in the tea shop. You're kind of stuck when you're born into a family business.
Aside from that, I liked the situation. Mr Fisby was nice to me. He wasn't exactly friendly... I guess you could say he was professionally kind.
The really big surprise was how much energy the job required. You wouldn't think that waiting tables could be physically taxing, but honestly all the running, the cleaning, the paying attention and being nice to everyone... it wore me out!
At the same time, I could feel my strength and endurance coming back. The first night I was exhausted, but less so the second and third. And each morning I woke up with more energy!
By Sunday, I almost felt like my old self again.
Still, after a week at the tea shop, I was ready for a break, so school almost seemed like a vacation.
The first day, Monday, began with an assembly. Susan and I sat next to each other, whispering our news to each other, mainly about Maisie. Susan didn't seem surprised that Maisie wasn't back, but Susan was a hard person to surprise.
In fact, Susan and I already knew the biggest news, the one that caught every other girl unawares: I'm talking about our new principal. The whole auditorium was abuzz when Miss Overmore announced that Sister Honoraria had retired, but the murmuring really kicked into high gear when she said that *she* was taking the old nun's place.
That the principal had changed was news enough. Then add to that the fact that Miss Overmore was the first principal at BYHS who wasn't a nun. And not only was she not a nun, she was also the first black woman to ever hold the post.
Everyone liked Miss Overmore, but we also knew that she brooked no nonsense. She was beautiful, graceful, and lovely, but she could turn to steel in a moment.
"Now that you've met your new principal — me," she was saying, "the next order of business is to introduce our new girls. When I call your name, please stand up and say hello, so we can see who you are."
Two of the new students were freshmen. The first girl, Mallory, leaped to her feet when called and let out a loud, "Howwww-deeee!" like Minnie Pearl. Everyone laughed, and Mallory bowed in several directions before sitting down. Miss Overmore ignored the disruption and kept a serious face.
The second girl, Blair, didn't respond. Miss Overmore called her name twice with no result. Heads were swivelling left and right, back and forth, wondering where she might be. Finally, when Miss Overmore called her name the third time, the girl let out a high-pitched squeal and leaped to her feet, crying with great indignation, "MALLORY! WHY DID YOU PINCH ME?" in voice that filled the auditorium.
Everyone tittered and giggled, and Blair, who was clutching her behind with both hands, looked around the room stupified, her mouth hanging open. It seemed to take her half a minute to come to herself, when she sat down quickly with a loud thump!
Miss Overmore had to pound on the lectern with a book to restore order. Once quiet returned, she introduced the rest of the new girls without incident.
At the end of the assembly, Miss Overmore said, "One more announcement, and then you may go to your second period classes.
"Tomorrow, we will have another assembly, same time, same location. We will have a special guest who will tell us all about the 'Madonna of the Future' project, which some of you may already know about."
There was a loud general shuffling as everyone got to their feet, gathering their things. Miss Overmore's voice called out one final announcement that was nearly lost in the din:
"Applications for the Miss BYHS pageant must be turned in by end of school Friday. Blank forms are at the office."
We had some time before our first class, so Susan and I walked slowly, chatting. Even so, we got to the classroom before the teacher arrived. The new girl Mallory was standing behind the teacher's chair, straightening it. It was odd, but we didn't make anything of it.
Mallory ran to grab a seat in the back row. Susan and I sat on the right side of the room... not in the first row, but closer to the front.
When the bell rang, the teacher, one of the older nuns, walked in quickly. She pulled out her chair and sat down heavily in it.
As soon as her took her seat, a long, loud frrrapppp! was heard — the unmistakable sound of a fart.
We all laughed at the unexpected noise, but no one as much as Mallory. She threw her head back, bared her teeth, and guffawed. Her haw! haw! haw! was so loud, it was almost alarming.
The nun jumped to her feet, face crimson, and stared at the seat of her chair. With a expression of distaste, she picked up a limp whoopie cushion with two fingers.
"Oh!" Mallory wheezed, "There's no beating the classics!"
"Girls, really!" the nun exclaimed, and dropped the offending item in the trash.
The next moment, Blair burst into the room, wide-eyed, as if she'd been lost for days. She stood by the door and looked open-mouthed around the room, unblinking.
"Come in and sit down," the teacher told her. When Blair didn't move, the nun added, "Take a seat by Susan," and gestured to an empty seat on Susan's left.
Blair scurried over and threw herself into the seat, scattering her belongings all around her. She was nearly trembling, she was so nervous. Then she gasped as if in alarm and, turning to Susan, asked, "You are Susan, aren't you?"
"Yes," Susan replied. "You're in the right place. Just calm down, take a few breaths, okay?"
Blair smiled uncertainly and looked around. Her quick head motions reminded me of a little bird.
"All right, girls," the nun began. "Please take out your Math books and turn to page seven. Page seven in your Math books."
I plopped the heavy book on my desk and turned the pages. So did everyone else...
... except Blair. She reached into her bag, and with a cry of dismay pulled out her History book. Wordlessly she showed it to the teacher, who said, "All right, Blair, look on with Susan."
Susan sighed and pulled her desk close to Blair's.
The rest of the hour passed without event, but when I passed the trash can I noticed that the whoopie cushion had gone.
When Susan and I sat down in English class, I looked at Mallory, who was squirming with excitement in the back row. "Susan, I think Mallory is going to try the whoopie cushion again."
Susan rolled her eyes, and sure enough, when the teacher sat down, we were treated to a lively frrrapppp!
Like the previous teacher, this nun, redfaced, dropped the limp bladder into the trash.
"Look at how Mallory laughs," Susan said in an irritated tone. "She looks like a donkey braying."
Then, just like before, Blair burst in, crashed next to Susan, and pulled out her Math book when it was time to read.
"For today, just look on with Susan," the teacher said, and Susan, looking daggers at Blair, pulled her desk over.
In the cafeteria line I asked Susan whether she knew what the "Madonna of the Future" project was.
She shrugged. "All I know is, it's something about a painting. I don't think it has anything to do with us."
We sat down at our usual table, just the two of us, and looked at each other. Susan said, "It's going to be quiet without Maisie."
Before I could reply, Mallory noisily dropped her tray next to mine, kicked her chair a little space from the table, and dropped into it with a grunt. She grabbed some french fries and shoved them into her mouth.
I looked at her in surprise. Susan eyed her with indignation.
"Sumphin wrong?" Mallory asked, her mouth full of food.
Before Susan could answer, Blair came up, wide-eyed as usual, and took the seat next to Susan. She looked around the room and at the three of us.
Mallory burst into her haw-haw-haw and shouted, "Blair! Where's your food?"
"What?" Blair asked, searching all around her.
"You did the whole lunch line and didn't take any food," Mallory crowed.
Blair sighed, looking offended, and wandered back to the end of the line.
"Blair is the original dumb blonde," she said.
Susan huffed. "In case you haven't noticed, Mallory, Blair's hair is black."
Mallory smiled. "Yeah... See? She couldn't even get *that* right!"
"Oh, boy," I groaned.
Susan and I finished eating as quickly as we could. She asked me in a low voice, "I'm going to the library. You want to come?"
"No," I said. "I need to run by the office."
She gave me a suspicious look. "You're not going to enter that goofy pageant, are you?"
I blushed. "Um, sure. Why not?"
She scoffed. "A beauty pageant?"
My blush deepened. "Yes, sure, why not?" I repeated.
Susan huffed loudly. "Why not? In the first place, it's degrading. I can't believe the school even does such a thing, in this day and age. In the second place, you can't win. And in the third place, you are not that kind of girl."
"Hey, thanks for the vote of confidence!" I said, feeling a little offended.
"Oh, Marcie! Look: you're not a girly girl. You know this. You're... an action hero. You knock out bad guys, you shoot kidnappers in the foot. That's who you are. You don't tap dance or twirl batons. You don't worry about moisturizer and eye shadow. You wear this uniform day after day and you never try to accessorize it. I mean, face it: you're practically a boy."
"What!?"
"Hey, no offense! I'm no femme fatale myself. I'm just saying—" She sighed. "Marcie, you're cute. Boys like you. Everybody likes you, but you are not the most feminine female.
"Besides," she went on, "Only a senior can win."
"What if an underclassman is prettier?"
"Oh, look," she said. "When Miss Overmore was a junior here, she entered the pageant, and she should have won. She got more votes than anybody else — a huge majority — but they fudged it and made a senior win. They didn't even let her be the runner up!"
"Really?" I asked. "How do you know this?"
"Oh, come on," she scoffed. "I've read every issue of the school newspaper, all the way back to the beginning. What do you think I do in the library? I read. And, I ask questions."
"Hmmph," I said, thinking.
"Even if a underclassman *could* win, do you think you could beat Samantha deVoss?" She gestured with her chin at one of the sophmores.
She was right. Samantha was the most beautiful girl in the school. I'd heard she actually worked as a model and had even been on TV. "Talk about a Madonna: if Rafael was alive today, he would paint Samantha."
I sighed. "Okay. So I'm not the fairest of them all. But I still can enter, can't I?"
"I guess," Susan said. "But why? Why would you ever want to? What's the point if you can't win?"
"I don't know," I replied. "I'm curious. I just want to. I want to see what it's like. I want to have that experience."
Susan relaxed and smiled. "Okay," she said. "I guess I understand. Sorry I gave you a hard time, but those contests..." she shook her head and shivered in distaste. "Anyway, I hope you have fun."
"Thanks! And Susan," I added with a laugh, "I'll try to not do anything degrading."
The next class was History, and guess what. Mallory was squirming away in the back row, already stifling her laughter. But this time, when the teacher walked in, she pulled out her chair and glanced at the seat. Still standing, she put her bag on her desk, reached in, and drew out a pair of scissors.
She held up the rubber bladder and cut it neatly in half. She threw the pieces on her desk like a trophy. No one would ever make it fart again.
Susan turned to give a superior smile at Mallory, but Mallory only shrugged.
"Just wait," Mallory whispered, "Tomorrow, I'll make this look like child's play."
"Tomorrow will be too late," Susan whispered back. "It already looks like child's play."
Mallory smiled and said, "We'll see."
Susan opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Blair, who once again burst into the room, and — as Susan softly exclaimed "Damn!" — crashed into the seat next to Susan.
"Take out your History books," the teacher told us, and inevitably Blair pulled out her English text and showed it with a mournful look to the teacher.
The teacher opened her mouth, but Susan put up both hands and said, "Wait a moment, sister, I've got this." She grabbed Blair's bag, rummaged a bit, and pulled out Blair's History book, which she plopped on the girl's desk.
"Thank you, Susan," Blair said, with a breathless smile.
"Oh!" Susan groaned quietly in my ear. "Nobody can be that stupid, can they? It has to be an act."
© 2011 by Kaleigh Way
"Catch this one," Mallory said, spinning the tape rapidly ahead.
"No," Susan insisted. "I don't want to hear any—"
Mallory interrupted. "Hold on there. These aren't just any old, ordinary, run-of-the-mill farts," she explained in a low, confidential tone. "You won't find these farts on the street. These are special."
Susan scoffed. "And what makes them so special?" she asked scornfully.
As I walked home, my thoughts revolved around Maisie. She sounded so good out there in California, so healthy and so happy, too!
At the same time, I couldn't forget Ida's tears. I know that Maisie hated her mother for some of the things she'd done, but Ida regretted everything and had an enormous sense of guilt.
All the long walk home, I turned it over and over in my mind, but the more I thought about it, the more confused and upset I felt. I'd tried to talk to Susan about it, but for her the situation was cut and dried: "If Maisie is better off in California, she should stay in California!"
The problem was... I missed that mean little bony girl!
I knew her mother did, too. Much more than me.
By the time I got home, I was desperate enough to talk to my mother about it.
Unfortunately, Mom kept zeroing in on all the wrong things.
When I explained what a good influence Chrissie was having on Maisie, Mom countered, "Oh, it's just a ploy. Once she marries Maisie's father, she'll drop that girl like a dirty sock."
"Mom! Maisie really likes her!"
"That will make it all the worse."
"Mom," I sighed. "Mom! I didn't want to talk about Chrissie. I just mentioned her to show how well Maisie is doing in California. She quit smoking, she put on some weight..."
Mom looked thoughtful. "Maisie is spending all of her time with this bimbo, Chrissie? And she never sees her father?"
I gaped in offended astonishment. "Mom! Chrissie's not a bimbo!"
"Have you seen her? Have you talked to her?"
"No... but you haven't either!"
"I think it's safe to assume it," Mom asserted. "What other kind of woman could she be?"
"What does it matter?" I asked.
"It could be relevant in a custody hearing," Mom replied.
"Oh, no!" I cried. "You can't tell Ida any of this!"
Now it was Mom's turn to look astonished. "Marcie Donner, I am shocked at you! Do you *understand* how Ida is suffering? That poor woman can hardly get through the day! But why I am asking if you understand? I know that you don't. You can't! You have no idea! You can't imagine how a mother feels when her daughter is..." she stopped, waving her hands, inarticulate for a few moments. "When you were in California with your aunt, I was in agony. I had trouble sleeping at night! And I knew you were coming home. Ida has no idea when she'll ever see her daughter again."
I softly suggested, "She could move to California."
Mom's face went red with indignation. "No, Marcie, no. I'm sorry, but you're seeing all of this from the wrong end of the stick."
"I'm not! I'm just talking about where Maisie is better off!"
"She is better off with her mother." Mom was really hot. I don't know when I've seen her so angry and upset. "Do you think her father cares about what's good for Maisie? Do you?"
I hesitated, but there was only one answer: "No."
"Do you think Ida does?"
"Yes."
Mom waved her hands as if to say See? Then she said, "Why do you think Maisie's father is keeping her in California? Why?"
I swallowed hard. "To hurt Ida," I said in a low voice.
"What did you say?" Mom asked. "I didn't hear you."
"TO HURT IDA," I said, more loudly.
"Exactly," Mom concluded. "The girl belongs with her mother. That's all there is to say. End of discussion."
This whole discussion had gone terribly wrong. It wasn't what I wanted to talk about at all. I actually started trembling, I was so upset.
"Mom," I said, as quiet and as steady as I could manage, "could you please just listen to me for just a moment? This is a real problem for me."
She looked at me in silence for a moment, so I added, "Please? Please, Mom?"
She gave a quick nod, but I could see the fire smoldering inside her.
"The thing is... that — for me... I'm just talking about me, now — I wonder if it's right for me to try to get her back here because I miss her, even if I think she's better off out there."
Mom was silent for a while, until at last she said, "I'm sorry, Marcie, but I don't see how this is about you at all. You can't bring her back. This is something between her mother and her father." I opened my mouth to speak, but she gently put up her hand. "I understand that you're upset. You miss your friend. But even if this Chrissie is as wonderful as Maisie paints her, she still needs to spend time with Ida, because Ida is her mother. You don't get to choose your mother, and you don't get to change.
"And there is one more thing: Maisie's father is breaking the law by keeping her out there. He thinks he has an excellent excuse, but we both know he's only doing it to hurt Ida. You said so yourself, and it's the truth."
I twisted my lips into what I hoped passed for a brave look, or at least a look of resignation, but it didn't fool my mother. "Come here, Marcie," she said, and gave me a long, gentle hug.
Then she had to go and spoil it by saying, "We have to make the most of these days together, while you're still my only child."
Susan and I walked to school together the next morning. Mallory was outside the school, leaning against the wall.
"My god," Susan said. "Look at him." And she shook her head.
"Susan, you called him a him," I pointed out.
"So did you!" she countered.
I sighed.
"She's like a boy," Susan said, and I had to admit that Mallory did look very masculine, with her big shoulders and head. Her body didn't have any curves, and the way she hunched her shoulders, it was hard to tell whether she had any breasts.
"Maybe she's just a geeky girl," I offered.
Obviously, it wasn't a subject I wanted to talk about. For one thing, I wasn't so far from being a boy myself in some respects... and putting Mallory in a bad light would put me in a bad light as well — at least in my mind. Besides that, I was still upset from my conversation with my mother.
"Hey!" Mallory called to us, "Just the people I wanted to see!"
"Why?" Susan asked suspiciously.
"Just listen," Mallory said, pulling a tiny tape recorder from her bag. She began chortling even before she hit the PLAY button. A high, squealing fart came from the machine. She threw her head back, baring her teeth, and brayed out her loud haw-haw-haw!
"Stop that!" Susan commanded. "That isn't funny! It's gross! Nobody wants to hear fart noises."
"Catch this one," Mallory said, spinning the tape rapidly ahead.
"No," Susan insisted. "I don't want to hear any—"
Mallory interrupted. "Hold on there. These aren't just any old, ordinary, run-of-the-mill farts," she explained in a low, confidential tone. "You won't find these farts on the street. These are special."
Susan scoffed. "And what makes them so special?" she asked scornfully.
"These are the Principal's farts," Mallory said. "Miss Overmore's. I sneaked into her private bathroom yesterday before school and hid this behind the john. It's sound-activated, so it picked up every little toot," and so saying, she clicked it on. More disgusting noises emerged until I grabbed her hands and pushed the OFF button.
"Let's go, Susan," I said. "Mallory, don't do this stuff. It's gross and it's wrong."
Susan and I entered the building and headed for the auditorium. The assembly was for the whole school, so there was a traffic jam in the halls. Over my shoulder I saw Mallory trying to push her way through the crowd to us.
"Why did she play that for us?" Susan asked. "Why is she latching on to us?"
"I think it's because you react so much," I offered, and Susan sighed.
"I can't help it," she replied. "It's disgusting. And I don't like her. She's the first person in this whole school that I really don't like. Maisie had her... her issues, but she was still our friend. She was still likeable. Most of the time, anyway."
"Yeah," I agreed, and my spirit fell. Seeing that, Susan said, "I miss her, too, you know. I wish she was here. We had a lot of fun last year, the three of us, and I never had friends like you two before. I do want her to come back."
I smiled and at that moment the logjam of girls in front of us let loose and we were swept inside, where we took seats not too close to the front. Mallory bustled in, but ended up at the opposite end of our row. She waved to me and Susan and showed another small gadget in her hand.
"What is that supposed to be?" Susan wondered aloud. As if in answer, Mallory mouthed the words remote control.
"wee-woh-woh-woh?" Susan scoffed. "What is she trying to say?"
"Remote control?" I said, just as Miss Overmore took to the stage and tapped on the microphone. A light went on in my head.
"Oh, no, Susan... I hope she didn't hook up her fart tape to the PA system."
Susan fell silent, weighing the possibility. Mallory was looking our way, chortling silently.
"I don't want to know," Susan declared with finality. "I refuse to be her audience." With that, she sat back in her chair, eyes forward.
Miss Overmore called us all to order, and began, "Good morning, girls. I'm going to very briefly introduce our speaker and let him take the floor. We have as our guest this morning a local artist of high repute, Mr. Theo Grenadilla. One of his paintings actually hangs in the Vatican's Collection of Modern Religious Art, and he has been commissioned to paint a madonna for the cathedral in this diocese. He will be here in the days ahead to look for a model for this painting..."
The room erupted in a buzz of talk. Miss Overmore rapped her knuckles on the podium to restore quiet.
"A letter has been sent home to inform your parents about this project. A student will be appointed to accompany Mr. Grenadilla on his visits."
Miss Overmore had to quiet the buzz of conversation a second time, and then she said, "The only thing that remains to be said is that if your parents... or you, for that matter... do not wish to be considered for this... honor, you can register your preference at the office.
"Now, please give a warm welcome to Mr. Grenadilla."
As we applauded, a small man climbed the stairs to the stage. He wore an old-fashioned suit and wire-rimmed glasses. His full, dark, wavy hair was visibly graying. He was fairly thin, and had a thin smile. He looked at the sea of female faces and blinked two or three times.
Then he clapped his hands and began to speak. "Good morning, girls! I would like to show you some images while I speak, to help you see and understand." He said the words see and understand with heavy emphasis, as if he was grinding them up and forcing them out. The lights went down, and in the darkness a brief, tiny squeal was heard. "Oh, no," I whispered, "I hope that wasn't—" but Susan cut me off with a sharp shhh! I wasn't quite sure about that sound until I heard Mallory's stifled snigger from the end of the row. Susan glanced at me, sat up a little straighter, and whispered back, "Sorry, but I really do not want to know."
Mr. Grenadilla asked, "When we hear the word madonna, what do we think?" He waited a brief moment and up came a slide showing the singer Madonna. It was the cover photo from Like A Virgin, where she sulks in a chair, dressed like a bridesmaid.
"It is a word that has not entirely lost its power," Mr. Grenadilla went on, "but what does it mean? At one time the Madonna, the Virgin, was painted in this way," and he put up a old icon, very flat, with no perspective, and decorated with gold. Mary looked like an old woman, and the baby Jesus looked like a tiny old man.
"These people are anonymous," he said. "Symbols. Objects. Objects of veneration, yes, but cold and distant. Literally iconic."
His statement was punctuated by the same high, squealing fart that Mallory had played for us outside. Mr. Grenadilla looked up at the speakers and gave an irritated cough.
I'm not going to bore you with the entire speech... he showed us several Renaissance madonnas. He wanted to show that the woman or girl in the painting grew more warm and human over time, and yet remained a mystery.
"Some sort of mystery, eh? What is she thinking? What does she feel? What was she doing a moment before? What will she do after? We do not know.
"With each painting, there is a growing sensation... even perhaps a certainty... that you could see this person in the flesh, but you are certain that you don't understand them. There is something otherworldly, beyond the senses..."
Then it got quite boring... I'm sure I would have dozed off, except that Mallory kept firing fart noises through the sound system at irregular intervals and with astounding variety. One in particular, a sequence of eight pats followed by a short hiss, nearly brought the house down. Everyone was laughing, muttering, and looking around. Mr. Grenadilla looked increasingly irritated and at last he fell silent. I saw our History teacher, the one who had cut Mallory's whoopie cushion in half, get up and talk to Miss Overmore, who rose and said a quick word to Mr. Grenadilla. Then she walked to the back of the auditorium.
Mr. Grenadilla waited for a moment with his hand on his chin. He paced back and forth for a few steps, then clapped his hands again.
"So, my dear girls," he said — so loudly that it made us jump, "You must wonder, Where does that leave us? What relevancy can the Madonna have for us today? Do we really need yet another picture of a somewhat pretty, enigmatic girl? Or could we find a more compelling vision? Is there anything in the image that could seize us, anything that could force us to look beyond the face and form of the girl? Could we find ourselves once again in a state of wordless wonder, in which we have no choice but to question and even to seek something higher and more perfect? Something that lies outside this material world?"
As if a train had come into its station, a long hissing fart sounded with powerful finality. I squeezed my eyes tight shut in an effort to keep from laughing. But then it took no effort at all: Miss Overmore's commanding voice rang out from very near: "Bring the lights up, please." With a rapid series of loud clicks, the lights came up, one group after another. Blinking in the sudden brightness, I was taken aback to see Miss Overmore, at the end of my row. Her face was rigid and downright scary. She stood, her eyes fixed on Mallory, who was holding her remote control with both hands. I couldn't see her face, but afterward someone described her as shocked, guilty, and afraid.
Miss Overmore crooked her finger, and Mallory, head drooping, followed her out of the auditorium.
The room held in silence for a moment, and Mr. Grenadilla seized that moment. "What would a Madonna of today, be? How would we portray the Madonna of tomorrow? The Madonna of the Future? Could it be a girl who stages elaborate pranks, who laughs at rude noises?"
He looked at us, as we all silently thought, No, of course not. But smiling he said, "Who can say? The Madonna of the Future must be unexpected. She may take our preconceptions, and gently but irresistably confound them."
No one spoke, and seeing he'd made an impression, the painter smiled.
"I will be among you, looking for a model, yes. And you may ask yourselves, as I have asked myself: Who or what am I seeking, exactly? For now, I do not know. But I will look, and I will find. As a man of the modern world, among women of the modern type, I will resist easy conclusions and ready-made results. With my artist's eye, and — I like to think — my somewhat mystic sensitivity, I will know the girl when I happen upon her.
"Will she be beautiful? Yes... in some sense she will be beautiful.
"Will she be unusual? Oh, yes... in some sense, she may be quite unusual.
"She will cause us to look and to wonder... She will make us realize that we see and yet we do not understand.
"And when I capture THAT with paint on canvas," he concluded, "THAT will be the Madonna of the Future."
© 2011 by Kaleigh Way
"Are you okay?" she asked. "Did she hurt you?"
"No," I said out loud. Silently I added, I think I gave as good as I got.
"Good," she said. "I assume you must have read at least a bit of that diary, or else you wouldn't have fought so hard to preserve your classmate's privacy."
"I'll be damned if Mallory is going to be the Madonna," Susan complained. "Could you imagine? For ages to come, that crazy girl's face would be hanging in a church!"
I laughed. "She'd have to have a baby, wouldn't she? I mean, in the picture. Can you imagine that?"
Susan scoffed. "And she'd be showing the baby a whoopie cushion or a stink bomb or something."
"Mmm." I nodded. "The Stink-Bomb Madonna. Still, I feel badly about her getting suspended."
"Why?" Susan countered. "She deserved it. She's lucky she didn't get expelled."
Blair came wandering over to our lunch table. She quietly set down her lunch tray and took her seat. Looking up, she gave us both a smile, then picked up her sandwich and started to eat.
I was amazed by the change in her demeanor. Yesterday she jerked around like a hunted bird. Today she was as calm as a... a cucumber? No... cucumbers are cool. Well anyway, Blair was amazingly calm. She seemed another person.
"Blair, look at you! It's nice to see you so relaxed. Are you feeling more at home here?"
"Oh!" Blair cried. "I'm relaxed because Mallory's not here! That girl is crazy! I don't know if you could tell."
"I had an inkling," Susan said drily.
"She terrorized me!" Blair complained. "It was bad enough being a new girl, but I had to be a new girl with her!
"She was always pinching me and telling me lies. Yesterday, before each class, she told me that they wanted me in the office. That's why I was always late."
"After the first time, why did you believe her?"
"Because she swore that it was true. She'd apologize for the last time, and tell me *this* time it was true. The last time she even showed me a slip from the office." Blair sighed. "It's such a relief that she's not here."
She looked at Susan apologetically. "You know yesterday? When I didn't have my books? It's not because I'm stupid. It's cause Mallory took them. Between each class when I wasn't looking."
Susan frowned. "But in History, your book was there."
"Ah," Blair said. "Okay... well... that time I was stupid. But she had me on my last nerve."
Susan gave me a look and rolled her eyes heavenward, but I was glad Blair wasn't the total ditz she seemed the day before.
I was about to say something about Mallory's ingenuity — after all, she'd bugged Miss Overmore's bathroom, and somehow tied her sounds into the auditorium sound system — when Blair and Susan looked with surprised expressions at something over my right shoulder. "Hello," Susan said uncertainly, while Blair helpfully told me, "Oh, it's the... him... man." I turned, and there stood the artist, Mr. Grenadilla. Jordan was at his elbow. Apparently she'd been chosen to accompany the artist around the school. She raised her eyebrows at me... I guess it was a silent greeting. Her face, as usual, was completely unreadable.
"Jordan," Mr. Grenadilla mused, "Could the Madonna of the Future be an Asian girl?"
Jordan shrugged. "Sure," she said.
His gaze went to Blair. "Or a French girl?"
"Why not?" Jordan replied. The corners of her mouth curved for a moment, but so quickly that I wasn't sure if they curved up or down. Was she smiling, or smirking, or making an irritated frown? Was she interested in what was happening, or was she putting a good face on a boring task? It was impossible to tell.
The artist turned his gaze to me, and stopped cold. He knit his brows, thinking. After an uncomfortable pause, he said, "When I look at you, I think TV. Why is that? Could I possibly have seen you on television?"
"She was on the news," Susan offered.
"Oh yes!" Mr. Grenadilla declared, recognition flooding in. "Yes, of course! You were kidnapped, you poor brave thing! And did you really shoot that man? With his own gun?"
"Uh, yeah," I said, reddening. I wanted to tell him that I had a lot of help, but I wouldn't have been able to explain what I meant.
Susan, seeing my discomfort, jumped in to change the subject. "Mr. Grenadilla—"
He cut in: "—Please, girls, call me Theo."
Susan hesitated, then started again. "Theo, you weren't serious about Mallory being the Madonna, were you?"
"Hmmm." After reflecting for a moment, he replied, "Mallory, the girl who loves rude noises? Why not? Do you think she's unsuitable?"
Susan opened her mouth to say something, but for once she wasn't sure what to say. Theo watched her face, and seeing Susan's uncertainty, he nodded.
"Don't worry," he replied. "There is no way on earth that that... young lady could ever be my model. Apart from any other consideration, every time I looked at her, I would hear those obscene sounds in my head, and it would make me too angry to paint anything worthwhile."
He smiled when Susan smiled at his response, and he went on, "I see you and I are on the same page regarding Miss Mallory. But herein lies the difficulty: I really need to work very hard to not fall into this trap: this utterly mechanical, habitual way of seeing people. You see, a painter fixes, freezes, crystalizes a single moment in time. Just one moment, only one. In ordinary life, when you... or I... look at Mallory, we see everything we know of her, everything we've experienced of her, all at once, and even if she had a moment of kindness and transcendence, it would be easy for us to miss it, because our vision would be clouded by our memories."
Jordan crossed her arms and looked at the ceiling. Theo glanced at her and said, "Ah, I shouldn't lecture you. I've bored you long enough... Jordan, you see, is the canary in the coal mine of my intellect. Goodbye, girls!"
Jordan made a strange face... maybe she didn't know what he meant, or maybe she did and was irritated. Either way, the two moved off to consider other potential candidates for Madonna-hood.
"So that's Jordan?" Susan asked, as she crunched into a stick of celery. I nodded.
"I wish I looked like her," Blair said with a frown. "Her face is so perfect and her hair is so straight."
Susan and I glanced at each other. Somehow, there was something wrong in what Blair said. It was so naked and unaffected... It was disturbing, though I couldn't say how.
"Uh, Blair," I said, "You're pretty striking yourself. And your hair is just like Jordan's, can't you see that?"
Blair shrugged and took another bite of her sandwich.
My last class that day was gym, which — even though I'm a freshman, I still take with the seniors. The reason, if you remember, is so I can shower at home, and not risk having my secret revealed.
The seniors didn't want me there, and they didn't hide the fact, but since we always played basketball, I could keep out of their way if I just kept running. I also had to stay on my toes so they didn't hit me in the head with the ball.
They usually saved that stuff until we were well into the class, when my guard was down. Today, though, they were waiting for me. When I walked onto the gym floor, one of the seniors said, "There she is," and several others said hmmph in a way that clearly said Who does she think she is?
I had no idea what their problem was, so I ignored it until a few of the gathered around to bump and jostle me.
"You think you can be Miss BYHS, Donner? Huh? You've got a lot of nerve."
"What are you talking about? What nerve?"
"Don't play dumb, we know you entered the pageant."
Behind the girls who were hassling me, I could see Lace "the Face" scowling at me. According to Susan, Lace was the sure winner this year.
"I hate to break it to you, Donner, but you're not going to win," one of the seniors sneered.
"I know," I said. "Doesn't mean I can't enter."
"You know you can't win?"
I shrugged. "Yeah. So?"
"So? So, it's stupid. That what's so. Nobody enters a contest if they know they're going to lose. What kind of idiot are you?"
"She's a freshman idiot," someone offered, laughing.
"Does that make you a senior idiot?" I countered. I was getting a little angry.
"Oh, she thinks can be saucy, does she?"
"I've never been in a pageant," I told them. "I just want to have the experience."
They echoed what I'd said as if it was the stupidest thing they'd ever heard.
"You can have the experience when you're a senior," they told me. "Miss BYHS is only for seniors!"
"Then they shouldn't let underclassmen enter," I said forcefully.
"You're right! They shouldn't!" Lace shouted back.
The teacher came in at that point, so the girls around me walked away, although most of them managed to bump me hard as they did. They kept it up for the rest of the class. The girls on the basketball team were the worst. Still, they only managed to knock me down twice, and each time the teacher yelled at me!
It was par for the course, but it grated on me more than usual.
When class was over, I ran to one of the bathrooms to change — I used the bathroom on the other end of school, the one farthest from the gym. I took the stall on the far end, closed myself in, and set my bag on the floor. I fumed in silence. There really wasn't anything I could do, except sit down and try to calm down.
I groused for about a minute before I spotted the book. It lay on the floor next to the toilet: a bright white book, a diary. It was the kind of diary made for little girls. The cover was decorated with simple child-like cartoon figures of the Hello Kitty type. I wondered what little girl could possibly have lost it there.
Curious, I picked it up. The small book was about half full, and it was definitely somebody's diary. In spite of the cover, the handwriting clearly belonged to a girl my age. There was no way a little girl would write that well.
I quickly flipped through it, looking inside the back and front covers, but there was no obvious clue to identify the owner.
And then I began to read. It felt kind of creepy, violating the girl's privacy that way, but once I started, I couldn't stop.
There are two central facts of my existence.
The first is that I miss my mother.
The second is that I am a girl, down to my bones.
Well, that was strange. Not that she missed her mother... that was normal. Maybe her mother died, or was gone in some way. But the second thing? Of course she was a girl! If she was a student at BYHS, she'd have to be a girl. I read some more:
Sometimes I'm sure that people know.
Other times I'm sure it's just my imagination.
I don't have the same natural feminine act that other girls have.
I don't mean that *they* are acting. They don't act. They just *are* that way. I don't have it. I'm clumsy. I have big hands and a big head and just don't look like a girl. I know I'm a girl but I don't know if other people see it.
I look at other girls and I want to die. I know I'm jealous. I don't want to be *like* them. I want to *be* them. They don't have learn anything. They just walk into life, into every situation, and they already know what to do and how to be.
People like Marcie Donner and her friends. Nothing ever goes wrong for them. They're only freshmen, but they already know everything and everybody. They do what they want and don't care what anybody thinks, but it doesn't matter because everybody thinks they're wonderful.
What!? I said to the book. In what universe is this? Everybody thinks I'm wonderful? What about the stupid seniors? Nobody thinks I'm *wonderful*. I scoffed and flipped some pages.
When my mother was dying, she made my father promise to LET ME BE A GIRL. She made him swear to it. I don't know what he would have done, if she hadn't made him swear—
I stopped reading and sat there thunderstruck. Was this another girl like me? Someone who was born a boy? It didn't sound like she had a very easy time of it, but it also sounded like most of her agony was in her head. Well, maybe. It sucked that her mother died. And then there were passages like this:
I know I'm a girl, even if I don't look like a girl. I have long hair, I wear skirts and stuff, but I look like a boy in a dress.
That would suck, too, but I felt that way sometimes, too.
I turned the pages faster. There had to be a clue... there had to be something to tell me who the writer was! But look as I might, I couldn't find anything.
The worst part of this puzzle was that I couldn't ask Susan's help. She could probably figure out who this girl was; she'd give the diary a read and her brain would sift out every tiny indication. She was like a detective mastermind, and I had no doubt she'd put her finger on the girl. But there was no way I could ask her. She didn't know about me, and I couldn't betray this girl's secret, either.
After I'd looked through every single page, I glanced at my watch and realized that I'd been reading for forty minutes! As I scrambled into my uniform and shoved my gym clothes into my bag, I realized what I had to do: I had to bring the book to the office. If there was another transgendered girl in the school, Miss Overmore for sure would know who she was.
The halls were empty, and the only sounds were faint voices calling and basketballs bouncing in the gym. I'd nearly reached the office when I ran into Mara, one of the basketball stars, one of the seniors. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me, and then lighted up in cruel delight when she caught a glimpse of the diary.
"Oh, how cute, Marcie-Warcie! Is dat your widdle diary-poo? Let me see it."
"No," I said. "It isn't mine."
"Give it here," she ordered, holding out her hand and snapping her fingers.
"No way," I said. "It isn't mine, and you can't see it."
"Liar," she said. "Give it!" She darted toward me, quick as thought, and grabbed the book with both hands. "It's got to be yours," she gloated. "Otherwise you wouldn't care if I saw your silly little-girl secrets. I'm sure this stuff is comedy gold."
I tried to twist away from her, but she hung on. She was a lot stronger and bigger than me, but there was no way on earth that she was going to get that book.
"Did mummy buy the widdle book for her baby sweetums?" she sneered.
I felt the book slipping, so I kicked her in the shins. First one side, then the other. She grunted in pain, and keeping a tight grip on the book with one hand, she raised her other hand high. I could see one mean slap was on the way. I gritted my teeth and squeezed the book tighter.
She swore in a vicious tone as I kicked her again. "You're gonna pay for that, Donner! You're going to get yours now, you nasty little bi—" She never finished the insult; Miss Overmore's voice cut her off.
"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE? GIRLS!"
Mara let go and sniffed, holding her head up a little arrogantly. "We were only playing, Miss Overmore. I was trying to get Marcie to show me see her wittle diawy."
Miss Overmore's eyes fell on the book, and I thought I saw a flash of recognition.
"That isn't your book, is it, Marcie?" she asked.
"No, Miss Overmore. I found it in the bathroom."
The Principal looked at the two of us, considering for a moment, then said to me, "Go have a seat in my office. I'll be there in a moment."
As I went inside the door, I heard her talk to Mara in an undertone. I couldn't make out the words on either side, but from the tones I could tell that Mara tried to protest, and probably throw the blame on me, but Miss Overmore's voice countered with a relentless, cold, knifelike sharpness that finally had Mara cowed and apologetic.
After her last Yes, Miss Overmore I heard Mara's footsteps fading down the hallway, and Miss Overmore came into the office and sat down next to me.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly. "Did she hurt you?"
"No," I said. Silently I added, I think I gave as good as I got.
"Good," she said. "I assume you must have read a bit of that diary, or else you wouldn't have fought so hard for your classmate's privacy."
"Is she a freshman, then?" I asked.
Miss Overmore hesitated. "I didn't say that. And I wish I could tell you who she is, just as I wish I could tell her about you, but we have some very specific agreements and promises with the families on both sides."
I nodded.
"She could really use your support," Miss Overmore said, "and I'm sure you could sometimes use hers, but unfortunately it isn't possible right now. I know your family might agree, but I'm very sure this girl's family will not. Absolutely, categorically."
"That's too bad," I said.
"Well," Miss Overmore said. "I am going to tell her to leave this book at home. It isn't the first time that she's lost it."
"Really?" I asked, puzzled and surprised. "That's hard to believe..."
"I know," Miss Overmore agreed, "As you can imagine, she would be devastated if anyone knew the truth about her."
© 2011 by Kaleigh Way
People have often told me that I need to think before I act, but who had time to think? What on earth was I supposed to think of? What idea could I possibly have had, if I'd stopped for a moment? Someone was getting hurt! Badly hurt! And no one was there to see, but me.
While I walked home, I puzzled over the diary-writer's identity. Who could she possibly be?
The obvious choice was Mallory, because she was big and boy-like. She ate like a boy: she shoved food in her mouth. She was gross like a boy: she laughed at farts. And she did have a big, boy-like head. She didn't look comfortable in a skirt... in fact, the school uniform made her look more like a boy...
... but it didn't add up. Mallory had only been at school two days, and that phrase "Marcie Donner and her friends" — friends, plural — had to mean me, Susan, and Maisie. But Mallory had never seen Maisie. Mallory would have said Marcie and her friend or Marcie and Susan.
And despite her physical appearance, there wasn't any reason to think that Mallory had ever been a boy. Some girls are big boned, and there isn't any law that says a girl can't laugh at farts. And — though I don't like to admit it — I shovel food into my mouth, too. I try to stop, and Mom is constantly on my case about it, but still...
In any case, it can't be Mallory.
By the same reasoning, it can't be Blair, either. Blair is unusual, even a little weird, but she had a very definite feminine chic all her own. Blair had a exotic, foreign aspect: she looked like a skinny, short-haired French girl. Theo, the artist, had commented on it. Maybe she was uncomfortable with the way she looked, but Blair was definitely a girl.
There was another thing: the way the diary-writer referred to us as "freshman" — I don't think another freshman would talk that way. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Miss Overmore only called her a "classmate" to throw me off the scent.
That's when it hit me: What if it was Mara?
What was Mara doing in that part of school, anyway? The reason *I* was there was to get away from the seniors, especially the baseketball players, and Mara was both those things. She should have been in the gym, playing ball. But if the diary was hers, she'd have to be there: she must have realized that she'd lost it, and she'd come to get it. Unfortunately for her, someone was already there. In fact, I was sitting in the very stall where she left it. It had to be nerve-wracking for her to wait for me to come out... and she waited a long time! The diary was so fascinating that I'd lost track of time.
She probably heard me turning the pages! It must have driven her crazy!
And that would explain why she fought with me so fiercely: she wanted her diary back and she was angry that I'd read it.
When Miss Overmore saw the book in my hands she understood the situation immediately. She sent me to the office so she could talk to Mara without my overhearing. Mara would want her diary back immediately, of course, but Miss Overmore had to convince her to wait and get it later — tomorrow, even. Otherwise, it would have been clear to me that Mara was the author and that she was a t-girl, just like me.
That had to be it! I was pretty pleased with myself for figuring it out.
Then I stopped walking and stood stock still. I looked around me, puzzled. For some reason I hadn't taken my usual way home. Instead, I'd gone out of my way, on a much longer and unfamiliar route. I huffed impatiently at myself. Why on earth did I go this way? (There was a good reason, as you'll see, but I was lost in thought over the diary; the effort of trying to figure it out drove everything else from my mind.)
So I shrugged to myself and turned toward home, down a street I'd never walked before. After I'd passed a few houses, I began to hear noises. At first, I couldn't tell what they were. It sounded like a small animal... and then, not an animal, but a person... was it a person? No, it was two people... two people who were fighting! There was an empty lot a few houses up on the left, and by the time I reached it, it was all very clear: two boys were fighting. Then, no... it was worse than that: one boy, the bigger of the two, was beating up a smaller, skinnier kid.
"Stop! Please, stop!" he was screaming in-between sobs and cries. My stomach turned as I heard the punches connect with his bony little body. Without a thought, I threw my bags on the ground and started running toward them. "Hey!" I shouted. "HEY! Stop that! STOP THAT NOW!"
To my glad surprise, the bigger boy *did* stop. He turned and looked at me, regarding me for a moment. I stopped and stared at him. He looked like a lout. In fact, his face scared me. His head was square and blockish, and his hair was like clumps of straw. But he stopped! Then, silently and very dramatically, he let the smaller boy go, lifting his hands slowly and showing me his empty palms. He smiled, and — nervously — I smiled back.
The other boy clambered uncertainly to his feet and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. I relaxed and suddenly realized I'd been holding my breath. The sniffling boy stumbled back a step, then turned to run.
As soon as he did, the bigger boy grabbed him, turned him in the air, and threw him to the ground hard. Oh, God! It must have hurt! He turned his back to me, and squeezed the boy on the ground until he screamed.
I opened my mouth to shout, but no sound came out. I was horrified, shocked, and, above all, angry. My hands were trembling. I had to do something... so I ran directly at them.
People have often told me that I need to think before I act, but who had time to think? What on earth was I supposed to think of? What idea could I possibly have had, if I'd stopped for a moment? Someone was getting hurt! Badly hurt! And no one was there to see, but me. I suppose I thought I'd jump on the bigger kid and start clawing and hitting. Or maybe I was going to attack his big fat head. I don't know. I probably would have gotten hurt in any case, but at least I could helped the little guy escape.
I'll never know what I would have done... because what really happened is this: As I ran up, just before I put my hands on him, the bigger kid jerked his arm back so he could punch the boy on the ground. I walked right into his elbow as it came back. And oh, did it come back hard! It caught me full in the face. It didn't feel like I walked into a wall — it felt like I drove into it, face first, at full speed.
I saw stars. I've heard people use that phrase... I thought it was only words, but I really saw them: tiny balls of flame swimming in the air around me, swirling and curving in every direction. There was a noise, too, like a jet going and coming, going and coming, like the swirling spots. The world stopped for a moment: there was no sound, no motion, just BAM! followed by a white flash of blinding, overwhelming pain and a shock that went beyond words.
The blow knocked me backward, flat on my butt. Somehow I could see myself, sitting on the ground like a doll, arms and legs stiff and outstretched, mouth open, eyes staring, unblinking. I didn't make a sound or even breathe.
Then the world came rushing in, all at once: My nose started bleeding like a faucet. A woman appeared on my right, out of nowhere, shouting, "I saw you! I saw you, Robert! YOU HIT A GIRL! You ought to be ashamed! You hit a girl!" And then, as if far away, I saw the larger boy turn to look at me. His face contorted into a mask of horrow and shame, and he began to wail — a high-pitched screaming sound of desperation. It made absolutely no sense at all.
The woman talked nonstop, scolding the boy, swabbing my face, and telling another woman (who I couldn't see) to call an ambulance. Then she said the strangest thing to me: "I saw you coming into the lot. I thought I recognized you, and now I'm sure. You're that girl was on television, aren't you?"
I looked at her in disbelief. I couldn't talk. I could only gasp for air.
"She was on TV?" wailed the boy who had hit me. "I hit a girl from TV? Oh no! Oh no!" He jumped to his feet and ran off holding his head.
What an idiot, I thought. Everyone in this neighborhood must be out of their mind.
Later, I was sitting quietly in a chair with my eyes closed, moaning softly to myself while my mother held my hand. There were bandages on my face and my nose was packed with... stuff... medical stuff. Having all those things in my nose was worse than getting hit. I didn't want to think about it. On the plus side, the pain medication was finally kicking in, and I felt myself begin to float... my head felt as big as a house and every movement of my head seemed like a major shift. The pain was still there, but I didn't care. "Oooh, Momb," I said.
"What is it, honey?" she asked, and put her hand on her belly.
"Oh those damb twints," I said quietly, without rancor. It wasn't what I meant to say; I wanted to tell her that I was floating.
"What?" she asked. I could tell she wasn't sure she understood me, but she was primed to be offended.
"Nuth-thig," I told her. "I diddint meend to say dat. Da drug made me froat."
"Froat?" she repeated. "Maybe you shouldn't be talking, Marcie."
I waved my hand in contradiction and took her arm in both hands. I lowered my head, meaning to rest it on her shoulder. Instead, a white knife of pain shot through my skull, so I straightened up and it went away.
"Momb," I said.
"What honey?"
"Ahhm sorry, Momb."
Even in my drug-addled state I knew that she was supposed to say It's alright, but that isn't what she said. She pressed her lips together, considering for a moment.
"You're always getting into some... physical situation, Marcie. It worries me. A lot."
"Ummm," I agreed. "Doan worry, Momb. Evvythingk wull be fined."
"Eventually everything will be fine," she corrected, "but as soon as it is, something else will start up."
I turned my head toward her. It was a major effort. I tried to give her a reassuring smile. She didn't smile back, so I gave her a thumbs-up. She gave me the strangest look and I wondered whether she was about to cry.
But she didn't. She took my hand and folded my thumb down. She squeezed my hand with both of hers, and then she very gently and carefully hugged me. After all that, and a heavy sigh, she said, "Marcie, this thought keeps going through my head, and it's probably not the best time to voice it, but I have to say it.
"Oh, Marcie. I think that having your nose broken might not be such a bad thing."
"Nod a bad thingk?" I asked, puzzled. I tried to penetrate the cottonwool that filled my brain, but didn't make any headway. How? How? I asked myself. A good thing? Getting my nose broken?
"Gmmph, Momb. I don't... what do you mean?"
"Well, of course it's a bad thing; it's terrible. That horrible boy shouldn't go around hitting girls— punching girls in the face—"
I interrupted: "He shudden be hidding ANY-one!" I gestured vaguely for emphasis.
Mom huffed at my interruption and continued, "What I'm saying is that having your nose broken might just slow you down for a bit. It might make you think twice about sticking your nose into places where it doesn't belong."
"Oh, Momb, my nodes?"
"Yes, your nose. It's almost symbolic, don't you think?"
"No," I said. "It wud justtan accident."
"The woman who called the ambulance saw the whole thing, Marcie. She saw you throw your bags on the ground and run at that boy. Why did you do that? Why on earth did you do that? Who do you think you are?"
"I thod I was the only person to see, Momb. If that lady saw... why diddund that lady do somethink?"
Mom sighed and squeezed my hand. "Oh, Marcie! You don't have to fix everything. The world isn't waiting for you. It's just like at the tea shop: sometimes you have to say, 'It's not my table.'"
I chuckled to myself as a thought drifted lazily into my head. "Hey, Momb. Just thingk: I bedchew the twints will nebber get their nodesez broken. Ha." I could only laugh a slow "Ha. Ha. Ha," with a healthy pause between each "Ha." Then I had to stop because it made my head hurt.
Oh! I desperately wanted to sniff, to blow my nose! Instead I had to sit there with my mouth hanging open. Now I was a mouth-breather. I must have looked quite a sight. I wondered how I'd take a shower tonight, and how...
"Oh no!" I moaned, "Oh no, oh no!"
"What is it, Marcie?" Mom asked, full of alarm and concern. "What's wrong? What is it?"
"Ummph!" I groaned, "Da tea shobp! I was subbost to go do work today!"
© 2011 by Kaleigh Way
"Oh, God, I hate that woman!" Jordan growled through her teeth sotto voce.
"Why?" I asked.
She shot a look of fury at me... not that she was angry with me, but she was very angry.
"She is a *horrible* person," Jordan said. "And she's going to ruin my father and me, I'm sure of it!"
Jordan asked me, "What was wrong with the nose you had before?"
I sighed. After two days at home I was going stir-crazy, and so, on Thursday night — even though I hadn't gone to school that day — I went back to work at the tea shop.
My very first customer, a nice, smiling, white-haired man, asked, "Did you get your nose done, dear? I'm sure you'll look even more lovely once it's healed." His companion, a woman in her forties, commented, "She's that age, Chuck. Girls in their teens get braces on their teeth, contacts instead of glasses, nose jobs... they start dyeing their hair..."
A middle-aged woman with a tiny nose put her hand on my arm and whispered, "It's worth the pain, believe me. It changed my high-school experience completely." She said the last word as if it was highly suggestive, and for emphasis, she opened her eyes as wide as they could go.
Soon, the whole tea-shop was buzzing with the topic of nose jobs, past and present. I didn't see much point in correcting their mistake. I just nodded and smiled and hoped they understood the funny, stuffed-up way I was talking.
But when Jordan asked me, for some reason I sighed. I guess it was because she was my age, I kind of felt she should have known. Jordan mis-read my face and quickly said, "Sorry! We don't have to talk about it if you don't want."
I'd barely gotten out the words, "I don't mind, it's just that—" when that woman came in... the one who was talking to Jordan's father when I first applied for work. Jordan's expression abruptly fell into a frown of distaste.
"I'll wait on her," I offered, but Jordan shook her head.
"No," she told me. "I have to show this woman that she can't intimidate me." And so saying, she grabbed her pad and marched over.
The woman smiled and chatted away at Jordan. There was no way for me to hear anything over the general buzz of conversation, but at one point the woman tilted her head back quite purposefully, so she could look Jordan directly in the face, and she said something. The woman was smiling, but it wasn't a nice smile. Jordan's jaw set and she flushed red. I saw her hand clench, and her pad and pencil shook, but only for a moment. Then, Jordan stopped, took a breath, and her expression cleared. She looked down at the woman as if nothing had happened... as if she was just any customer... no one in particular, and I'm quite sure she said, "Which tea would you like?" and the woman briefly replied. Jordan prepared the brew and deposited it without ceremony on the woman's table.
"Oh, God, I hate that woman!" Jordan growled through her teeth sotto voce.
"Why?" I asked.
She shot a look of fury at me... not that she was angry with me, but she was very angry. "She is a *horrible* person," Jordan said. "And she's going to ruin my father and me, I'm sure of it!"
When I got home, the first thing I did was to call Maisie. My conversation with Jordan left me very confused, but I had the feeling that Maisie would understand. Maybe she could tell me that Jordan was wrong, completely wrong... and that's what I was hoping to hear.
Maisie was very happy and upbeat. Of course I had to explain why I was talking funny ("No, I dodn't hab a code..."), and Maisie was briefly sympathetic. *She* wanted to talk about Chrissie, but I bulldozed her into the real reason I'd called.
By the way, everything I said came out in a very nasal, mouth-breathing way... I'm not going to try to recreate it. A few times she didn't understand me, and I held the mouthpiece away when I wasn't talking (so she wouldn't hear me breathe... or breed as I would have said).
"Maze, you know about money, right?"
I could almost hear her shrug. "It depends," she replied. "Some things I know; some things I don't."
"Okay, I have to tell you some stuff that Jordan told me tonight."
"Is she the girl from the tea shop?"
"Yeah... see, there is this woman that Jordan doesn't like, and this woman — her name is Lee Something-or-other — I can't remember her last name. Anyway, Lee is an investor, and she's taken some of Jordan's father's money."
"Uh-oh," Maisie said.
"Why do you say uh-oh? I haven't even started."
"Does this Lee person have an office? Or does she come to the tea shop to take his money?"
When she asked that, my mind's eye called up my first visit to the tea shop, when I saw Jordan's dad nervously hand an envelope to Lee.
"I think she comes to the tea shop," I said. "But that's doesn't matter. This is the thing: first she took $500 from Jordan's dad, and a week later she gave him back a thousand—"
"Oh, I know what this is about—" Maisie said with a laugh, but I interrupted.
"—wait, wait: I haven't told you anything yet! So then she took a thousand dollars, and a week or two later she gave back $1500... so—"
"Stop, Marcie, stop. It's a Ponzi scheme."
"What's a Ponzi scheme? And how can you know that already?"
"This lady — she's not really investing the money. She's scamming people. And not just Jordan's dad."
"You can't know that—"
"Yes, I *can* know that, so shut up and listen. Seriously. This Lee person has a bunch of people on the hook. It's not just Jordan's dad. She strings them along and gets money from them. The money she gave to Jordan's father... she got that money from another person just like him."
"That doesn't make any sense," I said. "She can't make money that way. She'd be giving money away!"
"No," Maisie said. "It's timing. It's a con. Everybody who gives her money is a sucker. At every step, she makes the sucker give her more and more money. The way she pays the new suckers, like Jordan's dad, is with money she got from old suckers. She makes them all believe that she can guarantee big returns, and after a while they give her whatever she asks. Pretty soon they hand over every penny they have, and at that point she quits paying returns."
"But... but..." I protested. "It can't work. I mean... at some point, it has to fall apart, and then she'll get caught."
"You're half right. At some point it starts to fall apart, but at that point she's gone. And all the suckers have to kiss their money goodbye."
It made no sense to me. It seemed an impossible game. Maisie explained it to me a couple of times but I still couldn't get it.
"How do you know all this?" I asked her.
"Somebody like that Lee person stung my father, but good," she chortled. "I heard him talking to his lawyer about it. God, was he mad!" She laughed at the memory. "And then, when I got my own lawyer, I asked him about it."
"There's one thing I don't get," I said. "Suppose somebody stops?"
"What do you mean?"
"Let's say that she takes my money, and she doubles or triples it. What if I stop there, and don't give her any more money? What if I know it's a Ponzi scheme, and I trick her?"
"That's funny, because that's exactly what my father tried to do. He figured he was so smart that he could con the con man. He thought he could quit while he was ahead."
"So why didn't he?"
"The people who do this stuff, do it because they're good at it. They play people like violins. My dad is greedy and thinks he's smarter than anybody, so the con man — con person, whatever — played off that."
"What did he do?"
"It was a she. She made my dad think that she was new to the scam and that she had messed up. She pretended that he had her over a barrel. Dad threatened that if she didn't pay up, he would call the police. So she acted all afraid and apologetic. He's so vain and greedy, he thought he'd won. But then, she pulled the old switcheroo. She showed up with all the money he wanted, but she left him with a big envelope full of cut-up newspaper. By the time he looked inside, she was gone, baby, gone."
I fell silent, trying to take it all in. I could imagine Maisie's father being cheated, because... after all... he was a jerk, but Jordan's father was a different kind of person.
In any case, Maisie got tired of the subject and wanted to tell me something else.
"Listen, Marce: tomorrow Chrissie is going to ask my Dad to fly you out here for Spring break!"
"Wow!" I exclaimed, "that would be incredible!" but then, inwardly, I kind of fell to earth, and asked her, "So that means you're still going to be out there... that long?"
"I hope so," she said.
"Your mother misses you," I said. I really meant that *I* missed her, but that's what came out, and it sounded very lame. I kicked myself for saying it, but anyway, it was true.
She responded with a raspberry.
After I hung up with Maisie, I called Susan. She also seemed quite well-informed on the subject of Ponzi schemes. "They've been in the news," she said — in a tone that suggested that I should have known. Susan was a lot better at explaining, and pretty soon I felt that I had a grip on it.
"I think Jordan's instinct is right," Susan said. "This woman sounds like a real criminal."
"What if she's not?" I insisted. "What if she really knows ways of making money?"
Susan replied, "I can't pretend to know this, but I can tell you what they said on TV. If Lee was really an investor, she would take a cut of the profits. Otherwise, how is she making money?"
"She's making investments on her own," I offered.
"If she is making money on her own investments, why does she need Jordan's father's money?"
"Uhhh.... she's sharing?"
"Another thing they said is that no one can guarantee any investment. Even investments that seem very safe can go very wrong. It's like gambling. No one should invest money that they can't afford to lose."
That made some sense.
"The last thing I remember is that investments don't usually pay off like that. It's very rare for people to get high, consistent, quick returns like that. It would be like winning the lottery over and over and over. It doesn't happen. Remember, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is."
I still wanted to believe that it was possible, but the fact that Maisie and Susan both said the same thing meant a lot. I had to tell Jordan. Maybe she could talk to her father. Beyond that, I didn't know what else I could do.
Mom told me I could stay home Friday if I wanted. "You've already missed two days, Marcie. If you stay home one more you'll have a good five days of recovery." But I had to get out. I couldn't stand to sit around home any more. I was missing too much; school had only just begun.
Friday was just a regular school day up until the end, which was gym class with the seniors.
I didn't bother changing clothes. I figured I'd spend that period in the library doing homework. All I had to do was give the coach my doctor's note and I'd be free.
But I was far from free. When I walked in, coach wasn't there; just the seniors, shooting baskets.
"I don't believe it!" Lace cried. "Will you look at this girl?"
"Dream on, Donner," another girl called, in a voice filled with scorn.
The other girls began crowing and laughing.
"What?" I asked, puzzled and offended.
They echoed my what?, mincing and walking around all la-di-dah — which I had not done at all.
Mara stepped up and poked me in the shoulder. "Getting a nose job is NOT going to make you Miss BYHS!" she declared.
"I didn't!" I shouted, and the blood rushing to my head gave me a spasm of pain. I took a step back and tried to calm down. In a quieter voice I said, "I didn't get a nose job."
"You didn't? What a liar! Everybody can SEE you got a nose job, you idiot! One day you enter the pageant, the next day you get a nose job!" Mara shook her head in disgust.
I felt my anger rising, but I didn't respond. I had to keep a grip on myself or I was in for a lot of pain. Every time I got excited, or angry, or laughed too much... any kind of strong emotion, brought the blood to my head. More blood meant more pressure, and more pressure meant pain around my eyes, to the place where I was hit.
I half-closed my eyes and made my way to a bench, where I sat down. I ignored the taunts and accusations. I had to calm down and stay calm.
"I still don't understand why they let babies enter the pageant!" Lace was saying.
"I know, right?" Mara seconded her.
All I had to do was wait for coach and then I could leave.
In fact, why didn't I leave this class all together? I didn't belong here with these older girls. They didn't want me, and I didn't want to be with them. They were always hassling me. I went through all this trouble just for the sake of no one seeing me in the shower! I wondered for a moment whether it was worth all the grief. I might be better off if everyone knew I was transgendered!
But no, that was no solution. That wouldn't work either. I didn't think so, anyway.
Still, I had to talk with Miss Overmore. Maybe there was a better solution for me... some other way to avoid the shower issue.
In any case, once I sat down, the seniors seemed to forget about me. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe... simply breathe... slowly, deeply... The fact that I was breathing through my mouth didn't help, but I was calming down. The gymnasium sounds faded into the background. A pretty loud background, for sure, but because I was tired, the noise blended into a curtain or a blanket... it melted into a kind of soundtrack, far off, nothing at all to do with me. The basketballs bounced, sneakers squeaked, the players called to each other and softly grunted to themselves, and every so often a ball would pound the backboard and swish through the net.
In the midst of all that another sound came, that did have something to do with me: I heard the coach's voice when she walked in, away on the other side of the gymnasium. She was talking to the players, correcting their form, telling them to hustle... I didn't open my eyes yet. I heard her sneakered steps approaching, but I waited until they came a little closer...
When I opened my eyes, my vision was filled by an orange ball flying toward me, zooming through the air like bullet, in the space to the left of the coach. It was behind her, so she didn't see it. It was silent, so she didn't hear it.
"Donner," she said, by way of greeting.
My mouth, which was already open, fell open a bit more, stupidly gaping, and my eyes widened at the approaching missile. I had my doctor's note in one hand and my backback in the other, and both hands clenched and unclenched slightly. What I should have done was bring my arms up fast to shield my face, but I was far too slow. I was still thinking about it. It must have been the pain killers...
The coach read the alarm on my face, shot a glance over her shoulder, and did a quick quarter-turn on her heel. She reacted in an instant, and snatched the ball out of the air with both hands. In a fury, she raised her arms overhead and hurled the ball across the width of the room, where it struck the wall loudly and went bouncing off at an angle, down toward the empty end of the basketball court.
Oh, hell, I thought. Somehow *I* will get detention for this.
Instead, coach turned on the seniors and shouted, "Who threw that ball? Who threw it?"
The seniors shuffled their feet but said nothing.
"I want to know who threw that ball, and I want to know NOW!" she demanded, still shouting.
"Nobody threw it, coach..." Mara mumbled.
"What's that? I can't hear you!"
Mara cleared her throat and spoke more loudly. "Nobody threw it, coach. The ball just got away. You know."
"No, I don't know," the coach replied. "I don't know. You girls listen to me, and listen up good: this girl's got an injury–" she gestured to me "–and NOBODY is going to injure her further. If I see... or hear... of ANY of you messing with her, hurting her, or giving her grief, you will be suspended from the team for THREE GAMES. THREE GAMES! Do you hear me? Do you understand me?"
Mara licked her lips. "But, coach...," she protested.
"No," the coach replied. "No buts. It's final. And I don't care what three games they are."
One of the other girls pulled a face. "You would lose a game for her?"
"Yes, I would," the coach replied. "And if you don't believe me, just try me." She scowled at them, looking in turn at each girl. "Anybody want to try me?"
There were some sighs and groans from the class, and someone muttered, "That's what we get for having a baby in the class."
"What was that?" the coach asked in a challenging tone. There was no answer, so she said, "I thought so." Then she blew her whistle and gave some instructions. The girls began to do sprinting drills on the other side of the gym. The coach sat down next to me.
After asking how I was felt, if I'd been hurt (I hadn't), she accepted my note. Then the coach dropped into confidential tone. "Donner, listen: that boy–" she looked over to see if any of the girls could hear "–that boy who was getting beaten up... the one you got your nose busted for... He's my nephew." She squinted a little and her eyes began to glisten.
Oh, lord, I thought nervously, she's not going to start crying, is she? But she didn't. Still, I was afraid she could start any moment.
She continued, "I know that the common wisdom about bullying is that the boy should stand up for himself... that if he's being bullied, it's somehow his fault. But he tried and tried and tried. I know he did. He tried, but it didn't work." She squeezed her thighs with her hands and bent forward, her eyes continuing to glisten. "He asked for help, and you know what help he got?"
I shrugged. I had no idea.
"He got nothing. Nada. Zip. His parents, his school, nobody gave a —" here she started to swear. Then she broke off an apologized. "Sorry, Donner. But it's true. Nobody gave a damn or lifted a finger. Nobody. Nobody but you." Then she broke off and turned away so I couldn't see her face. She blew her nose for a while. I looked on in envy and kept breathing through my mouth.
Then she turned back to me and said, "What you did took guts, Donner. Real guts. And I'll tell you something: you made a friend that day. You've got a friend in me. Anything I can do for you... anybody gives you grief, you tell me." She gave an awkward grin and squeezed my thigh so hard that it hurt a bit. "Okay?" she asked, and gave me a poke with her elbow that nearly made me tip over.
"Yeah, coach, thanks," I replied, feeling a little embarrassed. It was an weird moment for both of us. I waited for her to somehow put a cap on it.
"Okay," she said and turned to watch the seniors. I waited for a bit, wondering if I could go, but she didn't say anything.
At last I tentatively said, "Uh, coach?"
"Yeah, Donner?"
"Could I go study in the library? I think I'd be a little more... uh... safer there. No basketballs flying around."
"Oh, the library!" she said. She began waving her arms as she spoke, and I realized that she felt quite as awkward as I did. "Yeah, yeah! Sure! Yeah, take off, Donner. And thanks again! You got guts, girl!"
© 2011 by Kaleigh Way
And yes, I did say Mallory. She was back in school, but she was very subdued.
"It's a new record," she said quietly. "I never been suspended so quick before."
Susan bristled at the ungrammatical statement, but said nothing.
"Two days!" Mallory continued. "It's my new personal best."
Things were beginning to wear me down.
Every day, every time they saw me, the seniors continued to harrass me. Coach's promise to protect me didn't do any good, and neither did her threats of retribution on the seniors. They just did things and said things when she wasn't around, and there was no way I was going to run to her every time somebody gave me a funny look.
Honestly, though, it wasn't that big a deal. All the seniors would do is bump into me, and — if I wasn't paying attention — they'd try to knock my books on the ground. That's as physical as they got.
And they would say things to me, and call me names. They called me "Nosejob," as if it was my name, and they started using the word as if it was a swear word. They'd give me a disgusted look and say, "Can you believe what a nosejob she is?" or "Donner, you're a real nosejob."
Of course, "nosejob" sounds a lot like a couple more vulgar words, and the seniors did what they could with the similarity. They had a few choice phrases about me that sounded very smutty and indecent. I'm not going to repeat them.
But as I said, it wasn't a big deal. It was more of an irritation than anything else. If it was the only annoying thing going on in my life, I probably wouldn't have cared.
After all, they weren't hurting me. They were only being stupid.
And maybe this is stupid on my part, but the fact that I hadn't gotten a nose job was the part that really bugged me. A few times I got angry enough to shout, "I DIDN'T GET A NOSE JOB! I GOT HID IN THE NOSE!" And then my head split with pain. Of course, I was saying "hit in the nose" but with all the packing and bandages, I was still talking badly.
After that, "Hid in the nose" got to be another phrase that they taunted me with. Someone wrote HID IN THE NOSE on my locker with an indelible marker, and it was two weeks before the janitor painted over it.
I still had another week before the packing would come out. I couldn't wait. I was tired of breathing through my mouth. Because I couldn't breathe right, I was always gaping like an idiot — and of course the seniors (and others) would mimic that look to mock me. Plus, my mouth was always dry. I tried drinking more water, which had me running to the bathroom between each class. And it didn't take long before I was tired of sucking on lozenges and cough drops. I never thought I could get tired of sweet things, but pretty soon I was sick to death of the sugar in the lozenges.
Once the stupid bandages and packing were gone, all of that stuff would be over: the gaping, the mouth breathing, the talking funny, the dry mouth... and people would begin to forget. Without the bandages to remind them, eventually they'd stop calling me Nosejob, and everyone would stop thinking that I'd *had* a nose job.
Thanks to the seniors, everyone in school thought I'd gotten a nose job for the sake of the Miss BYHS pageant. No one believed me when I said I was hit in the face.
Even Susan would forget at times, usually after she'd made some scathing remark about Miss BYHS. For instance, she'd say, "It's demeaning! It teaches young women to place more importance on physical appearance than any other personal quality! Even you, Marcie! You went and had your nose done—" at which point she'd remember, stop, and apologize.
"I understand that you don't like it," I said, "but can't you ignore it? It's not like we hear about it every day."
"I'm sorry, Marcie," she said, "I thought I could ignore it — and I tried, because of you! — but now the school is using it as a fund raiser. We have to collect money to back our favorite candidate."
The school pretended to set up a SuperPAC for Miss BYHS, and all the funds collected went there. Supposedly the winner got to donate the money to the "charity of their choice" but in reality they were just going to present a check to the school after being crowned.
"I don't like it either," I replied. "All you guys have to do is bring in something. They set goals for the girls in the pageant! I have to raise $200! Believe me, I don't want to do that."
Mallory finished her drink and made a loud sucking noise with her straw. Then she said, "Get your parents to raise the money. Put them to work." When I frowned, she explained, "Ask your parents to ask their co-workers. You might not have to do any fundraising at all."
I considered the idea, and it sounded good. Dad's boss, Mrs. Means, might kick in all the money I needed.
And yes, I did say Mallory. She was back in school, but she was very subdued. "It's a new record," she said quietly. "I never been suspended so quick before." Susan bristled at the ungrammatical statement, but said nothing. "Two days!" Mallory continued. "It's my new personal best."
However, even though she continued to talk like a rebel, her pranks had come to an end. She also quit laughing like a donkey, throwing her head back and baring her teeth.
Mallory and Blair had taken to hanging around with Susan and me. Neither of us were the type to push people away or ask them to sit at another table. In any case, we'd come to find that they weren't bad to be with — now that they'd both calmed down. In fact, they were among the few people at school who didn't bother me now.
Oh! While I'm listing the things that bug me, I have to tell you two more: one was the twins. My mother was always on and on about the twins, and how the pregnancy was going. Yesterday she wanted to show me the ultrasound picture.
Now that was a trip. Mom very proudly handed me a strip of very thin paper. On it was a picture of what looked like a dirty fan.
"I don't see anything," I told her. "Is it upside down?"
She laughed and said, "Look!" With her fingernail she traced what she said were the heads and arms of the two babies inside her. "And you can see that they aren't boys," she said, running her finger around the smudges.
I shook my head. It didn't look like anything at all. All I could see was black and gray smudges. "What do you mean, you can see that they're not boys?"
Mom laughed again. "They don't have things — you know..." and she waggled her little finger.
"Oh, Mom! Gross!" I chided. "Can you really see all that in this?" I was sure she was just making it up. "Is this the real ultrasound?"
"Yes," she replied. "That's the real thing, and yes, I see all that. You must see it too. Look here and here!"
But I didn't. Even if I tried to imagine that I saw two babies, I couldn't make them out. Seemed like I was the only one.
Anyway...
The last thing that was eating at me was Susan's new obsession.
In addition to being on a high horse about Miss BYHS, Susan was obsessed with The Madonna Dialogs, which was a new feature in the school paper. The paper came out each week on Wednesday, and the new feature was in the very first issue.
Then, because there was so much material and it was so timely, the paper began printing the dialogs three times a week.
The Madonna Dialogs were transcripts of the conversations between the artist, Mr. Theo, and Jordan, who accompanied him around school. To tell the truth, they weren't interesting at all. In fact, they were deadly boring. In some, Mr. Theo would talk about art and the Madonna and so on, but for the most part all that would happen is that he would ask Jordan, "Could the Madonna of the Future be a skater girl?" or "Could the Madonna of the Future be emo?"
Jordan always gave a noncommittal answer, such as "Sure, why not?" or "Could be."
Given how predictable and repetitive they were, I couldn't understand Susan's obsession.
"I'm not obsessed," she countered.
"Why do you care about them at all?" I asked.
"I want to know where they come from," she said. "Jordan said the wording is verbatim; it's very exact."
"You talked to her?"
"Yes, I wanted to know if she was the one giving the transcripts to the paper. But she's not. In fact, she was mystified."
"So?"
"So, it's a kind of puzzle! I've questioned Jordan pretty closely, and I've followed them around a little. No one is ever near enough to hear everything he says, and some of the stuff I've heard has been in the paper. So whoever heard it had to be there when I was."
"Maybe Theo repeats himself," Mallory offered.
I said, "Somebody could just make it all up. I mean, it's not like he says anything clever or different."
"Why don't you ask the girls who do the newspaper?" Blair asked.
Susan replied, "I did. I asked the newspaper editors and they told me the source asked not to be identified."
"That's weird," I said.
"Yes," Susan agreed, with great satisfaction. "It's like a little whodunit."
"The butler did it," Blair laughed.
"Hey, maybe the artist gives them to the paper," I suggested.
"No," Susan countered. "The newspaper girls let something slip: they did tell me that it's a student. But anyway, I'm intrigued. It's a mystery, it's a question. And so, it's a challenge. Someone's being very clever, and I'm going to find out who!"
Mallory had been shifting uncomfortably in her seat throughout Susan's declaration, and she frowned as she munched her fries. Susan eyed the girl, and asked, "Is something wrong, Mallory?"
She looked up startled, holding a fry in front of her face. "Uh, no," she said, red with embarrassment.
Susan gave a suspicious frown.
"I was just thinking...," Mallory said, fumbling for words. "I was thinking about the... uh... the Miss BYHS thing. Do you think Miss Overmore started it because she used to be a model?"
I shook my head in surprise. Somehow I was quite sure that whatever Mallory was thinking about, it wasn't Miss BYHS. But if she was looking to create a diversion, she'd hit just the right topic.
"You don't understand anything about it, Mallory," Susan scoffed. "In first place, Miss Overmore didn't start the contest. In fact, she was a contestant when she was a student here."
"She was a student here?" Mallory repeated.
"Yes!" Susan replied, as if it was obvious. "I thought everyone knew that."
"I am kind of new here," Mallory told her. "Two whole days. I won't know everything until tomorrow or the next day. Cut me a little slack!"
"Sorry," Susan said. "It's just something that we've been over a lot. I mean before you got here. But you do make me wonder... how in the world... the thing is: I can't believe that Miss Overmore is allowing Miss BYHS to go on! I mean, after what happened to her..."
"What happened to her?" Mallory asked, and Susan told her the story of how Miss Overmore, when she was a student, had gotten more votes than anyone in the pageant. More than the next several candidates put together, but because she was only a junior, they didn't let her win. They rigged the votes somehow, and they made a senior win.
Mallory munched thoughtfully for a while, then asked in a low voice, "Are you sure they made her lose because she was a junior?"
"Of course!" Susan replied scornfully. "What other reason could there be?"
In an even quieter voice Mallory said, "Maybe they made her lose because she's black."
Susan mouth fell open. She was stunned.
Mallory chewed a little more, thinking, then asked, "Did Miss Overmore enter the contest when she was a senior?"
"No, she didn't."
Mallory shrugged, as if to say There you have it, then.
Susan huffed in a disappointed way. "I can't believe I didn't think of that! I should have seen it right away!"
"You can't think of everything," Mallory said in a comforting tone.
"I should have, though! It was staring me right in the face! And you saw it right away!"
"I wouldn't worry, Susan," Mallory told her. "They say you have the highest level of intelligence of any girl in the school."
Susan's brow furrowed with suspicion. "Who says that?"
"Miss Overmore said it. When she was lecturing me on how bad I'd been, she said 'At least I can compliment you on the company you've been keeping.' And that's when she said the thing about your level of intelligence."
"Wow," Susan said, overcome. She looked down for a moment at the table, and as she did, Mallory gave me a slow wink from her left eye.
Then Susan looked up and in a voice filled with emotion said, "Thank you, Mallory, for sharing that with me. You have no idea how much that means to me."
Mallory shrugged and smiled, and shoved a fry into her mouth. Susan beamed at her. I rolled my eyes, but no one noticed.
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way
"Ugh, Mom, what is that smell?" I shouted, not knowing where in the house she was.
"Is there a skunk outside?"
"Oh, Marcie," Mom scoffed as she entered from the kitchen.
"You can't pretend you can smell anything. And it's not as bad as all that."
After Mallory said that thing about Susan having "highest level of intelligence of any girl in the school," Susan walked on air the rest of that day.
And her attitude toward Mallory did a complete turnaround. Yesterday — this morning, even! — she didn't just not like Mallory. I think she actively despised the girl. But now, she couldn't do enough for Mallory. She held the door for her, offered helpful remarks, paid her compliments, and so on. She even began repeating Mallory's quips to me as if they were jewels of comic wisdom.
Don't ask me why it made me angry. I don't know why. But I steamed and sputtered all the way home.
How on earth could Susan be so easily taken in? And why did Mallory have to make me part of the deception? Well... the second question was easier to answer. Mallory wanted an audience.
I didn't want to admit it, but it was a clever move on Mallory's part. She didn't flatter Susan directly — Susan would have seen right through that. Instead, Mallory attributed the flattery to Miss Overmore, knowing that Susan would never dare check with the pretended source.
Also, the flattery was as good as true. I mean, Miss Overmore could easily have said something just like that. And Susan probably did have the "highest level of intelligence" of any girl in the school. She was brilliant, hardworking, and thorough. When it came to unraveling mysteries, she was a regular Sherlock Holmes.
Which is exactly why she shouldn't have been fooled by Mallory! She was too smart for that!
I felt so frustrated — and disgusted — that I actually balled up my fists and growled. Out loud, there on the sidewalk! Then I realized how stupid I must look... but after a quick glance around, I was relieved to see that I was alone. No one could have heard or seen me.
And as I looked around, I realized that once again I hadn't been paying attention to where I was going! I was just about to turn the wrong way again, toward work — or toward the street where I'd been hit.
I sighed and kicked a little stone out of the path. It danced across someone's lawn and disappeared under a bush. Then I turned and walked the other way, toward home.
The minute I walked into the house... well... I want to say I could smell it, but my nose was still packed with gauze and other medical junk. And yet, I could tell that something was in the air... something nasty. I could feel it in my throat, and it made me gag.
"Ugh, Mom, what is that smell?" I shouted, not knowing where in the house she was. "Is there a skunk outside?"
"Oh, Marcie," Mom scoffed as she entered from the kitchen. "You can't pretend you can smell anything. And it's not as bad as all that."
"So there is a skunk? I mean a stink?"
"No," she said. "It's flowers. Lilies. They do have a strong scent. Some people don't like them, but I find the fragrance invigorating."
I grimaced.
"You'll change your mind when you know why they're here," she told me, with a coy smile that said I know a secret!
"Did somebody die?" I asked.
Mom rolled her eyes. "Really, Marcie!" she objected. "No. Of course nobody died. Someone brought flowers for you!"
"For me? Why? And who?" And I didn't say it out loud, but in my head I asked, And why did they bring such horrid-smelling ones?
Mom led me into the dining room, and there, in an enormous vase, were a dozen lilies. Each flower was at least six inches across. They looked nice; in fact, they were beautiful. The flowers were wide open, curving out in stiff sweeping bells. The petals were intensely red in the center, fading to bright white edges, and freckled with dark red spots.
"A picture would have been better," I groused, and then the scent caught me hard in the throat. Gack! Gack! I coughed. I couldn't stop. My eyes were bulging, and I was gasping for air. At last Mom took my arm and led me away to the kitchen. She had a expression of long-suffering resignation on her face.
"Honestly, Marcie, you've got to be putting it on," she said as she poured me a glass of water.
I gaped at her in surprise. "Mom!" I cried, "that smell is—" But before I could say another syllable, the doorbell rang.
"That's probably for you," she said. "When the boy brought the flowers, he didn't want to leave a note or a message. So I told him when you'd be home."
I went to the door, very puzzled. If it was a guy who liked me, he was definitely starting on the wrong foot. And if it wasn't that, what on earth could it be?
I got my answer the moment I opened the door. "You!" I exclaimed.
"Yeah, me," the boy said, wringing his hands and looking at my feet. He let out a loud, heavy sigh. He had the air of a wanted criminal who'd turned himself in. He was expecting to have the book thrown at him.
Did you guess who it was? It was the boy who hit me in the face.
"I came to apologize," he said. "I never hit a girl before. Never. I'm ashamed of myself. I wasn't raised that way. I know it's wrong, and I'm very very VERY sorry."
As he spoke, I glanced down toward the street. I pretended not to notice the car and the woman sitting inside it. I had no doubt that she was the boy's mother, and she was there to make sure that he delivered his message.
The boy was in agony. I had the feeling his mother had given him hell.
"Don't beat yourself up over it," I told him. "I know you didn't hit me on purpose."
When I said that, I paused for just a second. I wasn't done talking, but he thought I was.
The boy relaxed and even smiled, and was just about to turn and run off. So I quickly told him, "Wait!" He froze and turned back to me, looking a little sullen. "Now what?" he asked.
"It was good that you came to apologize," I told him. "Even if it was an accident, it still hurt, and I hate going around with these stupid bandages and stuff."
"I said I was sorry," he said, a little resentfully.
"I know," I said. "But there's something I want to know. Did you apologize to the boy?"
His expression changed to a bewildered frown. "To the boy?" he repeated. "What boy? Do you mean me? Why would I apologize to myself?"
"No, I don't mean you! I'm talking about the boy you were beating up."
He frowned. He looked genuinely perplexed. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"You know that boy you were beating up? That little boy?"
"Yeah," he said in a distainful tone, as if the question was stupid and the answer was obvious.
"Did you apologize to him, too?"
The boy scoffed. "For what?"
"For beating him up!" I said. "For being a bully."
"I'm not a bully!" he replied, sounding offended.
"You were beating up a kid who's half your size! Do you think it's wrong to hit a girl, but okay to hit a boy?"
He looked at me like I was crazy, like he couldn't believe I'd asked such a thing. From then until he left, he kept his eyes on me as if I were some unpredictable loon. "Yes," he said, as if explaining something simple to a not-very-bright child, "It's okay for boys to fight. Boys are supposed to fight. It's how we get strong. It's natural."
"Oh, no no no," I told him. "It isn't natural and it isn't right. It's not right to beat up anybody. Especially someone who can't defend themself."
He continued to keep his eyes on my face, and he turned a little, ready to run. He told me, "You only think that because you're a girl. You don't understand."
I was beginning to get upset. I could feel the blood pounding around my eyes and nose. It was beginning to hurt. I needed to calm down, or I was in for a lot of head-splitting pain.
"Okay," I said. "Forget it."
"Can I go now?" he asked, without missing a beat.
The next day at school, Susan and Mallory were so happy being best friends that they were downright giddy. I hadn't seen Susan smile so much in a long time. The two of them really seemed to have clicked in a way that Susan and I didn't, and honestly I felt left out. Still, I had to be glad for Susan: Even if Mallory had started things off with a lie (or a half-lie) it was clear that she sincerely liked Susan, and the two were having fun together.
They disappeared right after lunch, without saying where they were going.
... which me alone with Blair.
And Blair — who was already weird on a good day — was moody.
She wasn't talking. Blair never did talk much... in fact, it was easy to forget she was there. Still, I felt obliged to get her talking, to make her feel welcome. But it was heavy going. I was getting tired of wracking my brain for something to say. I kept tossing her the conversational ball, but she'd reply with a "yes" or "no" or some some other short answer. She killed every topic I raised.
Just when I'd had enough and was about to give up and leave, Blair's eyes abruptly narrowed, and her lips pressed into a tight straight line. I turned my head to see who on earth she was looking at. To my surprise, she was focused like a laser of hate on the artist, Mr. Theo. I gave her a quizzical look.
"I don't like that man," Blair told me. "I don't like him at all. I don't trust him."
"Why not?" I asked her. "He seems nice enough to me."
"He's very creepy," she said. "He shouldn't be allowed to wander around the school."
I turned and watched him chat with one of the nuns and a few of the students. I searched his face, his manner for some trace of the creepiness Blair mentioned. But I just couldn't see it. All I could see was a likeable, kind of boring, harmless adult. After straining to see what didn't seem to be there, I turned back.
"I don't see it, Blair."
"I did," she replied. "I did and I do. I saw it right away. When he spoke to me, the hackles when up all over me. That night, I told my parents to sign the sheet so he would leave me alone."
"Really?" I asked, very much surprised. "But did he *do* anything to you, or say anything suggestive or bad?"
"No," she said. "It's just a feeling I have."
After school I went straight to the tea shop. We were very busy, maybe the busiest we've been since I started working there.
I was glad. It was good to be busy. It kept my mind off all the things that were bugging me. I even forgot about my stupid nose.
The customers just kept coming. For the first time, we had people waiting for tables. It didn't let up until dinner time, and then the place emptied out. Jordan's father went into the back room, and Jordan and I were left alone.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked me.
I laughed.
"No, really," she repeated. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Oh, yeah, sure!" I replied, "I thought you were joking, because—"
"Yeah, I know," she said, smiling for once. "We say it a hundred times a day."
I took a table near the counter, and she brought over two cups and a pot of lemon tea. Then she set down a dish with four little cookies called madeleines. I love them. They look like little yellow scallop shells.
I bit right into mine, but Jordan broke off a piece and dipped it in her tea.
I suddenly remembered that I had something important to tell her.
"Oh, Jordan!" I said. "I didn't have a chance to tell you this, but..." and then I explained (as well as I could) what I'd heard from Maisie and Susan about Ponzi schemes.
I fumbled quite a bit, and as I talked, I realized that I'd forgotten a lot, and it didn't make as much sense as when Maisie or Susan explained it.
But Jordan was able to fill in the gaps, and she got it. She really got it. And it made her angry.
"I knew it!" she said. "I knew that woman was bad news! I knew it!" She jumped up from her seat and ran into the back room to tell her father.
At that moment, I knew I'd made a big mistake. It was as if I'd been working hard to get a fire lit, only to see, once I got the flame going, that I was burning somebody's house down.
I don't know why I didn't see it before, but right now I was sure that Mr. Fisby wasn't going to be happy. He wasn't going to like this at all.
Nervously, I stood up and cleared away the tea things, and just as I'd finished tidying up, Mr. Fisby burst from the back room, his eyes aflame.
"Marcie," he said, "I am so upset that I can barely contain it!" Jordan stood behind him. She looked angry, too, but for a different reason.
Mr. Fisby put his face so close to mine that our noses nearly touched. He wasn't shouting, but he spoke with such intensity and anger that it made me more than a little afraid. "Who do you think you are? WHO do you think you are? What makes you think you — at fourteen... fifteen years old — can stick your nose in MY business? Are you an expert on investments, Marcie?" When I didn't answer, he said, "Tell me: ARE you?"
"No," I answered in a small voice.
"Do you know anything at all about money? about managing money? Can you tell me the best ways to invest?"
"No," I said.
"And yet, you come here, causing trouble, filling Jordan's head with lies and misinformation—"
"They're not lies!" Jordan shouted. "She's right!"
Mr. Fisby turned to her and said, "You and I will talk later. For now, I don't want to hear a word from you. Do you understand me? NOT ONE WORD!"
"You've filled her head with lies and misinformation and NONSENSE about things you don't understand at all! Where do you get off? And where did you get all this crap that you fed her? Don't tell me that you made it up; I won't believe you. You must have gotten this idiotic trash from somebody else. You've been telling somebody about my business, haven't you!"
Oh, my God. If there was ever a time for a lie, it was now. "No," I said.
He softened a little at that. "Well, that's something, anyway," he said. "Please continue to NOT discuss my business. With ANYONE."
Then he looked at the empty tea room. He looked back at me.
"I hope you understand why I'm upset," he said. I nodded. "So... tell me, then: Where did you get all that foolishness you told Jordan? Did you get it off the internet?"
"Yes," I said. "The internet."
"Hmmph," he scoffed. "I hope you know you can't believe everything you read there."
"Am I fired?" I asked him.
He thought about it, but then he shook his head. "No," he said. "You're not fired." He smiled grimly. "You're a terrible investment advisor, but you're a good waitress. And I need a good waitress. Just don't ever do this again. Do not get into my business, Marcie. Do not discuss my business. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you promise?"
"Yes, sir."
He sighed, then looked over his shoulder at Jordan, who was sulking in the back room. "Why don't you go home now, Marcie. I'm going to need to go through this mess you've made with Jordan. I might as well close up early."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fisby," I told him.
"All right," he said. "Just don't do it again."
When I got home, I made the mistake of telling my mother what happened. She was shocked. And angry. Maybe even angrier than Mr. Fisby.
"Marcella Antoinette Donner!" she exclaimed, "Who on earth do you think you are?" And then she launched into a long form of the scolding Mr. Fisby had already given me.
"I'm just amazed!" she said, shaking her head. "I can't believe he didn't fire you on the spot!"
"I guess I'm a good worker," I said.
"Oh, Marcie," Mom said, "when will you ever learn?"
Learn what? I thought. But I knew better than to say it.
Then, unexpectedly, Mom abruptly changed gears. She tousled my hair and hugged me. "But still," she said as she squeezed the life out of me, "I'd rather have you doing this than shooting murderers."
"Oh, Mom!" I said. "What melodrama!"
"Be that as it may," she said, releasing me and looking at my face. "How's your nose doing?"
"It's okay," I said. "I feel like the bandages ought to come off."
"Oh, good!" she said. "But you might be glad they're in this weekend."
"Why?" I asked. "Are you getting more lilies?"
"No, silly! I have a little job for you."
Uh oh! "What is it?" I asked in a suspicious tone.
"Painting," she said. "We need to paint the nursery, and you're the one to do it."
I groaned. "Painting?" I whined. "Why me? Why can't you?"
"I'm pregnant," she said. "The fumes could hurt the babies."
I growled in frustration.
"That sounds like a yes to me," Mom said, laughing.
I almost asked whether Dad could do it, but I knew that he was busy. Mom was right: it had to be me.
"Oooh, look at you," Mom teased, pushing my hair back. "I can almost see the smoke coming out of your ears. But don't worry: *your* fumes won't hurt the twins.
I stomped off to my room and threw myself on my bed.
Fuming? Yes, I was fuming. Everything seemed to be going wrong. Something had to change. Something had to change SOON!
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way
"Oh my God!" Mallory said, and began wringing her hands in desperation.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Why are you so upset?"
"Because," Mallory said, sniffing, "when Miss Overmore hears about this, I will be expelled."
She looked as if she was about to cry. "They won't let me come back. No one will laugh about this,
and no one will forgive me. My parents will KILL me. This school is supposed to be my last chance.
I don't know where I can go if I get kicked out of here."
The scolding from Mr. Fisby really unnerved me. I desperately needed to talk to someone about it.
If I could hear somebody say Oh, my God! and Are you kidding!? and He said WHAT? I'd feel a whole lot better.
But what I really wanted was for someone to tell me You were right and Don't beat yourself up over it.
Obviously, my mother wouldn't say that. I could hear her downstairs, pottering around the kitchen. She was probably coming up with more material to add to the scolding she already gave me. The last thing I needed to do was give her an opening to unload them on me.
Susan was out of the question, because her parents don't like her using the phone, especially on school nights.
I tried calling Maisie, but her phone didn't even ring. It went straight to voicemail. She must have turned it off... or maybe she was out of range... off hiking with Chrissie or something. Her phone stayed that way all night. I gave her one last try after I got into bed, but she still didn't answer.
I considered the other people I knew in California... I thought about Jerry, Eden, and Aunt Jane. Jerry and Eden wouldn't have understood about Ponzi schemes — at least I hoped they wouldn't! — and I knew I couldn't explain... I tried Aunt Jane a couple of times but she didn't answer, either. I didn't bother leaving a message. She was probably at work, anyway.
I even considered calling Mrs. Earshon, the psychic. It would have been nice to get some good news. At the very least she'd tell me something puzzling and weird that would take my mind off what was happening. But I didn't call her. She would have made me pay, and I didn't have an appointment, anyway.
In the end, I spent the evening stewing in my own juice, replaying what I said to Jordan and what Mr. Fisby said to me. It ran like an endless loop, repeating over and over inside my brain. Some moments would jump out at me, especially when he said You've been telling somebody about my business, haven't you! It wasn't a question, it was an accusation. Worst of all, it was true. I *had* talked about his business: with Maisie, with Susan — even Mallory and Blair heard something about it.
My face burned with shame and guilt. Was there any way Mr. Fisby could find out that I lied? If Mallory or Blair made a mistake and talked to Jordan... I groaned aloud, I hadn't even considered what Jordan would think or say. After all, she got in trouble for repeating what I said. How would she act toward me tomorrow? Would her father convince her that I was a troublemaker who didn't understand anything?
Then I felt angry. Mr. Fisby shouldn't have yelled at me. He really was in danger. Something was wrong in that little tea shop. Jordan knew it. Maisie and Susan both saw the problem instantly. I wasn't wrong. I wasn't!
And then I felt scared. Even though Mr. Fisby told me I wasn't fired, I was still worried about getting fired. Maybe Jordan would get him angry and he'd blame me. I worried about getting into more trouble, even if I couldn't imagine what that trouble could be.
I kept turning over and over in my bed. I couldn't get comfortable and it took me forever to fall asleep. It was not a restful night at all.
When morning came... early morning... I dragged myself out of bed an hour early. Even though I hadn't gotten slept very much or very well, I got dressed and ready in no time at all.
I wasn't awake though. My brain was only up to zombie level: I could shuffle my feet and mumble, but I wasn't capable of anything more than that. It was still dark out. It felt so indecently early that I couldn't even think about breakfast. As far as my stomach was concerned, I was still fast asleep.
We got in the car and Mom drove through the dark streets to the nose doctor's office. By the time we got there I was blinking and looking around. My belly was beginning to wonder when breakfast would come. But that would have to wait: Today, right now, I was getting the bandages off my nose and the packing out of my nostrils. I was ready to put up with any inconvenience and indignity as long as I got my nose back.
The nose doctor sat down in front of me, all wide awake and cheery. I rubbed my eyes. He said to me, "Before we start, I want to remind you that you had a very nice nose to begin with. We agreed that we weren't going to change it. We were just going to fix the break and nothing more. We didn't change anything. It should still look fine, just like before."
It was still too early in the day to talk. I made a noncommital noise. The doctor frowned. "I don't want to start until I know you understand."
I took a deep breath and sat up straighter. I was still half-asleep, but I managed to say, "Yes, Doctor, I understand. I don't want a different nose. I just want to breathe."
"Good!" he replied, and he got down to work.
I don't think I've ever seen anyone work so gently and carefully. He would cut a little, and pull a little, tossing the bits of bandage and tape onto a little steel tray. Sometimes it hurt a little, but I didn't complain. I tried to not whimper. I'd been praying for this day; I wasn't going to complain, now that it was here.
The really hard part came at the end. He asked me to sit on my hands and tilt my head back. He moved the steel tray under my chin and oh-so-gently pulled the packing out of my nose. It was very uncomfortable, but I clenched my teeth and forced myself to sit as still as a statue and not make any noise. After the big plugs came out, he pulled out smaller pieces. I wished I could see what he was pulling out, because I couldn't believe my little nose could hold so much stuff.
At last he said, "All done!" and, taking hold of my chin, he turned my head left and right and tilted it to different angles. "Lovely!" he concluded, and asked me how I felt.
I drew a deep slow breath. "It's wonderful to be able to breathe again!" I told him. Then I felt a tickle somewhere up inside my right nostril. Oh no! I grasping desperately at tissues and squeezed my eyes shut because I felt a sneeze coming. I expected it to hurt like mad and probably bleed, and... and... ah... ahhh... AAAchooo!
"Ohhhh!" I said in a voice filled with grateful wonder. "It didn't hurt!"
When I got to school, Susan looked at me quizzically. "Your nose looks the same," she told me.
I huffed in indignation. "Susan! I didn't get a nose job! I was hit in the face!"
"Oh, sorry," she said.
Of course, it was the stupid seniors' fault. And when they saw me, the nose-job remarks didn't stop.
"What kind of a nose job is that, Donner? Your nose looks the same! What an idiot!"
"You can't even get a nose job right, you nosejob."
"What a total waste! If you think that nose is going to make you Miss BYHS, you're dreaming!"
BUT, the good news was: I didn't care. The bandages were off. My nose was working again! I didn't have to breathe through my mouth any more.
Eventually the bruises would fade, and everyone would forget. Even if they didn't forget, nose-job jokes wouldn't be funny any more.
On the way to lunch, I gave Susan a hurried version of what happened with Mr. Fisby. I hurried because I didn't want Mallory and Blair to hear. It wasn't a very satisfying experience, because I told it so fast that the humiliation I felt didn't come across at all. Susan took the story as a simple difference of opinion.
"Of course you were right," she said, but she said it in a very matter-of-fact way. "You did what you could. I'm sure that in the near future he'll be sorry that he didn't listen, but what else can you do?"
I dropped the subject, because that wasn't the point at all. I didn't care so much about being right. I wanted to talk about it, about my nerves and fears and bad feelings.
Susan, on the other hand, wanted to talk about something else entirely. As we worked our way through the cafeteria line and sat down at our usual table, I could see that she was excited about something.
"What's up with you?" I asked her.
"I've got a little surprise," she chuckled. "But wait until Mallory and Blair get here."
That irritated me a little. Maybe it was just my lack of sleep, but I wanted to say, If you like Mallory so much, why don't you marry her? But of course I didn't.
Once Mallory and Blair were seated, and Mallory had a mouthful of food, Susan began. She put her hand inside her bag and kept it there. She smiled and waited, until Mallory, her mouth full of food, asked, "What's in the bag, Susan?"
Susan gave an enigmatic smile. "I've solved the mystery!"
"Which mystery is that?" I asked.
"The mystery of the Madonna Dialogs!"
Blair's eyes narrowed. Mallory swallowed the entire bolt of unchewed food. Her eyes bulged and her face turned bright red. She reached for her milk and gulped it down with some difficulty, pounding her chest as if to loosen the lump of food stuck inside and make it move down. It took her about a minute of gasping, swallowing, and sipping milk before she came back to herself.
Susan waited patiently until Mallory had fully recovered. Then she said, "Look at this!" and pulled her hand out of her bag.
In her hand was a hard white plastic card, a little bigger than a business card. It said VISITOR in big black letters. On the back was a clip, and a small black box that I assumed was a magnet, like a kitchen magnet.
"Where did you get that?" Mallory croaked. "Oh, Susan, please don't get me in trouble."
Blair sniffed. She looked annoyed.
"I asked Mr. Theo for it," she answered. "I told him he didn't need it any more."
"I don't understand," I said.
"This black box," she said, "is a bug. It's a tiny microphone and transmitter."
"How did you know?" Mallory asked. She looked miserable.
"I realized that if no one was there to hear Mr. Theo talk, that there had to be a bug. I remembered how you bugged Miss Overmore's bathroom," Susan said.
"But you couldn't have hidden one in the building, because he's always wandering around. And you couldn't have stuck one on him, or he would have noticed," she continued. "It had to be something you could give him; something he'd accept and carry with him." She held up the VISITOR pass.
"Oh my God!" Mallory said, and began wringing her hands in desperation.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Why are you so upset?"
"Because," Mallory said, sniffing, "when Miss Overmore hears about this, I will be expelled." She looked as if she was about to cry. "They won't let me come back. No one will laugh about this, and no one will forgive me. My parents will KILL me. This school is supposed to be my last chance. I don't know where I can go if I get kicked out of here."
Blair scoffed impatiently. "Oh, stop it, Mallory!" she said. "Don't be such a martyr!"
I stared at Blair, shocked. I couldn't believe she'd be so callous and uncaring. Susan, on the other hand, seemed to have expected it.
"She's right, Mallory. You have nothing to worry about."
Blair looked away, angry. Mallory still looked guilty and afraid. Susan was nearly glowing. She was in a state of pure Sherlock.
"Okay," I said, "Hold on for a minute. I'm obviously the only one who has no idea what's going on here. Could somebody please explain it to me?"
Susan looked from Blair to Mallory, and then to me. "Blair was convinced that Theo is... well, not a good person. She thought he was a creep. You know, the kind who likes school girls. So she talked to Mallory..."
I interrupted. "So whose idea was the VISITOR badge?"
"Mine," Mallory croaked.
"Clever," I commented.
Mallory gave a sad smile, but continued to look down.
"It *was* clever," Susan agreed. "And when Blair told Theo that he needed to wear the badge, he simply agreed."
"So what was the point of putting the conversations in the paper?" I asked.
"I wanted him to know that he was being watched," Blair answered.
"But he never did anything bad or wrong, did he?" I pointed out.
"No," Blair agreed. "My plan worked."
"That Blair is a little nutso," I confided to Susan later on.
She shrugged. "We don't know what's happened in her life," she said. "And I don't think we should ignore anyone's intutions."
"I think she was wrong in every way," I replied.
"I'm kind of sorry I figured it out," Susan said, smiling. "It was an interesting puzzle."
That afternoon Maisie called me. "I saw you called," she said. "You called like a gazillion times!"
"Yeah, I have to tell you something—"
"Yeah, I have to tell YOU something too! Me first! Chrissie is on the phone downstairs, talking to my father. She's going to find out if we can fly you out here for Spring break!"
"Oh my God!" I cried. "Do you think he will?"
"I think so," she said. "He pretty much does whatever Chrissie wants."
"Great!" I said. "I could really use a break from Flickerbridge and BYHS."
"Mmmm," she said. "So what's happening?"
I told her about Mr. Fisby. She knew exactly how to respond. She exclaimed in disbelief, she blew raspberries at things he said. She called him stupid, said he'd be sorry. She asked me how I felt and what I wanted to do about it.
"I don't think there's anything I *can* do," I replied. "I think I'll get fired if I say another word."
"You can still talk to Jordan," she said.
"Yeah, Jordan..." I realized that I hadn't seen her at school today. Well, I saw her, but we didn't have a chance to talk.
"How did she take it?" Maisie asked. "Did her father give her a hard time?"
"I don't know," I said. "I haven't been able to talk to her yet. And I saw her today, but her face is completely unreadable."
"She should be a poker player," Maisie quipped.
"Yeah, probably," I agreed.
We talked for another twenty minutes. I told her about Susan finding the bug and about Mallory and Blair.
Oddly, she didn't agree with me about Blair being crazy. She said the same thing Susan had said: "We don't know what's happened in her life. And you don't know: she might have good reason for being suspicious."
I asked Maisie about school, and she said that now she had tutors coming every day.
"Do you like that?" I asked.
"Well... it's okay. They're... okay. I miss the, uh... wait — hold on a minute... Chrissie is here."
She must have pressed her phone into her shirt because her words turned into soft murmurs. I couldn't hear Chrissie at all. The sounds Maisie was making got loud and angry pretty quickly. It didn't sound like good news. As far as I could tell, she was fighting with Chrissie, or at least yelling at her. It went on for almost ten minutes. I just hung on, listening, but unable to make out any words.
When Maisie got back on the line, she was pretty angry.
"I hate my father!" she declared.
"I know that," I said. "I guess this means I can't come. It's okay, Maisie."
"No, no," she said. "It's not okay. It's the opposite of okay. It's really bad." And she began swearing, calling her father all sorts of vile, unrepeatable names.
I tried to calm her down, but she wouldn't listen. "Maze!" I said. "Listen! It's not a big deal! I can't expect your father to pay for a private jet to come and pick me up. It must cost a fortune! It's okay. It's really okay."
"No," she said. "It isn't that. The problem is that he's a bigoted asshole. He wouldn't let you come even if you paid your own way."
"Huh?"
"He did a background check on you," she said. "Back when you got kidnapped."
"Yeah?" I said. "That's kind of weird." My neck started to tingle.
"I know," she agreed. "I told you: he's an asshole. And the reason he doesn't want you here is that... he said... he doesn't want a T-girl in his house."
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way
Then I caught myself. What if she only meant "tea girl"? A girl who serves tea?
The floor dropped out from under me. What Maisie said took me so completely by surprise that I couldn't speak. I could barely think.
Honestly, I tended to forget that I wasn't always Marcie and that physically I'm not 100% girl. Of course, there were always problem situations, like with gym class and with boys, but nothing that had ever cut me like this. If someone was mean to me, or just didn't like me — the seniors, for instance — it wasn't because I had some boy-remnants.
Maisie assured me, with lots of energy and venom, that she would make her father pay. And she told me that Chrissie had fought with him for me for the past three days. That was something; I appreciated it. But in the end, I couldn't go. Even if I paid my own way.
Truthfully, I had been looking forward to the private jet. Maisie had painted a vivid picture of the two of us and Chrissie zooming across the country. She had described the jet in so much detail that I almost felt that I'd already flown in it.
Now, it would never happen.
I wondered whether my whole life would be this way, even after I got the operation. I mean, after all, I couldn't change my past. Anybody paranoid enough to do a background check would find out that I used to be called Mark.
I wondered whether I'd be better off getting it over with by just telling everyone.
If everyone knew I was a t-girl, I could quit taking gym with the seniors. If everybody knew, I wouldn't have to worry about being exposed or found out, because I'd already *be* out.
Even that stupid hypocrisy about the bully: he could beat up a boy without a problem, but when he hit me he was horrified because I'm a girl. How would he feel if he knew I was a t-girl?
And there I stopped. Because I knew that my life wouldn't be easier if everybody knew. It would be harder. Maisie's father wouldn't have bothered to do a background check. He would have said NO from the very start.
And everyone else — the bully, the seniors — it would all be worse.
I felt so angry and frustrated... and humiliated — but the worst thing was, I had no one to talk to about it. I knew my therapist would tell me encouraging things, but — I sighed. It would be nice to talk with someone who knew *exactly* what I was going through, because they were going through it, too.
... like the girl who wrote that diary, for instance. I wasn't so sure that it was Mara any more. I'd looked at her as closely as I could without getting her angry, and I did't see a single atom of boy in her at all.
I didn't really want to talk to Maisie about it. She was sympathetic to me, and angry with her father, but that only went so far... and talking with her mainly reminded me of her father's insult.
And Mom... I didn't want to tell Mom. I know my mother cares and and I know she loves me, but she's so unpredictable. She could just as easily make things worse as make things better.
Susan, of course, had no idea that I was in transition, so I'd be opening up the whole can of worms if I talked to her. And I was in no mood for matter-of-fact judgments and opinions. Susan is my friend, one of my best friends, but so far I'd never told her my secret. I didn't have a real reason not to... but somehow I never got around to telling her.
I thought, with a slightly bitter laugh, that if Susan was as remarkable a detective as everyone thought, it was surprising that she hadn't figured it out on her own already.
The next evening I went to work. Mr. Fisby wasn't there, so it seemed the perfect opportunity to find out how Jordan felt after her father's explosion.
But Jordan cut me off. "We can't talk about that here and now," she said. "My father will be back any minute. He will flip right out if he hears us talk about that."
So, I closed my mouth, put on my apron, and got to work. It turned out that Jordan's father didn't come back for several hours. In fact, if Jordan and I were quick, we could have talked a little when I first came in, but then it got so busy that the subject flew out of both our minds.
Eventually the rush slowed and the tea shop gradually emptied out. Jordan and I bustled around, clearing tables, collecting money, washing cups and teapots, and suddenly the tables were empty!
All except one.
There sat Lee Sheppard, the woman with the Ponzi scheme.
"Well, well, well!" she said in a voice that filled the little shop. "If it isn't my favorite investment advisor and t-girl!"
I blushed hard. I felt embarrassed, angry, and exposed. I was also quite indignant. How on earth does she know? I asked myself. Then it occurred to me: She must have done a background check on me, just like Maisie's stupid father did.
Then I caught myself. What if she only meant "tea girl"? A girl who serves tea?
Lee sat there, smiling, watching my face. Then her gaze moved to Jordan.
I turned to look at Jordan, too, but she wasn't looking at me. I've always said that Jordan's face was unreadable, but for once, it was easy to read. She was angry, indignant... even outraged... and nearly on the point of tears.
That's when it hit me: Lee didn't mean that *I* was the investment advisor and t-girl... she meant that I was the advisor and Jordan was the t-girl!
Jordan was the other girl at BYHS in transition! She was the one who wrote that diary!
And now I knew how Lee Sheppard was getting to Jordan. She was calling her a t-girl, pretending she meant "tea girl." She probably did it every time she came in. And poor Jordan had to be polite and take it. She couldn't say a thing.
Until now. Now, Lee had called her out in front of me.
And that made ME see red. She had no right. She had no right at all.
All this time, while my brain was churning, processing this and realizing that, Lee Sheppard was watching my face and reading a story there as well.
"Oh, my goodness!" she said. "I never thought! Do we have two t-girls in this little tea shop? What are the chances?"
Jordan's jaw started working, as if she was trying to find something to say but couldn't.
Lee smiled and looked first at me, then at Jordan, going back and forth, enjoying the sight of our discomfort. I'm sure that all she saw was a pair of harmless teenage girls, girls in transition. I'm sure that the bully in her thought that we'd never dare stand up for ourselves, that we'd be too embarrassed and afraid. And the three of us were alone: there was no Mr. Fisby to witness her nastiness, so she settled in and got ready to poke us, to see how far she could push us, and maybe make us cry or run away.
Maybe yesterday, it might have worked. Maybe if she'd tried this rotten trick a few days ago, I would have been taken by surprise; I would have been embarrassed. Any day but today I probably would have been tongue-tied, humiliated, and left kicking myself or crying afterward.
But not today. I already felt humiliated, angry, and hurt, and I was not about to take any more. Not from anyone, and especially not from someone who made a habit of bullying a girl in transition. There was an angry energy bottled up inside me. It was like I had a hornets' nest in a jar inside me, shaken up, buzzing mad, and ready to go. If Lee pushed me, even a little — or if she said the wrong thing to Jordan — I was going take that jar, give it a good shake and open it up... on her.
Lee's smile broadened, and she said, "So what about it, Marcie? Are you a t-girl? Or a real girl? Which are you, hmm?"
I stood up tall and said in a strong, clear voice, "I'm a real t-girl."
She was clearly taken aback by my manner and delivery, so she said, "What's *that* supposed to mean?"
"What do you think it means?" I shot back. "It means that you can't push me around!"
Her face blanched for a moment, but only for a moment. Her eyes narrowed. "I don't know who — or what — you think you are, little thing, but you don't cross me," she said in a tight voice.
"Right back at you," I growled. I had had enough. Enough of the seniors in gym class, enough of Maisie's father, enough of my mother, and more than enough of this scam artist in front of me.
"We'll see who has the last word here," she said, and she stood up. She went to the door, opened it, and paused in the opening. "You two 'girls' have fun playing dress up," she said, and shut the door behind her.
"GO TO HELL!" Jordan shouted as the door shut.
Then she burst into tears.
Of course, Mr. Fisby arrived at just that moment. He entered through the back, so he hadn't seen Ms. Sheppard.
"Honey, are you alright?" he asked, his face full of concern. He glanced at me, then moved quickly to the door. He locked it and turned the OPEN sign over to CLOSED.
"Let's go in the back and talk," he said. "Are you alright, Jordan? Marcie, what happened?"
Jordan began blurting out the story in between sobs. I filled in some of the gaps and translated when Jordan cried too hard to be intelligible. Mr. Fisby was stunned.
"Jordan, I had no idea," he said. "You should have told me she was saying those awful things to you."
"I didn't think you'd listen," she said. "You think that woman walks on water."
He spluttered for a moment, then asked, "And she did this every time she came here?"
"She never missed a chance," Jordan answered, sniffing. She was beginning to calm down.
Jordan's father made helpless motions with his hands. "I wish you'd told me, Jordan. I didn't know! I'm so sorry."
Jordan shook her head. "I tried to talk to you about her, but you think she's some kind of saint or something."
"She has helped me a lot," he said. "She's made me a lot of money."
"She's suckering you," Jordan said, but she said it in a low, downcast voice, because she was sure he wouldn't listen.
"Now I understand why you think that," he replied.
Jordan gave a resigned sigh.
"Mr. Fisby," I said, "I guess I can't work here any more." I took off my apron and handed it to him.
He looked at the crumpled cloth in his hand. "I don't know about that, Marcie. I know that the customer is always right and all that... but she really crossed a line. With both of you. You shouldn't have to take that from anyone, no matter who they are. I'm glad that you realize that losing your temper is not a good thing, but believe me, I understand why you were upset, and I appreciate the fact that you were defending Jordan as much as yourself."
"I guess," I said.
He smiled and handed me back the apron. "I don't guess, I know," he said. "Please, Marcie. Don't quit."
"Okay," I said.
"And I'm glad you two know about each other," he said. "It must be hard thinking you're the only one. But you know... Marcie, honestly... I never would have guessed."
"I never would have guessed about Jordan, either," I said.
"Seriously?" Jordan asked, looking at me in disbelief.
"I don't see anything boy about you," I replied. "When I found that diary, I thought it belonged to Mara."
"Mara?" Jordan echoed in puzzled disbelief. "The basketball player? You've got to be kidding!"
I shrugged, and the two of us laughed.
"Alrighty then! I will talk to Lee Sheppard," Mr. Fisby said grimly. "No matter who she is, nobody talks to my daughter — or any of my employees — like that. If she can't give you two the respect you deserve, she won't be welcome in my shop."
"Really?" Jordan asked, blinking.
Mr. Fisby hesitated for the briefest moment, then nodded. "Yes, really," he said.
"And what about her 'investments'?" Jordan asked.
He hesitated again. This time, a little longer. "Well... to tell the truth, all this money stuff has been making me nervous. Every time she has an opportunity, I have to put out more money. Even though she tells me that there's no risk, I'm still afraid I might lose that money."
"So you'll stop?" Jordan asked.
He glanced at me before answering, considering how much he wanted to say in front of me. Then he gave a quick nod and said, "Lee has one more opportunity coming up in a week or so," he said. "If I can be a part of it, I will. But after that, I'm done. It's too much for me. The stakes are way too high, and the suspense just kills me."
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way
He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to me,
"My client says, you help him find Lee Sheppard and then he'll talk."
"No," I said. "First he has to release the hostage. In the meantime, he can talk to himself if he wants to talk."
Even though Mr. Fisby said he'd talk to Lee Sheppard about the way she treated Jordan and me, I was pretty nervous. Each time the door of the tea shop opened and the little bell jingled, I glanced up nervously.
Jordan told me that she felt the same way, although you'd never know it from looking at her.
Mr. Fisby made himself busy out front. He wanted to be there when Lee walked in. He wanted to be sure he talked to her before she talked to either of us girls. As luck would have it, the moment Mr. Fisby went into the back room, the door opened, the little bell jingled, and Lee Sheppard stepped in as if she owned the place.
She was wearing a light gray tailleur, which was a lot dressier and more professional than she usually dressed. Her shoes were a no-nonsense pair of dark gray pumps, whose heels clicked loudly on the stone floor of the shop. She carried a black leather briefcase that closed with a zip at the top. She was also wearing more makeup than usual. When I took in her whole look, apart from the alarm I felt, my first thought was, I wonder who she's skinning today?
Jordan and I happened to be standing at opposite ends of the shop: she was in a corner by the front window; I was next to the tea counter in back. We looked at each other across the tables, mutely asking What do we do now?
Lee sat in her usual table, near the wall, apart from the few other patrons. She didn't look up. She didn't look at us. She busied herself with something on her table. She expected service; she expected one of us, probably Jordan, to pop over right away.
Neither of us wanted to move. It was almost as if we could remain invisible if we stood stock still.
After a few prolonged seconds, Lee gave a sniff that was heard through the whole place, and I decided I had to move. Whatever she was going to say to me wouldn't kill me, after all. I just had to be careful to not lose my temper or say something stupid. Above all, I had to be careful not to apologize. I was just going to ask for her order and ignore anything else she happened to say.
Jordan had the same idea (it turned out). The two of us put a foot forward at the same moment.
We both paused, and before we could take another step, Mr. Fisby came out like a shot from the back room. He moved swiftly to Lee's table and sat down without asking. Lee looked up in surprise, and as she parted her lips to speak, he leaned forward, and looking her straight in the eyes began talking very intensely and seriously. Her eyes widened in surprise. Jordan and I moved behind the counter and pretended to straighten things, wiping counters that were already clean, dusting containers that weren't dusty, and both of us nervous as could be.
"Go, Dad!" Jordan muttered under her breath, and the two of us shared a quick smile.
Their conversation didn't last very long. I didn't want to look, but Jordan did. I saw her eyes trail Lee as she walked from the table to the door. The door opened, the bell jingled, and the door shut with a bang!
"You should have seen her face!" Jordan crowed gleefully. "Dad must have really told her, because she was angry! I wouldn't be surprised if she never comes back again!"
"Here's hoping," I replied.
When I got home from work, Mom was peeling a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. "Uh-oh," I said. "That's not dinner, is it?"
She laughed. "No. These are only for me. Somehow I can't get enough boiled eggs. I asked your father to buy more eggs on the way home."
It's the twins, I thought.
"It's the twins," Mom said, as if reading my mind. "My babies want eggs."
"Mom!" I protested. "Gross!"
She was in a good mood; she laughed. Then, as she picked up an egg to take a bite, she suddenly stopped. "Oh, Marcie!" she told me, "Maisie called you. Five times! The last time I let it go to the answering machine."
I walked over to the table in the entry way and hit PLAY. After some beeps and noises, I heard Maisie's voice: "Marce! Call me! Call me call me call me call me call me! Hey, and when you get a chance, call me!"
"I guess she wants me to call her," I said, laughing.
"She sounds pretty excited," Mom observed. "She must have some kind of news. Maybe her father is finally going to wise up and let her come back here."
I doubt it, I thought.
Mom added, "And wasn't there talk of you going out to see her?"
"I dunno," I told her, looking down. I didn't want to talk about it.
Mom bit into a hard-boiled egg and moaned with pleasure. "I can't believe how good these taste!" I rolled my eyes and trudged upstairs to my room.
"Don't drop your backpack—" she called after me, just as I was letting go of it. Boom!
"Sorry!" I called. "Next time!"
I threw myself on my bed and pulled up Maisie's number on the phone.
"Hey, Maze," I said. "What's up?"
"Hey yourself," Maisie said. "Guess what? Guess what? You'll never guess!"
"I don't know," I said, searching for an answer. "You dyed your hair?"
"No!" she said. Then, after a pause: "Do you think I should to dye my hair?"
"No," I said. "Don't! You said to guess, but I have no idea!"
"You'll never guess!" she repeated, laughing.
"I'm sure I won't!" I replied.
"Try," she demanded.
"Okay," I said. "Your father changed his mind."
She stopped laughing. "No. Sorry."
"It's okay," I told her. "Just tell me, Maze."
"Alright. This is rich! You know that woman... Lee Sheppard... the Ponzi lady?"
"Yeah. I saw her today."
Maisie chortled. "It turns out that she is the one who ripped my father off!" Maisie burst into laughter, laughing so hard I had to hold the phone away from my head.
I groaned, disgusted.
"Isn't it funny?" Maisie asked.
"No, not really," I replied. "I hate that woman. She's an awful, spiteful person! She's really vile. And mean."
"She sounds just like my father," Maisie retorted. "But guess what?"
"No, Maze, just tell me."
"Okay. He wants to know where she is."
"Your father wants to know where Lee Sheppard is?"
"Yes, he told me to ask you."
"I wouldn't give him the time of day," I retorted, hotly. "I'm not telling him anything!"
"Good!" Maisie said.
"Do you mind?" I asked her.
"Hell, no!" she laughed. "I'm glad. Serves him right! I'm glad that woman ripped him off. He deserved it!"
"Did you tell him about the tea shop and Mr. Fisby?"
"No."
"Well, don't."
"Okay. I've zipped my lips. But I kind of thought you'd want to tell."
"Why?"
"Because my father would have her arrested, and Old Mr. Fishface would be saved."
"Fisby," I corrected. "And he doesn't want to be saved. And he isn't old."
"Hmmph. Oh, well. His loss," she said. "Literally."
"Don't tell your father anything that could help him," I told her. "Don't mention the tea shop or my job, or Jordan, or Mr. Fisby, or anything."
"I won't." I could almost hear her shrug at her end of the line. "It's not like I ever talk to him, or he ever listens. He only wants me here because it pisses off my Mom. Anyway, I don't blame you. And honestly, I couldn't care less. Except that your not telling is going to piss him off royally, which is great. He's dying to find that lady. He wants to string her up."
"Literally?" I asked.
"No," she said, laughing. "He just wants his money back."
A couple of days later as I was leaving school, Miss Overmore stopped me in the hall. I'm not sure what it was about. Maybe she just wanted to chat. She asked about my mother, how she was handling the pregnancy. She asked about my nose. She asked about Miss BYHS. She asked about the friendship between Mallory and Susan. Last of all, she asked about Blair. By the time she got that far, the hall was empty. Everyone had gone, except the basketball team. We weren't far from the gym, so I could hear the balls bouncing, the sneakers squeaking, the shouts and hustle.
Miss Overmore was speaking quietly now, and I got the idea that this was the point of the chat. I did feel like I was being pumped for information... but in a nice way. I didn't like it much, but then again, something was going on with Blair. Clearly Miss Overmore felt it and wanted to get a handle on it.
Then she looked at her watch and said she had to hurry off. I did too, so I shouldered my backpack and trudged to the front door.
As I was about to push it open, I saw the man. He was across the street, wearing dark glasses, leaning against a car as if he was waiting for someone.
He was tall and a little overweight. His brown hair needed a haircut, but his khakis and polo shirt were clean and pressed.
But why was he there? He was outside school yesterday, too. And come to think of it, I'd seen him outside a store this morning, while I was walking to school.
Was he following me?
He couldn't be waiting for anyone else. There wasn't anyone else to wait for. The basketball team was nowhere near the end of practice. There was only me.
I thought for a moment, and said out loud, "Time to find out!"
I pushed open the doors and took a left, walking fast as if I was late. I pretended not to see him. From the corner of my eye I saw him straighten up when I came out. I took a left at the corner, and in the reflection in a window opposite, I could see he was coming my way.
I didn't speed up, but I didn't want him to catch me yet. I went straight for four blocks. This wasn't my usual way home. In fact, it was the wrong way, but I needed to get to the Hill.
Every time I passed a car that had a decent reflection, I checked that he was still there. The man stayed on my tail, but two blocks back. If I wasn't watching, if I wasn't suspicious, I probably wouldn't have thought twice about him.
At last I reached the street I was aiming for: Valley Street. The moment I turned the corner and was out of sight, I took off running. Valley Street runs across the foot of the Hill, and the Hill is where the rich people live. The higher you go, the bigger the houses get, and the larger and lusher the lawns. Right here, on this bit of Valley, a stone staircase cuts through a wall five-feet high, and runs up between rows of greenery all the way to the top of the Hill. There are landings and benches every so often, and once a year there's a Heartbreak Race to the top. But today I wasn't going that far.
After a dozen steps, I found a break in the wall of bushes, and there I pushed through to the grass behind, ignoring the scratches and the leaves and twigs in my hair.
Once free of the bushes, I walked back down toward Valley Street.
My timing was excellent. The man was standing almost right in front of me, his head turning in every direction except toward me.
I cleared my throat and he jumped. "Looking for me?" I asked, and showed him my cell phone. As I hit the buttons, I told him, "I'm dialing 9-1-1, but before I press SEND I'll give you one chance to explain yourself."
I was nervous, but I felt pretty safe. He couldn't reach me, up where I was, and if he tried, all I had to do was take a step back. If he tried to climb the wall, I could walk up the hill. If he came up the stairs, he'd wouldn't get through the bushes, and in the meantime I could climb down to the sidewalk and run away.
No matter what, I could do any of those things and call 911 at the same time.
"Don't do that!" he said. "Don't make that call! Please, just wait a moment! I only want to talk to you."
"If you want to talk to me, why didn't you come to my house and ring the doorbell? Why didn't you use the phone?"
"Look," he said, "I'm not a weirdo. My name is Clark Riswold. I'm a private investigator. I'm looking for Lee Sheppard."
"Clark Riswold?" I repeated. "That sounds like a made-up name."
He shrugged. "What can I do? I didn't pick it. Look, here's my business card." He opened his jacket with one hand, showing me his shirt pocket. With his other hand he pulled out a card, and with exaggerated slowness he approached the wall and set the card under a tiny rock. Then he took two giant steps backward.
"All I want to do is find Lee Sheppard," he repeated.
"And do you think I'm her?" I asked.
"No, of course not. But according to my information, you know where she is."
"That's not true," I said.
"But you know who I'm talking about."
I didn't want to waste time playing around, so I said, "I know who you're talking about, and I could probably help you find her, but I won't."
"This woman is a criminal, do you realize that?"
"Yes, I do."
"Why would a nice girl like you want to help a wanted criminal?"
I made a face when he said nice girl. I told him, "I don't want to help a criminal. That's why I'm not going to help you."
"I'm not a criminal," he retorted.
"No, but your client is."
"I didn't say who my client is," he replied, "but in any case, he's not a criminal."
"He's a kidnapper," I said.
He looked at me in silence for a few moments, perplexed, then gestured to his business card. "Look: You can call your friend, the police detective," he said. "Theresa Dandino knows who I am."
I frowned. I wasn't about to ask how he knew that I knew Theresa. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I shook my head. "It won't do you any good. No matter what she says, I won't help your client."
"I never said who my client is," he repeated.
"It's Maisie's father," I said. "It's Mr. Beale."
When he didn't answer, I added, "Your client is a kidnapper. You tell him I said so. You tell your client that I'll help you find Lee Sheppard, but before I do, he has to release the hostage."
The man frowned. "Hostage?" he asked.
"He'll know what I mean."
"Hold on a minute," he told me. "I'm going to ask him now. Don't go away."
He pulled out his cell phone, hit a speed dial, and began talking in a low voice. Then, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to me, "My client says, you help him find Lee Sheppard and then he'll talk."
"No," I said. "First he has to release the hostage. In the meantime, he can talk to himself if he wants to talk."
Clark's eyebrows bounced at that, but he repeated it word for word into the phone. Then he jerked it away from his ear. As far away as I was, even I could hear Mr. Beale's shouting.
Then, after a final shout, Maisie's father hung up. Clark Riswold looked at me.
"Stop following me," I said. "Leave me alone, or I'll make sure you never find her."
He scratched his ear.
"Besides," I told him, "No offense, but you're not very good at it."
"No offense?" he scoffed. "Listen, it's easier tailing adults. Kids are tricky. But who cares? Forget about that. Call Detective Dandino. She'll set you straight."
"I'll make sure I don't call her, then," I replied. "And anyway, it isn't you. It's your client I don't like. I wouldn't help him for anything on earth."
"To tell the truth, I don't like him much either," Clark told me. "Anything else you want to say? Might as well get it all off your chest."
"Yes," I said. "Get rid of those glasses. They make you look creepy."
"Mmm," he said, with a smile and a nod. "My wife says the same thing."
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way
Susan's face went white. "Marcie, you do realize that we're just a couple of teenage girls, right?
This woman Lee has been scamming people for a long time. Maisie's father couldn't outwit her,
but you think we can?"
"I don't know," I said. "But Jordan doesn't have anyone else to ask."
When I got to school next morning, Jordan was standing in the middle of the lawn, in front of the office windows, facing the street. The other girls, who were making their way up the walk and into the building, shot glances at her, but no one was rude enough to stare.
I walked over to her. I had the feeling she was waiting for me. Her face was as white as a sheet, and she didn't return my hello. When she spoke, at first I had to strain to hear.
"It's happening tomorrow," she said, barely audible.
I felt the blood drain from my face. I knew what it was, but I couldn't stop myself from asking, "What is happening tomorrow?"
"The big one," she replied. "The last one. Lee Sheppard is going to skin my father alive. She's going to take every penny he's got, and then she'll disappear."
A chill shot through me, and every hair on my body stood on end.
"You need to call the police, Jordan."
She laughed a bitter, scornful laugh. "And what would they do?"
"Arrest her?"
"For what? If I talk to any adult, what's the first thing they'll do? The very first thing?"
I shrugged. "I dunno. What?"
"They'll talk to my father, and my father will tell them that nothing is wrong. And then he'll be angry with me, not that *that* matters, but..." She scoffed. "Anyway, it won't help. There's no one who can help."
I opened my mouth to tell her about Clark Riswold, but hesitated. He probably would help. In fact, he'd probably make the problem go away. Permanently. He'd arrest Lee Sheppard before she took Mr. Fisby's money, and she would never come back. But did I want that? If I told Clark Riswold, I'd be helping Jordan and her father in the only way possible, but at the same time I'd be helping Mr. Beale, and I didn't want that.
And then, Maisie might never come home.
Still, the sight of the usually impassive Jordan, who now stood wringing her hands, her face a mask of pain... it was too much for me.
I told her about Clark Riswold.
"Do you trust him?" she asked me. "He sounds pretty creepy."
"Yeah," I agreed. "He *is* pretty creepy. But he told me I could call Theresa Dandino and she would vouch for him."
"Who's she?"
"A police detective I know."
At the word police, Jordan shut down. "No," she said. "No no no no!"
"Why?" I asked her. "He's not with the police! If I call him, he'll arrest her and she'll be gone."
"Can a private eye arrest a person?" she asked.
"I don't know. I guess so."
"But... to find out if he's on the up-and-up, you have to call the police. And if you call the police, all the adult world is going to get into motion. They have all kinds of rules. They'll ask my dad because they have to, and everything will stop right there."
I sighed.
She went on, "... and then Lee Sheppard will take my father's money, laugh in my face, and disappear. And we will be ruined."
The two of us stood in silence, looking at each other, until she wailed, "Marcie, what am I going to do?"
I considered for a moment. There *was* someone else to ask. If Jordan refused to trust an adult, well... I knew it sounded crazy, but I had to say it. Hesitantly, I forced the words out. "Well... Jordan... if it was me... I'd ask Susan Ash for help."
She frowned, trying to place the name. Then she got it. "Oh, wait... no! Come on! Susan Ash?" she echoed, incredulous. "The Chinese girl in your class? The freshman? The little black-haired bookworm? That Susan Ash?"
"Yes," I said. "She's smart. Scary smart. She's like Sherlock Holmes in a pleated skirt."
Jordan didn't laugh at my joke, so I said (very lamely), "Trust me."
"I don't know," she said. "I'm desperate, but I'm not sure if I'm that desperate."
"Let me see what she says," I replied.
I sat behind Susan in homeroom, and quickly filled her in.
"Do you think we can help her?" I asked.
Susan's face went white. "Marcie, you do realize that we're just a couple of teenage girls, right? This woman Lee has been scamming people for a long time. Maisie's father couldn't outwit her, but you think we can?"
"I don't know," I said. "But she doesn't have anyone else to ask."
"Yes, she does," Susan contradicted. "At the very least, she can call this Clark guy. You can call Detective Dandino and get the low-down on him."
"Jordan doesn't want that."
"I understand, but you can be all hypothetical with Theresa. You don't have to tell her everything."
I considered that for a moment. "I'm not sure that would work."
Susan gave me a flat look. "You could try," she said, and turned her back to me. Class was starting, anyway, so we had to quit talking. I spent the whole period chewing my nails and wondering what to do. Susan, on the other hand, was bent over her desk, scribbling notes, crossing things out. Every so often she'd look off in the distance, tapping her lips with the end of her pen.
When the bell rang, she turned to me with a red, embarrassed face. She said, "Um... if Jordan wants to come to our lunch table today... I mean, if she *wants* to... I might have some ideas — but only... if she wants."
"Great!" I responded enthusiastically. What a relief! "But — oh! What about Blair and Mallory? I don't think she'll want those two to be there."
Susan considered for a moment, then said, "Blair won't be there," she said. "I can take care of that, and kill two birds with one stone."
Puzzled, I asked, "Which two birds? What's the other one?"
"Never mind for now," she replied. "I'll tell you later." She turned to leave, but I caught her arm.
"Whoa, Susan, wait! What about Mallory?"
"What about Mallory?" she echoed. "We need Mallory. Mallory has to be there."
"Are you kidding?" I shot back, but she just nodded, clutched her pile of books, and went to our next class.
Jordan came unwillingly, all the more because she didn't like Susan and Mallory knowing her situation. And yet, she came.
Mallory and Susan were already sitting down. They each had trays of food in front of them, but neither was eating. There was a lot of food on Susan's tray, and from it she set a sandwich and an apple in front of Jordan and did the same for me.
"I'm not hungry," Jordan said.
"It's camouflage," Susan replied, still embarrassed. "Open it up and pretend to eat it. If we're not eating, one of the teachers might come over and ask why."
Jordan made a sour look. She ripped the plastic wrap off the sandwich and took a bite. "Happy now?" she asked.
Susan was obviously very uncomfortable and felt very awkward. She told me later that she wasn't "qualified" to give Jordan any advice (other than to send her to an adult). So, she laid her cards on the table. "Look, Jordan. I'm just a kid. We both know that. But I understand that you're uncomfortable going to an adult. Well... I have some ideas about how we can —"
Jordan interrupted. "What do you mean we?"
It hardly seemed possible, but Susan blushed an even deeper red. In a quiet voice she replied, "Marcie said you needed help. I think that we —" here she made a gesture that included the four of us "— we can help. If you want it. If you don't, fine. Personally, I think you ought to let Marcie call the private investigator, but if you won't, maybe you'll try something else. If you don't like my ideas, fine. You don't have do them. For now, just hear me out. Okay?"
Jordan leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She had a sullen look, but she said, "Okay. I'm listening."
"All right," Susan said. "There are three things that we'd like to see happen: one, that Lee doesn't take your father's money, two, that your father understands that Lee is a crook, and three, that Lee gets arrested. Point two is the hardest, and probably isn't worth pursuing, and point three needs at least one adult, so let's set that aside for now. We need to concentrate on point one: not letting Lee get the money. If we can make the other two happen, great — and I have some ideas there, too — but if we can accomplish point one, well, that's the main thing. That's the most important point."
Jordan's face looked a little less sullen. Her expression was moving back toward her usual, naturally unreadable setting. But I could tell she was getting interested. She asked Susan, "How exactly do we stop her from getting the money? My father wants to put it in her hands. Even if I took it and hid it, he'd tear everything apart until he found it and gave it to Lee."
Susan glanced at Mallory, who cleared her throat and said, "We're going to pull the old switcheroo. We'll prepare a second bag of money that's filled with cut-up newspapers."
"No, wait," I objected. "Maisie's father tried that, but *he* ended up with the newspapers."
"Right," Susan said. "He did. But we have an advantage that Maisie's father didn't."
"What's that?"
"We don't think we're smarter than her." She let that sink in, then added, "We have to assume that this woman is much smarter than we are, and that she knows tricks we can't even imagine."
She glanced at Mallory, who offered, "A good scam artist is an expert at reading people. When Maisie's father tried to give her the wrong bag, it was written all over his face. He was thinking, Ha, ha, I'm tricking her and no doubt he was checking to be make he gave her the wrong bag. She would have seen all that and knew what he was trying to do."
"How do you know?" Jordan asked in a challenging tone.
"Why do you think it went wrong?" Mallory asked. "When the switch happens, you can't think. You have to be stupid and forget that there are two bags. There's only one bag: the one you give her. What Susan said is important: she is smarter than us, so we have to be stupid enough to not register."
While Jordan took this in, Susan said, "Jordan... if you want to try this, Mallory will drill you on the switch."
Mallory said, "You'll get to the point that you'll automatically give her the right bag, but you'll feel like you're giving her every penny you own. Oh, and we'll need to know what sort of bag your father will use. Do you think it will be a jiffy bag? Or a big manila envelope?"
"I think that it's a big jiffy bag," Jordan replied. "I'll find out. But when am I supposed to do this? And what if she looks in the bag?"
"You have to show her what's in the bag," Mallory replied. "You let her see the money, then you put the money bag away. I'll show you."
Jordan repeated, "But when am I supposed to do this? My dad might look in the bag himself."
"Right," Susan agreed. "You need to sit at the table when they do they deal. This part is trickier."
"I don't think I can do that," she replied. "That woman and I — we hate each other's guts."
"Well, if you can't do that," Susan said, "the worst case is that you change the bag ahead of time. You can put newspapers on the bottom and real money on top. Then your father will lose something, but not everything."
Jordan liked that idea. "I could do that. Then maybe he'll only lose the money that she gave him! That would be ironic." She actually laughed at the thought. Then she suddenly brightened with another idea. "You know what? I could do both! I could hide most of the money, put newspaper in the bottom of the money bag, AND try the switcheroo. If it works, all she gets is newspaper. If it doesn't, she just gets her own money back."
"That's a good idea," I said.
"Yes," Susan agreed, and I could see she was a little nettled that she hadn't thought of it. But she continued. "Okay, so that's point one: not letting her get the money. Now, let's jump to point three: getting her arrested. This ties into the switcheroo, anyway. For this, you need to sit at the table when they make the deal."
"That's not going to happen," Jordan said.
"Maybe not," Susan agreed, "but we can try. How do you think your father would react if you told him that you realized you were wrong about Lee Sheppard, and now you think she's a great person and a good investment advisor?"
I blushed at that, and Jordan shot me a look. I shook my head, and she understood: I hadn't given her away. Susan didn't know that Jordan and I were in transition. She didn't know there were *two* issues with Lee Sheppard: the money and the harrassment. Susan only knew about the money.
"Well..." Jordan began, but clearly she didn't know what to say.
"Susan," I cut in, "Lee was harrassing Jordan, every time she came in. She's a rude and horrible person, and just the other day Mr. Fisby had to tell her to stop. So Jordan can't say Lee is a wonderful person. Mr. Fibsy knows she's not, and he wouldn't believe it."
Susan took this in. "Okay, so how about this: how do you think he'd would react if you said that — in spite of her personal failings and the way she treated you — that you came to see that she is a terrific investor and that she's helping your family?"
Jordan shrugged. "He'd be relieved. He'd be really happy. We fight a lot over Lee and the money, so he'd be glad if it was over."
"And what if you said the same thing to Lee?"
"Phffft! As if! She'd know it was BS. She wouldn't believe it."
"But if you said it in front of your dad..."
"He'd lap it up."
"And maybe he'd let you sit at the table."
Jordan frowned. "Why do you keep trying to get me at the table? Why do I have to be at the table?"
Susan glanced at Mallory, who shifted uncomfortably. Then she said, "Because if you want to secretly record a conversation, New Jersey is a one-party consent state. That means that as long as one person in the conversation knows they're being recorded, it's legal."
Jordan's face lit up for a moment, then went dark again. "And how is it going to be recorded?"
"Just a sec," Mallory said. "Watch where I go and what I do. My backpack is on that chair over there." We watched her walk across the cafeteria. She fished a small tape recorder out of the backpack and brought it back to us.
After she sat down, she rewound the tape a few seconds and hit PLAY. Jordan's voice came out, crisp and clear: "... hide most of the money, put newspaper in the bottom of the money bag, AND try the switcheroo. If it works—" Mallory switched it off. Jordan was impressed.
"Where's the microphone?" I asked.
"It's better if no one knows," Mallory replied. "Then nobody will look at it."
"So," Susan concluded, "if you sit at the table, anything she says can be used as evidence against her."
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way
Theresa gave a laughing groan. "Clark, you're not going to impress these girls with that corn."
"And what about you?" he asked Theresa in a suggestive tone. "Are you impressed by my corn?"
The next day, the moment I got home from school, the phone rang.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice replied, "Hi. Am I speaking to Marcie Donner?"
"Yes, this is me."
"Oh, good!" she said. I had no idea who it was, but I liked her voice. She sounded so friendly and positive. "My name is Chrissie Frambois. I'm calling from California."
"Are you Maisie's Chrissie?"
She laughed, a light, pretty laugh. "Yes, I'm Maisie's Chrissie. I'm calling because I have good news for you and bad news for me. I'm bringing Maisie back to her mother tomorrow. We've got a flight at 8 am our time."
"Really? Why isn't Maisie the one who's calling to tell me?"
"Good question!" Chrissie agreed. "Maisie is NOT happy about going back. She's not happy at all. Neither am I, to tell the truth, but it's time. It's past time. She's supposed to be with her mother now, and I've been trying to bring her back, but her father didn't want to let her go."
I grunted in response. I did remember Maisie saying the same thing.
Chrissie continued. "There's no way she can be back before... before your thing tonight, but I promise you she'll be there tomorrow. You can try and call her, but she's pretty angry. She probably won't pick up the phone. If she does answer, she might chew your head right off."
I blushed. I still wasn't sure about this... but at the same time I was. I knew Maisie didn't want it, and it wasn't my place to interfere, but...
"Marcie?" Chrissie said. "For what it's worth, I think you've done the right thing. Maisie doesn't want to go, but she has to. Her father was wrong to keep her from her mother."
"I know," I said, but I didn't sound very brave or convinced.
"She has to spend time with *both* parents. And she needs to be with you! I hope I get to meet you some time soon. I've heard — and read — a lot about you. Most of it's hard to believe! You're a remarkable girl, Marcie Donner. And Maisie owes you her life. She might not say so, but she knows it, and so do I."
I mumbled a clumsy thanks. I knew she meant the kidnapping, but I really didn't want to talk about it.
"For what it's worth, her father ought to show some gratitude to you, too, but I guess that would be out of character. I'm sorry he's that way, but he owes you a lot. Somewhere inside him, he knows that, too."
I wasn't sure what to say to that, but I managed to say something polite, and then Chrissie signed off.
After I wiped a few tears, I picked up the phone and called Theresa Dandino. "Has the eagle landed?" she asked in a mock-serious tone.
"Not yet," I said, "but you can call Clark Riswold."
"Great!" she said. "Tonight, one way or another, Lee Sheppard is going down."
"Let's hope so," I said.
Yes, I called Police Detective Theresa Dandino, and yes, I asked her to call Clark Riswold. And yes, Jordan knew I'd be calling the both of them, and she was okay with it.
When Susan worked her way through her plan yesterday at the lunch table, *that* was where she was heading the entire time. I didn't know it, and neither did Mallory, but Susan had a secret goal. After winning Jordan over by solving the problem of the money, she began to talk about how to get Lee Sheppard to confess on tape. From there, as she outlined ways of getting the woman arrested, Jordan finally broke down and agreed to let me call the police.
"Thank goodness!" Susan told me afterward. "We would have been crazy not to! We had to call the police!"
We set up a war room on the second floor of bookstore near the tea shop. Mr. Fisby gave me the night off, even though I was supposed to work. I guess he didn't want me messing up his last deal with Lee.
Mallory sat on a table near her tape recorder. "Shouldn't you be wearing headphones?" I joked. She smiled and shrugged. "If they make this into a movie, I'll wear headphones and stare at the desk. But I can hear it just fine from here."
At the moment, all we could hear were the sounds of tea cups and light chatter.
Susan, Theresa, and Clark sat by the windows. Taped to the walls near the windows were eight large photos, all different, of Lee Sheppard.
Earlier, Clark had asked Mallory what would happen if the tape recorder died.
"I put in fresh batteries today," she said, "and I have spares—" she produced some loose batteries from a bag "—AND there is a backup recorder hidden in the tea shop."
Clark grunted. He was impressed, but didn't want to admit it.
"Marcie," Theresa reminded me, "You should be over here at the window, watching. You're the only one who's actually met her."
After five minutes, Clark announced, "Gray Camry parking at nine o'clock."
Theresa pointed for my benefit. "There's a woman at the wheel," she observed.
"It could be her," I said. Clark continued to scan the entire scene, and announced two other car arrivals, and asked about a woman who was "walking at two o'clock."
The woman in the Camry took forever to get out, but as soon as she straightened up and shut the door, I knew it was her. "That's Lee Sheppard," I said. "Getting out of the Camry... at nine o'clock."
"Very good!" Theresa said. "Let's back away from the window a little, so she doesn't catch us looking, okay?"
We watched her walk, smiling and confident, all the way up the block and into the tea house. We heard the door open and the bell jingle on Mallory's recorder. Susan moved over to the table. Theresa shifted her chair to get a better view of the tea shop's door. Clark stood up and straightened his clothes.
"Going somewhere?" Theresa asked.
I got alarmed. "You can't arrest her now!" I exclaimed. "You agreed—"
He put up his hand to quiet me. "I'm not going anywhere near her... yet. I'm going to sabotage her car. Make sure it won't start. Whatever happens in the tea shop, I don't want her getting away."
"Oh, okay," I said.
"And, just so we're clear," he went on, "I'm going to stay down there. The moment she approaches her car, or the moment she leaves the tea shop for any place else, I'm going to be on her. I want her to try on this pretty pair of bracelets." He dangled a set of handcuffs.
Theresa gave a laughing groan. "Clark, you're not going to impress these girls with that corn."
"And what about you?" he asked Theresa in a suggestive tone. "Are you impressed by my corn?"
She rolled her eyes and he left.
From there on, we were silent, listening to the conversation between Lee and Mr. Fisby. Occasionally, Jordan would pipe up with a question. She always sounded respectful and interested. She wanted to know where the money was going, how long it would take. She asked Lee how she'd gotten into the business and how she learned what she knew. She asked if the returns were really guaranteed, and if so, how come everyone wasn't investing the same way.
"This is based on insider information," Lee told her, betraying just the slightest hint of impatience, "and this particular deal is in foreign currency. It's pretty simple, really, but only if you know what you're doing. Let's say there's a currency called... let's say there's a country that uses oyster shells for currency. And say there are 40 oysters to the dollar. That's the exchange rate. Now: what if you know that tomorrow, the exchange rate would be 20 oysters to the dollar! What would you do? You'd take your dollars and buy oysters today, and then tomorrow buy your dollars back."
"You'd double your money!" Mr. Fisby said. You could hear his excitement.
"You'd double your money," Lee agreed. "It's simple, but not everyone can do it. Not everyone can see it. For one thing, you've got to move fast and buy your oysters quickly, before other traders catch on to what you're doing. If they see you buying oysters, they'll start buying oysters too, and that will drive the price up. Do you get it?"
"Not really," Jordan said. "But how do you know the oysters will be worth more? and why would they be?"
"That's the way money works, Jordan," Lee replied, with a superior air. "It goes up and down like a tide. And just like sailors on the sea, you can learn to read the signs, watch the weather, so to speak..."
Theresa snorted in disgust. "Listen to her! She really knows how to sling that stuff! What a load of baloney!"
We could tell when the money (or the newspaper) was handed over. There was a peculiar kind of reverent silence. Once Lee dropped the money in her briefcase, the conversation quickly fell apart, and Lee left the table. Again, the door opened, the bell jingled, and the door closed with a bang.
Susan, Mallory, and I ran to window. Theresa quickly hissed, "Girls, get back! Don't let her see you!" and Lee stopped in her tracks. I'm sure she didn't hear Theresa, who was only whispering. Maybe it was some sixth sense, or more likely, she saw our movement from the corner of her eye. In any case, Lee turned her head and looked up toward our window. At first she was only curious, but when her eye fell on me, her face changed. Her expression tightened, and she began walking quickly away from her car.
"No no no!" I cried. "She's getting away!" and the next moment I was pounding down the stairs as fast as my feet could carry me.
Theresa pushed past me on the stairs, and was gone when I hit the sidewalk. I couldn't see Lee, either. So I crossed the street to the Green. As soon as I did, I spotted Lee in the middle of the block to my left. Clark would say she was at two o'clock. I jumped the low shrubbery and took off across the Green. At the same time, I saw Theresa several yards behind Lee, pushing past shoppers and strollers, trying to reach the fleeing scammer.
Where does Lee think she's going? I asked myself. Why didn't she head for her car? She couldn't have *another* car, could she? But no, that was crazy. She just wanted to get away. In fact, I realized she had her shoes in her hand — heels were no good for running.
She was just about to round the corner onto Carver Street, which was full of tiny shops, when she collided head-on with a man. It was Clark Riswold. She tried to get by him; he gripped her wrists. The two of them struggled. Lee drew close and drove her knee into Clark's groin. His dark glasses couldn't hide the pain in his face. Still, he didn't let go. Lee cocked her knee twice more, hard, but Clark saw those coming, and they didn't connect.
But the next one did, and his body twisted to the left. Theresa and I were nearly there, so when Lee dropped her shoes and got her right hand free, Theresa snapped a cuff on that wrist, and pulled Lee's arm back in a hammerlock. Clark was trying to straighten up. He still had a hold on her left arm, but with a piercing scream and a few hard kicks to his ankles, she jerked it free.
That's when I arrived, skidding to a halt — I slipped on something. That's when the worst thing happened, because I was bent over, in exactly the wrong place. As my face was moving down, Lee's arm broke free and her elbow shot back, smacking me hard right between the eyes. Her heavy briefcase, which was hanging on that arm, struck me in the chest, knocking the wind out of me.
Not again!
I stumbled back. Tiny flaming stars swam in front of my eyes, and I couldn't catch my breath. I backed into a lamp post, and sank down, sliding down the post till my butt hit the the ground.
"Serves you right, you little witch!" Lee shouted. "I hate nosy people!"
"Enough!" Theresa barked. She spun, jerking Lee's body, so the woman landed belly-first with a oof! on the pavement.
She put her knee in the small of Lee's back, grabbed Lee's free hand and snapped the handcuffs on tight. Then she pulled out her radio and called for a police car.
"Are you alright?" she called to me. I gingerly tested my nose with my fingers, feeling all the bones. Nothing seemed to be broken. "I think so," I told her. "I was afraid that she'd busted my nose again."
"That's what I was aiming for, you—" and she let out a string of profanity. Theresa laughed.
"Hey, don't *I* get any sympathy?" Clark called. He shook himself and coughed twice. "I can't even touch where it hurts!"
"Aw, you're okay," Theresa said. "She only kicked you in the brains."
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way
When I walked home, I was in a total daze. My mind was still in a whirl from the stake out last night and the chase,
and I hadn't gotten much sleep. Because of all that, and after hearing about Blair, I was so caught up
that I forgot something very important. Luckily, that something — I mean that someone — hadn't forgotten me.
It turned out that Jordan had managed the switcheroo perfectly. When Lee ran off, she thought she had a bag of cash, but all she had was a stack of cut-up newspapers.
"You should have seen her face!" Theresa laughed. "I poured it all out on the table and said, Do you want to count it, Lee? She clenched her jaw so tight, I'm surprised she didn't crack a few teeth!"
"What really made her angry is that she's spent her life fooling people, only to get punked by a group of teenage girls!" she said later.
California filed extradition papers. As the word went out, other states starting lining up to take their prosecuting Lee. And there were civil suits against her as well.
"Even if we can't make her case stick here," Theresa told us, "She'll be going state to state, serving time."
Once Mr. Fisby understood how the whole investment scam worked, he handed over as much of the money he'd "gained" as he could. "It's food off someone else's table," he said.
Jordan was relieved, but a little disgusted as well. "I'd been telling Dad for months, but as soon as an adult said the same thing, he was all Oh, I see!"
Blair wasn't in school the next day. In fact, she didn't come back, ever. Susan took me to a quiet corner and explained. "This is what happened with Blair: Miss Overmore came to talk to me one day in the library, when no one was around. At first she talked about this, and talked about that, but in the end she wanted to talk about Blair."
"She did the same thing with me," I said. "Except it wasn't in the library."
"Anyway... afterward, I couldn't stop thinking about the questions she asked me. Some of them were kind of strange. At the time I didn't understand where she was going, but then it hit me: Miss Overmore believed that Blair was being abused."
"What!? Where? By who?"
"By whom," Susan corrected, and then apologized. "I don't know, but it was probably at home. That's where most abuse happens."
"Oh, my God!" I said.
"I think Miss Overmore wanted to intervene, but unless Blair said something, she was nothing she could do. So when you told me that Blair shouldn't be at lunch..."
"... you told her to go talk to Miss Overmore about Mr. Theo."
"Yes!"
"But I don't get it. Theo wasn't abusing her."
"No, he wasn't, but talking about that gave the opening to Miss Overmore. She must have convinced Blair to tell her what was going on at home."
"But Susan — that sounds kind of dangerous! Weren't you afraid that Blair would say something bad about Theo and get *him* in trouble?"
"No, I went and talked to Miss Overmore about it first — before I talked to Blair."
Susan was just amazing sometimes. "So what happens now?"
"Now Child Services and the police are involved. I'm guessing that Blair will go live with someone else, and hopefully whoever was hurting her will end up behind bars."
"Oh, man!" I exclaimed. I felt awful. "Susan — all the mean things I said and thought about her—"
"We all did," Susan agreed. "We have to remember for next time."
When I walked home, I was in a total daze. My mind was still in a whirl from the stake out last night and the chase, and I hadn't gotten much sleep. Because of all that, and after hearing about Blair, I was so caught up that I forgot something very important. Luckily, that something — I mean that someone — hadn't forgotten me.
The house was empty when I got home. I shouted "hello" and "halloooo" all over the place, but no one answered. Another thing I'd forgotten: Mom was at the doctor's for yet another prenatal checkup. So I went to the kitchen to make myself a snack, but before I'd even opened the peanut butter, the front doorbell rang.
And there, on the front porch, was Maisie!
She was standing with one hand on her hip, and her head tilted to one side, dressed in tight jeans and an oversized red t-shirt, chewing gum and looking for all the world as if she was posing for a photo. She was standing very still, but her eyes were darting around. She didn't look me in the eye.
Behind her was a tall blond-haired man in a suit. He was tall, wide, and muscular, like an ex-football player. He wasn't bad looking, but he didn't look like a very nice man. Next to him, with her hand on his arm, stood a skinny woman with long, blonde, shining hair and a pair of enormous breasts. She looked and dressed like a model. I mean, like a supermodel. She was amazing, like Barbie come to life.
I opened the door and Maisie strolled inside without a word, giving me a resounding sock on the arm as she passed.
"Ow! Jeeze, Maze!" I exclaimed, and started rubbing my arm. Then to the adults, I said, "Would you like to come in?"
The woman of course was Chrissie, and she oohed and aahed about everything: me, the house, the flight, the fact that Maisie was back in New Jersey... but she was nice. She seemed very sincere and good hearted. I liked her even better in person than on the phone. I'm sure my mother would have dismissed her as a "bimbo," but even if she looked the part, she didn't play the part at all.
Mr. Beale said nothing. He looked me and the house up and down. He looked at everything, as if estimating it, as if he'd already decided that it wasn't worth buying. I didn't like him at all. I couldn't imagine how Ida had ever married him, or how Chrissie could stand him.
Maisie looked good. She was tanned; she'd put on weight. She used to be so bony, people thought she was anorexic. Now she looked healthy and strong: the best I'd ever seen her. But she was pacing up and down my living room in an aggressive way, scowling at me. I didn't know what to say. Should I apologize?
Maisie stopped pacing and looked me in the face. She stuck out her lower lip and tried to frown, but saw she was hiding a smile. It was all an act! She knew that I knew, and she burst out laughing.
Maisie ran at me and clutched me in a tight, tight hug with her bony little arms. Hmm... well, bony with muscle. There was a little more substance to her now. I guess she'd gotten wiry, which is a good step up from bony.
And then of course she wouldn't be Maisie if she didn't say something insulting: "What a little pig you are, Marcie! Look at how fat you've gotten!"
"Maisie!" Chrissie exclaimed, shocked, but Maisie and I just laughed. Maisie didn't mean it. It was her weird way of showing affection. Don't ask me to explain. And — just for the record — I'm not fat at all.
"Marcie," Mr Beale said, interrupting and extending his hand, "I'm Aiden Beale, Maisie's father," (as if that wasn't obvious) "and I have to thank you. And, not to sound melodramatic, but if it weren't for you, Maisie would likely have died. We all know that; we're all grateful." Then he looked at Chrissie, who smiled and nodded. I guessed that she was the real audience for that.
Then Mr. Beale asked, "Is your father home? No? He used to work for me, you know. But it looks as though he's landed on his feet here. I'm glad."
"Um... I'll tell him that," I said.
Chrissie had been studying my face, and now she stepped a little closer. She turned her head to different angles, and then she asked, "Marcie, did you have a nose job recently?"
Mr. Beale scoffed. "She didn't have a nose job! Anyone can see that!"
I blinked. Was Maisie's father going to be the first and only person to see — to know that I didn't get a nose job? That went beyond strange!
"No," he said, stepping forward and taking my chin in his hand. He tilted my head in one direction and another. "It's obvious! You can see plain as day that somebody hit you."
Chrissie frowned in disagreement, so I told her that he was right.
"I'm guessing you got an elbow in the face," he went on.
"Yes!" I exclaimed, then added, "but it was an accident. Both times."
His eyebrows went up at both times. He let go of my face and said, "Whether it was accidental or on purpose, the same damage is done."
"Er... I guess so."
"I have something for you," Mr. Beale said, and he fished a small wallet-like thing out of his pocket. It was full of business cards. He flipped through them quickly, selected one and, smiling, handed to me. It was the business card of a lawyer.
"He is my personal-injury lawyer," Mr. Beale told me, "and you don't pay him; he only works on contingency. Marcie, let me tell you: nothing makes you feel better than suing someone. You'll see. And this man is the best. He's in California, but his practice *does* extend to New Jersey; he's done a few things for me here."
With that, he smiled and walked out of the house without another word.
"That's how Dad says goodbye," Maisie explained, rolling her eyes.
"Your father shows his feelings in other ways," Chrissie said.
"If you say so," Maisie laughed.
"He does," Chrissie insisted. "Now come here, you!" And she opened her arms. Maisie ran over and they hugged each other.
"I'll miss you!" Maisie told her.
Chrissie cooed, "I'll miss you too, but you know who else has been missing you?"
Maisie sighed. "My stupid mother."
Chrissie bit her lip, then told her, "I never knew my mother, Maisie, and I've always been sorry. You need to know her. So try to get along. You can always call me." She gave Maisie a kiss, said goodbye to me, and left.
We listened to her heels click down the porch steps and away. Then, "Wow," I said. "You're back."
"Yeah," Maisie agreed. "My front, too."
So... what else do you need to know?
Lace the Face won Miss BYHS, to no one's surprise. Once that happened, the seniors quit bothering me. The pageant was a lot of fun. I liked being dressed up, on the stage, answering questions and walking around waving. What surprised me most was how wound-up and nervous Lacey was, the entire time. Everyone knew she had it in the bag from the very start. Watching her made me see how relaxed and happy *I* was, by contrast. I guess that knowing full well that I couldn't win made it fun.
I don't think I'll ever do a pageant again, but I'm glad I had the experience. I crossed it off my list of girly things to do.
What else? Oh! Finally, after weeks of searching, Mr. Theo found his Madonna of the Future. Weeks of wandering around the school finally paid off. With Jordan at his side, he considered one girl and another. Then, just when he was about to give up and go elsewhere, he turned and looked at the one who'd been at his side all along. The only girl who had that enigmatic, unreadable beauty was... Jordan Fisby. It was one of those cute ironies that he'd gone high and low, asking questions, looking at faces... and the face he was looking for was helping him look.
He painted a lovely, striking picture of her in a knee-length dress. She was sitting at a desk, her eyes directed toward a small, high window. Her face, her expression were amazing. She had this unearthly beauty, but above all, you had no idea of what was in her mind, or what she was doing a moment ago, or what she'd do after.
And that was exactly what Theo Grenadilla was aiming at: you could look at her and wonder, but never, ever know.
Unfortunately, the picture didn't stay in the cathedral very long. People complained that Jordan was too pretty (!), and that people were coming to look at the girl, and not at what she represented.
The picture went into a private collection, and was replaced with an old-looking thing that interested no one.
The rest of freshman year was pretty quiet. Susan, Maisie, Mallory, and I shared the lunch table and got to be pretty good friends. We were an odd bunch, but I guess that's how it goes with people.
A few people called us the "M&M&M's" like the candy, and Susan repeated her old joke about changing her name to "something with an M."
At last I began to think that my life had finally settled down, and that nothing crazy was ever going to happen to me again. So many times since I changed from Mark to Marcie, I'd said I was going to keep a low profile, and now it seemed that it had finally come true.
Little did I know what summer vacation would bring! But that is another story...
© 2012 by Kaleigh Way