awhile last year. It’s nice to see her funny and happy again.
Last year was really crazy for her. It is all too long and complicated to go into here, but if you want to read about everything that happened to M, she has a book that tells the whole story. I’ll just say that now, while her mom is still somewhat whacked out and her dad is still basically absent, I think M is alright.
And Nicki? Honestly, I don’t know for sure about her. Last year M was kind of the center of our attention, so maybe I didn’t take in Nicki’s issues so much. Lately, I have started noticing some weird things with Nicki. She is kind of . . . distracted. I get the feeling she is guarding something, but I have no idea what. Maybe the earthquake jarred loose my paranoid chip.
On the first day of school the whole place, teachers and kids, janitors and overly involved parents, gather on the basketball court. The principal gives a speech, we say the pledge of allegiance, and general announcements are made. As everyone gathers, the various cliques group together, talking excitedly, glancing around to see the other clumps of kids. The new kids and loners form a raggedy fringe around the edges, hoping to be included in any of the established groups. Good luck. This first day dictates more or less who will hang with whom for the year. Everyone notices everyone else.
We three are, of course, standing in our own little cluster. There’s a group of jocks behind us, and I hear the low murmur-chuckle-snort sounds that mean they are talking about my chest. I learned long ago to both recognize and ignore it.
Our principal steps under the basketball hoop with a microphone. She is the tiniest adult I have ever seen (she’s even a tad shorter than me, which is seriously shrimpy), but she is tough as nails. She taps the cordless mike and the huge speakers set up against the bleachers whine deafening feedback. Everyone groans and hands clap over ears. If any dogs were in the area they probably keeled over.
We all turn toward her, ready to hear the predictable speech about what a fantastic year this will be because the teachers are so incredible and the students are so wonderful and all that. Then she says, “Ariel Solomon, please go the office immediately.”
The whole student body looks in my direction. Even the kids who don’t know me. I feel my face flame and I know it matches my hair. I want to sink through the concrete. I try to look unconcerned as I turn toward the office, but I trip on the cucumber salad I had put down near my feet. The boys behind us laugh, and I hear titters from other groups. Forget sinking through the floor, how about a swift and painless death? M pats my back and Nicki whispers something meant to comfort me. I walk quickly toward the office wondering why I have to go there, and why the universe sees fit, in literally the first minutes of a new school year, to humiliate me. It’s unbelievable.
My mom is standing at the counter chatting with Ms. Patel, the school secretary, as I enter the office.
“Mom?”
She turns toward me and smiles. In her hand she holds my compact bee sting kit. Cheerfully, she thrusts the bright yellow box toward me. “You forgot this, and you know you should have it here at school.”
She sees from my look that I am less than thrilled.
“You called me out of the assembly, on the PA system, to give me a bee sting kit? Mom, they have one in the nurse’s office! And what are the chances I would get stung today? I haven’t even seen a bee around here in like a year.”
She looks confused, maybe a little hurt. “Ariel, I was only trying to help. You know how allergic you are—remember last time? You could end up in the hospital . . .”
I snatch the kit, interrupting, “Thanks, Mom.” I try to keep the sarcasm out, but it is hopeless. My words are sharp and angry. The secretary is suddenly very busy with some papers behind her desk.
My mom sighs and gives me that injured-mother look I can’t stand. I feel instantly guilty. She waves to Ms. Patel, and brushes past me out the door, muttering something about ingratitude and anaphylactic shock. I stare after her, the plastic box handle cutting into my fingers as I grip it. The secretary tries to act like she hasn’t been listening to everything as she picks up a small tube and squeezes sludgy, overly sweet hand lotion onto her palm. A drop glops onto her desk. It looks like melted brie cheese, which makes me feel even worse because baked brie is my mom’s favorite appetizer on the planet. I’ll make it tonight, I think, as an apology.
I shake my head and refocus—I still have a day to get through. It is 8:38 in the morning of the first day of eighth grade and I have already managed to embarrass myself in front of the whole school and hurt my mom’s feelings. If I believed in signs, I would be very, very concerned about what this means for my immediate future.
Guilty Daughter Baked Brie
1 tube crescent rolls
cooking spray
1 round of brie cheese, rind (that’s the hard outer part)
removed
¼ C. chopped green olives
¼ C. chopped black olives
1 T. chopped, fresh parsley or 1 t. dried
Preheat oven to 350°. Pop and unroll dough into one big rectangle. If it breaks apart at the seams, mash it back together with your fingers. Spray a cookie sheet with nonstick spray, and lay the rectangle of dough on it. Put cheese in the middle and sprinkle the olives and parsley on top of the cheese. Fold the dough over the cheese, carefully pinching the ends together to completely enclose the cheese. Make it look like a wrapped Hershey’s Kiss shape-wise. Use kitchen scissors or a sharp knife to trim it into an even shape where it “gathers.” Bake for about 20 minutes, until the dough is lightly browned. Let it cool for 10 minutes. Serve with crackers or breadsticks.
A Major Misunderstanding
I join my homeroom, already in progress, and take a vacant seat near the back. Nicki and M are in a different homeroom this year, so I am on my own. Mr. Kraft, a science teacher who knows me already, just raises an eyebrow in my direction and keeps talking. He even gives me a little half smile, which doesn’t make any sense. He is the type that will say something sarcastic about students coming in late, but he surprises me with silence on my tardiness. I am grateful but confused. He is talking about his strict attendance and tardy policy, so I can zone out. I’ve heard it before.
The morning passes quickly. It seems like last year, more or less. A few new faces drift by in the halls, the classes are different, but it all feels the same. I am on guard for people making fun of me for the PA announcement and for tripping like I did, but strangely no one says anything. In fact, several kids actually give me what appear to be looks of sympathy. Kayla, the undisputed leader of the most elite, popular girl pack at school, even says hi and pats my shoulder. I don’t think she’s even noticed I exist before. Wow, could it be possible that the normal savagery of junior high has been replaced with kindness and sympathy? I can’t wait to talk to Nicki and M about all this.
At lunch we meet up at our usual table next to the temporary building. M sits with her elbows propped on the cake carrier full of cucumber salad, which I left when I stumbled my way to the office this morning. Her face is tilted toward the bright sun, which just broke through the fog minutes ago. Her eyes are squinched and she doesn’t see me approach. Nicki’s not here yet.
“Hola Ms. Mattie-M-Matilda,” I call out as I approach. When she was going through all her name confusion I made up this name,
