Falling Over Sideways, Page 2

  See? Charming, right? I hated when he called me Storky, because my worst fear was that I did look like a stork with my incredibly long legs. My dance teachers always told me how much I’d appreciate having long legs someday. My dad’s mother, whom I call Gram, once went on and on in front of the whole family about how long and beautiful my legs were, and how men love long legs. I was eleven. It was disturbing.

  I didn’t say a word to Ryder. My parents had been urging me to ignore his attacks. They said he was just insulting me because he didn’t know a better way to get my attention. My parents were nuts. Ignoring him didn’t work. It just made him try harder to irritate me.

  “And, hey, nice contacts. In case I didn’t mention it during band camp, getting those glasses out of the way really allows your, um, complexion to shine through.”

  I tried to look right through him and say nothing. I even bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from reacting. Then, a cramp hit, and I winced. Unfortunately, Ryder took that as a sign of victory.

  “Lovely chat, Claire. We’ll have to do this more often. How nice that we’ll be together every period … of every day … all year!”

  Then he walked away, laughing diabolically. Who actually does that?

  Satan, that’s who.

  By third period, my cramps were so bad that they completely drowned out Ryder, my teachers’ gushing over my wonderful brother, and even the angry throbbing of my zit. Plus, I was wearing my thin, white marching-band pants for the first-day-of-school pep rally, and I was starting to worry that I might leak through my pad.

  I asked to go to the nurse, and my teacher asked me why.

  NOW, THAT RIGHT THERE IS WHAT’S WRONG WITH SCHOOLS IN THIS COUNTRY! Obviously, everything about school was designed by men, and periods prove it. First of all, if guys got periods, I guarantee that our marching-band pants wouldn’t be thin or white. No, they would be thick, deep-black rubber fishing waders with BIOHAZARD symbols all over them. Plus three layers of mesh lining inside, two outer layers of additional opaque plastic wrap, and quite possibly a morphine dispenser attached for bad cramp days. There would be several cots at the back of each classroom for boys who were experiencing any kind of period-related symptoms, and you wouldn’t be able to spit in the hallway without hitting three Advil dispensers.

  Second of all, the whole going-to-the-nurse system? Insanely un-girl-friendly. First, you have to lie to your teacher, because of course you’re not going to say, “Umm, I think my pad is leaking,” in front of your whole algebra class. The girls might giggle, but the boys would probably pass out and/or die. Then, when you get to the nurse and ask her for Advil, she asks you why you need it—again, right in front of everyone. So, you can either try to express your need through the clever use of mime, or lie again.

  And if you need to go to the bathroom to deal with a tampon or pad? You need to be a freaking ninja. Think about it: You’re not allowed to carry your purse around the school, because it probably violates some kind of Homeland Security anti-school-shooting law. But how are you supposed to smuggle your feminine hygiene products to the restroom without any kind of bag? Tape them to your leg? Hide them behind a loose wall tile in advance? It’s insane. One thing’s for sure: By the time I got to both the bathroom and the nurse that first day, and got all my girl business taken care of, I was ready to go full-out ninja on somebody. Or I would have been, if not for the cramps.

  The Advil kicked in around lunchtime, which was good because our cafeteria is already painful enough. I sat down at the very edge of my class’s assigned table, because I felt like my brain would explode if I had to be in the middle of a crowd, and took out my lunch.

  Ryder slammed his tray down right next to my spot and slid onto the bench beside me.

  My first thought was Roshni! Come save me! My second was that I should have taken more Advil.

  “What’s up, my flamingo-like frenemy?” Ryder said with a smile. Ryder always called me his frenemy, as if I should be proud to be called that. While my kindergarten teacher was singing the friendship song, had his been teaching the class some kind of frenemy song? Ours gave out I’M A KIND FRIEND stickers when she caught us doing something nice. Did his give out little I’M A PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE FRENEMY pins, perhaps when one child held the door for another but then let go a half second too early so the other kid’s face got slammed? Or maybe when he got off the school bus, his mom asked him, “Sweetie, did you make any nice evil frenemies today? Would you like to tell me about it over some spoiled milk and half-burnt cookies?”

  Anyway, I stared through Ryder like he hadn’t said a word, and started eating my yogurt. Meanwhile, Roshni sat down across from me, but I didn’t have time to feel any relief about that, because the toughest girl in our class, Regina Chavez, sat down next to her.

  Speaking of frenemies.

  “What’s up, Ryder?” Regina asked. “Hey, Roshni. How was your summer? Did you go to India again?” Then she gave me a scary dead-fish stare and said, “Yo, Starbuck. Can I have some Skittles?”

  Regina calls me Starbuck because I’m a white girl, and according to her, all white girls love Starbucks. I once asked her why she didn’t call every white girl Starbuck, then. She replied, “’Cause I call you Starbuck.”

  I’m pretty sure Regina was in Ryder’s kindergarten class.

  I didn’t want to get in a big argument with Regina, but I also didn’t want to seem like a wimp—even though I was. My genius solution was to pass my little bag of Skittles around the group, which was mathematically a stupid move, because I only liked one-third of the people who’d be sharing them. Still, it was a little less embarrassing than just handing them all over to Regina.

  Roshni took maybe five. Ryder opened up his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and then poured a heaping pile of Skittles in between the bread slices. Regina held the bag for a moment, then laughed and passed it back to me.

  “Don’t you want any?” I asked.

  “Nah. I just wanted to see what you would do, Starbuck.”

  The middle school cafeteria is basically a battle for survival, with forty-cent milks.

  The last class of the day was science with Mrs. Selinsky. Matthew had never said much about her. All I knew was that he had gotten an A-plus in her class, and the only reason I even knew that was because he got an A-plus in every class. It would have been kind of nice if he had given me some kind of warning.

  Because this lady was, well, odd. The first thing I noticed was that she had a million little tics. Her face twitched constantly, and so did her hands, her shoulders, even her whole head. Watching her was like watching a chicken, or maybe a very large pigeon. A very large pigeon that was in control of my science grade for the year.

  Then she opened her mouth, and things went from odd to alarming. Apparently, she had an adult daughter who had been a perfect, sweet angel when she was a student. Mrs. Selinsky—“Call me Mrs. S, because I think we are going to have a lot of fun together!”—ranted for about fifteen minutes about how we should all strive to be like her kid. This was how we learned the class rules. The speech went something like this:

  “The first thing you need to know is that I don’t like slackers. My daughter, Meredith, was never a slacker in middle school. Just be like Meredith, and we’ll get along fine. The second thing is, I don’t like sneaky people. So don’t be sneaky in here. When Meredith was your age, she never tried to get away with having two boys over when I wasn’t home and then lie to me about it when she got caught. She never would have done anything like that. So again, be like Meredith. Third, I don’t like messy people. Careless people. People who don’t pay attention. Meredith was neat, careful, and attentive.”

  I hoped none of Mrs. S’s students happened to be named Meredith, or they were going to be under a whole lot of pressure this year.

  A few seats behind me, I heard Regina whisper to Ryder, “My big brother had this lady. She got him suspended twice, for nothing.”

  “Which brother?” Ryder aske
d. “The one in the special class, or the older one?”

  “The older one. She lied about him to the principal and everything. She’d better stay out of my face. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Oh, and one last thing,” Mrs. Selinsky said. “I’d better not catch any of you talking about other people behind their backs. I hate that.”

  I looked around, and most of the class was just sitting there with their mouths gaping open. I wondered whether maybe someone had forgotten to give this woman her meds for the day. Or possibly the past several weeks. Fortunately, the bell rang for dismissal before Mrs. S could go completely berserk and actually start blowing us up with her lab equipment and chemicals.

  Swell, I thought. Only a hundred and eighty-four more days of middle school to go.

  A few days into eighth grade, I decided to wear new black leather boots. Technically, they were half mine and half my mom’s, because she had said they were too expensive for just me to wear. Which would be kind of all right, except that then she had gone on to give a whole big speech about how I don’t take good care of my things—right in the middle of the store. It was so typical. When Matthew started driving, she had said, “Your father and I know you’ll take good care of the car, bud.” When I wanted my feet to be covered and protected from the elements, I got the public lecture.

  Usually, I fought back when she went on these rampages, but I really, really wanted the stupid boots. Forcing my voice to remain calm and steady, I said, “Mom, people are staring. Can you please be a little quieter?” Unfortunately, my mother is immune to embarrassment. It’s like a superpower … a superpower I have not inherited. I get embarrassed by everything. And standing in the exact dead center of a wide-open department store shoe section while my mother went on and on about how “These are TWO-HUNDRED-DOLLAR BOOTS! You need to treat them like the fragile objects they are so they last a long, long time!” was completely excruciating.

  On the other hand, they were two-hundred-dollar boots. And I got to wear them to school. I basically felt like I had to tiptoe everywhere I went, or encase my lower legs in bubble wrap, but, hey, we all have to make sacrifices for style.

  I walked into homeroom with my head held high and my shoulders back, like a supermodel on a runway. Or at least I would have, if I hadn’t been carrying my alto saxophone, my lunch bag, and a poster project, and if my backpack strap hadn’t kept slipping down on one side and making me move like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

  But still, girls notice boots. Roshni gushed over them, and Jennifer and Desi said mildly appreciative things.

  Then Leigh Monahan strode in, glanced down at my feet, wrinkled her nose, and said, “I love your boots, Clara.”

  “It’s Claire.”

  “Whatever.”

  After she spun on her heels and walked away, all the girls just stood there and stared at me. My two-hundred-dollar boots had been judged, and now they were worth maybe half a bag of Skittles.

  The silence went on and on, until finally Regina said, “Dang, Starbuck! Is it me, or did it just get cold in here?”

  Sometimes my contacts would just suddenly start to burn and make my eyes water. I sat at my desk, looked straight down for a while, and wiped my face with my sleeve after I was sure nobody was looking anymore.

  When the class had quieted down for the teacher to take attendance, a random boy who sat in front of me turned to another random boy and asked, “Uh, what just happened?”

  The other one said, “What are you talking about? What just happened with what?”

  “I don’t know. All the girls were talking, and then Leigh said something, and they all got quiet and weird. It was spooky—like a showdown, but with no weapons.”

  “Dude, they’re girls. Don’t worry about it.”

  The rest of the morning, I felt like I should somehow cross my legs when I walked or something so the boots wouldn’t be as visible. I knew it was stupid, and that Leigh lived to make other girls feel bad, but I couldn’t help it. It was like everybody was whispering about me. Then, on the way to lunch, I swung past the band room, and there was a notice posted on the bulletin board:

  CHAIR AUDITIONS START NEXT WEEK!

  SEE MRS. JONES TO SCHEDULE!

  Instantly, I felt a cold, heavy lump in my stomach. Between all of that and the misery of walking down the hall in my stupid, embarrassing Boots of Pain and Shame, it was pretty amazing that I didn’t just collapse in a heap.

  Chair auditions were a huge problem, because I was the second chair alto sax, and Ryder was the first. He was very paranoid that I might somehow be plotting at any moment to take his chair, so during the weeks leading up to the twice-annual auditions, he harassed me nonstop. Honestly, I was totally happy being second chair, but Ryder would never believe me. Ryder lived for the saxophone, but I played in band only because my parents had made me pick an instrument in third grade, and I’d randomly selected the alto sax because Matthew had said it was the second-coolest instrument, after trumpet—which, of course, was his instrument. And there was no way I was going to pick the same instrument my brother already played.

  It was just my luck that Ryder had picked the alto sax, too.

  Anyway, Ryder was irritating enough without chair-audition madness on top of his usual awfulness.

  I shuffled and hunched my way into the cafeteria, whispering to myself, “Maybe he hasn’t seen the sign. Maybe he hasn’t seen the sign. Maybe—”

  “You’ll never beat me, Goldsmith! I’m the man. I signed up for the very first slot. I’ve been practicing scales for weeks. I know all our parts by heart. My tone is better than yours. My intonation is better than yours.”

  “Your humility is better than mine.”

  “My humility is better than—oh, I get it. Ha-ha. We’ll see who’s laughing when I’m first chair.”

  “Uh, you’re first chair now. Is it making your life complete? Are you totally happy?”

  “Ah, psychological warfare. Very clever. You’ll still never defeat me!”

  “I know, Ryder. That’s why it’s a good thing I don’t base my self-esteem on how well I blow into a little tube with a bamboo strip attached to it.” No, I thought, I base mine on whether some evil lizard girl in my homeroom smiles upon my footwear.

  Dinner that night was a battleground. First, Matthew spent twenty minutes or so telling our parents how great he had done at his soccer practice, how awesome his grades were, how one of his teachers simply insisted on moving Matthew up into the highest honors level—oh, and how amazingly things were going with his perfect girlfriend.

  I concentrated on chewing and swallowing without gagging.

  Then my mother turned to me and, instead of asking how my day had gone, she led off with, “Sweetie, do you want to explain why you threw our two-hundred-dollar boots in the corner when you got home from school today?”

  I muttered, “I didn’t throw them. I just kicked them off.”

  Mom sighed her big, dramatic “My daughter is being dramatic” sigh. Which is ironic, if you stop and think about it. “And why did you just kick them off?”

  “Because,” I mumbled.

  Then Dad stepped in. Dad was never a big fan of arguments at the table. “Claire, your mother isn’t trying to start a big fight with you. She’s just trying to understand what’s going on. Did something awful happen today?”

  I felt the blood rush to my face, and my contacts were instantly burning again. “Stupid Leigh Monahan said she loved my boots!”

  “The horror!” Dad said. Then he looked at Matthew and said, “Should we round up the posse and ride her out of town on a rail?”

  Matthew just looked up at the ceiling, because as a perfect high school junior, he was far too advanced to joke about my lowly problems.

  I jumped up from my seat, knocking over my milk into what was left of my dinner. “You don’t understand, Dad! That means she hates my boots!”

  My father crossed his eyes and said, “Me simple caveman dad. Me no understand comp
licated girl sarcasm. Me only know how to throw and catch football with boy. Also, scratch self and burp.”

  “Mom!” I shouted. Well, I tried to shout. But it came out as more of a whine. I hate my voice when it does that. “Make Dad stop making fun of me. It’s not funny!”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, “it’s a little bit funny. Now let’s clean up this spill, and then we can talk about something else. Ellen Scott told me you have chair auditions coming up in band. Are you excited?”

  It would be hard to overstate how much I hated my family as I squeezed out the rag at the kitchen sink and proceeded to wipe up my milk.

  I carefully avoided making eye contact with any of them.

  One thing that keeps me up at night is the fear that the boys in my grade will never mature. Seriously, sometimes I look around my class, at Ryder making disgusting faces at me, or at the two random boys in front of me attempting to burp the Pledge of Allegiance, or at all the other guys hard at work, diligently drawing their private parts in the margins of each other’s homework papers, and I shudder. What if video games, repeated brain injuries from sports, and genetically modified foods have destroyed their higher mental functions?

  What if this is their peak level?

  I mean, what if twenty years from now, I find myself trying to cook dinner with one hand, holding a baby in the other, when my husband walks into the house, so I say, “Hey, honey, did you stop at the store for milk?”

  Then the man I have pledged to spend the rest of my life with says, “No, but I called my friend Kevin and he told me some excellent fart jokes. And hey, do you want to see what I drew?”

  That’s when I will sigh and say, “No, dear. I really, really don’t.”

  My big break from all this is dance class. There are no boys within two years in either direction of me at Dance Expressions, which is a great relief to me. Plus, I love having separate friends there who aren’t wound up in the massive drama of my daily struggles at East Side Middle School.

  For weeks, I had been incredibly pumped for the first night of dance. Katherine and I had never gotten the email that Alanna got—the one about moving up into the high school classes. Over the summer, though, we both had taken a bunch of extra classes and individual lessons, so we were pretty confident that Miss Nina would reconsider the situation and then bump us up to Alanna’s new level.