Bounce (3 page)

In the morning, I go up to the attic and stand around in my underwear. This is because I'm getting measured for the ugliest bridesmaid's dress in history. Thalia, the eighteen-year-old, is in charge. She says there's only one way to ensure a perfect fit. “Don't move,” she tells me. And I obey. Thalia has a way of making people listen. There are a lot of sharp pins in her mouth, for one thing. And she has a voice like a principal. You don't want to end up in her office after school.

There are also many things a guy would fall in love with. Hair: a brown velvet curtain. Eyes: two black pools. Tan skin. She's wearing a camisole with a flowy skirt and bare feet, and she walks like a ballerina—toes turned out.

“Don't move,” she says again, through her mouthful of pins. “I might stick you.”

I see that her eyebrows meet in the middle.

“I'm not,” I say.

She winds a strip of cloth around my torso and yanks it tight.

Oh, this dress is going to be so hideous. First, it's orange. It is the kind of orange that makes you want to say, “Hey! Is there a pumpkin festival this afternoon? Great!” Plus, it's toga style. I know all about this from Latin class, where we learned how to
make togas for extra credit. They are not flattering, even if mine did win second prize.

“This cut is fantastic on you,” Thalia tells me, before I can run out of the room. She pulls the cloth tighter. “You have a great little figure.”

I look down at my flat chest, even flatter now, and sigh.

“Almost done,” she says, jabbing me in the ribs with a pin.

“Ow!”

“Oh! Did I stick you?”

I look at her face to see if she's sorry.

“I can't believe my mother is making me do this,” she says. “I take one sewing class, and she thinks I'm an expert.” Her eyebrow is furrowed. “Sorry.”

“That's okay,” I tell her.

“Well, you know what they say.
Beauty is pain.
” Thalia turns me by the shoulders to the full-length mirror. “Ta daaaa!”

We both stare at me.

Then Thalia adds a wreath of flowers to my head—orange and yellow and brown all strung together. “Gorgeous,” she says, and for a minute I actually feel it. I am the queen of the pumpkin parade. I am riding atop a leaf-covered float, waving daintily to the crowd. Tossing candy corn in the air like confetti.

Maybe at the wedding, Linus will take one look at me and think,
Shazam!
At the reception, he will walk over, all shy and handsome in his tux, curls bouncing on his forehead.
Good evening, Evyn,
he will say. Then,
May I have this dance?

Thalia squeezes my arm. “You and Phoebe are going to be adorable.”

“Adorable,” I repeat. Huh.

“Have you seen the flower girl baskets?” Thalia smiles, and I see that her front teeth overlap. “You'll love them,” she says, meaning it.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

Flower girl baskets.

Flower. Girl. Baskets.

I am not a bridesmaid. I am a flower girl.

“I'm thirteen,” I say.

Thalia raises her eyebrow.

“Never mind,” I mumble.

“Thirteen is tough,” she tells me. She takes the wreath off my head and begins packing it in tissue. “I remember thirteen.”

“Right,” I say. I use my most sarcastic voice because I'm thinking,
You don't remember squat.

When I tell Mackey, he says, “Mmph.”

This is how he responds in our conversations, like a caveman. Also, he never looks at me. He's always staring at a computer screen, or at one of those books with dragons and amulets on the cover, and titles you can't pronounce.

Today it's
The Sword of Arzaksband,
which he is reading from the top bunk, while his new roommate, Cleanser Boy, is at soccer practice.

I am sitting in a galaxy far, far away from the bottom bunk. Because—I can tell just by looking—it smells like socks.

“I'm thirteen,” I say. “Thir
teen,
Mack.”

Mackey flips a page, says, “Hrmp.”

He obviously doesn't care, but I keep going—because it feels good to let it out. I say, “These people are idiots.” Then I feel bad. “I mean, don't they know I'm too old to be a flower girl?”

Mackey stops reading and tries some English. “I have to wear a tux,” he says.

I say, “Togas and penguin suits don't go together.”

He shrugs, starts to read again—his way of telling me the conversation is over.

“So,” I say. “What are we going to do about this?”

Silence.

“
Mack,
” I say.

“Hunh.”

“I think Birdie's judgment is seriously impaired.”

Finally, Mackey closes his book and looks at me. “Maybe he's sick of being alone. Don't you want him to have someone?”

“He has us,” I say.

“It's not the same thing.”

I stare at the giant zits on Mackey's nose. They're red and pussy—gross. He washes his face and uses that Clear-Skin stuff every night, but nothing works. Who does Mackey have to hang out with? The Lord of the Rings. Spock. He doesn't have a Jules. The only person he ever brought home was Willy Grimes, who wore high-waters and ended up stealing most of Mackey's action figures.

Sometimes I look at my brother and think,
Ouch.

“Well,” I say now. “Let's just hope Birdie knows what he's doing.”

Mackey grunts. His eyes are on the book.

“Okay.” I walk backward, toward the door. “I guess I'll be going, then. Off to put on some Underoos and play with my Hello Kitty dolls. You know. Thirteen-year-old stuff.”

“Gngh,” Mackey says. Which I guess means good-bye on his planet.

I have never tried talking to my mother from a bathroom before, lying fully clothed in a peach-colored tub, in the middle of the day. But there's a first time for everything.

Stella? It's me, Evyn. The oldest living flower girl. Did you see the dress? Barforama.

Stella smiles. It's not so bad.

Yes it is. Probably they will put me at the kids' table, too, with butter shaped like Mickey Mouse ears. And later, we will do the hokey pokey. I wish you were here to talk to Birdie for me, because I bet he would listen to you. “Honey,” you could say. “Evyn's a teenager now. Let's not humiliate her at the wedding.” But I guess if you were here, he wouldn't be getting married, would he?

Stella laughs.
I hope not!

I wish you were here.

Oh, honey, she says. Me, too.

It's the first day of school. I am wearing an econo-sized backpack, underwear that itches, and a lampshade.

Everyone else on the bus is wearing a lampshade, too, but that doesn't make me feel better. First, I am not a kilt person, and even if I were, I would not choose green-and-yellow plaid that bells out at the knees. However, at the March School for Girls, you don't get a choice.

“The dreaded lampshade,” one of the twins said to me this morning, shuddering. “I wore that thing for eight years.” She had on jeans, a silver spangle top, and beat-up cowboy boots.

And the other one said, “Oh, God. The lampshade.” She said this from the comfort of her suede pants, plum-colored sweater, and giant hoop earrings. “You'll want to burn that thing in a week.”

I just nodded. There was nothing to say except,
Where do you keep the lighter fluid?

At breakfast, only two people looked as bad as me: Ajax, in a green-and-yellow-plaid blazer with
Thorne School for Boys
emblazoned on the pocket, and Phoebe, wearing a mini version of my outfit.

“I'm in the lower-school building,” she told me. “It's yellow. You're in the middle-school building. It's green.”

“Oh,” I said. “Uh-huh.”

Eleni plopped some scrambled eggs on the table and told me, “You're going to love the March School.” Then, “That kilt looks darling on you.”

Darling.

She had our lunches lined up in a row on the counter: seven brown bags with our names on them, folded down at the top.

After breakfast, I got Birdie alone. “This is not good,” I told him. “Not good at all.”

Birdie just hugged me and said the important thing was not the uniform but the quality of my education.

“It's not just the uniform,” I told him. “It's everything.”

“The March School is very reputable,” he said. “Eleni tells me it was ranked third in the city for—”

I interrupted him. “I think I'm going to puke.”

Birdie hugged me again, scruffing his chin along my scalp. “Be sure you brush your teeth afterward,” he said. “Stomach acid dissolves tooth enamel.”

I don't know if he was kidding or serious, but right now I really am nauseous. Every time the bus goes over a bump I can feel eggs rising in my throat.

I am the only person sitting alone. It's killing me, but I'm not about to ask Phoebe and her little friend Hannah if I can triple with them.

I wish Jules was here. Or even my brother, who at this moment is riding in a car with Thalia and the sweater twins, on his way to the public high school. When I said good-bye this morning, he was pale with red eyes.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

And he said, “Ungh.”

It's Mackey's first day of school, too, and I keep forgetting how bad it is for him, being zitty and geek-smart and not remotely cool. He will probably walk into the cafeteria later and not know where to go. Because no one will wave him over.

Whereas I'm sure that at some point today, at least one person will come up to me and say, “Hey, are you the new girl?”

She may not be Miss Popular, but that's okay. In my old school, I was somewhere in the middle. Maybe she'll have braces, like Jules, or a funny accent, like my friend Raquel, or her nose will be a little squooshed, like Ann's. But she will be nice, holding out her hand and saying, “I'm So-and-so. Who are you?”

And I will tell her, and then she will ask me to sit with her at lunch.

That's one thing I can be glad of right now. At least I am not my brother.

When the bus stops and everyone gets up, I realize I'm dressed wrong. For one thing, I don't have long hair. I don't have long hair smoothed back in a velvet headband or pulled
up in a high, shiny ponytail. Also, I'm not wearing knee socks, folded over just so. Or big black shoes with chunky heels. I have on plain white sneakers and Ped socks—the kind with the pom-pom at the ankle.

Right this second, Jules, Raquel, and Ann have on plain white sneakers and Peds with pom-poms, as they walk into my old school together, without me.

Now the bus driver is staring at me in the giant rearview mirror. “Sometime this month?”

I stand up and take off my Peds and stuff them into my backpack. Like this will be enough.

In homeroom, I'm seated between two girls who are wearing the correct hair-and-sock combo. They lean over and talk to each other like I'm not here.

“Did you watch
The E.B.
last night?” the one with the ponytail asks.

And the one with the headband says, “Natch.”

I know what they're talking about, this TV show Jules and I used to rag on—where the kids act like adults and the adults act like kids, and everyone is tan, even in winter.

“Isn't Wyatt James sooooo petute?”

“Sooooo petute.”

“I can't believe Brandi dumped him for Vincent.”

“I know!”

“Brandi is a pita, anyway,” Ponytail says.

“A
total
pita,” says Headband. And they both laugh.

I sit absolutely still. I think about the only pita I know of, which is bread. I think about how Jules and I used to talk in code, too. She was “J-Dog.” I was “E-Pup.” A cute boy was a “Benny,” and we were “Efftees”—Friends ‘Til the End. Jules and I spoke the same language, so we understood each other.

Here, I understand every fifth word.

My first class is Latin, and the room is a closet. Literally. There are mops in here.

The Latin teacher, who is bald with furry arms, looks around for a window to open, but there isn't one. There's no chalkboard, either. And there's just one desk. For me. The only person in the school stupid enough to pick a dead language over Spanish.

I can't open my locker.

It's a combination lock. Three numbers—5,10,15. Simple, right? But still I can't open it.

At my old school we had key locks. You carried your key on a cord around your neck, so there was never any problem.

I look around the hall for someone to help me, but there's no one here. The bell already rang. Which means I am late for math.

It's lunch, and I am standing in the middle of the cafeteria, holding a brown bag with my name on it, looking for someone to sit next to. Anyone.

There are clumps of girls everywhere—talking, laughing, eating. Probably they have all been friends since kindergarten, when they first ate paste together.

I bend down and pretend to tie my shoe. When I stand, someone is waving me over. Finally! She has messy hair, a long face, and big teeth. She looks like a horse. I could be friends with this girl.

I smile and start walking.

“Deebo!” she squeals. “I saved you a seat!”

Deebo?

A girl with a lunch tray breezes past me from behind. “Beebo!” She takes the seat next to Horse Face. They start giggling for no reason.

I am left in the dust, still holding a brown bag with my name on it. I would feel like a major loser right now, if anyone was looking at me. But nobody is.

I am Invisi-girl.

Stella? It's me, Evyn. I don't know why they call it study hall. It's not like anyone studies around here. See that group of headbands by the windows? They're text messaging, and cell phones aren't even allowed in school. I can't believe Birdie is making me go here.

Stella smiles.

I can't believe it's only sixth period. Two hours and 181 days until eighth grade is over. There's no way I'm going to make it.

Think positive, she says. Everything will work out fine. You'll see.

When I open the door, the house is silent. Apparently, I'm the only kid in Boston who had nowhere to go after school today. Phoebe has Brownies. Cleanser Boy has soccer. The sweater twins have student council. Even Mackey is going to watch Thalia try out for some dorky play.

I have nothing. I think I will go drown my sorrows in an econo-sized bag of Doritos. But when I get to the kitchen, there she is. The future Mrs. Birdie.

“Evyn!” she says, like she's been waiting for me all her life. “Come on in! I was just slicing up some baklava.”

She smiles and wipes her hands on a towel. “How was your first day?”

I shrug. What am I going to say?
Super! The bus driver is my new best friend!

“You must be hungry,” she says, holding out a plate to me. “Have some. It's still warm.”

She's right. I'm starving. It's hard to eat lunch when you're crouched in a bathroom stall for the entire period. But I don't tell her this. I tell her no, thank you. I say, “I think I'll go upstairs and start my homework.”

She smiles wider. “Good for you. I wish everyone in this house were that motivated.”

I'm halfway across the room when she says, “Evyn?”

I turn. “Yeah?”

“If you ever want to…you know, have anyone over after school or anything…well, I just want you to know that your friends are always welcome here. Anytime. You don't even have to ask. This is your home now, honey.”

I nod, like I believe her.

She smiles, yet again.

Birdie is in my room, squatting on the floor, sawdust in his hair.

“Where were you?” I say.

He gets up. “Hrrrf?” There are three screws poking out of his mouth and a drill in his hand.

“When I got home from school. You're supposed to be waiting for me. You're always waiting for me when I get home from school. You. Not Eleni.”

Birdie spits the screws into his hand. “I was up here. Building lofts.” He gestures to a wooden structure in the middle of the room. “Cool, huh? It was Clio's idea. She thought if I built two—”

“Birdie.”

“Yeah.”

“Why is she even
home?
I thought she worked.”

He puts down the drill and picks up a tape measure. “Her classes end at noon on Mondays. Mondays, she bakes.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. “She tried to make me eat baklava.”

Birdie's eyes light up. “She made baklava? I love baklava.”

“Birdie.”

“What? You have something against baklava?”

“No. It's just—”

“You
have
to try it. Eleni makes incredible bakla—”

“Birdie!”

“What?”

“Stop saying
baklava!
You're missing the point!”

He raises his eyebrows at me. “Ouch. I used to have eardrums. What is the point?”

“Forget it.”

“Ev. What is it?”

“Nothing. It's just…she's trying too hard. Okay? To be my buddy.”

Birdie nods.

“I know you two are getting married, but she needs to just calm down. Enough with the smiling.”

Again, Birdie nods. He strolls over to a stack of wood planks and grabs one. Then another.

“You know?” I say.

“Mmmhmm.”

He snaps open the tape measure with one hand, starts measuring. “Lousy first day of school?”

“
What?
No! It has nothing to do with—”

Birdie looks up. “No?”

His eyes are warm and crinkly. I know I could tell him the
truth, if I wanted to. But right now I don't. I shake my head instead.

“Okay.” He shrugs. “Jules called.”

“She did?” This is the best news I've heard all day.

“Yep.”

“When? I mean, when can I call her back? When do the rates go down?”

My father is an absolute maniac about the phone bill. We are only allowed to make calls at certain times, and then only if we dial this ridiculously long series of numbers first, so we can save two cents.

“Don't worry about that,” he says now. “Just call.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“Do I have to check with Eleni?”

“Nope.”

“If you say so.” I start for the door. Then I turn back. “Are we rich now or something?”

Birdie reaches into his beard and pulls something out—a wood chip maybe. “I wouldn't say
rich.
” He tosses it into the trash. “Comfortable.”

“Comfortable,” I repeat. “Huh.”

“Define
comfortable,
” Jules says. “Because my uncle's a professor, and I can tell you they don't make diddly-squat. So the ex must be loaded. What does he do? Investment banker? CEO? Record producer?”

“I have no idea,” I say. “Nobody tells me anything around here.”

“Right,” Jules says. And she knows to change the subject.

She launches into the first day of school and how awesome everything was. They repainted the eighth-grade corridor. Purple. It looks awesome. There's a new gym teacher, Mr. Dyer, who's awesome. All the girls are crushing on him, and guess who got him for an advisor?

On and on she goes until she finally remembers I'm on the other end. “So,” she says. “How was school for you?”

I don't even miss a beat. “Awesome,” I say. “Boston rocks.”