Pack of Dorks (2 page)

Someone in the crowd hooted, and Tom’s smile grew two sizes. But then he followed the crowd’s eyes to Becky and Henry. Becky held Henry’s shoulders, and her mouth was still shoved against his. It looked like he couldn’t breathe; his whole face was smooched against hers and his eyes were huge and panicky looking. Finally, with a sound like a suction cup being yanked free, Becky backed off. Everyone clapped, and Becky beamed. She fluffed her hair again. All around me, I heard people whispering her name. Not mine. Not Tom’s.

Tom crossed his arms.

I let out my breath (okay, my
burp
) in a slow push, like I was blowing up a balloon. It was over. This kissing thing was
so
overrated. So, why was my heart still hammering?

Henry stumbled over toward us, his face still red. He nudged Tom with his elbow, and then they both reached into their pants pockets. They had rings, the kind that you can squeeze to fit onto your finger, with a tiny diamond in the middle. I’ve seen them at the Dollar General, right next to the register, for two dollars. I know Mom says they aren’t real diamonds, but I don’t see the difference. Even in the shadowy sunlight behind the ball shed, the small stone sparkled just as much as the diamond Mom wore on her finger. (Well, actually, now she wore it on a chain around her neck since her fingers are so fat.)

Tom handed his ring to me, but still didn’t look at my face. I pulled it onto my suddenly sweaty finger and squeezed it to fit. The wiry band scratched the skin between my fingers. “Thanks,” I whispered.

All around us, other fourth graders giggled, gasped, or hooted. Tom nodded. Beside us, Becky flexed her fingers to watch the ring catch the light. Then she leaned forward and pecked Henry on the cheek. The crowd went nutso. Tom glanced at me, but my stubborn legs wouldn’t step forward. My lips wouldn’t pucker. He crossed his arms again.

After what felt like a year or two of standing there, not looking at each other, listening to everyone whisper about Becky, the bell rang. Usually Tom walked with me back to class; it was one of the things that made us so special. Every other so-called couple barely looked at each other, let alone walked back to class after recess so close that their hands brushed. But today, after this most important recess ever, Tom seemed to be gulped by the crowd of other fourth graders and carried away with them back to Ms. Drake’s classroom.

Becky threw an arm around my shoulder as I stood there, watching the back of Tom’s head disappear ahead of me. “Wasn’t that
amazing
?” she said loudly. She yanked her arm tight across my neck so she could make her ring sparkle in the sunlight.

“Amazing,” I muttered.

Becky giggled again. Her Chapstick was smeared on her upper lip, making it look like she had a runny nose. “You know everyone wants to be us now. Everyone,” Becky whispered. “With these rings, we are the most awesome girls in the school.”

I shrugged, trying to shake the raw chicken lips image out of my mind. Becky’s eyes were super bright, like our diamonds reflected in them. “Who cares?” I muttered.

Becky wrapped her arm tighter around me, whipping me around until we were practically nose to nose. “Who cares?” she repeated. “Everyone. Everyone wants to be popular. Do you have any idea what I had to do to get here?”

I slowly shook my head. I realized I didn’t really know her super well after all. She moved to Autumn Grove last year and never talked about her old school. For the first week or so she was here, I thought she’d be another quiet kid like Sam Righter, who never speaks to anyone and just floats from class to class like a ghost. But one day she showed up wearing a shirt just like the one I had worn the day before, and we started talking. Turns out, she said she loved all the same stuff I did—music, shows, people. And then we were best friends.

“What are you talking about?” I asked slowly, suddenly not sure I was going to like what she said. “People are either cool or they aren’t. You can’t make it happen.”

Becky’s Chapstick-thick lips were so close to my ear that her whisper sounded like a shout. “What do you know? You’ve always been popular. That’s why I picked you to be my best friend. I was a dork once. And I’m never ever going to be one again.” She fluffed her curls. “And this ring proves it.”

I squeezed my fingers together until the ring pinched my skin. “You were a dork?” I sort of laughed. The idea of Becky being like April? It was crazy.

Becky glared at me. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she whisper-shouted again. “Everyone laughing at you. Worse, everyone ignoring you. Being alone. You would do anything—anything—to make it stop.”

“Why would it happen to me?” I asked, still confused. “And what do you mean
anything
?”

Becky smiled, but her eyes stayed crazy bright. She shrugged. The second bell rang, meaning we only had a few seconds to get to class. She squeezed my shoulder and marched ahead. Again, I followed her.

Chapter Two

Mom was home.

Mom was never there when I got home from school. This was usually the time I had with Dad, just the two of us. Sometimes we’d go for a walk, never with any place in mind, just head out the door to wherever our feet took us. Sometimes, I’d come home and the whole kitchen countertop would be covered with ingredients that we’d whip into what Mom called “DDs”: “Daddy’s Delights.” Once that meant shrimp with oranges, pistachios, and jam. I ate every crunchy, sweet bite. Sometimes, we’d watch the news, and then Dad would point out the countries the newscasters talked about on the big world map taped to the cement wall in the basement. The whole time, I would talk, talk, talk. I told Dad all about Tom and how we were going to get married right after college and have three children (two girls and a boy). I told him about April picking her nose and about the time Sheldon threw up spaghetti all over the cafeteria and how he really needs to do a better job of chewing his food. And Dad would listen without really listening, just sort of murmuring at things I said, so I knew it would never get to Mom.

Mom tended to make issues. Like once I told her that during lunchtime, Amanda Frankston, who’s always super angry, kicked a hot dog when it fell out of its bun. It flew across the cafeteria and hit me in the face. Mom was on the phone with Ms. Drake five minutes later, asking about lunchtime supervision and consequences for kicking hot dogs. She never even gave me a chance to explain that Amanda Frankston is horrible to everyone. It wasn’t like she was trying to hit me with the hot dog. She was just kicking a hot dog. Dad would’ve laughed and never paused in chopping an onion or looking for Sarajevo on the map.

It’s probably something to do with the baby, I told myself. I have a habit of talking to myself inside my head. Sometimes I even realize I’m thinking things such as “we need to work harder on math.” I mean, who does that? Who talks to themselves in the plural like that? Aside from us, of course.

But anyway, Mom was probably home because of another doctor’s appointment. I went along with her to one of them. She thought it would be a good thing to prepare me “for the birth.” It was just a regular doctor’s appointment, except that the doctor also listened to the baby’s heartbeat and did a lot of weighing and measuring. The room smelled like a dirty diaper. I guess that helped prepare me. Pretty soon our house would smell like a dirty diaper.

I tried to get out of going to her other appointments. It’s not that I didn’t care; I was pretty excited about having a baby sister. But everyone kept talking about me being a “built in babysitter.” Which pretty much stinks. I mean, we’re not even allowed to be home by ourselves, but everyone thinks we should be responsible for a baby! Seriously?

Plus, Mom has about a million appointments a week. She’s high risk, since she’s so old. She had me when she was twenty-eight, and now she’s nearly forty. Dad keeps calling the baby “the little surprise.”

I think a baby is a pretty big surprise.

Mom stood at the kitchen table, her hands splayed across the shiny wooden top and her shoulders pitched high next to her ears. Dad sat in a chair beside her, his hand in the middle of her back. “Eight minutes since the last one,” he said. “I’ll grab the bag. We can leave a note for Lucy to go to the neighbor’s until your mom can pick her up.”

“Not yet,” Mom muttered. Her shoulders slowly lowered again. “Wait for Lucy.”

“I’m right here,” I chirped, suddenly scared.

Mom didn’t turn around, and her voice sounded too high-pitched. “Hey, honey. How was school?”

“I got kissed.” My hands flew to my mouth, trying to cram the words back inside. Dad’s mouth popped open with a little
puff
. But Mom, she laughed. An actual, real laugh. Her laugh cut off to a sharp gasp and she grabbed her huge basketball belly.

“Five minutes since the last one,” Dad barked. He jumped to his feet. “We’ve got to go now!”

“We’ll—
huff
—talk about—
huff-huff
—that kiss soon.” Mom put a hand to my cheek. It was cold and wet. “Right now, we’re about to have a baby.”

“Now?”

She nodded.

“Should I pack my bag? Am I spending the night at Grandma’s?”

“No time!” Dad yelled. He grabbed my shoulder and turned me back to the door. “We’re going! Now!”

We
weren’t having a baby.
Mom
was having a baby. Dad was watching her have a baby. I was sitting in an odd little waiting room outside the section of the hospital where moms have the babies. Behind me were glass double doors locked tight. I could see nurses and doctors dashing around inside the section where I wasn’t allowed. Dad said I just had to wait here in this stupid little room with stiff, plastic-y couches next to a fat, ugly security guard until Grandma got here to take me home. Grandma had “just one more hand” of poker and then she’d be here.

Grandma, I should let you know, isn’t like other grandmas. She doesn’t bake cookies; she rips open Oreos and only eats the fluff. Most of the time when I’m at her dark city apartment, she’s on her little metal balcony (which Mom calls a fire escape) smoking long skinny cigarettes. She doesn’t wear little pantsuits and aprons like most grandmas. Nope, my grandma wears long, shapeless, tie-dyed dresses that skim the top of her thick leathery feet. She only wears flip-flops, even in the middle of winter. Her kinky curly hair is about thirty different shades of red, orange, gray, and black. Her eyebrows are thicker than wooly caterpillars and her small green eyes are smudges behind her thick plastic glasses. My grandma doesn’t give me hugs; she reads my palm and tells me not to walk under ladders.

The only time Grandma ever yelled at me was when I put a loaf of bread away upside down (“Bad luck! Bad luck!”). And I had the best day of my life at Grandma’s when we spent all day throwing mugs, vases, and cups against her brick fireplace so she could make a mosaic later.

“Did you ever make that mosaic?” I asked an hour later when Grandma rushed into the waiting room.

“What?” she asked. Her head jerked toward me, like she was surprised I’d be there. I guess my question was a little out of the blue, but why did she look annoyed that I was there? Wasn’t she here to pick me up?