Things Are Gonna Get Ugly (22 page)

Winslow glances at me funny because it's like the three of us are slow-dancing.

“And I can't believe she'd do something like that,” says Caylin. “There just has to be a misunderstanding. I think someone should just talk to her, right? Before, like, making a big deal, right? Okay?” Her eyes are watery. “I never could stand cheating. Ever. Every
time you and Petra do it, I feel like throwing up, okay. Okay? Do you believe me? 'Cause that's how I feel.”

I look at her Tahoe blue eyes and perky, but now blotchy, face. “Actually, I didn't know that's how you felt. But thanks for telling me. We'll talk about it later. Okay?” Maybe that would explain all of her stomachaches all of the time.

As she moves away, I gaze up at Winslow. “I'm so sorry. There's totally something I gotta do for a sec.” Winslow nods as I pull away for a moment to give Caylin a quick hug. After I take a breath, and head back to Winslow, I notice my mother trying to act inconspicuous. With two cameras slung around her neck, she stands in the corner next to a giant stack of folding chairs. I'm so happy that she's here. I want to share this moment of aliveness with her. It's like I can feel all of my cells in my skin dancing.

“That's
my
MOM!” I shout. “Phyllis!” I blow her a kiss. “She's a great photographer! C'mon, Mom. Get some close-ups of my friends!” I pull over to where Ninai and Sneed, Olivia and Tyler, and a few others are all dancing. They actually smile at me. Then I hop on over to Winslow and we dance to a hip-hop song that I really like called “‘
The Avenue
.'”

My mom looks so happy. I mean it. She's grinning
and snapping photos and, yes, has brought with her these giant lights and I don't care. Let her snap away. She's actually pretty good at it. I mean, she's only been doing this for a half a year and I think she might be on to something. “That's my mom, everybody!” I shout.

Caylin turns around and gives her gummy smile. A few of the Mushroom's friends wave at my mom, who's not wearing pajama bottoms and her hair has been brushed. But that doesn't matter. If she wants to wear her pj's, that's her deal. She's an artist. Artists are supposed to be quirky.

And I actually almost wore pajamas to school once, didn't I? Maybe I will actually do it again. Then, of course, it will become a TREND.

A Fresh Start

I spot Dribble in the corner and I actually mouth
thank you
to him. And then I notice he's standing there in that corner, eating a pimpled pickle, talking to my mom all animated-like, as if they already know each other WELL. But why is he talking to my mom? My heart speed-races and I apologize to Winslow again, beg him to stay put, and zoom over to where they are standing next to the bleachers by the exit sign to check out what I'm seeing, because
it is dark in here with lots of colored disco lights that could make me hallucinate. As I approach, they are
still
talking. He's whispering in her ear and then she turns, cupping her hand, whispering back like they're in middle school or something. I plant myself right in front, and that's when they turn to me. “Do you two know each other?” I demand.

Mom puts her hands on Mr. Dribble's shoulder. “Cosmically and spiritually.”

It's like one of the disco lights has lasered my gut because this is disgusting. Could Mr. Dribble actually be my mom's secret boyfriend or something? Mom fiddles with a camera knob. “Mr. Drabner is my medium; I thought you knew that.”

“Medium. He's your…medium. Mr. Dribble,
your
…” The little wheels—I guess rusty wheels—start creaking and I get it. I mean GET IT because Mr. Dribble's name comes to me. John T. Drabner. The
T
probably stands for Tosh! And then his “consulting business,” and that's why he loved Winslow's MEDIUM joke T-shirt. I peer at him, with his bushy mustache and plastered-down comb-over, through completely new eyes. “You're Mom's Tosh.
You
.” I nod over at Mom who's giggling and shaking her head. “She listens to you. I'm just getting this now.”

“I know,” says Dribble/Tosh, hobbling closer to me. “Easy-peasy pie.” He stuffs the last bite of pickle into his mouth.

“Why did I turn back earlier? At that point, I hadn't actually danced with Winslow.”

“I asked you if you behaved in ways toward folks you'd like to rectify. Anyhoo, Winslow wasn't the only one.”

I think about all of those mean e-mails I wrote from Tyler to Olivia and the way that I used to treat her. And then I think about what had happened on the dance floor. Me sacrificing for Olivia. Maybe I had rectified. Ah, I'm getting it a little, but not everything. As I finger my scarf, the only thing left from the Ernestine world, Tosh/Dribble says, “Like your little souvenir?”

Honesty

Caylin jumps up and down, waving. I know I have my friend back. She's not crying anymore. She's as good as me at covering up her emotions. Maggie the Mushroom is gushing at Caylin. I have to admit I love it when Maggie gushes, except for the saliva. She says it has something to do with her braces, but I think she has an overactive salivary gland or
something. With all of the foam coming out of the corner of her mouth, I worry that someday she's going to get penned up for rabies.

“It is amazing what passes for popular at this school sometimes,” I say to Winslow as we continue to dance again.

Caylin stands there staring at us dancing. Since kindergarten I've been expecting lots of attention when I turned fourteen at the first dance with a boy that I liked. Of course, I didn't expect it to be a boy like Winslow.

“Girls,” says Caylin. “Am I seeing what I'm seeing?” Mushroom covers her mouth, studying Tyler and Olivia, me and Winslow. “Unbelievable.”

But then when Caylin sees that I'm serious, that it is not a joke, she smiles and changes her tune. The girl is definitely loyal. “You know, Winslow is sorta interesting-looking. You can really see the potential.”

Mushroom smiles so that her dimples pock her cheeks. “I bet with his size, if he worked out he could play football and look
really
awesome.”

Why?

“Why are you doing this?” asks Winslow.

“Why did you like me?” I ask Winslow. “Answer me.”

“Because. Look at you.” He pulls away from me and smiles at what he sees.

“Okay. Look at me. So?”

“You're, you know. You want me to say it?” He gulps and his Adam's apple bobbles for a moment.

“There must be OTHER reasons,” I say.

“Other reasons? You look mysterious. Like maybe you understood me.”

“Go on.”

“I saw how everyone comes up to you, which is intriguing.”

“Same with you,” I admit. “They want something from you.”

“Yeah, so.”

“That's what it's like for me.” His breath smells like Cool Ranch tortilla chips. I suddenly remember how much I like ranch dressing. He stops dancing and stares at me with his Saturn eyes. You know what? I think I have a shot at becoming Chewbacca's girlfriend.

Suddenly, I have a crazy urge to kiss him, so I go for further blurtation. “But sometimes, you need a chance
to be someone else for a while to know what you really want. Who you really are. That's why you do that online video game, right? To be someone else.”

He pauses. “Yeah…that's true.”

And then I think I've blown it because he's pulling away from me, a bit stiffly, like maybe he's unsure of something, so I just do it, with EVERYONE watching. I kiss Winslow Fromes, for the second time in my life, but this time he's kissing me back and, for a moment, I'm not in the gym, in a middle school with a bad speaker system. It's an alone moment, and I'm all right with that. More than all right, so I whisper in his ear, “Let's just be us for a while. Okay?”

Winslow's hands pull tighter around my waist. “Whatever that is.”

Then this overweight girl comes whirling up to me. She's got greasy hair and glasses that are smudged and her pants are so high-water they could almost be shorts. I feel sorry for her as she desperately reads the messages on the wall, probably hoping someone out there wrote one for her. Suddenly, she grabs my arm. “I don't see my name anywhere,” she moans, practically in tears.

“Sorry, I don't know who you are,” I say, trying to help. “Tell me your name.”

“I should be EVERYWHERE ON THIS WALL!” She points to where all the messages are posted. “But, Taffeta, I just read them all and I'm not there.”

I can tell by the indignation, it's Petra.

Just like me, she's finally and undeniably gotten her fresh start.