Things Are Gonna Get Ugly (5 page)

Okay, now I'm just a wet geek.

I've got to get out of this school. There's only one way that I know.

The School Nurse

Mrs. Johnson briefly glances at me. She's filling up a glass full of miniature candy canes and bopping to
an elevator-music version of “Jingle Bell Rock” on her radio. “What's the matter, hon?”

“Everything.” I pat my cheeks, chin fat, pimples, and my head. “My hair's having a party, and I've got spillage!” I show her where a rim of fat hangs over my belt. “See!”

Mrs. Johnson cocks her head and peers at me like I'd look better if I were only sideways. “Hon, body issues are common at your age.” She leafs through a bunch of brochures on a shelf, and hands one to me. “You might want to take a look at this.”

The brochure features two girl linking arms, standing on the beach in tank dresses. The cover reads,
Body Issues: What you need to know about maintaining a healthy diet and lifestyle
. This poor woman thinks I am in need of counseling. “You don't understand. It's not like that. It just happened. Right after fourth period. People are calling me Ernestine.”

“They would. That's your name.”

I throw up my hands so I don't use them to strangle this woman. “Yes, it's my name, but it's
not
the name I use, okay? Nobody at this school has ever,
ever
called me Ernestine. Not until today, that is.”

Sitting down, Mrs. Johnson stuffs herself into her chair and pulls my file up on her computer.
“Honey, I've got your name as Ernestine.”

“Okay, fine. It's my, whatever, official name, but I changed it to Taffeta on my registration form in sixth grade when I came to La Cambia. That's the name you
should
have.”

Mrs. Johnson hums to “Jingle Bell Rock” and pulls out a thermometer.

“Okaaaaay, I get it. This is some kind of joke or something. Ha. Ha. Very funny. You're
all
in on it.”

Mrs. Johnson jams the digital thermometer into my ear. “In on what? I'm not in on anything. Hon, it sounds as if you're having some self-doubts about body image and identity. It happens eventually with most girls, sooner in your case. Maybe you want to make some changes. I'm sure you'll have a lot to talk about when your mom picks you up.” Then she smiles at me. “It'll all be okay, Ernestine.”

“My name is Taffeta. Taffeta Smith. I'm pretty and popular. I'm loved. Ernestine doesn't exist. Ernestine is nothing. I am NOT nothing! I am Taffeta!”

She smiles at me so that her hooded eyelids creep up. “You know, I did that when I was your age. I pretended I was Jane Fonda. Taffeta. That's a nice name. When you become eighteen, you can call yourself whatever you want.”

Mom, the Rescue Hero

Okay, my mother is once again outdoing herself, and setting world records for how to embarrass her daughter. Right now she's sporting mismatched socks, a floppy crushed velvet hat with a giant poppy on the top, and a lapel pin that says,
MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR
.

Just a moment ago, I had been SO happy to see her. Really, I could have just kissed her a million times, because I was SO tired of this game. And waiting here with Mrs. Johnson, Christmas Muzak maniac, didn't make it any better. It made me feel CRAZY. And I'm many things. I mean, I know I have at least one fault—I'm too organized—but I'm not
crazy!

Anyway, I threw my arms around Mom's shoulders, feeling the slippery, wrinkly polyester material. Then I tried to explain to her EVERYTHING that had happened. Of course, everything came out mumbled and garbled. But she thought—get this—that I was talking about some fantasy story I had made up.

How random. Now I stare at my mother, who thinks my life is a myth. “Can we go home?” Maybe if I take a shower it'll all go away.

Mom fingers my damp, limp hair. “It'll be okay, Little Love.” When she says that, in the same way she always does, my heart stops the galloping, and my whole body relaxes. “It's okay, Ernestine,” she coos.

“Ernestine?” I look up. My whole head feels unbalanced, like I just stepped off a tilt-a-whirl. “DID
YOU
JUST CALL ME ERNESTINE?”

Call Dad

“He'll
understand what's going on,” I state as Mom and I trek through the hallway. “He, of
all
people, won't call me Ernestine.” We're standing in front of the trophy case and I'm gaping at my reflection in the volleyball plaque.

Mom bites her bottom lip. “Okay, look, I'm sure you can talk to
your father
when he calls on Sunday.”

“SUNDAY? I
can't
wait that long. This is an emergency! I've got to speak to him
now
!”

“Be my guest. You know, you can call your dad anytime.” As she's talking, I'm dialing his number on my cell. I still have that, at least.

The phone rings, and then Dad's voice mail comes on. “Hey, it's Dirk. I'm probably out doing a jog with my dog. Surf's up. Leave a message.”

“Dad, it's me. Something terrible has happened.
It's
really
bad. Worse than you can imagine. Call me back right away!”

Mom reaches out her arms to me like I'm a little kid. “Can I give you a hug, Ernestine? I know how frustrating it's been for you not always being able to reach him.”

“NO, this has NOTHING, do you hear me, NOTHING TO DO WITH DAD! Please go away.”

Mom sucks in her breath, and then she finally opens the door leading to the pickup circle in front of the school.

I feel lost.

Knock Knock?

“There is no way I'm going to be caught dead on that,” I say, folding my arms in front of my chest. In the parking lot, the one people use for cars, Mom points to her vintage bicycle built for two with lots of peeling paint and plenty of rust. “Why did you have to pick me up on that
thing
?” Ever since the divorce, Mom's gotten real serious about being green. And I'm all for the environment but not when it creates unnecessary embarrassment. I'll take the extra pollution, thank you. There's an unwritten law at La Cambia that parents (or nannies) aren't allowed
to pick up kids unless they're in a new Beamer or a Mercedes. I'm serious. I've never seen anything else unless you count the four-wheel drive Volvos. But even those are a little subpar.

Mom lines up the numbers on her combination lock. “Oh, well.” She throws up her hands. “Guess you'll have to stay in school, then. It sounded to me like things were
pretty
bad.” She stares at her wrist as if she has a watch (which she doesn't). “I even cancelled my appointment with Tosh this afternoon to clear the deck.”

“Aw, big sacrifice,” I say. “Canceling with your medium. Couldn't he just like fly to you in your dreams or something?”

Mom laughs and snaps on her helmet, then hands me mine. It's pink and sparkly. “You know, the truth is I was really looking forward to today's session, but I
did
reschedule.”

Reluctantly, I edge into the seat behind her and put on the helmet. Do I have a choice? I have to get away from school. Soon we are far away. We bike down El Camino Real past Kepler's Books, and, naturally, it's pouring down rain. Even though cold water lashes against my cheeks, I don't worry about my mascara running because I'm not wearing
mascara—or any makeup, for that matter!

As the rain lets up, we pull up to an apartment complex, the Sierra Garden. Not that there's a garden in sight. It's the sort of run-down place where you'd expect some artistic type who didn't have a steady income to live. “Why are we going here?” I say. “Let's go home.”

Mom stares at me as if I was abducted, taken into Area 51 and reprogrammed. “This is our home. Did you forget it was moving day? Paying for them to unpack and pack us was worth every penny. Even if it means the two of us tightening the belt a little for the next few months. The moving company did a wonderful job. Even the clothes are back in the drawers.”

“I guess I forgot,” I mumble. “About the move.”

Mom squints at me. “Are you okay?”

No, I'm not okay. I'm less than myself. A ghost of me.
“Since we didn't do any packing I guess I sort of made it—the move—not happen in my mind or something.”

“I could see that,” said Mom. “I know it's not easy.”

Understatement, Mom. Über understatement.
Oh no, it has happened. We've really moved to the Sierra Garden apartments. Whenever Mom would be SO
mad at Dad after he'd come home super late from a meeting and then tell her that he had to go out again and train for his triathlon, she'd be the one to get on to the phone with her sister Megan and fume, “If things get really bad, I can always move with Taffeta to the Sierra Garden apartments.”

At the time I thought it was a sort of fun, downsizing-your-life daydream. Why would she really want to give up our amazing home in Menlo Park for some apartment complex? I stare at the mission-style building with its red tiled roof and naked, statue-boy fountain that doesn't work in the center of the courtyard. Little kids run around in the front parking lot, totally unsupervised, from what I can tell, which is probably typical of poor people who live in apartments like Sierra Garden. If I had been a baby here I could see me now, barefoot, in a soggy diaper, heading into traffic. Why can't we have our old house back? Why? I guess the fact that we've moved into an apartment is NOTHING compared to the fact that, somehow, I'm like a TOTALLY different version of myself.

A New Day, Unfortunately

I jump out of bed and glimpse my face in the mirror
above a scratched-up chest of drawers plastered with
Lord of the Rings
stickers. Only everything's out of focus and fuzzy. I think I spot a pair of purple plastic glasses next to a stack of fantasy books on the nightstand.

I squint and instinctively push the glasses onto my face. No chintz bedspread bought with last year's birthday money at Pottery Barn. Nasty-looking clothes, such as socks with images of little dragons, litter the floor. Posters cover the walls—posters with creatures from
Star Wars
and UNICORNS!

On the walls, I see posters of MORE unicorns and a green dragon winging over a lavender volcano. I gaze at the face of the dragon and once again look at my face in the mirror that's over my bureau.

The dragon and I have a lot in common. We are both depressingly similar-looking.

I see a girl with frizzy hair, like a halo of fire. Round cheeks dotted with whiteheads. I am not looking at my mother's middle school yearbook photo.

Or Olivia.

Me. It's for real.

I jam a brush through my hair, but no matter how many times I try, my do won't cooperate. It's possessed! In desperation, I plaster my hair with gel.
I now look like I have either very wet or very greasy hair.

It's useless.

On a hook behind my door, I spy a floppy flowered hat, plop it on my head, and call it good.

Then I head over to attack the closet. It's a jumbled-up mess with clogs and old rainboots tossed haphazardly on the dusty floor. Dresses hang next to wrinkled pairs of purple pants hanging precariously on wire hangers. None of the shirts are buttoned. A box of headless Barbies and Bratz dolls sit on a shelf with pink plastic ponies, a microscope kit, and a dirty white down comforter. There's definitely nothing decent to wear in there. Wait! I spot a pair of black capris.

I yank them off the rusty hanger and put them on. I glance in the mirror, and think that I actually look semipassable. Maybe I can dress myself back into being me. The idea lifts a little hope in my chest. Turning around, I suddenly see the damage on the pants—a giant stain on the back.

I yank the pants off and throw them onto the bed. There has to be a decent pair of pants somewhere. I need makeup—no,
require
makeup. But where to find some? In the bottom of the bathroom drawer,
I find a blue vinyl bag containing one lipstick, ten nail files, and a bottle of very old mascara. I dip my finger into the lipstick, spread it on my lips and cheeks, and attempt to get some color onto my pale, stubby lashes, but it looks clumpy and pathetic.

I remember this meditation I made up to help me relax when I was really little: “Am I me? Are you you? Am I me?” Wrapping my pillow around my face, I'd chant it over and over before I'd go to sleep at night. The “you” in the chant meant everybody, every living creature. At the time, when I was three or something, it made sense. I think I was a lot smarter back then. I remember later on it helped me transition into going to sleep at night even when my parents, before the divorce, were fighting, even when they were very loud, and hysterical. I'd think,
Are you you? Am I me?
until you and me blurred into one, until I felt the comfort of not being distinct.

This time not being me doesn't bring happy thoughts. This is not working.

Yesterday afternoon, after pacing around in this apartment and hoping it was all a very bad dream, I had even biked over to the pool to show up for swim practice but Coach Gina acted like she had no idea who I was. Me! Junior Olympic Swimmer. The
girl who placed at Far Westerns. I am
so
not me.

I crawl into bed and bury myself deep within the comforter, waiting to disappear. For a moment, I reach out to snuggle with Napoleon, our golden retriever. But then I remember we had to put her to sleep last month. Napoleon gone. Dad down in L.A. Myself altered beyond recognition! Oh, I can feel the sadness of all humanity. The depths of despair in SpongeBob. Yet, I'm still me. At least these are my thoughts. Am I in a coma in some sort of vegetative state? A high fever?

Who's There?

It's Mom, banging on my door, calling out, “You're going to be late.” Mom is telling me that I'm going to be late? Now there's a first. “Honey, get up
now
.”