You First (8 page)

It was such a small thing, really. Starting the new Wall. But in that moment, it felt like some giant gesture to Gigi. And if the perma-grin on Miranda's face was any indication, it felt good to her too.

When Gigi woke up the next morning, she peered over the side of her loft bed. Miranda was sprawled out on top of her sleeping bag, reading through an issue of
Food Network Magazine
with a flashlight. She shined the light up on Gigi's face. “You're awake.”

“Yeah,” Gigi said through a yawn. “Have you been up long?”

“Um, sort of,” she said. “I mean, do you even know what time it is?”

Gigi looked over at the alarm clock that sat at her desk. The big digital numbers read 8:32. “It's not that late,” she said. “I thought your mom wasn't picking you up until ten.”

“She's not,” Miranda said. “But let me ask you again: do you know what time it is?”

“Yes, it's eight thirty-two.”

“Who cares about clock time?” Miranda said. “It's
cupcake time
!”

“Ohmigod,” Gigi said. “Tasty goodness!”

“Race you downstairs!”

Miranda got there first and immediately pulled the airtight container of cupcakes from the fridge. “They're even prettier than I remembered.”

Gigi reached for one. She peeled the wrapper down some and went in for a bite.

“Wait!” Miranda exclaimed. “Don't eat it yet!”

She ran out of the room, and Gigi could hear her feet pounding up the stairs, and then back down. Miranda reappeared with her blue Polaroid camera.

“Okay,” she said. “Dig in.”

As Gigi's teeth sank through the creamy pile of mascarpone topping and into the velvety cake, Miranda snapped a pic. Then she handed the camera over to Gigi and said, “My turn!”

The two girls ate their entire cupcakes, chewing thoughtfully.

“It's good,” Miranda said finally.

“But not great,” Gigi chimed in.

“Yeah, and I'm not sure why. It's got the right amount of sweet, but . . .” Her voice trailed off. “But it's missing
something
. Or is it just because I've never had tiramisu before?”

“No, you're right,” Gigi said. “This won't win us the bake-off.”

Of course, that didn't stop them from eating another cupcake once Gigi's mother joined them in the kitchen. “It would be rude to let your mom eat alone,” Miranda said. “Right?”

Later, as Miranda packed up to head home, Gigi asked her again if she wanted to go to the fencing class with her.

“Nah,” Miranda said. “It's nice of you to ask, but this is a you thing, not an us thing.”

Gigi remembered how hard it had been to walk into the library to meet up with the Purl Jammers and felt a little jolt of panic strike her insides.

“You'll be fine,” Miranda said, almost as if she could read Gigi's mind. “Just pretend you're Angelina Jolie.”

Miranda's words ran through Gigi's head as she entered the Chinese American Community Center. Her mother was right behind her, as Gigi insisted she at least walk her in. In the gym, where the class was held, a handful of kids Gigi's age, and some younger, milled
around a table displaying what Gigi assumed was fencing equipment—lots of long swordlike things and mesh masks like you see people wear in the movies. On one side, parents sat in metal folding chairs. There was a knitter in the bunch, working on something wide that pooled in her lap in a big, shapeless lump. There were a few moms and dads glued to their iPads, and one woman absorbed in a paperback book.

Gigi turned to her mother. “You have to stay.”

“No, the gentleman I spoke with said that wasn't required.”

“Mama!” Gigi whisper yelled. “Look around!
Everybody's
parents are staying.”

Her mother surveyed the room. “Fine,” she said. “I'll stay. But for the record, I think you're perfectly capable of being here by yourself. I raised you to be a strong, independent—”

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Gigi said, cutting her off. “Now go sit down. Over there. With the other parents. Please.”

Gigi sized up the kids looking at the equipment. From what she could tell, there were four boys and one other girl. The boys looked like they were in fourth or fifth grade, Gigi thought, but the girl looked way younger. She was really short—Gigi guessed her head
wouldn't even reach Gigi's shoulders—and stick thin, with long black hair that ran down her back like water.

She took a deep breath and said to herself, “I am Angelina Jolie. I am smart, I am fierce, and I don't care what anybody thinks of me.”

Except that last part wasn't true. Of course she cared what people thought. It didn't help that her mother had waited until the last minute to tell her she needed to wear sweatpants to the class. The only pair she could find in her drawers was lavender and had a bedazzled patch on the front right thigh that read
GURLZ RULE
! in swirly, sparkly letters.

The pants were from last year, and just a little on the short side. Gigi kneeled down as if to tie her sneaker, but instead yanked the cuffs into the proper position. Oops. Nope. Now her waistband was well below her belly button. If she stood and lifted her arms even an inch, she'd be baring midriff—a definite no-no in the Prince house. She sighed, pulling the pants back up. Her sock-covered ankles were exposed. How was she supposed to feel confident like
that
?

More kids filtered in, and a bunch of them seemed to know each other already. The girl, however, stayed off to the side by herself. Gigi wondered if she felt
awkward too. Remembering how fearless Miranda had been when she introduced herself, Gigi decided to walk up and say hello.

“I'm Gigi,” she said to the girl, extending her hand just like Miranda had. “What's your name?”

The girl smiled but left Gigi's hand dangling there. “I can't shake,” she explained. “Mother forbids it. Too many germs. I can bump your elbow, though.” She pointed her elbow at Gigi and thrust it towards her.

“Uh, okay.” Gigi mirrored the girl's action, and they tapped elbows lightly. The girl nodded at her, then turned away. “Wait! I still don't know your name,” Gigi called after her. Too late. She was already on the other side of the gym.

Gigi wondered if Mother had forbidden the girl to reveal her name to strangers too.

Finally a tall, gray-haired man walked to the center of the gym floor and clapped his hands. “Kids, gather round. It's time to get started. Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the floor.

They dutifully sat in a semicircle, arcing around the man, who introduced himself as Winston Abrams the Third. (“But you may call me Mr. Win,” he told them, flashing a toothpaste commercial smile.)

“Today,” he said, “I am going to introduce you to the art of fencing. How many of you are already familiar with this art?”

A few hands shot up, including that of the nameless elbow bumper.

“Excellent,” Mr. Win said, rubbing his palms together. He looked a little like Mr. Burns from
The Simpsons
, and this thought made Gigi giggle.

Mr. Win began by showing them the various “weapons” used in fencing and told them that today they'd be learning how to use the basic foil. Next, he held up a lamé, which was a weird metallic vest that, when touched by the foil, registered points during the match. This was due to some cord that plugged into the vest and connected each fencer to the scoring machine. Mr. Win began suiting up in front of them, walking them through the various pieces of equipment and explaining what each one did.

“Today you'll be using the club's equipment,” he explained. “If you decide to take lessons, you may continue to borrow equipment for the first session. After that, you must begin to purchase your own. Now, let's get you outfitted for the lesson.”

Mr. Win snapped his fingers, and two assistants magically appeared. Each student was given a lamé,
a mask, and a glove, and explanations on how to put them all on. At first Gigi was thrilled—these were so much cooler than the stinky pinafores she had to wear for soccer—but after a couple of minutes she realized just how hot the fencing equipment was. She had a feeling that once she started moving around, heavy sweating was sure to follow.

Why on earth had she chosen this again? Oh, right. Angelina Jolie. Keira Knightley.

“The first thing you must learn in the art of fencing,” Mr. Win said, “is how to stand
en garde
.”

Mr. Win spread his legs shoulder-width apart and squatted down some, pushing his right arm—the one holding the foil—out from his side and curling his left into a chicken wing, hand resting on hip.

“When you are
en garde
,” Mr. Win said, “you must be certain that your knees are directly over your toes.” He bounced a few times to demonstrate, and it looked so silly to Gigi that she had to fight the urge to giggle again.

“Now,” he said, “we advance.”

Advancing looked a lot like crab walking, only your body was turned in the direction you were moving. Retreating, the next thing he showed them, was pretty much advancing in reverse. “It's imperative that you move heel first, not toe. Heel first!”

Next, Mr. Win demonstrated the lunge, which looked very similar to the kinds of lunges Gigi had done in soccer practices. Only in a fencing lunge, the hand holding the foil was extended, as the fencer's goal was to touch the tip to the lamé to score points. Next, he demonstrated the parry, which was how fencers blocked the lunge attack. This involved moving your foil so as to block your opponent's. “The key to a successful parry,” he said, “is small movements. Let me repeat:
small
movements.”

Gigi looked around. All of the kids were staring at Mr. Win, seemingly mesmerized. None of them looked like they were trying to stifle laughter. But all of a sudden, to Gigi, the whole fencing thing seemed extremely
ridiculous.
What was
wrong
with her? She turned to catch her mother's eye, but her mom was chatting up one of the iPad moms and didn't even notice.

Mr. Win began to pair up students so that they could practice on each other. Since Gigi and the girl with the elbows were the only two girls, Mr. Win decided to put them together.

Gigi faced her much-shorter opponent and offered her a smile before pulling the mask down over her face. Elbows was so tiny, Gigi would have to take it easy on her.

“
En garde
!” Mr. Win shouted, and everyone assumed the position. Then Mr. Win walked around, critiquing each of them. Of Gigi he said, “Too loose. Tighten up here and here,” and tapped each knee with the tip of his foil. “Also here and here,” he added, tapping both of Gigi's shoulders. The nameless germophobe's stance, however, was proclaimed “Excellent,” and she was given no further coaching.

Next, Mr. Win directed everyone on Gigi's side of the line to practice advancing on his call. “
En garde
, ready, fence!” he boomed. Gigi crab walked towards the girl in front of her, foil extended, but before she even had a chance to think about aiming for the girl's torso, Elbows flashed her foil against Gigi's so swiftly that Gigi dropped the thing altogether.

Gigi's jaw dropped under her mask. “I take it you've done this before?” she said to the girl.

“No,” the girl replied. “I'm just naturally good at everything I do.”

Gigi blinked at her.

The girl lifted her mask and smiled at Gigi. “That was a joke. Sort of. This isn't my first time fencing. I learned at camp with Mr. Win last summer.”

“A ringer,” Gigi said, more to herself than the girl. “I see how it is.”

She kept at it, though. After a few more pathetic lunging attempts, Mr. Win declared that it was time to switch sides. Gigi hoped she'd be better at parrying than she was at lunging, but Mr. Win had barely finished his “
En garde
, ready, fence” call before her opponent had expertly stabbed her lamé. This went on three more times, and on the last touch—a lunge made with a guttural battle cry—Gigi realized the girl had tackled all four quadrants of the vest.

Okay. So she had tried fencing.

Gigi stepped backwards, stripped the mask from her sweaty face, and held her hands up in defeat. “Stick a foil in me,” she said. “I am
done
.”

On the ride home, Gigi's mother said, “So you're not a fencer. It's okay. You don't have to like everything you try. That's why you try things to begin with.”

“I'm not a fencer, I'm not a knitter,” Gigi muttered. “Maybe this whole list thing was a dumb idea. Maybe I should just stick with the things I already know I'm bad at, like playing soccer.”

Her mother said, “Gillian Gemma Prince, for the hundredth time, if you hate soccer so much, why don't you just quit the team?”

She didn't want to give her mother the real answer, which was that soccer was one of her connections to Finn. If she quit, wouldn't it be another nail in the coffin of their friendship?

“Quitting soccer is not an option,” she told her mother.

“But why?” her mom pressed.

“Because everyone at school has to play at least one sport,” she reminded her. “If it wasn't soccer, it would be softball or field hockey or”—she shuddered—“
track
.”

“Point taken.”

As soon as she hit the house, Gigi headed for the shower. She was so sweaty and gross from the fencing class, and the hot water felt like a hug.

She was pulling a wide-toothed comb through her long red curls when her mom knocked on the bathroom door. “You almost done in there? Daddy's on Skype, and he wants to talk to you.”

“Be right out!”

Gigi tightened the belt on her fuzzy blue bathrobe and threw open the door. “Which computer?” she asked breathlessly.

“Kitchen.”

Gigi flew down the stairs, skipping steps as she ran. “Daddy!” she cried as soon as she saw his smiling face. “It's so good to see you. I miss you!”

“I miss you too,” he said. “Now what's this I hear about you putting up a fence?”

“Not a fence, Daddy,” she laughed. “Fencing class. As in, I took one. And guess what? I am really, really,
really
awful at it.”

“You? I don't believe it.”

“It's true,” she said. “I'm hopeless. But it's okay. I still haven't tried horseback riding or clarinet or writing for the school newspaper. Maybe I'll be better at one of those things. But even if I'm not, the whole point of the list was for me to try new things on my own, which is what I've been doing. So that's good, I guess.”

“Pause, Gigi,” her dad said. “Rewind. Start with this list of which you speak.”

Gigi took a breath, then gave her dad the highlights (if you could call them that) of everything that had been happening the past two weeks.

“And the worst part,” she finished, “is that Finn and I
still
haven't started planning our birthday party. You know, besides the fact that our almost twelve-year best friendship might be ending.”

Her dad said, “I guess what I don't understand is why you need Finn to plan the party. If I remember correctly, you're the one who usually dreams up the big ideas to begin with.”

“Well, yes,” Gigi admitted. “But I never make any real decisions without Finn. And the last time we even talked about the party, I wanted a Broadway theme and she was going in a completely different direction. Dad, she wanted us to go indoor rock climbing.”

He let out a big, deep belly laugh, the kind that
made Gigi grin reflexively. She wished she could reach through the laptop screen and give him a monkey hug.

“Here's an idea,” he said. “Instead of doing what Finn wants, or trying to convince her to want what
you
want, why not just plan a party that you know will make the two of you happy? Start it on your own, as your birthday present to Finn. If she decides she wants to help out, welcome her back. Either way, I know you'll end up with a rockin' party.”

“Don't say ‘rockin','” she said. “But otherwise, you are a genius, Daddy. When are you coming home again?”

“Within the next week,” he said. “Hopefully in time for your first soccer game.”

“That's good,” she said. “I know you wouldn't want to miss me warming the bench. If you're lucky, you can see me standing on the field doing nothing!”

He rolled his eyes at her playfully. “Look, Gee, we all know you're destined to be a star. But you don't have to be a star at everything. It's good to let the others shine from time to time.”

“Did Mom tell you to say that?”

“Nope,” he said. “I just know my little girl.”

“Don't say ‘little girl.' I'm almost twelve.”

He responded with a smile that bordered on sad. “Don't I know it.”

Gigi thought about her father's suggestion all afternoon. What was stopping her from taking matters into her own highly capable hands and planning a totally awesome party that both she and Finn would love? Best case scenario, she and Finn would make up and they'd have their usual double birthday blowout. Worst case scenario—the one in which Finn did indeed ditch her for good—she'd still get to celebrate her birthday in style.

They were already so behind schedule. Emily Post etiquette dictated that invitations should be sent four weeks in advance, and since the party would likely be on April 11—the Saturday between their birthdays—they had missed that mark yesterday. If Gigi had any hopes of pulling this thing off in time, she'd have to hustle. The invites would simply have to go out within the week.

Gigi grabbed her composition book and turned to a new page. At the top she wrote
Potential Birthday Party Themes
. Underneath, she wrote
Bright Lights of Broadway
. Then, remembering what her dad had said
about not trying to convince Finn to want what she, Gigi, wanted, she crossed it out. No, she'd have to do better than that.

She thought of the gorp she and Finn had mixed up Friday night. That was something they still had in common. But a Girl Scout–themed birthday party wouldn't exactly fly with their friends, and it was still a little too cold for camping. Plus, Gigi wasn't much of a camper. A
glam
per, maybe, but definitely not a sleep-in-a-tent-outdoors kind of camper.

Gigi chewed on her pen cap. The only thing Finn seemed really nuts about lately was soccer. She supposed she could plan a soccer-themed party. That would definitely make Finn happy. But it would also make Gigi pretty miserable.

There had to be a compromise, but if she didn't think of something soon, they might very well end up with a purple-themed party after all.

She decided to switch gears. She turned the page and wrote
To Do Today
at the top. Then she started listing all of the tasks crowding her brain: coming up with a suitable party theme, finding a new recipe for the cupcake bake-off. . . .

Miranda!
Gigi remembered that she'd promised to call after the fencing class. She logged on to her email
account to retrieve Miranda's number.

“So, how did it go?” Miranda demanded, without so much as a hello. Gigi told her all about Mr. Win and the nameless elbow bumper and how she was one hundred percent, rock-solid certain that fencing wasn't in her future.

Miranda said, “I'm really glad you called—”

“Me too!” Gigi said. “I'm so glad we became friends. Aren't you?”

“Um, yeah, of course,” Miranda said. “But I was actually talking about something I dug up today. See, I realized that all of the cupcake recipes you'd been trying out for the contest were inspired by Italian desserts. Which made me wonder what
other
Italian desserts were out there that could be translated into cupcake recipes.

“Anyway, I did some research, and it turns out that this Thursday is St. Joseph's Day. It's this Italian holiday honoring Jesus's stepdad. One of the main traditions is a pastry called a
zeppole
.”

“I've had them!” Gigi exclaimed. “They're like doughnuts.”

“Some are fried like that,” Miranda said. “Others are baked, more like cream puff shells. Either way, I was thinking we could do a simple vanilla cupcake and
then try out a bunch of different fillings. We can pipe cream on the top and then, just before serving, top that with a miniature zeppole. What do you think?”

“It sounds tasty,” Gigi said. “When should we start?”

“We can email each other all week to work out the recipe. And then maybe we can try it out next Saturday?”

“Or what about Friday?” Gigi asked. “If you come over after school, we can work on the cupcake that night and take it to class on Saturday. That way we can get Chef Angela's opinion. She's not a judge, so it wouldn't be like we were cheating or anything.”

“Excellent idea,” Miranda said. “It's a plan.”

After they hung up, Gigi checked her school planner to see if she had any outstanding homework assignments. There were two math worksheets she needed to finish for Mr. Baker's class, half a chapter in her social studies text left to be read, and—how could she have forgotten?—a French vocab quiz she had to study for.

French quiz . . . wait a minute, she still hadn't investigated French Club! She made a mental note to ask Madame Fournier about it after class tomorrow.

A couple of days later, on Tuesday, Gigi headed to French Club with a cooler bag full of chocolate mousse. What luck that her first French Club meeting happened to be on the very day they were having a food party!

When she'd talked to
Madame Fournier about joining, her teacher seemed surprised. “It's so late in the year,” she said. “We don't often get new students in the spring. But of course you are welcome. In fact, we're having a celebration on Tuesday.”

Gigi wasn't quite sure what French Club would be like; when she'd asked, Madame Fournier said, “What happens in French Club stays in French Club.” She offered up a knowing smile and tapped the side of her nose lightly with her pointer finger.

Gigi thought,
Okayyyy.
But she told Madame Fournier she'd definitely be there.

The door to Madame Fournier's room was closed, and Gigi took a long, deep breath before opening it. She half expected to see the room swathed in a French flag, with an Eiffel Tower statue planted in the center of the floor. Instead, Gigi was startled to see that everything was green. Green plastic tablecloths with four-leaf clover patterns covered blocks of desks, and a cardboard cutout of a leprechaun winked at her from Madame Fournier's desk. It was far more Emerald City than City of Lights.

The French Club was having . . . a St. Patrick's Day party? Did the French even celebrate St. Patrick's Day?

“
Bonjour
, Gigi,” Madame Fournier greeted her.
“Ça va?”

“Oh, I'm fine, thank you. How are you doing?”

The head of every student in the classroom whipped around, and seven pairs of eyes lasered in on Gigi.

“Non,”
said Vanessa, a seventh grader Gigi had known since they were in elementary school together.
“Réessayez.”

“En français,”
Madame Fournier added.

“Oh, okay,” Gigi said. “I mean,
d'accord
. Um,
je suis très bien, merci
.” She felt pleased with herself and smiled at her new French Club friends. “I brought some chocolate mousse. I made it myself. Well, my mom helped. Anyhoo, where should I pu—”

Vanessa shook her head.
“En français. Se souvenir?”

“Uh . . .
oui
?” Gigi said. “I would like—um,
je . . . voudrais . . . un souvenir
.”

“
Souvenir
is a verb,” Vanessa explained. “Not a noun. It means ‘remember.'”

“Oh,” Gigi said. “
Je suis
. . . sorry?”

“Désolée,”
Vanessa whispered.

Gigi flashed her a grateful smile.
“Oui. Je suis désolée.”

Madame turned towards Gigi and said,
“Nous parlons toujours français dans le club de français.”
Gigi turned the words over in her head. She knew that
dans
meant “in” and was pretty sure that
toujours
meant “always.” As for
parlons
. . .

“Oui,”
Madame Fournier said. She smiled warmly at Gigi.
“C'est difficile au début, mais vous allez vous y habituer.”

Gigi stared at her blankly. Then she looked at her new friend Vanessa, who shrugged as if to say, “I don't know what that means either.”

“C'est difficile,”
Madame repeated slowly, gesturing to the club's members.

“It's difficult,” several said in unison.

She nodded.
“Au début.”
When no one responded, she held up one finger and said again,
“Au début.”

“At first?” a skinny blond boy piped up.

“Oui. Excellent!”
Madame Fournier smiled broadly at the boy.
“Mais . . .”

“But . . . ,” the club translated.

“Vous allez vous y habituer.”

More blank stares.

She said it again:
“Vous allez vous y habituer.”

Still no takers. Madame Fournier drew in a deep breath.
“Vous . . .”

“You . . . ,” they said back.

“Vous allez vous y habituer.”

Pin-drop silence.

“It's difficult at first, but you'll get used to it!” Madame Fournier said, sounding rather exasperated. She sighed. Then, in a softer voice, she said to Gigi, “You will. Get used to it, I mean.
Nous parlons
en français
because it makes it easier for you to learn.”

Gigi nodded, but what she was really thinking was,
Um, I still haven't figured out how to conjugate
aller.

Gigi sat through the rest of the meeting. The conversation swirled around as she got by with a well-placed
oui
or
non.
As she picked at her perfect mousse, she thought,
Finn would laugh so hard at this.
And then
, She'd probably make up some crazy French-sounding words so the two of us could pretend we were participating.