“Mark?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothin’.”
The crickets are hoopin’ and hollerin’ for all they’re worth, and fireflies light up the streets like it’s Christmas. On a night like this it’s hard to believe everything won’t be this way forever—the two of us on our bikes going round and round. On a night like this, you just want to reach out and freeze time and make it stay like this forever.
“It’s past seven. I’d better go in,” Mark says as we ride past Sherilyn’s house.
“Once more around the block?”
“All right.”
We go once more, and then once more after that. The way he’s pedaling so slow, I know he doesn’t want to say good night any more than I do, ’cause for some reason good night feels too much like good-bye. So neither of us say anything. We just wave and pedal off in different directions.
It’s a long time before I fall asleep.
Chapter 10
It is the first day of school.
Elaine and I debated on the phone for over two hours last night, going back and forth over what to wear. We recognized the importance of starting our junior high lives on just the right note, with just the right look. Elaine finally settled on a hot pink camisole and her best black miniskirt. I decided to swipe Celia’s cotton halter top and wear my new back-to-school jeans.
My hair is down.
We spent a long time deciding whether or not to wear makeup (lip gloss, yes; eye shadow, no), as we didn’t want to appear too excited about entering the seventh grade. Nothing is worse than looking like you are trying too hard. I have always wondered why that is. Trying hard is supposed to be a good thing. It’s in my nature to try hard, to strive to be the best. So how do you know when you’ve crossed that invisible line of what is acceptable and what is uncool?
At 7:25 I sit at the kitchen table and wait for the doorbell to ring, and it never does. At 7:33 I walk to the bus stop alone. When I get there, Elaine is standing with Mairi and Hadley, and Sherilyn is hovering nearby. Her mother has done it again—Sherilyn is wearing a beaded halter top with tight black pants, and her hair is crimped. I can tell she’s uncomfortable by the way she keeps pulling the top down so her stomach doesn’t show.
Mark stands with the other boys, away from us. He waves, but he doesn’t come over. I want to yell, hey, thanks for ditching me this morning, but instead I just wave back.
The morning is warm, and thankfully, it isn’t humid. But it’s hot enough to make me wish I’d worn shorts instead of my new jeans. Mairi and Hadley are wearing jean skirts, and now I wish that I had worn a skirt too.
Mairi tells Elaine that she likes her outfit. Hadley is quick to agree. Mairi and Hadley and the other cool girls are faintly in awe of Elaine, her New Yorkness and her Koreaness. Elaine is Korean American, and she is the only Korean American at our school. It gives her a glamorous sort of mystique that no one born in our town could ever possess. She makes being different cool.
Because they like Elaine, Hadley and Mairi say that my shirt is real cute too. I tell them it’s Celia’s, which impresses them only slightly. Having Celia for an older sister is the only edge I’ve got, and I try to throw it into conversation whenever I can. I’ve been doing this for most of my life, so it’s lost a bit of its punch.
When the bus finally arrives, we head straight for the back, where we usually sit. Elaine and I exchange worried glances when we realize that the eighth graders sit at the back of the bus, and as seventh graders, we clearly have no business being back there. Mairi and Hadley join right in, as if they know they belong, as if their success is assured. And sure enough, they are giggling and tossing their hair for all it’s worth, and the older guys are actually paying them attention.
Elaine and I settle for the middle of the bus instead. Mark sits toward the back with the rest of the cool kids, and the whole ride to school, I keep looking back at him. I watch him laughing and telling jokes. He’s forgotten about me already.
When we get to school, Elaine and I have to part ways. Her locker is on the east wing of school, and mine’s on the west. Clementon Junior High is humongous compared to the elementary school. Elaine assured me that it was nothing compared to the schools in New York, but by my standards, it’s pretty big. I’ve been here before, of course. Mama and I used to come for Celia’s chorus concerts and her cheerleading competitions. It seemed big then, too.
The halls are jam-packed, and I have to fight my way through the crowds to get to my locker. To my surprise, Jack Connelly, king of the troglodytes, is already leaning against it. He’s just had a haircut, and he’s wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed up. I’d bet anything his mother made him wear that shirt. His arms are crossed and he’s scowling, as usual. “Hey,” he grunts.
“What do you want?” I snap. I haven’t forgotten about the ponytail holder incident.
“I’m here to carry your books, Einstein.” Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten all about our bet.
“It’s the first day of school. We don’t have any books, Einstein.”
“You’re the one who told me you wanted to study during homeroom.” He smirks. “You’re such a geek. You’re the only person I know who’d wanna study during homeroom.”
Oh, yeah. I did say that. “You’re the one who was gullible enough to believe me. I bet you don’t even know what gullible means. Dummy.” I shove him to the side, and spin the dial of my combination lock: 12-34-8. I memorized the combination last week. Counterclockwise, clockwise, counterclockwise. And it won’t open. I spin it again, slowly, 12-34-8. The stupid locker won’t open, and Jack’s still standing there smirking. 12-34-8.
He walks away, and calls over his shoulder, “It’s clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise, Einstein.”
I hate his guts.
Chapter 11
Four minutes just isn’t enough time to get from one class to the next. My homeroom is on one side of the school, and my first period math class is on the other. I barely make it on time, but class goes fine. My math teacher’s name is Mr. Kenan, and he’s cool. He’s old—about sixty or so, and he wears his gray hair in a short ponytail. Math is my least favorite subject, but Mr. Kenan’s so laid back and easygoing that I think it could be fun.
I get lost on the way to my next class, English with Ms. Gillybush. I run up and down the hallways in a panic, my book bag banging against my shoulders. A nice eighth grader finally points me in the right direction, and when I run into the classroom huffing and puffing, everyone is quiet and sitting in their seats. Ms. Gillybush is going over the roll, and she’s already on Zeman, Nestor. Breathing hard, I take a desk near the back and wipe the sweat beads from my nose.
