The rest of Chapter One

Before you continue reading, please remember that this is a young adult novel still in rough draft form! =) And, Angie, any similarities to real life people or situations is purely coincidental...=)

It is also around eighth grade that everyone starts to hit their growth spurts. The boys come back from summer vacation taller than the girls (finally!), and the girls have their own growth spurts in different areas. Though I don’t believe for a minute that Nikki Jones really filled out that much just over a couple of months. She left seventh grade, flat as a pancake. She came back in eighth grade with her T-shirt stretched over some very large curves that cause male students and teachers alike to run into inanimate objects like walls and desks. Talk about making mountains out of molehills! I don’t know what kind of parents buy that for their daughter’s fourteenth birthday! The rumor is that Nikki’s dad is a doctor and his best friend is a plastic surgeon, so he got a good deal. As long as he saved money, I suppose it’s all good.
As for me, I’m short, really short. I used to be taller than most of the boys in my grade. I think that was in second grade. Then the boys and girls kept growing, but, me, I stopped at the whopping height of 4’11. The other kids love to point out my height too, especially the boys. I have been called a midget, a dwarf, and every March, someone is going to ask me where I keep my pot of gold. I am so close to breaking that 5’0 mark! I drink a lot milk, eat a lot of protein, but the only growth I’m getting is in the chest area, and no thanks to Nikki’s dad’s best friend either. I read books and hear girls complaining all the time about being flat, but, let me tell you, being ‘well-developed’ (as my mom likes to describe it) is no cup of tea. Clothes never fit right. Have you ever tried to find trendy clothes for short and squatty? I had to start wearing a bra in fourth grade. Fourth grade! It’s humiliating. I feel bulky and top heavy and fat. I wish I looked more like my best friend, Cari. She’s thin and petite. She always looks so well put together and pretty. Her silky auburn hair doesn’t frizz like mine. She has long legs and a tiny waist, and her clothes fit her just right. My mom usually has to hem all of my pants. Have you ever had to wear hemmed jeans? It is so obvious, and half the time mom doesn’t get the measurements right, and I end up with high waters. I usually like to borrow flannel shirts and sweaters from my dad. He’s sort of a big guy and his shirts are baggy enough on me to hide any curves. It drives my mom crazy. She wants me to wear my own clothes, like the pink, ruffled shirt she bought for me for the new school year. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that shirt. The circus would probably take me away as a performer if I did wear it. To make matters worse, I have braces and acne which flares up whenever it is really, really important that I look good. Could matters get any worse?
As for my place in the middle school hierarchy, I’ve found that if I just keep quiet and keep to myself, for the most part, I can get through the day unscathed. I tend to be on the shy side, but I work hard in school and try to do what is right. I like to think of myself as dependable. Teachers tend to either like me or not notice me at all, which is fine as long as I’m off the radar. I have two best friends, Cari and Julie, and we do everything together. We are all very different from each other—Cari is into sports and dancing, Julie is into singing and drama, and me, well, I’m a writer. But somehow we came together and became best friends. We’ve been best friends since third grade. I used to have these friends that were a little rough around the edges and I thought Cari was kind of prissy. I would make fun of her that she had to dust off her seat before she could sit down, but in third grade we were in the spelling bee together and had to study together all the time. I discovered that Cari was actually really nice, and she could spell like no other. We became inseparable from then on. Julie’s family moved into our neighborhood at the end of third grade. We were just getting ready to begin summer vacation, and Julie’s mom was afraid that because Julie didn’t have the chance to come to school, she wouldn’t be able to meet any friends. Julie’s mom came to my house with a plate of cookies and asked my mom if she would ask me to be Julie’s friend. I reluctantly (meeting new people is way out of my comfort zone and a person should always be wary of a mother-arranged friendship) went with my mom to meet Julie. I was so nervous, but Julie and I hit it off right away. Then Cari and Julie hit it off, and by the end of summer, we were a trio. It’s nice to have friends to run the gauntlet with you. Somehow the blows sting a little less. Our little trio isn’t part of the ‘cool kids’ group, but we’re not out of the running either, not like Jessie Sutherland who was caught picking her nose and eating it in fifth grade. That’s the problem with living in a small town, everyone knows everything about you from the day you were born. To this day, Jessie still swears that she has dry skin and that she had just itched her nose and then scratched her lip. Needless to say, she will never enter the ranks of Cool-dom. To us, Jessie’s story is a cautionary tale. We still have a chance as long as we make no mistakes.
So with my height issues and top issues and running the gauntlet everyday and being so close to being ‘cool’, you can see why I was so upset when my mom announced, two weeks into eighth grade, that we were going to start giving Sarah a ride to and from school. Don’t get me wrong, Sarah is a nice girl. And I’m her friend, sort of. I just don’t want the whole world to know it. Does that sound bad? Well, wait until I tell you a little more about Sarah, and then you’ll really think I’m an ogre. My mom says the politically correct way to describe Sarah is physically and mentally handicapped. Some of the kids at school call her a retard. Sarah is tall and gawky. When she moves, she looks like a pile of blocks about to fall down, and she does fall down, a lot. She always has scabby knees and elbows from her many face plants. You know that scene in the cartoon Bambi, where the young Bambi is trying to walk on ice for the first time? Well, that’s Sarah on solid ground. It doesn’t seem to bother her though. She just gets up and begins lunging and lurching forward again.

Sarah has the mentality of maybe a six year old. Her speech is slow and slurred, and usually I have to listen to her for a few minutes before I can understand what she is saying. She is in the eighth grade by age only. She has her own classes at school, but comes to some of the regular classes like P.E., art, and home ec so that she can learn to interact with her peers. Sarah’s family doesn’t have a lot of money. They live four houses down from my house. Their house and yard are always run-down and poorly cared for. Siding has broken off, weeds are growing in the front yard, rusted bikes and car parts, though the family has never owned a car, are scattered across the drive way and front lawn/dirt patch. The city is always getting after them to clean up their yard. Some of the neighbors say their house is an eye sore in our neighborhood. Once a year, some neighbor will get ambitious and organize a service project to clean up their yard. The whole neighborhood takes an entire Saturday and lays down sod or paints the outside of the house or pulls weeds. A few months later it looks like no one has touched it in years. I hate to say it, but Sarah’s family is just plain weird. Sarah is an only child, but I wonder if her parents even know that they have a child, especially a child with special needs. Sometimes Sarah comes to school in the same clothes the entire week and her hair is rarely combed. Often, Sarah smells really awful, and I know she hasn’t taken a shower in at least a week. Her mom is this timid woman who rarely comes out of the house. When she does emerge from her home, she doesn’t look at or talk to anyone. She has blonde, scraggly hair and a drab face and could blend into the wallpaper if she wanted to. Sarah’s dad gives me the creeps. He is constantly changing from one part time job to another. Currently, he is unemployed. He is bald, has beady eyes, and is convinced that the world is conspiring against him. While his wife avoids making eye contact with anyone, everyone avoids making eye contact with him because even the slightest hint of eye contact, and he will take the next 20 to 30 minutes of your life to tell you about his latest conspiracy theory.

Despite her physical, mental, and family challenges, Sarah has such a bright outlook on life. She gets so excited about the littlest of things. I gave her a piece of gum one day, and she almost shook my arm off trying to say thank you. She does this squeal when she’s really excited and will hop up and down and clap her hands. She does this often because she is always excited about something or other. I don’t think she really understands just how bad she has it. She always has a compliment for you when she sees you. She loves to run her hands through my hair and tell me how pretty my hair is. This bugs me, but I still let her do it. I like being around Sarah, it’s like hanging out with my five year old sister, but sometimes I feel awkward and don’t know how to act around her. Sarah thinks everyone is her friend and likes everyone just the same. She doesn’t know that people make fun of her. She doesn’t understand that sometimes people are laughing at her not with her. This one time, last year, these older boys convinced Sarah that it would be fun if she would dance on top of the lunch table for them. She climbed on top of that table and danced away, elbows and knees jutting out, legs kicking out awkwardly and all these boys were gathered around the table hooting , clapping, and hollering things, “Yeah baby!” “Work it, baby!” Sarah was in high heaven. Luckily, a teacher noticed what was happening and put an end to it. The boys got in trouble, but kids still talk today about how hilarious it was when Sarah danced on the table. Sarah might not understand how other kids pick on her, but I do, and it makes me so angry. I hate how those other kids treat Sarah sometimes. I just want to punch all of them. Why do they feel like they have to pick on someone like Sarah anyway? I hope they can outgrow all of this by high school. If not, then I’m seriously worried about the world we live in.

Now, before you start thinking of me as a saint, as some crusader for the handicapped, let me be honest. While it infuriates me to no end to see Sarah being teased and harassed, I never do anything to stop it. You’ve got to understand, my own existence in this middle school is precarious at best. I have a reputation to build, and the road to being part of the ‘in’ crowd is a rocky one. So don’t judge me, when I say that sometimes when I see Sarah coming down the hall, I duck my head and hope she doesn’t see me. If she latches on to me at school where everyone can see, I might as well pull up a chair next to Jessie Sutherland in Outcast City for the next five years.

This is why, when my mom announces the new carpool situation, I tell her, “But mom, we can’t give Sarah a ride because…because…because sometimes I have to go to school early.” It’s a lame excuse, but all that I can think of at the moment.

“I’m sure she won’t mind going early some days. We’ll just let her know beforehand.” Mother logic is difficult to fight.

“But, mom-m-m-m!” That’s all I’ve got. Sign me up for the debate team!

“Besides, Sarah needs a friend at school, and you’re such a good girl, Janie, I know you’ll do what is right.”

I hate when parents do that. They put the ball into your court. “I know you’ll do what is right.” Where do they learn these things? Is there some kind of class called Evil Parenting 101 that every parent is required to take before they can have children? I wish I could explain to my mom why I don’t want to give Sarah a ride to school, but, to be honest, I am ashamed of the why and would hate to see that shame reflected in my mother’s eyes. I slink off to my room to devise some sort of plan of how I can ride in the same car as Sarah to school, exit the same car, and somehow lose her before we get to the front doors. Maybe I can convince my mom that my locker is at the back of the school and that it would be easier if she dropped us off in the back parking lot. The only problem with this solution is that all the doors are locked except the front doors, and we would have to then walk all the way around the school to get inside. Perhaps, I could just start walking to school. It’s only four or five miles away. Yeah right. I picture myself dragging my weary, frost-bitten body through a winter blizzard, my sweat-soaked hair frozen to my face. Finally I arrive at school just in time to hear the final bell of the day ring and then I am trampled by a horde of frantic-to-escape students rushing out the doors. Finally, I come up with a plan to tell my mom that I’ve joined the science club and that I have to be at school half an hour early every day. That way we’ll get dropped off while a majority of the other students are at home still getting ready for school, and no one will see us. I can feel the bags under my eyes already. This is going to be a really long year.

The next day, my plan seems to be working. My mom buys into the whole science club story. While I hate to lie to her, I tell myself that sometimes a girl’s got t o do what a girl’s got to do. We pick Sarah up at 6:50 a.m. Her clothes are mis-matched, and while she doesn’t smell too bad, her hair is oily and stringy and badly in need of a good washing. My mom gives Sarah a strange look and then quickly recovers with a huge smile. “Hi, Sarah! How are you this morning?” My mom chirps, far too chipper for this time of day.

“Hi-uh, Missezz Yarson. I good. Hi-uh, Janie. Your hai-wa is so pwetty!”

I’m slouched down in the back seat trying to get a few more minutes of shut-eye. “Hi, Sarah. Thanks.” I grumble and then close my eyes again.

I’m about to completely zone out when I hear my mom say, “Sarah, do you think you could come to our house a little earlier each day? We could play beauty shop and do your hair up all nice and pretty!”

Sarah claps her hands. Her volume rises with her excitement, so she’s practically shouting when she says, “Surwa, Missezz Yarson! I will come at six oooooo’clock!”

Sarah is going to be at our house everyday at 6:00 A.M. so that my mom can play beauty shop? I let this sink in for a moment. Could my life get any worse? If any of the other kids find out about this, my life is over. I resolve to have a good discussion with my mother about this tonight. I will prepare a solid argument during my English class. What was my mom thinking?! I slouch down further and pretend to have not heard the conversation.

My plan goes much more smoothly after that. My mom drops us off at school. I manage to lose Sarah as soon as we enter the building. Luckily, she is a person of habit and immediately heads for the special education classroom. The school is completely deserted this early in the morning, so I park myself at a lunch table and pretend to study. When the first busload of students bursts through the doors, I casually mingle my way into the group and make my way to my locker where I wait for Cari and Julie, just like any other regular day.

In English, I prepare a well-thought out, well-written argument of why we should just mind our own business and leave Sarah alone. It is some of my best work.

At lunch, I absentmindedly listen to Cari talk about some amazing volleyball slam she did in P.E. and Julie talk about some boy band that she is absolutely in love with (for the week, anyway). Eventually, they notice my lack of attention.

“What’s up with you?” Cari asks, stealing one of my tater tots.

I push my tray towards her. “Eat ‘em while they’re still warm.”

“Are you in lo-ove?” Julie teases. She knows that I have, in fact, been in love with Scott Peterson since the fifth grade. However, I’m not sure Scott Peterson even knows that I exist. Nothing new there. But someday, the stars will align, and he will look into my eyes, music will start to play, and he will realize that he is madly in love with me. Someday.

“No. It’s nothing. I just, I don’t know.” This is conversation at its finest.

“Wow. That totally made sense!” Cari says as she wolfs down the last of my tater tots.

I don’t want to explain my situation to them because I know I will sound like a complete jerk. I shrug. “No, it’s just that my mom has gone all Annie Sullivan on me.”

Julie’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. “Wasn’t Annie Sullivan Helen Keller’s teacher? What’s wrong with her?”

Nothing. I think. While Annie Sullivan is now considered a saint and a hero to much of the world for her patient and loving work with a wild, deaf and blind Helen Keller, I bet she was picked on in middle school. Out loud, I say, “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

My friends just shrug. They know me well enough to know that they’re not going to pry anything out of me when I’m in one of these moods.

After school, I stall as long as I can. No need to exit with the crowd. I am walking out the main door with Julie when we hear it. Honk. Honk-honk. Honk-honk-honk-hooooonk-honk. It sounds like someone is attempting to play Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on a car horn. Julie and I look at each other and burst out laughing. Some of the kids walking out of the building with us also start looking around and laughing. And then I see the worst thing I have ever seen. It’s so terrible that I want to look away but I can’t, you know, like, if you were to come across a terrible car accident and you know you should look away but you just can’t. Right there, in front of the entire school, is my mom’s mini-van. Sarah is sitting shot gun and honking the horn with great gusto. As she honks away on the car horn, she is laughing maniacally. And to my complete horror, my mother is doing nothing to stop this spectacle. In fact, she is laughing too. I can feel a deep, crimson/purple blush spreading up my neck and across my face. For a moment, I think that maybe I can mumble something about forgetting a book in my locker and go back into the school before they see me. But then, Sarah spots me. She stops honking the horn, and , to my horror, leans out the window and shouts, “He-e-e-e-e-y, Ja-a-a-a—anie-e-e-e-e!”

I want to die right then and there. Is thirteen (almost fourteen) too young to die of a heart attack or stroke or maybe just unknown causes, a.k.a. complete humiliation? I just stand there, frozen to that spot on the sidewalk. Then Mason Johnson bumps me and snickers, “Hey, it’s the retard-mobile! I though Janie rode the short bus, but it looks like she’s moved up in the world! Isn’t that your ride, Janie? Isn’t that your retard-mobile?” The kids around us start to laugh at me. When did the entire school show up for my humiliation? Because it definitely feels like the entire school is standing around me, laughing at me. In the corner of my eye, I think I catch a glimpse of Scott Peterson walking by. Forget stars aligning, now I just wish a black hole would appear and swallow me into oblivion.

Mason Johnson is such a jerk. He has always been a bully and always will be. I want to say something mean and cutting, but all I say is, “Shut up, Mason.”

I am waiting for Julie or someone to stand up for me, but Julie just mumbles a quick good-bye and disappears. Some best friend! Though I hate to admit it, I probably would have done the same. Now I feel a rage rising up within me, replacing my embarrassment. I shoulder past Mason, stomp up to the van, open the door, and toss my backpack into the back seat. I throw myself into the back, buckle me seatbelt , and slam the car door shut. Mom and Sarah, all fun and giggles, greet me, but I just growl, “I really don’t want to talk to you guys right now.” Mom can see that I’m upset, but Sarah is oblivious, as always, and tells us about her wonderful day of school all the way home.

Once we get home, mom approaches me like a lion trainer approaches a ferocious, unpredictable lion. I half expect her to hold a chair out between us. “How was your day?” She asks.

I make no reply. Instead, I pour myself a glass of milk.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Talk to me.” The fact that mom is acting so innocent only makes me angrier. She is clueless.

“That was so embarrassing, mom!” I finally blurt out.

“What was?” Mom thinks for a moment, drumming her fingers on her lips, and then the realization hits her. “Oh, you mean, when Sarah was honking the horn?”

I refuse to dignify her lack of thought with a response. Instead, I just glare at her. I know that I need to wrap this conversation up quickly, because if I stand here much longer, I’m going to start crying. I want my mom to see my wrath not tears.

Mom sighs. “I’m sorry, Janie. I didn’t think it was a big deal. Sarah was so excited waiting for you, and it was fun to watch her playing songs on the horn to get you to come out of the school. It’s just sweet how much she looks up to you, you know.”

The tears are getting closer. The dam is going to break. I decide to turn up the anger. “It’s not just that. It’s the rides and the whole beauty shop thing…and, well, you have your own kids, you know. You could try taking care of them.” I wish I could have stopped those words from coming out of my mouth, but they just burst out. I don’t mean them. I certainly know they aren’t true. My mom is some kind of super-mom. She quit her career of nursing, when I was born. This is a woman who went through college to become a nurse, worked long hours, was really good at what she did (from what I’ve heard), and then just gave it up to be a stay-at-home mom. Now her focus and her pride is being a good mom for me, my nine year old brother, and my little sister. And here I am, attacking her mothering skills.

I see something flash in my mom’s eyes, and I know I’ve hurt her feelings. But then she just licks her lips and says in a soft, matter-of-fact tone, “I know you don’t mean that. I understand that you are upset. I think that Sarah needs a little extra love and care, and I don’t think it will be such a sacrifice for our family to give that to her. Now, I think you need to go up to your room until dinner and think about things for awhile. Get your head on straight.” Mom always tells us to ‘get our heads on straight’ when we are acting really stupid.

I grab my backpack and stomp upstairs to my room. Once I get to my room, I am tempted to slam my door, but then I remember how much trouble I got into the last time I slammed my door, and decide against it. I close it gently and fling myself onto my bed. I pull out my well-thought out argument from my notebook, crumple it up, and toss it in my garbage can. Then I release the flood gates and let the tears fall.