Confessions of a So-called Middle Child (10 page)

I went to the fridge. Inside were little batches of cut carrots and celery. “Oh, come on, carrot sticks?!” I grabbed the tray and shoved as many carrots as I could in my mouth.

“She doesn't wear underwear, Pen—”

Pen winced. “Never?”

“She says she doesn't agree with them.” I watched Mom laugh. “So,” I continued, “if you don't wear underwear and haven't brushed your teeth since the other ones fell out, chances are you're gonna get teased.”

“Look, I'm not saying she's not a perfect target,” Pen said, mellowing out. “I'm just saying I'm thinking about spearheading a group at school to stop after-school bullying.”

How was it possible we came from the same parents? “You do that, Pen.” I got up to go, and then I remembered something. “Oh, and check this out. Trixie knows Roxy.” I watched the name fall like a grenade on the kitchen floor.

Mom turned slowly from the stove, even dropping the spoon into the polenta, a major polenta crime. Pen's face looked like an ugly possum caught in front of a truck. Dad and Felix pulled open the door and walked in, covered in dust from the digging, and took in the scene. Total silence.

“What's going on?” Dad asked.

Pen, of course, couldn't wait to be the first to tell my story. “Trixie knows Roxy.”

Mom shook her head. “How does she know her?”

“UCLA surf camp,” I said, feeling a little tight. “They do it together every summer.”

“It's a small world.” Dad shook his head. “I always tell you kids that.”

“Get another spoon or take the polenta off the burner.” I watched the spoon drown and disappear in the bubbly goo. “And no, people, she doesn't know it was me. Not yet anyway.”

Mom grabbed a wooden spoon and fished the old one out. “She'll call her and ask.”

“If she hasn't already,” Pen said.

“If she knows already,” I countered Ms. Smarty Pants, “why didn't she say something?”

Dad filled his glass with a sun tea Mom made that smelled like old socks, but not as bad as Bobby's socks. “Either she hasn't called her yet, or she knows and is fishing to see just how badly you want to keep your past your past. If I were you, I wouldn't get on her bad side.”

“I don't plan on it,” I said, and meant it.

“Or come clean.” Mom dished out the warm polenta into deep bowls and crumbled a little Gorgonzola on the side. “Tell everyone what happened.”

“Don't you dare!” Pen took her bowl and sat down.

Dad shook his head. “Bad idea, babe.”

“Yeah, over my dead body.” I glared at them over my bowl with extra cheese.

Then Pen started to get really worked up. “What if she's holding out? She knows it was you and is keeping that information in her little pocket to take out when she needs to bribe you.”

“Or burn you,” Dad added, just for a sunnier picture.

“But she isn't like that.” Oh, the sweet corn taste, the pudding like quality, the cheese. I was almost done. “She's not perfect, okay, but she's actually pretty funny and nice.”

“Lord oh lord, Charlie, for a person so smart, you can be so stupid,” Pen said, and walked off.

The rest of them were just kind of sitting there, heads lowered like they knew something bad was coming and I was too blind to see it. “Well, even if she is using me, I've got nothing that anyone like her could possibly want, so it's fine by me. In the meantime, did I mention she has a pool on her roof ? And a full-time, dedicated housekeeper just for her?” They were silent. “Now I've got some programming to do.” I took a handful of carrots and went upstairs to check on my good friend Jai.

Competition Gets Ugly

The first week of October marked the beginning of team tryouts, and let me tell you, the place was a nuthouse. Everyone was on edge. It was seriously cutting into my spiritual journey. But the good news was I'd come to the conclusion that Marta was delusional. Like seriously delusional. Let me explain.

So there we were at the horrible no-kill animal shelter down in Culver City, where the dogs were divided into puppies, bullies, and the ugly ones no one wanted—sounds like Malibu Charter, right? Anyway, Marta and I were cleaning out the gobs and gobs of poo from their nasty pens when I decided to bring up the whole gymnastics thing. Now, I'm no shrink or anything, but she had me seriously worried.

First of all, she truly believed she was going to the Olympics. She could barely sweep and walk at the same time, and she was telling me she was Olympic material. She was going on and on about all these complicated routines she could supposedly do, and I was like,
Please, how stupid do I look?
Mind you, she didn't talk to me like she liked me; she just barked at me like a mad dog.

Scales had told me that was to be expected from someone who's been bullied, and, more importantly, he'd said even if it's a total one-way street of her yelling at me, it still counts. So I just listened to her go on and on like a crazy homeless lady, telling me about her gymnastics fantasies while we mopped up poo. How this qualifies as “community building” I'll never know.

 

 

“I'm trying out this year, and no one is stopping me.” She wiped her nose on that pink velour sleeve of hers. “Last time the cowards, the fakes, they kept me from showing them what I can do, what I was born to do.” She was getting really into it; her face was all red and sweaty. “All they can do is make fun of the way I look. Well, I don't care about the way I look.”

You know what I was thinking? Maybe you should. Care, that is. What's wrong with caring about the way you look? Fashion and compassion, remember? But then I had a thought. Maybe Marta looked like this because she came from a fashion-impoverished culture. “Marta, you're not from here, right?”

Her face got all scrunched up. “Why, what do you care? You gonna do something, huh? You wanna run to Trixie? You people have no idea who you're messing with.” She was really getting revved up now. “Just wait until it's my turn. Nothing, I repeat, nothing will stop me from going all the way. They will all come begging for me.”

See what I mean? She seriously believed in her head that she could do gymnastics. It was like me thinking I could be a tightrope walker. I should have called the loony bin ASAP, right? But as “compassion” was my new middle name, and I was weeks away from saying good-bye to Scales for life, I didn't want to rock the boat. Plus I had to admit even I couldn't wait to see her in action.

When I saw Scales, I recounted the entire episode word for word in the hope that he would see that she was insane and set me free. But you know what he said? “You could be right, Charlie.” He thought out loud. “Or she could be an amazing gymnast—who knows?”

I shook my head. “No, Doc, she's nuts, and because she's nuts I'm pretty sure I should be let off the hook.” Then I threw in, “She could even be dangerous.”

He shook his head. “It feels to me like she could be even more complex and worthy of your help. Perhaps it is true”—his eyebrows were getting all twisted—“perhaps she was barred from tryouts last year because she didn't look as good as they did.”

I jumped up. “Well, fashion matters, Doc. Have you ever seen a sloppy gymnast?”

“Then help her.” He leaned back. “If she's talented, it will change her life.”

Why was it every time I came here with a solution, the man gave me another problem? “Now what do you want me to do?”

He sharpened a pencil and watched the shavings curl like it was an incredible event. “You said it yourself once: Fashion is your life. Help her.”

“I can't help her.” I jumped up and stomped. “You should see her!”

But he did not care a bit. “Until next week.”

“I hate you,” I mumbled.

“I know.” He opened the door, and my dad took me home.

The Day Marta Would Never Live Down

Today was the day. Team tryouts after school. Sweat rings, shiny outfits that rode up your butt, and hairy pits. Need I say more? But I had come to support Trixie and pick up the pieces of Marta, which would be my final act of kindness. I was going to be their personal cheerleader waiting in the wings, unbiased and kind, wearing a long vintage Fiorucci yellow skirt with bright polka dots and a cut-off T-shirt with a bowl of pasta and the words Spaghetti Rocks on the front. My Docs, of course, gave it that London punk vibe.

Coming down the courtyard, I heard the sweet sound of Bobby's voice. “Yo, Charlie,” he yelled from across the way, “what happened to your stomach?”

I sucked it in ASAP. “At least I can cover it, which is more than I can say for your
face
!”

He nodded. “Good one, man.”

“Thanks, I thought so.” I watched him leave and knew he'd be back. That kid, he just couldn't stay away for long.

Marta ran up behind me, pushing me aside in her typical psycho way. “Watch out!”

I almost couldn't look at her, but I did, and I swear it was an image that would not be leaving me anytime soon. “Oh my God, Marta, really?”

She'd teased her hair into a high, matted ponytail that defied gravity; the leotard she had on had to be her grandma's. All the elastic was gone, and it hung so low on her legs, she looked like she had on trunks. And the top was so stretched out that when she leaned down to read the lists, oh man—I looked away.

“What?” she snarled.

I shielded my eyes. “I can see your boobs, you know.”

“I don't have boobs. They're nipples, and we all got 'em, so deal with it.” She yanked open the door to the gym and disappeared.

I turned and saw Pen. She peeked in through the window. “So, who are you rooting for?”

The door opened. Fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-grade girls came running out, heads down, crying. They were all getting canned. They were thin enough but not good enough. Trixie would take the spot. Game over.

“Trixie, of course.” I looked through the window. She was up now, and I couldn't wait to see her perform. She looked amazing. “And Marta, but Marta for a whole other reason.”

“Poor Marta,” Pen said.

I opened the door and we went inside the gym. Trixie was already taking off her super sparkly silver warm-up outfit and walking onto the mat. I'm pretty sure she covered her body in silver glitter too, because everywhere you looked, Trixie glittered. Even her hair was sprayed with glitter. The crowd roared. “Go, Trixie!” I yelled as loud as I could.

“Go, Trixie!” Babette screamed louder from somewhere in the bleachers.

“Go, Trixie!” I took a deep breath and screamed as loud as I could. Ha! Take that, Babs! Just kidding, all right? I'm still on the path.

The room went quiet. Trixie was gorgeous. The sparkles glistened on her cheekbones, her lips were pink with gloss, and her eyelashes—put it this way, you could see them from where I was standing. And then she took off running.

I cringed a little. Even I saw the mistakes. But it didn't matter. Her cartwheels were flawless; her backflip caught major air. She was still amazing. When she completed her floor routine, the room went nuts.

Lillian, aka Ms. Fancy Pants Team Captain, was on the microphone before Trixie could catch her breath. “Ladies and gentlemen, was that fantastic?”

They roared. Trix ran into the huddle. They all wrapped their arms around her like it was a done deal. I turned around and saw Marta on the sidelines looking like she wanted to kill someone. Trixie threw me a thumbs-up. I threw one right back at her.

And then Marta walked down the mat, under the spotlights. And everyone stared. They covered their mouths like they were witnessing a crime scene; they gossiped, turned away. I know what they were all thinking—how could any mother let her kid out like that? It was worse than child abuse.

“Marta Urloff's up. Marta's in seventh grade. This is her first time trying out for the team. Marta, come on up!” The crowd went crazy but not in a good way—laughter, boos, screeches. I knew it would be painful; I just hoped it'd be quick. Marta was standing there on the giant mat. Her stained, faded leotard—I'm guessing the same one she wore last year—flapped against her muscular bluish-white legs. Her arms up high, her face focused on nothing and everything. Lillian and her gang were giggling and gossiping, of course, tapping and rolling their eyes at poor Marta's delusion.

I closed my eyes, held on to my beads, and said a silent prayer that her humiliation would be quick.

“Marta Urloff, it's now or never.” The announcer tapped the microphone; he paused, then added, “Earth to Marta.”

The entire room exploded into laughter. I covered my eyes and peeked. But then Marta did something that made the whole room go quiet. With her arms bent in a ridiculously backward position, she ran down the mat and did the highest, most flawless round-off back handspring into an almost impossible backflip. I dropped my hands from my face. It wasn't possible; I must have dreamed it.

Everyone was dead silent, all eyes on her. No one spoke. No one. Marta just stood, breathing heavily in the silence, staring back at them all with the look of a champion who could not be squashed. Then, as though it was an afterthought, Marta bounced on the springboard and landed on the beam with the ease of someone who'd been magically placed there. We all watched as Marta the Farta executed a perfect cartwheel, like a slow windmill, that fell into a series of perfect somersaults and into a double-back dismount. She landed on both feet, flat and still. The room inhaled—you could feel it, the collective anxiety, disbelief, and, yes, excitement. Her hands flew up; her chest went out; her eyes pointed at the heavens. The room was speechless.

“Oh. My. God.” Pen's brain was still trying to make sense of it all. She turned to me. “Did you know?”

My mouth still would not close. “Are you kidding me?” I watched Marta walk off the mat in the complete silence. People could not reconcile it. How? How could someone so homely, so uncoordinated and angry at the world, fly so high, be so powerful, so precise, and, yes, so beautiful?

“She's gonna get it, for sure.” Pen smiled. “She's incredible; she's going all the way.”

“All the way,” I mumbled.

Coach got up quickly and walked over to Captain Lillian. Something big was going down. The air was hot with sweat and bad breath; people were on the edges of their seats. I caught Felix up in the top row, sitting with his whole class, waving at me. I did a little wave back.

Coach was turning red, but Lillian wasn't backing down. She had her hand over the microphone; her face was in his giant, hairy ear. He was shaking his head. She turned to look at her teammates, and at Trixie, and you could tell they'd rather cut out their tongues than admit that Marta was better than they'd ever be. Finally Lillian had the last word, and with my rudimentary lip-reading abilities, I was able to pick up something along the lines of
If you don't give Trixie another chance, we're all gonna walk, and you'll have no team. Got it?
Then the coach looked down and stormed out.

Lillian returned to the mat, microphone in hand, smiles all around. “Thank you, Marta, but there are many factors that go into being on the team.” She shrugged, gave her that sad-dog look, like she was about to totally can her.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone started to boo. Marta paced, arms crossed over her chest, head down, waiting for it.

And then you'd never believe what happened. The door flew open, and Coach walked back into the auditorium and kissed Marta twice on the cheeks, Euro-style. He announced to the crowds, “On Friday we come back and have deciding round.” He looked at Trixie. “You have one week to train. Train hard.”

Trixie went white. She knew what that meant. Everyone knew what it meant. Coach had given her another chance. “Marta, Marta, Marta,” the crowd chanted.

I looked over at Pen, and she nodded. There was something so deliciously fair, so wonderful about all of this. In minutes Marta had gone from the most hated to the most loved. Wow, only in America can we make our villains into heroes so dang fast.

Trixie came up to me, head down like she wanted to run away as fast as she could. “Let's go,” she said, her voice cracked and shaken.

I wanted to, but— “Where's Babs?”

“I don't know and I don't care. Come on,” she said.

I looked around for Marta but couldn't see her anywhere. “Sure.” We pushed the doors open and walked into the warm canyon air.