Girl Wonder (3 page)

I spent the final minutes of school texting my old friend Kara.

Even though my family had left Boston more than four years ago, Kara and I had remained friends. She'd remained loyal to me even after I'd been diagnosed with my learning disability, and had tutored me in math. I, in turn, helped her write papers. Kara was a terrible proofreader.

Kara:
How is life in the great Northwest?

Me:
The inmates are running the asylum.

Kara:
That bad?

I thought carefully before answering. From her e-mails and texts I could tell Kara was getting to be quite popular. She wrote about football games, parties, and the stupid things boys did. I doubted she'd have time for me if she knew I was lost in loser-land.

Me:
Nah. Kidding.

Kara:
Give em hell!

For a long time I stared at the phone, rubbing it with my fingers like a talisman, hoping that Kara might buzz me back with something she'd forgotten to say.

I
n spite of her low-fat, mostly vegetarian diet, my mom had recently been diagnosed with high blood pressure. She was supposed to be working on “reducing stress” in her life. So when she picked me up after school, I tried to make light of getting shafted from GATE.

“Being a plebe is plenty educational.”

“That's optimistic,” my brother piped from the backseat.

“This is unacceptable,” Mom said, putting the car into reverse. “I'm going to talk to that guidance counselor right now.”

“Kick some ass!” James Henry shouted.

“Language,” Mom warned. “Shit!” she exclaimed, nearly hitting a kid.

“I don't think you're supposed to park right here.” I put my sunglasses on and brushed my hair down around my face. “People are staring at us.”

She hopped out of the car. “Let them watch. I'll be back.”

“Famous last words,” I muttered, watching her stride away.

My brother pointed. “Those guys are checking Mom out.”

He was right. Four cute guys were leering at my mother's ass.

“Gross.”

He shrugged. “Mom's a babe. Dad scored big-time.”

“That's disgusting,” I said distractedly, wondering if I was doomed forever because of my inability to grasp the language of numbers.

“It's the truth,” he said matter-of-factly, climbing through the middle of the car to the driver's seat. He cranked the keys in the ignition to turn on the radio. Led Zeppelin—our mom's favorite band—came blasting out of the speakers a second later. James Henry banged on the steering wheel as if it were a drum, keeping time to “Communication Breakdown.”

Halfway through the song he accidently honked the horn—right as the gang of girls from the bathroom walked by. Hands on hips, they glared at me, mouthing what looked like death threats.

“Damn,” James Henry said. “This place is scary.”

“Don't look them in the eye,” I said through clenched teeth. Finally, they ambled away. The car was starting to feel like a vault. Clawing at the door, I said, “I'm going to make sure Mom hasn't gotten arrested.”

James Henry stopped the engine and came jogging after me. “Don't leave me alone!”

We walked into the school and headed up to the front office, which was just off the main corridor. A group of cheerleaders was sitting in the hall making posters for Friday's football game. They looked more like Hooters waitresses than cheerleaders, in their too-tight shirts and too-short shorts.

There was a do not disturb sign on the guidance counselor's door. We sat down in the tiny reception area. On a coffee table there were pamphlets about STDs, teen pregnancy, drug addiction, and peer pressure. Our mom was definitely with the guidance counselor. Her voice rose audibly from the other side of the door.

“Charlotte's education is very important to us.”

“Score one for Mom,” James Henry whispered.

“That's called tracking!” she yelled.

“The tension mounts, folks!”

“Shh,” I hissed. “By the way, that's only my life they're talking about in there.”

“It's unrealistic to expect a student to be strong in every area,” Mom said. “My daughter isn't going to be a mathematician. She has a learning disability with numbers. But she doesn't deserve to be limited in other academic areas where she actually has some exceptional strengths.”

I chewed on my lip. She was starting to sound desperate. I couldn't listen anymore. “Stay here,” I said, standing up.

James Henry rolled his eyes.

The school had cleared out fast, though the smell of onions lingered. A few teachers shuffled slowly down the halls, shoulders slumped, their eyes glazed with fatigue. The floors were scuffed with dusty imprints of thousands of shoes. I could hear a basketball game going on in the gym. The boys' sneakers squeaked across the floor. I stood at the entrance watching them. They were so at ease in their bodies. Standing there, I felt a pang of nostalgia, though I couldn't say for what. I didn't even like basketball.

After a minute I wandered aimlessly on, until I came to a large room where detention was being held. At least half the kids were sleeping. Some of the girls were painting their nails. One of the guys was drawing an elaborate tattoo on his arm.

Amanda Munger was in there too, sitting in the back row with her feet propped up on another desk. Though obviously out of place—the other kids were a hard-looking bunch—she didn't seem uncomfortable in the least. She seemed, in fact, to be relishing her role as delinquent.

She had her arms folded across her chest and was smirking at the teacher, who was trying his best to act like he wasn't noticing her. But you could tell she was making him squirm. The teacher glanced over at me and frowned, as if annoyed that I was witnessing his discomfort. Amanda blew an enormous bubble. It popped like a firecracker.

The teacher whirled around to face her, but it was too late. The gum had been sucked in.

Amanda smiled just as before, her pink hair framing her face like a halo.

“That woman!” my mom exclaimed as we drove away from the school. “Just what kind of show do they think they're running?”

“I'll make the best of it,” I said, trying to hide my dismay.

“Dad's going to freak,” James Henry said.

“That's not helpful,” Mom said.

I turned my face toward the window so they wouldn't see the tears flooding my eyes. “It's true. You know it's true. Dad's going to be so disappointed.”

None of us gave voice to the question that was most on our minds: Just how badly was the snafu with the GATE program going to hurt my chances of getting into a decent college? My SAT scores weren't going to win me any Brownie points or scholarships. Though I'd done okay in the critical reading and writing sections, my math results had brought me down to an “average” percentile overall. I planned to take the SAT one last time before I submitted my college applications, but I doubted I'd see much improvement.

Though Seattle was a pretty place, traffic was a royal nightmare. The jammed streets felt more like parking lots this time of day. Mom was gripping the steering wheel too hard. No doubt her blood pressure was nudging into the danger zone. She reached over and squeezed my elbow. “For now, let's not say anything to your father. I'll see about getting you transferred to another high school. This week is going to be manic, but I'll make some calls.”

Gratitude surged through me. I glanced back at James Henry. “Can you keep your mouth shut for once and not tell Dad?”

He made a zipping motion with his fingers over his lips.

Mom took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, something she'd learned from a biofeedback DVD. “Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. We'll fix this. Don't let that stupid woman get you down. She has no idea how bright you are.”

“Bright as a red light,” I said. We were stuck again.

Changing the subject, I asked James Henry, “How was your first day at the Barclay School?” I made
Barclay
sound extra snooty by drawing out the first
A
and dropping the
R
, the way they do in Boston.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Sure.”

“It was heaven,” he sighed dreamily. “The teachers are great. The food—no offense, Mom but it's better than what you make us. And they have all these after-school programs. They even have a snowboarding team.”

“Snowboarding?” Mom's brow furrowed. “But you hate being cold.”

James Henry shrugged. “Some of the kids were talking about it. It sounds pretty cool. And it's different enough that it would make me stand out when I apply to college.”

I snorted. “Like you're going to have a problem with that!”

James Henry pointed at a sign for Northgate Mall. “Can we go? I need a TI-Nspire calculator.”

“Why not?” Mom said, her mood brightening. “I think a little retail therapy might do us all some good!”

When we got to the mall, we dropped James Henry off at Best Buy and headed over to Nordstrom's. I was still wound taut as a violin string. Only now, Mom wasn't helping. She was a royal pain to shop with. Though she fancied herself a hip parent, she was clueless about teen fashion. Like a crow that snatches up shiny things, she was always drawn to the most outlandish outfits.

She thrust a pair of polka-dotted skinny pants into my arms. “These will look darling on you.” To shut her up, I agreed to try them on.

“Those are perfect,” a saleslady exclaimed when I walked out of the dressing room.

“They'd be perfect if I were a flamboyant leopard,” I muttered.

Mom and the saleslady exchanged a look that said
Aren't teen
agers fun?

“Your daughter is very striking,” the saleslady said.

Mom sighed. “I tell her that all the time. She just doesn't realize—”

“That can be a blessing. With girls.”

Another patronizing look was exchanged. I retreated to the dressing room.

Squinting at the mirror, I frowned at my reflection. I was as pale as a vampire. Though I wasn't overweight, in the last year I'd gotten boobs. Oversized sweatshirts, baggy tops, and my running bras helped me to hide them. Of course, no one could really even tell if I had a figure. My lips I couldn't hide. They were, to put it nicely, “bee-stung.” Adults were the only people who ever said I was pretty. I figured they were just being nice.

My mom knocked on the dressing room door. “If you don't want my help, that's fine.” She handed me her credit card. “You have two hours. Get yourself a few things
within reason
. I'm going to check on James Henry.”

Why oh why did figuring out what to wear have to be so freaking complicated? I was so not prepared for shopping. For the last four years I'd worn a uniform. Though I'd pretended to hate them, I'd secretly appreciated how much easier they made life. We all got to look hideous together. Before we'd left Florida, I'd tried to find some non-uniform things to wear. But everything was either too lightweight, too resort-y, too pastel, or too old lady. Nothing I'd seen in the mall had looked remotely “Seattle.” Not that I knew what “Seattle” was—but I sure knew what it wasn't. And after today, no matter how trendy it became, I wouldn't be caught dead in sailor-wear.

Wandering out to the main section of the mall, I slid my sunglasses back on. Covertly, I studied the other kids to see what they were wearing.

Here's what I decided:

I lacked the guts to pull off a queen bee outfit.

I wasn't defiant enough for anything purposefully weird.

It was imperative that I not seem Goody-Two-shoes.

I didn't want my clothes to peg me into a specific social group.

After a frustrating hour, I went back to Nordstrom's and tried a different department. Finally I found a pair of jeans that made my butt look cute and some fitted black shirts that didn't show off too much cleavage. They were more expensive than they should have been, but they nevertheless had an edgy “city” look. Without calling attention to my body, these clothes had attitude.

Afterward, I bought mascara, lipstick, and smoky black eyeliner. To pull it all together, I got this cool chain choker that was both feminine and tough. It seemed like the kind of thing Amanda Munger might wear.

Before we left the mall, I went into the dressing room at Nordstrom's and modeled my new purchases for Mom.

“How do I look?” I asked, twirling around before the three-way mirror.

“You look like a teenager,” she sighed.

I sighed back. Looking like a teenager guaranteed you nothing.

It was pouring when we pulled up to our new house—cold, thick, stinging drops. “This weather—” Mom shook her head. “It's just such a cliché.”

I rolled my eyes. “Leave it to an English professor to find the rain trite.”

“I like the rain,” James Henry said. “It smells like the ocean.”

I wrinkled my nose. “You mean it smells like fish.”

We covered our heads with shopping bags and made a dash for the front door. Stepping into the foyer, we saw that the house had sprung several leaks.

“It's an old house,” Mom said, a touch defiantly. “That's part of its charm.”

The man who'd rented us the house had mentioned that it had a few “eccentricities.” Because it was cute and historic—a 1913 Craftsman—and available on short notice, we hadn't pressed for details.

Our obese tabby cat, Steerforth—also historic—was howling at our ankles as if we'd contrived the dripping just to torture him. My mother had named Steerforth after the manipulative Dickens character in
David Copperfield
. She claimed there were some “parallels.”

“Where's Dad?” my brother asked, dumping some food into the kitty bowl.

Mom was rooting around a moving box marked kitchen. “Oh, did I forget to tell you? He's on his way to New York.”