Reel Life Starring Us (2 page)

Chelsea's friends look at me. They don't smile. Were they the people who did it? The
chippers
?

“Do you play tennis?” the girl I'm playing against, one of Chelsea's friends, asks me as I'm bending down to pick up the badminton racket.

“Not really,” I say. “You?”

“Yeah, so does mostly everyone. That's why we're bizarrely good at this sport.” She smiles. “You kind of look weirded out.”

I don't understand how she can tell that. But she's right. “Well, yeah, a little, I guess.”

The girl serves and I swing. Of course I don't get it over the net—because going that fast, the birdie is impossible to hit.

“Good game,” she says after clearly beating me. And beating me bad.

In the locker room, when we're changing back into our regular clothes, I keep a careful watch on my backpack. Maybe the secret is that you never leave your backpack unattended, like you can't leave bags unattended at an airport.

There should be a rule book for this kind of stuff. Something I could follow so I could avoid more potato chip incidents.

After gym, I'm walking to my next class when I notice more. More chipping. Kids emptying their bags of crumbs.

How do the kids here even have that many bags of potato chips? Where do they store them? And why do they want to waste them dumping them into other people's bags when they could be eating that crunchy deliciousness?

It's all over the place. When the person's not looking, when the person is looking. Bags left in the hallway, bags on people's shoulders.

There's no rhyme or reason.

It just keeps happening.

I'm tempted to take out my camera and record this. I could e-mail the video to Ali and show her what things are like here. She'll never believe me if I don't.

So I take out my camera. No one really knows me yet anyway. I could be some foreign exchange student who's never coming back, for all they know. I could be some kind of undercover reporter doing a story for the local news.

I could be shooting a movie about middle school. Some guy in Korea shot a whole movie on his iPhone. I would try that too if my parents were nice enough to buy me one.

As I'm walking to social studies, I shoot videos of this whole potato chip thing.

People don't really notice me. They just say “Oh, man,” and “Ugggh, again,” and “Seriously? That's the third time this week.” And then the person who did the chipping just laughs and walks away.

Does the principal know about this? The teachers?

No one gets hurt, really, so it's not the worst thing ever. But it's messy. It took me twenty minutes to get all the crumbs out just now and I'm not even sure I got all of them.

And it's a waste of perfectly delicious chips, too.

These aren't the no-frills brand you find in gigantic bags in the grocery store. These kids are using every brand you've ever heard of: Kettle chips and “Dirty” chips and Baked Lay's. Barbecue. Salt and vinegar. Olive oil. Every kind of potato chip in the universe.

So I keep videoing, and I'll admit some people are looking at me strangely. Like, who's this girl who's just going around videoing stuff?

But it's weird—this whole chipping thing. I want to figure it out.

And it's not like anyone's talking to me, so what else do I have to do?

Sasha Preston piece of advice: Stand up straight;
people will take you more seriously that way.

How many times have I heard someone say
, “Every cloud has a silver lining”? Probably a billion. I've always thought it was the cheesiest thing ever, but it's actually kind of true when you think about it.

I thought that missing the first month of eighth grade because of mono was going to be the worst thing ever, but in reality, it wasn't that bad. My friends e-mailed me the homework and kept me updated on all the latest gossip through texts and video chats. My mom brought me make-your-own salads from Bagel Bonanza every day for lunch. Well, up until about a week ago she did; then she said she could make them just as good at home. She really can't, though; the avocado is never ripe enough.

But that doesn't matter because I'm back at school now. And now that I'm better, the whole day is like a huge welcome back party for me.

The best part of being home all that time was that it helped me keep my secret. Now that I'm back in school, it's going to be much harder to do, but I think I can. I mean, I don't have a choice, so I
know
I can.

The longer you keep a secret, the more it just becomes a part of you, something you carefully guard and protect. The longer you keep a secret, the more you start to believe that whatever you're hiding really isn't true.

I've kept it this long and I'm not giving up.

Mr. Valakis walks into social studies and snaps me out of my thoughts. He's one of those teachers that everyone talks about. Either you love him or you hate him, but either way, you talk about him.

I don't really get it, though; he seems like any old teacher to me. Gray beard, short-sleeve button-down: exactly like you'd picture a social studies teacher, as if he stepped out of a TV show. Like Sasha Preston's show,
Sasha Says So
. It's my favorite, and her teachers are all like Mr. Valakis.

It feels good to be back at school, sitting with my friends and not thinking about things at home. Kendall and Molly are on each side of me, and every few seconds they put their arms
around me. “We're soooo glad you're back,” Kendall says over and over again.

She means it, too. They need me. We're a group of three, and what's a group of three without the third? Or maybe I'm the first, not the third. Either way, a group of three needs three people, obviously.

And we're the best group of three that ever existed.

A millisecond after the bell rings, Mr. Valakis gets order in the classroom without even trying. We all stop talking immediately; he's that kind of teacher.

“We have two new students today. Well, new to our class. Only one is new to our school. Please welcome Dina and Chelsea. And please get to work on your fiftieth-anniversary projects while I get them situated.”

He gestures us over to his desk.

I wave good-bye to Kendall and Molly, even though I'm not really going all that far.

“Chelsea, I see you're not really new to the school, just a little late to eighth grade.” He smiles at us both. “So how are you settling in so far?”

“Fine,” I say.

“Dina?” he looks to the new girl, who doesn't really seem to be paying attention.

“Oh, um … great.” She laughs, even though nothing's funny.

He swivels himself forward in his desk chair and starts moving some papers around. I think he's the kind of person who needs to do at least two things at a time. “How familiar are you with the fiftieth-anniversary gala?”

“I read my mom's e-mail, so I know a little about it.” After I say it, I immediately feel like a weirdo. What kid reads their mom's e-mail? Only obsessive worriers like me, but I try not to think about that. “It's in December, right?”

“Yes. Well, I'll get both of you up to speed. Dina, do you know much about this? I know it's only your first day here at Rockwood Hills.”

“I don't know anything.” She laughs again. “I mean, about this.”

I can't really get a good read on this girl. She's new, today's her first day, but she's a month late starting. It's strange that we're both late and starting the same day. We seem to be grouped together into some latecomers club or something.

She's got an artsy look—long curly hair, flared corduroy pants, trapezoid-shaped brown chunky glasses. She's plain, but not because she's lazy about her appearance, but because she wants to look that way. And she's smiling, even now, smiling and laughing for no reason whatsoever. She's the kind of girl that teachers just
loooove
and most kids hate except for the select few who find her intriguing.

I have her figured out already.

Mr. Valakis is still explaining the gala. “Okay, here's the scoop. It's Rockwood Hills Middle School's fiftieth anniversary this year, so the PTA is organizing a huge gala event. Black tie, yada yada. The eighth graders all have a role in it. The science fair projects will be displayed, the chorus is singing, there's a little play parody thing being worked on, and some kids are painting murals. Pretty much anything and everything is going into this event.”

I turn around to look at my friends. They're in the back row working on whatever they're working on, and they actually look serious about it. Why didn't they tell me about this? They told me about everything else—like, how they couldn't stop cracking up because Brynn Waverly slipped on a mound of mashed potatoes in the cafeteria one day and how pretty much everyone failed the first math test of the year, so Ms. McGinnis let them retake it.

But they didn't tell me anything about this. Maybe it's not that big of a deal. But if it is that big of a deal, I should have known what they were doing for it. I could've been working on it at home this whole month.

“So you're a little late to be starting this, and I doubt you had much time to think about it, but any ideas on what you'd like to contribute?” He looks at me first.

“I can just go join my friends in the back, help them with whatever they're working on.” I smile and stand up straight. I hate that I slouch so much, and teachers always want kids to have good posture.

That's easy enough. For a second, I thought he was going to pair me up with the new girl or something. I guess now that we're in eighth grade we don't have to be paired up with people anymore and we can choose who we want to work with.

Mr. Valakis keeps clicking his pen open and closed, and it's starting to drive me crazy. I want him to give me the okay so I can go back and work with my friends and things can just go back to normal as quickly as possible. How many more times is he going to say that I'm starting school late? I know I'm late. Sheesh.

“That's a possibility,” he says. “But we'd really like it to be something you're interested in.” He waits a few seconds, and when I don't say anything, he looks at Dina. “Before class, I saw you playing with one of those little video cameras,” he says to her.

“Oh, yeah.” She laughs again. I swear, this girl laughs at anything. What's wrong with her? “I'm kind of obsessed with recording things. I just keep it in my bag.”

Mr. Valakis nods, and I begin to get a bad feeling about this whole thing. Why isn't he letting me go in the back and work with my friends?

“Well, there's an idea!” He sounds a little too excited. “A video! You can do something like ‘A Day in the Life of a Rockwood Hills Student.'”

“Oh, um, well, that'd be cool … but I just got here,” Dina says. “So I don't know much about the school, obviously.” She scratches her head, looking like she's in pain. “But, I mean, I could try and, um … yeah.”

There are times when you do something you really, really don't mean to. But it just happens, totally out of your control. This is one of those times.

I laugh.

I crack up, even though I don't really want to or mean to, but it's just the way she was talking, rambling really, until a lightbulb went off in her brain and she realized she should be nice and respectful to this teacher.

Mr. Valakis looks at me, not pleased at all, and Dina steps back a few feet, twirling a strand of hair so tight around her finger.

“No problem, Dina. Chelsea here can—and will—help you with the video!” Mr. Valakis claps and the whole class looks up, which makes this whole thing seem even worse. Just a second ago, wasn't I going to work with my friends on whatever they were working on? How did things change so drastically so fast? “Right, Chelsea?”

“I thought I was gonna work with Kendall and Molly,” I say as quietly and as politely as possible. “I'm really interested in their project.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire. I don't even know what the project is, but I'm hoping Mr. Valakis doesn't know that!

Dina's looking at the floor like she's counting the little specs on the hideous green linoleum tile.

“You'll do great with the video,” Mr. Valakis says. “You'll show Dina the ropes. With her video skills and your knowledge of Rockwood Hills Middle School, this is going to be superb.”

Both of us are silent.

“Now get to work,” he says.

Dina nods, a little reluctant and a little enthusiastic, a combination that seems impossible, really. Then she walks back to her desk and I start to follow her.

“Chelsea,” Mr. Valakis says, catching me before I walk away. “I expect you to take this seriously.”

This is my last chance to make a case for why I should be allowed to work with my friends. Video isn't my thing, I don't know this girl, and maybe I can show Mr. Valakis how much I can contribute to something I really do care about.