The Forever Crush (5 page)

These are questions I could have asked Forrest (maybe) if we were a real couple, or that I could have pondered with Kate and Piper. They loved giving advice about guys. But how could I talk about any of this? If I were really with Forrest, none of it would be an issue.

I started hoping and praying Kate would answer my anonymous PLS question—and quickly. For good karma, I promised to start right away on my answer about the Fat or Not notebook. I had already made Emma Shrewsberry wait long enough. I started ticking off advice points in my head and wished I had a notebook with me in the shower to jot some of them down. But just as I got to thinking, Mom was knocking loudly on the door.

“Jemma, for the love of Pete, we're going to run out of water if you don't get out of the shower already!”

Fourteen

I arranged to meet Bet at Lucky's Coffee Shop early the next morning. I arrived first and ordered myself a raspberry zinger tea with double lemon. Bet knew nothing about last night and I hadn't discussed Forrest with her since this new development: me being his sorta girlfriend.

It was a relief to know that she wouldn't press me for details I didn't want to discuss. I continued to ignore my cell phone and the texts about whether Forrest kissed me or not. I would later tell Kate and Piper that my phone was out of charge (another lie—but who's counting?).

I pulled out my notebook and tried to think of all the advice I could give someone like Emma Shrewsberry about a weight problem. I sat there with the pen poised for several minutes. But what did I know about being overweight? I was a round and chubby baby, but as I got older, I turned thin, like my dad. In fact, I had wished at times that I would gain weight, but my doctor said I was “healthy and consistent on the curve”—whatever that meant.

I guess I could suggest that Emma talk to her doctor, but this seemed like bad advice because once you're an older kid, you only go to the doctor, like, once a year. Maybe she could text her doctor. Do doctors answer texts? It would be helpful if they did.

Bet slid into the booth with a steaming cup of something that smelled like gingerbread. Christmas was on the way.

“I heard you went to dinner and a movie with Forrest last night,” Bet said with a knowing smile.

I sighed and said yes.

“Can we talk about that later?” I asked. “I want to see if you can help me with a PLS question.”

Bet looked a little hurt, but she pulled out her own notebook and pen and said okay.

“Since you're interested in this Fat or Not list, I thought you would be able to help,” I said.

Bet sighed and nodded.

“A girl has written in—we think it's Emma Shrewsberry—to ask how she can find out if she's actually fat,” I said. “She also wants to know how to lose weight quickly.”

“Well, I don't know all that much, but I do know that she shouldn't try to lose weight fast,” Bet said. “It's possible she doesn't even need to lose weight.”

I remembered looking through the pages of the Fat or Not notebook. Kate had received some votes in the fat column, but with Emma, it was a landslide win for fat over not fat.

Bet looked grim as she swirled a packet of sugar into her cinnamon spice tea.

“I wasn't going to say anything, but I actually do have some research on this. And I might as well give it to you because I don't need it,” Bet said.

“Why not?”

“Principal F. says I can't do a report about the Fat or Not notebook. He says it's not appropriate, and that I should do my next report on good hand-washing techniques in advance of flu season.” Bet rolled her eyes.

Bet's weekly show on our school's TV channel, MSTV, had started out really well. She won a contest, beating out both Taylor Mayweather and Clem Caritas, for the opportunity to have her own show. But almost immediately, she ran into problems with Principal Finklestein.

He refused to let her broadcast part two of her investigation into the history of the Pink Locker Society. Only a few of us knew what she learned—that in the 1970s the PLS office was ransacked and their printing equipment stolen after they supported something controversial at the time: girls' sports! I didn't have the heart to tell Bet that now there were more newsworthy angles to pursue, like how we were getting scary threats and all about the pink chain messages.

Bet had done a few of her
You Bet!
shows with no problems. She reported on recycling and on how to avoid choking on food (I was the star of that one). But for a second time Principal F. was telling Bet not to broadcast her report—to replace interesting stuff that people would have wanted to watch with hand-washing instructions.

“It's censorship, plain and simple,” Bet said. “I'd like to sue but my parents said I should try to work ‘within the system.'”

“So you can't do anything about the Fat or Not list?”

“No, I can't report about ‘any subject that may reflect negatively upon Margaret Simon Middle School.'”

“That stinks, Bet,” I said, “but if you tell me what you know about being overweight, at least I can help Emma, or whoever it is. It's got to be Emma, don't you think?”

“Probably, but then there are all those girls who think they are fat and aren't fat at all.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” I said. Sitting there with Bet made me remember why I liked her even though she wasn't one of my besties. She had a mind that worked hard and she had ideas that were not the obvious ones. I had been not-so-secretly happy when she dropped out of the PLS to do her shows. But we kinda-sorta actually needed her.

Bet shook her head like she was trying to shake the memory of Principal Finklestein from her head. Then she laid out what she knew.

“If someone wants to know if they're overweight or not, they can use the body mass index.”

“How do you use it? What does it do?”

“I'm not completely sure. When I Googled it, you get an equation of sorts. It's a math problem.”

“So I'll have to ask Mr. Ford, not the school nurse?”

“Maybe both of them?” Bet said. “That's what I was going to do. Back when I had a show, that is.”

“You'll have a show, Bet,” I said. “You're not the kind to give up.”

Fifteen

For the most part, we didn't want grown-ups involved in the Pink Locker Society. We liked calling all the shots. None of us had told our parents that the PLS was back up and running, and we prayed daily that Principal Finklestein wouldn't find out either. But the one adult we were grateful to have in the know was Ms. Russo. She was our confidante and unofficial adult adviser.

I wanted to tell someone quite desperately about the threatening messages. It was kind of like we were being bullied and I wanted that person to STOP. I mean, do you want to hear that some mystery person lurking around your school thinks you're trashy or that someone is out to get you? We certainly didn't. So it felt good when we caught Ms. Russo one day after school and told her what was going on. We had shared the first of these messages with her weeks ago, but we hadn't told her that they'd continued—and that they had gotten even meaner.

“And you don't have any clue who might be sending these?” she said, elbows resting on her desk.

It was filled from edge to edge with papers, pens, markers, handmade treasures, and at least three coffee cups from today, yesterday, who knew? There was a lot to look at on her desk, but these days my eyes always settled on her left hand and that beautiful new engagement ring.

We told her that we had no clue, except that we thought it was a strange coincidence that Principal F. had often used that disturbing term
inappropriate.

“Oh, come on, girls—it's not him. Trust me, if he wanted you to shut down he'd go straight to your parents again,” she said.

Piper, Kate, and I slumped low in our chairs, almost in unison. Just thinking about Principal Finklestein going to our parents made us shudder.

“I don't like the idea that someone is threatening you so personally,” Ms. Russo said.

And we hadn't even shown her the really cruel message. You know the one.

She said she'd call upon her Pink Lady contact, the one who had been feeding her information for awhile. This former Pink Locker Lady—years ago that's what they called themselves—apparently worked at the school but didn't want to be identified.

“It's good to have someone on the inside,” Ms. Russo said, “who will share information with me.”

Ms. Russo started riffling through layers of papers and artwork on her desk. And then, like she had been fishing with a line, she pulled out a narrow rectangle of paper. She handed it to me, so I was first to see that it was a homemade bookmark that said “STOP the PLS. It's gross and discusting!”

“The person can't even spell
disgusting
,” I said, shocked. “Where did this come from?”

“Someone's been putting them in library books,” Ms. Russo said. “We have a friend in there and she's trying to get rid of them, but it's difficult. There are two thousand books in our library.”

So the librarian was on our side, too. I'd seen Ms. Russo and Mrs. Kelbrock having lunch together.

“Let me see that,” Piper said, grabbing the flimsy bookmark from me. “We are not disgusting. This is ridiculous!” Piper exclaimed when she read what it said.

“Well, some people
are
grossed out about periods and stuff,” Kate said.

“Yeah, but you get over it—and it doesn't make us disgusting,” Piper said.

Ms. Russo said we should be looking at the bookmark for clues. It was written on a strip of looseleaf notebook paper—the same kind of paper everyone at school used. The handwriting didn't look familiar. But the person was a bad speller, so maybe it was a sixth-grader?

“Even if we did know who, what would we do? Complain to the principal?” I asked.

“No, I guess you couldn't do that and stay anonymous and in business,” Ms. Russo said. “But please keep me apprised of these threats and what they say.”

“Could it be a grown-up?” I asked, scared at the thought.

“We don't know. I guess the person could be trying to look like a kid, with the chicken-scratch writing and the misspellings,” Ms. Russo said.

“So is Mrs. Kelbrock the former Pink Locker Lady who you've been talking to?” I asked.

“Aren't you a probing thinker, Jemma? No, it's not her. My contact is older and she wants to stay anonymous,” Ms. Russo said.

Ms. Russo added that she would ask her about the threats and for any help she might provide on that.

“I say we just keep doing what we're doing and ignore it all,” Piper said.

Easy for Piper to say.

“Don't be intimidated, that's the spirit!” Ms. Russo said, in her best “positive teacher” tone.

Piper was ready to change the subject, having plucked a wedding magazine from the edge of Ms. Russo's desk.

“Let's talk wedding!” Piper said.

Ms. Russo smiled and seemed happy to shift gears.

“Well, we
are
in a dilemma right now over the cake. White chocolate mousse or raspberry filling?”

“Both,” we all agreed.

Sixteen

I decided to think hard about who could be the mysterious bookmark-maker. It could be someone like Taylor Mayweather. She was always causing a stir and had once before hacked into the PLS site. (She was caught, but went unpunished.) But Taylor would never have fashioned such a crude bookmark. She would have used sparkles and ostrich feathers, not plain old paper and blue ink.

A boy could have done this. I mean, a boy probably wouldn't care about the prettiness of his bookmark. And I know boys can be grossed out by girl stuff, like periods. I had seen that in sixth grade when they split us up for “the talk” about puberty and stuff. Some boys annoyed us girls by saying gross stuff afterward. But what boy would be so bothered by a girls-only Web site?

It could be someone thousands of miles away. This was the Internet, after all. There was nothing stopping someone in Australia from visiting www.pinklockersociety.org, but this argument fell apart at the bookmarks. How would this devious Aussie get bookmarks into our school library? It seemed like a huge stretch.

We all went to the library at least once a week with our classes, but no one would have enough time to work an operation like this during class.

But wait a minute. If you were in Library Club, you'd have plenty of opportunity.

Eureka! Library club members were in the library every day at study hall, and they were often doing stuff like shelving books.

I had been a library club member in sixth grade. It's a little nerdy, I know, and I am almost embarrassed by how much I enjoyed the solitary task. At first, I thought: How can this be a club when you can only whisper to the other club members? But then I came to enjoy the quiet, orderly activity. You followed the alphabet or the Dewey Decimal System and put things where they belonged. Simple and calming, kind of like running is for me now. I secretly wanted to return to the library club as a member, but I was worried people would make fun of me.

So back to our suspects: the entire library club. I needed to get the members' names and eliminate them one by one.

I texted Kate and Piper without thinking, so proud of my detective work and possible lead. Kate texted back immediately.

KATE
: Where u been?

ME
: Phone dead

KATE
: Lib club? Shazam!

KATE
: How's Forrest? Good night?

ME
: Yep. GTG

Piper wasn't far behind with the text response. She utterly ignored my library club insight.

PIPER
: Answer the smoochie?

ME
: Privacy, pls!