The Reinvention of Bessica Lefter (14 page)

The smiley dimpled girl in math was absent. And that was a bummer. But I did learn her name, because the teacher called it three times to make sure she wasn’t there. “Raya Papas? Raya Papas? Raya Papas?” Then I helped him by saying, “She can’t answer you. She’s absent.” While everyone else around me solved word problems involving
sales tax, I decided to solve a different problem. I needed a lunch group. I only knew Annabelle Deeter, Dolan the Puker, three psycho-bullies, the odor girl, and an out-of-control hall monitor. Obviously, I needed to eat lunch with Annabelle and join her network.

On the way to the cafeteria to locate Annabelle, I passed a poster that said the first meeting of the Yearbook Club was happening right then. I stopped in my tracks. This was something I wanted to join. Maybe even more than Annabelle Deeter’s network. I had to make a choice: Annabelle Deeter or Yearbook? Unofficial group or official group?

It was a no-brainer. I bought some cookies and headed straight for the Yearbook Club. Annabelle Deeter and her network would also be around tomorrow. But the first meeting of Yearbook Club was happening today.

It started off with the advisor asking the group questions that I thought were weird. “Do you want to document the social interactions of your peers? Are you good at writing snappy captions? Do you naturally think in terms of spatial layout? How many of you feel the graphic novel is an undervalued art form?”

If Sylvie had been there we would have rolled our eyes a lot and made fun of this advisor, because Yearbook shouldn’t be lame. Yearbook should be about sneaking
around and taking pictures of unsuspecting people looking goofy or coming out of the bathroom. But this advisor couldn’t see that. I didn’t even write my name down on the sign-up sheet after his lecture. I didn’t want to spend another lunch like this, let alone a year. Plus, Cameron Bon Qui Qui was there. And while she might have been a decent hall monitor, she was not a fun person.

After lunch, in geography, we learned about the ideal temperature for penguins to incubate their eggs. We also watched a short film about penguins incubating their eggs, and that was pretty entertaining. But then some of the eggs were duds and no babies hatched and the film ended and I had to go to public speaking. Mrs. Moppett spent most of the class talking about proper posture.

She kept calling kids up to the front and then asking them to exhibit improper posture techniques: slouching, head-forward position, rounded shoulders. Then she would adjust their bodies and demonstrate proper physique. I was terrified that I was going to be called to the front of the class. Thankfully that didn’t happen. Redge Marzo had to demonstrate belly breathing versus diaphragmatic breathing. And I took notes, but both of those techniques looked like very weird ways to breathe.

When I got to PE, I had gym clothes with me. My stretch pants were black, not purple. Lots of kids didn’t have
purple pants, so it wasn’t a huge problem. But then Ms. Penrod lectured us a little bit about the importance of proper athletic gear and team spirit:

“Victory starts with impeccable clothes. I could tell you a story about a chance for the world record and a disastrously placed grass stain that would break your hearts.

“I’ll give you one week to have the proper attire. Trust me,” she said, pointing her toned arm at us, “clothes matter. They can mean the difference between winning and losing.” Then she blew her whistle and told us that we needed to run around the gym. Then she blew her whistle again and told us to stop because she’d forgotten to tell us something. I was so tired that I did whatever she said.

“When it comes to physical fitness, variety is the most powerful motivator,” she said. “Do you believe me?”

And we all nodded. But I don’t think any of us believed her.

“Every Friday we will have a special guest teach us a new fitness skill. Alice Potgeiser has agreed to come in next week and teach us basic and intermediate tumbling.”

This was good news. Because I would need some basic and intermediate tumbling skills in order to try out for cheerleading. Now I wouldn’t have to find a cable program to learn this stuff. I could just come to PE. When I glanced around, not everybody looked as thrilled as I was about
tumbling with Alice Potgeiser. One girl next to me made gagging sounds and said, “Alice is so stuck-up.” And the girl next to her said, “Totally.”

“Make sure you eat a light lunch that day,” Ms. Penrod said. “We’ll be tumbling on mats for the entire class.”

Then she blew her whistle again and we all started running around the gym. Twenty-seven times. And when I was done and got on the bus, I sort of wanted to drop out of school.

When my mom came home from work, she had some important news. And I immediately thought this news was going to be about me. But it wasn’t.

“Foot surgery can really sideline a person,” my mom said as she secured plastic wrap over the top of the tuna fish casserole. “I want to go and visit Betty and drop this off, and I want you to come too.”

“Why?” I asked. My mom did nice things for people all the time, but I wasn’t usually dragged along.

“I need you to hold the casserole.” She grabbed her purse.

I thought about objecting in a strenuous way, but I was too tired to do that. Middle school was a real energy zapper. As we drove along, I watched the world fly past me. And I got an idea.

“Can we drive by Sylvie’s house?” I asked.

“Isn’t she at school?” my mom asked.

“Probably.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to stalk her block,” my mom said.

But I didn’t really have a problem with that. I looked down at the casserole. And I realized that my mom could have set this on the floor or in the backseat and driven to this lady’s house without me.

“I understand why you want to give this toe-surgery lady a tuna fish casserole,” I said. “But I don’t understand why you wanted me to come. You could have put this on the backseat.”

“Her name is Betty. Do not call her the toe-surgery lady.”

As we drove to Betty’s house, I got curious as to what exactly had been wrong with her toes.

“Was it fungus?” I asked. That was probably a serious and common toe problem for the elderly.

“It wasn’t fungus. It was structural. She suffered from severe mallet toe.”

The casserole didn’t stink like fish at all. It smelled like cheese and bacon. I lifted the plastic wrap off of a corner of the dish so the smell could escape more easily. I really liked that smell. It reminded me of pizza. Sort of.

“Do you know what mallet toe is?” my mother asked.

“A terrible deformity that makes it impossible to wear sandals?”

My mother stopped at a red light and frowned at me. “You shouldn’t make fun of people with toe deformities.”

“I was being serious,” I said.

“Mallet toe is a condition where a toe curls due to a bend in the top of the toe joint.”

“Did the doctor have to break her toe to fix it?” I asked.

“Not quite,” she said. “Do you really want to hear the details? Her toe was quite rigid, so fixing it required some invasive action.”

“I’ll use my imagination,” I said.

When we pulled up to Betty’s house, I noticed a brown dog out front. It looked small, but I could see its teeth. “Will that dog attack me if I’m carrying a casserole that has a bacon scent?” I asked.

“Let me carry the casserole,” my mom said.

So we walked up Betty’s driveway and the toothy brown dog didn’t bother us at all. In fact, it ran around to the backyard like a total coward. We got to the front door and my mom didn’t even knock. She pushed Betty’s big red door right open. And that surprised me. So I tugged on my mom’s shirt a little bit in disapproval.

“We’re breaking into her house?” I asked.

“She knows I’m coming and she’s bedridden,” my mom said.

Once we were inside mallet-toe Betty’s house, I realized that she was a weird person. Because in addition to having
almost no furniture, and a bicycle in her living room, Betty had otters everywhere. She had photos of them. And pillows of them. And statues of them. And paintings of them. They hung all over her aqua blue walls and lined her dusty windowsills. Betty even had macaroni art that looked like fat, splashing otters hanging in her dining room.

“What’s with the otters?” I asked. “And where is her couch?”

But my mom didn’t answer. “Betty?” she called. “Betty?”

“I’m in the bedroom,” a voice answered.

I stopped. It felt weird to walk into a stranger’s bedroom.

“I’ll wait here,” I said. “By the bike.”

But my mom set the casserole down on the kitchen counter and shepherded me into Betty’s bedroom.

I was relieved to see that Betty had a bed, but I was alarmed by how terrible she looked. Her hair was greasy and gray. And she didn’t have any makeup on. She wore a blue bathrobe and her skin glowed a very pale color and I could see her blue leg veins. One of her feet was bandaged and elevated on a pillow. Her television hung from the ceiling like TVs do in hospital rooms. She was watching a show about otters.

“It’s so good to see you, Bambi,” Betty said.

My mom’s name was Bambi.

“We brought you a casserole,” my mom said. “We’ll leave it in the fridge.”

“Oh!” Betty squealed. “That is so sweet. All I’ve eaten since the surgery is frozen burritos.”

When I heard this I frowned. And I quit breathing deeply, because I realized that I smelled burritos, and that was not a pleasant odor.

“Do you need help with anything? Laundry? Yard work?” my mom asked.

I kept looking around Betty’s bedroom. She had a ton of pictures on her blue walls. They were of people who looked like Betty who were doing vacation things. Swimming. Boating. Riding donkeys.

“It’s nice just to have somebody to talk to,” Betty said.

Which was an awful thing for Betty to say, because that meant we had to stay longer and have a conversation with her. My mom sat down on a footstool and I stood next to her.

“Are you Bessica?” Betty asked. “Your mother has told me so much about you.”

“Cool,” I said.

“Bessica just had her first week of middle school,” my mom said.

“Oh,” Betty moaned. “Middle school. I’m glad I’m done with that.”

“Did you have terrible teachers?” I asked. My mind flashed to PE and Ms. Penrod.

Betty shook her head. “Middle school is a cruel institution. The food is terrible. The lessons are often meaningless. And the students are little demons. If you can survive that, you can survive anything.”

And while Betty was talking, I heard something besides Betty. It was a squeaky sound. And it was coming from outside. When I looked out the window, I saw somebody I knew bouncing into the air. It was the dimpled girl who’d been absent from math class. Raya Papas. And she was jumping on a trampoline next door.

“Demons!” Betty said.

This made me take a small step back, because if I followed Betty’s logic, she was telling me that I was a demon.

“Bessica finds middle school exciting,” my mom said.

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I find it puke-bad.”

“And it only gets worse,” Betty said.

“Now, Betty,” my mom said. “Let’s not be too negative.”

I stopped watching Raya bounce and started watching Betty. She was turning a pink color.

“It’s pure and total horror,” Betty said. She sat straight up and wagged her finger at me. “I’d rather have surgery on all ten of my toes than go back and face one day of middle school.” Then she leaned back down and her pillows made a plopping sound.

“Wow,” I said. Usually adults weren’t this honest. I looked around the room and noticed an orange prescription bottle on the floor. “Are you taking painkillers?” I asked. Grandma took those once and she became very talkative and direct during that time. Betty ignored my question.

“Are you being forced to take public speaking?” Betty asked.

“I am,” I said.

“Let’s stay positive,” my mother interjected.

“Know this,” Betty said. “You can’t win. Say what they want you to say. Do whatever they tell you to do. Keep your head down. Avoid everyone.”

While Betty was talking, I heard a panicked scream from next door and I saw Raya Papas fly off the trampoline. Then I heard a thud. And that was followed by moaning. This made me gasp a little, because it was like mallet-toe Betty and my mom didn’t know that Raya Papas might have just gotten killed. I was the only one who knew that.

“Hey,” I said. But my mom interrupted me.

“Betty, Bessica likes her public speaking teacher.”

“No, I don’t,” I said.

“The institution,” Betty said. “It wants to flatten you. Don’t join their clubs. Don’t eat their food. Don’t play with the demons. Tell the world to leave you alone and it will.”

“Okay,” I said.

But really, I thought that mallet-toe Betty might be
crazy, and I was hoping we could get out of there and possibly check on Raya.

“You think I’m joking,” Betty said. “And I’m not. The institution is a system. It will turn you into a potato.”

But then Betty started snoring.

“She’s tired and medicated,” my mother said. “She didn’t mean any of it.”

“I think she did,” I said. I’d never thought of middle school as an institution or a system. “Middle school wants to turn me into a potato.”

It sounded totally crazy, but not any crazier than psycho-bullies or Dolan the Puker.

“That doesn’t make any sense, Bessica,” my mother said.

But it did. Mallet-toe Betty made a lot of weird sense. And as we left her house, I told my mom that I wanted to go check on Raya.

“I saw her fly off the trampoline,” I said. “And that was followed by moaning.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” my mother asked.

“Betty was talking,” I said.

When we got into Raya’s backyard, there wasn’t anything but a trampoline and a pair of shoes.

“These are just like my shoes!” I said, picking one up. Then I looked to see what color tongues she’d attached, and they were yellow. I hadn’t used my yellow tongues yet.

“Do you want to knock?” my mom asked.

I looked around her yard and it seemed empty. Her house seemed empty too. I figured either Raya was in a hospital dying or already dead, or she was sleeping, and I should probably wait to see her again in school. Because it wasn’t like she was my friend. She was just a person with dimples who sat next to me in math and ignored me.