The Reinvention of Moxie Roosevelt (9 page)

I was starting to feel mighty bad for these sea cows myself, forgetting momentarily that I had invented them along with their imaginary algae pastures. And then I felt even worse. There were plenty of real animals on the endangered list, after all. Now I had invented a new species and practically destroyed it in only a few minutes. Not an ideal start for a budding animal rights activist. The whole thing made my stomach hurt.

“Let’s not talk about the sea cow,” I said. “It’s depressing. Besides . . .”

Then I gestured toward her fish. Like, it might
upset
them. The smaller one did look a little agitated around the eyes.

“But that’s exactly why we
do
have to talk about it,” Reagan insisted. “We need to face the painful stuff the last generation has left for us, or we’ll never be able to deal with it ourselves!”

Uh-oh. My subject-change cue had failed.

“And I’m sorry to say I’m as ignorant as anyone about this sea cow situation,” Reagan continued. “I mean, where is their primary habitat? How many of them are there? Do you know what percentage of the population has died off?”

I was now officially in over my head. And the sea cows were circling. My ARA personality was in jeopardy—I recognized that. But there was too much going on in my mind at once. I opened my mouth, and then closed it with an audible click. What I really needed to do was get to the practice rooms as soon as possible. If I knew anything about my real self, it was that when things got crazy, the best thing I could do was pound things out on the ivories for an hour or two. Or at least for a half hour before French.

“The truth is, Reagan,” I said, taking a deep breath and hoping the truth was about to hit me, “the truth is, in actuality, in the starkest possible terms . . .”

I leaned forward as if I was going to tell her a secret, and with my body blocking her view, I tipped my twelve-ounce glass of milk into my own lap.

“Oh, gosh! Darn!” I yelled, leaping up.

The good news was the subject of the sea cow population was momentarily tabled. The bad news was that just about everybody was now looking at me.

Reagan and Sage handed me all of their napkins.

“I’m so sorry, you guys,” I said. “What a klutz. I better go to my room and get cleaned up.”

“Sure!” Reagan said, tossing some extra napkins onto the floor to mop up the excess. “Maybe I’ll find you later. One of the reasons I wanted to meet you is I’m planning on starting an animal rights group,” she said. “I’m going to petition the administration to start my own. And to fund me. Not as an EE, since those end after October, but as a school club. Do you think you might be able to help me out?”

“Definitely!” I said, squirming in my soaking jeans. “I’m definitely in. I’ll catch you later, okay?”

“Great!” Reagan exclaimed. “Maybe someone in your sea cow group could send us a letter of recommendation.”

“Maybe,” I told Reagan. “Or there’s this environmental guy my mom did some writing for last year—Julius Severay, I think his name is.”

Reagan’s mouth dropped wide open.

“Julius Severay? Of the Global Wildlife Coalition?”

“That’s the guy.”

“My gosh, he’s like, huge!”

“I can ask my mom to e-mail him. See if he’d be willing to get you a letter, or endorsement or something.”

Reagan put her hand over her mouth.

“That would be . . . Oh Moxie . . . that would be the coolest thing ever!”

“I’ll get right on it,” I said with a grin.

Reagan patted her roommate’s arm.

“You were right, Sage. This girl is aces.”

Sage smiled.

I gave them both what I felt was an excellent Assertive Revolutionary Activist smile—strong, compassionate, and committed. Well, that’s what I was aiming for, anyway. And I meant it. In spite of the mess I’d made over the sea cow thing, not to mention the milk, I realized that being an ARA was extremely inspiring. This was definitely a top contender for my new personality, if I could just get things under control again.

I walked toward the dining hall exit, my wet sneakers making a high squeaking sound. As I reached the doorway, my path was blocked by someone trying to come in at the same time. Kate Southington. There was a brief, weird moment where I expected us to engage in the little step-left-step-right dance you do when you’re trying to get around someone. But Kate stood stock-still, like she was made of marble. I was torn between a Mexican stand-down and avoiding an awkward moment in public. After a few seconds, I opted for avoiding the awkward moment and got out of the way. Kate began to breeze past me like royalty, pausing to direct a quick, pointed stare at my milk-sodden jeans. I felt a flash of irritation at myself for giving in so easily.

So I guess this was the way it was going to be now. I had a hint of it the night before, when Kate showed up in our suite to invite Spinky over for cake. Just Spinky. Spinky, always congenial, had cheerfully accepted the offer, generously suggesting that I might like to come along. But one glance at the scowl on Kate’s face was enough. I made a polite excuse about having to investigate some classic Iggy Pop cuts on iTunes. When they walked out, Kate put her arm through Spinky’s and shot me a look I can only describe as triumphant. She seemed to think that Spinky was a prize we were competing for. And that only one of us could win. I refused to now simply stand frozen like a dummy.

So I loudly said hello to her. My mother always says the best way to deal with someone who’s being hostile is to be nice to them. The best way to deal with Kate, then, was to be nice to her no matter what she did to me.

And it worked, because like most people, Kate had the automatic-response-impulse hardwired into her brain, which caused her to look over her shoulder and say hello back to me when she probably would have preferred to maintain an icy silence. But she ducked her head after she said it, and turned her face in the other direction, reminding me of a celebrity encountering hordes of photographers.

“Well, see you later,” I said, making my tone cheerful. “Watch out for those paparazzi!”

Now, I don’t know why I said that last part. I guess I was still thinking Kate looked like a movie star ducking an
Entertainment Television
cameraman. I certainly didn’t mean anything by it. But she turned around and glared at me with such hostility, I almost gasped. It was crazy! How could anyone be insulted by that ridiculous remark?

The be-nice-to-your-enemies thing was clearly off the table for now. I did what any normal person would do—I fled, trotting as fast as I could into the alcove, then heading for the hallways. Auntie Sparkles gave me a disapproving look as my shoes squeaked while I jogged up the stairs. I’m sure she felt running was un-ladylike, as was being covered with milk.

But the practice rooms were clear across campus—I had to put on some dry pants and get to a piano before I accidentally-on-purpose made a bigger mess of my life.

I skipped
dinner. I didn’t want to run into Kate, it’s true. Also, I have an embarrassing appetite for
Fabulous
magazine, the fat glossy monthly that delivered all the food groups: beauty tips, makeovers, horoscopes, and celebrity gossip. I wanted to get to the school bookstore before it closed to buy the latest issue. The Eaton bookstore was a miracle of commerce—they carried everything from T-shirts and sweats emblazoned with the school logo, to school supplies, unhealthy snacks, assorted toiletries, textbooks, actual books, and a generous selection of magazines.

I arrived at the bookstore with cash in pocket, ready to feed my
Fabulous
habit, only to find Luscious Luke standing in front of the magazine rack, absorbed in something about video gaming. Luscious Luke was almost as flawless as Carson McGillion. In addition to being the son of Eaton’s Dean of Students, he was high profile for his glorious floppy blond hair, his thickly curled eyelashes, his long lanky legs, and for being the only teenage boy on campus. Luscious Luke didn’t know me from a jelly donut, but I’d have sooner gone to the dentist for a couple of root canals than buy
Fabulous
in front of him.

I realized I’d have to stall until he left. So I made a beeline around the bookshelves in the opposite direction of the magazine rack and almost collided with a very small person in an oversized ball cap bearing a Chicago Bears logo.

“Yowza,” said Ms. Hay.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t see you. I mean, I wasn’t looking,” I corrected quickly, because I didn’t want to make it sound like a comment about her height.

“Happens to me all the time,” Ms. Hay said. “That’s life when your head doesn’t even clear the top of the ‘contemporary romance novel’ stack.”

She laughed, and I responded with an uncomfortable smile.

One of the weird things about boarding school is getting used to seeing your teachers outside of the classroom. It wasn’t always a good thing. I had run into Mrs. Feeny outside the gym complex just the day before. I never enjoyed seeing Mrs. Feeny under any circumstances, and now that the vision of her in spandex running pants was burned into my retinas, I liked it even less.

But for some reason Ms. Hay didn’t give me that same squirmy get-me-out-of-here feeling. And since Luscious Luke was now near the door, it was a bad time to make a quick getaway. I decided to buy a few seconds by remarking on the books Ms. Hay had tucked under one arm.

“Um, find something good?” I asked.

Ms. Hay heaved an enormous sigh.

“Busted,” she said.

“Busted?” I asked. Who was busted?

She scanned the bookstore for eavesdroppers carefully with an exaggerated expression, then leaned toward me.

“Promise. Not. To. Tell,” she whispered.

I nodded. It was easy, given I had no idea what we were talking about.

“Okay,” Ms. Hay said. Then she showed me the books.

“
Star Trek
novels?” I exclaimed.

Ms. Hay hung her head.

“My secret shame,” she said. Then she looked up at me and winked.

“You’re a Trekkie,” I said.

She nodded.

“Card-carrying,” she added.

“My dad says being a Trekkie is a sign of intelligence,” I said. He really had said that. More than once.

“Well obviously, he’s right,” she said. Then she lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper. “But not everyone . . . you know. Understands.”

I laughed.

“Well . . . we . . . Amish are known for our . . . understanding and stuff,” I said.

“I certainly appreciate it,” Ms. Hay said very seriously.

“Well, it’s not like you’re one of those nutbags who wears a Starfleet uniform and speaks Klingon and stuff,” I said.

Ms. Hay held her arms out like wings, a Star Trek novel clutched in each miniature hand.

“Hello. My name is Nutbag.”

“You . . . have a Starfleet uniform?” I asked, trying not to laugh at the idea.

“Original series, the red one Uhura used to wear. I’ve even got the go-go boots and a communicator to go with it. I’m still working on the Klingon, though.”

Ms. Hay looked like she was bursting with pride in the face of this disclosure. My mind was tumbling over and over again trying to get a visual image of Starfleet Cadet Hay. It was an oddly adorable picture.

“Well, I liked the newest movie,” I offered.

Oh. Did the Amish go to movies?

Ms. Hay shot one hand up, palm out.

“Stop right there,” she commanded. “I don’t want to hear about that film. If you want real
Star Trek,
you’ve got to go back to the sixties.”

Something about the gleam in her eyes made me want to do so immediately.

“Maybe I can rent it over vacation,” I said.

“Forget renting it,” Ms. Hay said. “I’ve got it all on DVD. Three seasons in three boxes shaped like photon torpedoes: command yellow, science blue, and engineering red. Tell you what—after what I’m sure will be your EE talent show triumph, I’ll have you over to check out a few choice episodes. We can watch and nosh. I make a mean Beanie Weenie.”