Things Are Gonna Get Ugly (15 page)

Olivia's eyes water. “You are
such
a good friend. I'm
so
lucky.”

I know I am happy for Olivia but I am crying for me. It feels so good to release. I continue to babble how proud I am of her as the warm tears streak down my big fat cheeks. My tongue tastes the saltiness. I feel like I'm letting the inside out. Not in control anymore. I'm being real. For once in my life, I'm being real.

Liar, Liar on the Telephone Wire

“Dad,” I gush into the phone. “My oral report in English. I have it
so
nailed. I'm, like, actually looking forward to tomorrow. And you know that guy I was telling you about? The one I might be, you know, hooking up at the dance with? Well, he said he's going but—”

“Ah, man, Ernestine. I knew he would. Otherwise, he'd be a total and complete idiot and I'd have to fly up and wail on the dude.”

“Dad,” I groan into the receiver, about to explain everything but then I decide against it. I don't tell him that he's not going because of me but because of Petra and that I'm about to ruin my friendship with Olivia. And that I'm not myself. It's waaaaaay too complicated.

He pauses. “So is it formal or informal?”

“Informal, Dad. But lots of girls, you know, find something kind of special for the day.”

“I see,” he says.

“I'm sure I'll figure something out.”

“I'm sure,” he says. “I know it. All good stuff. How's your mom?” I'm surprised. He doesn't normally ask about her.

“Busy. You know, with her photography and wearing pajamas twenty-four–seven.”

“Well, good for her. Keeping busy. I've had
some good conversations lately with some big fish about the screenplay.” I start to space out as he goes on about big agencies versus hands-on managers. Normally, I'm really good at listening to everything my dad has to say about Hollywood stuff, but my mind wanders and I make sure to say, “Uh-huh” at the appropriate places.

Winslow will be at Winterfest. All I have to do now is get him to dance with me.

The Day After

Dribble stands in front of the class waving a stack of tests like a flag. “Anyhoo, I was very pleased, folks. But there were some of you I was NOT happy with at all.” Dribble never loses it and yells. He waggles his mustache and licks his dry, pale lips.

I wait to be that very pleasing person.

Dribble hands back the tests row by row and I see that Caylin has an A-minus. I did better. I know that. And Winslow gets an A. Big surprise. Tyler drums on his desk like he's pleased with his C-plus.

And I close my eyes as the paper drops onto my desk with a soft whosh. When I open them I see a big F and a “See me after class.” As Petra gets her
paper, I hear her go, “Oh, man. He caught us.”

Us
, I thought.
How about
you,
honey bunny?

As Dribble goes through the test I can hardly breathe. I'd gotten every answer correct. Every single stupid one, but
still
he'd given me an F. So not fair. I didn't do the cheating. I'd been cheaten upon. What's up with that?

Killer Choice

When the bell chimes for the end of first period, I zip up to Dribble's desk. “I got all the answers right.”

“Yes, you did,” says Dribble, “and so did
she
.” He nods over at Petra who stands at the opposite side of the desk. She's looking down at her mauve-covered nails.

“But I wasn't the one who cheated,” I blurt.

“I'm sorry, Ernestine.” Cocking his mostly bald head side to side, he cups his ear. “But I heard you agree to let Petra there have a look-see.” He heard that?
Freak.
He eyes Petra. “Did you or did you not ask Ernestine if you could look at her work?” Patting the ends of his flyaway comb-over, he grimaces. “Ma'am. A simple question. Yes or no?”

Petra puckers her nose. “No.”

“No?” Dribble stares her down. His squirrely
mustache quivers. “NO?”

Slamming down her notebook onto the desk, Petra yells, “YES! OKAY. Okay.” I'm not used to seeing Petra so easily defeated but it figures she would be mad about it. She uses her temper as a way to control people.

Even though my throat feels as blocked up as a La Cambia water fountain, I give a Taffeta smile, sliding my lips back over my teeth, and then remember I'm not that girl anymore. I don't need to look happy.

Dribble knocks his forehead with his fist as if he thought of something. “This incident means consequences, such as the NP, as in No Privileges, list.”

The FREAKIN' NP list. “This isn't fair,” I say. “You're punishing me for letting Petra cheat off me but you didn't punish Winslow when he let me cheat off of him.”

Petra stares at me, completely confused. “You, of all people, cheated?”

I wave my hand in front of me. “It's hard to explain.”

“Exactly, it's hard to explain. Anyhoo. I'm the teacher and you're the student. And I have my teacherly reasons for everything.” Scratching his chin, he peers at me. “If you prefer you can have a
fresh start.” I can't do this. There is NO WAY I'LL EVER take any more of Dribble's so-called help. But I can't go NP, either, for obvious reasons. Like I won't have the right to go to Winterfest.

Petra, suddenly, loses the sour look in her face. “Whatever it takes. Give me a fresh start. I'm so there.”

No, Petra. Please. Don't do it. But my lips don't move. No words. She'll think I'm insane, a mess, and she'd be right.

Dribble stares at me, drumming his fingers on his desk.

I swallow, but the knot in my throat doesn't unravel. It's a killer choice—if I take a fresh start, who will I become next? But if I get punished and on NP, it's a lose-lose.

No! Principal!

Mom and I sit in scratchy green chairs, facing Mrs. Barnes and her frowny face. I'm not used to that. Normally, she's all teeth and dimples. In fact, behind her desk are no less than three photographs of Caylin and her sister Phoebe all gummy-smiling. One from Squaw Valley, sitting on a ski lift, and a couple of soccer team photos, too. I know it's crazy, but I feel like they're mocking me.

Mrs. Barnes straightens the papers on her desk that looked perfectly in place already. “I was very disappointed in you, Ernestine.” Then she sighs heavily and sits back against her chair.
And I've been very disappointed in you, Mrs. Barnes. You're planning on cheating this whole school, Mrs. Barnes, with your little testing plan. Wait until all of the ESL students are down visiting their families in Mexico and then test us so you can keep up appearances.
I want to scream at her, but instead I'm listening to her go, “You're now on No Privileges, which as I'm sure you know means no field trips or school dances.” Oh, God. Why did I choose NP?

I want to good-girl nod politely, but this “NO!” bursts from my lips.

Mom squeezes me on the shoulder. “It doesn't seem so bad.”

Further blurtation: “YOU CAN'T DO THIS!”

For a moment, Mrs. Barnes closes her eyes like she can't bear the sight of such an out-of-control child. She purses her lips at Mom, like I'm her fault. But Mom, as always, is oblivious. She smoothes her wild hair. “It will give you time to think about your actions. And it's not like you were dying to go to school dances anyway.”

Whatever

Idiot Winterfest posters cover every imaginable wall, even in Dribble's class.

If I could rip off every poster in this school, I would.

I glare at the smiling little girl in a Santa hat riding a reindeer. It looks like a first-grade Christmas party. I'd LOVE to be able to tell Mr. Dribble about how this isn't working out one little bit! I'd like to tell him how stupid his class is, his ugly mustache, his freaky self. But who cares? It doesn't matter now. I stare at the poster of the dance, and then I claw it off the wall.

No Dance. No Life.

“Here,” I say, handing Ms. Stuckley the notecards and photographs for my presentation.

“It's an oral report, Ernestine,” says Ms. Stuckley, tapping her nose ring. The point is how you verbally execute your presentation.”

I swallow for a moment. Ms. Stuckley stares at me. “It's been a really, really bad day,” I say. Then I start to cry a little.

She pulls up her grade book and I wait for her pseudo British lips to go, “F!” Instead she says, “Make it up when you're feeling better. Tomorrow, I hope.”

“Thank you. Thank you
so much
.”

“You always turn everything in on time, even early. So this one time, I can offer you a little reprieve.” She writes an incomplete next to my name. Incomplete, that's me.

Busted!

I want to bolt out the door to the music room, but Beatle wannabe and orchestra cheerleader Mr. Takashama says, “I'm not letting your modesty get the better of you this time. I called your mother and she says that you don't have nor have ever had tendonitis.” As the bell to end fifth period rang five minutes ago, all of the other string players rush
past me. They have put away their instruments and are psyched to hang with their friends during break.

I'm psyched to get out of this room. This life.

I am such a lame-o. I can't even speak. Instead, I sit down on a chair looking at a sea of notes on a music stand. I have no idea what any of the squiggles mean. I know they're notes of some kind, but after that I'm lost.

“It's okay, Ernestine,” says Mr. Takashama. “It's called performance anxiety. I used to get it too, when I was your age. But I don't like the fact that you had to hide this from me and invent lies. You could have simply told me the truth and I would have understood. You nailed that Bach concerto weeks ago, but you still wanted more. I get it. But I'm telling you it's okay. Whatever you do tonight when you play at the concert will be okay.”

“I'm going to play?'

He nods. “I think it would be the best thing you can do for yourself to get over this hump.”

My stomach slouches. Beads of sweat pour down my forehead. Everything is swirling. How am I going to do this?

Science

Today, of all days, I remember my science teacher's name. Maybe it's because I'm staring at a poster in our room announcing that testing is going to take place in January this year instead of April. Maybe it makes me so mad what Mrs. Barnes is planning on doing to the ESL students that it jogs memory cells. Even though I know who he, my science teacher, is, I still don't like dissecting a cow's eyeball. I think vegetarians should have alternatives, like maybe dissecting a daisy or something. I'll have to talk to Ninai about this and get her to help me start a campaign. Oh, here's the weird part. My science teacher's name is Mr. Butcher, so bizarrely appropriate.

The Winter Concert

I am swinging my violin madly now and Ninai is staring at me. “It's supposed to be good for the wood. Good air flow.” Now my violin is going to accidentally but conveniently bash against the stand and splinter apart. Oh, well. I grab it by the handle with little wooden peg thingies and aim for direct impact, when Mr. Takashama yanks the violin out of my grasp.

“I don't think your mother would appreciate having to pay for a new violin.” Mr. Takashama crouches in front of me, cradling the violin as if it's
a baby. “You better be okay. I'm not taking no for an answer because the concert is starting in”—he looks at his watch—“five minutes.”

I think it's time for me to bolt. Maybe I'll go to Antarctica. I don't think they have violins down there.

Somehow

There isn't one empty seat. Parents stand in the aisles. Grandparents hold programs (expertly calligraphed by Olivia) and snap photos. And my mother is MIA. She said she'd be there but would be running from a class in Palo Alto. I didn't protest when she warned me that she'd be late. It's not like I actually want her to see me sucking in front of hundreds of people. But somehow I'm here, sitting in this folding chair, my violin tuned and on my lap.

Somehow, I couldn't bail on orchestra because, maybe, I'm just a little bit curious about what will happen if I actually try to play. Or maybe it's that I want to punish myself.

Mr. Takashama is wearing a hat with a menorah on top. His wife, who's Jewish, made it for him.

It's my Bach solo. Waving his baton into the air, he motions to me so I pick up my violin.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman burst
into the back of the auditorium with a floppy hat. Mom! Late but here. I pick up the violin and put it under my chin. I can feel all the eyes. The stage lights laser onto my back. A trickle of sweat tickles my shoulder blades. I can hear all of the collective breathing of the crowd. Mr. Takashama waves his baton into the air and he nods at me.

And I begin to play.

Somehow my arm remembers notes. My wrist knows how to bow, my arms know the proper way to stroke back and forth across the four strings. Am I reading the notes? I stop thinking, stop caring, and give in to the music. Why didn't I trust myself earlier? My mind knew. It knew algebra. It knew Dadaism. Why not violin? I feel my body swaying. Some notes make me angry, others so crazy sad it clouds my chest with sadness.
How am I doing this? How did I never do this before?

After I'm done, Mr. Takashama plunks back in his Dracula teeth. Everyone's clapping. My orchestra teacher smiles, fangs and all. They're clapping for me, even Winslow.