My mom is standing at the counter chatting with Ms. Patel, the school secretary, as I enter the office.
“Mom?”
She turns toward me and smiles. In her hand she holds my compact bee sting kit. Cheerfully, she thrusts the bright yellow box toward me. “You forgot this, and you know you should have it here at school.”
She sees from my look that I am less than thrilled.
“You called me out of the assembly, on the PA system, to give me a bee sting kit? Mom, they have one in the nurse’s office! And what are the chances I would get stung today? I haven’t even seen a bee around here in like a year.”
She looks confused, maybe a little hurt. “Ariel, I was only trying to help. You know how allergic you are—remember last time? You could end up in the hospital . . .”
I snatch the kit, interrupting, “Thanks, Mom.” I try to keep the sarcasm out, but it is hopeless. My words are sharp and angry. The secretary is suddenly very busy with some papers behind her desk.
My mom sighs and gives me that injured-mother look I can’t stand. I feel instantly guilty. She waves to Ms. Patel, and brushes past me out the door, muttering something about ingratitude and anaphylactic shock. I stare after her, the plastic box handle cutting into my fingers as I grip it. The secretary tries to act like she hasn’t been listening to everything as she picks up a small tube and squeezes sludgy, overly sweet hand lotion onto her palm. A drop glops onto her desk. It looks like melted brie cheese, which makes me feel even worse because baked brie is my mom’s favorite appetizer on the planet. I’ll make it tonight, I think, as an apology.
I shake my head and refocus—I still have a day to get through. It is 8:38 in the morning of the first day of eighth grade and I have already managed to embarrass myself in front of the whole school and hurt my mom’s feelings. If I believed in signs, I would be very, very concerned about what this means for my immediate future.
Guilty Daughter Baked Brie
1 tube crescent rolls
cooking spray
1 round of brie cheese, rind (that’s the hard outer part)
removed
¼ C. chopped green olives
¼ C. chopped black olives
1 T. chopped, fresh parsley or 1 t. dried
Preheat oven to 350°. Pop and unroll dough into one big rectangle. If it breaks apart at the seams, mash it back together with your fingers. Spray a cookie sheet with nonstick spray, and lay the rectangle of dough on it. Put cheese in the middle and sprinkle the olives and parsley on top of the cheese. Fold the dough over the cheese, carefully pinching the ends together to completely enclose the cheese. Make it look like a wrapped Hershey’s Kiss shape-wise. Use kitchen scissors or a sharp knife to trim it into an even shape where it “gathers.” Bake for about 20 minutes, until the dough is lightly browned. Let it cool for 10 minutes. Serve with crackers or breadsticks.
A Major Misunderstanding
I join my homeroom, already in progress, and take a vacant seat near the back. Nicki and M are in a different homeroom this year, so I am on my own. Mr. Kraft, a science teacher who knows me already, just raises an eyebrow in my direction and keeps talking. He even gives me a little half smile, which doesn’t make any sense. He is the type that will say something sarcastic about students coming in late, but he surprises me with silence on my tardiness. I am grateful but confused. He is talking about his strict attendance and tardy policy, so I can zone out. I’ve heard it before.
The morning passes quickly. It seems like last year, more or less. A few new faces drift by in the halls, the classes are different, but it all feels the same. I am on guard for people making fun of me for the PA announcement and for tripping like I did, but strangely no one says anything. In fact, several kids actually give me what appear to be looks of sympathy. Kayla, the undisputed leader of the most elite, popular girl pack at school, even says hi and pats my shoulder. I don’t think she’s even noticed I exist before. Wow, could it be possible that the normal savagery of junior high has been replaced with kindness and sympathy? I can’t wait to talk to Nicki and M about all this.
At lunch we meet up at our usual table next to the temporary building. M sits with her elbows propped on the cake carrier full of cucumber salad, which I left when I stumbled my way to the office this morning. Her face is tilted toward the bright sun, which just broke through the fog minutes ago. Her eyes are squinched and she doesn’t see me approach. Nicki’s not here yet.
“Hola Ms. Mattie-M-Matilda,” I call out as I approach. When she was going through all her name confusion I made up this name, which encompasses all the different phases of name she’s been through. She says it sounds like a crazy old lady from a children’s book, but it makes her smile.
She isn’t smiling now though. Her eyes snap fully open and she looks at me with a little furrow of worry running across her forehead. “I can’t even believe you are still here,” she says.
I think she’s being overly dramatic. Yes, I was totally humiliated this morning, but everyone’s been so nice. I’m really not even feeling upset about it anymore.
“Actually, I’m over it, M.” I grab the Tupperware and take off the lid. “In fact, I think everyone’s grown up a lot around here. I mean, no one’s been anything but cool. Even Kayla was sweet to me . . .”
I stop talking because Nicki has raced up. She is stuffing her “emergency only” cell phone into her pocket. She sits at the table, eyeing me very intensely.
“You okay?” She’s staring at me as though I am fragile.
“What is it with you guys? I mean, I got paged and then tripped in front of the school. It wasn’t a stellar experience, but I didn’t pee my pants or barf or something!”
As I talk I smooth the cucumber slices into little fans and slide them to the middle of the table. M takes two and crunches slowly, still staring at me as though I might break down at any moment.
Nicki is straddling the bench so she is staring at my profile. Her body posture says she is ready to hug me or hold me up at any second. I turn my head toward her and give her my best one-raised-eyebrow look.
“I guess being here is probably easiest anyway,” she says, in what I know is her soothing voice. She uses it when her baby brother is crying. My humiliation is hitting them harder than me. Weird.
Nicki puts her hand on my arm. “Air, I have never even told you about going through stuff like this. I mean about . . . loss . . . or just even almost losing someone.... I know this is hard . . .” Nicki is stringing out her words, pausing a lot. I am not one to curse, but what the hell? What is she talking about? Does Nicki have some secret story? I knew something odd was going on with her! But why is she rubbing my arm as if I am going to break down at any moment? Will Rod Serling be making an appearance soon?
I shake my head and shrug. “Nick, what are you talking about?”
Nicki seems to snap out of some trance and she jerks back her arm, shakes her head a little and says, with a forced smile, “Oh, nothing, never mind, you don’t have to talk about it. I just hope you’re okay.” She sounds fakely cheerful.
“I am fine. Over it.” They both just stare back. Awkward silence. Last week’s earthquake pops into my mind. I think it knocked a few screws loose in my friends’ heads.
A change of subject is in order. “Did I tell you guys I’m going to enter the Idaho potato baking contest? I have made my twice-baked recipe five times now, and it is supremely yummy. . . .” I trail off because they are both looking confused. “Um, is there something sinister about