Needless to say, art class had been a huge ego boost.
“Okay, class,” said Mr. Peters, jarring me out of my daydream and back into the very real world of math class. “Let’s exchange papers and do some quick correcting. We only have ten minutes before the period is over.”
I glanced at my paper one last time before handing it to Tim Ryan, a blond, freckled boy who was sitting next to me. He traded his paper for mine, and I pulled out a red pen.
As Mr. Peters went over the answers, I felt a mounting sense of excitement. I knew I’d done well. Tim, on the other hand, had not. I felt terrible about all the red X’s I was making on his paper, and realized how bad Rick Chow must have felt all those times he had to mark my tests.
Finally, we reached the end of the test. “Quickly now, count up the points and write the grade on top of the test,” said Mr. Peters. “Remember, each wrong answer is two points off.”
I counted up Tim’s X’s, multiplied by two, and subtracted the total from one hundred. Then, reluctantly, I wrote a sixty-four on the top of his test. If only he’d had one more right answer, he would have passed! Poor Tim.
I was so busy feeling sorry for him that for a second I almost forgot about my own grade. But Tim reminded me. He gave me a thumbs-up and a huge grin as he held up my paper so I could see the number on the top.
Ninety-six!
Little did he know, that was one of the best marks I’d ever received on a math test. And I mean ever. Even back in fourth grade, when I had a patient teacher named Ms. Jameson, I never did so well on a test.
I felt so great I could hardly sit still. Fortunately, the bell rang then and I was able to jump up and grab my test from Tim’s desk. I wanted to kiss that ninety-six, but I stopped just in time. I wouldn’t have wanted my lip gloss to blur that stupendous number. Instead, after I’d showed my grade to a smiling Mr. Peters so he could record it, I filed the test away in my notebook. I could hardly wait to show it to my parents that night.
I walked out of the classroom feeling as if I were floating on air. If this was what seventh grade was going to be like, I didn’t care if I had to stay there until I was thirty!
Then my world came crashing down.
I barely noticed the chattering of the group around me as I strolled along. I did notice, however, a poster for the Halloween dance, which was going to be held on Friday night.
I thought about the costume I was working on. I’d come up with this great punk look, pairing an old leather jacket of my uncle Russ’s (he used to have a motorcycle before he was married) with torn fishnet tights, my big black Doc Martens, and a spandex miniskirt. Of course, I’d wear the nose ring. That was an important part of the look. And I was thinking about using one of those temporary dyes to put a purple — or maybe a green — streak in my hair.
I wondered if my mom would let me out of the house.
I stepped forward to take a better look at the poster and to check what time the dance was going to start. That’s when I saw something that made my heart lurch.
“Eighth-grade Dance” said a line at the top of the poster.
“Oh, my lord,” I murmured to myself. “That can’t mean what I think it means, can it?”
Before I knew it I had marched into Mr. Kingbridge’s office and asked to see him. Moments later I was sitting in front of his desk. “I can go, can’t I?” I asked. “I mean, I know I’m taking seventh-grade classes, but I’m still technically an eighth-grader, right? I mean, in terms of age and maturity and stuff?”
I was babbling. And here’s why: As soon as I’d started to speak, Mr. Kingbridge had begun to shake his head. I didn’t want to hear him say no, so I just kept talking.
But I couldn’t talk forever, and finally I wound down. Mr. Kingbridge looked genuinely sorry as he explained that he really couldn’t let me go to the dance. “I’d be setting a precedent if I did that,” he said. “And, even though I agree that you have the maturity of an eighth-grader, you are officially a seventh-grader now, Claudia. You’re more than welcome to attend the afternoon party for sixth- and seventh-graders, of course.” He said that last part gently, as if to soften the blow.
It didn’t work. I felt stunned.
In that one second, I forgot everything good about being in seventh grade. That mature Claudia — the one who was able to accept change — disappeared. I realized that from now on I would be separated from my friends. The fact was, they were in eighth grade, and I wasn’t. I was kidding myself if I thought I belonged at that dance, but I sure didn’t belong at any babyish afternoon party, either.
Suddenly, everything had changed for the worse. How could I ever have convinced myself that being back in seventh grade was going to be okay?
I left school that day feeling as low as I’ve ever felt. I walked home slowly, shoulders slumped, kicking a rock in front of me. (I knew I was completely ruining the toes of my Mary Janes, but I didn’t care.) Fortunately I didn’t run into any of my friends. If I had, I would have burst into tears.
Sure, it had been nice to feel that I was doing well in school, and it was cool to know that all the seventh-graders looked up to me. But if I was going to be exiled from the social life I should be having as a thirteen-year-old, what good was any of that? I mean, so what if I’d scored well on a stupid math quiz? And as far as being looked up to, well, I’ve always been one of the cooler kids in school anyway (not to boast). The way I see it, friends are the most important thing in the world. And if I wasn’t going to be allowed to socialize with my friends, I was going to be miserable — even if I was making straight A’s in every subject.
I was miserable. And nothing could snap me out of it. In fact, I kept feeling more and more miserable as the afternoon wore on. When I walked into the kitchen at home, for example, I saw a bowl full of the treats my mom was planning to give out on Halloween. Since she doesn’t believe in junk food, she gives out things like raisins in those little boxes, or plastic baggies full of dried apricots. It’s humiliating. She’s been doing it for years, and by now we hardly ever have any trick-or-treaters.
Anyway, the thought of Halloween and of trick-or-treating should have cheered me up. I mean, a holiday based on candy? What could be better? But this Halloween, I’d be a social outcast. My friends would be whooping it up at a dance, and I’d be — where? Probably home in my room, feeling sorry for myself.
I grabbed a snack and went upstairs. Unpacking my backpack gave me another reason to feel lousy. There were all my seventh-grade books. I piled them on my desk and gave them a nasty look. I had lost all motivation for schoolwork. “Who cares?” I said out loud, glaring at the math test that had slipped out of my notebook. “Big deal. Ninety-six. So I’m a genius now. A genius with no friends.”
Then I saw the nose ring sitting on my dressing table. I wasn’t going to have the chance to wear the great costume I’d planned. I felt like crying, or throwing something. It just wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.
I thought of calling Stacey to tell her how unfair it all was, but I decided she wouldn’t understand. None of my friends would. Suddenly I resented each and every one of them, just because they happened to be in the proper grades for their ages.
But you know what? By seven-thirty that night, I felt a little better. Why? Because I was at Serena McKay’s class. Being in a place where I felt as if I truly belonged did wonders for my mood.
That night, Serena reminded us that there was only one more class session. “By the end of Thursday’s class, your artwork must be ready to be hung in the gallery. It must be finished and framed and ready to be seen by the public,” she said. “I know some of you are nervous about showing your work for the first time. That’s normal.”
“Whew!” said the man at the easel next to mine. Everybody laughed.
“What I’d like you to do tonight is take some time during class to walk around and look at the work your classmates have been doing,” Serena went on. “Introduce yourself, talk about the work, ask questions.
This should help you feel more used to the idea of other people looking at — and critiquing — your art.”
It was a great class. I spent some time working on my piece (it was almost finished), and then I walked around the classroom checking out the other artists and their work. All of them were older than me, and many of them were even older than my parents. But as I chatted with each one, I discovered that we spoke a common language. They all loved art as much as I do, and that gave us plenty to talk about.
The first woman I met was a veterinarian who paints in her spare time. She was tall and gray-haired and very serious, but she lit up when I told her how much I liked her painting.
Then there was the blonde woman, a single mom who said she loved Serena’s class because it was something she did just for herself. And the man with the goatee, who turned out to be very funny, and also very good with pastels. There was a nurse who said she worked on her art from one to three every morning, after she came home from her late shift at the hospital. And a tall, skinny man who said he worked three part-time jobs just so he could afford oil paints and canvas.
What a great group of people! Everybody I talked to that night was friendly and interesting and talented. And you know what? I felt as if I fit right in. Even though I was so much younger, I was one of them; I was accepted. Age didn’t matter. This class was so different from SMS, where you’re defined by what grade you’re in, and where I now felt I didn’t belong at all.
Thinking about Serena’s class was the only thing that helped me make it through school on Thursday. Every time I felt depressed, or sad, or lonely, I’d think about the fact that there was a place where I was happy and felt at home.
My teachers must have wondered what had happened to the enthusiastic Claudia of the day before. I was staring out of windows, doodling in the margins of my notebook pages, and never, never raising my hand to answer a question. After all, I figured seventh grade was probably easy enough that I could pass even if I didn’t put in a whole lot of effort.
The seventh-graders were still clamoring to sit at my table for lunch, but I made it clear that I’d just as soon eat alone. And I shot nasty glances at all the Claudia wannabes who were wearing their hair in Pebbles dos and showing off their new Mary Janes.
It wasn’t hard to avoid my BSC friends during school, but that afternoon I had no choice. At five-thirty they arrived for our meeting.
The funny thing (funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha) was that nobody even noticed, at least at first, that anything was wrong. I guess they were too excited about the stupid dance and the dumb party they’d be going to on Friday. I don’t think they even noticed that I hadn’t made much of an effort to provide snacks. All I’d dug up was a bag of stale pretzels, but nobody seemed to care.
The main topic of conversation during that day’s meeting was costumes. My friends may be mature, responsible businesswomen but they still love to dress up.
“I found the coolest beaded purse at the Salvation Army store yesterday,” Stacey reported. “It’s going to be the perfect finishing touch for my flapper outfit.”
“That was such a creative idea,” Jessi told her. “I can hardly ever think of anything to be, so I usually end up being a ballet dancer.”
“Well, you have the clothes for it,” said Mal, who was dressing as one of her heroines. “Not like me. I really had to do some searching to find an outfit that Emily Dickinson would have worn.”
“My main concern for costumes is that they be comfortable,” claimed Abby. “That’s why I’m going as a soccer player.”
“Mary Anne and Kristy have the best costumes,” said Stacey, giggling. “You guys are going to win for best team costume, I bet you anything.”
Mary Anne was dressing as Little Red Riding Hood, and Kristy was going as — guess what? — the Wolf. She’d found this horrifically realistic rubber mask somewhere, which is what had given them the idea.
“How about you, Claud?” asked Mary Anne. “Are you still doing the punk thing?”
I mumbled something and shook my head.
“Claudia?” asked Mary Anne.
“I’m not going to the dance,” I said.
“Why not?” asked Abby.
“Kingbridge says I can’t. Because I’m not in eighth grade anymore.”
There was a shocked silence.
“That’s awful!” Kristy said finally.
“How unfair!” exclaimed Stacey. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just found out yesterday,” I said. “Anyway, it’s no big deal.” I didn’t want to talk about it. If I did, I’d just start crying. And even though they were acting as if they cared, my friends probably didn’t think it was a big deal, either. After all, I was a seventh-grader now. I didn’t really belong in their world.
“Well, you’ll come to the afternoon party, then, won’t you?” asked Mal. “It’s really going to be fun. There’ll be games and everything.”
“Sure,” I answered, just to finish off the conversation. I could barely keep myself from rolling my eyes when I heard about “games.” How babyish can you be?
Thankfully, the phone started to ring and I was saved from having to talk about it anymore. Calls were coming in from parents who needed sitters to take their kids trick-or-treating, and Mal and Jessi and I decided to plan a group outing. Since everyone else would be at the dance, it was up to us to cover that night’s jobs.
Later, when the meeting was over and everyone was gone, I did cry — just a little. Then I blew my nose and pulled out my homework. I started on my math problems, but my mind kept drifting, so I switched to English and tried to study vocabulary words. I couldn’t concentrate on those, either, so I opened my social studies book and read through a whole chapter, without absorbing a word. Finally, I opened my science notebook, took one look at the lab results I was supposed to write up, and snapped it shut.
It wasn’t that the work was hard. I just didn’t care anymore.
I sat at my desk, feeling sorry for myself. What if I couldn’t even cut it in seventh grade? Would Kingbridge send me back to sixth? My mind drifted into a horrible daydream. What if I kept being sent back forever? I pictured myself sitting at one of those little-kid desks in third grade.
The fantasy grew until finally I saw my friends in caps and gowns, happily graduating from high school, while I sat in a circle in Mrs. Kushel’s kindergarten room, displaying a crayon drawing for show-and-tell. Claudia Kishi, Teenage Kindergartner. Was that my destiny?
“Come on, everybody, let’s bob for apples!” Ms. Spacey, dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein, was acting like a cheerleader at a pep rally. She was just full of the Halloween spirit.
So was everybody else in the cafeteria, everybody except me. Halloween had finally arrived, but I didn’t care. I had decided against wearing my costume to school, even though I’ve always loved to do that. We have a new Halloween tradition at SMS. Everybody wears costumes to school and in the middle of the morning the students meet in the parking lot. We form a parade and head down the street and around the corner to the elementary school, where the teachers have brought the little kids outside for a special recess. We parade around the school playground, waving at the kids and shouting, “Happy Halloween!” They love it, we love it. It’s a lot of fun.
Or, at least it usually is. This year it wasn’t. Not for me. Marching along with the others, I felt even more out of place than usual. I was wearing school clothes (jeans, boots, one of my father’s white shirts, and a vest) and everybody else was dressed outrageously, even some of the teachers.
There was Mr. Schubert, for example, in a big black cape and fangs: Dracula. And Mrs. Hall was dressed as a gypsy, in a long red skirt and lots of jewelry. They led the parade.
Alan Gray, the most obnoxious boy in school, was marching near me in a Mask costume: green face, yellow suit, and all. Cokie Mason, a BSC archenemy, was dressed all in pink, as Barbie. (Could you gag?) And Ron Belkis, who had been after me to go out with him, was dressed as a
knight in not-so-shining (it was made out of cardboard, I think) armor.
My BSC friends were in a bunch near the front of the crowd, but I stayed away. I felt awkward about joining them. They were all in costume, for one thing. And for another, I just didn’t feel that I belonged with them. After all, they were either in eighth grade or sixth. I was in the middle, in seventh grade. No man’s land. (Or should that be no girl’s land?)
After the parade, we went back to our classes, but none of the teachers was trying too hard to teach us anything. They knew it was a lost cause. Everybody was way too keyed up about Halloween. To my eye, the seventh-graders were acting like a bunch of children. I mean, Halloween is fun, but come on. It’s mainly for little kids. Once you’re over ten years old, how much can it mean to you?
A lot, I guess. Judging by the excitement level at the sixth-and-seventh-grade party, which started right after school, some middle school kids still think Halloween is the most important holiday of the year.
When Ms. Spacey invited everyone to bob for apples, for example, the kids thundered over to her like a herd of buffalo. (If you can imagine a herd of buffalo dressed up like characters such as Bart Simpson, Mr. Spock from Star Trek, and a werewolf, that is.)
Soon apple-bobbing was in full swing, and I was glad I’d stayed on the other side of the cafeteria. The boys were acting really obnoxious, as only seventh-grade boys can. They were splashing water around and tossing apples at each other. The girls were screeching and squealing and carrying on. What a scene. I rolled my eyes.
“Isn’t this great?” asked Jessi, joining me. She was dressed as a sugarplum fairy, all pink and frilly, and she looked terrific. Mal was with her, wearing a high-necked white blouse and a floor-sweeping black skirt. Her hair was powdered white and twisted into a bun. She carried a long feathered quill pen.
They grinned at me. “See, it’s fun, right?” Mal asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “And the decorations are awesome, aren’t they?”