When everyone else is working on number eight, I find myself walking over to Ms. Baer-Leighton’s desk, pretending I need her help with the problem. You have something on your face, I write on a piece of paper.
She reads what I’ve written and nods. A few minutes later, she excuses herself to go to the bathroom. When she gets back, the brown stuff is gone, and I’m glad. I know kids make fun of Ms. Baer-Leighton all the time, because of her hair and her clothes. But I don’t care what she looks like. No one deserves to walk around all day with refried beans on her face.
* * *
Mrs. Mueller drops us off at Roz’s Place. She’s dying to come with us, I can tell, but Sarabeth insists that she go get coffee.
Inside, there are racks and racks of clothes. Jeans, dresses, jackets, vests. Boots, belts, scarves, and earrings. It’s a treasure trove of fashion. The woman folding a pile of sweaters introduces herself as Roz. Spiky purple hair. Thigh-high boots. Lip ring. I don’t know what her look is—Punk? Emo?—but it’s definitely not Shelby Horner cheerleader.
“Poke around, girls,” she tells us, sweeping a bangled arm through the air. “If you need any help, holler.”
This is the opposite of the guy at the indie music store Keesha Soboleski and I used to go to. He always assumed we were going to steal something and made us leave our backpacks at the counter.
“Could you point me toward the capes?” Sarabeth says.
And Shawna says, “Could you point me away from the capes?”
“Free to be you and me,” Sarabeth says.
“Okay, Gloria Steinem.”
“Come with me,” Roz tells Sarabeth.
“I’m starting upstairs,” Shawna tells me.
“There’s an upstairs?”
Having so much to choose from is hard. You need to narrow things down. Do you want a poncho? A corduroy blazer? Go-go boots?
I wander aimlessly, until Roz puts on some music. “To aid in the shopping experience,” she tells us. “Channel your inner Gaga, darlings. Clothes aren’t just for dressing up. They’re for transforming.”
It’s funny, how the music makes a difference. We start pulling stuff off racks for each other. We pick things never before seen in the halls of Shelby Horner Middle School. The rule is, whatever someone hands you, you have to put on. We try to outdo each other with our outrageous finds. Platform Chuck Taylors. Vinyl pants with cats embroidered on the knees. A hamburger-print dress. A green, polyester jumpsuit. We parade up and down the stairs, cracking each other up with our model poses. At one point, Shawna jumps out of the dressing room in a leather jacket, red jeans with rips all over the place, and studded black biker boots. “This…” she says, “you gotta admit … is badass.”
We give her a round of applause.
“Let’s find you a black bandana for your wrist,” Roz says. “And maybe a chain or two…”
By the time Mrs. Mueller comes back, Sarabeth has decided against the cape. She has found a pink satin bomber jacket and bowling shoes instead.
I don’t think I will find anything. I have almost given up hope when Shawna sweeps down the stairs, holding something behind her back. “Some … wherrrrre … oooooover the rainbowwww…”
Obviously, whatever she has found is for me because this is my song.
“Anna.” She is smiling.
“What?”
“I have something for you … This is so good. I want to make sure you’re prepared for how good it is.”
“Just show me.”
“May I present…” She pauses dramatically. “The vintage seventies … hand-crocheted … rainbow halter dress!” And she whips it out.
Is it perfect?
It is so perfect.
It gets more applause than Shawna’s leather jacket. Even Sarabeth’s mom is enraptured. She squeezes my arm. “If you don’t buy that dress, Anna, I will buy it for myself.”
“She will, too,” Sarabeth says. “Save me, Anna. Save us all.”
“I love it,” I say.
* * *
We’re hyper on the way out of the store. I’m wearing the hippie headband Roz threw in for free—rawhide with crocheted daisies. We’re all laughing and singing Lady Gaga songs and bumping each other’s hips as we walk down the sidewalk. I’m having such a good time that I don’t notice right away. I mean I see that two people are walking toward us, but it takes me a second to process.
At first I’m confused. This can’t be, I think.
And then it hits me. Dani’s orthodontist is in North Providence, in this very neighborhood. I went with her to get her braces off.
“Well, look who it is,” Mrs. Loomis calls out. “Look, Danielle, it’s Anna! Hi, Anna! We were just getting Danielle’s new retainer.”
Nope. My eyes aren’t deceiving me.
Dani looks at me and her cheeks turn blotchy red. “Hey.”
And I say, “’Sup.”
I don’t think I’ve ever said ’sup in my life, but that’s what comes out.
It’s a weird moment, made even weirder by the fact that Dani doesn’t acknowledge anyone else; she just keeps walking. I catch a whiff of her green apple shampoo, and a hundred little memories flash through my head. Me and Dani washing our Barbies. Me and Dani baking brownies. Me and Dani playing spit. Me and Dani talking. Me and Dani dancing. Me and Dani laughing hysterically. I feel a prick of sadness, and then, as quickly as it came, it’s gone.
* * *
When I get back, Marnie is in the kitchen, gagging over a plate of chicken thighs.
“Are you okay?”
She gives me a watery smile. “I can’t deal with raw meat right now.”
I look around. “Where’s my dad?”
“He took Jane out to do errands. I wanted to have dinner ready when they got back, but—” She pokes a piece of chicken, gags again.
“Want me to do it?”
“Would you?”
“Go lie down,” I tell her. “I’ll make dinner.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I say. I look at Marnie, whose face has a greenish tinge. “Stomach bugs are the worst, huh?”
She nods shakily. “I hate throwing up.”
“Me too.”
It’s the weirdest thing, after she leaves. A déjà-vu feeling but not. I find myself alone in the kitchen making dinner, but for once in my life, I’m not worried about the sick mother upstairs. What I’m doing—putting on an apron, setting the oven for 350—actually means something.
In a little while, my dad walks into the kitchen with Jane in the Björn. Their cheeks are pink from the cold.
“Anna,” he says, surprised. “You’re cooking.”
“Yeah. So?”
“It smells good.”
“It should. It’s barbecue chicken and corn bread.”
“Barbecue chicken and corn bread?” He rubs his hands together. “You hear that, Janie? Your sister’s a gourmet.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s no big deal.”
He reaches into the salad bowl, grabs a crouton, and pops it in his mouth.
“Hey!” I say. “We’re eating in fifteen minutes!”
“All right. All right.” He starts to unstrap Jane.
“Here.” I reach out my hands. “I’ll take her. You go wash up and check on Marnie.”
My father looks surprised again.
“What? You think I can’t hold a baby?” I lift Jane out of his arms and prop her on my hip like a koala bear.
“The sauce is from a jar,” I whisper into her soft hair, “and the corn bread’s from a mix. But Daddy doesn’t have to know.”
She looks up at me and smiles. Then she lets out a big fart.
“Nice,” I tell her. “Real classy.”
CHAPTER
21
I’M SPENDING MORE and more time at Sarabeth’s. Mostly it’s her, Shawna, and me rehearsing. We work on harmonies and choreography. We practice solos. We record ourselves and play it back, looking for ways to improve. Other times, we just
hang out. Do our homework. Listen to music. Eat junk.
The week before Halloween, Shawna opens a cabinet in the basement and finds all of Sarabeth’s old dolls—the ones that used to be up in her bedroom. She says, “Holy crap, S.B.” (This is what Shawna has taken to calling Sarabeth: S.B.) “What are these?”
“Collector’s items,” Sarabeth says. “My grandmother gave them to me.”
“We have to do something with them,” Shawna says.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
And Shawna comes up with this crazy idea to dress the dolls in costumes and put them out on the Muellers’ front porch, to scare the trick-or-treaters. At first Sarabeth doesn’t go for it. She thinks her grandmother would be mad. But then she admits that she’s never liked these dolls anyway; they give her the creeps.
So we go to work. Sarabeth busts out the toilet paper and felt and masking tape. We make a mummy, a zombie, a devil, and a werewolf. We make a headless horseman and a bride of Frankenstein. We bring the dolls outside and take a bunch of stupid pictures of ourselves holding them, and we laugh like idiots.
Sometimes I look at these girls and think, okay, they are so weird. Other times they surprise me. Like when Sarabeth confessed that she hates her name, and on her eighteenth birthday she wants to change it to Sadie San Marco. Or when Shawna told me that her dad’s a plastic surgeon. He gets paid a ridiculous amount of money to make women look like supermodels, and he keeps offering to “fix” Shawna. Every time he offers, she does something that she knows he will hate. She dyes her hair black. She pierces her belly button. Sarabeth and Shawna are a lot more interesting than I ever gave them credit for. Weird, yes. But not in a bad way.
Mostly, I am just glad they’re here. My mother is no longer consuming my every thought. I am too busy to spend every waking moment agonizing about her. Is she eating enough? Is she smoking too much? Is she taking her medicine? I can’t worry every two seconds that she’s going to kill herself. There’s school. There’s rehearsal. There’s homework. There’s Friday-night football. There’s a sleepover at Reese’s. There’s the Jack-o’-Lantern Spectacular at the Roger Williams Park Zoo. This is how it goes as we head into November. And suddenly, it’s talent show time.
I call Regina’s house on November 1. Until now, I have avoided mentioning the talent show. The conversations I’ve had with my mother have been short. How are you feeling? I ask. Better, she says. How’s school? she asks. Okay, I say. Twice, Regina has had me over for dinner, but she is the one who does all the talking. My mom and I are careful with each other. She is careful, I think, because she doesn’t want to worry me. I am careful because I don’t want to worry. Which is why I don’t bring up the talent show until three days before. There’s a part of me that doesn’t actually want her to come. If I wait until the last second, maybe she and Regina will have other plans.
“Anna Banana!” Regina says when she answers.
“Hey,” I say.
“How are you, honey?”
“I’m good.”
“Good, good. What’s on tap for the weekend?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling … What are you and my mom doing Friday night?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh.” My stomach drops a little. “Okay.” I lower my voice, even though my mother can’t hear me. “Do you think she’s okay to come out in public?”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
“No. I want you to tell me what you—”
“Frannie!” But Regina is already calling my mother. “Fran! Anna’s on the phone!”
There’s some shuffling around in the background. Then, “Anna?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. How are you?”
“I’m doing okay.”
Really? I think. How okay is okay?
“Um … listen,” I say before I can change my mind. “I’m in this talent show thing on Friday night and I’m calling to see if you and Regina want to come.”
Silence.
“Mom?”
“You’re in a talent show?”
“Yeah. I’m singing. With two other girls.”
Another silence. Bigger this time. Then, “Oh, Anna, I would love to come.”
Her voice is wavery with emotion.
“Are you sure?” I am already regretting it.
“Yes.”
“Because if you’re still … you know … you don’t have to…”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Okay … well, great. Put Regina on and I’ll give her the info.”
* * *
I can’t believe tonight is the night. Giddiness overtakes me as the three of us crowd around Sarabeth’s mirror to see how we look. Did we practice enough? Are we as good as we think we are? I feel a little sick to my stomach, but it’s not all about getting up onstage and singing in front of hundreds of people. It’s about my mother being there. What was I thinking, inviting her? Just because she seems better doesn’t mean she is. She could still do something embarrassing.
Shawna is pushing on my arm, trying to get closer to the mirror. Sarabeth is behind me with the straightening iron, working on my hair.
“I’m nervous,” I announce.
“Nerves are good,” Sarabeth says.
“I might barf.”
She hands me a trash can. “Here.”
For a second I think I really might. But then I take a deep breath, and the moment passes.
“I’m okay now,” I say.
Sarabeth pats my shoulder. She is as cool as can be. She’s used to performing in Irish step competitions, so tonight is no big deal. Her job is to keep me and Shawna composed.
“If I get detention for singing my song right, you’re both coming with me,” Shawna mutters.
At tech rehearsal, Shawna was told she would need to change the lyric “I don’t give a damn” to “I don’t give a hoot.” Why? Because Shelby Horner is a “profanity-free school.”
Thankfully, Shawna didn’t make a stink about it to Mr. Winters, the drama director. She waited until afterward to tell us that (a) “damn” is not a swear word—blasphemous, maybe, but not indecent—and (b) she is going to do Joan Jett proud, no matter the consequences.
“Don’t worry, Joan,” Sarabeth says. “If you go down, we all go down. Right, Anna?”
“Damn right,” I say.
Shawna gives me a sloppy-wet smooch on the cheek.
“Eww.”
“Accept the love, woman.”
* * *
“Are we ready?” Sarabeth asks. “Are we pumped?” We are out in the hall, and she is walking back and forth between me and Shawna, rubbing our shoulders like we’re the Outsiders, getting ready to rumble.
“We’re gonna be great,” Shawna says, bouncing up and down on the toes of her biker boots.
“Of course we are,” Sarabeth says, and I can tell she’s enjoying the looks we’re getting from the ninth-grade boys who just walked by.
“We have to be better than Beyoncé and the Bobbleheads,” Shawna says.
“Hey, now,” Sarabeth says. “That was technical difficulties.”
It was so cringeworthy, watching Jessa Bell, Whitney Anderson, and Dani stumble around the stage in their platform heels, wearing way too much makeup and way too few clothes. Their lip-synching to “Single Ladies” was painful enough, but when someone backstage tripped over the extension cord and unplugged the speakers, the three of them just froze. Some boys in the crowd booed. I almost felt sorry for Dani. Almost.
We walk through the stage door and gather behind the curtain. There’s one more act before ours: two seventh-grade boys with yo-yos. They are really good. Yo-yos fly everywhere—over their heads, behind their backs. The yo-yo-ers move all over the stage. One of them even does a cartwheel without dropping his yo-yo. When they finish, Shawna sticks her fingers in her mouth and whistles louder than anything I’ve ever heard.
&n
bsp; Sarabeth and I turn and stare at her.
She shrugs. “My dad taught me.”
Before we can find out how she does it, we hear the MCs—two ninth-grade girls in sequined hats—announce us, and bam—here we are onstage. Sarabeth is blowing her pitch pipe, and her feet are starting to stomp, and Shawna is sneering like a rebel, and the lights are bright and the air is hot, and for a second I think I might pass out.
But then I open my mouth.
It’s hard to describe how it feels up there. The whole space is ours, and, even though the words aren’t really ours, we own them right now. We’ve put them together in our own patchwork way. We are brave, we are rebels, we are dreamers who dare to dream. Our voices are pure and strong and open and defiant. I can smell the leather of Shawna’s jacket and the wax of Sarabeth’s lipstick as we dance around each other. When I break out of the group to sing my solo, I think I spot my mother in the crowd—a shock of black hair, a green shirt—but then I lose her. I lift my chin and let the words soar out over everyone’s heads. High and sweet, shimmering like lemon drops.
That’s where …
you’ll …
find me …
I forget to be nervous. I forget that my mother is watching. It’s just me, right here, all lit up.
When I stop singing there’s a beat of silence, then applause.
Chloe, Nicole, and Reese are going nuts. Some of the ninth-grade boys in the front row are doing that slow-motion, sarcastic clap thing, but I don’t care. No one is booing. No one is laughing as far as I can tell. Sarabeth and Shawna and I hold hands, bow, lift our arms in the air, bow again. There’s another act after ours, but I don’t want to leave. I want to rewind time and do it all over again.
* * *
Afterward, the lobby is packed. Just when I think I’ll never find anyone, Regina grabs me and puts me in a headlock.
“You were staggeringly good,” she says. My face is smashed into her chest, which smells like tomato sauce. “I am staggered.”
When I come up for air, there is my mother. The first thing I should say is that she looks good. The best she has looked in a long time. Her hair is smooth. She’s wearing lipstick. A green silk shirt. Who would have thought she’d go to this much effort for a Shelby Horner Middle School talent show?