Saving Montgomery Sole

  “Geez. Glad you could join us!” Momma Jo frowned. “How’s the pizza? To your liking? Should we order you an extra pie next time?”

  “Can I just eat please and not get hassled?” I said, in what was probably more of a low grumble.

  “Hey!” Momma Jo snapped, flicking my knee. “How about you’re wearing my super cool overalls so you should be nice to me or I’ll let Mama take you shopping for real clothes?”

  “Jo, stop it!” Mama Kate reached up and patted my leg. “I’m glad you’re still into movie night,” she whispered.

  “Shhhh!” Tesla pouted. “I’m trying to watch.”

  Tesla was superintense through the whole movie. At some point she slid off the couch and sat cross-legged on the floor, so she could practically touch the TV. Against the screen, her hair looked like a halo.

  At some point, the kid, who has been left alone, goes to a church, because he’s lonely, I guess. Tesla made us pause the movie at that scene.

  “Why don’t we go to church?” she asked.

  “Do you want to go?” Momma Jo asked, her mouth full of pizza.

  Tesla shrugged and pressed Play.

  Mama Kate looked hard at the back of Tesla’s head.

  Weird.

  But then, of course, before I could think about it too much, true to form …

  “Oh! It’s that woman! What’s the name of that actress, Monty?”

  I have no idea.

  “You know this little boy is grown up and married now, I think. Isn’t he, Monty?”

  For God’s sake.

  Right about the time the zany burglars in the movie were slipping around on marbles, which Momma Jo thought was hilarious, I began my escape.

  “You don’t want to see the end of this?” Momma Jo asked as I slid backward off the couch, not unlike a lizard.

  “I think I got it,” I said, landing on the floor and standing upright. “The kid ends up not alone, right?”

  “Monty!” Tesla whined.

  “Sorry!” I hollered, and bounded up the stairs.

  * * *

  I was lying in bed when I got an IM from Thomas.

  Thomas: You OK? Looked for you after school.

  Me: Bad day. Jefferson sucks.

  Thomas: Cour-age, my little one.

  Thomas: Remember we are orchids in a forest of carnations.

  Me: I will try.

  I think the thing that really makes Thomas, me, and Naoki such good friends, beyond their amazingness, is the fact that we are most definitely—unlike everyone else in Aunty—not from here.

  Technically, I’ve lived here since I was nine. But let’s just say, as a girl with two moms, from Canada, I didn’t exactly get a warm welcome when I stepped through the doors of Aunty Public Elementary School, vintage Michael Jackson lunch box in tow.

  And the number of times, since that first day, that I’ve been asked if I grew up in an igloo is uncountable.

  I’ve also been asked, more than a million times, if I miss my dad. By which they presumably mean the anonymous sperm donor who I’ve never met.

  Basically, for as long as I’ve lived in Aunty, I’ve always been, like, this inexplicable thing, a mystery object that’s not like anyone else at this school. I guess it’s possible that that’s part of why I’m so obsessed with other inexplicable things. With other unsolved mysteries.

  There’s nothing wrong with being unsolved. Unsolved just means not everyone gets it.

  I’m kind of glad no one else but the Mystery Club is into this kind of stuff. It’s like my secret treasure. Me and the Mystery Club’s thing. It’s special.

  After I got off IMing with Thomas, I watched this BBC documentary on cryonics, which is where people freeze themselves so they can be brought back to life in the future. Then I spent a few hours rereading The Outsiders.

  It’s a great book.

  I looked up foreshadowing, which—surprise, surprise—doesn’t have anything to do with darkness. It’s a hint of what’s to come that a writer leaves for the reader.

  Why would foreshadowing have to be bad? I thought. Everything has a shadow. Plus anyone with a brain knows you need a light to have a shadow. Light is good.

  I pulled out my phone and opened my app.

   Foreshadowing in real life. Maybe fortune telling?

  Right under that was:

   The Eye of Know

  I tossed my phone on the bed and looked up the website, just for kicks.

  The site was still there, but the shop now had a banner that read SOLD OUT.

  I called Thomas immediately. “It’s sold out!” I cried. “I just checked the website, and the Eye of Know is sold out!”

  “Yippee,” Thomas yawned.

  “Do you think they only had one in stock? Or do you think there are Eyes of Know everywhere?”

  “I don’t know,” Thomas said. “I’ll tell you, though, I’m so excited for you to get this stone. I’m thinking, maybe then you won’t call me at … midnight, because you’ll know that I’m asleep!”

  Then he hung up.

  And I went to bed, still feeling pretty thrilled.

  The Eye of Know.

  Was coming.

  4

   Séances

   Tea leaf readings

   Ouija

  People who write about Ouija on the web have the spookiest websites. One time I accidentally left one open, and halfway through the night I could have sworn I heard whispering coming from my computer, which, needless to say, meant I spent the night sleeping in my moms’ room, curled up on the floor.

  The general consensus among communicating-with-the-dead experts seems to be that Ouija is a kind of remedial way to talk to spirits. This one site I found said that the best thing about Ouija is its clarity. So there’s all this chatter, this guy said, made up of all the souls of the universe, and the Ouija reaches out into the void and pulls out a single sound, yes or no.

  I don’t have that many dead people in my life that I’ve known, well, except for Momma Jo’s parents, who I never met but I’ve seen pictures of, mostly on vacation in places like Florida and Mexico. In most of the pictures, they are on the beach, fully clothed. Like, shoes and everything.

  “That’s how old people vacation,” Momma Jo had said.

  This one time, I found an online Ouija board, where you could put your mouse in the center of the screen and ask a question.

  Call to your spirit, the site had read. If the spirit is there, he/she will answer.

  So I asked if Momma Jo’s parents were there.

  NO.

  Then I asked if my biological sperm donor was there. Because I have had this thought, from time to time, that maybe he’s dead and maybe he’s alive. And it’s weird sometimes not to know … if he is or not.

  “Is my biological sperm donor there—I mean, dead?” I whispered.

  NO.

  I feel a little guilty whenever I think about or talk about my bio sperm donor. There was a time when I was little, like eight or something, when I was always asking my moms about it, about what I’d called “the stuff” (i.e., sperm).

  I’d wanted to know what it looked like.

  “What what looked like?” Momma Jo asked. I think on that occasion we were waiting in line at the grocery store. “What stuff?”

  “The man sperm!” I yelled, frustrated.

  “Ha! Well. Geez. You’re asking the wrong person.” Momma Jo smirked.

  It’s not like I want to find him. The donor. I don’t need to find him. He’s just there, I guess, and sometimes I step on him in my brain, kind of. Like a sock left on the floor.

  I don’t know if the Ouija thing could be taken as proof that he is alive. I guess it would depend on whether the spirits know what a biological sperm donor is.

  No one in Aunty has a clue.

  There are some people who consult various forms of spirit communication as a way of preparing for the day. There are apps that will show you your tarot reading every day, presumably so you ca
n decide whether to take the bus or just stay home.

  It might be nice to know what’s coming your way.

  To have an app or an Eye you could touch and say, “Trouble?”

  And it would say, “Yes! Avoid the letter L at all costs. Also the letter K and anything white. And watch out for short men with facial hair.”

  Or just, “Yes! Go back to bed. Do not pass GO. Do not leave your room until you receive further instruction.”

  * * *

   Morning Music Medleys

   Backmasking

  If there is one thing the entire student population of Jefferson High, Mystery Club included, can agree on, it is about the Morning Music Medleys. They are just about the worst thing in the world. Imagine if someone took the ugliest parts of every song ever written, in all of time, and mushed them together into one terrible song.

  Whoever decided that song should be played in the hallway every day, top volume, from 8:55 a.m. to 8:59 a.m., is not a nice person.

  The rumor at school is that this is a punishment, although the official word is it’s an effective way to get students to class on time.

  I think whoever wrote this so-called medley must look like some sort of cartoon villain. I bet he sleeps on a bed of nails. Naked.

  That said, when they started playing the medleys two years ago, the number of kids left in the hallways after bell dropped from tons to, like, four.

  This morning, instead of fleeing, I was standing in the hallway so I could record the medley on my phone as part of an independent experiment I was doing on backmasking. Backmasking is this thing where musicians put weird messages in their music, which can only be heard when you play the tracks backward.

  Mostly it’s just jokes or nonsensical things, like “Who’s eaten all the spaghetti?” According to Wikipedia, the rock band Pink Floyd used, “Congratulations. You’ve just discovered the secret message!”

  Of course, all this was back when people had vinyl records and enough time on their hands to play records backward. Which is probably what I would do if I had a record player.

  I had this idea one night that maybe there was some sort of messaging in the Jefferson High medley. Something brainwashing like, “Be true to your stupid football team.”

  Mostly what I was discovering was how much music can penetrate earplugs. Kind of makes you wonder if they’re really plugging anything. $5.99 down the drain.

  As the music swirled around me, like an angry mob, I stepped up to my locker in a funnel of muffled noise and looked up to see … a cross.

  When I say “cross,” of course I mean a Christian cross, not an X marks the spot, although it was probably a little of both. It was white plastic, wallet-sized. Jesus pressed to the front like he was part of the cross instead of nailed to it, his body fused to the slats, his face all contorted and hard to read.

  I dropped my bag, suddenly stuck by the cold wave every queer-related kid gets when they see something stuck to their locker that they didn’t put there.

  See also: KICK ME stickers, MONTYZ MOMZ HAVE AIDS signs, MONTY IS A LESBIAN Post-it notes. You name it. I’ve had it. It hits, in the same soft spot, right under the lung, every time.

  Students dumped their books into bags, slapped lockers closed, scrambled to get out of the hallway.

  I felt a tear in the corner of my eye and squeezed it back.

  “No way. No way. No way. Stop, stop, stop,” I whispered. “Stop, stop, stop.”

  I yanked at the edges of the cross with the tips of my fingers, but it was stuck there. Not even taped. Like, cemented.

  Suddenly there was a hard tap on my shoulder. “Wha wha wha!”

  I jumped and turned to see Mr. Grate, VP, his mouth flapping open and shut like a crazed puppet.

  “Wha wha wha!”

  “What?!” I popped out the earplugs, only to be flooded with noise.

  Mr. Grate’s face turned red like an overripe tomato. “Class, Miss Sole. Now!”

  “Mr. Grate! There’s…” My face exploding. My fingertips sweaty as they pressed into the hard plastic edge of the newest intruder on my sanity.

  “I know, I know. The crosses. We’re dealing with it, Miss Sole. There’s no need to—”

  “I-I don’t want it on there!”

  “Miss Sole.” Mr. Grate leaned so far forward I could practically count his hair plugs. I could definitely smell the cologne he was soaked in. “Our administration will deal with this matter swiftly. In the meantime, you have class. Go. Now.”

  Looking down the hallway, I saw it. Rows of crosses. Not on every locker, but almost.

  “Not the end of the world,” Mr. Grate grumbled as he turned and plodded down the hallway, barking out orders. “You! Maxwell! Get to class! You too. Class! Denton! Class! Taft!”

  Who made you the authority on the end of the world? I seethed.

  No big deal?

  I pressed my lips closed and slammed my locker so hard it made my fingers ring. I snatched my bag and trudged down the hall, awash in a noise that lingered in my brain all through math and Mr. Deever, who despite continued ridiculous sweating, wore a turtleneck to class.

  By the time I got to second-period English, my head was throbbing with a magical evil headache. Mr. Gyle, Dramedy Club head, stood at the front of the class with a big yellow sign-up sheet and an unnatural happy grin on his face. Mrs. Farley motioned me to my seat and clapped her hands.

  I slid into my chair.

  “Okay, class, well today. Yes. Yes, Mr. Totter, sit down, please. Yes, so today we have a special announcement and a special guest. This year, Jefferson High will be presenting a full production of The Outsiders! Isn’t that fun? And Mr. Gyle has agreed to come to class to tell us a little more. Isn’t that exciting, class?”

  Silence. A sure sign that something is not going to be exciting is when a teacher starts talking about something like it’s exciting.

  Besides, audition lists had been up in the hallways for weeks. It wasn’t exactly news.

  “Thank you, uh, Mrs. Farley. So. Yes. It’s a very tough play,” Mr. Gyle explained. “I know you’re reading the book, so you know, um, that, well, it’s a play with a lot of good themes. But it’s not, uh, just literature. Uh, there are fights, and stabbings, so it’s a-uh action-type of play. These greasers, these boys, as I’m sure you’re noticing in your studies with Mrs. Farley, they were very tough boys, uh guys, and, uh, you know they were the jocks of their time. The, uh, heroes. As it were.”

  The herd sat lifeless.

  “Will there be actual fights onstage?” this kid Todd, amateur rapper and some sort of sport player, asked.

  “Oh, uh, yes! Yes, there will definitely be … fights. We will be, uh, choreographing, uh, that is to say, uh, staging fights.”

  “Fiiiight,” someone whispered in the back of the classroom.

  “Looks like Tanner’s going to get his butt kicked,” someone else chuckled.

  “Kick your butt first.” Tanner, who I believe is also on a sports team, because he dresses that way, high-fived the kid next to him.

  “Kick all your butts,” someone else laughed.

  “Sign up. We’ll see,” Tanner barked.

  “Okay, enough! Class.” Mrs. Farley clapped her hands. “That’s enough butts for today.”

  Looks like it’s butt-kicking time, I thought. How thrilling for us all.

  Just to be clear, The Outsiders is a book by S. E. Hinton about this kid named Ponyboy, who has a great name but is also really poor. He’s what is called a Greaser, which is what the really poor kids from the town he’s from are called. And the whole book is about this ongoing battle between the Greasers and the Socs, who are the really rich kids. And the really rich kids beat up and make the Greasers’ lives miserable because they can and because they’re rich and they get to do whatever they want.

  There is no way in hell that the Greasers in The Outsiders, by any literary interpretation, are “jocks.”

  I stared wide-eyed at Mrs. Farley. Like, really?
Really, this is happening?

  By lunch, the sign-up sheet was a list of almost every jock at Jefferson.

  Thomas wanted to eat lunch on the stage in the auditorium, which he has a key to because Mr. Gyle gave him the key two years ago, then forgot to ask for it back. The stage was covered in little taped out X’s for where the set would go.

  Thomas perched himself on the throne from the Knights of the Round Table set, and I sat on an old toadstool from the production of Alice Through the Looking Glass many moons ago, balancing my cafeteria fries on my knee. “Did you know that Mr. Gyle was going around telling all the jocks they should sign up because it’s going to be like Jock Fight Club?”

  “The Outsiders is about conflict,” Thomas sighed, leaning back into his throne and sipping pomegranate juice. “A huge part of the book is fights. Besides, it’s an almost all-male cast, and no one was signing up.”

  “And you care because?” I asked, stabbing my fry into a mound of tangy red goop.

  “Because I am a patron of the arts, Montgomery, and I’m on set and wardrobe. And art is art. Art transcends.”

  “Half of these guys can’t even read,” I grumbled.

  Pulling a bag of kale chips out of his pocket, Thomas shrugged. “Well, we’re cutting most of their lines for time anyway. It’s not worth getting upset about.”

  “I’m not upset,” I said, picking at my toadstool.

  “So”—Thomas rolled up his sleeves—“new topic because I don’t want to argue about this anymore. Ready? Did you hear about the new student?”

  “What new student?”

  “Kenneth…” Thomas paused. Waited for me to finish chewing my fry, possibly for dramatic effect, possibly because he wanted to let me know I was chewing too loudly. “White.”

  I paused, mostly because Thomas had just paused, and I wanted to make fun of him a little. “Should that mean something to me?”

  Thomas leaned in, eyes wide. “Reverend White? Reverend John White? Reverend ‘I’m going to save the American Family’ White?”

  The image of the Reverend White, blurry under a Buzzfeed headline I’d scanned a while ago, popped into my brain. “Oh my God.”

  “Exactly. God!” Thomas pointed excitedly at the ceiling, “Here!” He pointed at the ground.