Jessica Darling's It List 3

  “No,” I said with finality as I took my seat.

  Honestly, if it were up to me, the ideal time and place for a conversation like that would be NEVER and NOWHERE. I was desperate for a distraction and so grateful when Hope staggered into the room with a petition in her hand. It had Manda’s name on it.

  “I don’t know how it happened.…” Hope said in a daze. “One second Manda was apologizing for showing up at my house unannounced yesterday, and the next second I’m on a mission to get signatures from all the skaters by the end of the day.”

  I held up Sara’s sheet. No explanation necessary.

  “We know better than to get involved in their drama,” Hope said. “We’re smarter than this.”

  Hope’s no dummy and neither am I. More often than not, schoolwork comes fairly easily to me. And I enjoy the challenge of mastering academic concepts I don’t get at first glance. But when it comes to the girlie head games at which Manda and Sara excel, I’m flunking out.

  “We’re smarter than this,” Hope repeated, as if trying to convince herself.

  I patted Hope sympathetically on the shoulder.

  “Apparently not.”

  So the rest of our day was spent in pursuit of signatures because Hope and I are clearly not as smart as we’d like to think we are. The funny thing is, getting names isn’t nearly as hard or as awkward as I thought it would be. Word had quickly gotten around about Manda and Sara’s mission, and most students were psyched to sign up. In fact, when I held the petition facing up and out so everyone could see it as I walked around, I didn’t have to do any asking. It was quite the opposite, really.

  “Yo, Notso!” Shandi Sampson called out to me in the hall after first period. “You got room for me on that thing?”

  “Me too!” chimed in her twin, Shauna.

  “Of course I’ve got room for you two,” I replied, “and the rest of the girls’ basketball team.…”

  I had similar exchanges after second period with Padma and the drama club and after third period with Molly and the boys on the wrestling team. As stupid as this whole comPETITION between Manda and Sara was, I must admit to feeling a little thrill of victory when I slapped my paper down on Sara’s desk at the start of fourth period.

  “Mission accomplished,” I said proudly. “With four periods left to go.”

  “Omigod!” Sara snatched up the list and quickly scanned the names. “You did it! You got the Sampson twins and the entire girls’ basketball team and—”

  “Turn it over,” I told her.

  Because I’d filled up more than the allotted twenty-five spots, the last dozen or so names had been added to the back. Sara’s eyes widened with surprise.

  “Omigod! There’s no way Manda can wi—”

  Sara hushed herself when Manda waltzed into the room, with Hope trailing behind.

  “I got the Future Farmers of America!” Manda bragged. “I recognized them as an untapped market.”

  “Actually, I did,” Hope interjected, which made sense because I couldn’t imagine Manda going out of her way to talk to anyone who prefers pigs to people.

  “Wowwww,” Sara said in fake admiration. “That’s, like, three signatures. How will I ever catch up?”

  When Manda turned her back to us, Sara gave me a triumphant double thumbs-up.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was minding my own business in Woodshop, paging through a workbook of potential projects, when I was startled by a loud snort in my ear.

  “You pass the smell test!” Aleck announced cheerfully.

  “You!” I barked. “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been…”

  And he spun his hands all through the air as if to say “everywhere.”

  Act normal, I told myself. He didn’t see his name written in your handwriting as the answer to dumb trick question #5. ACT NORMAL. There’s nothing to worry about. He knows nothing. ACT NORMAL!!!

  I decided ACTING NORMAL!!! in this case required the use of sarcasm.

  “Thanks a lot for telling everyone that I’d been skunked.”

  “You’re welcome. I believe public awareness is the first step in destigmatizing the plight of the skunked, don’t you?”

  On another day I might have laughed along or encouraged him to start a petition of his own. But I couldn’t be all carefree until I knew for sure what had happened to my pants and—more importantly—its contents.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said.

  “We’re talking now,” he said.

  “It’s”—I lowered my voice—“a confidential matter.”

  Aleck rubbed his hands together.

  “A confidential matter!”

  It was embarrassing enough I had to ask Aleck this question. The least I could do was try to minimize my mortification by preventing anyone else from hearing. I motioned for him to come closer. He took this as a sign to take another loud, deep sniff.

  “You smell fine,” he assured me. “I swear.”

  “It’s not about that,” I said. “Where are my pants?”

  Just my luck that at the same exact moment, someone in the workshop turned on a buzz saw.

  “WHAAAAAT?” Aleck shouted over the BZZZZZZ.

  “MY PANTS,” I shouted back. “WH—”

  The buzz saw shut off…

  “WHERE ARE MY PANTS?”

  … just in time for the entire workshop to hear me shout the question.

  Of course.

  Need I remind you that I am the only girl in a classroom full of boys? They don’t need much of an excuse to launch into a collective fit of immaturity. I’m surprised only when their jokes aren’t made at my expense.

  “Aleck, what is it with you and girls’ pants?” shouted Mouth.

  “Did you outgrow the purple corduroys?” shouted Cheddar.

  Aleck, as usual, was unfazed.

  “One time in fourth grade, I showed up at school wearing the same pair of purple corduroys as your good friend Sara D’Abruzzi.”

  He said it with a shrug, as casually as could be.

  It was weird to hear Aleck describe my relationship with Sara in such chummy terms. Is that what people thought? That Sara is my “good friend”? One double thumbs-up does not equal a “good friend.”

  “Anyway,” he continued, “my friends love giving me crap about it. And you just gave them a perfect opportunity. So thanks.”

  “You’ve got nice legs. Next time try a skirt!” shouted Mouth.

  “My sister will take you shopping for leggings!” shouted Cheddar.

  Aleck heroically ignored his friends’ taunts.

  “So,” Aleck said, “you have concerns about your pants?”

  “They’re my favorite pants,” I lied.

  “Then I’m sorry to report that the pants have been destroyed,” he said apologetically. “For the good of noses everywhere.”

  “Ohhhh…” I said.

  “Ohhhh, what?”

  “I didn’t empty out my pockets before I put my pants in the bag, so…”

  “Hmm.” He raised an eyebrow. “Did you lose something important?”

  I answered quickly. “Nope! Nope! Nope!”

  On my third Nope! I realized I was nodding my head yes instead of shaking it no, a classic tell, according to Sara. When I yanked my head back and forth to overcorrect my mistake, I nearly gave myself whiplash.

  “NOPE!” I said once more.

  Aleck smiled and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “Good news for you, then,” Aleck said brightly. “I didn’t find what you never lost.”

  And he swaggered back over to his buddies with a shocking degree of confidence for someone who’d spend the next fifty minutes as the butt of their cross-dressing jokes.

  So if Aleck was to be believed, the Top Secret Pineville Junior High Crushability Quiz was gone for good. But no matter how hard I tried, it was definitely not forgotten.

  Chapter Twelve

  I was at my locker the next morning before homeroom w
hen Sara ecstatically rushed up to me.

  “Omigod! I did it! I won! I got thirty-seven more signatures than Manda!” she shrieked. “Mr. Masters confirmed it this morning when I dropped by his office!”

  Thirty-seven. What a coincidence. That’s the exact number of names I’d single-handedly gotten for Sara. I knew it would be far too much to ask Sara to acknowledge any role I played in her victory, so I didn’t even bother. Besides, the dance isn’t as big a deal to me as it is to her. I just wanted her to keep being nice to me for a change.

  “So what exactly did you win, anyway?” I asked.

  Sara giggled deliriously.

  “First of all, I beat Manda! I won! I’m the winner! Second of all, I’m in charge of the dance committee! Not her!”

  As BFF of the self-appointed Boss of Everything, Sara has very few opportunities to be in charge of anything. It’s no wonder she wanted to win so badly.

  “Omigod! Mr. Masters said he’s going to make a major announcement this morning!” She hopped up and down with excitement. “A MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT!”

  “About the dance?” I asked.

  “No,” she snapped. “About the honor roll.”

  “But Mr. Masters already announced the honor roll.”

  I knew this because I was on it. And when Sara rolled her eyes, I also knew I’d just allowed my Nerd Self to get ahead of my Trying to Be Normal Self. Again.

  “OF COURSE ABOUT THE DANCE.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “So you’re with me on the committee, right? You have to be on the committee. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not the dance-committee type.”

  “Think of it as an opportunity to show support for your school,” she said. “And besides, what else do you have to do after school, now that you’re not running around in the woods anymore?”

  She had a point there. Unlike my cross-country teammates, I didn’t have a new activity to fill my afternoons now that the season was over. The Sampson twins tried to encourage me to try out for the basketball team until they saw for themselves that I can’t dribble and move my legs at the same time. Molly is breaking new ground as the only girl on the boys’ wrestling team, but I have zero interest in appearing in public wearing a spandex unitard. And humming a terribly out-of-tune “Happy Birthday” was the only explanation Padma needed for why I wouldn’t try out for the school musical.

  At first, I welcomed the opportunity to come home right after school. I thought more free time would equal less stress. I quickly discovered that more free time equals more opportunities for my parents to fill it with things I don’t want to do.

  “Jessie! You’re not doing anything! Chop these onions!”

  “Jessie! You’re not doing anything! Take out the trash!”

  “Jessie! You’re not doing anything! BE OUR SERVANT WITHOUT A RAISE IN YOUR ALLOWANCE.”

  Jessie needed to find something to do. And fast. And how much worse could it be than crying over the cutting board and dragging stanky garbage cans? Maybe—like cross-country—being on a dance committee would be something I’m surprisingly good at. Because I’m not at all emotionally invested in the school dance, I could be the most impartial member of the committee and make decisions unclouded by my own personal interests. Who knows how many CEOs got their start on school-dance committees?

  “Okay,” I said to Sara. “I’ll do it.”

  “Omigod! This is going to be the best.”

  “What’s going to be the best?” asked Manda, who had slipped in between us.

  “Oh, you know,” Sara said, “chairing the dance committee with Jessica as my second-in-command.”

  “Jessica? As your cochair? Ha! Good luck!”

  Manda was usually very good at “I don’t care” hair tosses. But it was obvious to Sara and me that she cared very, very much.

  “Come on, Jess,” Sara said, linking my arm in hers and escorting me past Manda. “I can’t wait to share my vision for the dance.”

  And during the short walk to homeroom, Sara shared her vision for the dance, which apparently was no longer a school dance at all but an extravagant ball.

  “It’s called”—she paused dramatically—“the Glamarama Gala.”

  And so began a breathless monologue that included phrases like black-and-white dress code and floor-length formals and tuxedos and crystal accents and orchids and roses and lilies and silver carpet not red carpet because red can be so harsh in photos.…

  “Um” was all I could say. “Well.”

  “Omigod! It’s the best vision ever!” She twirled a curl around her finger. “Unless you have a vision you’d like to share?”

  I obviously hadn’t given much thought to my vision, since I’d been on the dance committee for a grand total of two minutes. But that’s not to say I didn’t have an idea or two.

  “Well,” I began hesitantly, “that sounds really… ambitious.”

  “What’s wrong with ambitious?” Sara said defensively.

  “It’s just that something, I don’t know, simpler might be more…”

  “More what?” Sara said huffily. “BORING?”

  “It’s the first dance in a decade, right?” I started slowly, then quickly gained momentum. My brain works that way sometimes. “I’m thinking it could be cool to acknowledge that this is an important part of Pineville Junior High history, you know? Maybe give it, like, a retro theme and decorate with old yearbook pictures and stuff. We could call it Friday-Night Flashback.”

  Judging from the repulsed look on Sara’s face, I either: (a) had just come up with the worst idea she’d ever heard or (b) still reeked of skunk.

  “What is it with your obsession with ancient stuff?” she said, gesturing toward my R.E.M. Green T-shirt as we took our seats. “No, my idea is definitely better, and it will make things go a lot faster if you just agree with me.”

  That was my first indication that Sara wanted me on the committee to conspire—not contribute.

  “Good morning, students. This morning I’m pleased to make a very special announcement,” said our school principal, Mr. Masters, over the PA system.

  “Omigod!” Sara grabbed me by the arm. “This is it!”

  “Thanks to the devoted efforts of the Pineville Junior High Spirit Squad…”

  She squeezed hard.

  “Omigod! That’s me!” She looked around the room to make sure everyone heard her. “That’s me, everybody!”

  “I’m happy to announce that a week from Friday, Pineville Junior High will host its first school dance in ten years.”

  Cheers erupted from all over the building. Sara jumped out of her seat.

  “You’re welcome, world!”

  The class applauded as she took her bows. Tears of joy shone in her eyes. I’d never seen her like this before, so thoroughly proud of herself. It was like she was the first person in history to win an Academy Award and the Powerball jackpot on the same day.

  Our principal continued.

  “The Down-Home Harvest Dance will be a unique opportunity for all Pineville Junior High students to practice and perform the celebrated folk art of square dancing.”

  Square dancing? I asked myself.

  “Square dancing?” asked 399 Pineville Junior High students.

  “Yes, square dancing,” Mr. Masters replied, as if answering all four hundred of us directly.

  “SQUARE DANCING?” Sara tugged angrily on her earlobe, as if to dislodge the terrible thing she had just heard. “Omigod! I didn’t work so hard for SQUARE DANCING.”

  “Square dancing,” said Mr. Armbruster appreciatively. “There’s nothing quite like a good do-si-do.”

  Sara brazenly risked a detention by grabbing a bathroom pass off Mr. Armbruster’s desk without asking and stomping out of the room in a huff. Apparently he was too caught up in memories of do-si-dos from days gone by to do much about her insubordination.

  “Bow to yer partner,” he was saying to himself. ??
?Bow to yer corner.”

  Well, I thought, at least one person is excited about the Down-Home Harvest Dance.

  Sara never showed up for first period. But Manda did. And boy, did she look pleased with herself as she galloped into Language Arts twirling an imaginary lasso.

  “Howdy, pardners!” she said in a country-girl accent. “Giddyap!”

  She laughed hysterically at her own joke, then—crack! like a whip!—got dead serious.

  “I have nothing to do with this ridiculous square dance,” Manda said to no one and everyone at the same time. “Ask Sara. She’s the one who got all the signatures.”

  Manda wasn’t wasting any time distancing herself from what she assumed would be a social disaster.

  “The whole concept is lame,” Manda said. “What’s Pineville known for harvesting, anyway?”

  “Drama,” Hope said.

  Now that was funny.

  To be honest, I was with Mr. Masters on this. The only dancing I can do that resembles actual dancing is the kind of dancing with specific rules. So, like, the Electric Slide is my jam. Square dancing is all about rules. As a concept, it seems far less terrifying than a freestyle free-for-all. Not that I’m actually attending the dance. I might help Sara plan it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll show up for it.

  Sara reappeared during second period. Apparently she’d spent the first half of Language Arts trying to persuade Mr. Masters to come to his senses. But he was unmoved. To him, the Down-Home Harvest Dance is a perfect compromise. We get a dance, but a highly structured one with very specific rules guaranteeing a lack of “inappropriate body contact.” Win-win.

  “It’ll be the most glamorous square dance”—Sara choked on the words a little—“Pineville Junior High has ever seen!”

  “That’s because it will be the only square dance Pineville Junior High has ever seen,” Manda replied. “Oh, and good luck getting anyone to show up when no one even knows how to do-si-do.”