School Squad, page 10
“The portal’s the worst,” Madison said. “My mom knows my grades before I do.”
Chloe groaned. “The portal sucks.”
“My mom never checks the portal,” I said, while I wrote out the next answer.
“What?” Mia asked.
“She just asks me how I’m doing in school,” I said.
“You’re so lucky,” Meghan said.
“Can she talk to my mom?” Madison asked. “Her whole life revolves around how me and my brother do in school.”
I always felt like Mom’s life revolved around me, but in a good way. Like when I was at school, she worked, but when I was home it was all about me and her. Lately, it’s been about me, her, and Mr. Pembrook. He’s been over almost every night for dinner since I got back from camp, and the only time I have Mom to myself is when we’re both rushing to get out the door in the morning.
While the girls copied my answers, I opened my own math book and got ready to answer the first word problem.
Maple Rivers has 64 streets and 1,340 households. Guess the number of males living on a street if the average family size is four people.
I blinked twice. I read the problem again. I was used to whipping through math problems. Using basic formulas to compute simple answers. But seventh-grade math was different. For once, I didn’t know how to even get started solving the problem.
“Bea? Helloooooo,” Mia said.
I looked up from my textbook and unclenched my teeth from my pencil. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“We finished the packet. Should we do social studies or math next?” Mia asked.
I slid my textbook toward her. “You guys wouldn’t be working on problems like this, would you?”
Meghan laughed. “Um, no, thank God.”
“We’re still reviewing stuff from last year,” Madison said.
The girls stuffed their science packets into their folders and pulled out math review packets.
“We’re gonna need a lot of help with this,” Meghan said. “I spent the whole summer blocking out school. I don’t remember how to do any of this.”
Mia picked up her phone and started texting someone. She waited for a response, which was apparently from her mom who was two rooms away from us. “My mom said you guys can stay for dinner so we can get all of our work done.”
I closed my own math book and put it in my bag.
“You can stay to help us, right, Bea?” Mia begged.
“Of course. I’ll stay as long as you guys need.”
MAISY
I WAS READY TO GO HOME AS SOON AS THE MEETING ENDED. I hadn’t shared anything, but hearing everyone else talk about sad stuff made me feel like I needed a nap. But Clark stayed behind to help put the metal folding chairs away. I felt like I had to stay and help him because I wouldn’t have gone to the meeting if it wasn’t for him.
Clark picked up a metal chair and gave it a little bump and it folded in half. He made it look easy. I tried the same exact thing and, of course, nothing; it didn’t work for me.
“Hey, Maisy,” Pastor Bob said. “Why don’t you leave the chairs to the big guy? You can help clean up the food table.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Save me some cookies,” Clark said, while he put a metal chair on top of the stack.
“OMG! How are you still hungry?” I asked. “You already ate a million cookies.”
Pastor Bob handed me a box of Ziploc bags. “Give him a break. Growing two feet in one summer must make a guy hungry.”
“Do you want chocolate chip or oatmeal butterscotch?” I asked.
“Yes!” said Clark.
I laughed and started filling a bag with cookies.
Pastor Bob grabbed the stack of paper plates and put them on a metal cart, next to a pile of napkins. He shook his head. “I don’t know why I put the plates and napkins out every week. No one ever uses them. You middle schoolers eat like a pack of wolves.”
“It’s your fault,” Clark said. “Your cookies are so good, no one’s got time for a plate.”
Pastor Bob laughed. “You gonna come back next time, Maisy? Or did we scare you away?”
I thought about Stephen Patrick sharing that story about how his school principal called the police last year when his mom showed up to the carpool line drunk. He made it look so easy to share. But I didn’t think I would ever be able to talk about the stuff Mom did.
Before I could answer, Clark walked over and grabbed his bag of cookies from me. He took a big bite of an oatmeal cookie and said with his mouth full, “Yeah, she’s coming back with me next time.”
“Uh, okay,” I said, while giving Clark a What the heck? look.
“Awesome!” Pastor Bob said. “Catch you guys later. I have to get ready for Holy Hoopsters practice. My jump shot could use a little work if we want to make the playoffs.”
As soon as Pastor Bob left the room, I hissed, “Why did you say I was coming back? I’m never gonna be able to tell everyone my business like these kids do.”
“Pastor Bob didn’t say anything about talking. He just asked if you were coming,” Clark said.
“You have a little…” I pointed to the side of my mouth.
Clark wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but there was still an oatmeal crumble sticking to the side of his mouth. I stood on my tiptoes and covered the palm of my hand with my sweatshirt sleeve. Then I wiped off the crumb.
“There. That was gonna drive me crazy,” I said. “I just don’t know if I’m a group type person.”
“Says the girl whose friend group has an actual name,” Clark said, while he swung his backpack onto his back.
“That’s different,” I said, grabbing my own bag. “Besides, I’m not the one who gave us a name. That was Mia.”
“Give it a chance,” Clark said. “That’s all I’m saying.”
I breathed out hard. “I don’t know. The meeting was okay, I guess. I just feel kind of weird now after hearing all that stuff.”
Clark looked at me. “Your mom’s coming home this weekend, right?”
I looked down at the ground and nodded.
“Trust me,” Clark said. “Come to the next meeting.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BEA
“BEA?” MOM SMOOTHED MY HAIR BACK AND SPOKE IN A GENTLE TONE. “Bea? You need to wake up, sweetie. Monica’s going to be here soon.”
I opened my eyes and pulled my cheek from the puddle of drool on my math book. “It’s Saturday?”
Mom nodded slowly, her eyes wide.
“No! It can’t be Saturday! I never submitted my math homework last night,” I said.
The deep V Mom gets when she’s worried appeared between her eyebrows. “You’ve been up late every night this week doing homework. Maybe you’re taking too many honors classes.”
If only Mom knew the reason I was up late doing my own homework was because I had spent every afternoon at Mia’s house for the past week doing the M & Ms’ homework for them.
“It’s fine,” I said, on my way to the bathroom. “I’ll submit it today. Then I’ll email Dr. Butterfield and say our internet was down last night.”
“I think…” Mom paused at the bathroom door. “You’ve never lied to a teacher before. Maybe you’re spending too much time with these girls.”
I squeezed a thick line of bright blue toothpaste on my toothbrush. “So you want me to have a perfect GPA, but no friends, like last year?”
“Why does it have to be one or the other?” Mom sighed. “Just try to balance your time so your only focus isn’t climbing the social ladder.”
“Okay, Mom.” I shoved my toothbrush in my mouth to signal the conversation was over.
I washed up and rushed back to my room to email Dr. Butterfield and get dressed. I had only spent time with Peyton and Vivi twice before, and both times I was wearing the wrong thing. The first time I met them, I wore my brand-new jeans and a sparkly sweatshirt with booties—my version of dressing up. But Peyton and Vivi were both wearing leggings and T-shirts. The next time I saw them, I dressed down in my soccer shorts and a T-shirt, and of course they were both wearing dresses.
This time, though, I didn’t have to stress about what to wear because Monica had mailed me a package with a cream sundress, a jean jacket, and gold flats with a note about a special outfit for our special girls’ day. I threw it on and admired myself in the mirror.
I walked into the kitchen just as Maisy threw open our back door.
She whistled, and said, “You clean up nice.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But what’re you doing here? Isn’t your mom coming home today?”
“Exactly.” Maisy reached her hand into the open box of granola on the table and popped a bunch in her mouth.
“Won’t your dad be mad when he finds out you left?” I asked.
Maisy shrugged. “He’s so happy Mom’s coming home, he won’t even notice I’m not there.”
Mom walked in the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. “I don’t know about that, Maisy.”
“Mom, please can Maisy come with me today?” I asked. I was exhausted from a week of being my best self for the M & Ms. I could use a buffer between me and my perfect stepfamily.
Mom sighed. “It’s not up to me.”
Maisy clapped her hands together and her face broke into a huge smile. “I have a plan that Monica will have to say yes to!”
“Of course you do,” I said, a smile sneaking onto my face.
“I can be Monica’s social media photographer! I’ll take pictures of you guys all day for her Instagram story. She would have to say yes to that, right?” Maisy turned to look at Mom and me with desperate eyes.
“It’s fine with me, as long as Monica’s okay with it,” Mom said.
Maisy smiled. “I am so good at taking social media pics. It’s a natural talent of mine.”
I groaned. “Now the pressure is really on to look perfect. Maisy, come help me flat-iron my hair.”
“You look great,” Maisy said.
“Maybe for a regular shopping day, but not for an Instagram account with half a million followers,” I said.
My phone lit up with a text from Monica.
I groaned again. “They’re already here.”
Mom kissed the top of my head. “You look beautiful. Have a good time and try to get to know Monica and the girls a little better.”
I used both hands to smooth my hair down.
Monica honked her horn.
“Come on,” Maisy said. “Let’s go do this.”
Monica was sitting in our driveway in a shiny new white minivan. If she was surprised that I was walking to her car with Maisy in tow, she didn’t show it.
“What happened to your Mini Cooper?” I asked.
“What happened to your curls?” she asked, at the exact same time.
We both laughed.
Maisy jumped in. “I gave her a keratin treatment. Doesn’t it look great?”
Monica smiled. “You look fabulous, Bea!” And turning to Maisy, said “You must be Maisy.”
I realized then that Dad had actually been listening when we talked on the phone the other night and I told him I was hanging out with Maisy again. Peyton and Vivi were so loud in the background that I didn’t think he really heard what I was saying.
Maisy started right in on her pitch. “I’m an amazing photographer. All my friends ask me to edit their photos. Bea knows today’s a really special day for you guys, so she thought it would be nice if I came to take pictures all day for your Instagram story.”
“What a great idea, right, girls?” Monica turned to the back.
Vivi beamed a wide smile. “Yeah, good idea.”
Peyton gave her sister the look of death.
“If you can take pictures half as good as you can style hair, then it’s a win-win,” Monica continued. Then she turned toward me. “I told your dad we needed a bigger car for our bigger family,” Monica said.
My stomach sank. “You’re preg—” I started.
“No, silly.” Monica laughed. “We need room for all three of our girls, and their friends,” she said. “Watch this. I just press this button on the remote and the door opens.”
The side door slid open, revealing Peyton and Vivi sitting in the white leather bucket seats, each wearing a cream sundress with a jean jacket and gold flats. When I got a closer look at Monica, I could see she was wearing an adult-sized version of the same outfit. I knew this day was about more than just a curated Instagram post for Monica. I knew she was trying her best to include me. But when you put three girls in the same outfit, it’s easy to see who doesn’t belong.
MAISY
You could tell Monica was a pretty big deal because Sheila, the sales lady at Posh Petticoats Bridal Boutique, brought us a silver tray of nonalcoholic mimosas, fancy pink macarons, and chocolate-covered strawberries. I took a picture of it and added it to the @morethanmomjeans story. I also took a picture of the girls and Monica toasting with the mimosas, and another one of the girls eating the macarons.
Bea and I were holed up in a dressing room that was almost as big as my bedroom. I sat in a fancy gold and white chair with Monica’s phone and added a filter to the artsy picture I had taken of a pile of wedding veils.
Bea held up the bridesmaid dress in front of her, with her eyes wide. “It’s not that bad, right?” she whispered.
“But you hate hot pink,” I hissed. “Not to be mean, but I can see why. It clashes with your hair.”
Bea whispered. “But Monica loves hot pink.”
“That’s ’cause she’s not a redhead,” I said.
“Neither are her daughters,” Bea hissed.
“There are so many other colors that look good on both blonds and redheads,” I whispered.
Bea kicked off her gold flats and pulled her sundress off over her head. “So I should tell Monica to pick a different theme color for her wedding just because I don’t look good in it?”
“I’m just saying…” I started.
Bea stepped into the dress. “I want to spend more time with my dad. Ruining his fiancée’s wedding plans isn’t going to make that happen. Now help me zip this up.”
I couldn’t help cringing while I zipped up the back of Bea’s dress. The hot pink fabric made every single one of Bea’s freckles jump out from her pale skin and her hair look neon orange.
Bea turned around slowly with both hands holding up the top of her dress and a hopeful smile. “What do you think?” she asked.
Monica apparently didn’t know that strapless dresses only work with people who have something to hold the dress up.
“Um, what happens when you let go?” I asked.
Bea let her hands drop to her sides. The waist was tight enough so the dress didn’t fall down, but the empty top of the dress stayed out in the shape of boobs, and you could see her black sports bra lying flat underneath.
“Um, maybe they have the same dress, but with straps,” I said. “And in a different color.”
Bea raised her eyebrows. “Anything else?”
“It should be shorter, too, because you know you’re gonna trip,” I said.
“Girls, come on out. Let’s see how you look,” Monica called.
Bea covered her face with her hands, then peeked between her fingers at me.
“There’s no way Peyton and Vivi will look good in their dresses either,” I whispered. “Monica will have to pick a different one.”
Bea nodded. Her lips were stuck together in a flat line. She took a deep breath and opened her dressing room door slowly. I gave her a nudge, and she turned around and gave me a dirty look before stepping forward.
Sheila waved Bea over to the podium in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Bea made it two steps forward before tripping over the bottom of the dress.
“Don’t worry,” Sheila said. “As soon as you throw on a pair of heels, the length will be perfect.”
Bea waited till Sheila turned around, then looked at me and mouthed “Heels?!”
Peyton’s dressing room door opened and I wanted to cry for Bea, because her future stepsister looked like a supermodel in the ugliest bridesmaid dress ever. It fit her the way it was supposed to, and her blond hair and golden skin were made for hot pink.
The saleslady gasped. “This dress is perfect for you! Can I take a picture of you for our Instagram?”
Peyton shrugged, like it was no big deal, like people were always asking her to pose for pictures. “Sure.”
Bea took a step back, so she was out of the shot. I caught her eye and hoped she got my secret message: I know this totally sucks.
“Let’s show the girls how great you look,” Monica said, while she walked out of Vivi’s dressing room.
Since Vivi was younger, her dress was cut differently, so she didn’t have the fit issues Bea did, and of course hot pink was her color.
Vivi ran over to Bea and Peyton with a huge smile. “We’re twinning!”
But it was more like a game of “Who doesn’t belong here?”
Monica gasped, and I was so relieved that she saw what a disaster this was. She would have to pick a different dress now that she saw just how bad Bea looked next to her daughters.
But Monica said, “Girls! You all look beautiful!”
She turned to Sheila with her hands clasped tight. “Don’t they all look gorgeous?”
Sheila, who was probably adding up the price tags in her head, nodded and said, “Breathtaking!”
Bea put her hands across her chest. “Um, Peyton and Vivi look amazing. But me, not so much.”
“What are you talking about, Bea? You look like the beautiful redhead in that John William Waterhouse painting,” Monica said. “I would kill for your gorgeous hair.”
The suspicious side of me thought Monica was just saying that because her daughters looked amazing in the dresses, and she wanted all the girls to wear the same thing. But from what I had seen of Monica so far, I think she genuinely thought Bea looked great in the dress, which was even worse, because Bea would never want to hurt her feelings.
“Maisy, you need to take a pic of these beautiful girls so I can post!” Monica said.
