Vivian Lantz's Second Chances, page 7
“Like how you don’t want to go to college?”
Oops.
I slap a hand across my mouth. I’m not supposed to know that. Yesterday’s Arlo brought up college. Today’s hasn’t.
Arlo looks startled. “Who told you that?”
You did.
But I can’t say that.
“Uh.” I flounder. “I dunno, I just thought that maybe you’d rather be doing stuff with the band. Real-life sound engineering instead of going to school for it, right?”
Now that I’ve put it that way, Arlo’s plan makes more sense to me.
He doesn’t buy my answer, though.
“Where would you . . . Have you been snooping on my phone?”
“Pfrsh.” I throw a hand in the air, like Arlo’s the one who is out of line.
“God, Viv.” He groans. “It’s bad enough, dealing with Da.”
I stare out through the pouring rain at the Starbucks parking lot. I don’t see why Arlo and Da can’t agree to disagree about the Neon Spurs. They’ve been fighting so much lately. I’m starting to see why Arlo might be skipping dinners.
That thought makes my insides feel like decomposing matter.
“I didn’t go through your texts,” I tell Arlo. “For real. I’m not a snoop.”
“Yeah. It’s whatever.”
Arlo doesn’t sound convinced, so I decide to be honest about something else.
“I think you should ditch college, if you want,” I say. “I just don’t like when you blow off family stuff to hang with the band. Sometimes it feels like . . . like they’re your new family.”
I poke at the door handle, swallowing an ache in my throat. I’ve never said something like this before. I haven’t let myself think it. But lately, I’ve been feeling insecure. Arlo’s bandmates do stuff with him that I can’t, like stay out late and play at cool venues downtown. I’m thirteen, and they’re, like, adults. How am I supposed to compete with that?
Arlo doesn’t answer me—not right away. The traffic lets up, and we ride in silence the rest of the way to school. It’s only when we pull up to the awning that Arlo reaches across the console.
“Viv.”
That catches me off guard. Arlo’s nickname for me is Barficorn. He only calls me Viv for serious stuff—like the time he broke the news to me that Uncle Declan had died.
I grow still, hoping that Arlo will do something to make this right. He looks me straight in the eye, and I stare back expectantly.
Then he says, “You’re my little sister. You’ll always be that to me.”
I nod haltingly. What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m Arlo’s sister. That’s just a practical fact.
“So, I’ll see you later at dinner,” I say. “You’ll be there?”
I can’t read the look in Arlo’s eyes, but I know that if he planned to come to dinner, he’d say yes. He doesn’t, though. It’s clear that whatever plans he’s got with the band, he’s not going to cancel. So much for that second chance.
I shake my head in disappointment, getting out of the car and shutting the door with a heavyhearted thud. Rain splatters onto my bare head, and I’m making a run for it when Arlo rolls down the window.
“Hey,” he calls. “Barficorn! I love you, okay?”
I stop, turn, and give a half-hearted wave. “Yeah,” I call back. “Love you, too.”
Arlo drives off, but I don’t watch him go. I’m too bummed, and I’m getting more soaked by the second. I run for the cover of the awning, and as I do, something catches my eye: Gemma Cohen is at the front doors, steps ahead of me.
“Hey!” I call after her. “Gemma! Wait up!”
8
I MIGHT BE running late again, but the way I see it, I’ve got a whole day left of second chances. I can still fix the rest of yesterday’s mistakes. For instance, I can make friends with Gemma without landing butt-first in the mud.
“Hey!” I gasp, catching up to her at the school entrance.
She’s giving me a weird look. Almost like yesterday didn’t happen.
Because it didn’t. Duh.
If it’s Monday all over again, then I’m starting from scratch with Gemma. We didn’t run into each other yesterday, so she didn’t give me a makeup wipe, and we definitely didn’t talk in Ms. Wendy’s office. As far as Gemma’s concerned, the most we’ve said to each other is “hello” and “Will you sign my yearbook?”
Gemma already has one hand on the door.
“Is . . . something wrong?” she asks. She squints at me. “You’re really wet.”
“Oh! Yeah. Forgot my rain jacket. Whoops.” I laugh, and it’s the most awkward sound a human being has ever made.
Ugh. What if Gemma thinks I’m a freak? I start to lose my nerve.
But then I remember Q. S. Murray telling me, You have to happen to life.
Right. The thing about magical second chances? You’ve got to take them.
So I gather my courage and ask, “Want to walk in together? It’d be way less awkward showing up late if I wasn’t alone.”
At first, Gemma’s expression is blank. I start to worry that she’ll say no. Maybe she only walked in with me yesterday because she felt bad about knocking me down. Maybe I got this all wrong, and Gemma doesn’t want to be friends. Maybe—
“Sure,” Gemma says. Then she smiles at me, and that dimple appears in her left cheek.
My “maybes” flit away.
We head inside, sprinting down the hall. That’s when I notice—really notice—how cute Gemma’s dress is. It’s printed with strawberries, and even Gemma’s backpack has a sparkly strawberry charm. Guess she’s as wild about berries as Cami and I are about hyacinths.
Principal Liu is still giving his welcome speech when Gemma and I sneak into the auditorium. When a hand touches my shoulder, I know who it’s going to be.
“Take a seat, girls,” Mrs. Campos whispers, waving us toward the empty row of seats.
Gemma and I do as we’re told again. We sit side by side in the dark as Principal Liu introduces the music video. As it plays, I carefully lean toward the empty seat on my left and wring out the ends of my sopping hair. I can’t do anything about my clothes, but at least they’ll dry in an hour or two. Right now, I’ve got to focus on what’s next. When the video ends, Amberleigh will head our way. She’ll be holding hands with Alex, but I’m prepared. I might be soaked, but at least I’m not covered in mud, and that’s an improvement. Plus, I don’t smell like Trixie’s poop.
Sure enough, when the houselights turn on, Amberleigh walks up to me and Gemma. It’s still not easy watching her smooch my two-year crush on the neck, but at least I’m not taken by surprise. This time, I’m going to speak before Amberleigh gets the chance.
I sprint ahead of Gemma, getting to Amberleigh first.
“Oh, I love your shoes,” I say loudly, pointing. “Louboutins, right?”
I know this because Pop has an affinity for vintage designer shoes. He stocks them regularly at Be Kind, Rewind, and there’s a list of repeat customers he calls whenever we get a new pair. Once, this seventy-year-old lady name Marguerite paid a whopping $200 for a pair of 1997 Louboutin heels, even though their soles were worn out.
Well, I bet a million dollars that Amberleigh’s soles aren’t worn. Those silver-studded white suede sneakers look brand spanking new.
She stops in her tracks, glancing down at the shoes. “Uh, yeah. My dad got them for me on his last trip to New York.”
“He’s got great taste,” I say.
Then, oh so suavely, I run a hand through my wet choppy bangs and turn to Alex. “This weather is brutal, huh? Like, I got totally soaked.”
Ha! I’ve used my lack of rain jacket to my advantage. I’m a second chance genius.
And it works. Alex actually looks at me. He cracks a smile and says, “Yeah, it’s like the freaking apocalypse out there.”
Then he frowns and asks, “You’re, um . . . who?”
My heart cracks.
Amberleigh pushes Alex’s shoulder. “Oh my god, don’t be rude. She’s Vivian Lantz. You remember, right?”
Then Amberleigh does the worst possible thing. She bursts into song: “‘The stars at night! Are big and bright!’”
Neil and Tate are just walking up, and Neil, catching on, plants his feet in the aisle, bellowing, “‘Deep in the heart of Texas!’”
This just goes to prove my point: people don’t forget your bad first days. But this is eighth grade, not third, and the new Vivian Lantz is turning things around. The new Vivian is cool, and cool kids? They don’t let a little teasing bother them.
That’s why I laugh when the gag is over and say to Alex, “That’s me!”
“Oooh, yeah,” he says. “I remember now.”
My smile falters. Alex called me his freaking hero a mere two years ago. How could he have forgotten who I am? Unless . . . that fateful moment didn’t mean as much to him as it did to me.
Ow. My heart cracks some more.
“So, where were you?”
Amberleigh turns from me to Gemma, who’s got a ticked-off look on her face. I’m sure of it now: she and Amberleigh must be in a fight.
“Mom was running late,” Gemma says.
“You’re not going to be late tonight, though, right?”
Gemma frowns at Amberleigh. “It’s raining.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter!” Tate cuts in. “Dad got sunshades for the pool. They’re water resistant, so we’re, like, fine.”
“Anyway,” Amberleigh adds, “it’s tradition.”
All eyes turn to Gemma, and I get uncomfortable. I don’t like the way everyone is piling the pressure on her.
Gemma doesn’t seem fazed, though. She shrugs and says, “I guess.”
Right then, my stomach howls like a ravenous wolf.
Whoops. Forgot to eat breakfast again.
This time, Amberleigh doesn’t seem to notice. She doesn’t even comment on my rain-soaked clothes. Instead, she looks me over and says, “You could come, too, if you want. It’s, like, a chill pool hangout we do.”
My hopes soar like Mistmorrow when he leapt—against all odds—across the Celater Gorge. Gemma must’ve had it wrong about Amberleigh yesterday. I mean, Amberleigh wouldn’t be inviting me to the party if she didn’t like me. Just goes to show where the right shoe compliment can get you.
“Uh . . . yeah,” I say, reminding myself to breathe. “That sounds fun.”
Amberleigh turns to Tate. “That’s cool with you, right?”
“Sure!” Tate chirps. “I just wish we were inviting more guys.”
She bursts into feathery giggles, like she’s scandalized by her own words. I’ve noticed that about Tate: she giggles a lot.
Amberleigh nods like everything’s settled and smooths a hand over her ponytail. “You got Lally first period?” she asks Gemma.
Gemma, who looks like she’s gritting her teeth, just nods.
“Shame.” Amberleigh sighs. “Well, see you!”
She grabs Alex’s hand—which only slightly makes me want to vomit—and heads for the exit. Tate and Neil follow. They’re not laughing, so I think it’s safe to say that I am not the butt of anyone’s joke this time.
Score. Class hasn’t even started, and I’ve got a party invite. Perfect first day of school, here I come. Well. Perfect second first day? Whatever. Point is, it’s going to be perfect. Everything that yesterday wasn’t.
I turn to Gemma, fired up, and say, “The party sounds great.”
“Does it?” She narrows her eyes at me.
“Um . . . yeah?”
I think back to what Gemma said about the party yesterday: It’s gotten old. I wonder what would make her say that?
“Okay, give me your number.” Gemma pulls a phone from her backpack, and I nearly choke in surprise.
“Wh-what?” I say.
“So I can text you the address.”
“Oh. Um, yeah!”
Keep it cool, Vivian.
I do the best I can. I tell Gemma my number and take out my phone to add hers. That’s when I see the text from Cami: Hope it’s a good day!
Quick as I can, I shoot back, GO, DOLPHINS!!!!!!!
“Ladies.”
I look up. Mrs. Campos is back, looming over us. I know the rule: we’re not supposed to have our phones out in school unless we’re making an emergency call. But nobody really follows that rule. Not that I plan on pointing that out to Mrs. Campos. I tell her a heartfelt “sorry,” hoping she won’t take my phone away, and when she doesn’t, I quickly tuck it into my backpack, out of sight.
It’s only as she’s walking away that the terrible memory hits me: Mrs. Campos pulling me out of the caf to tell me I’d gotten my period.
Crap. I forgot to grab something from the menstrual shelf.
“Vivian.”
I shake myself. Gemma’s looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “What?”
“I was saying I’ll text you later.” Gemma’s words are short. It’s almost like she’s . . . pissed off?
“Y-yeah,” I tell her. “That sounds good.”
Then I make a run for it.
I don’t want to ditch Gemma, but I’ve got to get to the restroom before first period.
Ha, I think bleakly, hurrying down the hall. First period.
I grab a pad from the nearest restroom—I’m lucky that we’ve got working, stocked dispensers at Bluebonnet Middle—and lock myself in an empty stall. At first, I panic. There’s already blood. But when I wiggle my skirt and tights around to check, I don’t find any stains on my clothes.
Whew. Got here in time. Another first-day crisis averted.
I’m still getting used to wearing a pad. I feel like a kid in a diaper leaving the stall, but Cami told me that, after a while, you pretty much forget it’s there. Here’s hoping.
When the school bell sounds, I’m still two halls away from room 1067. I pick up the pace and practically slam into the classroom door. Ms. Lally looks up from calling attendance.
“Trouble finding us, Vivian?” she asks coolly.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
My seat from yesterday is taken, but there’s one free right behind Gemma. I give her a small smile as I pass. She doesn’t smile back.
Okay. Now I’m positive that Gemma is pissed at me.
I get it. It was rude of me, running off and leaving her in the auditorium. Plus, if Gemma’s in a fight with Amberleigh, she probably didn’t appreciate me cozying up to her, talking about Louboutins. Not that Gemma and Amberleigh will be fighting for long. I’ve just showed up in the group at an awkward time, is all.
My eyes drift, and I watch as Gemma sketches the purple-ink Princess Ruth. Today, she’s adding details that I didn’t catch before. A delicate circlet of flowers and jewels rests on the princess’s head. A chubby bird sits on the windowsill, and Gemma adds a speech bubble above its head, scribbling in all caps, “CHIIIRP!!!”
A giggle escapes me, and Gemma’s shoulders stiffen. I squeeze my lips together, holding in my laugh until Gemma eases up and starts sketching again. Turns out she’s talented and funny, and that makes me all the more bummed that she’s mad at me.
But, hey! Today isn’t over yet. I bet that at tonight’s party, I can get on Gemma’s good side. I can make this the perfect first day that I wished for. And once I do, who will need to know about yesterday but me? No one.
Yesterday won’t exist.
Today in language arts, when Ms. Rose asks the class about metaphors, I feel too jittery to raise my hand. Not that it matters. Jordan Gilday answers, explaining that it’d be a simile if you said someone’s smile was like sunshine, but a metaphor if you said someone’s smile was a blazing supernova.
My chest sure feels like an exploding star. I have to get things right with Ms. Rose. No flubs. No aquarium smashing. Just journalistic finesse.
When class is over, I walk up to Ms. Rose’s desk. She’s sprinkling fish food into Virgil’s tank, and I feel sweaty as I get a flashback of Virgil flopping across the linoleum, on the verge of death.
“Hello, Vivian,” Ms. Rose says.
Virgil’s staring at me with one black eye, and I get this creepy feeling like he knows what I did yesterday. He knows, and he’s sending murderous fish vibes my way.
But that’s silly. Virgil is just a fish, and this time, I’m watching my feet. I make note of the cord running down from the aquarium light, around Ms. Rose’s desk, and up to the outlet beside the poster that says Reading! A Passport to New Worlds.
Accursed cord. No way am I tripping on you today.
I focus instead on Ms. Rose and say the lines that I’ve rehearsed: “I’d like to work on the Jaguar Gazette. Is there a reporter spot open?”
Nailed it. No purporter flub here.
“Really?” Ms. Rose sets down the bottle of fish food. “I’d love to have you aboard the Gazette. I’ve heard great things about your writing from Mr. Garcia.”
Now it’s showtime. I’m ready to wow Ms. Rose. No stammers or blanking out, because I’m prepared. I wrote down my ideas during physical science.
“I’ve been thinking of topics I’d like to cover,” I tell her. “I think I’d be great at sports coverage—especially soccer games. Or I could do an exposé on the abysmal funding for the arts program.”
Ms. Rose quirks a brow. “Abysmal, huh?”
I freeze. Abysmal. That’s the word Arlo used when he told me about the Bluebonnet music program a few years back. It means “bad,” right? I should’ve looked it up beforehand, to be sure. What’s Ms. Rose going to think if I can’t use the right word? That’s the last thing she’d want in a reporter. It’d be almost as embarrassing as—
“You’re right.” Ms. Rose cuts into my thoughts. “The funding is abysmal. I do already have Uma Foster on the soccer beat, but I love where your head is at. These are great ideas, and I’m all for a new reporter who’s given the job some thought.”
I congratulate myself. Way to go, Vivian—for real this time.
“I think you’ll like the Gazette,” Ms. Rose tells me.
“Yeah. I know I will.”
Ms. Rose goes over the details of the paper, same as before, and I grin thinking about how good tomorrow’s meeting is going to be. No aquatic accident to recover from. Just me and a big, blank paper to fill with stories. Possibility.
Oops.
I slap a hand across my mouth. I’m not supposed to know that. Yesterday’s Arlo brought up college. Today’s hasn’t.
Arlo looks startled. “Who told you that?”
You did.
But I can’t say that.
“Uh.” I flounder. “I dunno, I just thought that maybe you’d rather be doing stuff with the band. Real-life sound engineering instead of going to school for it, right?”
Now that I’ve put it that way, Arlo’s plan makes more sense to me.
He doesn’t buy my answer, though.
“Where would you . . . Have you been snooping on my phone?”
“Pfrsh.” I throw a hand in the air, like Arlo’s the one who is out of line.
“God, Viv.” He groans. “It’s bad enough, dealing with Da.”
I stare out through the pouring rain at the Starbucks parking lot. I don’t see why Arlo and Da can’t agree to disagree about the Neon Spurs. They’ve been fighting so much lately. I’m starting to see why Arlo might be skipping dinners.
That thought makes my insides feel like decomposing matter.
“I didn’t go through your texts,” I tell Arlo. “For real. I’m not a snoop.”
“Yeah. It’s whatever.”
Arlo doesn’t sound convinced, so I decide to be honest about something else.
“I think you should ditch college, if you want,” I say. “I just don’t like when you blow off family stuff to hang with the band. Sometimes it feels like . . . like they’re your new family.”
I poke at the door handle, swallowing an ache in my throat. I’ve never said something like this before. I haven’t let myself think it. But lately, I’ve been feeling insecure. Arlo’s bandmates do stuff with him that I can’t, like stay out late and play at cool venues downtown. I’m thirteen, and they’re, like, adults. How am I supposed to compete with that?
Arlo doesn’t answer me—not right away. The traffic lets up, and we ride in silence the rest of the way to school. It’s only when we pull up to the awning that Arlo reaches across the console.
“Viv.”
That catches me off guard. Arlo’s nickname for me is Barficorn. He only calls me Viv for serious stuff—like the time he broke the news to me that Uncle Declan had died.
I grow still, hoping that Arlo will do something to make this right. He looks me straight in the eye, and I stare back expectantly.
Then he says, “You’re my little sister. You’ll always be that to me.”
I nod haltingly. What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m Arlo’s sister. That’s just a practical fact.
“So, I’ll see you later at dinner,” I say. “You’ll be there?”
I can’t read the look in Arlo’s eyes, but I know that if he planned to come to dinner, he’d say yes. He doesn’t, though. It’s clear that whatever plans he’s got with the band, he’s not going to cancel. So much for that second chance.
I shake my head in disappointment, getting out of the car and shutting the door with a heavyhearted thud. Rain splatters onto my bare head, and I’m making a run for it when Arlo rolls down the window.
“Hey,” he calls. “Barficorn! I love you, okay?”
I stop, turn, and give a half-hearted wave. “Yeah,” I call back. “Love you, too.”
Arlo drives off, but I don’t watch him go. I’m too bummed, and I’m getting more soaked by the second. I run for the cover of the awning, and as I do, something catches my eye: Gemma Cohen is at the front doors, steps ahead of me.
“Hey!” I call after her. “Gemma! Wait up!”
8
I MIGHT BE running late again, but the way I see it, I’ve got a whole day left of second chances. I can still fix the rest of yesterday’s mistakes. For instance, I can make friends with Gemma without landing butt-first in the mud.
“Hey!” I gasp, catching up to her at the school entrance.
She’s giving me a weird look. Almost like yesterday didn’t happen.
Because it didn’t. Duh.
If it’s Monday all over again, then I’m starting from scratch with Gemma. We didn’t run into each other yesterday, so she didn’t give me a makeup wipe, and we definitely didn’t talk in Ms. Wendy’s office. As far as Gemma’s concerned, the most we’ve said to each other is “hello” and “Will you sign my yearbook?”
Gemma already has one hand on the door.
“Is . . . something wrong?” she asks. She squints at me. “You’re really wet.”
“Oh! Yeah. Forgot my rain jacket. Whoops.” I laugh, and it’s the most awkward sound a human being has ever made.
Ugh. What if Gemma thinks I’m a freak? I start to lose my nerve.
But then I remember Q. S. Murray telling me, You have to happen to life.
Right. The thing about magical second chances? You’ve got to take them.
So I gather my courage and ask, “Want to walk in together? It’d be way less awkward showing up late if I wasn’t alone.”
At first, Gemma’s expression is blank. I start to worry that she’ll say no. Maybe she only walked in with me yesterday because she felt bad about knocking me down. Maybe I got this all wrong, and Gemma doesn’t want to be friends. Maybe—
“Sure,” Gemma says. Then she smiles at me, and that dimple appears in her left cheek.
My “maybes” flit away.
We head inside, sprinting down the hall. That’s when I notice—really notice—how cute Gemma’s dress is. It’s printed with strawberries, and even Gemma’s backpack has a sparkly strawberry charm. Guess she’s as wild about berries as Cami and I are about hyacinths.
Principal Liu is still giving his welcome speech when Gemma and I sneak into the auditorium. When a hand touches my shoulder, I know who it’s going to be.
“Take a seat, girls,” Mrs. Campos whispers, waving us toward the empty row of seats.
Gemma and I do as we’re told again. We sit side by side in the dark as Principal Liu introduces the music video. As it plays, I carefully lean toward the empty seat on my left and wring out the ends of my sopping hair. I can’t do anything about my clothes, but at least they’ll dry in an hour or two. Right now, I’ve got to focus on what’s next. When the video ends, Amberleigh will head our way. She’ll be holding hands with Alex, but I’m prepared. I might be soaked, but at least I’m not covered in mud, and that’s an improvement. Plus, I don’t smell like Trixie’s poop.
Sure enough, when the houselights turn on, Amberleigh walks up to me and Gemma. It’s still not easy watching her smooch my two-year crush on the neck, but at least I’m not taken by surprise. This time, I’m going to speak before Amberleigh gets the chance.
I sprint ahead of Gemma, getting to Amberleigh first.
“Oh, I love your shoes,” I say loudly, pointing. “Louboutins, right?”
I know this because Pop has an affinity for vintage designer shoes. He stocks them regularly at Be Kind, Rewind, and there’s a list of repeat customers he calls whenever we get a new pair. Once, this seventy-year-old lady name Marguerite paid a whopping $200 for a pair of 1997 Louboutin heels, even though their soles were worn out.
Well, I bet a million dollars that Amberleigh’s soles aren’t worn. Those silver-studded white suede sneakers look brand spanking new.
She stops in her tracks, glancing down at the shoes. “Uh, yeah. My dad got them for me on his last trip to New York.”
“He’s got great taste,” I say.
Then, oh so suavely, I run a hand through my wet choppy bangs and turn to Alex. “This weather is brutal, huh? Like, I got totally soaked.”
Ha! I’ve used my lack of rain jacket to my advantage. I’m a second chance genius.
And it works. Alex actually looks at me. He cracks a smile and says, “Yeah, it’s like the freaking apocalypse out there.”
Then he frowns and asks, “You’re, um . . . who?”
My heart cracks.
Amberleigh pushes Alex’s shoulder. “Oh my god, don’t be rude. She’s Vivian Lantz. You remember, right?”
Then Amberleigh does the worst possible thing. She bursts into song: “‘The stars at night! Are big and bright!’”
Neil and Tate are just walking up, and Neil, catching on, plants his feet in the aisle, bellowing, “‘Deep in the heart of Texas!’”
This just goes to prove my point: people don’t forget your bad first days. But this is eighth grade, not third, and the new Vivian Lantz is turning things around. The new Vivian is cool, and cool kids? They don’t let a little teasing bother them.
That’s why I laugh when the gag is over and say to Alex, “That’s me!”
“Oooh, yeah,” he says. “I remember now.”
My smile falters. Alex called me his freaking hero a mere two years ago. How could he have forgotten who I am? Unless . . . that fateful moment didn’t mean as much to him as it did to me.
Ow. My heart cracks some more.
“So, where were you?”
Amberleigh turns from me to Gemma, who’s got a ticked-off look on her face. I’m sure of it now: she and Amberleigh must be in a fight.
“Mom was running late,” Gemma says.
“You’re not going to be late tonight, though, right?”
Gemma frowns at Amberleigh. “It’s raining.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter!” Tate cuts in. “Dad got sunshades for the pool. They’re water resistant, so we’re, like, fine.”
“Anyway,” Amberleigh adds, “it’s tradition.”
All eyes turn to Gemma, and I get uncomfortable. I don’t like the way everyone is piling the pressure on her.
Gemma doesn’t seem fazed, though. She shrugs and says, “I guess.”
Right then, my stomach howls like a ravenous wolf.
Whoops. Forgot to eat breakfast again.
This time, Amberleigh doesn’t seem to notice. She doesn’t even comment on my rain-soaked clothes. Instead, she looks me over and says, “You could come, too, if you want. It’s, like, a chill pool hangout we do.”
My hopes soar like Mistmorrow when he leapt—against all odds—across the Celater Gorge. Gemma must’ve had it wrong about Amberleigh yesterday. I mean, Amberleigh wouldn’t be inviting me to the party if she didn’t like me. Just goes to show where the right shoe compliment can get you.
“Uh . . . yeah,” I say, reminding myself to breathe. “That sounds fun.”
Amberleigh turns to Tate. “That’s cool with you, right?”
“Sure!” Tate chirps. “I just wish we were inviting more guys.”
She bursts into feathery giggles, like she’s scandalized by her own words. I’ve noticed that about Tate: she giggles a lot.
Amberleigh nods like everything’s settled and smooths a hand over her ponytail. “You got Lally first period?” she asks Gemma.
Gemma, who looks like she’s gritting her teeth, just nods.
“Shame.” Amberleigh sighs. “Well, see you!”
She grabs Alex’s hand—which only slightly makes me want to vomit—and heads for the exit. Tate and Neil follow. They’re not laughing, so I think it’s safe to say that I am not the butt of anyone’s joke this time.
Score. Class hasn’t even started, and I’ve got a party invite. Perfect first day of school, here I come. Well. Perfect second first day? Whatever. Point is, it’s going to be perfect. Everything that yesterday wasn’t.
I turn to Gemma, fired up, and say, “The party sounds great.”
“Does it?” She narrows her eyes at me.
“Um . . . yeah?”
I think back to what Gemma said about the party yesterday: It’s gotten old. I wonder what would make her say that?
“Okay, give me your number.” Gemma pulls a phone from her backpack, and I nearly choke in surprise.
“Wh-what?” I say.
“So I can text you the address.”
“Oh. Um, yeah!”
Keep it cool, Vivian.
I do the best I can. I tell Gemma my number and take out my phone to add hers. That’s when I see the text from Cami: Hope it’s a good day!
Quick as I can, I shoot back, GO, DOLPHINS!!!!!!!
“Ladies.”
I look up. Mrs. Campos is back, looming over us. I know the rule: we’re not supposed to have our phones out in school unless we’re making an emergency call. But nobody really follows that rule. Not that I plan on pointing that out to Mrs. Campos. I tell her a heartfelt “sorry,” hoping she won’t take my phone away, and when she doesn’t, I quickly tuck it into my backpack, out of sight.
It’s only as she’s walking away that the terrible memory hits me: Mrs. Campos pulling me out of the caf to tell me I’d gotten my period.
Crap. I forgot to grab something from the menstrual shelf.
“Vivian.”
I shake myself. Gemma’s looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “What?”
“I was saying I’ll text you later.” Gemma’s words are short. It’s almost like she’s . . . pissed off?
“Y-yeah,” I tell her. “That sounds good.”
Then I make a run for it.
I don’t want to ditch Gemma, but I’ve got to get to the restroom before first period.
Ha, I think bleakly, hurrying down the hall. First period.
I grab a pad from the nearest restroom—I’m lucky that we’ve got working, stocked dispensers at Bluebonnet Middle—and lock myself in an empty stall. At first, I panic. There’s already blood. But when I wiggle my skirt and tights around to check, I don’t find any stains on my clothes.
Whew. Got here in time. Another first-day crisis averted.
I’m still getting used to wearing a pad. I feel like a kid in a diaper leaving the stall, but Cami told me that, after a while, you pretty much forget it’s there. Here’s hoping.
When the school bell sounds, I’m still two halls away from room 1067. I pick up the pace and practically slam into the classroom door. Ms. Lally looks up from calling attendance.
“Trouble finding us, Vivian?” she asks coolly.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
My seat from yesterday is taken, but there’s one free right behind Gemma. I give her a small smile as I pass. She doesn’t smile back.
Okay. Now I’m positive that Gemma is pissed at me.
I get it. It was rude of me, running off and leaving her in the auditorium. Plus, if Gemma’s in a fight with Amberleigh, she probably didn’t appreciate me cozying up to her, talking about Louboutins. Not that Gemma and Amberleigh will be fighting for long. I’ve just showed up in the group at an awkward time, is all.
My eyes drift, and I watch as Gemma sketches the purple-ink Princess Ruth. Today, she’s adding details that I didn’t catch before. A delicate circlet of flowers and jewels rests on the princess’s head. A chubby bird sits on the windowsill, and Gemma adds a speech bubble above its head, scribbling in all caps, “CHIIIRP!!!”
A giggle escapes me, and Gemma’s shoulders stiffen. I squeeze my lips together, holding in my laugh until Gemma eases up and starts sketching again. Turns out she’s talented and funny, and that makes me all the more bummed that she’s mad at me.
But, hey! Today isn’t over yet. I bet that at tonight’s party, I can get on Gemma’s good side. I can make this the perfect first day that I wished for. And once I do, who will need to know about yesterday but me? No one.
Yesterday won’t exist.
Today in language arts, when Ms. Rose asks the class about metaphors, I feel too jittery to raise my hand. Not that it matters. Jordan Gilday answers, explaining that it’d be a simile if you said someone’s smile was like sunshine, but a metaphor if you said someone’s smile was a blazing supernova.
My chest sure feels like an exploding star. I have to get things right with Ms. Rose. No flubs. No aquarium smashing. Just journalistic finesse.
When class is over, I walk up to Ms. Rose’s desk. She’s sprinkling fish food into Virgil’s tank, and I feel sweaty as I get a flashback of Virgil flopping across the linoleum, on the verge of death.
“Hello, Vivian,” Ms. Rose says.
Virgil’s staring at me with one black eye, and I get this creepy feeling like he knows what I did yesterday. He knows, and he’s sending murderous fish vibes my way.
But that’s silly. Virgil is just a fish, and this time, I’m watching my feet. I make note of the cord running down from the aquarium light, around Ms. Rose’s desk, and up to the outlet beside the poster that says Reading! A Passport to New Worlds.
Accursed cord. No way am I tripping on you today.
I focus instead on Ms. Rose and say the lines that I’ve rehearsed: “I’d like to work on the Jaguar Gazette. Is there a reporter spot open?”
Nailed it. No purporter flub here.
“Really?” Ms. Rose sets down the bottle of fish food. “I’d love to have you aboard the Gazette. I’ve heard great things about your writing from Mr. Garcia.”
Now it’s showtime. I’m ready to wow Ms. Rose. No stammers or blanking out, because I’m prepared. I wrote down my ideas during physical science.
“I’ve been thinking of topics I’d like to cover,” I tell her. “I think I’d be great at sports coverage—especially soccer games. Or I could do an exposé on the abysmal funding for the arts program.”
Ms. Rose quirks a brow. “Abysmal, huh?”
I freeze. Abysmal. That’s the word Arlo used when he told me about the Bluebonnet music program a few years back. It means “bad,” right? I should’ve looked it up beforehand, to be sure. What’s Ms. Rose going to think if I can’t use the right word? That’s the last thing she’d want in a reporter. It’d be almost as embarrassing as—
“You’re right.” Ms. Rose cuts into my thoughts. “The funding is abysmal. I do already have Uma Foster on the soccer beat, but I love where your head is at. These are great ideas, and I’m all for a new reporter who’s given the job some thought.”
I congratulate myself. Way to go, Vivian—for real this time.
“I think you’ll like the Gazette,” Ms. Rose tells me.
“Yeah. I know I will.”
Ms. Rose goes over the details of the paper, same as before, and I grin thinking about how good tomorrow’s meeting is going to be. No aquatic accident to recover from. Just me and a big, blank paper to fill with stories. Possibility.
