The Everafter Page 11

  Kristen's trying to hug me, so the blowing thing's not working

  too well. I've never really known before how important

  balance is to successfully blowing the nose.

  "Everything'will be fine. I'm sure it's just your imagination."

  Gee, so much for comforting me. Big Sis. Telling me

  I imagined all this? When I saw with my very own two

  perfectly functional eyeballs that Gabe was walking along

  with his arm around Dana's shoulders? Now tbere^s a way to

  totally infuriate me. "I saw them, Kristen, and it was not my

  imagination. 1 hey were walking along together and he had

  his arm around her shoulders. There's no mistaking that. Or

  what it means."

  "Yes, there is, Maddy. You've always been especially

  good at taking what's right in front of vou and drawing the

  wrong conclusion from it. Remember that pregnant woman

  at the store when you were little?"

  Way unfair. Sisters aren't supposed to remind you of

  things that happened when you were, like, four years old.

  "Oh, come on . . . " I start to say, but it's already too late.

  She's off and running with that memory.

  "Remember? You saw this pregnant woman standing

  in line, and you said, 'Look, Mommv. 1 hat woman has

  a watermelon under her shirt." Then when Mom tried to

  explain to you that the woman had a baby in her stomach,

  14)

  you wanted to know why anyone would want a baby watermelon

  under her shirt." She's laughing so hard that I can't

  help smiling a little myself.

  But I resent it.

  "That's when Mom decided to buy that funny book for

  us that was all about how babies were made. A little late

  for ine. But at least you stopped asking about watermelons

  under women's shirts."

  I remain unconvinced. She can tell. When she starts in

  on her next memory, I wish I had just gone along with her

  and said, "Sure, I'm an idiot. Gabe with his arm around

  Dana is obviously no big deal." But since I didn't, I have

  to sit through Kristen's next attempt to convince me that I

  suck at drawing the right conclusions from circumstances.

  "And then there's that time you stole a candy bar from

  Walgreens . As soon as we got out to the van, some police

  car went by with its sirens and lights going. You thought

  he wns coming for you, so you threw yourself at Mom and

  surrendered the candy bar while begging her not to let the

  police take you away to jail."

  "This isn't the same thing at all. I'm not five anymore."

  "I've got bad news for you: Seventeen and in love isn't

  any smarter."

  This from someone who's been happily married for all of

  a year. Could she be any more condescending? I'm about to

  tell her that, but my cell phone starts playing "Fiir Elise."

  H4

  swear, what you saw didn't mean anything. Dana just got

  accepted to an acting program that she's been trying to get

  into for two years. It means she'll get to go to Europe this

  summer. I was just congratulating her."

  This is supposed to make me feel better? I swear Dana

  is evil. She has it in for me, has ever since I started going

  out with Gabe. She's definitely still in love with him. And

  she does all these little things to get back at me. Every

  time I walk down the hall with Sandra and pass her and

  her friends, this nasty laughter breaks out. She also drew

  a disgusting caricature of me (how unfair can it he that

  she has all this artistic talent she uses to hurt people?) and

  hung it on my locker. It was a totally disgusting drawing. I

  blush every time I even think about the way she drew my

  legs wide open. I ripped the picture off my locker, but there

  Dana was, standing just a few lockers down, smugly smiling

  at me. On top of that, I've been getting these strange prank

  phone calls. They must be coming from her. No one else

  hates me enough to call and then hang up on me. Thank

  God she only has my home phone number and can't do the

  same thing to me on my cell.

  So why, exactly, shou Id I be happy that Dana the Demon

  can get my boyfriend to physically congratulate her? And

  exactly why should I be reassured that she's becoming an

  even better actress? It's hard enough to get Gabe to understand

  how awful she treats me at school. She puts on a

  U6

  "Aren't you going to get that?" Kristen asks when—

  duh—it becomes obvious that I'm not. What if it's Gabe? I

  just can't talk to him right now.

  The phone keeps beeping out Beethoven. Then stops.

  Then starts again.

  "For God's sake, Maddy. Answer it."

  "No."

  She digs around in my purse and pulls it out. "It's Gabe.

  Answer it."

  Hello?! Who does she think I'm trying to ovoid right

  now—Santa Claus? Kristen's managed to tick me off so

  much in the last few minutes that I'm not crying anymore.

  She rolls her eyes at me—as if I'm the one being unreasonable

  here?—and answers the phone herself. I can onlv

  hear half the conversation, but Kristen's not dumb. She figures

  out how to let me in on the other half:

  "Sandra told you you're in trouble? . . . You really are . . .

  Yeah, she saw you with your arm around—what's her name?

  Dana?... I know you're crazy about my sister and she's being

  an ass . . . Of course she's jumping to conclusions...."

  Enough is enough. I grab the phone from Kristen,

  who—I hate it when she does this—grins at me knowingly.

  She walks away to give us some privacy as I say into the

  phone, "Okay, I'm here."

  Gabe jumps straight to the explanation. Smart guy. He's

  got seconds before I hang up on him. "Maddy, chill out. I

  14S

  completely different persona around him. She becomes

  gee-I'm-such-a-sweet-girl-who's-dealing-so-well-withour-breakup-let's-continue-to-be-best-friends-forever.

  And he believes her. Well, mostly. He says he knows she

  can be mean sometimes, but he also claims that underneath

  all that she's a nice girl.

  Right.

  Rottweiler nice.

  I can't even tell Gabe how I feel about Dana, because

  he just doesn't get it. I guess that makes me feel even worse

  about the whole thing, because I think that's the only thing

  about my feelings that he doesn't understand.

  So how, exactly, am I supposed to react to this hey-isn't-itgreat-that-you've-just-misinterpreted-the-whole-situation

  news?

  Stymied, I opt for silence.

  "Maddy?"

  Still opting for silence.

  "Maddy?"

  My throat is killing me now. I'm going to start crying. I

  don't want Gabe to know it, so I flip my phone closed.

  Ten seconds later, "Fiir Elise" starts up again. I let the

  song run for a second, and then I just can't bear the pain I

  know I'm causing Gabe, so I open it.

  "Why'd you do that?" he asks. He sounds hurt, not

  angry.

  Ul

  "I was going to cry. Still am. Didn't want you to know."

  And then, ther
e it is . . . all those mortifying tears.

  "Madison, c'mon. I love you. We've been going out now

  for a year. In all that time, I've never once thought about

  going back to Dana. If I had, you'd know it. I'd be with her.

  Bui I'm not, am I? I'm with you. And that's where I want to

  stay."

  Ohmygod. Now there's a torrent of tears. Somehow I'm

  feeling both better and worse. Better because I know he's

  right. Worse because I've been stupid.

  "Where are you, Maddy? I want to come be with you."

  "I'm . . . at . . . the . . . p-park . . . near . . . m-my

  house."

  "Stay put. I'll be there in ten minutes."

  "No," I say. "Let's m e e t . . . at Kristen's house." I know

  she'll give us whatever privacy we need,

  "All right," he agrees.

  I flip the phone closed again, then walk off toward the

  merry-go-round, where Kristen is waiting for me.

  MB

  wrong. I don't have anything against peas, actually. When

  I was little, I'd roll them around on my plate, playing a fun

  game of tag. I don't even mind the taste of them.

  But school peas? Those are an entirely different thing.

  They're always overcooked and mushy, and if that's not bad

  enough, they taste like a metal can that's been boiled.

  So there's no way Sandra and I are going to resist the

  urge to smoosh them. We're immediately in a mad scramble

  to stomp on my peas. It's sort of like playing a video

  game . . . see it, stomp i t . . . see it, stomp i t . . . see it—

  Are there any adults watching? Nope? Then stomp

  some more.

  We both aim for the same pea, and my foot lands on top

  of hers. "Ouch!" I say.

  Which is funny, because I'm the one who stomped on

  her. Isn't she the one who's supposed to have the hurt foot?

  We crack up and then start shushing each other.

  Which makes me laugh even harder, because she accidentally

  spits on me when she's making the shb sound.

  "Disgywring," I say, pulling away from her and knocking

  my chocolate milk off the table.

  Which is hilarious, because now Sandra has a poop-colored

  splash on her shirtsleeve. She's trying to say something,

  but she's laughing so hard she can't get any words out.

  Which is the funniest thing vet because . . . well,

  because
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  school peas

  age II

  Sandra stands up too suddenly. Her coat sleeve is under my

  tray, and as she tries to pull it out, the whole tray starts to

  . My plate slides across the tray, hitting the raised lip

  and coming to an abrupt stop.

  The peas on top of it, though, continue their journey.

  They roll right off the plate and onto the table. Some travel

  as far as the table edge and then take a suicidal plunge to

  the floor.

  Who can resist squashing underfoot one of the most

  despicable foods known to humankind? Don't get me

  about having Sandra as my best friend. My stomach hurts,

  my cheeks ache, I think I'm going to pee my pants, and

  there's nothing I want to do more than keep killing myself

  with laughter this way.

  Uh-oh. We've shown up on the GPS of one of the lunch

  supervisors: TROUBLE AT TABLE 4. She's on her wayover

  here.

  Still giggline, Sandra starts mopping up chocolate milk

  with a napkin. I launch myself under the table and start trying

  to herd in the peas.

  I hit my head on the table.

  Which is funnv, because . . . gosh, who even knows?

  "What are you two doing?" the lunch supervisor

  demands.

  "Uh . . . cleaning up?" Sandra says.

  "You'd better be. It's a mess over here."

  "We are," I assure her through my laughter.

  "And stop giggling. You'll just make more of a mess."

  She glares at us as she moves off.

  "Gee," I say after she's out of earshot, "who put the

  lemon juice in her Cheerios this morning?"

  Now we're almost choking on our giggles.

  Until I see Tammv Havers looking over at us . . . wistfully.

  She's sitting at another table with some other girls.

  But the look she gives me makes me feel guilty. I can tell

  Tammy misses eating lunch with me this year.

  lie isi

  I have nothing against her, I just want to sit with Sandra.

  It's really our onlv chance to have best-friend time together.

  We wouldn't be able to laugh together this way if there were

  other people around.

  But I know that Tammv feels shut out. And I know that

  I should invite her to eat lunch with Sandra and me more

  often.

  "Do you have all the peas picked up?" Sandra asks me.

  "Let's go play basketball until class starts."

  "All except the ones that are squashed. And I'm not picking

  those up."

  "Really, Madison," Sandra says in her best Als. Mathison

  voice. Als. Mathison is our math teacher, and she doesn't like

  me. I don't know why. But Sandra figured out on the third

  day of school how to imitate Ms. Mathison's voice. She's

  good at it. "And who will clean up after you? Do you think

  others were put on this Earth to clean up your messes?"

  "No, Ms. Mathison," I say. "But I'm still not picking

  them up. They're disgusting. Give me detention if you

  want," I fire over my shoulder as I head toward the gym. I

  can feel Tammy watching me as I go.

  \l

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  HarpgrCplJins fti&MteOpain's

  greater pIan

  age II

  "And I can put this here," I say to myself, unzipping the

  center pocket of my backpack and placing my new school

  planner inside. I'm going to be so organized this year. I've

  already pui my whole class schedule into the grid at the

  front of the book. And if I ever need co know whether I'm

  supposed to be using the word affect or effect, I can just flip

  to the back of the planner and . . . there it will be.

  Next, I unzip the front pocket and toss in my magnetized

  locker mirror. Getting ready for the first day of school

  is . . . nerve-racking,

  Ii4

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  ttatpfa&^BnsfiABilsn

  is

  THIS STUPID PINKCONE . . .

  I'm frustrated enough to imagine myself smashing it

  into pieces.

  But it still doesn't take me anywhere.

  isa

  My stomach is in knots. Middle school is a whole new

  thing. Will I like it? Will I get lost in this new, bigger building?

  How much more homework are the teachers going to

  give us? Will I be able to keep up with it all?

  I don't actually want to go to middle school. I liked fifth

  grade. I knew everyone. I knew where everything was. I got

  good grades. I'm supposed to be excited to be moving up to

  a bigger s c h o o l . , , dances and school sports, all that.

  No, thanks.

  At least I've got a planner to help me stay organized,

  right? At least I will if I manage
not to lose it—the way I

  seem to lose everything,

  I'd better check, just to make sure it's where I think it

  is . . . but—

  It. Isn't. There. Where is it? Where? Where? Where?!

  I frantically start unzipping pockets. Not there. Not in

  this one. I swear I put it in this pocket. Really. I swear.

  "Alommmm!" I'm yelling. "Come here! I need you!"

  I hear her charging up the stairs, and then she's standing

  in the doorway. "What is it?" she asks.

  "I can't find my new planner."

  She laughs. "And here I thought you actually needed

  something."

  I hate it when she does that. Gets sarcastic, I mean. And

  I hate it even more when she acts like things that are really,

  really important don't matter at all.

  IH

  "I already put the names and numbers of all my friends

  in it," I tell her, and then I burst into tears.

  "Oh, honey," Mom says. She comes into the room and

  sits on my bed, sighing. "Where did you see it last?"

  "I thought I put it in my backpack. Just a few minutes

  ago. And now it's gone." I wipe at tears rolling onto my

  cheek. I can't stand the way my face feels all tight if I let

  tears dry on it.

  "Maddy," Mom says, "I don't think you're truly crying

  over that planner."

  "I am? I insist, sniffling. I suddenly wish I hadn't asked

  Mom for help. I can tell from the look on her face that she's

  about to tell me how she thinks I'm actually feeling.

  As if she would know.

  "It's always been hard for you to make changes, sweetie,

  and this is a pretty big change. All-new building. New people

  from other elementary schools. Teachers you've never

  seen before."

  "I don't have trouble making changes," I protest. At least

  I won't if I have a planner.

  Mom makes some kind of noise that sounds suspiciously

  like a . . . snort.

  "Cut it out. Are you going to help me or what?"

  She changes the subject. "All that sadness you're feeling

  right now, and all that fear you have about whether everything

  is going to be okay . . . all that is good, Maddy. You

  m

  "No. What's ecstasy?" I ask.

  Now she's laughing. As if any of this is funny?

  "it means extreme happiness. Giddy happiness. The best

  happiness in the world. She's saying that for every moment

  of wonder and excitement, you have to pav with an equal

  amount of pain."

  Somehow, this doesn't seem fair. I don't understand why

  God would make you pay for your happiness with pain.