Читать книгу The Crepe Makers' Bond - Julie Crabtree - Страница 10

First Day Catastrophe

We had agreed to meet at M’s house because it is closest to school, and her mom will drop us off. Our middle school is within walking distance, but we always run late in the morning. Besides, M’s mom doesn’t mind driving us as long as she doesn’t have to get out of the car. It’s part of her therapy for having issues about going out of the house.

It is so foggy this morning that San Francisco is completely invisible. Alameda feels lonely when it’s like this, as though it is cut off from the world. Isolated. Technically Alameda is an island, but barely; you could easily throw a rock across to Oakland from the shore. When it gets foggy though, it feels like we could be floating in some remote ocean. It makes me want to live somewhere else, somewhere more connected, when it’s like this.

The “cone zone” is filled with a long line of cars. M’s mom pulls into the line and we inch forward, watching as several kids hop out of the minivan ahead of us. These kids are fresh from elementary school. They look scared and hopeful. One of the girls frantically checks her face in the car’s side mirror and jerks back from her mother’s attempt to kiss her cheek. We say nothing, but I know we are all remembering our first day. It seems like decades ago, not just last year. We are so different now.

Finally, we pull into the getting-out part of the cone zone. We grab our backpacks and pile out of the car. M’s mom blows us each little air kisses. We each jump or lunge to catch the invisible kisses and smack our empty palms on our cheeks. It’s one of those things we have done with each other’s moms forever. Here we go, another year begins.

“Ariel, that black shirt is perfect,” Nicki pats my arm, “I don’t know why you were stressing so much last night. With your shape, you always look good.” This is so Nicki. Lies with good intentions. I snort and give her a little shove.

“What’d you make, Ariel?” M points to the cake carrier I’m carrying. M and Nicki know they are in for something at lunch when they see the carrier.

“Just a light cucumber salad. A side dish. I felt like making something last night, and we had a bunch of English cucumbers . . .” I trail off. They’ve had the salad before, though not with the homemade vinegar. I think they’ll notice the improvement.

“Yum. I love that!” Nicki claps.

“Oh, isn’t that the one with the gross red onions?” M asks. Geez, where’s the gratitude?

“M, I snipped chives on them this time, so quit whining.” I roll my eyes and M giggles. I know all their picky food issues pretty well by now, and I knew M wouldn’t eat the salad with red onion.

“Thank GOD.” She breathes out as though she had been holding her breath. M is so funny with her fake dramatics. She stopped doing it, stopped being herself, for awhile last year. It’s nice to see her funny and happy again.

Last year was really crazy for her. It is all too long and complicated to go into here, but if you want to read about everything that happened to M, she has a book that tells the whole story. I’ll just say that now, while her mom is still somewhat whacked out and her dad is still basically absent, I think M is alright.

And Nicki? Honestly, I don’t know for sure about her. Last year M was kind of the center of our attention, so maybe I didn’t take in Nicki’s issues so much. Lately, I have started noticing some weird things with Nicki. She is kind of . . . distracted. I get the feeling she is guarding something, but I have no idea what. Maybe the earthquake jarred loose my paranoid chip.

On the first day of school the whole place, teachers and kids, janitors and overly involved parents, gather on the basketball court. The principal gives a speech, we say the pledge of allegiance, and general announcements are made. As everyone gathers, the various cliques group together, talking excitedly, glancing around to see the other clumps of kids. The new kids and loners form a raggedy fringe around the edges, hoping to be included in any of the established groups. Good luck. This first day dictates more or less who will hang with whom for the year. Everyone notices everyone else.

We three are, of course, standing in our own little cluster. There’s a group of jocks behind us, and I hear the low murmur-chuckle-snort sounds that mean they are talking about my chest. I learned long ago to both recognize and ignore it.

Our principal steps under the basketball hoop with a microphone. She is the tiniest adult I have ever seen (she’s even a tad shorter than me, which is seriously shrimpy), but she is tough as nails. She taps the cordless mike and the huge speakers set up against the bleachers whine deafening feedback. Everyone groans and hands clap over ears. If any dogs were in the area they probably keeled over.

We all turn toward her, ready to hear the predictable speech about what a fantastic year this will be because the teachers are so incredible and the students are so wonderful and all that. Then she says, “Ariel Solomon, please go the office immediately.”

The whole student body looks in my direction. Even the kids who don’t know me. I feel my face flame and I know it matches my hair. I want to sink through the concrete. I try to look unconcerned as I turn toward the office, but I trip on the cucumber salad I had put down near my feet. The boys behind us laugh, and I hear titters from other groups. Forget sinking through the floor, how about a swift and painless death? M pats my back and Nicki whispers something meant to comfort me. I walk quickly toward the office wondering why I have to go there, and why the universe sees fit, in literally the first minutes of a new school year, to humiliate me. It’s unbelievable.

My mom is standing at the counter chatting with Ms. Patel, the school secretary, as I enter the office.

“Mom?”

She turns toward me and smiles. In her hand she holds my compact bee sting kit. Cheerfully, she thrusts the bright yellow box toward me. “You forgot this, and you know you should have it here at school.”

She sees from my look that I am less than thrilled.

“You called me out of the assembly, on the PA system, to give me a bee sting kit? Mom, they have one in the nurse’s office! And what are the chances I would get stung today? I haven’t even seen a bee around here in like a year.”

She looks confused, maybe a little hurt. “Ariel, I was only trying to help. You know how allergic you are—remember last time? You could end up in the hospital . . .”

I snatch the kit, interrupting, “Thanks, Mom.” I try to keep the sarcasm out, but it is hopeless. My words are sharp and angry. The secretary is suddenly very busy with some papers behind her desk.

My mom sighs and gives me that injured-mother look I can’t stand. I feel instantly guilty. She waves to Ms. Patel, and brushes past me out the door, muttering something about ingratitude and anaphylactic shock. I stare after her, the plastic box handle cutting into my fingers as I grip it. The secretary tries to act like she hasn’t been listening to everything as she picks up a small tube and squeezes sludgy, overly sweet hand lotion onto her palm. A drop glops onto her desk. It looks like melted brie cheese, which makes me feel even worse because baked brie is my mom’s favorite appetizer on the planet. I’ll make it tonight, I think, as an apology.

I shake my head and refocus—I still have a day to get through. It is 8:38 in the morning of the first day of eighth grade and I have already managed to embarrass myself in front of the whole school and hurt my mom’s feelings. If I believed in signs, I would be very, very concerned about what this means for my immediate future.

Guilty Daughter Baked Brie

1 tube crescent rolls

cooking spray

1 round of brie cheese, rind (that’s the hard outer part)

removed

¼ C. chopped green olives

¼ C. chopped black olives

1 T. chopped, fresh parsley or 1 t. dried

Preheat oven to 350°. Pop and unroll dough into one big rectangle. If it breaks apart at the seams, mash it back together with your fingers. Spray a cookie sheet with nonstick spray, and lay the rectangle of dough on it. Put cheese in the middle and sprinkle the olives and parsley on top of the cheese. Fold the dough over the cheese, carefully pinching the ends together to completely enclose the cheese. Make it look like a wrapped Hershey’s Kiss shape-wise. Use kitchen scissors or a sharp knife to trim it into an even shape where it “gathers.” Bake for about 20 minutes, until the dough is lightly browned. Let it cool for 10 minutes. Serve with crackers or breadsticks.