Plastic polly, p.2
Plastic Polly, page 2
Then Kristy and the other cheerleaders start clapping and break into a chant, “WIN-ston! WIN-ston! WIN-ston!” I can’t help it. I look around at the rest of the cafeteria and watch everyone else (including Alyssa) watch us. It feels good.
“Free concert with Shattered Stars, here we come! American River doesn’t stand a chance with Queen Kelsey as the PlanMaster!” Lindsey says.
(Yep, Kelsey also has a nickname that we think came from Alyssa. The difference is, Kelsey likes hers.)
“It doesn’t matter who the PlanMaster is,” Kelsey says, rubbing her temples. “What matters is which school has the most talent.”
“Stop being so modest,” Melinda says, in a voice so sugary I wonder if she practices in front of a mirror. “We all know that if Winston wins, as PlanMaster, Kelsey should get all the credit.” Melinda smiles, but her yellowish-brown eyes—that remind me of greedy wasps—don’t. For a second I wonder if Melinda believes the opposite. If Winston loses, does Kelsey deserve all the blame?
I think Kelsey must wonder the same thing, because she snaps, “I know, Melinda. Okay? Since you remind me practically every hour.”
Derek returns, having finally outsmarted the vending machine. He hands me a soda, and then offers one to Kelsey. “Here you go, Madame PlanMaster.”
“It’s dented.” Kelsey turns the can to show Derek.
“Oh, yeah,” Derek says, looking vaguely surprised. “I guess I dropped it.”
“Look what I found.” Kristy holds up an American River flyer advertising Groove It Up. “They hung it up outside of Chip’s. Can you believe that?”
Groove It Up is a big deal in Maple Oaks, and a lot of the local businesses get into it, supporting one school or another. Chip’s, the diner across the street from Winston, is always firmly on our side.
“Give me that.” Melinda snatches the flyer, wads it up, and tosses it behind her. It lands in Alyssa’s tomato soup, sending red liquid splashing onto Alyssa’s face—which sends half the Court into hysterics.
“She looks better that way.” Melinda gasps, laughing so hard she can’t catch her breath.
Everyone goes back to cheering for Winston. No one notices that Kelsey and I aren’t laughing. Alyssa, meanwhile, wipes the soup off with a napkin, revealing a face that’s still tomato-colored. Then she hastily gathers her things. After she’s cleared her tray, she starts for the staircase leading to Winston’s lower level—the Dungeon, as it’s known around campus.
“I want to go talk to her,” I whisper to Kelsey.
“Absolutely not. She made her choice.”
I turn and stare at Kelsey. “I wasn’t asking for your permission.”
I stand up and start after Alyssa. Behind me I hear Kelsey say, “All right, Polly. Fine. Wait for me.”
I’m at the edge of the staircase, and Alyssa is down the stairs—heading into the Dungeon—when I call down to her, “Alyssa!”
This is the part I will always replay in my mind:
1. Alyssa turns to stare up at us.
2. Next to me I hear Kelsey pop open her soda, and icy liquid sprays my shoulder as the soda spurts everywhere. Then I hear a dull thud as Kelsey drops the can.
3. Alyssa grins, but her look quickly turns to panic and she mouths the word No!
4. I turn just in time to see Kelsey trip over the can and go toppling down the stairs, her screams tumbling after her.
5. When Kelsey lands, Alyssa is at her side.
6. Alyssa looks up at me. Then, like a mirror image, we each bring a hand to our neck.
Both of us reaching for a heart necklace that isn’t there anymore.
Chapter 3
True Confession: Besides Kelsey, I never show my report card to the girls at the Court. I don’t want them to know I get straight As.
THIS IS THE STORY OF HOW I BECAME POPULAR AND LOST a best friend, all in the same week:
On our first day of seventh grade, Alyssa and I sat together at a side table in the cafeteria, trying to calm down Kelsey, who was livid that some eighth grader named Amanda had dared to call her Squirt in the hallway.
“It’s not a big deal,” Alyssa said. “And who cares what she says, anyway?”
“I care, Miss High-and-Mighty,” Kelsey snapped. “And so should both of you. Do you know what kinds of decisions are made in the first weeks of middle school? Where you sit, who you hang out with? It defines your entire existence.”
“Okay, now you’re just being overdramatic,” Alyssa said.
“Don’t talk to me about being dramatic, Miss I’m-Saving-My-Voice-for-Choir-Tryouts-Tomorrow.” Kelsey stared pointedly at the scarf Alyssa had tied around her neck.
I kept quiet, but I actually agreed with Kelsey. Right then in the cafeteria most people (except for Amanda) seemed pretty nice—spread out like pieces of a living puzzle, trying to figure out where they fit. But eventually, I knew, everyone would find their matching pieces and connect together, making up Winston Academy’s student body. After that, if you tried to switch groups or sit at a different table, people would look at you funny.
“If we were sitting at the Court,” Kelsey said, “no one could touch us. We should go over there.”
I’d only been a middle schooler for approximately four hours, but I’d been hearing all about the Court—the table where the cream of the crop of Winston Academy sat, ruling from on high—for years in Winston’s elementary section. Jenna Huff always acted like it was just a given that she’d end up at the Court. Once, in fifth grade, I heard Jenna and her friends making a list of the people they’d allow to eat with them once they were in charge. My name wasn’t on it. “Polly’s too dorky to sit at the Court,” I’d heard Jenna say to her friends. But I wondered if the real reason was because every week I beat Jenna for first place in the class spelling bee.
Alyssa stared at Kelsey like she’d just suggested we chop off a finger or two. “You can’t be serious. You have to be invited to the Court. No one just goes over and sits down.”
“Oh yeah?” Kelsey stood up. “Watch me.”
“Kelsey, wait!” I said. Alyssa and I grabbed our lunches and scrambled after Kelsey, who marched straight over to the Court and pointed to two empty chairs at the end of the table.
“Sit down,” she commanded.
Alyssa and I sat. Kelsey dragged over another chair. Then she sat down and quietly began eating her lunch.
Meanwhile, everyone else at the table stared at us. Amanda, the girl who’d insulted Kelsey earlier, said, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Kelsey smiled back at her. Then she proceeded to utterly pick apart Amanda’s outfit and all the ways it wasn’t worthy to be worn at the Court. When Kelsey finished, there was a stunned silence.
Until Brooklyn Jones, the most popular eighth grader, said, “What’s your name?” After Kelsey answered, Brooklyn smiled and said, “Nice outfit.” Then her smile vanished. “And, Amanda? She’s right. Tomorrow don’t bother sitting here unless you can clean yourself up. You’re making us all look bad.”
While everyone talked about clothes and football and their classes, I quietly ate my lunch and read an invitation I’d received in homeroom to take the Star Student test—a program for academically gifted kids. The students who passed the test were bused over to Maple Oaks High School during lunchtime to take a couple of afternoon prep classes. I hadn’t decided yet if I wanted to take the test. I knew my mom would love it if I did, but I wasn’t sure yet what I wanted.
“Polly, what are you reading?” Brooklyn said suddenly, sounding irritated that I hadn’t been paying enough attention to her.
I looked up at Brooklyn and realized I couldn’t tell the truth, especially since she’d just called the AcaSmackers—members of the Academic Smackdown club—“hopeless überdorks.”
“Nothing.” I quickly stuffed the letter back into my pocket. “But, hey, there’s something super important I need to ask you.” I leaned toward Brooklyn and made my eyes go wide, like I was about to ask her the most important question in the history of the world. “What are you wearing to the football game on Friday night?”
At the end of lunch Brooklyn said she’d see us all tomorrow. But the next afternoon in the cafeteria Alyssa refused to sit at the Court.
“No. I’m not eating there again. Not even for you, Kelse. The people over there are lame.”
“Will you please lower your voice?” Kelsey said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one heard. “And you don’t know the people over there, so don’t make generalizations. Don’t you see? If we join the Court, we could do whatever we wanted and no one could mess with us. It’s the only way.”
“It’s not the only way,” Alyssa said. “We don’t have to sit there just because you’re obsessed with being popular.”
“I am not obsessed,” Kelsey said.
“Can’t we go down to the lower level?” Alyssa asked, pointing to the staircase. “I want to check out the choir room before tryouts this afternoon. And I heard a lot of people eat lunch down there.”
“You want to eat lunch in the Dungeon?” Kelsey said. “The only rooms down there are the music and drama rooms for all the weird artsy types. The geeks . . . I’m sorry,” Kelsey said immediately as Alyssa’s face flushed red.
“I may be ‘artsy,’” Alyssa said, making air quotes, “but at least I’m not shallow.”
Kelsey and Alyssa glared at each other. I stood between them, feeling like a thin paper clip caught between two powerful magnets. Instinctively I grabbed for my heart necklace. It was appropriate that I had the middle section, the one that joined the other two. Because that was always my role—to help Kelsey and Alyssa work things out when they got into one of their famous fights.
Peacemaker Polly, Alyssa always called me.
I twisted my necklace around my finger. Today, I noticed, neither Kelsey nor Alyssa wore theirs. Both of them turned to stare at me. Kelsey’s eyes pleading, Alyssa’s wary.
“Tell her, Polly,” Alyssa said. “Tell her you didn’t like sitting there either.”
I bit my lip and said nothing. It was true, I hadn’t liked sitting at the Court and worrying I might say or do—or be wearing—the wrong thing. Up till then, most of my clothes had come from the thrift shops Alyssa and I shopped at. The previous afternoon I’d begged my mom to take me to the mall. Mom, who had just gotten a big promotion at work, had handed me her credit card and said she’d catch up on paperwork in the food court while I shopped. After I got a haircut, I spent two nerve-racking hours hunting down a week’s worth of outfits that I hoped Brooklyn (and Kelsey) would consider Court-worthy. Thankfully, Mom didn’t seem to care how much money I’d spent. She even said that since she would be working more hours, I should keep the credit card, just in case.
That morning in homeroom a couple of girls—who’d ignored me the day before—had started asking me all about the Court. When I casually mentioned I’d been invited to eat there again, they said they were having a sleepover that weekend and wanted to know if I could come.
And that I liked. A lot. But I knew it wasn’t something Alyssa would understand.
Alyssa’s eyes hardened. “You can’t say it, can you? You can’t say what you really think. You’ve changed your whole look just so those morons over there will think you’re cool. Will you change your personality, too? You’re plastic, you know that? Plastic Polly—that’s who you are.” Alyssa turned back to Kelsey. “Fine. You two go and sit in Fakeville, but I’m leaving.”
Alyssa stomped over to the staircase. After she disappeared down into the Dungeon, Kelsey grabbed my arm and led us to the Court. Once we were settled, Brooklyn asked Kelsey where our friend was.
“She . . . had something she needed to take care of.” Kelsey shot me a look that told me to keep quiet.
“Good. I didn’t like her attitude,” Brooklyn said. “Don’t bring her over here tomorrow.”
That night I called Alyssa to smooth things over. I didn’t want Kelsey to do it, because I was afraid she’d lose her temper and make things worse. I asked Alyssa about the Dungeon, and choir tryouts, and listened while she talked about some new friends she’d made. But it turned out Alyssa felt bad about our fight, and she offered a solution to the lunch problem. “I can’t handle being at the Court every day. What if I eat with you guys, like, a couple times a week or something?”
“Um, the thing is, Alyssa,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “you have to be invited to the Court.”
“And I’m not?”
I didn’t know what to say. It occurred to me I could offer to eat with Alyssa in the Dungeon the next day, but I figured if I did, Brooklyn would ban me from the Court too. And that was something I didn’t want, I realized. Because even if I didn’t really like Brooklyn and some of the other girls at the Court, I did like how people were starting to talk to me in class, or in the hallways. I didn’t have to even do anything; the power of the Court seemed to draw them to me.
Popularity, it seemed to me right then, was the middle school equivalent of a security blanket. Something thick and warm to wrap around yourself to keep you safe from the dangers outside. And incredibly enough, it was being offered to me. (Mostly because I was Kelsey’s best friend, but still.) All I had to do was reach out and take it.
And also, I knew if I asked Alyssa not to hang out in the Dungeon, she wouldn’t listen. She would tell me if I was really her friend, I wouldn’t ask her to give up something so important to her. So why should I give up something I wanted, just for her?
“Look, even if we don’t hang out at lunch, it doesn’t mean anything else has to change.”
“Yeah, right,” Alyssa said. Then she hung up on me.
I called her back every day for a week, but Alyssa always got her mom to say she was busy or not home or something. Kelsey was furious that Alyssa wouldn’t take my calls, and she decided we shouldn’t speak to her until Alyssa apologized. Except neither of us had any classes with Alyssa, and her locker was across the school from ours. We rarely saw her—it was like Alyssa didn’t exist anymore. But when I began hearing people call me Plastic Polly, I knew who I had to thank.
I threw away my invitation to test for the Star Student program. Who wanted to spend lunchtime being driven over to Maple Oaks High when I had a chance to join the Court? Every day Kelsey and I ate lunch there—until it became clear to everyone that was where we belonged. Sometimes, though, I couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if it had been Kelsey who’d stomped away first. Would I have gone to the Court on my own? Or, like Alyssa, would I have sunk into middle school obscurity?
In the waiting room at the hospital, Mrs. Taylor tells me and my mom that Kelsey has a broken wrist, a slight concussion, and a mildly sprained ankle, and she’s pretty bruised up—but that Kelsey is really lucky because it could have been so much worse.
“Her room is down the hall, fourth on the left. You girls catch up, and your mom and I will get some coffee from the cafeteria.”
Mrs. Taylor takes Molly—Kelsey’s little sister—by the hand and heads with Mom to the elevator. After they’re gone, I don’t immediately go to Kelsey’s room. Instead, I pull my cell phone from my pocket. Maybe it’s because I just saw her earlier, but my first instinct is to call Alyssa and let her know Kelsey is okay.
Before I can stop and ask myself why I still have her number in my cell, I’m dialing and the phone is ringing. It’s not until Alyssa answers that I realize how stupid I’m being. Although she initially rushed to Kelsey’s side, by the time I’d scrambled down the stairs, Alyssa had floated away into the crowd. Maybe she doesn’t care how Kelsey is doing.
I’m about to hang up when Alyssa says, “Hello? Polly?”
Stupid caller ID. “Hey, it’s me.” I explain Kelsey’s injuries. Then I say, “But she’s okay. They’re going to keep her here for a few days before sending her home.”
I expect Alyssa to say something snarky, but she doesn’t. In fact, she doesn’t even seem surprised I called. She just says, “I’m glad.”
There’s an awkward silence until I say, “I have to—”
“My mom is calling me,” Alyssa says.
I think we’re both relieved when we hang up.
As soon as I walk into Kelsey’s room, I feel nauseous. Colorful bouquets of flowers are spread out on every available surface, making the room smell sickeningly sweet.
“You must have a lot of friends on campus,” a nurse is saying to Kelsey as she makes room on the nightstand for a vase of tulips.
“You have no idea,” Kelsey answers, fluffing her hair. “Hey, Polly.”
A pile of get-well cards sits next to an arrangement of daisies. Kelsey follows my gaze and says, “Mr. Fish brought them over earlier.”
I nod and move over to Kelsey’s bed. One card sits next to Kelsey. It’s from Melinda and reads:
I know you’ll be a great PlanMaster, even if you might be injured! It would really stink if we lost this year. Everyone will be soooo mad if they don’t get that concert with Shattered Stars. So get well soon!
I hand the card back to Kelsey and roll my eyes. Typical Melinda.
After the nurse leaves, I sit down on the bed and give Kelsey an awkward hug. “How are you?”
“Okay.” Kelsey looks more than okay. A hot-pink cast encloses her left hand, but otherwise she looks great. She’s propped up on a pile of pillows, and her sleek black hair is fanned around her like she’s a princess. Her face is perfectly made up, and she’s wearing her favorite silver hoop earrings.
“I might be out of school for a while,” Kelsey says, staring out the window.
I squeeze her good hand. “You’ll be back in no time. You look great. Really.”
Kelsey shakes her head and looks at me. “My doctor gave me a note. I can be out for three weeks if I want.”
“Three weeks? For a broken wrist?”
“And a concussion. And a sprained ankle,” Kelsey says, defensiveness creeping into her voice. “And I hurt everywhere you can imagine.”
