Plastic polly, p.3
Plastic Polly, page 3
“Okay. But three weeks? You’re not even left-handed. And why would you want to be out of school that long, anyway?”
Kelsey glances at the get-well card from Melinda. “I just—”
“Excuse me, girls.” Another nurse walks in, carrying a tray. “Dinner is served. Hospital food at its finest!”
I move off the bed while the nurse places the tray on a table next to Kelsey. I don’t get it. Kelsey can be extremely persuasive, which is why Alyssa and I always let Kelsey do the talking whenever the three of us wanted something from one of our parents, so if anyone can talk their doctor into giving them a free pass from school for three weeks, it’s Kelsey.
But she never misses school. Not because she loves her classes—Kelsey has an on-again, off-again relationship with her homework—but because as the queen of the Court, Kelsey considers Winston Academy her personal playground. I look around at the bouquets of flowers. It seems to me she’d be dying to go back to school so she could be showered with gifts and attention. So what’s going on?
After the nurse leaves, Kelsey takes a bite of chocolate pudding, then makes a face and pushes her tray away. “Since I’m going to be out of school, I called Principal Allen and resigned as the PlanMaster for Groove It Up. I’m really sorry, Polly.”
I frown. “What are you apologizing for?”
Kelsey rolls her eyes. “You know, for an A student you can be really slow sometimes. What happens to the vice president when the president is unable to perform his—or her—duties?”
“They—” I stop as the light finally clicks on. “Oh.”
“Yep.” Kelsey nods and raises her good arm like she’s passing a torch. “Congratulations! You are now the new PlanMaster for Winston Academy!”
Chapter 4
True Confession: You know how everyone says you shouldn’t care what others think about you? Well, I care. A lot.
SOMETIMES I THINK ALYSSA GAVE ME THE WRONG nickname. Sure, Plastic Polly is clever. But Parrot Polly might have been an even better choice, because my job at the Court—and on the Groove It Up planning committee—is to agree with whatever Kelsey says. It’s not like she gets mad at me if I don’t. (Not usually, anyway.) But Kelsey always knows what she wants, and most of the time I don’t, so it’s just easier to go along with her.
Groove It Up is always planned by the members of the Court, with the most popular eighth grader serving as the PlanMaster. It’s not a school rule or anything, more like a tradition. And when Mr. Fish holds a meeting for anyone interested in being the PlanMaster, and Queen Kelsey raises her hand and stares down everyone else—silently daring them to cross her—how many other girls are going to volunteer?
Look, it may not be fair. But this is middle school. This is how it is.
So the next morning while Mom and I wait outside Principal Allen’s office, I’m trying to figure out how to abdicate as the PlanMaster. It has always looked like a ton of work (even though Kelsey didn’t seem to be doing a whole lot). And, being the Vice PlanMaster, I get to stand in front of everyone at the Groove It Up pep rallies. But I haven’t had to actually do anything. It’s been nice.
Next to me Mom is firing off texts. Her black pantsuit is freshly pressed, her nutmeg-colored hair is twisted into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, and her ice-blue eyes are narrowed as she taps on her cell. Sometimes I wonder how we could possibly be related when we look so different. Once, I heard Grandpa Pierce say she was the most striking woman he’s ever seen. But no one would ever call me striking. Most things about my appearance—my face, my height, my dirty-blond hair—are average. Except for my eyes. Dad says they’re the perfect shade of aqua, like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to be green or blue, so they chose somewhere in the middle.
Mom glares at her phone and mutters something under her breath. She’s a lawyer for a big firm, but she’s not the cool kind of lawyer that struts around in shiny high heels badgering witnesses and demanding that they tell her the truth. More like she spends all day (and many times all night) poring over stacks of boring paperwork in her stuffy office.
Mom says she always knew she wanted to be a lawyer. After she graduated from Harvard, she planned on going to law school. But then she moved back to Maple Oaks in northern California and met Dad. They got married and had me. Mom stayed home with me when I was little, but once I started first grade, she told Dad she was going to law school. I’m probably the only first grader who learned to read by sounding out sentences in legal briefs. Mom just seems happier when she’s working and has a huge to-do list. I don’t take it personally. Most days, anyway.
“Mom, can I talk to you about something?”
“In a sec,” Mom answers, scowling at her phone and texting away.
I wait, but she keeps sending one text after another. Finally I give up and send a text of my own:
I need to talk to you.
“Almost finished. I promise.”
“Have you had a chance to look at the application for Camp Colonial?” Mom asks once she’s put her phone away.
“That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. And, no, I haven’t.” A couple of weeks ago Mom handed me an application for this lame camp where you spend half your summer prepping for high school. Look, I may get all As, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend every second of my life studying. And sometimes I think Mom looks at my future like it’s a geometry problem: What is the shortest distance between point A and point B? With point A being me and point B being Harvard. And the only obstacle standing between Mom’s alma mater and her perfect AB line to academic excellence is, well, me. That’s why I never told her about the invitation I got last year to test for the Star Student program—or the one I received this year either. I knew if she found out, I could kiss any fun I might want to have in middle school good-bye.
“Polly, do you have any idea how many kids would kill for an opportunity like this?”
“I’m guessing somewhere in the range of zero?”
“A little hard work wouldn’t hurt, is all I’m saying. Next year you’ll be starting high school, and then you’ll have to get serious.”
“Fine, I will.” And then just to annoy her I add, “But in the meantime I’m going to be as unserious as possible. Besides, Kelsey says she wants me to help her train for the high school soccer team over the summer.”
“Kelsey says, huh?” Mom frowns. I don’t know what her deal is. Lately it seems like she doesn’t like Kelsey as much as she used to.
Mom begins to say something else, but she stops when the office door opens and Principal Allen greets us. I expect to hear the stern voice she uses with her students, but instead Principal Allen squeals, “Laura! So good to see you!” and hugs Mom.
“Trudy!” Mom exclaims, all traces of her irritation gone. “It’s been ages. How are you? I’ll bet when we were cheering for the Winston Wildcats, we didn’t think we’d end up here!”
Mom and “Trudy” chatter about the good old days as we walk into the office and settle into chairs around Principal Allen’s desk. I can’t help feeling a little weird that Mom and Principal Allen know each other. I mean, yeah, I vaguely remember Mom telling me they went to school together, but it’s hard to imagine Mom and Principal Allen as middle school cheerleaders.
Next to Principal Allen’s desk is a display case holding several trophies. My stomach clenches when I see the three golden microphones—representing Winston’s Groove It Up wins over the last three years. A fourth win this year would set a new record. The trophies occupy their own row, but they’re not centered. At the end is a large space, like Principal Allen has already reserved the spot for our fourth win.
“Thank you for coming in today,” Principal Allen says. “With Kelsey out that means that, as the Vice PlanMaster, Polly is next in line to coordinate Groove It Up. There’s much to accomplish in the next few weeks.”
Principal Allen looks at me like I’m supposed to speak, to express my gratitude or maybe tell her all about the plans I have for Groove It Up.
“I visited Kelsey in the hospital,” I blurt out instead.
Principal Allen nods and waves her hand slightly. “Yes, I’ve spoken with the Taylors as well, but Kelsey won’t be coming back to school until after Groove It Up, and, as they say, the show must go on. The question is, what to do now? There was a school board meeting last night, and questions have arisen regarding Groove It Up and what’s best for the school.”
“I see,” Mom says. I can feel something shift in the atmosphere then, but I can’t figure out what.
“Yes,” Principal Allen continues, “and we just need a little bit of clarity about what Polly wants to do—if she wishes to continue on as the PlanMaster, or if she wishes to resign.” Principal Allen looks at me. “Polly, what are your thoughts?”
My thoughts? The only thought in my head is that I wish I could get away—from Mom, who would sign me up for Harvard right now if she could. And from Principal Allen, who seems more concerned about Groove It Up than she does about Kelsey.
I hesitate before answering, maybe too long, because Principal Allen says, “Polly, there are leftover cookies in the teachers’ lounge, just down the hall. Why don’t you grab a few—there’s milk in the fridge—and we’ll pick this up in a few minutes.”
I know she’s trying to get rid of me—though I’m not sure why—but I don’t argue, and try not to run from her office. Inside the teachers’ lounge I ignore the cookies and send Kelsey a text:
Are you there?
It takes a minute, but then:
Yes. Hard 2 txt with 1 hand tho.
I’m meeting with Principal Allen. She wants to know if I want to be the PlanMaster or if I want to resign.
I hesitate and then add:
Do you think I could do it?
I had meant to text “should” do it, like whether or not Kelsey thinks it’s worth my time. But instead, I typed “could” do it, like I’m wondering if Kelsey thinks I’m able to plan Groove It Up by myself. Which, I guess I am. Wondering, I mean.
I wait for Kelsey to text back.
And wait some more.
When it’s clear Kelsey isn’t going to respond, I leave the teachers’ lounge. The door to Principal Allen’s office is cracked open, and I hear whispers. Instinctively, I slow down.
“Oh, Trudy, you mustn’t let it get to you,” Mom is saying. “People get worked up over Groove It Up. They always have. Remember when we were in eighth grade?”
“Yes, but things are different this year. These prizes are making everyone crazy. Do you know how many phone calls I’ve received from parents who want their kid to get a slot on the Talent Team, just so they can get on TV if we win? Or because their kid is dying to see Shattered Stars? Henry Huff is even insisting that this is too important to let the students handle it.”
“But Groove It Up is always coordinated by the students. It’s tradition.”
“That’s exactly what I told him, but he’s one of our biggest donors, so others listen to him. I need a win here, Laura. Tell me honestly, do you think Polly can get the job done?”
I step closer to the door. I know I should cough, clear my throat, make a bunch of noise, and pretend I haven’t just been eavesdropping. But I can’t. In the few seconds of silence as we wait for Mom’s response, I hear the question a hundred times over:
Can Polly get the job done?
I hear it so many times, it’s not until Principal Allen says, “Oh, I see,” that I realize Mom never answered the question.
“You have to understand, Trudy,” Mom says, sounding embarrassed. “Polly’s more of a follower than a leader. And anyway, you know kids today. They’re lazy. They’re more interested in shopping and texting their friends than working hard.”
“So true,” Principal Allen says. I don’t hear the rest of what she says, because I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, and there’s a strange buzzing noise in my ears.
The nickname Plastic Polly has always bothered me, but I figured it was mostly just because people were jealous, that they coveted a spot at the Court, and when it was denied, they turned to nastiness as their consolation and decided to dismiss me as shallow and fake. But do people really believe it? Does my own mother really believe it?
I feel hollow—like I’m nothing but empty space—as I silently back up a few paces, cough loudly, and clomp through the door. I refuse to look at Mom as I take my seat in front of Principal Allen.
“So, Polly,” Principal Allen says, “we were just discussing your options. We feel it’s unfair you’ve been put into this position, that you are now in charge of something as all-consuming as Groove It Up.”
Unfair to who? I want to ask, but don’t.
“I realize that perhaps you didn’t want to be PlanMaster, that it may interfere with your other interests, like . . .” Principal Allen pauses, and frowns.
Like shopping and texting? I say to just myself.
“. . . well, whatever they might be,” she finishes.
“Yes, Polly,” Mom adds. “We want to make sure you have a choice in this. You don’t have to be saddled with this responsibility if you don’t want to be.”
“I can choose what I want to do?” Even my voice sounds hollow. It’s funny, but I guess I was expecting Principal Allen to give me a pep talk and tell me I can do it, and go team, and all that junk. And then I’d have to tell her I was choosing to resign. But right now it doesn’t feel like much of a choice. It feels like I’m supposed to just go along with Principal Allen so she can give the task to someone else, someone she believes in. This should be easy for me, right? Don’t I usually just agree with whatever Kelsey wants when it comes to Groove It Up?
Plastic Polly, Parrot Polly, People Pleaser Polly—they’re all me.
My cell pings then, a text from Kelsey:
I’ll B helping U the whole time. So of course U can do it!
Suddenly I feel mad. Mad that my own mother won’t stick up for me. Mad that she thinks she knows me so well, just because I don’t want to go to her stupid pre-high-school camp. Mad that she would criticize me for being on my phone too much, when she practically can’t breathe without hers. Mad at myself, that I need Kelsey’s advice to make a decision. And mad at Kelsey, too, because her text makes it sound like she thinks I can do it only if she helps me.
“I can choose what I want to do?” I repeat. And this time my voice sounds solid. Not hollow. And definitely not plastic.
“Absolutely. No guilt, and no explanations necessary.” I’m staring at Kelsey’s text, but I can hear the smile in Principal Allen’s voice.
I look up. “Then I choose to do it. I’m going to be the PlanMaster.” I stand up and walk out the door, leaving Mom and Principal Allen gaping after me.
Then I text Kelsey:
You’ve just texted Winston’s newest PlanMaster. American River is toast!
Chapter 5
True Confession: I know I never would’ve become popular if I wasn’t Kelsey’s best friend. I’m pretty sure other people know it too.
THE TEXTS FROM KELSEY START FIVE SECONDS LATER:
The next Groove It Up meeting is 2morrow.
You need 3 judges 4 tryouts.
Do NOT pick Melinda, she’ll B impossible 2 work with.
On second thought, Melinda’s ruthless. She’ll B a great judge.
By the time I’ve left the administration building, Kelsey has sent five more messages—apparently she texts just fine with one hand. Finally I text her back that I’m going to be late to class. Then I shut off my phone.
Groove It Up fever is spreading around campus. Under a banner I hung up yesterday, a group of soccer players are clowning around and pretending to be members of a boy band. At the drinking fountain a boy is break-dancing while other students clap around him. As I pass the library, I hear several students singing the lyrics to Shattered Stars’ newest hit while Mrs. Turner, the school librarian, yells at them to stop being so loud. When I pass Derek’s locker, I hear him ask a couple of his friends if they think he’ll look good on TV.
Over at the sign-up sheet for tryouts, which I purposely posted across from my locker, students are cheering as Kristy and some other cheerleaders add their names to the list.
“American River is going down!” shouts one boy.
I’m hunting through my locker for my history textbook when I hear Melinda’s loud voice behind me. “Guess we have a lot to discuss about Groove It Up.”
The cheering stops and a hush falls over the hallway. I hear a couple girls whispering about Kelsey’s fall. I turn around. Kristy and everyone else in the hall are watching us.
Melinda is standing in front of me with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing lipstick in a disgusting shade of pink that reminds me of raw fish. Lindsey stands beside her, looking nervous as her eyes ping back and forth between Melinda and me.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how Kelsey’s doing?” I say.
“I don’t need to. Everyone already knows Kelsey only broke her wrist and bumped her head.”
“Only, right.” I stuff a textbook into my backpack. “I’ll be sure to tell Kelsey that when I text her. Or when she comes back in a few weeks.” For some reason I feel the need to remind Melinda that Kelsey will be back, that the Court won’t be without its queen for long.
“Sure, but now that Kelsey’s gone, we need to figure out who’s the new PlanMaster. Even Kelsey can’t do it from a hospital bed.”
“I’m the new PlanMaster. I just had a meeting with Principal Allen.” I decide not to mention that Kelsey voluntarily resigned.
“And she chose you?” I doubt anyone in the crowd hears Melinda’s slight emphasis on the word “you,” but I can hear it, loud and clear. Melinda sighs and continues, “Polly, there’s a lot more to being the PlanMaster than just wearing cute clothes and telling everyone they’re doing a super great job.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Melinda never would have said that to me if Kelsey were here.
“Dude, that was nasty!” whispers one boy, but he’s grinning ear to ear, like he’s hoping for a fight.
