“Oh, right.” I actually had remembered; I was just trying to be nice. That, and it might not hurt to get one more opinion on my geometry equations.
As she leaves, she says, “Unfortunate incident aside, you made it through your first time home alone. How does it feel?”
“It feels pretty good, unfortunate incident, you know, aside.”
“You still think you’re ready to babysit?”
I pause before answering. I know she’s hoping I’ll say no. I probably could use a few more sessions in my own house before taking on someone else’s. But if I want Kyle, then I’m going to have to “man up.” “Yup, I’m ready. Bring it on.”
If she’s disappointed, she does a good job of hiding it. “All right. You can sign up for the next Red Cross babysitting class.” She kisses me on the head, and I crawl into bed. Then I realize I officially have an extra half hour on my bedtime now. A whole half hour! I can’t go online due to my punishment, so I head downstairs and flick through the channels on TV. All the shows look violent or scary. I guess a half hour makes a big difference. I’ve had enough of being scared for one day, so I wander into the kitchen. Dad is making his sandwich for work tomorrow. When he sees me he just grunts. I guess since technically it was his foot that went through the door, he has a right to hold a grudge. At least until his foot stops hurting.
I can’t help noticing that he’s not making a sandwich for my lunch, too. In fact, I don’t see carrot sticks or juice boxes or my blue lunch bag anywhere in sight. He might be mad at me, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t let me starve. Unless … could this mean … I think it does! I finally get to buy my own lunch! No parents looking over my shoulder to ensure I make the healthiest choices. I reach up and give Dad a kiss on the cheek.
“What’s that for?” he asks, slicing his tuna sandwich in half.
“For worrying you today.”
“Well, the next time I have to kick a door down, it’s coming out of your allowance.”
“Deal.”
I go to bed dreaming of the bags of chips and piles of warm cookies that await me in the cafeteria. I wake up groggy. It’s a good thing I had picked out my outfit last night before bed, because who knows what I would come up with now. It takes until halfway through my bowl of Cheerios to feel even half awake. I guess functioning on less sleep is going to take some getting used to.
“You better hurry if you want to make it to school on time,” Mom says, coming up behind me.
I turn to ask what she means and am surprised to see that she’s still wearing her slippers and robe.
“Aren’t you driving me?”
She shakes her head. “You walk to school now, remember?”
The last bit of sleep fog lifts. “That’s right!”
“And here’s your lunch money.” She reaches into the pocket of her robe and hands me a five dollar bill. “I expect change.”
“No problem,” I say, stashing the bill in my pocket and pushing back my chair. “Well, guess I better run then.”
“Guess so,” she says.
I’m not sure, but I think I detect a little catch in her voice. “You’re sure you don’t want to drive me? I don’t mind or anything.”
“No, you go ahead. It’s only three blocks, right? And of course you’ll go directly to school, and won’t talk to strangers who pull over to ask for directions, because you never know if that’s really what they’re after. Pretend you don’t speak English or something, and walk away fast.”
“But what if they really do need directions? Wouldn’t it be rude not to help them?”
“Rory, I doubt anyone’s going to ask a kid —”
“Preteen!”
“Who’s going to ask a preteen for directions?”
“Maybe you’re right. But what if they offer me candy?” I joke.
Her face grows grim. “That’s not funny.”
“Sorry, yeesh. I promise I won’t talk to anyone. Even if old Mrs. Moody down the street comments on the weather.”
“Mrs. Moody you can talk to,” Mom says, closing the door behind me. Then she opens it and sticks her head out. “But make sure it’s really her, and not someone masquerading as her.”
Now I know where I get my paranoia from.
As I set out, it occurs to me that I’m rarely outside at this time of day. There’s a crispness to the air that I never noticed just going from the house to the car, and the car to the school. The ground is still lightly covered with dew, and the air itself is filled with the smell of apples. Apples have not actually grown in Willow Falls since my grandparents’ days, but I swear I smell them sometimes when the wind is right.
The walk takes longer than I would have thought, and not all the streets have sidewalks. It’s amazing how many people ignore the town’s pooper-scooper laws, and also what they toss in the gutters. So far I’ve seen numerous smashed pens, three nickels and a dime, a scratch-off lottery ticket, and two cracked CDs (Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours, and the soundtrack to one of the High School Musical movies, which I know I’m supposed to like, but just don’t). I think the key to this walking-to-school thing is having people to walk with. Or at least an iPod. It’s not like I can wear my Discman to school with those big headphones. As I turn the last corner, a car whizzes by so close the breeze lifts the back of my hair. It comes to a stop in front of me, so I have to stop, too. Is someone seriously going to ask me for directions? Did Mom set this up as a test? I search my brain for how to say something, anything, in Spanish. All that comes to mind is ¿Dondé está la biblioteca?, which means “Where is the library?” That doesn’t really apply. But all that happens is the driver — an older woman — leans across the passenger seat and says, “Sorry, honey, I didn’t see you.”
“No problemo.” And then for good measure I add, “La biblioteca.” She gives me a strange look, and then sets off again. Mom would be proud.
The school yard is buzzing with activity as I approach. Usually a few kids hang out on the front steps, or where the buses let out, but now the whole school is outside, watching men and women carry big pieces of equipment from a huge truck parked in the teachers’ lot. As I get closer, I see a bunch of smaller trailers, too. My pace quickens as I realize what’s going on. The movie people are setting up!
I spot Annabelle and Sari next to one of the trailers and run over to them.
“Hey, you made it!” Annabelle exclaims.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s not every day your dad has to break a door down to rescue you from drowning in the tub!”
She and Sari laugh.
“For your information, he didn’t break the door down. He just kicked a hole through it.”
“I hope he was wearing a shoe!” Sari says, and this cracks them up even more.
“And I wasn’t drowning,” I mutter. When they finally stop laughing, I ask, “So what’s going on here?”
“This one is hair and makeup!” Annabelle says, pointing to the nearest trailer. “We’ve been trying to look inside, but the windows are too high.”
We all jump up, but she’s right, still a foot too high. “What if we get a box or something to stand on?” Sari suggests.
“Good idea,” Annabelle says, looking around. Before we find anything useful, the bell rings, and hordes of kids start running for the door. The morning announcements are all about the movie. The principal warns everyone to stay away from the trailers and not to approach the crew or the actors, or there will be serious consequences. She explains that the crew is here this week to set up the lights and other equipment, and for the director to block scenes. This means we’re supposed to be careful when we see big pieces of black tape on the hallways, or thick wires running along the walls and ground. She thanks us all for our patience and cooperation. Almost as an afterthought, she tells us that auditions for extras will be held next Monday. Squeals reverberate through the halls. I hear a phone beep, and it takes me a few seconds to realize it’s mine! Luckily there was so much noise that
Mrs. Foley didn’t hear it. They have a very strict No Texting rule in school, even though everyone does it anyway. I slide the phone out of my pocket and look down. It’s a text from Annabelle, whose bio class is on the other end of the building.
I slip the phone back in my pocket, feeling pretty pleased with myself about receiving my first in-school text. Then right as Mrs. Foley asks for our geometry homework, my phone rings. LOUD. SOOOOO LOUD. Why hadn’t I put it on vibe after Annabelle’s text? My phone doesn’t have cool ringtones like other phones, or an option to play a real song. All it has is a really annoying series of rings. I am horrified. I haven’t figured out yet how to send calls to voice mail, so it just keeps going.
“I’m really sorry,” I call out over the sound. “My mom told me to always keep it on. I meant to put it on vibe.”
Mrs. Foley’s hands are on her hips. “Well, Ms. Swenson. Aren’t you going to answer it?”
The class giggles.
“That’s okay,” I insist. “I don’t need to.”
“It might be important,” she says.
I know she doesn’t really think that. I’ve heard this conversation before, when Leo Fitzpatrick forgot to turn off his phone last month. At least he got the last word by writing a pretty funny poem about it for the school paper. I’m no poet, though. Leo flashes me a sympathetic look from two desks down.
I fumble with the phone, open it, and say hello. With everyone’s eyes on me, I sink low into my chair. “No, this isn’t Johnny’s Pizzeria. You have the wrong number.”
Well, that pretty much brings down the house. Even Mrs. Foley can’t suppress a chuckle at my pain. “All right, everyone, settle down,” she says. “I think Ms. Swenson learned her lesson, so I’m going to let her keep her phone today. But you only get one warning.”
I nod and quickly set it to vibe. Mom and I need to have a talk.
In the hall between classes, kids keep coming up to me asking for pizza. Some of them weren’t even in my class! I wonder who was secretly texting under their desks.
In the hour since school started, the film crew has really jumped right in. Thick black extension cords line both sides of the halls, running directly under the lockers, and then up and around the classroom doors. At the far end of the hall, a guy is standing on a tall ladder attaching a huge round light to the ceiling. I watch him for a minute, half-aware of a boy’s voice behind me asking someone for directions to class. Then two girls laugh and tell him it’s on the third floor. Our school doesn’t have a third floor. While I watch, the man on the ladder leans over and suddenly the brightest light I’ve ever seen floods the hallway. And then I can’t see anything. I stumble backward, and would have hit the lockers if I hadn’t hit the lost boy first. All up and down the hall people are yelling and bumping into things.
“Hey, are you all right?” the boy asks, straightening me up.
I rub my eyes and turn to look at him. All I can see are the outer edges of his face and body. I close my eyes and open them again.
“Maybe you should go to the nurse’s office. If you tell me where it is, I’ll take you there.”
As he speaks, his features start getting more defined. I close my eyes for a few seconds, and try again. Much better. “I think I’m okay, thanks.”
“Strange goings-on at this school,” the boy says. He looks young, so he must be a new fifth grader.
I’ve never heard anyone say “goings-on” before. “It’s not usually like this.” I gesture around to the power cords and the other kids recovering from their near-blindness.
“SORRY ’BOUT THAT, EVERYONE!” the guy on the ladder yells out above our heads. “DIDN’T REALIZE IT WAS SET TO MAX!”
“Do you need help finding your class?” I ask the boy.
“Can you point me to the stairs to the third floor?”
I shake my head. “There is no third floor.”
His face falls. “Oh.”
“Here, let’s see.” I lean over and look at his schedule. “Room 108. Ah, that’s a tricky one because the rooms don’t go in order on that wing. That’s probably why you couldn’t find it.”
“Like I said, strange school.” He smiles at me, and I’m glad to see he’s cheered up a bit.
“C’mon, I’ll take you there.”
“You’ll be late,” he points out a second before the bell rings.
“That’s okay. I’ll just blame it on the temporary blindness thing.” Which is exactly what I have to do five minutes later when my science teacher, Mr. Collins, asks me why I’m late. It leads to a whole lecture on how a bright flash of light “bleaches” an image, and we can’t see anything. Over a short time, the rods and cones can resume sending the message through retinal nerve fibers to the optic nerve and brain. I sure hope we’re not going to get tested on that. It helps my case when the principal comes on the loudspeaker to apologize for any student inconvenienced by the bright light and promises that the crew will be more careful in the future.
When I get to the cafeteria for lunch, the line to buy food snakes almost to the doorway. Why have I never noticed that before? I stand at the end of it, wishing I’d left my heavy book bag in my locker, and scan the line for Annabelle and Sari. When I don’t see them, I look over to our usual table, and there they are, already eating from their trays. Annabelle catches my eye, says something to Sari, and heads over.
“How did you get your food so fast?” I ask. “This line looks like it takes forever.”
“Oh, we have a whole system worked out,” Annabelle explains. “Most people go to their locker before lunch, but I run right here from gym and get on line. Sari’s English class is right down the hall, so she gets here just before me, usually. Otherwise you could stand on this line till the bell rings.”
“Yeah, I see that.”
“Do you want me to wait with you?”
I glance back at the table. Sari is hunched over her tray, not looking at anyone. “No, that’s okay. I think Sari needs you.”
“You’ve got your money?”
I nod and hold out my five dollar bill.
“You could buy one of everything with that much,” she says. “Not that you’d want to, trust me. We’ll eat slow, don’t worry.”
When she’s gone, I immediately wish I’d given her my bag to bring back to the table. No one else on line has theirs.
The line moves forward very slowly, but it does move. The smell of unidentifiable food gets stronger. “First time?” the boy ahead of me asks, glancing at my bag and my clutched five dollar bill. I look up in surprise to see Leo Fitzpatrick. Usually the kids at school don’t just randomly start talking to me. It’s that whole mousy, bookish thing. But Leo always has a smile for everyone. I know before I even look that Amanda Ellerby will be standing next to him. The two of them are practically inseparable, but not in a dating sort of way, at least I don’t think so. They got into a huge fight a couple of years ago and weren’t talking for like a year, but they both have the same birthday, and last year on their birthday something happened that brought them back together. Neither of them will tell anyone what it was, though. It’s like the town’s big mystery, which says a lot about how exciting life in Willow Falls is.
“Yeah, I’m usually a brown bagger,” I reply. “Does it show?”
He nods. “The heavy book bag on your shoulder, the money already out, the shifting of the weight from foot to foot, the heavy sighing.”
I laugh. “Oh.”
“Hey,” Amanda says, “I heard about your phone ringing in class.”
I notice she has a pair of drumsticks sticking out of her back pocket and wonder how they don’t break when she sits down.
Leo reddens. “Sorry, I just told her because, you know, the same thing had happened to me. Well, not the part about the pizza.”
“That’s okay. At least it’s given people something else to talk about besides my three-year-old brother running around Applebee’s half-naked.”
“That was YOUR brother?” Amanda gasps, t
hen covers her mouth. “Sorry! My friend Stephanie was there and she told me about it.”
We both instinctively look toward the table where Stephanie, Alexa, Mena, and the rest of the gymnastics team sit. Amanda and I have never had any classes together, so I don’t know her very well. But I think it’s cool that she plays the drums and hangs out with Leo when she could be sitting at the popular table. I bet banging on the drums releases a lot of aggression.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “At least no one put up a video on the Internet. I hope!”
“So why today?” Leo asks. “You heard they’re serving Sloppy Joe Surprise and couldn’t wait to see what the surprise would turn out to be?”
I smile. “This is going to sound weird …” I trail off, unsure if I want to tell them about my list. But I’m enjoying talking to them, and usually people don’t go out of their way to talk to me.
“Believe me,” Amanda says, sharing a glance with Leo. “Nothing sounds weird to us.”
“Well, I sort of have this list of things I’m allowed to do now that I’m twelve. Buying lunch is one of them. I know that sounds stupid. I mean, I’ve heard what they say about school lunches.”
“No, I get it,” Leo says. “It’s like a rite of passage, something you have to do to mark getting older.”
“So how’s it going?” Amanda asks. “The list, I mean.”
“It’s been … interesting.” I’m spared from saying anything else because we’ve actually made it to the pile of green plastic trays. Leo takes the one on top and hands it back to me.
“Is it supposed to be wet?” I ask, wiping my hand on my jeans.
“They’re always wet,” Leo confirms. “Makes it that much more fun trying to keep your food from sliding off.”
I check out the scene. Three elderly ladies in hairnets lined up behind the counter. Soda and juice on refrigerated shelves behind us. Chips and cookies in baskets at the end. When it’s our turn to order, Amanda whispers, “Don’t take anything from that one; she always gives the smallest portions.”