“Gladdie, what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming until Thanksgiving!”
“What? You’re not happy to spend a week with me right now?”
She poked me in the upper arm. Gladdie was sassing me. She gives good sass.
“You know I’m happy to see you. I’m just surprised is all.” I paused. “My parents know you’re here, right?”
“Of course your parents know I’m here,” she said. “They’re the ones who asked me to come keep an eye on y—”
She sucked in a mouthful of air like she wanted to take back the words and swallow them down.
“KEEP AN EYE ON ME?” I shouted. “BECAUSE I’M A BABY WHO CAN’T LOOK AFTER HERSELF?”
How insulting. Seriously. I’m not a toddler anymore. I’m practically a teenager, and my parents still treat me like I’m barely out of diapers.
“No one thinks you’re a baby,” Gladdie said firmly. “On the contrary, your parents are very aware that you are growing up quickly. You’re becoming a young lady.”
I flinched, as I always do when someone refers to me as a “young lady.” It’s almost more cringe-worthy than being called a baby.
Gladdie went on. “This is a very important time in your life. And it just so happens that your mother and father are both very busy at work right now. They thought it would be best if there was an adult presence in the house.”
“To babysit me.”
“To be there for you,” she said with a smile.
Okay. So maybe my parents were acting more concerned than condescending when they dispatched Gladdie to be there for me.
“So how long are you going to be there for me? A week, you said?”
I guess it came out snottier than I intended because Gladdie shot me a reproachful look.
“Looksie, gorgeous,” she said, planting her hands squarely on her artificial hips. “Why stay mad at them when you can get excited about me? And how much I’m going to spoil you over the next two weeks?”
“Two?” I said. “But you said—”
She pulled a Tupperware container off the counter, opened the lid, and swirled it under my nose like I’ve seen my parents do before they drink wine in a fancy restaurant. The scent of caramelly-peanutty goodness took my breath away.
“Are those…?”
“What, these? These Coca-Cola Cap’n Crunchies?” she asked with mock nonchalance. “Otherwise known as…”
“JESSICA BARLINGS?”
Before I knew it, my mouth was crammed with the gooey secret recipe my grandmother had created around my two favorite vices. Running made me ravenous, and my mother wasn’t around to stop me from stuffing myself with this cookie/brownie hybrid named in my honor. As I mmmmmmmed in appreciation, Gladdie pulled up a stool and sat down. She patted the stool next to her. She wanted to talk. Gladdie has a knack for striking up conversation when my mouth is full.
“So where’s 3ZNUF?” Gladdie asked. “Come out, girls!”
She looked behind my back as if I was somehow hiding Bridget and Dori like a magician keeping a rabbit under his cape. It had obviously been a while since Gladdie’s last visit. She still thought we were all BFFs. How could I possibly bring Gladdie up to speed on three years’ worth of friendship breakups and makeups when I wasn’t even sure how to process it all?
“About Bridget and Dori…” I began.
“I made the Platinum Blondies Bridget loves so much,” Gladdie said, still squinting around the room. “And Dori’s favorite PB & Jellyrolls.”
“3ZNUF isn’t really a thing anymore,” I tried to explain.
Gladdie dipped a Jessica Barling into a cup of tea.
“I mean, I’m still friends with Bridget, and sort of friends with Dori, but mostly because she’s still friends with Bridget, too, because they’re on the CHEER TEAM!!! together and…”
I’d barely launched into the whole situation when Gladdie stopped me.
“Whoo-wee. We have a lot to catch up on, don’t we? Good thing I’m here for three weeks.”
“Three weeks? You said two weeks!”
“Eighteen days,” Gladdie said. “Split the difference.”
I had to laugh. Whether it’s fourteen, eighteen, twenty-one, or a bazillion days, we wouldn’t have nearly enough time to deal with all my drama. I sighed and was about to very theatrically rest my head on the countertop, but I couldn’t because all the available space was taken up with sweet ingredients.
And just like that, it came to me.
IT List #4: When all else fails…
“Hey, Gladdie,” I said with a smile. “Can you help me make some candy?”
Chapter Nine
I went to school the next day with more homemade candy than a Wonka family reunion. Right away I offered some to Bridget at the bus stop.
“Gladdie’s in town!” I announced. “We made these chocolates.”
They tasted as good as they looked. We’d used Gladdie’s cookie cutters. Each tiny chocolate was shaped like a bird and lightly dusted in crystals that caught the light. Bridget eagerly reached inside the open bag, then just as quickly withdrew her hand.
“I totally want one,” she said, “but school pictures are later this week.”
“So?”
She pointed to a piece.
“Is that sugar?”
“Salt,” I clarified.
Bridget wrinkled her nose.
“The saltiness intensifies the sweetness.”
I was repeating the line Gladdie had used after I’d expressed doubts about salting perfectly delicious dark chocolate.
“The saltiness intensifies the sweetness,” Gladdie had said. “Just one of the ways baking is a lot like life.”
One of the advantages of being eighty-something is that people actually take your wisdom seriously. However, Bridget was totally unimpressed by Gladdie’s words when they came out of my twelve-year-old mouth.
“Salt makes me puffy,” she said. “And chocolate causes pimples.”
“I think that’s a myth,” I said, not actually knowing if it was a myth or not.
“Just how many of these have you eaten?”
And before I could answer, she poked at a sore spot under my mouth.
“Owww!”
I didn’t even know I had a zit on my chin, which goes to show you just how much time I devote to gazing at my appearance in the mirror each morning.
As the bus approached, Bridget had a sudden change of heart.
“You know what? I’d love some candy!”
I happily handed over one of the mini bags of chocolate Gladdie and I had carefully tied together with red, white, and blue ribbons. Those are the Pineville Junior High School colors. I thought it was a nice touch that Bridget seemed to appreciate.
“Thank you soooo much!”
I was so busy marveling over my sister’s IT List wisdom and envisioning how candy could have a similarly positive effect on Manda and Sara that I missed the obvious: Bridget didn’t want the candy for herself.
“Lookee, Burke!” Bridget squealed as she bounded onto the bus. “I’ve got a prezzie that’s almost as sweet as you are!”
Ack.
During the ride to school, I prepared myself for a particular set of parking lot obstacles named Dori and Scotty. I knew the couple would be waiting for Bridget and Burke in their usual spot on the curb, and I didn’t want to chance any innocent chitchat that could be misinterpreted by Sara or Manda or anyone else without anything better to do than MESS WITH MY HEAD.
Anyway, I was eager to put The Scotty Scandal behind me. So I planned to rush right by Dori and Scotty with just a quick little wave, as if I had crucial homeroom business to attend to. Not unfriendly, but not flirty, either. Just, you know, normal and no biggie.
BUT WHEN IS MY LIFE EVER NORMAL AND NO BIGGIE?
I stepped off the bus and put one foot in front of the other, you know, walking the same way I’ve been walking since I was ten months old. Only this morning, advanced walking was apparently
beyond my skill level because I got TOTALLY TRIPPED UP ON A TEENY PATCH OF GRAVEL ON THE SIDEWALK.
It was one of those slo-mo moments.
I could feel (Ohhh nooo I’m falling!) and see (Ohhh nooo I’m falling on the sidewalk in front of the entire school!) and fully experience (Ohhh nooo I’m falling on the sidewalk in front of the entire school and—WHOOSH!—Scotty is catching me and I’m not falling anymore!) what was happening.
But I was powerless to stop (Ohhhhhh noooooo!) it.
“Gotcha!” Scotty said, pulling me back to my feet.
Over his shoulder, Sara was already giving me a thumbs-up. She obviously thought I had orchestrated the whole trip and fall just so I could end up in Scotty’s arms. And from the sour look on Dori’s face, I could tell she thought it, too.
“Uhthanksbye!” I grunted before dashing away.
Sigh. So much for my effort to put The Scotty Scandal to rest.
Sara was bouncing up and down at our lockers, just dying to review the event in detail, millisecond by excruciating millisecond.
“Omigod! You fall for Scotty and he falls for you!” Sara gushed.
I wanted to protest, but she wouldn’t let me.
“Manda’s totally right,” Sara went on. “You’re an expert flirt!”
Me? An expert flirt? Ha!
Then again, Manda and Sara would know better than I do.
“Seriously,” Sara said. “You need to give me some tips!”
Was it possible that flirting was like running cross-country? Maybe it was an untapped talent someone else needed to point out to me. Had Bridget picked up on my powers when she was once (WRONGLY) convinced I had the hots for Burke? NO. NO. NO. The whole idea of me being a secret boyfriend-stealing genius was absurd. I couldn’t listen to another word of this ridiculousness!
“HERE.” I thrust chocolates in Sara’s face. “CANDY.”
I might not have succeeded in winning Bridget over with sweets, but I wasn’t ready to give up on IT List #4 just yet. Sara reeled back as if I were offering her a bag of flaming dog poop.
“Omigod! Are you trying to make me fat?”
“No!” I protested. “My grandmother and I…”
“Like I won’t have enough temptation with Halloween coming up?” Sara griped. “Some friend you are!”
Sara stomped away and refused to acknowledge me for the rest of homeroom. It wasn’t the strategy I’d intended, but it certainly was an effective way to make Sara shut up about The Scotty Scandal.
Some friend indeed.
I wondered how candy might work on Manda. I bolted from homeroom so I could get to her in Language Arts before Sara did. My speed work at cross-country practice paid off.
“Hey, Manda,” I said breathlessly when I caught up with her in the hall. “Want some?”
“You made this?” she said. “I thought you were more of a Woodshop kind of girl.”
Manda thinks it’s a laugh riot that I’m in Woodshop.
“Well, my grandmother Gladdie helped me,” I explained. “My parents are both working late hours, so she’s staying with us.”
Manda’s eyes lit up.
“Wait. Are you saying your grandmother is the only one standing between you and throwing the ultimate sleepover?”
Nothing could be further from the truth. I could think of a bazillion roadblocks between me and throwing the ultimate sleepover, not the least of which being that I’m not much of a PARTY!!! thrower despite the pressure I was feeling from IT List #3’s all caps and triple exclamation points. Then again, maybe party throwing was another hidden skill just waiting to be discovered. That intriguing concept and the fact that we weren’t talking about The Scotty Scandal made this conversation totally worth continuing.
“Party…” I said noncommittally.
Sara caught up to us and was feeling very left behind in the conversation.
“Party? Whose party? What party? Where? Why? Is it a themed party?”
Manda ignored her and continued.
“I mean, if your grandmother is anything like my grandmother, she’ll pass out in front of a cop show right after dinner,” Manda said. “And if your parents are stressed with work, they’ll barely even notice we’re there. We can stay up late and do whatever we want!”
“Omigod! Whatever we want!” Sara echoed.
Heads were turning all around the hallway. People wanted to know about this party and the seventh grader who was going to throw it.
“Gladdie is pretty sharp for a grandmother,” I said. “She’s no pushover, either. And she has more energy than I do.”
“Sure, sure, whatever,” Manda said blithely. “So Friday night—”
I broke in before she could go on. “Actually, it has to be Saturday because I have a meet on Friday afternoon and…”
Manda exhaled testily. “Fine. Saturday night. And it’s me, you, Sara, Hope—”
“Hey,” I interrupted again. “Is Hope back in school today?”
“Nope,” Sara answered. “She’s got a stomach thing. Omigod! I hope I don’t get it from her, because I’m, like, a really bad barfer.”
I was going to ask what made someone qualify as a good barfer when Manda cleared her throat loudly.
“Excuuuuuuse me, sweeties,” Manda said, smiling tightly. “I wasn’t finished with the guest list for our slumber party.”
My slumber party had become “our” slumber party, which might have been annoying if it wasn’t such a relief. Manda could take over the whole shindig if she wanted to.
“So,” Manda said, ticking off each name on her fingers. “It’s me, you, Sara, Hope.”
“Right,” I said. “Got it.”
And then she added, all supercasual, “Oh, and Bridget.”
Did I hear that correctly?
“Did you say Bridget?”
“Yes! Me, you, Sara, Hope, and Bridget.”
“Bridget,” I repeated. “Bridget Milhokovich.”
“Of course I want Bridget to come!” Manda said. “Why wouldn’t I want Bridget to come?”
“Maybe you wouldn’t want Bridget to come because you kind of hate her?” I offered.
“Jess! You couldn’t be more wrong,” Manda insisted.
“Dori’s the one we don’t like,” Sara clarified. “She’s not on the guest list, right, Manda?”
“Oh, no way,” Manda answered dismissively. “She’s such a try-hard.”
“A what?” I asked.
“A try-hard,” Manda repeated.
A try-hard. It took me a moment before I got it.
Everyone wants to fit in. But there’s a fine line between wanting it and wanting it too much. The quest for popularity has to appear effortless. Even if—especially if—you worked very, very hard at it because you wanted it very, very much.
Like Manda and Sara.
“So Dori is out,” Manda declared. “But Bridget is definitely in. I, like, literally love Bridget to death!”
And as Manda swept into the classroom, I couldn’t help but think that she wasn’t misusing literally this time. If it were up to Manda, she would love Bridget to death.
A slow, painful death.
Thankfully, Manda and Sara were so excited about this hypothetical party I was throwing that they seemed to forget all about The Scotty Scandal. I made it through Language Arts and Español without any reason for them to make stupid-gross faces at me. I was even able to forget my EMBARRASSING blunder from the day before.
That is, until Señora Epstein assigned us our homework.
“Memorize this list of fake cognates,” she instructed.
She went on to explain that cognates are foreign words that look and sound similar to English words, so they’re easy to figure out. For example:
• causar = to cause
• falso = false
• problema = problem
Fake cognates are tricky. They also look and sound like English words but have totally different definitions than what you’d assume. For example:
> • bizarro = brave
• exito = success
• pretender = to try
Obviously Señora Epstein assigned this work sheet because of my humiliating embarazada/avergonzada mix-up.
“False cognates are also known as false friends,” Señora Epstein said as she passed out the work sheets. “You think they’re helping you out, but they’re not.”
The work sheet was titled “¡Cuidado! Falsos Amigos Causan Problemas.”
“Watch out,” translated Señora Epstein as I hurried past Manda and Sara and Scotty on my way out the door. “False friends cause problems.”
Ha! In more ways than one.
If Hope had been there, I probably would’ve said that out loud. But she was absent again, so I had to settle for making this little in-joke to myself.
“Woo-hoo! Jess!”
Bridget was waving at me from all the way down at the other end of the hall, which was weird because I never see her in this part of the building after second period. Even from far away, I could see that her face was pink with panic. I assumed whatever had brought her there must be important. We hurried to meet each other halfway.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m freaking out!” she said. “And only you can help me!”
It had only been a day since Bridget had come to me in emergency mode, but it felt nice to be needed by her again. And okay, if I’m being totally honest, it felt even better that she had chosen me over Dori.
“Of course!” I replied. “What can I do?”
“I need more candy.” Pause. “For Burke.”
I should’ve known better. I didn’t want or need to know why this was so important. Without resisting, I reached into my backpack and handed over another bag.
“So, Bridget, are you free on Saturday? Because I’m having a sleepover and…”