Yasaman felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“How he killed his daughter?” Modessa said. “Right here in America?! All because she wore tight jeans. And then he buried her in his backyard, because she’d brought shame on his family.”
Yasaman felt herself turn red, because she, too, had heard that particular story on the news. Bad Muslim father. Horrible Muslim father. But not all Muslims were like that.
“Is that why you wear those stupid baggy jeans?” Modessa asked. “So your dad doesn’t strangle you and bury you in your backyard?”
“Yeah, that’s why,” Yasaman said, and this time the words did come out, because come on. She wanted to say something worse, but her baba’s teachings were ingrained firmly inside her. Allah hates one who utters coarse language. The tongue that reads Quran should never be the same tongue that swears.
The two of them spent the rest of break in silence. Modessa read a fashion magazine she wasn’t supposed to have, and Yasaman tried to remember that Modessa didn’t get to make her feel bad. She didn’t have that power, even if it felt like she did.
When Ms. Avery finally set them free, they told her that, yes, their “dialogue” brought them one step closer to global peace and understanding.
Yet here in the bathroom a full year later, Yasaman has no desire to burst out of her stall and lavish hugs and air kisses on Modessa and whomever she’s with. No, Yasaman’s going to sit tight, thanks very much. And pull her feet up onto the toilet seat.
“What gets me—what worries me—is that she’s just not making good decisions,” Modessa says to mystery girl number two. “I mean, she was talking to Katie-Rose. She was laughing with Katie-Rose! The very day after Katie-Rose called me . . . what she called me!”
Yasaman goes cold. She knew Modessa would hold a grudge about that.
“It just shows poor judgment,” Modessa says. “And plus, what’s Milla going to do, lead Katie-Rose on and then dump her? That’s just cruel. Right, V?”
V? Yasaman thinks.
She shifts to get a better angle through the crack in the bathroom door, and yep, it’s the new girl. The one Modessa and Quin were bossing around yesterday on the playground. She’s wearing the coolest Greek goddess outfit ever: a gold-braided halter and a flounced skirt with more gold braid. But this isn’t really the time to be noticing clothes.
From her slivered view, Yasaman watches Modessa finger-comb her shiny blonde hair. Modessa’s wearing a black beaded tunic, but it’s only marginally Greek-looking, and Yasaman hopes she gets in trouble. “How do you think I should pay Katie-Rose back?”
“What?” V says.
“For what she called me. What else?” Modessa pulls her cell phone from a hidden pocket in her tunic—she is not supposed to have her cell phone at school, and she’s certainly not supposed to actually use it—and punches a button. Whatever she sees makes her snort. “Quin. Omigod, so needy.”
V regards Modessa with disdain, which raises Yasaman’s hopes. Maybe V hasn’t been fully sucked into Modessa’s web of evil? Although V masks her reaction the second Modessa puts away her cell phone.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” V says. “You want Milla to drop Katie-Rose because Katie-Rose called you ‘Medusa’?”
Yasaman claps her hand over her mouth. She can’t believe V just said that.
Modessa looks put out. In a big way. “Well, it’s her decision, obviously.” Modessa digs around in her messenger bag. “But who you hang out with in elementary school determines who you hang out with in middle school, right?” She slicks a layer of berry-colored gloss over her lips and gives three small smacks to even out the color. She holds out the tube to V. “Want some?”
Wordlessly, V puts some on. It looks better against her dark skin than against Modessa’s light complexion, and a shadow crosses Modessa’s face.
“Hmm,” Modessa says. “Not your color.” She grabs a scratchy paper towel from the dispenser and holds it out to V. Only, V doesn’t take it. She looks at it, and then she looks at Modessa. She doesn’t take the paper towel.
Omigosh, Yasaman thinks, thrilled. Omigosh, omigosh!
Modessa crumples the paper towel. “Fine, if you don’t mind looking trashy.”
V shrugs, and Yasaman mentally cheers. Yes!
“Anyway,” Modessa says as twin spots of color form on her cheeks. “We need to get Camilla back on track. For her own good.”
What you mean is that you need to get V back on track, Yasaman thinks. V’s not letting you have the upper hand, and you can’t stand it.
“And how do you plan to do that?” V asks.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“You are?”
“Forget it,” Modessa says. She pushes away from the sink. She’s two feet from Yasaman’s stall, and Yasaman really hopes she doesn’t lose her balance and fall off the seat. Her quads quiver with the strain of holding still.
Modessa turns back to V. She can’t let it go after all. “Maybe that dumb turtle.”
V stiffens. “Milla’s turtle? Did you . . . find it?”
“No,” Modessa says impatiently. “And she’s still all worried about it. I know she is. If I did find it, she’d pretty much kiss my feet.”
There is wariness in V’s eyes. “I just think she wants it back.”
“Um, yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”
“So if you did find it . . . you’d give it to her?” Violet hesitates. “You wouldn’t . . . do something mean?”
“Why would I do something mean?” Modessa says, and Yasaman’s mouth opens, because it’s as if Modessa believes what she’s saying. That she isn’t mean. That there’s nothing wrong with wanting to find Milla’s turtle not to make Milla happy, but to make Milla kiss her feet.
V breaks her eye contact with Modessa and fiddles with one of the bangles on her goddess outfit. “Well, if I wanted to find a toy turtle, I’d just look for it.”
Modessa snorts. “You think, Sherlock?”
“We should go,” V says. “We’re supposed to be in the commons.”
“Oh joy, presentations,” Modessa says as both girls head for the door. Yasaman allows herself to collapse against the side of the stall.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe you can use the time to look for Milla’s turtle,” V says over the sound of bathroom door swinging open. “After all, isn’t that what you want?”
Turtle between the cushions of the beat-up sofa in the commons. The commons is the most central place at Rivendell, and it’s where the two fifth-grade classes are getting together to do their presentations. Like, starting in two minutes. And so far every time the two fifth-grade classes have met—for group sing on Monday, for a lecture on library etiquette yesterday—the beat-up sofa is what Modessa has claimed for her throne. The other fifth graders don’t even go near it, because it’s got Modessa’s scent all over it.
Modessa will sit there for our presentations, Violet thinks. She’ll find Tally and return her to Milla, and Milla won’t be sad anymore, and no one will know I had anything to do with it. Everyone wins.
Violet lifts her chin as she slips into the mass of costumed fifth graders entering the commons. Not in a snobby way, just a this-is-who-I-am way. She bumps into Katie-Rose, who’s holding a video camera out in front of her and filming everything.
“Where did you come from?” Violet says.
Katie-Rose doesn’t stop filming. “My mother’s tummy. You?”
“Ha ha,” Violet says uneasily. Did Katie-Rose see her with Tally the Turtle? No, or she’d have said something, she decides. Anyway, Katie-Rose is totally absorbed in her filming, moving her camera slowly to get a panoramic view of the room. She’s different behind the lens—confident, but without her usual know-it-all-ness. It’s a good fit, Violet thinks. It’s as if . . . as if being behind the camera lets Katie-Rose be truer to who she really is, because it protects her from what scares her, kind
of.
Everybody hides, Violet thinks. Some in better ways than others.
Violet swallows. Moving on. She angles past Katie-Rose and goes to the back of the commons. There are plates of pomegranates and baklava set up on a table, and Violet feels good enough to take some of each. Neatly folding in on herself, she takes a seat on the carpet.
Modessa, she thinks. Where in the world are—?
Ah. There she is, sauntering in with Quin. They’re chatting and laughing and doing eye-roll-y things that mean, Oh my God, check out so-and-so, I know.
Just sit on the stupid sofa, Violet coaches them. She holds her breath.
They do, and when Modessa frowns, hikes up her bum, and fumbles to see what’s poking her, sparks dance in Violet’s brain. Pop, pop, pop. It’s relief, mixed with lack of oxygen, and pffooof. Violet exhales and takes a big bite of baklava, shifting her gaze happily from the sofa just in time to see Milla standing above her.
“Good?” Milla asks.
“Huh?” Violet says. “Oh, the baklava. It’s awesome.” She smiles at Milla—why not?—and scooches over, patting the floor to say, Hey, sit here.
Up front, Mr. Emerson says, “All right, kids, what do you say we start?” Ms. Perez is up there with him. Nobody’s paying attention.
“Are you ready to give your presentation?” Violet asks Milla. There are fifth graders all around them. Everyone is squished, except of course Modessa and Quin. But who cares? Milla smells nice, like some sort of fruity shampoo, and Violet is airy with the knowledge of her good deed.
“Pretty much,” Milla says hesitantly. She seems confused when Violet offers her a bloodred piece of pomegranate, but she accepts it.
“Who’s it on?” Violet persists. You don’t have to worry anymore, she wants to tell her. Make your eyes stop doing that sad thing.
“Um . . . I got assigned Apate,” Milla says. “She was one of the evil spirits inside Pandora’s box. She was full of”—she bites the end of her tongue and turns her glance upward—“deceit, guile, and trickery.”
“Ooh, that’s no good,” Violet says.
“And one day Hera—Zeus’s wife?—was mad at Zeus because Zeus didn’t want to, um, have any more babies with her.”
“Really,” Violet says.
“So she went looking for Apate, because Apate was known as the crafty one.”
“Oh no, the crafty one!” Violet says in an on-purpose funny voice. Violet used to make funny voices all the time, but then she stopped. She’s only doing it now to make Milla quit looking so worried.
Is this the first funny voice she’s made since moving here?
Milla ducks her head so that her hair falls over half her face. “Hera wanted to borrow Apate’s bewitching girdle.”
“Her what?”
“Her bewitching girdle. That’s what it said in my mythology book.”
Violet peers at Milla. From behind her hair curtain, Milla peers back. They giggle at the same time, because “bewitching girdle” is even funnier than “the crafty one.”
“Apate was bad news, though,” Milla says. “She had lots of power, but it was bad power.”
Hmm, Violet thinks. Sounds like someone I know. She strains her neck to see Modessa, because shouldn’t she be returning Tally to Milla about now? Modessa found Tally. Violet saw her. So why isn’t she presenting her to Milla in a flurry of . . . bewitching fakeness?
“All right, class. For real,” Mr. Emerson says, ringing a cowbell. Everyone gradually grows quiet, and Violet thinks, Oh well. Soon, though. She’ll surely do it soon.
“Who wants to go first?” Mr. Emerson asks.
“Wait!” a girl says. It’s the girl with the ginormous headgear, who today is wearing some sort of very bizarre . . . horse-riding outfit? A Greek horse-riding outfit? She types frantically on her laptop, leaning sideways and scribbling into a notebook open on the floor.
“Natalia, you were supposed to get your homework done at home,” Mr. Emerson says. “That’s why it’s called homework.”
The fifth graders laugh.
“Thorry,” Natalia says. “But I had thoccer last night, and then youth group, and I was thoooooo tired.” She writes one last thing and slams shut her laptop with a flourish. “But it’th done, thee?”
“Why don’t you go on and be first, then,” Mr. Emerson says.
“Uh . . .”
“You do have your report? It’s right there in your hands?”
“Uh . . .”
Violet looks at Milla. Natalia may have written her report, but it’s clear she isn’t prepared to actually give her presentation. She probably went straight to Wikipedia, looked up her god, and copied the entry word for word into her notebook.
“Go ahead, please,” Mr. Emerson says. “We’ve got a lot of reports to get through.”
He knows, too, Violet thinks.
Natalia walks reluctantly to the front of the class. She clears her throat. “Thatyrth were Greek godth with flat notheth, long curly hair, and goat hornth.”
“Huh?” Violet whispers.
“I think she means satyrs,” Milla says. “Those pointy-eared guys?”
“They love wine and women and every thort of phythical pleathure,” Natalia continues with the single-mindedness of struggling with unfamiliar material.
Mr. Emerson frowns. “Natalia—”
“Their thpecial talent, which earned them honor and rethpect . . .”
Mr. Emerson hops up from his desk and fast-walks toward her.
“. . . wath their ability to balanth wine cupth on their . . .” Natalia frowns. “On their erect—”
“Okay, I think I’ll stop you there,” Mr. Emerson says.
Natalia’s head snaps up. “It says their erect penitheth, Mr. Emerson!”
A ripple runs through the commons.
“Did she say what I think she said?” Violet asks Milla.
“Yet another reason to do your homework at home,” Mr. Emerson says grimly, taking the paper from Natalia’s hands. “Do you remember the part of the assignment that said only share appropriate details?”
“But why?” Natalia asks Mr. Emerson. “Why would they balanth wine glatheth on their—”
“Thank you, yes, and now you’re done,” Mr. Emerson says. Everyone is vibrating with glee, even Milla. Violet is glad to see her worry lines go away.
Mr. Emerson steers Natalia to her spot on the floor. “The Greeks were . . . an interesting bunch.”
“That’s for sure,” Violet whispers to Milla.
Natalia resists Mr. Emerson. “But—”
“Story over. Ask your parents when you get home.” Mr. Emerson frowns. “On second thought, don’t. That goes for the rest of you rats, too—if you want me to keep my job, that is.”
Everybody laughs. Mr. Emerson is so cool.
“Let’s have someone else give their report,” Ms. Perez jumps in. “Brannen? You have the Cyclops, right? Why don’t you come tell everyone about the Cyclops.”
As Brannen clumps forward to tell everyone about the Cyclops, Milla leans toward Violet. Her cheeks are rosy.
“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe what a PG-13 day I’ve had,” she says. She hesitates. “If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it to yourself?”
“Sure,” Violet says, knowing she’s good—sometimes too good—at keeping things to herself. But this is different. This is Milla choosing to share, and Violet is choosing to accept.
“You can’t be mean to her about it,” Milla warns. “You can’t tease her.”
“Tease who?”
“The person I’m going to tell you something about.”
“Oh,” Violet says. “I won’t. I swear.”
Milla pulls her knees up to hide behind. Violet follows suit, clamping her goddess skirt between her calves and thighs so she doesn’t flash anyone.
“There’s this girl,” Milla says. “Her name’s Katie-Rose—do you know who she is?”
Violet nods.
Milla lowers her
voice to the barest whisper. “She called herself a dingleberry.”
“What?!”
“She didn’t mean to,” Milla says. “She didn’t even know what one was. Do you?”
Violet does, thanks to an abundance of male cousins. She makes a face, and Milla laughs in delight.
Violet likes making Milla laugh. She wants to do it again. She has a brainstorm and says innocently, “Apate must have had a dingleberry problem. Don’t you think?”
“Huh?”
Violet pauses. She takes time to imagine Apate having some . . . hygiene challenges, the sort that would discourage potential suitors. “Why else would she . . . you know.” She widens her eyes. “Need a bewitching girdle?”
“V!!!” Milla gasps. The laughter that bursts out of her is the best kind ever: fizzy like ginger ale.
Mr. Emerson’s hand lands on Violet’s shoulder. Both girls jump.
“Settle down,” he says. “Cyclops isn’t that funny.”
“Yessir,” Milla says. She waits until he’s gone, then whispers, “Omigosh, V, I’m so sorry. I did not mean to get you in trouble.”
“Milla,” Violet says, “I’m the one who got us in trouble.”
“Oh,” Milla says. She processes. “True.”
“And, um . . . you can call me Violet, if you want.”
“Not V?”
“No one calls me V, really. I don’t know why I started that.”
Milla studies her. Violet fidgets, because it’s hard being real instead of fake.
“Violet,” Milla says, trying it out. “So cool.”
“Why so cool?”
“’Cause ‘camilla’—that’s my full name—is a flower, too. Did you know that?”
Violet shakes her head.
“It’s, like, this tiny white flower that grows by streams.” Camilla blushes. She seems, suddenly, to wish she’d kept quiet. “Sometimes they’re pink. So, um . . . yeah.”
The corners of Violet’s mouth go up, and if Modessa would go ahead and return Tally, then practically the whole world would be made of sunshine.
Well, maybe after the presentations. In the meantime . . .
Violet smiles at Milla. “So we’re both flowers. Awesome.”