Best Kept Secret (3 page)

Since Bet's big exposé about Taylor, she's done shows about how so many products are made in China and India, where working conditions are often poor. (She asked everyone to look at their sneakers and the labels inside their shirts, which proved her point.) She also convinced the whole school to start using reusable water bottles instead of buying one from the vending machine every time you're thirsty. And she did another good deed today when she covered what was on everyone's mind—the Backward Dance.

“Hey girls, before you ask a guy to the Backward Dance, consider its origin,” Bet told the camera, microphone in hand. As usual, she was wearing a conservative suit and a little smack of lipstick. Her hair was smoothed down anchorwoman-style.

“The Backward Dance used to be called the Sadie Hawkins Dance,” she continued. “But who was Sadie Hawkins?” The camera zoomed in on an old comic strip, featuring hillbilly-looking people. “Ms. Hawkins was a cartoon strip character from the 1930s who was so unattractive, her father created Sadie Hawkins Day so she could finally get a husband.”

I gave Kate a perplexed look. I had no idea. Does that make
me
a Sadie Hawkins if I chase Forrest?

“That's right. Sadie Hawkins Day was actually a race. If a single girl caught a guy, he would have to marry her.”

“Watch out for the girls on the track team then,” Forrest's friend Luke Zubin said.

All the guys in class started laughing. The girls who had already asked guys to the dance looked a little concerned. Bet went on to interview a variety of people: An old-timer who remembered the
Li'l Abner
comic strip said the Sadie Hawkins tradition “was all in good fun.” Most students said they liked the Backward Dance. One girl said it had given her the courage to ask a boy who she's always liked. But the interview with Ms. Russo, our kinda-out-there art teacher, was a downer.

“The Sadie Hawkins Dance is a vestige from a long-ago time, when the cultural mores prevented women from having anything other than a subservient role in their dating lives.”

Huh? As often with Ms. Russo, I needed a dictionary to translate what she said into plain English. Happily, Bet did the work for me.

“What Ms. Russo is saying is ‘Should we continue a practice that sort of makes fun of women? Are we desperate for guys, and can we ask a boy to a dance only one time a year?' ”

But the class wasn't in the mood for deep thinking.

“Cancel the dance?” Clementine Caritas, my locker neighbor, asked in an impatient tone. “I already bought a cute straw hat to wear.”

“My band is playing that dance. It's our first gig,” Forrest said.

“Duuuuude,” Luke said, annoyed as he looked over at Forrest. I was noticing how boys were starting to use
dude
to mean all sorts of things. It was almost like
aloha
to them.

I glanced at Forrest, and he looked annoyed, too.

“Pipe down,” Mr. Ford said.

I was up in the air about what I wanted to do. On the one hand, I wanted the dance to happen if I could go with Forrest. And with his band performing, I obviously wouldn't miss it. But on the other hand, I was a little too chicken to ask Forrest. Someone else might ask him before I gathered up enough courage. My bee-stung lip looked normal again, so maybe I should strike now?

I debated all this in my head, back and forth, completely unaware that I was already too late.

Six

For a few weeks it was smooth sailing for the newly independent pinklockersociety.org. Piper handled all our technical issues and got us back online. We continued regular meetings in our new basement location. We answered at least one question every day, but we tried to do more. There were so many. No school officials had called us down to the office. Our parents didn't seem to notice. We had heard nothing from Edith.

Our recent questions covered everything from bra trouble to boy trouble, including a lot of questions related to the Backward Dance, which was now two weeks away. But variations on “When will I get my period?” continued to be the most popular question topic of all.

Really, it was mind-blowing (and reassuring) to see how many middle-school girls obsess over their periods. Sure, some girls had already gotten theirs in late elementary school, but plenty of girls were in my boat—in eighth grade and still nothing. I was growing somewhat, though, in every department, if you know what I mean. I was no longer as worried about my own period situation. I could pass along my knowledge that it's OK to bloom a little late. And people were so relieved to have their questions answered that they actually wrote us fan mail. Seriously!

Tons of people wrote in to say thanks. One girl said, “A massive enormous thank you!” She signed her note “A Pink Thinker.” Other frequent visitors said stuff like “You guys rock!” “Keep it up!” and “Stay pink!” That's why Kate and I were so shaken up when we got the next e-mail. It was totally mysterious, and whoever wrote it wasn't looking for advice. She was giving us some.

Dear PLS,

Please cease operations now. I can't keep warning you!

Signed,

A Pink Friend

“I still think it's a prank,” Piper said.

“I guess it could be Taylor,” Kate said, but I could tell she didn't mean it.

“Nah, I doubt it,” I said. “Taylor told Bet she'd ‘been there, done that'—remember?”

“Who would call themselves ‘A Pink Friend?' Must be a girl, right?” Kate said.

“Or it it could be a guy pretending to be a girl,” Piper said.

“I think we need to shut down,” I said.

That turned everyone's heads.

“Give up? Shut down again? Just like that?” Piper said.

“Maybe I should ask my mom?” Kate asked. Her mom was a former Pinky and had given us some advice the first time around.

“No way,” I said. “I want to stay out of trouble, not get our parents all involved again.”

Kate and Piper didn't want to take the safest possible route by shutting down. So we did what lots of people do when something scary happens. We ignored it.

Seven

“I'm actually
going
to the open house,” Piper told Bet.

“What open house?” I asked, having just joined their conversation in the lobby before school.

Piper looked uncomfortable.

“Piper was just saying she was going to help her mom out at the McCanns' open house on Sunday.”

Of course. Mrs. Pinsky, the real estate agent, was the one selling Forrest's house.

“So the house really is for sale?” I asked.

“That's usually what a For Sale sign means,” Piper said.

“True,” I said, “Well, can I come with you? I bet there will be good snacks.”

Piper didn't answer right away. When she did, she said something about having to work at the open house, to help her mom with brochures and tours and stuff.

“Forrest won't even be there,” Piper said abruptly.

“Where are they moving? Does your mom know?”

“My mom said it depends on some sort of job thing and if their house sells or not.”

Real estate was so confusing.

“But I can come to the open house, right? Anybody can come. It's an
open
house.”

“Yeah,” Piper said. “Anyone who's looking to buy a house.”

“It will be fun,” I said. “You can give me a tour. I'll ride my bike over.”

“OK, Jem. I guess so,” Piper said.

My mind started buzzing with a plan. I would write Forrest a note and I could slip it into his room, into his backpack. No! Under his pillow!

In this note, I could finally spell out my feelings and even ask him to the Backward Dance. It was finally time, especially now that Taylor was out of the picture.

As soon as I got home from school, I started writing. I played a fair amount of trash-can basketball until I got it down in a way that didn't make me cringe or collapse in a fit of giggles. Here's what I wrote:

Hey Ax-man,

I hope you were not too startled to find this note in your room. Piper let me in during the open house. I hope you don't move! It would be weird going to school without you. I mean, we've known each other a loooooog time. Remember Miss June in preschool and how she always wore a silly hat when she read books? Anyway, the reason I'm writing this is because I'm too shy to ask you to the Backward Dance in person. I know you'll be busy with the band, but I could help you set stuff up. I am very organized! Please let me know (yes or no) by next Friday.

—Buzzy

P.S. I hope you like the nickname I gave YOU. Do you get it?

I had read the note over and over at home. Earlier versions went into more detail about the fact that I liked him. There was also a version where I said we could go just as friends. But in the end, I kept it simple.

Mrs. Pinsky looked a little annoyed when I arrived on my bike for the open house. But then she said that any activity was better than none and that potential buyers would probably imagine I was the kid of someone looking at the house.

“It's all psychology in selling houses,” she said. “A house looks better if you know someone else is interested.”

Piper was there, but her mom told her to get some glass cleaner and un-smudge the patio doors. I wandered the clean-smelling, neat-as-a-pin house alone. It looked tidier than it had the last time I was there, during the beesting incident. Few traces of the real family were left behind. No photos even. That, too, was part of the Pinsky approach.

“A person has to be able to imagine him- or herself living in a place,” Mrs. P. said.

Nervously, I padded around upstairs. I found Forrest's room quickly. I knew where it was because we used to visit when I was younger. It made me chuckle that so little had changed. His room still had a locomotive train theme and even train sheets and pillows on the bed. What really made me laugh is when I saw a worn old teddy bear on his bed. So cute! I thought about sliding the note under his pillow but then thought that was too personal. I decided to place it on top of his pillow, and then I bolted from his room and down the steps.

My heart was pounding as my feet hit the landing and then carried me out the front door. I knew I had a small window of time when I could run back in and take the note and forget this ever happened. I thought about it for a long moment. Then I hopped aboard my bike, yelling “Bye, Piper!” as I raced toward home.

I rode along, thinking of that last moment in his room. I had looked at the note on his pillow one final time and adjusted its angle. I'd folded it into a tabletop-football shape and labeled it “Ax-man.” I thought of how the note was resting there, waiting for Forrest to come home. I was happy that after Friday, I could finally stop wondering endlessly if Forrest liked me. I ached for his answer, a simple yes or no.

Eight

You know how the days pass so glacially slow when you are waiting for something to happen, like your birthday or Christmas? Well, multiply that times ten, and that's how time moved for the entire week that followed the note delivery. I wanted to speed up life, just hit the fast-forward button. But whenever I tell my mom that I wish time would move faster, she always says the same thing:

“Jemma, don't play the ‘I'll be happy when…' game. Be happy in this moment. It won't come again.”

Can you tell she writes poetry, does yoga, and meditates? I thought so. You can probably picture her with dangly earrings and those half-glasses people wear when they start having trouble reading menus. Good old mom.

But anyone who is young knows what I mean. Most days, nothing happens. So is it any wonder that I wanted to speed up time, especially if it meant not having to wait, biting my nails, for Forrest's answer to my note? I wanted to scream: Which is it—YES OR NO?!

A true gentleman would have given me his answer on Monday morning before school, so as not to let my heart twist into a pretzel. But no. Monday came and went. Forrest returned my nod in the hall as usual, and one time on the bus, but that was it. A nod, without words or anything special.

Could the note have fallen off his bed or be somehow stuck between the bed and the wall? Or maybe he went to bed and never even saw it, and it's now somewhere in his sheets? Or, even worse, if his mom took off the sheets to wash them, the note might have been reduced to flakes of wet paper snow.

The bell rang, and I went off to algebra to count the fifty-three minutes until class would be over. Then I counted the fifty-three minutes of the next class, the next one, and the one after that. Then it was off to lunch, the one time all day I didn't watch the clock.

At our lunch table, we were still debating the Backward Dance. Bet was doing a survey, asking students if they thought the dance should go forward as planned. Ms. Russo and some others were pushing for a different format, one where everyone could just go on their own, no dates required. I hadn't voted yet.

“I love the idea of no dates,” Kate said. “No pressure.”

“You love that idea because you'll be there with Brett either way,” I said.

“What about you, Piper?”

She just shrugged.

“Who'd you ask? You never told us,” I said.

“I don't want to tell you because … because you'll be upset,” she said. Piper's lips thinned to a straight line. She looked at me and then she looked off to the side, as if she didn't want to meet my eyes.

“I don't have to approve your dates, Piper. Why would I be upset?” I said.

“Because it's … I think you…” Piper stammered.

“The only person I would be upset about is Forrest,” I said with a laugh, truly believing that
that
was impossible.

“I'm sorry, Jemma,” Piper said.

That's when everything—the Earth, the moon, the oceans of my life—changed completely. Up was down and down was up. One of my best friends was going to the dance with the love of my life.