Plastic Polly (16 page)

“That is unacceptable,” Kelsey says. “The next time he pushes you, I want you to hit him back.”

I glance toward the staircase, wondering if Mrs. Taylor can hear us. I always wanted a sister—I would've even babysat for her, no matter how annoying she was. And I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to tell one little kid to hit another little kid.

But when I say that to Kelsey, she says, “Why not? Molly told a teacher, and the teacher won't do anything about it.” Kelsey holds up her good hand. “Okay, Molly, I want you to make a fist. . . . No, not like that. Don't tuck your thumb under your fingers. Look at how I'm doing it. . . . Good. Okay, next time he does anything, I want you to haul off and punch him as hard as you can. Right in the face.”

“Molly!” comes Mrs. Taylor's voice. “Are you ready to go trick-or-treating?”

Molly grabs her candy holder—an orange plastic pumpkin—and tells us good-bye. I walk her to the front door. “Maybe next time instead of punching him, you could tell a different teacher,” I whisper to her while Mrs. Taylor hunts for her jacket.

After they leave, I walk back into the kitchen. “Don't you think you're being a little harsh, telling her to hit another kid?”

“No, I don't. She has a right to defend herself. If someone gives you grief, you give it right back to them. And speaking of which”—Kelsey crosses her arms—“what's this I hear about you hanging out in the Dungeon?”

The doorbell rings then, and I hurry to get it, mostly so I don't have to answer Kelsey right away. After I pass out candy to a couple boys dressed as Spider-Man and Superman, I go back into the kitchen. “How do you know I've been hanging out in the Dungeon?” I ask, although I'm pretty sure I know the answer.

Kelsey shrugs. “Melinda texted me.”

“Melinda texted you. Awesome. How many times a day does Melinda text you to tattle on me? And I'm surprised she cares. She's barely speaking to me at the Court.”

“So your answer is to just run away and hide out with the dorks in the Dungeon?”

“The people in the Dungeon aren't dorks. Alyssa hangs out there.”

Kelsey raises her hand to shush me. “Don't go there, Polly.”

“Why not? She used to be our best friend.”

“Yeah,
used to be
. Then she turned into a backstabbing gossiper. Has she apologized? I'll bet she hasn't, has she?”

“Kelsey, come on. We haven't apologized either.”

“Us, apologize? For what? She's the one who went around calling you Plastic Polly behind your back.”

Kelsey has always said it's Alyssa's fault, for not returning my phone calls and for calling us names behind our backs. But after the first week of seventh grade, almost every middle schooler at Winston knew my name. I wonder now how intimidating that might have felt to Alyssa.

Sometimes I wonder if I should just apologize. For choosing the Court over Alyssa (even though
not
choosing the Court would have meant not choosing Kelsey). For not agreeing to eat lunch with Alyssa every now and then. For letting our friendship just slip away and never doing anything about it.

The doorbell rings again. Kelsey tells me to go ahead and answer it, and I know the conversation is over. I pass out candy to two boys who inform me they're dressed as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Sometimes this past week I've felt like I've been one version of myself with Alyssa and another version of myself with Kelsey. Like I have two separate Polly costumes. With Kelsey I talk about the boys I like and we have late-night text-a-thons when we can't sleep, and she always makes me laugh with all the crazy things she says. With Alyssa we talk about books and our love of thrift shops (I still go to them;
I just never tell anyone at the Court), and I love to hear Alyssa sing or talk about how one day she wants to be in a musical in New York.

Kelsey and Alyssa are two of the most different people I know, but they have one thing in common: They're both incredibly stubborn. Neither of them knows the first thing about apologizing.

Kelsey will be back at school next week, after Groove It Up is over. What am I supposed to do then? Go back to pretending like Alyssa doesn't exist? I don't want to do that, but since Kelsey and Alyssa can be enormous grudge holders, I'm not sure how I can be friends with both of them at the same time.

Back in the kitchen Kelsey's still grumbling about Melinda not texting her back with updates, and a thought occurs to me.

“Do you text Melinda a lot for updates?”

“If she doesn't text me first.” Kelsey gives me an accusatory stare. “I need
someone
to keep me informed. You're supposed to be my eyes and ears while I'm gone, Polly, but every time I ask you what's going on at the Court, you change the subject.”

I don't know why I haven't told Kelsey that I think Melinda is scheming to overthrow her, or that Jenna is still
eating at the Court. Maybe because Kelsey would say that, as her second in command, it's up to
me
to hold the line while she's gone.

For a minute I consider telling Kelsey I don't want to be a part of the Court anymore, that I've had it. That she can take her popularity—my popularity—and shove it. That I'm going to spend the rest of eighth grade hunkered down with Alyssa in the Dungeon.

But that's not what I really want. I don't want to choose Alyssa over Kelsey. I don't want to have to choose at all. I want to be friends with both of them.

Why is that so much to ask?

True Confession: Last month for my mom's birthday I baked her a cake. But when she called to tell me she'd be working late, I pretended like I'd forgotten about her birthday. Then I tossed the cake into the trash.

A
FTER
I
RETURN HOME FROM SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY
, Mom texts me saying she won't be home until later. Then Dad texts me, saying he has a meeting and not to wait up for him. I flip on an episode of
Chef Sherry
and start zoning out while she demonstrates how to make cupcakes from leftover Halloween candy.

Today Alyssa said she couldn't eat lunch with me because she was practicing a song with some of her choir friends. I told her it was fine and that I'd just eat at the Court, but I wondered if she'd still have been busy if I'd gone to the harvest festival with her last night.

My phone rings. It's Justin again. I think this is the tenth time he's called. As the phone continues to ring, I look around at the empty living room. I could spend the afternoon watching more episodes of
Chef Sherry
. Or I could actually talk to someone.

“Hey.”

“Oh, Polly, hi.” Justin sounds caught off guard. “I didn't think you—I mean, I was just going to leave a message.”

“So in other words you called me but you weren't actually planning on talking to me?” I settle back into the couch.

“Yes,” Justin says. “I had absolutely no interest in talking to you whatsoever.”

I can't help it. I laugh. And then Justin laughs too.

“But really, I am sorry,” Justin continues. “So sorry. I really did try to tell you.”

“Yeah, great job with that,” I say, and I can't keep the smile out of my voice. “You're a master communicator.”

“You wouldn't let me get a word in. It's not my fault you had a large case of logorrhea.”

“Logor-
what
? What does that mean?”

“It means you wouldn't stop talking. You got a case of verbal diarrhea.”

“Verbal diarrhea? Wow, you really know how to apologize to a girl, don't you?” Why is it with boys, no matter
how smart they are, that the conversation often turns to bodily functions?

“Polly, can you hold on for a second?” I hear Justin speak, but it's muffled, like he put his hand over the phone. Then I hear him say, “Thanks, Mr. Fish.”

“Are you at Winston?”

“Yeah. I had to drop a couple things off before our dress rehearsal tonight. Mr. Fish wants a list with the final order of our acts.”

“Oh, shoot.” I sit up. Tonight is the dress rehearsal for American River's Talent Team. Winston's is tomorrow afternoon, and Mr. Fish wanted a list of the order of our acts so he could put it in the Groove It Up program. I told him he'd have ours before I left for the day. Lindsey gave me the list during lunch, and I tucked it into my math textbook, which is currently sitting in my locker.

I grab my backpack and head for the door. “Will he be there for a few minutes? I need to give him our list too.”

“Are you at Winston?”

“No, but I only live a few minutes away. I have to go.” I punch the disconnect button and zip out the door.

Outside I notice several neighbors have stuck lawn signs supporting Winston's Talent Team in their front yards. The sky is overcast, and I shiver, wishing I'd thought
to bring my jacket. The barren branches of the maple trees stretch to the sky like skeleton hands. As I squelch through mud and fallen leaves, I'm thankful I finally traded in my flippy skirt and sandals for jeans and boots.

After a quick trip to my locker, I head to Mr. Fish's classroom with the list. Justin is standing outside the door.

“I just wanted to apologize one more time.”

“Okay,” I say. “Apology accepted.”

After I hand the list to Mr. Fish, he wants to go over several last-minute details. So I open my backpack and pull out the clipboard I borrowed from Mom. With Groove It Up only two days away, there have been so many details to remember that I finally made a to-do list, which is now three pages long.

“You reserved practice rooms?” Mr. Fish asks.

I check my list. “Yes, and I made sure each member of the Talent Team has a pass for their afternoon classes tomorrow so they can practice before the dress rehearsal.”

“Good.” Mr. Fish nods. “What about the bake sale?”

“Jenna Huff and her mom are taking care of that. They'll deliver the snacks to the auditorium Saturday morning. Also . . .” I pause and check my list. “I sent out e-mails to everyone on the planning committee with last-minute instructions. And I sent a school-wide e-mail
requesting that everyone wear Winston's school colors to Groove It Up.”

“Great idea.” Mr. Fish checks his own to-do list. “I also need to call Zack Wilson, the emcee. He left me a voice mail a couple days ago asking what time to show up on Saturday, and I forgot to call him back.”

“Don't worry about it. We e-mailed back and forth last night, and he's good to go.”

We go over several more details until Mr. Fish is satisfied that everything is in order. “You have a real talent for event coordination,” he says as I leave.

Outside in the hallway Justin is studying a note card.

“You sure seem to like those things,” I say, tapping the card.

Justin shrugs. “I have an Academic Smackdown meet coming up.”

“You're an AcaSmacker?”

“Is that what you guys call it? At my school we call ourselves the Eggheads.” Justin stuffs the note card into his pocket. “I have a couple hours to kill before our dress rehearsal starts. Want to grab something to eat at that diner across the street?”

“You mean Chip's?” I think about my empty house and figure, why not? It's not like I have any reason to be home.

At Chip's we have to wait to be seated. Justin looks at the posters rooting for a Winston Academy win at Groove It Up. “Wow.” He whistles. “I probably shouldn't mention I'm the PlanMaster for American River, should I?”

“No,” I whisper back. “That would probably be a bad idea. Chip might charge you double.”

Chip leads us to a table next to the door, so every time someone walks in, we get a blast of chilly air. We both order slices of pumpkin cheesecake and hot chocolates. Justin also orders slices of a lemon tart and chocolate cake. When our orders arrive, he practically inhales the lemon tart before I've even picked up my fork.

“Hungry much?” I say.

Justin shrugs. “So how are things going, being the PlanMaster?”

My cell pings once, then twice, and I reach into my pocket. But then I figure it's Kelsey. I don't feel like reading more texts about how I'm messing up, so I decide not to check it.

“Well,” I say, “that's classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. You are the enemy, after all.”

“Yes, I am the enemy,” Justin says matter-of-factly, glancing again at the pro-Winston banners. “Maybe that should have been my slogan for the PlanMaster election.”
He finishes off his pumpkin cheesecake in three bites and then spreads his hands wide. “Justin Goodwin: Number one enemy of Winston Academy.”

I lean forward, ignoring another ping from my cell. “Are you saying you have to get elected to be the PlanMaster at your school?”

“Yeah.” Justin nods. “For the whole planning committee, actually. The elections are held the first week of school, along with the elections for student council. It's a really big deal.”