Plastic Polly (5 page)

Unfair to who?
I want to ask, but don't.

“I realize that perhaps you didn't want to be PlanMaster, that it may interfere with your other interests, like . . .” Principal Allen pauses, and frowns.

Like shopping and texting?
I say to just myself.

“. . . well, whatever they might be,” she finishes.

“Yes, Polly,” Mom adds. “We want to make sure you have a choice in this. You don't have to be saddled with this responsibility if you don't want to be.”

“I can choose what I want to do?” Even my voice sounds hollow. It's funny, but I guess I was expecting Principal Allen to give me a pep talk and tell me I can do it, and go team, and all that junk. And then I'd have to tell her I was choosing to resign. But right now it doesn't feel like much of a choice. It feels like I'm supposed to just go along with Principal Allen so she can give the task to someone else, someone she believes in. This should be easy for me, right? Don't I usually just agree with whatever Kelsey wants when it comes to Groove It Up?

Plastic Polly, Parrot Polly, People Pleaser Polly—they're all me.

My cell pings then, a text from Kelsey:

I'll B helping U the whole time. So of course U can do it!

Suddenly I feel mad. Mad that my own mother won't stick up for me. Mad that she thinks she knows me so well, just because I don't want to go to her stupid pre-high-school camp. Mad that she would criticize me for being on my
phone too much, when she practically can't breathe without hers. Mad at myself, that I need Kelsey's advice to make a decision. And mad at Kelsey, too, because her text makes it sound like she thinks I can do it only if she helps me.

“I can choose what I want to do?” I repeat. And this time my voice sounds solid. Not hollow. And definitely not plastic.

“Absolutely. No guilt, and no explanations necessary.” I'm staring at Kelsey's text, but I can hear the smile in Principal Allen's voice.

I look up. “Then I choose to do it. I'm going to be the PlanMaster.” I stand up and walk out the door, leaving Mom and Principal Allen gaping after me.

Then I text Kelsey:

You've just texted Winston's newest PlanMaster. American River is toast!

True Confession: I know I never would've become popular if I wasn't Kelsey's best friend. I'm pretty sure other people know it too.

T
HE TEXTS FROM
K
ELSEY START FIVE SECONDS LATER
:

The next Groove It Up meeting is 2morrow.

You need 3 judges 4 tryouts.

Do NOT pick Melinda, she'll B impossible 2 work with.

On second thought, Melinda's ruthless. She'll B a great judge.

By the time I've left the administration building, Kelsey has sent five more messages—apparently she texts just fine with one hand. Finally I text her back that I'm going to be late to class. Then I shut off my phone.

Groove It Up fever is spreading around campus. Under a banner I hung up yesterday, a group of soccer players are clowning around and pretending to be members of a boy band. At the drinking fountain a boy is break-dancing while other students clap around him. As I pass the library, I hear several students singing the lyrics to Shattered Stars' newest hit while Mrs. Turner, the school librarian, yells at them to stop being so loud. When I pass Derek's locker, I hear him ask a couple of his friends if they think he'll look good on TV.

Over at the sign-up sheet for tryouts, which I purposely posted across from my locker, students are cheering as Kristy and some other cheerleaders add their names to the list.

“American River is going down!” shouts one boy.

I'm hunting through my locker for my history textbook when I hear Melinda's loud voice behind me. “Guess we have a lot to discuss about Groove It Up.”

The cheering stops and a hush falls over the hallway. I hear a couple girls whispering about Kelsey's fall. I
turn around. Kristy and everyone else in the hall are watching us.

Melinda is standing in front of me with her arms crossed over her chest. She's wearing lipstick in a disgusting shade of pink that reminds me of raw fish. Lindsey stands beside her, looking nervous as her eyes ping back and forth between Melinda and me.

“Aren't you going to ask me how Kelsey's doing?” I say.

“I don't need to. Everyone already knows Kelsey only broke her wrist and bumped her head.”

“Only, right.” I stuff a textbook into my backpack. “I'll be sure to tell Kelsey that when I text her. Or when she comes back in a few weeks.” For some reason I feel the need to remind Melinda that Kelsey will be back, that the Court won't be without its queen for long.

“Sure, but now that Kelsey's gone, we need to figure out who's the new PlanMaster. Even Kelsey can't do it from a hospital bed.”

“
I'm
the new PlanMaster. I just had a meeting with Principal Allen.” I decide not to mention that Kelsey voluntarily resigned.

“And she chose you?” I doubt anyone in the crowd hears Melinda's slight emphasis on the word “you,” but I can hear it, loud and clear. Melinda sighs and continues,
“Polly, there's a lot more to being the PlanMaster than just wearing cute clothes and telling everyone they're doing a super great job.”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Melinda
never
would have said that to me if Kelsey were here.

“Dude, that was
nasty
!” whispers one boy, but he's grinning ear to ear, like he's hoping for a fight.

Everyone is staring at me, and I know they're waiting to see what I'll say. Right now I want to remind Melinda—and everyone else—that in Winston Academy's inner circle there's a pecking order. Which goes: Kelsey, me, and
then
Melinda.

Don't wimp out. Melinda can't get away with that,
I say to myself. Then I squinch up my eyes like I'm studying Melinda. “I've got one word for you, Melinda: ‘understated.'”

Melinda frowns. “Isn't that two words?”

“No, it's not.” I point to my mouth. “If something's fluorescent, it doesn't belong on your face. So unless you want people calling you Sushi Lips, I'd wipe that lipstick off.”

Several people in the hall start snickering, and Melinda's face flushes a color that, actually, matches the sushi lipstick.

“And another thing,” I say, “now that I'm the PlanMaster, I'm going to need a Vice PlanMaster.” I make a
show of turning to Lindsey. “Are you up for it? Want to be the Vice PlanMaster?”

Lindsey looks from me to Melinda, then steps closer to me. “Absolutely.”

“Great.” I turn back to Melinda, and in my best in-command voice I say, “You got a problem with that?”

Melinda glances around at everyone. She starts to say something, but then seems to think better of it. “No,” she finally answers.

“Good,” I say. “Now go wipe your face.”

I'm used to people staring at me. When you're a member of the Court, it goes with the territory. But as word spreads that I'm the new PlanMaster, the looks I get change as I pass from one morning class to another. These stares are questioning, like people are sizing me up.

I decide to skip lunch at the Court. I don't feel like dealing with Melinda. Also, tomorrow afternoon is the next planning meeting, and I have no clue what I'm supposed to do. So far at our meetings we've mostly decorated banners and gossiped. So I head to Mr. Fish's classroom, hoping to get his help.

“Mr. Fish?” I knock on his classroom door, which is open.

“Come in, Miss Pierce.” Mr. Fish is leaning back in his chair, reading a magazine.

Besides teaching English, Mr. Fish is Winston's football coach. So today, like every other day, he's wearing shorts and his red Wildcats T-shirt.

“Hey, I wanted to tell you I'm the new PlanMaster for Groove It Up.”

Mr. Fish doesn't take his eyes off his magazine. “Yes, I know. I got the memo.”

“Okay, so I was just wondering, since there's a meeting tomorrow, what we're doing about Groove It Up?”

“
We
are not doing anything about Groove It Up, but
you
, Miss Pierce, will be doing quite a bit. Prepare yourself for some late nights.” Mr. Fish grabs a thick black binder and drops it on his desk with a loud
thunk
. It's labeled
THE PLANMASTER'S PLANMASTER
. “Here. This will answer any questions you have. I'd suggest you actually read it—something your predecessor has seemed loath to do.”

“Okay, but you're the teacher adviser.” I pick up the binder; it weighs a ton. “Aren't you supposed to, like,
advise
me?”

“Groove It Up is important to the school and to the Maple Oaks community as a whole—this year in particular. So if you are in desperate need of anything, then, yes, I
will assist you. However, the competition is supposed to be a student-led endeavor. Emphasis on ‘student.'” Mr. Fish puts down his magazine. “But, Miss Pierce, do you know
why
I'm the teacher adviser to Groove It Up this year?”

“Um, because you have a deep and abiding desire to see Winston Academy beat American River and win cool prizes?”

“Funny. But no. I was out sick the day Principal Allen passed around the sign-up sheet for adjunct duties. Do you know what happens to teachers who are absent on the day Principal Allen decides to do that?”

Before I have a chance to ask him what the word “adjunct” means, he says, “I'll tell you what. They get stuck coordinating eighth-grade graduation in the spring, that's what, as well as coordinating Groove It Up in the fall. Meanwhile, other teachers are wrestling with the strenuous task of deciding which restaurant to hold the staff Thanksgiving dinner at. Do you catch my meaning, Miss Pierce?”

“Are you saying you're not going to help me?”

“I'm saying I could be somewhere else tomorrow afternoon. Attending the Wildcats football practice, for instance. Or I could be home with my wife and my four—count them,
four
daughters—watching a football game.”

“Your daughters watch football? With you?” I try, and fail, to keep the skepticism out of my voice.

Mr. Fish picks up his magazine, which I now realize is
Sports Illustrated
. “Yes, Miss Pierce, they do. But I will not be with them. Because I will be here, quietly reading, while you all hold your Groove It Up meeting.”

I hug the binder to my chest. My arms are already aching from the weight of it. “So, you're saying I'm on my own here?”

Mr. Fish yawns and flips a page. “Brilliant deduction, Miss Pierce.”

After I get home, Mom texts me saying she has to work late and that Dad and I shouldn't wait up for her.

I should probably call Kelsey, but I don't feel like talking to her about the fifteen texts she sent me this afternoon since I shut my phone off. Instead, I open the black binder, prepared to educate myself on all things related to Groove It Up.