“Tell me,” I say as soon as she opens the door.
Her hair is up in a high twist and skewered with a pencil. She leads me into her kitchen, where she has clothes spread out on all the counters. She picks up a shirt and looks at it.
“Tell me,” I say again.
“Okay already!” she says, laughing. “I was helping Poppy hang some of her glass balls in the window of Parlin’s store. I’m halfway up a ladder, trying to loop a fishing line over a hook in the ceiling. . . .” Tally looks at me. “That sounds easier than it is. I mean, that fishing line is hard to see and—” Tally stops, seeing my expression. “Anyway, Mrs. Wharton—you know, Charity’s mom—comes in and starts blabbing to Rhonda about how her daughter is a shoo-in for Hog Queen. Blah blah blah.” As she parrots Mrs. Wharton, Tally moves her hand like an incredibly lame puppet.
“At what point during all of this did you lose your mind?” I ask.
“Shh,” Tally says, pointing the hand puppet at me. “Then—get this—she says: ‘Thank you for your contribution to the cash prize.’ ”
“So?”
“So, I’m thinking that the cash prize would go a long way toward raising money for the ARK. Throw in the added bonus of seeing Charity denied the crown.”
“Not to mention the pork products.”
“Not to mention. But still, I’m minding my own business, hanging Poppy’s witch balls, when suddenly Mrs. Wharton is right there.” Tally puts her hand puppet close to her face and then recoils from it. “She starts in on the whole ‘Isn’t it nice that you’re helping Poppy out—considering your situation.’ ”
“Eww,” I say.
“Double eww,” Tally agrees. Either Mrs. Wharton is tactless or she’s just as mean as her daughter. “Then”—Tally scowls at her hand—“she tells me it’s
cute
that I’ve started my little campaign.
Cute!
Saving animals is not cute.” I shake my head in disgust, even though I’m not completely sure why Tally is getting so bent over
cute.
“So that’s it,” Tally says. She smiles at her hand then shoves it into the front pocket of her hoodie.
“What’s it?” I ask.
“That’s when I decided. I have officially cast my hat into the ring.” Tally flings an imaginary hat onto the floor.
“Are you a hundred percent on this, Tal?” I ask, although I know the answer before she even opens her mouth.
“Hundred and ten,” she says. “You’re going to help me, right?”
“What about all that subjugation-of-females stuff?”
“Oh, I still totally think pageants are degrading, but I’m not doing it for me, so I can look past the evil machine of modern culture that delivers propaganda to support the value of superficiality.”
I nod, trying hard not to laugh.
“Really, I’m not doing it so I can feel okay about myself. I’m solid.”
“Okay, then,” I say. “What do you want me to do?”
Tally leans against the counter. “Make me more . . .” She pauses and pulls her hair down out of the twist on top of her head. She flips the ends of her hair up to look at them.
“More mainstream?” I ask.
Tally nods. “I mean, Blake says I’m good as is, which earned him some serious brownie points, but I know I’m not exactly what pageant judges go for. I guess I just need to be more . . . more boring.” She sighs and tucks her hair behind her ear.
I tilt my head and look at what she’s wearing now. Leopard print cat’s-eye glasses, green-tipped hair, a skirt that she pieced together out of an old pair of jeans, rainbow-striped leggings, and checkered Vans. “More like me,” I say.
Tally considers my jeans and long-sleeved blue T-shirt and smiles. “You are not boring, Penny,” she says. “You just keep all of your interesting stuff on the inside.”
I shake my head.
Tally picks up a bag from the pharmacy. Through it I can see the outline of a box of hair color. Tally should buy stock in L’Oréal. “Just brown,” she says, walking toward the stairs. She turns and looks at me. “Well, come on,” she says. “We can talk while we wait for the new color to set.” I wonder when was the last time Tally saw her real hair color and if she even remembers what it is.
It’s the first time I’ve ever been in Tally’s room. It’s weird, too, because if Tally hadn’t told me it was hers, I wouldn’t have known it. It still looks like someone’s den or a guest room. The top of the dresser is bare except for a vase full of dried flowers and a sepia-toned photograph of two very stern-looking people.
“You’re quite the minimalist,” I say.
Tally looks around her room. “I guess I just haven’t really moved in—
considering my situation.
”
“Just ignore her,” I say, giving Tally the same advice about Mrs. Wharton that Tally gave me about Charity. Tally goes into the bathroom and closes the door.
I sit on the chair in Tally’s room. It’s huge, one of those double papasans that you could fit four people in. It’s good that it’s big, because I’m sharing it with three of Poppy’s now
nine
cats. I hear the sounds of water running and then a box being ripped open.
Petting Mr. Blick, cat number seven, makes me remember petting Oscar during my “talk” with Mom last night. I want to tell Tally what happened, but I’m not up for it yet. I need to figure out how I feel about everything before I talk about it with anyone else.
“So listen,” Tally calls from the bathroom. “I have this new theory.” I wait for her to continue, but she’s quiet again. Finally, the door opens. Tally looks pretty much the same except she’s traded her cat’s-eye glasses for some bright blue square ones and has her hair bundled on top of her head under a big purple towel. She sits on the bed across from me and puts her hand out.
“New theory?” I wince as Mr. Blick circles in my lap, trying to get comfortable.
“Last night I was messing around online and it occurred to me that RPS is the perfect personality test.” She shifts the towel on her head with her spare hand. “Say you throw three papers in a row.” I nod and sigh as Mr. Blick finally lies down. “Right away you know you’re dealing with someone quiet, but with a lot of confidence.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, letting Pumpkin rub against my fingers. It’s still weird when Tally starts talking about RPS, like at any moment someone is going to pop out of the closet with a camera crew and yell “Gotcha!”
“Each one matches a certain personality type. You know: predictable, unstable, open, closed.” Her hand keeps doing the three moves as she talks. I briefly wonder which is a better indicator of personality type, RPS or Jolly Rancher flavors. “You’re a bit of a dreamer,” Tally says. I start to say something, but she shakes her head and continues. “You’re subtle, but with some surprises.” She tilts her head slightly, making the towel slip down over one ear. “Maybe a good move for your personality is Paper Dolls,” she says. She throws two papers and then a scissor. “Since you’re quiet, people might think you’ll go for Confetti.” She throws three papers in a row. “But that’s where you’ll fool them.”
“How about
your
personality?” I ask, not sure I like being called a dreamer.
“Looking at me, everyone expects that I’ll use a combination of scissors and rock.” I nod, as if I know what she’s talking about. “But lately I’ve been thinking a lot about chaos theory.” Tally looks past my shoulder to the wall clock, made out of an old frying pan. “Be right back,” she says. She disappears into the bathroom again, pulling the door shut behind her.
I’m tempted to peek in her closet to see if her belongings are in there, but I don’t have the energy. Or maybe I’m just afraid to find out. I lean back and rest my head against the chair. Tally’s probably right. Maybe I am just a dreamer. I pinch my arm with my fingers, feeling the sharp bite. Nope.
“Close your eyes,” Tally calls from the bathroom.
“Okay,” I say, not bothering to tell her they are already shut. I hear the door open, soft footsteps across the wood floor, and then the
shush
of Tally’s feet on the rug.
“Okay. Now,” Tally says. I open my eyes and Tally is standing in front of me, smiling. “Pretty good, huh?”
“Wow,” I say. “You look—”
“Normal?” she asks. She flips her hair slightly. Even though it is still wet, I can tell that it’s a deep brown, without a hint of primary color in sight. She’s also not wearing glasses anymore.
“Different,” I say. Tally walks over to the dresser and turns from side to side to look at her hair in the mirror.
She blinks and rubs at one of her eyes. “Contacts,” she says.
I want to tell her that it looks good, but something about seeing Tally suddenly changed makes me sad. It’s like each time I get my feet under me, the deck shifts. As much as I want to support Tally’s decision to look normal, I could go for a little weird. Somehow, Tally’s weird made
me
feel normal.
chapter seventeen
The bell for third period is about to ring, but Tally says she has to tell me something really important and pulls me into the restroom. She makes a big production of peeking under a couple of stalls. I start to mention that I can see a pair of feet under the stall door at the end, but she puts her finger to her lips.
“Okay,” she says. Her voice is all excited, but it’s false excited, like she’s trying out for a play. “I lost five pounds.”
“What?” I ask.
Here we go,
I think. Tally is the last person in the world who I expected would be the least bit interested in her weight. She doesn’t seem to have any issues with it. I mean, she eats Blake under the table most of the time and yet she’s thin. Not yucky model thin, but good thin. Healthy thin.
“I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure.”
“Sure of what?” I ask. The feet under the last door have stepped forward so far that the toes of the pink plaid ballet flats are sticking all the way out. Whoever is in there would make a terrible spy.
“It all started when I was driving with Poppy to Lancaster,” Tally says. She is making her voice go all breathless, and I wonder if this is part of the “new” Tally, the “normal” Tally. “They’re doing this story on NPR about alternative medicines. You know, like honey and lemon for sore throats and saline solutions for sinus headaches.”
I’m just nodding and watching her. She makes her eyes go big. Okay, now I get the message.
“Uh-huh,” I say in a way that I hope matches her false excitement.
“Anyway, they start talking about lard.”
“Lard?” I ask. Miss Pink Shoes must be pressed against the door. I can almost feel her holding her breath to listen. “As in pig fat?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Apparently, some doctors in Europe have been studying the effects of lard on weight loss.” I have to fight to keep a smile from my face. “So anyway,” Tally says, making big eyes at me again.
Hold it together,
I think. “All of these models in Europe have started eating lard to keep their weight down. Something about coating your stomach.”
“Coating your stomach?” I ask.
“I know,” she says. “I didn’t believe it either at first, but I went to their Web site.
Newlard.com
.” She says it slowly. “The Web site said that by eating straight animal fat, you overload your system, forcing it to go into emergency mode. It starts dumping all of your fat stores.” I can almost see the stall door bow out. “So anyway, I decided to follow the diet. You know, just for a few days, to see if it worked.”
“And it did?” I ask.
“Not at first,” she says. “I mean, it warns that right on the Web site. That initially, as your body adapts, you will have some bloating.”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“And I didn’t even do the whole thing. It says for the best results you have to eat straight lard. As much as you can each day. I cheated some and ate those pemmican bars. I mean, that’s good—they have lard in them—but for the really good results, you have to do it straight all the way.”
“What was the Web site again?” I ask. I pull a pen out of my backpack and pretend to write it on the palm of my hand.
“
Newlard.com
,” Tally says. “I think this is going to be just the key for the pageant,” she says. She heads for the door and I follow.
The bell rings as we make it out into the hall. We have to hurry to class to avoid being late. We aren’t the only ones, though. I notice that Charlotte is running late, too. She almost trips in the art room as she hurries toward the back table. Someone should warn her that ballet flats can be a little slick on tile floors.
I have to avoid looking at Tally all through class. I’m afraid I’m going to blow it and start laughing. We each keep to ourselves. I work on my float design and Tally is drawing something that looks like a huge sunflower growing out of the planet Saturn. Miss Beans has to keep telling the back table to get to work. They don’t stop whispering to one another. I notice that the main person doing the talking is Charlotte, and I notice something else: Charity is listening.
chapter eighteen
Dot, dot, line. Line, dot, dot.” I have to say the pattern out loud to keep from messing up. I keep blinking, trying to keep my eyes from going out of focus from all of the close work. Forty dozen cupcakes. It’s the biggest order we’ve had yet. It’s funny how they always talk about cupcakes that way, in terms of dozens. No one comes in and orders thirty-six cupcakes; it’s always three dozen. For the less mathematically inclined, forty dozen = 480. Divide that by the five designs I have to make, and that leaves ninety-six of each kind. I finished the first batch, a Swiss dot pattern, in a couple of hours. The simple shell design and even the more complicated reverse shell took about the same amount of time, but these last two batches are awful. I keep resting my hand because it’s cramping so much. The really pathetic part is that my mother isn’t even here to help. Normally she would at least help with the decorating. She had to go to some meeting in the City and won’t be back until late. Way too late to do much more than drop into bed and then get up early to deliver the cupcakes out to the beach for the dawn wedding. I keep hoping that all these meetings are maybe going to change things. It seems like as long as everything is still in the air, there’s still some hope.