The Dirt Diary (14 page)

My good mood evaporates as we pull up to the Ivanoffs’ house later that day. I’d been hoping that if I could make amazing costumes for the dolls in Andrew’s movie, then I’d have an easier time breaking the news about not being able to go to the dance with him. But what I’ve actually made are asymmetrical capes that look like they were sewn by someone without opposable thumbs. Andrew is going to hate me on so many levels.

After Mom and I finish cleaning the Ivanoffs’ house, she insists on going ahead to the next house without me so I can talk to Andrew. “Take all the time you need,” she says, squeezing my arm.

I nod and promise to call her when I’m done. Then I take a deep breath before heading up the stairs to Andrew’s room, the bag of terrible capes in tow.

When I show him the costumes, Andrew tries to act like they’re not the ugliest things in the world. But unless he’s been drinking glue, he can see just how awful they are.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I’ll redo them. The next ones will be a lot better.”

“I’m sort of running out of time,” he says. “I have to finish shooting in the next few days. But if you think you’ll be able to do them soon…” He glances down at the pile of hideous Barbie capes and nervously runs his hand over his pale hair.

The capes took me forever to make. There’s no way I can crank out new, better outfits in only a couple days.

I feel horrible. Andrew trusted me, which wasn’t easy for him considering that he seems terrified of all humans, and I let him down. If I’d just sent Marisol his way from the beginning, it would’ve been okay. But I can’t go running to Marisol now, can I? What if I try to apologize to her and she shoots me down?

Then again, can I really live with myself if Andrew doesn’t get into film camp because of how terrible I made his movie look? No, I have to suck up my pride and ask Marisol for help. Even if it means making a total fool out of myself.

“I’ll fix this,” I tell Andrew. “Don’t worry.”

“Okay,” he says, not looking convinced. “Were you able to talk to Steve Mueller?”

“Yeah, and he promised that he and his friends would leave you alone from now on. Are you still going to take that video to the police?”

Andrew shrugs. “I’m not sure. I don’t want to just let it go. People should pay for their mistakes.”

I think of all the mistakes I’ve made, especially in the past few weeks. How long will I be paying for all those bad decisions?

“But,” Andrew goes on, “if it really won’t happen again, then I guess I can forget about it. If they give me any more trouble, I can always go to the police later.”

“Thank you,” I say, fighting the impulse to hug him. I think that might make Andrew explode with embarrassment. But the fact that he can forgive people who have been making his life miserable gives me hope that maybe the people I’ve hurt might be able to forgive me too.

“So, about the dance,” says Andrew. “I was wondering what color dress you’ll be wearing.”

I know I can’t put it off any longer. I have to tell him the truth. But then I have an idea. “I’m not sure,” I tell him. “If you hold on a minute, though, I’ll go find out.”

After I leave Andrew’s house, I practically run down the street to Marisol’s.

“Rachel!” her mom says when she opens the door. “It’s so good to see you. Come on in. She’s upstairs with Angela.” I never really thought Marisol’s mom liked me that much, but she seems excited to usher me up the stairs.

When I get to Marisol’s room, I can hear laughter inside. Even though the last thing I should be doing is eavesdropping, I can’t help pressing my ear against the door.

“Did Rachel really tell you she liked this dress?” I hear Angela say. “It has so many sequins!”

Marisol is quiet for a second. “She said she loved it. Why, do you think she was lying?”

I know they have to be talking about Marisol’s sparkly red dress. Of course I wasn’t lying. It’s gorgeous.

“Probably,” says Angela. “I mean, no offense, but it’s kind of weird-looking. No one really wears stuff like this. We should go shopping tomorrow and find you some new clothes.”

“But I like the way I dress,” says Marisol.

“I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it,” says Angela. “It’s just, you know, if you wanted to make more of an effort to fit in.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“You know, so people will like you. So they don’t call you Parasol anymore. Now that you’re hanging out with me, they’re willing to give you a chance, but if you keep dressing like that, no one will want to be friends with you.”

There’s a long silence. I hold my breath, afraid that Marisol will agree with her. The old Marisol would never do anything just to fit in, but I’m not sure about this new version of her.

“Look,” Angela adds, “I’m just trying to help.”

“You know what, Angela?” Marisol finally says. “I forgot that I have homework to do. We’ll have to hang out another time.”

I don’t have a chance to jump away from the door before it opens. I peer up at Marisol, probably looking like a guilty cat. She stares at me, her face totally unreadable.

“Hi,” I say, straightening up.

“Hi,” she answers. I can’t tell if she’s glad to see me, or if she’s trying to turn me to stone with her eyes.

“Hello,” says Angela, but we both ignore her. Finally, she lets out a little huff and trots down the hall toward the stairs.

“So, I see you’re still spying on people,” says Marisol, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Only on you,” I tell her. “I’ve decided the spying business isn’t really for me.”

“So why do I still get to be spied on?” she asks.

“It was only temporary, until I figured out the best way to tell you that I’m sorry.” I take a step forward, knowing I need to lay it all out there. If Marisol doesn’t forgive me, at least I’ll know I tried. “I am so, so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you about Steve and Briana and everything else. And I know you were only trying to help by telling me about Angela cheating. I guess I was just…well, it’s hard to have a best friend who’s perfect all the time. It makes it really easy to mess up big-time.”

I stare at Marisol, waiting for some kind of reaction. Hoping my apology is enough.

She chews on her lip for a minute. Finally, her face softens, and she shakes her head. “Perfect?” she says. “Are you kidding? I’ve been a total moron the past few weeks. I don’t know what I was thinking!” She smiles. “I’m really sorry too.”

Relief floods through me. I throw my arms around her and hug her so tight that she actually lets out a little squeak. When I let go, I spot the red dress spread out on Marisol’s bed. “I wasn’t lying when I said I loved that dress. It’s my favorite one. I love all your stuff.”

“I know,” says Marisol. “Angela’s okay, but I think I’d rather have a friend who doesn’t care if I’m popular or not.”

“You know she’s the one who spread the rumor about Mr. Hammond, right?”

Marisol nods and bites her lip. “I’m so sorry I told her. I know you made me promise not to. I was just so mad at you that I wasn’t really thinking.” She sighs. “And I guess I wasn’t thinking when I stayed friends with her after she did that. And after I found out she’d cheated at the bake sale. See what I mean about being a total moron?”

I laugh. “I think it’s settled. We were both stupid, but we’ve both smartened up.”

She nods, looking genuinely happy for the first time since our fight. “I hope so.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re friends again because I have a favor to ask you.” I pause. “Actually, I guess I have two.”

•••

Once plans with Andrew and Marisol are sorted out for the Spring Dance, Marisol and I leave the Ivanoffs’ house and go for a walk around the neighborhood. Even though I’m technically supposed to go back to work, I need this time to talk to her about everything that’s happened.

Marisol clucks her tongue at all the right places when I tell her about Steve and Briana and Caitlin. “I’m going to call Steve tonight and tell him everything,” I say. “Hopefully, he’ll do the right thing and finally break up with Briana.” I can’t believe I’m talking about calling Steve Mueller without hyperventilating about it. Things have really changed the past few weeks.

When I tell Marisol about my parents’ relationship really being over, she reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze. And when I tell her about what had happened with Evan, she stops walking and gives me a long look.

“You really like him, don’t you?” she asks.

I laugh, ready to deny it. But then I realize that I can’t. Because I
do
really like him. He’s smart and funny and sweet, and he doesn’t care about popularity or anything like that. What he does care about is honesty, and I blew it.

“He even said he was starting to like me,” I admit. “Before I ruined everything. And now I have no idea how to get him to trust me again.”

“Well, someone has to make the first move,” says Marisol. “Or you two will wind up not speaking to each other for way too long, just like we did.”

“You’re right. If I’d just baked you something and brought it over the next day, maybe we would’ve made up right away.” Hmm, that’s an idea. It isn’t likely to fix everything, but a guy who loves
Pastry
Wars
can’t say no to a perfectly made dessert, can he?

At the end of school on Monday, everyone involved in the bake sale is allowed to leave class a little early to get ready. I rush to the cafeteria so I can make sure everything is set up just right.

Once my brownies are spread out on the table, I glare at Angela who’s arranging what look like mocha squares on fancy little plates. I might only have boring old napkins, but I know my brownies are better. I spent hours last night making them, and the house smelled so good that even my mom couldn’t stop drooling.

I spot Marisol and Andrew walking toward me, both grinning from ear to ear. “These look amazing!” Marisol says as the two of them come up to my table. “What are they?”

“Banana Nutella swirl brownies,” I say.

Marisol squeals and does a little seal clap. “That’s perfect!”

“I think they’re the best thing I’ve ever made.” I chuckle, realizing how conceited that sounds. “If I do say so myself. What are you guys doing here? The sale doesn’t start for another ten minutes.”

“We came to help you get ready,” says Andrew.

“I
am
ready.”

“Not yet!” Marisol holds up a plastic bag. “I brought an outfit for you to wear. And Andrew has a little surprise for you, something that will bring people over to your table.”

Before I can object, Marisol whisks me to the girls’ bathroom and herds me into a stall. When I open the plastic bag, I have to laugh as I see the sunny yellow dress from the consignment shop staring back at me.

“I can’t believe you did this!” I pull out the dress which Marisol has not only stitched up but also personalized. Now there’s a candy pattern embroidered all along the neckline of the dress, though from a distance it just looks like a string of colorful flowers. “It’s beautiful,” I say as I come out and look at myself in the mirror.

“
You’re
beautiful,” says Marisol, dabbing a little gloss on my lips.

I don’t argue with her because for once I actually do feel beautiful. What’s more, I don’t mind the fact that people will notice me. If I want my food to stand out, there’s no reason I can’t let people see me too.

I glance at myself in the mirror one more time, make sure my hair is covering my widow’s peak, and adjust my earrings.

“You’re wearing the spoons I made you!” Marisol says.

I haven’t worn them since our fight, but I dug them out of my jewelry box this morning for good luck. I don’t want to ever take them off again.

“Look!” Marisol says, pulling back her hair to show me that she has her spoon earrings in too.

“Did I ever tell you about the challenge I thought up?” I ask. “I think we should have an ice-cream eating contest using nothing but our earrings.”

“Ha! You’re on, Rachel Lee. Once you win this bake sale, we’re going out for ice cream. Now, are you ready to kick Angela’s butt?”

“Absolutely.”

When we get back to my table, Andrew is just finishing setting up a laptop with a movie playing. As I get closer, I see that it’s a silent clip of Marisol in full zombie makeup, ambling toward a plate of brownies. At the bottom of the screen, a caption says: “Brooowwwnies!” And then zombie Marisol grabs the brownies and smears them all over her zombie face.

“That’s incredible!” I choke out, laughing so hard my stomach muscles hurt.

Andrew grins. “I’m glad you like it.”

The bell rings, meaning the bake sale is about to start. Marisol gives my arm a squeeze before I rush behind the table, my whole body jiggling with nerves.

Soon people start pouring in, and after that the bake sale passes by in a blur. People seem to love Andrew’s film, and more than that, they love the brownies. They all promise to vote for my recipe. Angela’s table is hopping just like last year, but I can’t help thinking that there seems to be a bigger crowd in front of mine.

At one point, Steve Mueller comes over, grinning at me. “These look great,” he says as he hands me money for a couple of brownies. It’s nice to take cash from him and not feel slimy about it for once.

“Where’s Briana?” I ask. Considering that she helped put together the bake sale fund-raiser, it’s strange that I haven’t seen her yet. In fact, I don’t remember seeing her all day.

Steve swallows a bite of brownie, looking suddenly deflated. “She’s not coming,” he says. “I broke up with her last night. You were right. She’s not the kind of person I want to be with. I didn’t think she’d take it so hard, but I guess she didn’t come to school today.” He gives a little sigh and shrugs before walking away.

After the sale is over, I can barely breathe while Mr. Hammond and another judge count the votes.

“And the winner is…” Mr. Hammond smiles out at the crowd. “Rachel Lee!”

For a second, I think I must have hallucinated him saying my name, but when Marisol shrieks and throws her arms around me, I realize I really am the winner. I did it. I finally did it.

As I go up to accept my award, I feel like I’ve just been crowned prom queen. Everything is glittery and in slow motion. People are looking at me, but for once they’re not laughing at me or calling me a freak. Even Caitlin is standing in the corner looking at me with an expression that’s almost friendly.

Once I have a big, fat check in my hands, Marisol pulls me aside. “
Now
can I turn Angela in for cheating?” she whispers.

I glance over at Angela who’s throwing her leftover desserts away, clearly furious at how things turned out. I have to admit I feel bad for her.

“No, that’s okay,” I say.

After all, Angela and I aren’t so different. We both wanted to be noticed and respected, and we both did despicable things to try to make that happen.