The Queen of Cool (6 page)

Tiny is by the flagpole at 2:45.

The Santa Ana winds are blowing hard, and it looks like it takes an effort for her to keep her feet on the ground.

She waves and starts walking over to me.

“This way, my car is this way,” I say, forcing her back to the flagpole and into the parking lot. I don’t really want to be seen with her.

We get into the car, and she pulls a triangular thing out of her backpack. She attaches it to the seat belt.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m too small for the belt. It’s a child belt adjuster,” she says. “By the way, can you turn this air bag off? It’s dangerous for small children and Little People; see, it says so right here.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause, I don’t know how.”

“Well, drive carefully then,” Tiny says.

I set the car in drive and head toward the zoo.

Then Tiny starts humming. Could she
be
more annoying?

“Do you have an extra-small?” Tiny asks the zoo volunteer coordinator in charge of handing out the shirts.

“One size fits all,” he replies.

“Good thing I know how to sew,” Tiny informs him. “I’m on stage crew, and sometimes I have to help out with the costumes.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he says.

Why does she have to overexplain everything?

“Looks like he’s going to have a problem too.” Tiny says, pointing to an extremely obese volunteer. It’s Fat Boy, from orientation.

“Ready to go, Tiny?” I ask.

“It’s
Tina,
” Tiny says. “Hang on just a sec.”

I watch as Tiny goes over to Fat Boy and says something to him. He starts to laugh. I see her hold up her shirt, then he holds up his shirt, which looks like it will be ten times too small.

She pats his arm, and she heads back toward me.

“What happened there?” I ask.

“I told Matthew that I’m going to alter my shirt to fit me, so I’ll save the extra fabric and alter his too.”

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“He’s big. I’m small,” Tiny says, like I’m slower than slow.

“No, I mean, why do that for him? You don’t even know him,” I say.

“Don’t you ever do anything for someone just to help them out?”

“No,” I say.

“Well, you should try it.”

God. What does she want me to do? Like, good for her — she’s a nice girl. I’m not.

“I don’t care what that guy says. Look around, open your eyes,” Tiny says. “One size does not fit all.”

I really think about that for a minute.

“It must be a drag to adjust the world to fit you everywhere you go.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Tiny says.

“So then, by the teacups? Oh, my God! It was so funny,” Perla says.

“What?” I ask.

It is very boring to listen to the blow-by-blow account of a day that you did not participate in, especially when Perla is telling the story while sitting on your bed, painting her toenails “do me” red and dripping nail polish everywhere.

Perla is not a good storyteller.

“Hysterical!” she says. “Then Mike Dutko is like running alongside the parade, declaring his true love to Snow White, and she’s like looking at him like he’s crazy. And then we did the Tower of Terror like three times; I totally threw up, but Sid didn’t want to go the third time. He was like spouting some shit about something. So he just watched our bags.”

“That was nice of him,” I say.

“Whatever.”

If she had her laptop on, I’m sure she would show me the slide show of digital pictures of Disneyland to complement all the boring stories she’s told me.

“I could totally be a better Snow White than the girl they had playing her. I’m prettier too. Then again, why would I want to play a character when I play a way better me?”

“Who else was there?” I ask.

“Oh, everyone. So it was so fun. Everyone was there,” she says. “I mean, except you. I kind of hung out with Mike Dutko ’cause he keeps telling me he loves me. So, I might like him. Do you like him?”

“He’s all right,” I say.

“You’re lucky. You have Kenji.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But I bet that Kenji was slithering around the pretty girls at the park.”

“You know it,” she says. “Men are such snakes. All they care about is . . .”

Perla takes her finger and sticks it repeatedly into the hole she makes with her other hand. The universal hand sign for Fucking. Then, trying to keep her toes unsmeared, she hobbles over to the TV in my room and turns it on. We start watching one of her dad’s reality TV shows.

“When I get my show,
Ma Vida Loca,
I hope I get a killer time slot. I’m
so
prime time.”

I’m supposed to like Perla’s dad’s show, but I can’t concentrate. I am barely able to keep my eyes open on the bed while pretending to watch it, while Perla sits next to me, transfixed and laughing hysterically.

Right before I nod off, I realize that she hasn’t asked me a single question about my day at the zoo.

I’m on my way out to meet everyone at the movies.

“Dad, I need some money,” I say.

Dad purses his lips.

“What happened to the money I gave you last time?” he asks.

“I spent it,” I say.

Duh.

“Things are going to be different around here,” Dad says.

He puts two twenties in my hand.

“Make it last,” he adds.

I stamp my foot on the ground and storm out the door.

If they are going to charge a million dollars for a movie ticket, I look at it as an entry fee. Like to an amusement park.

The rules are simple. Procure ticket to movie. See movie. Go to bathroom one by one. Emerge once the previews start. See another movie. Repeat until bored or all movies in multiplex have been viewed.

Never make noise or giggle, or you will get kicked out. Wear beige. Do not buy popcorn or soda. Bring some snacks and soda pop in your backpack.

After coming out of our second film of the day, I hear laughing on the other side of the lobby. That’s when I see Tiny and her friends. Two of them are acting out a scene from the movie we just saw. Tiny is standing up on the cushioned bench directing them. They don’t get it right, but she doesn’t get angry. She just hops off the bench and replaces one of her friends and shows them how the scene is done, complete with exaggerated death scene.

Even from this side of the room, I can hear Tiny’s voice, a perfect mimic. Even from this side of the room, I crack a smile.

Perla rolls her eyes.

“Dorks,” she says.

All of their kind of fun is sadly way over Perla’s head. And so we resort to doing what we always do: standing around and hating everything.

Kenji and Mike Dutko emerge from the action flick that they saw. Kenji shakes his hair out of his eyes. He zips up his jacket and flicks his chin out toward me to say hello.

“Back to school tomorrow,” Perla says.

“Yep, back to school,” I say.

Then Perla pretends to stick her finger down her throat and throw up.

Sheldon is wearing a flannel shirt and an old-man sweater. I’m fixated on the bad fashion choice.

“Hello,” he says.

His voice is so quiet it’s barely above a whisper. “Hello,” I say.

“Okay, Blue Team!” Tiny says, waving our first assignment sheets as she practically skips over to us. “Today we’re observing spider monkeys!”

I take a step forward, and my platform heel catches on a little bump in the pavement. I stumble.

“Guess these aren’t the greatest walking shoes,” I say.

“No shit?” Tiny says, laughing.

She and Sheldon pause for a second to make sure I’m all right, then they keep moving till we get to the monkey cage.

“I don’t know what we’re looking for,” I say.

“Spider monkeys,” Tiny says. “Today we’re collecting data.”

I already have a blister from walking, so I sit down on a bench. Without a word, Sheldon hands me the Blue Team field notebook and a pen.

“Male spider monkey eats celery,” he says.

“What?”

“Write it down,” Tiny says. Then she makes another observation: “Male swings from tree.”

“Female rests on branch,” Sheldon says. I have to strain to hear him. “Write it down,” he urges me.

“Young swings to adult female,” Tiny says. “Don’t forget, Libby — you have to enter the time the action happened.”

I don’t tell her that I’m not wearing a watch today. I didn’t have one that matched my outfit.

I pick up the pen and start writing the data that Tiny and Sheldon quickly feed me. My hand cramps. It’s hard to keep up. I fake half of it.

Personally, I don’t notice a single thing.

When I get home, I sit in my car in the driveway for a while, leaning my head on my furry steering wheel.

I’m useless.

“We pay a lot for that school,” Dad says.

“I just think you have to try harder,” Mom says, examining my report card. “Though, I am encouraged by this zoo internship you’re taking.”

“When does that start?” Dad asks.

“It started today,” I say. “And since when is a B bad?” I ask.

“It’s mediocre,” Dad says.

“It’s a B,” I say. “Bs are good.”

“But we know you’re not working at it,” Mom says.

“You said you got Bs in high school, Mom, and it was like the greatest thing ever,” I say.

“I worked hard for those Bs. I am not as smart as you are. You could be an A student,” Mom says.

“Why?” I say. “Why do I have to?”

“Because you are a smart girl,” Dad says.

“Because you’ll want to get into a good college,” Mom says.

“Why bother?” I say. “There are no jobs. The economy sucks. Everybody hates the U.S. I mean, they are trying to
kill
us.”

“That’s no reason not to try, Libby,” Mom says. “That’s no reason to jeopardize your future.”

“You’re a smart girl, Libby. You can do anything you want,” Dad says. “But one day you’re not just going to be able to coast by.”

Wanna bet?