Best Kept Secret (7 page)

“I think we've already taken some very positive steps this year. Enjoy the rest of the dance!” Ms. Russo called out and handed the microphone back to Mr. Ford.

She made a move to leave the stage, but Mr. Ford called her back.

“Hang on just a minute, if you could Jane,” he said into the microphone so that the whole crowd could hear.

She stopped and looked at him. It's always funny to hear teachers called by their first names, but something even stranger was in the air.

“Jane, I don't know if this is the right place or the right time, and I know you probably need me about as much as ‘a fish needs a bicycle,' but … will you marry me?”

A room full of jaws landed with a
kerplunk
on the floor. Was our math teacher asking our art teacher to marry him? He extended his hand to Ms. Russo, palm up, holding a small blue velvet box.

As Mr. Ford pulled back the top of the box to reveal a beautiful diamond ring, total disbelief splashed across Ms. Russo's face Then she started nodding and they hugged for a long time. It was enough time for DJ Jeff to find just the right song. He played the oldie “What a Wonderful World.” Bet scooted to the front with her video camera.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” we all began chanting—and they did. It was strange to watch two of my teachers kissing, but I couldn't look away. Then there was a lot of commotion with getting the ring on her finger and other teachers and grown-ups coming up to say congratulations. I saw the very unhuggy Mrs. Percy come up and give Ms. Russo a big hug. (I guess Ms. Russo had forgiven her for saying she needed to relax about the dance.) She looked pretty relaxed now.

Everyone was talking and laughing about what just happened. As the last notes of the song ended, Mr. Ford grabbed the mic again. He looked happy-dizzy. “You guys,” he said, sweeping his arm out over the crowd, “are
all
invited to the wedding.”

Sixteen

When I got home, I answered my parents' predictable questions: How was it? Who was there? Did you have fun? I didn't tell them about Ms. Russo and Mr. Ford. I knew they'd find out eventually, but I wanted time to think about Forrest and the whole night without any parental noise. I had seen so much and I wanted to sort it out on my own.

My feelings for Forrest had not gone away just because he had gone to the dance with Piper. And I didn't stop liking him when he was going out with Taylor. The truth was I didn't want to stop liking him. My crush was like an old comfy sweatshirt. Those crushy feelings were all mine, even if he wasn't. After changing into pajamas, I sat on my bed and pulled out the notebook I kept under my bed. If Forrest liked Piper so much, maybe I needed to figure out what she had that I didn't. Making two columns, I began the lists:

There was more though. It pained me to write the words, but I did it:

Piper looked like a woman already. Lots of people noticed. She shopped only in women's clothing stores. I could buy a thing or two in those sizes, but I didn't need to. OK, if that was really why he chose her over me, what was I supposed to do? Stuffing just didn't really work. What would happen in the summer? Would I flap around our community pool with a wad of soggy tissues in my bikini top?

It was so unfair. I was still waiting for my period and all that came with it. But my brain and my heart were just as grown up as anybody's, probably more so. Who else was up at midnight trying to figure out the mysteries of the universe, including how to get a boy to like me more than my beautiful, popular (former) best friend?

I wanted to know what happens between two people when they decide to be together, like Mr. Ford and Ms. Russo. Who says “I love you” first? I can barely make eye contact with Forrest. Could I ever tell him the truth—how I think of him every day and try to watch him without looking too obvious?

I imagined Forrest and me ten years from now. I would have grown up (and out) and he would be just as hot, but taller. I'd be someone who travels for my job, and he'd come to meet me somewhere, like on the cliffs of Capri in Italy. My parents took me there once on vacation, and it was filled with honeymooning couples. Just try to find a table for three there—no chance. The entire trip, I was crammed in with them at tiny, romantic tables. I was only eleven, but I caught the pie-eyed way my parents sometimes looked at each other there. What makes people become couples?

I know, I know. I'm not alone in all my wondering. The Pink Locker Society gets oodles of questions about crushes, like:

•
My crush is acting strange. He is usually happy and funny, but today he yelled at me. What am I supposed to do?

•
SHOULD I TELL MY CRUSH WHAT I FEEL ABOUT HIM?

•
I have a crush on this guy in school, but he likes my best friend. What should I do?!!!

Hey, that sounds a lot like me. But my anger for Piper was starting to mellow into something else. I missed her.

It's like all of my friends are ingredients in a delicious dish. (And not something simple like macaroni and cheese, either.) Together, we're like this chicken my mother makes. I like it because the recipe has no quantities for the ingredients. You just put the chicken in a pan and top it with soy sauce, pepper, garlic, lemon juice and zest, scallions, honey, and paprika. As much or as little of everything as you want. As it cooks, you can smell the flavors warming up and mixing in with one another. First, the honey melts and bubbles into the salty soy sauce. Then the juices surround the chicken, picking up the bold garlic, the zing of the lemon zest, and the oniony scallions. My mom won't make it unless she has each and every ingredient—even if she's missing something skip-able (if you ask me) like paprika.

“The sum is greater than the parts,” she has told me more than once. That's the kind of math you'd expect from someone who writes poetry. No Pythagorean Theorem there.

But I was starting to wonder if this was also true of friendship. Piper might be the paprika, but without her, life now seemed as bland as a soggy bowl of corn flakes.

Seventeen

Back to the basement during study hall—that was the Monday routine for me, Kate, and Piper. As promised, we met to follow up on the backlog of questions, including some from the dance. I never liked to arrive earlier than anyone else in our new basement headquarters. It was dark until you fumbled for the light switch on the wall panel. But that first switch, we learned, only gave you stairwell lighting. Once you reached basement level, you had to aim your way toward the pull cords of bare lightbulbs. Our routine was to wait in the stairwell together and then slowly walk into the darkened space together.

We kept our arms outstretched like zombies until someone found the first cord and pulled it—
click!
Once one of the lightbulbs was switched on, you could usually find the others and fill our end of the basement with enough light to work by. If we got desperate, we could always use the light from our laptop to guide us.

“It's times like these I really miss our fancy desk chairs and the fresh flowers,” Kate said.

“And the snacks,” Piper said.

Piper opened our pink laptop on a desk-high stack of boxes that contained the scratchy restroom towels that filled every dispenser in the school. We pulled aluminum folding chairs around her in a circle. Being secreted away like this in our subterranean hideaway made us speak softly. Though we had been getting away with it for weeks, we were still an unofficial, unauthorized group meeting in a completely prohibited way.

“Question 1: ‘I don't have my period yet, but I am worried about using pads. Won't people hear them crunching and rustling when I walk?' ”

“Good question,” I said.

“Hmmm,” Piper said, “I never think about that.”

“Well, they do make noise, but it's such a soft noise, I don't think anyone would notice,” Kate said. “I'll take that one.”

I had decided that I wanted to take Queen Quitter on as a special project. She really seemed to need help, and I was tired of answering questions about embarrassing stuff. This was a chance for me to do more than answer questions about see-through shirts or inconvenient burps. I pounced as soon as Piper said, “Next question: ‘Dear PLS, I am sad, sad, sad…' ”

I said “I'll take it” so quickly that Kate asked if I thought this was a game show. I wondered if Kate or Piper would be able to figure out who Queen Quitter was.

“Question 3,” Piper continued. “Well, this isn't a question. It's another one of those threats.”

Then she flipped the laptop around for us all to see:

Girls, please don't ignore this request. Shut down the site, or you could get in big trouble.

A Pink Friend

“Maybe we should tell someone,” I said.

“That'd the end of the PLS then. For real, this time. We'd never be able to restart it again,” Piper said.

Kate agreed that it was too risky to tell anyone. I didn't agree, but I wasn't going to be the only one.

“Let's get back to business,” Kate said.

“Question 4 … Wait a minute. I have something to say,” Piper said.

We stopped and looked up from our notepads. I hoped she was going to reconsider and say we should tell someone about the threats, or maybe just shut the PLS down for a little while.

“Forrest and me—I mean, Forrest and I … well, we aren't going out or anything.”

Piper let that hang in the air for a moment.

“It's over,” she said. “Like, it never really started in the first place.”

Then she looked at me.

“He's weird, Jemma. Cute, but weird.”

I had a rush of feelings that I couldn't express. I was relieved that she and Forrest weren't a couple. I was insulted that she called him weird. And I was a strange kind of happy, like when something big and scary threatens but doesn't actually occur.

Remember a while back, when a big asteroid was supposed to hit the Earth? People—my dad, for instance—were calculating the odds of where and when it might hit. But then it ended up landing in the ocean or breaking up into a million unthreatening bits or something. That's what I was feeling, down in the school basement, looking at Piper.

But in that moment, when we should have hugged, or at least shared a slight smile, I couldn't do it. I felt a plume of anger that Piper had gone after Forrest in the first place, and I wasn't ready to let it go.

“That's great, Piper,” Kate said. “So I guess you're sort of apologizing to Jemma?”

“Yes. I guess so. Sort of,” Piper said. “It's just over and it's no big deal and we need to move on.”

It was a big deal to me. But I wasn't ready to talk about it, so I did what any normal person would do. I changed the subject.

“So what's the next question?”

Piper paused for a moment and then restarted. “Question 4: ‘My mom bought me one bra and now my dog has eaten it. Signed: Braless and mad at Buckeye.' ”

“Oh, I'll take that one,” I said.

“What's your advice going to be?” Kate asked, smiling and about to burst with laughter.

“Switch to a cat. My cat would never eat my bra,” I said.

But I had more. “Do you think Buckeye the dog ate all the bra in one sitting or snacked on it throughout the day? Maybe he had a cup at lunch, then another at dinner?”

“If it had been my bra, he'd be really full,” Piper said.

“Yeah, he'd be burping up bra all afternoon,” Kate added.

The thought of that dog chowing down had us all laughing now. I imagined the U of an underwire in his mouth, like a double smile.

It felt good to be part of a conversation with Kate and Piper that didn't involve Forrest and didn't give me that tight, twisty feeling in my stomach. So I continued.

“Might I recommend my bra if Buckeye is looking for the perfect after-school snack. Or appetizer. Ruff! Ruff!”

So amused were we that we didn't notice how our laughter rose above our usual volume level. That day's creepy threat should have made us all the more cautious. There was an even more threatening message later in the queue. But we never got that far. We were so lost in our “dog eats bra” story that we didn't hear a thing.

Not the door opening at the top of the stairs.

Or the
clomp-clomp-clomp
of someone coming down.

One minute we were laughing uncontrollably, and the next minute, there she was—Ms. Russo.

We swallowed hard, shaken by the sight of a teacher in our midst.

“Are you going to tell on us?” I asked.

“No. I'm going to help you. If you want my help, that is,” she said.

Ms. Russo found a folding chair against the cinder-block wall and opened it with a squeak. She sat down with a “Phew,” the way you do after you've been on your feet all day.

“Where to begin, girls? Where to begin?”

Ms. Russo said she had met an actual former Pink Locker Lady. This source, who had to remain anonymous, said there was a lot we needed to know about the history of the Pink Locker Ladies.

“She's a cagey one,” Ms. Russo said, with a laugh. “And she knows who all of you are.