Pretty Is

School. I woke up early on the first day, blinking my way out of some vague, uneasy dream, and then the word school plunged to the bottom of my stomach like a rock dropped in a cold pond.

First thing, I went to my dresser and took out my best pair of shorts. I looked through a drawer of T-shirts; I pawed through the clothes on hangers in the closet. I wished I had something really cool to wear on the first day.

Hanging in the closet was the slinky purple top I’d bought at the mall, that day I went with Hannah. Mama had said I absolutely could not wear it to school. Fingering the smooth fabric, I sighed. I still thought it was great. Probably lots of other girls would be wearing tops that showed their bellies.

I wondered if Hannah would wear hers, despite her mother’s orders—if she would wear a shirt over it, the way she’d said weeks ago, and take off the outside shirt at school. I figured she probably would.

I wanted to wear the top just because I liked it. I wanted to wear it to show I was Hannah’s friend. But I didn’t want trouble with Mama, and I didn’t want to sneak around.

I took one more look in the closet and found the answer. I put on the purple top and over it a white shirt with buttons. I tucked the white shirt into my shorts, nice and neat, and looked in the mirror. Purple showed where I’d left the top button open, and purple was dimly visible through the white fabric. I liked the way I looked.

I bounced into Mama and Daddy’s room. Mama was getting dressed, and I could hear the scrape of Daddy’s razor in the bathroom.

Buttoning her blouse, Mama circled me, studying the outfit from every angle. There was just the slightest frown along her dark eyebrows.

Daddy drove us to school, Monica in the front seat and me in the back. It was one of those steamy days—even this early in the morning the air was thick and damp on my skin and in my lungs. I felt nervous and subdued, and kept smoothing my shorts, wishing they weren’t so wrinkled. I had a feeling Monica was nervous too.

I stared out the window at familiar sights—the flat, sandy-edged streets, the three blocks of downtown. When we stopped at a red light, I watched Mr. Dean rolling down the clear tinted shade in the front window of his drugstore, and a woman sweeping the sidewalk in front of the flower shop.

It was all familiar and at the same time it was all strange. Partly that was because I’d rarely gone around town so early, seeing people going to work, shops opening up. But it was also because I felt different inside. Every year the first day of school woke up the butterflies in my stomach, and this year I was going to a new school that was about five times as big as my old one. Instead of being in the oldest class in the school, I’d be in the youngest. And to a lot of the kids, I’d be Monica Chaney’s little sister.

“Well, girls,” Daddy said, turning toward us as we unbuckled. “Hope you have a fantastic day.” He patted Monica’s knee and gave me a wink and then we were out on the sidewalk.

As the car pulled away I stared up at the enormous, three-story brick front of the building and the row of six gray doors at the end of the concrete walkway.

As I followed her to the doors I noticed for the first time what she was wearing—red shorts and a faded orange T-shirt that totally clashed. And, of course, she still hadn’t shaved her legs.

Then I took a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh. Monica was Monica, and she’d never learn how to look cool. She was just the way she was.

Inside, we both stood around nervously, a couple of feet apart. Monica said hi to two kids and briefly compared schedules with one of them. I didn’t see anyone I knew, aside from a few eighth graders. To keep from looking friendless, I pretended to be interested in the trophies and ribbons that filled a big glass case along one wall.

Soon the lobby grew crowded and noisy, with kids milling around, yakking, waiting for the bell that would allow them to go past the lobby, down the long halls to their homerooms. I began to recognize a lot more faces among the strangers.

I talked to Shakara a little—we both had Mrs. Keating for homeroom—and waved to Ricky. Slouching around in his usual baseball cap, he gave me a lazy wave in return, as if this was just any old boring school day. Samantha came through the door, looking as nervous as I’d felt five minutes earlier, and I smiled hesitantly in her direction. She smiled back warmly and said, “Hi, Erin,” and even though she didn’t come over to me through the crowd, her response felt like a good sign. Like maybe a few of Kayla’s friends didn’t hate me anymore.

Then Kayla herself arrived, with Danielle beside her. Naturally, they stuck together like Siamese twins, gazing around the lobby. Claire, who came in behind her sister, strolled over to a group of girls, probably eighth graders, who were standing right next to me. She wore a short black skirt and a tight, stretchy blue shirt that made her look taller and slimmer than ever.

As she threaded her way through the lobby her glance flickered all around, but she passed by Monica and then me without a word. Just as Claire reached the group, one of them, a short, curly-haired girl, looked over and called, “Hi, Monica.”

“Oh, hi, Mariel,” I heard Monica answer, and at the same time I heard Claire, with an expression of gleeful disdain, murmur to the group, “Monica just looks so stylish today, doesn’t she?”

A glance told me that Monica, farther away than me, hadn’t heard. Good. But suddenly I was sick of this kind of thing.

“Hey Claire,” I said in a hard voice. “You don’t have to be so mean. Just because she doesn’t wear cool clothes and stuff.” Claire merely looked amused, as though I were a silly little first grader.

I felt myself blushing. I almost said, “Wait till you see her play basketball,” but stopped, knowing how childish that would sound to Claire and her friends.