I worked so hard. So so so hard. Honestly, I’ve never focused on homework like that in my life! Not in Language Arts, Español, or any of the other usual subjects.
This was mascot homework.
All week I studied professional mascots during whatever games my dad had on TV. I watched Bridget practice her cheers at the bus stop in the morning. I mimicked moves from videos of Bethany’s squad back in the day. This morning I chugged a gallon of performance-enhancing energy drink with extra vitamins, minerals, and caffeine.
THE PEP RALLY WAS TODAY. AND I WAS READY.
Putting my time and energy into pep rally prep had taken my mind off just about everything else going on. Like what? Oh, you know, like failing Woodshop, not having a clue how to pick my first boyfriend wisely, worrying that my fractured group of friends didn’t qualify as an IT clique, and so on. I think that’s what a hobby is supposed to do for you. It helps you stop thinking about things. Of course, this only works when your hobby isn’t thinking about things.
Anyway, Miss Garcia had slipped me the key to the CHEER TEAM!!! changing room with instructions to get there right at the start of sixth period. She knew it would be empty because all the cheerleaders had worn their uniforms to school. She forbade me from seeing the bird suit until minutes before the pep rally began. She said it was because she didn’t want anyone to see me in the bird suit and spoil the secret. I did as I was told and arrived right at the final bell—on schedule but without much time to get ready. I didn’t hesitate to unzip one of two PJHS garment bags I knew had to be for me.
ZZZZZZZIP! WHOOSH! ACHOOOOOO!
Red, white, and blue feathers flew out of the bag as if they were still attached to real live birds. I sucked half a flock up my nose, which immediately and inevitably triggered the sneezing attack to end all sneezing attacks.
And this was just the first bag.
With a runny nose and watery eyes, I struggled to open the second bag. It was more gruesome than the first—like a cross between a backstage visit to The Muppet Show and a butcher’s shop. There was a bulgy-eyed, squeaky-beaked bird head; a set of fluffy slippers shaped like talons; and a pair of wings designed to slide over my arms like the most over-the-top prom gloves ever.
There was no time to waste. The pep rally was already underway.
“Cheer without fear,” I told myself. “Cheer without fear.”
It took me about ten minutes and ten thousand sneezes to put the whole costume on. The whole time, I could hear Miss Garcia’s voice leading cheers on the loudspeakers.
“A-W-E” [clap clap] “S-O-M-E!” [stomp stomp]
When I turned to try to look at myself in the full-length mirror, my tail feathers brushed across a shelf and sent a decade’s worth of Pineville Junior High CHEER TEAM!!! trophies clattering to the floor.
Whoops.
But I didn’t have time to clean up my mess. I didn’t have any time to get used to my own body. I heard Miss Garcia’s voice calling my name over the speakers.
“Mighty the Seagull! Where are yoooooooou?”
It was now or never. Honestly, I would have chosen never. But that wasn’t an option. Where could I escape to wearing a red-white-and-blue-feathered bird suit that weighed more than I did?
“Mighty the Seagull! Where are yoooooooou?”
I channeled the team spirit of the Phillie Phanatic, the San Diego Chicken, and other great mascots that had come before me. I ran out to center court and opened my wings wide to the crowd as if to say, “Here I am, world! The mascot you’ve been waiting for!”
I made it about five steps before tripping on my talons and falling beak over tail feather. Fortunately, feathers are excellent for shock absorption. Not only was I unhurt, I seemed to bounce off the ground and land right back on my feet. It’s like I had totally meant to fall down and the gales of laughter from the audience were exactly what I’d intended.
I didn’t even have to consider whether I should try to fall again. It came all too naturally to me in these oversized claws. But, as before, I rebounded so quickly that I was able to do a sort of full-feathered equivalent of jazz hands when I got back up.
“TA-DA!”
I couldn’t really get a good look at the crowd, but I could hear them. And judging by their boisterous cheers and applause, the audience loved me. And they loved me even more when I heard music play the opening notes of the Pineville Junior High Fight Song! The choreography for this routine was a tradition and hadn’t changed since Bethany’s days on the squad. From watching her old videos, I knew every hip wiggle, every shimmy, every shake-shake-shake.
I did them all.
Once I’d gotten used to it, I was somehow more graceful in the bird suit than I was out of it. And it was after my perfectly executed stop-drop-booty-pop that I heard the first person in the crowd ask the question.
“Who are you?”
Others joined in.
“Who are you? Who are you?”
It gained momentum quickly.
“Whooooooooooo are yoooooou?” the crowd roared. “Whoooooo are yoooooou?”
Weird, right? That’s what Mr. Pudel had sung at me on my first day of school! I couldn’t help but wonder if my Woodshop teacher had somehow put the crowd up to this chant. But I quickly dismissed the idea because Mr. Pudel had no clue that I was the student inside the suit. It was just a coincidence.
“Whooooooo are yooooou?”
A freaky coincidence.
And yet, the louder they chanted, the more I was tempted to say good-bye to anonymity. Why not remove the bird head and show the whole school that I, Jessica Darling, was the seventh-grade mastermind behind the most brilliant display of school mascotting since the invention of fake feathers? Miss Garcia would surely understand my quest for glory! I had just about settled on the idea when I discovered there was one major problem with this plan.
The bird head was stuck.
Like, really, really stuck. I don’t know if the feathers were caught in the zipper or what. All I knew was that I was trapped inside this bird head and the air quality inside the beak was already very poor and certainly wasn’t going to get better if I started up a full-fledged fit of a FREAK-OUT.
Which is exactly what I did.
“Whoooooo are yoooooou? Whoooooo are yoooooou?”
I flapped my wings wildly to get the attention of the CHEER TEAM!!!, but they just played to the crowd, like, “Omigod! Isn’t our mascot hilarious? Aren’t we all so totally hot?”
There’s no doubt that I was actually—not metaphorically—the hottest person in that gym. It had to be a bazillion degrees inside that bird suit and getting hotter by the millisecond. I used up what precious oxygen I had by calling to Bridget for help, but it came out sounding like this.
“Hellllllblurgh!”
No joke. I was having a total hyperventilating panic attack. Desperate, I started ramming my bird head into the cheerleaders’ faces, hoping to get their attention. I succeeded only in causing the collapse of the famous Pineville Junior High Pyramid of Perfection. Screaming cheerleaders toppled to the floor like bowling pins in a strike.
How the audience reacted to this, I honestly have no idea. I couldn’t see or hear anything but my own blood boiling inside my eardrums and eyeballs. My survival instincts had kicked in and I was only concerned about self-preservation. With what remaining strength I had, I headed straight for the bleachers. There were hundreds of students and teachers in the audience. Surely one of them would rescue me! I tugged wildly at the bird head and yelled “Helllllblurgh!” to anyone who would listen. But everyone was too busy laughing and hooting to hear me.
“Whooooooooo are yooooooooou? Whooooooooo are yoooooou?”
It was at that moment that I accepted my fate. This seagull was dead meat.
And with my last raggedy breaths I asked myself, “Whooooooooo am I? Whooooooooo am IIIIIIIII?”
Yes, I decided to die with dignity. Or as much dignity as one can have when wearing a giant bird suit. I planted my fluffy talons on the first row of bleacher seats, saluted the crowd, then did a perfect swan dive—or, uh, seagull dive—right onto the CHEER TEAM!!! practice mat.
Only I didn’t land on the mat. I was caught… by Miss Garcia!
The crowd roared louder than ever as Miss Garcia dragged me by my wings all across the gym floor, through the locker room, and into the changing room.
I could still hear them cheering, even behind the closed door.
She locked the door and pulled the blinds closed before unhooking my bird head. She didn’t want to take any chances of spoiling my secret identity.
“Do you hear that? They love you! I knew you were the right person for the job! I loved the dramatic improvisation!”
I was still sort of dizzy from lack of oxygen so it was difficult for me to muster any enthusiasm besides a thumbs—or rather, wing—up.
Miss Garcia reminded me of my “cover story” before I changed back into my regular jeans and T-shirt for seventh period. I had very little time to compose myself before facing my friends in the cafeteria.
“Omigod! Jess! Where were you? You missed the craziness!”
“What craziness?” I asked innocently, swatting an imaginary feather off my shoulder.
“The pep rally!” Sara explained. “It was insane! Where were you?”
I knew Sara would keep asking unless I said something. Fortunately, Miss Garcia had prepared me.
“I was at the nurse’s office,” I said. “Girl stuff.”
And then I clutched my abdomen like I’d seen the other girls do when they had “girl stuff.” It must have worked because Manda made a face.
“Ew. Say no more.”
“So you missed the whole thing?” Sara pressed. “With the crazy chicken?”
“Seagull,” Hope corrected under her breath but loud enough for me to hear.
“What crazy chicken?” I asked, playing dumb.
And that’s when Bridget and Dori showed up and went off.
“THE CRAZY CHICKEN THAT STOLE ALL THE ATTENTION AWAY FROM US.”
I’ve known Bridget for twelve years and I can honestly say I’ve never seen her so mad. Not even when I gave her favorite Colonial-era American Girl doll a punk makeover. Manda and Sara were unmoved.
“Omigod! Boo hoo hoo!” And then Sara wiped away fake tears.
“We worked really hard on our routine and all anyone can talk about is that crazy chicken!” Bridget griped.
I noticed that Hope couldn’t stop herself from mouthing, “Seagull.”
Then Dori was emboldened to speak up.
“We were so mondo and no one noticed!”
Manda gave her the side eye.
“First of all, puh-leeze,” she said. “No one says mondo anymore.”
Sara did a double take. This was news to her. But she played along.
“Omigod! Everyone knows that.”
“Second of all,” Manda continued, “you’re obviously just jealous.”
This was a bold statement to be made by someone who was so jealous that she’d started a spirit war.
“Personally, I loved the mascot,” Manda went on.
“Omigod! Me too!” Sara added.
“I think the chicken showed a lot of school spirit!”
I swear Hope almost choked on her potato chips.
And so none of my closest friends suspected that I was the mascot the whole school was buzzing about. I was the most popular and most anonymous person at Pineville Junior High. As I headed to last period, it was so weird to overhear eighth graders talking about me, having no idea that it was me they were talking about.
“Burke Roy is the chicken.”
“Dude, he’s on the football team. He’s not the chicken.”
“Burke’s hi-larious. It’s got to be him.”
“He was right there in the gym wearing his football uniform. It’s not Burke.”
“BurkeBurkeBurke. You know. Like a chicken.”
“Duh.”
“Whozit then?”
“I don’t know. But whoever the chicken is, he’s hi-larious.”
“Why’s our mascot a chicken, anyway?”
I thought of Hope. I came this close to shouting “Seagull!” But I didn’t.
It’s interesting that almost everyone assumed Mighty was a boy. That only a boy could possibly act so daring and uninhibited, that no girl could take herself so unseriously and risk making a hi-larious fool out of herself in front of the whole school.…
I started getting mad about it. Why assume that all girls will act helpless and timid and—ugh—girlie-girlie when put in a stereotypical “boy” situa—
Oh. Ohhhhhh.
Hadn’t I been acting all helpless and timid and—ugh—girlie-girlie in Woodshop?
I had.
But no more. Not today! No! Today I had cheered without fear! Now I would woodshop without fear! I would make my spoon if it killed me! Though it would be much better if it didn’t kill me, right? I’d like to survive long enough to use it on a pint of cookie dough ice cream.
I was pretty psyched up when I got to eighth period. All week long, while all the boys had been making their spoons, and asking me about girls and farts and girls’ farts, I had done nothing but study the spoon-making instructions. I had all the steps memorized by now. I knew what to do.
I just had to do it.
“Woodshop without fear,” I said to myself as I selected a block of soft maple.
“Woodshop without fear,” I repeated as I traced the spoon template.
“Woodshop without fear,” I said once more as I turned the handle of the vise to get a better grip on the woodblock.
I’d been so focused on my task that I hadn’t paid the slightest bit of attention to anything else going on around me. Until Mr. Pudel made it impossible not to.
“WHAT IS THIS?”
Mr. Pudel was hovering over someone I couldn’t see. And yet, I knew that someone was Aleck. And I was right.
“It’s my project,” I heard Aleck’s voice say.
“THAT’S NOT A SPOON.”
“Thank you for noticing,” Aleck said, seemingly unintimidated. “It’s not a spoon. It’s a toothpick.”
“A toothpick.” Mr. Pudel said it in a way that expressed both disbelief and no duh.
“An epic toothpick! See? I personalized it!”
From where I stood, this “epic” toothpick looked no different from a regular toothpick. But Mr. Pudel held the “epic toothpick” up to the light, turning it this way and that, as if he were appraising its value like an expert on those boring shows my mom loves to watch where people try to make money off the junk in their attics by calling them antiques.
“Does this toothpick say PROPERTY OF MR. PUDEL?”
“Epic toothpick,” Aleck corrected. “And, yep!”
“How did you even do that?” Mr. Pudel sounded genuinely impressed.
I was too busy watching them to notice that I hadn’t stopped turning the handle of the vise.
“YOW!”
I totally squashed my index finger! It hurt. A lot. Then in my panic, I spun the handle even tighter in the wrong direction. It hurt even worse.
Within seconds Mr. Pudel rushed over and rescued me from the clutches of the vise. I spun in crazy circles around the room, winging my hands wildly through the air.
“YOW! YOW! YOW!”
I collided into shelves, sending several classes’ worth of napkin holders and spoons crashing to the floor.
“YOW! YOW! YOWZA!”
Mr. Pudel caught me by my spinning shoulders and went into ER mode.
“Aleck! Get Clem to the nurse! I don’t trust her to make it on her own!”
I was still too busy hooting and flapping in pain to carry a conversation or to be even the least bit nervous about being alone with a boy. A boy who happened to be Aleck. The only boy in class who hadn’t bothered to ask me anything. At all. Ever.
It wasn’t until we made it all the way to the infirmary on the other side of the school—you’d think it would be closer to Woodshop’s hall considering the risk to our lives and limbs—that Aleck spoke. It was the first time he’d ever spoken to me. This is what he said:
“Hellllllblurgh.”
I guess my hooting and flapping was reminiscent of the way a certain feathered mascot hooted and flapped around the gym during the pep rally. Before I could squawk in denial, he pressed his finger to his lips and shushed.
“Don’t worry, Clem,” Aleck assured me as he opened the door to the infirmary. “Your secret is safe with me.”
And for some reason, I believed him.