My second Magnolia day starts with crying and screaming, but not mine.
Mom bought Libby a fancy new car seat, but judging by the way the windows are trying not to crack, I’d say Libby does not like it. She howls and thrashes against her five-point harness baby seat belt.
“Can you make her be quiet?” Her shrieks are curling my eyebrow hairs. This can’t possibly be the best way to start my day.
Stress pours out of Mom’s mouth. “I’m driving right now. Can you do something?”
If I twist too much, I’ll wrinkle my smooth Magnolia uniform. “It’s because you’ve got her sitting backward. I don’t see why she needed a new car seat anyway.” The old one wasn’t even that old; Mom bought it from a daycare yard sale only a year ago.
“I thought it would be nice, just like you getting a new bike.”
“She doesn’t know—she’s a baby! And besides, she hates it.”
“It’s safer for her. I’ve been talking with the ladies at church and everyone’s using these backward-facing ones now. So hate it or not, she’s safer.”
Safe, shrieking Libby wails in the backseat. I press my hands so hard over my ears, if my head were a watermelon, I’d burst it. Over Libby’s crying, I yell, “Did I have a car seat like that?”
“No.” Mom checks her mirrors before turning into the entrance for school. The van has a sticker now, so we wait as the gate opens automatically for us.
Libby’s going to grow up spoiled.
When Mom stops at the dropoff for Magnolia, I recognize the expensive car in front of us—Nikki Simms. The mother’s head has a cell phone pasted to one ear. Her fingers toodley-doo to Nikki, and she’s laughing into the phone when she pulls away.
Nikki strolls the Magnolia path alone.
“Honey?” Mom says.
“Oh.” I unbuckle.
Mom leans over the console, but I bend my head, letting her give my hair a quick peck, then I check the back windshield to make sure no one saw that.
Babies like moving cars, but boy, do they hate parked vans. Libby grabs at the air and screams. I get my stuff together and finger the door handle.
“Have a good day!” Mom yells over the squalling.
Pencils fall out of an unzipped pocket, and spiral notebooks slosh from a different pouch when I bend down to pick up the pencils. The power of Libby’s howling scrambles my brain; I keep dropping things. Then she ramps up, her wailing pressing against the insides of the van. The doors and windows strain not to crack. This is a Category 4 tantrum—one-hundred-and-fifty-miles-an-hour shrieks and floods of tears.
I’m sweaty and rattled when I tumble onto the sidewalk. Libby delivers a roar so full of unhappiness and dissatisfaction, I slam the van door fast so none of it leaks out.
Poor Mom. Poor me!
After they leave, my day is immediately easier. I know where to go and I get there on time. I try to work in some of my poses as I walk: over the shoulder, which I use after tripping on a sidewalk crack; runway walk, which is extending your neck and holding your head straight like you’ve got a string pulling you up, except my heavy backpack makes me hunch forward a little; and Oh! I can’t find something, which is where I root through my backpack pretending to search for an assignment because the bell hasn’t rung yet and we’re not supposed to go into the classrooms until then.
After lunch, Emily introduces me to the media specialist, Mrs. Weston, who seems impressed when I start listing all the books I’ve read since Christmas. When she hands me the sign-up sheet for the Library Club, I see that I’ll be the fourth member. I hesitate with the pen for a moment. Why are only three other people listed? Are Library Club members losers?
Panic buzzes in my head. I’m in a new school, but I’m at the same place—dorksville. The uniforms make us look alike, but they don’t disguise our statuses. How is that possible? Emily’s okay, but I can already see that people think she’s a nerd. And I’m hanging around with her. I cap the pen shut and lay it on the desk.
Mrs. Weston says, “Oh, you’re going to fit right in. Sometimes we read the same book and have group discussion; sometimes we’ll watch the movie after we read the book and talk about which one was better.” Okay, I do like doing that kind of stuff. “And sometimes, I pull you out of class to read books to our kindergarteners.”
It does sound fun. I uncap the pen, hold my writing hand over the form, but I can’t make myself sign.
Mrs. Weston taps a blank line on the form. “Right there. And then one of your parents’ names and a phone number where they can be reached.” I like the way she does her hair. It’s kind of flippy.
Mrs. Weston smiles. I sort of smile back; then I realize she’s waiting for me to fill out the form.
I don’t want to be a loser. I glance down at the signup sheet, and then I make my first important decision at Magnolia.