Once upon a time, my life was as orderly as the inside of my locker. I took detailed notes, never talked out of turn, helped put away library books during my free periods, and went to track practice after school. But all that changed the day Mr. Soames made Sara McGee my partner in biology.
“If he thinks I’m touching this, he’s dreaming,” Sara whispered after Mr. Soames told us to make the first incision into the earthworms we were dissecting. She pushed her bangs—they were orange today as opposed to last week’s green—out of her face and frowned.
I took the knife from her hand and split the earthworm neatly down its center.
“Thanks,” she said. She rolled up her sleeves and her silver bangles clattered. “I know I’m a baby, but cutting open animals makes me sick.”
I finished dissecting the worm, and when the period was over, Sara slipped her backpack over her shoulder and asked me to eat lunch with her.
“Okay,” I said, surprised. I followed her to her locker, where she opened a tube of tomato-red lipstick and thickly applied it.
“Want some?” she asked, but I shook my head “no.”
“Just a tiny bit?” she asked again, and before I could stop her, she dabbed it on. Then she removed the tortoise-shell barrette I always wore and lifted my hair into a high ponytail, pulling two tendrils down on either side of my ears.
“Stunning!” she said, standing behind me so that I could see both of us in the little mirror that hung from a hook. Stunning? I wasn’t so sure.
Soon, whenever Sara chewed Juicy Fruit gum in class, I did, too, even though I was careful not to get caught. I wore long skirts like Sara’s, and dangle earrings. She hid in the stacks during study hall and read old magazines and, consequently, so did I. She took me to Papa Jimmy’s and introduced me to double caffé lattes and biscotti dipped in chocolate. She liked to start arguments in world history class about personal freedom and even though I never could do that, I did find myself, miraculously, volunteering to read out loud in Mr. Bernard’s English class.
It was Mr. Bernard, in fact, who pulled me aside and told me I had a flair for drama (we were reading Romeo and Juliet). He also said I should try out for the part of Laura in the junior class production of The Glass Menagerie.
“No way. I could never do that,” I told Sara as soon as we left the room. Secretly, though, I was pleased he had asked.
“Of course you can. You’ll be great,” Sara said. “You have to try out!” She bugged me until I finally agreed.
At the audition, I read a scene with Joe Greenlaw, who I’d never said a word to before. I doubt he knew who I was, but I could recite his activities as if they were listed in alphabetical order under his picture in the yearbook: junior class vice-president; photo editor for the Park Ridge Banner; captain, debate team; soccer goalie.
After we finished, Mrs. Layton, the director, just smiled and said, “Thank you very much,” and the next day the casting list was posted on the bulletin board and there was my name, second from the top, with Joe Greenlaw’s just above it.
I had play rehearsal almost every night, and so I had to use all my free time to catch up on my schoolwork and hardly ever had time to go to Papa Jimmy’s with Sara. Slowly, though, a strange thing began to happen. Homework and chores, babysitting, and even Sara started to fade in importance, but the time I spent at rehearsals was as vivid as the glow-in-the-dark stars on my bedroom ceiling.
Joe talked to me, calling “Laura” from way down the hall. This made me so happy that I didn’t even mind when I saw Rachel Thompson, who had waist-long hair that was shiny as glass, put her arm across his shoulder. One night, during dress rehearsal week, we were standing together on the fire escape outside the auditorium watching the snow flakes gather on the iron railing. Joe told me that deep down inside he was really shy and that he was glad he could be himself with me. “Maybe we should do things together,” he said. “Go running, go to a dance, I don’t know.” And then we heard Mrs. Layton calling for us, so we ran back inside.
The next day, Sara stood by my locker just before homeroom. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
“I never see you anymore. Except in classes, and that doesn’t count.” She tugged on one of the four stud earrings that lined her ear.
“I know,” I said. “It’s the play. I’m really busy. It’ll be over soon.” I looked closely at Sara, past her makeup, and her jewelry, and the long black cape that covered her shirt and her thick, black hiking boots. She always seemed so bold, the way she stated her opinions as if they were facts, and looked anybody in the eye. But now she was quiet, more like the old me than Sara. I gave her a hug.
“Let’s do something,” she suggested. She looked at the poster on the bulletin board just behind us. It was a drawing of a flapper girl twirling a strand of pearls. “Let’s get a bunch of people together and crash the Winter Carnival dance. We’ll go to the thrift shop and get some beaded dresses.”
A dance. I thought of Joe and of our conversation the night before. And even though I knew, deep down, that it would be a white lie to say he’d invited me to that particular dance, I told her I was busy. “I can’t,” I said. She looked at me and waited. “Joe Greenlaw asked me.”
“Yeah, right,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “He did.” Sara picked up her backpack from between her feet and started to walk away.
“Sara!” I called after her.
“Let me know when you can fit me into your busy schedule,” she hissed.
This is the part of my story that is really embarrassing—the part that I wish I could tell in third person, as if it really belonged to somebody else. A week after the play was over Joe found me during sixth-period study hall. “I’m sorry,” he said.
I looked at him, not understanding.
“Sara McGee asked me if it was true we were going to the dance together. I’m sorry. I’m going with Rachel.”
I looked down at my feet. The new me was going away, like a picture on a computer screen that fades out. I was sure my ears were bright red.
“I’m sorry,” Joe continued. “It’s nothing personal.” He turned and looked like he was leaving, but then he came back. He put his hand on my arm. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “You know, I should have asked you. I wish I had.” And then he left.
Now Sara passed me in the hall without speaking. I spent most of my free time studying or practicing my sprints. I went back to wearing my plain, comfortable clothes and threw away my makeup. And I only talked when teachers called on me. As if nothing had changed.
But that wouldn’t be true. To Sara, I might have looked the same. Still, deep inside, where she couldn’t see, there was another me. I was brave, I was fun. I got a standing ovation in the middle of a stage, and a boy regretted not asking me to a dance. And it was Sara I had to thank for introducing that girl to me.
Jane Denitz Smith