It’s a long walk to the cafeteria. First, I stop by my locker and grab my lunch. Then I have to pass all the trophy cases and bulletin boards, and my reflection keeps showing up in the glass with that gum sticking out. I’ve gone five years not ever wearing a stitch of pink. Pink is silly and weak, and that’s not me. There’s no pink in karate. Now all of a sudden it’s stuck on me and there’s nothing I can do about it.
When I get to the cafeteria, I peek in the door at all the circular gray tables. I find the one where Sofia and I always sit. But my chair, the chair on Sofia’s right, is taken. Marisa is there, slurping her chicken and noodles while crossing her eyes. And Sofia is laughing. Laughing? At something that stupid?
Then I remember the other thing Sofia told Marisa. That’s just something Kate and I used to do.
Used to. Like we used to be best friends.
Jane smiles at me from her table with Brooklyn and Emma, but I take a step backward. And another one. And another one. Until I’m all the way back in the hall. Then I turn, and my feet are taking me away from the cafeteria. Faster and faster. Out of the hall and into the girls’ bathroom.
It’s empty in here. Thank goodness.
The handle on the sink faucet is cold to the touch. I spin it around. When icy water gushes out, I run my hands underneath. It’s like sticking my hands in Mirror Lake right at the beginning of spring when all the snow has melted. Mom and Dad used to take me every year. We’d put our feet in and see who could last the longest. Mom always won. Dad used to joke that she was summoning a hot flash.
“I’m not that old yet,” she laughed and smacked his shoulder.
“Almost,” he said back.
Mom tucked that strip of gray hair behind her ears. “Almost isn’t there yet.”
But Dad didn’t take me to Mirror Lake this year. He barely left his room all last summer. I turn off the water because the coldness of it hurts too much.
I don’t know how long I stay there, hunched over the sink, hair hanging in my face, all tangled up in memories of Dad and thoughts about Sofia sitting at lunch with Marisa, wearing pink like Marisa, laughing at Marisa, letting Marisa read my note. Finally, the bell rings, and the chorus of feet running back to class echoes outside the bathroom door. I wait until everyone’s gone before I leave.
When I turn down the hallway to class, Sofia’s sitting against the wall of lockers. “Oh, your hair,” she says. “What happened?”
I ignore her and walk past, stomping the way Mom does, hoping Sofia will feel my anger. But I don’t get very far before she says, “I’ve been waiting for you. Lockers. After lunch. What do you want to talk about?”
I stop. My back is to her, but I don’t turn around.
I want to say, I can’t believe you let her read it.
I want to say, How could you have a sleepover with her instead of me?
I want to yell and scream and shout and pull that pink ribbon off her head.
But the words that come out of my mouth instead are, “Grammy called me Tony yesterday.” My legs are wobbly as I say it and turn around, like they’re hoping Sofia can suddenly be strong enough for both of us.
Sofia bites her lip. “She’s getting worse, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, she is.” The words feel as if they’re clawing against my throat as they come out.
“Did your dad come home to see her yet?”
“No.” I change the subject away from secrets Sofia might not keep. “You should come to my house tonight. It’s Chinese-food night. Your favorite.”
Sofia stands up. “I wish I could. But I’m going to Marisa’s to practice my lines for Annie.”
“Of course.” I pull at the pieces of hair sticking out from my bubblegum catastrophe. “Are you going to paint your nails pink tonight, too?”
The angry words are out before I can stop them. I think of Sensei and how he would say, The tongue is the most difficult part of the body to control.
Sofia stares at me, hard and unblinking. “If I want to wear pink, I’ll wear pink. That was your stupid rule.”
“But you promised,” I say, a little too loud.
“It’s just a color. It doesn’t mean anything!”
All the air whooshes out of my lungs.
Sofia sighs. “Come on. Miss Reynolds will know I’m not actually in the bathroom soon.”
For a second, I can’t move. I’m like the Tin Man without any oil. It takes Sofia turning around and breezing into the classroom to get my joints working again. I grab the door right before it slams shut and walk into class, too. Miss Reynolds greets me with, “Kate, you’re tardy.”
“I know,” I murmur, robotic.
“Do you have an excuse?”
“No.”
Miss Reynolds’s eyes catch on the gum and she softens. “Please don’t be late again.”
“Okay.”
I walk past Marisa, who looks at my hair as if there’s a hamster living in it, past Sofia, who’s straightening out her pens and pencils, and up to Parker, sneakily reading The Hobbit in his lap. He doesn’t look up. Bilbo must still be in danger. As I sit down, he whispers, “What did Sofia say?”
I freeze. “What?”
“Sofia? Didn’t she talk to you out in the hall?”
Sofia turns around and watches me whispering with Parker. I shake my head. “I don’t … it was nothing.” But the prickly poking at the corner of my eyes doesn’t feel like nothing.
Parker glances up from his book at the gum in my hair, then back down to The Hobbit. I probably look worse than one of those trolls in his book.
“Okay, class,” Miss Reynolds calls. “Back to our group projects. It’s time to swap poems with your partner.”
Jane’s on the far side of the room, bent over a piece of white paper. She stops making broad lines with her pencil just long enough to turn in her seat and give me a little wave. I cover the gum in my hair and walk over.
When I take the seat next to Jane she whispers, “It’s okay. It’s really only noticeable from, like, certain angles.”
“Which ones?”
She squints at me and moves around a bit from side to side. “The front.” Pause. “And this side.” She moves behind me. “And the back.”
I groan.
“But hey! Not from the other side!”
“That’s most angles.” I put my hand back over the gum.
“I know. I was trying to make you feel better.”
I sigh and hand her my poem. She gives me hers, and we both read in silence.
Jane’s poem is fantastic. When I read it, I get tingles.
I am from charcoal, graphite, pastel
Smudged onto my fingertips,
From tangerine and fuchsia Converse
Swapped for rubber tuoxie slippers that I
Tap, tap, tap against my grandma’s kitchen stool
As peppercorns crackle in her wok.
I peek at Jane to see if she thinks my poem is terrible compared to hers. But her hand is over her mouth and she’s squinting like she’s really concentrating. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
“Now,” announces Miss Reynolds. “Pick your favorite part of your partner’s poem, circle it, and share it with them.”
Jane and I look at each other for a second and giggle. Jane goes first. “I really liked the part about the music. ‘I’m from the slow build of piano chords, guitar strings, and a trio of voices.’”
“I like your line about charcoal and graphite on your fingertips.”
“Thanks!”
A few seconds later, Miss Reynolds says, “Did you pick one out and share it? Good. Here comes the fun part. You and your partner together are going to write another one of these poems, but this time for a famous person in history, and then …”—she pauses with a finger pointing toward the ceiling and looks around the room—“on Thursday, you will present your poem to the class. But you will not just read your poem. No, no. That’s boring.” Miss Reynolds laughs. “You’re going to present the poem you and your partner write about a famous person in a way that represents those favorite parts from each of your personal poems. You can perform together if that works, or split the poem into two parts and perform separately. Your choice.”
The class stares. Miss Reynolds stares back at us, her mouth open in an excited O like she’s waiting for us to cheer or something. “So you’ll be using something about you to share something about a person from history!”
Again. Silence.
“Here, I’ll give you an example.” Suddenly, Miss Reynolds is in front of me, whisking my poem away and reading the part Jane circled. “‘I’m from the slow build of piano chords, guitar strings, and a trio of voices.’ Oh, that is lovely.” She holds up my piece of paper. “So, Kate here could sing for her and Jane’s presentation.”
My heart starts beating super fast. “No,” I whisper. But Miss Reynolds doesn’t hear me. She’s still talking.
“Presentations will be on Thursday; you’ll have the next two days to research, write, and plan together. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
The class begins murmuring, partners leaning their heads together. Jane picks up her poem. “So you’ll be singing. Maybe I can …”
I shake my head. “No. No way.”
“But the poem made it sound like … you like to sing?”
I can’t help thinking of Mom and Dad and me crowded into the music room, laughing and singing.
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you.
I shake my head, and the memory disappears like someone threw a rock through the window.
But before I can say I don’t sing anymore, Sofia is next to me. “Are you really going to sing?”
I open my mouth but no sound comes out. I want to say yes. If it means Sofia will stand by my desk and talk to me and look at me like she thinks I’m awesome again, I want to sing.
Maybe it’s like Sofia said about wishing and praying. It never hurts to try everything. Not when it’s important. Everything includes things you don’t want to do.
“Um, I guess so.”
Sofia bounces a little. “Yes! I can’t wait.” Then a little quieter. “If you’re singing again, you can totally do the next musical with me and Marisa.”
“Oh, yeah. You and Marisa.”
Everything goes blurry except Sofia waving at me and then walking back to Marisa, who gives me a quizzical look.
Suddenly, the intercom buzzes. “Miss Reynolds?” comes Miss Williams’s voice.
“Will you please send Katherine Mitchell to the office?”
“She’s on her way.”
It’s Dad.
It has to be.
He’s come to take me home. The blurry brain fog clears immediately. I jump up, grab my poem, and practically skip out of class. Maybe I will be able to sing again. Maybe this is like that moment at the end of a fermata, when you’re not sure your voice can hold out much longer, but then finally, you get to breathe and the music moves forward again.