MONDAY
* * *
Before first period, Heather Alpern and the Damsels are running drills on the football field. I stand on the sidelines and watch them, and I can’t move because there they are. I’m starstruck. The Damsels are sixty-five years old this year. They were originally created by two students who loved to dance, and the first-ever team was made up of twenty girls. They wore skirts to their knees, which some people found shocking, and white gloves, and they performed with pom-poms and flags. Now there are forty members, thirty-nine without Terri Collins. At the end of the school year, everyone in Amos will turn out for the Damsels Showcase, which is held in Civic Auditorium, the town’s performing arts center. And I want to be on that stage.
I’m in a good mood until third period. After all, I have faced Moses Hunt without the sky falling. I’ve made up my mind to be a Damsel. And I’ve walked around in Jack Masselin’s skin and been, yes, the bigger person.
I’m practically whistling as I go to my locker. Iris follows me, wanting to know why I’m so happy. And then I open the door.
The letters fall out like confetti. They are everywhere, across the hallway, like a carpet. People are trampling them as they pass, and I’m on my knees trying to collect them before anyone can see them and connect them with me.
Iris bends over, helping me. She opens one up and reads, “ ‘You aren’t wanted.’ ” She opens another. “ ‘You aren’t wanted.’ ” I grab the letters from her so she won’t stand there reading every single one. There must be a hundred of them. “Are these for you?”
“That’s my guess, Nancy Drew.”
“Who would do this?”
But I know it’s rhetorical because Iris Engelbrecht, more than anyone else, knows what people are capable of.
When I don’t answer, she says in her matter-of-fact Eeyore voice, “You need to tell someone. Take them to the principal. Come on. I’ll go with you. Let’s go right now. They can write us a pass for next period.”
I’m stuffing the letters into my backpack. “I’m not going to the principal with this.” And I sound as hurt, angry, and upset as I feel.
“Weren’t you the one who told me to be brave?”
“I never told you to be brave.”
“You told me if I didn’t speak up, Dave Kaminski would think he could go on doing things like that to me.”
“This is different.”
“No, it’s not. You have to let them see they can’t do this to you. Let’s go.”
I can feel the fluttering in my heart start to steady itself. This is another effect Iris has on a person. She’s the human equivalent of Valium.
I slam the locker door closed, shoulder my backpack, and start walking, the weight of all those letters drilling me into the ground. Iris trudges along behind me, still talking. “Okay, I get it. I guess you can look on the bright side instead. It won’t last forever. Eventually they’ll find someone else to focus on, and then this whole Fat Girl Rodeo thing will be forgotten.”
As if on cue, a group of boys goes by, hollering in my direction. Things like “Saddle up, fellas! Who wants a turn?”
“Bastards.” This is from Iris, because instead of speaking I’m doing the thing I used to do when I was younger—trying to will myself small, as if by concentrating really, really hard I might start shrinking until I’m the same size as everyone else. An acceptable size, whatever that is. One that won’t make all other people feel so uncomfortable.
Iris bumps my arm with hers, as if she’s trying to remind me she’s there and I’m not alone, but for some reason it ticks me off. I never volunteered to be her savior and protector. I can’t even protect myself. She starts singing the Cowardly Lion’s “If I Only Had the Nerve” verse from The Wizard of Oz, and as irritating as it is, I have to admit she’s got a really pretty singing voice.
Bump.
Bump.
Bump.
I stop walking. “Why do you want to be my friend anyway?” I talk right over her singing. “Is it because I stood up for you that day? Is it because I make you feel less freakish by comparison? Or is it because when you’re with me everyone leaves you alone for once and focuses on me?”
Her eyes go wide and then narrow, and Iris Engelbrecht is staring at me like she thinks I’m a bastard too. “It’s because when you’re not being a jerk? Like this? I like you. Because except for that jerkiness? You’re who I want to be.” And she walks away.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Kendra Wu crows as she strolls by with Caroline Lushamp.
I stand there, my hand on the classroom door, and yell, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
They’re still heading away from me, but Caroline turns to face me, as graceful walking backward as she is walking the regular way. “What she’s trying to say is that you might not want to burn your bridges when you’re standing on an island.” And then she smiles the meanest smile I’ve ever seen.
In driver’s ed, Mr. Dominguez says, “Libby? Whenever you want to join us.”
“Sorry.” I stop staring into space.
Bailey passes me a note. Are you okay?
Instead of answering, I sit there and pretend I’m paying attention, and even when Mr. Dominguez says, “Next week, we’re ready to start driving”—the moment I’ve been waiting for all my short, sad life—it’s like I’m sitting in another room, at another school, far, far away.