Dear Opl (4 page)

Still, looking at my assignment book, it felt good to cross another task off my list. I punched down the Publish button on my screen and then gasped. I had meant to publish this to Mr. Vandervart's Dropbox! I had accidentally opened up a blog post rather than a Word doc. I'd been so busy trying to keep my mind off the results of going public that it actually worked.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” I groaned into my laptop. “I can't believe I just did that. Stupid, stupid, stupid!” I snagged the quilt off my bed and then crawled over to my desk drawer to pull out the package of M&M's. Bad news needed cushioning.

Typing my blog address into the menu bar, I held my breath when my three essays appeared. I saw the newest one at the top and scrolled down to my first blog entry. I scowled at the dreaded comments section below it. I can't believe blogs invited people to leave rude opinions once they finished reading. I'd totally forgotten. And had I remembered, I would've ditched the idea and run for cover.
Sure, Mom, I think your suggestion to write a public pudge profile rocks. It's bound to score me some popularit
y
points.

Ugh. I saw three comments. Summer had responded to my first blog entry. She'd said,

Pinkpetals:
Opal, you are too funny. See you at school tomorrow.

Two more sat at the bottom of my second entry. One from a girl I didn't know. It said,

Cloud9:
I always “get sick” on the day of the President's Challenge. That way, I can do all the tests with my PE teacher after school as a makeup and my scores are totally private.

Wow. She might have something there.

G-pa had clearly written the last comment. He must have figured out how to surf the net. It said,

Graybeardgaffer:
IT'S A WASTE OF TIME MAKING KIDS EXERCISE. THEY SHOULD BE OUT IN THE STREETS WITH A TIN CAN AND A STICK. CHASE AFTER A BALL, FOR PETE'S SAKE. HOW MANY OF US WILL ACTUALLY HANG FROM THE ROOT OF A TREE HALFWAY DOWN A CANYON? THAT'S THE ONLY PERSON WHO'LL NEED TO PRACTICE THE FLEXED-ARM HANG. OH, AND MAYBE THE GUY WHO CAN'T HOLD HIS LIQUOR AND KEEPS SLIDING DOWN HIS BAR STOOL. HURTS LIKE THE DEVIL WHEN YOU WHACK YOUR CHIN.

I leaned back against my bed and let my head fall. That wasn't so bad. Not nearly bad. In fact, no one had slaughtered me like I thought they would. Of course, only my best friend, my grandfather, and some girl I didn't know had commented, but people had a chance and didn't take it. Maybe blogging wasn't as bad as I thought. And Summer had a point. No one in the school paid attention to me. Most kids didn't even know my name.

I raised my head and looked back at the screen. I scrolled up to my latest entry and did a double take. Three comments already!

Glamourgirl88:
Opl, I totally agree with you. I need more veg time. I am sooo behind in my Runway Girls episodes I can't imagine I'll ever catch up. OMG, how could I live without free Wi-Fi? It's the only way I can keep up with my shows while I'm supposedly listening in class.

Umm, oops, I thought. Not exactly my point, but okay, whatever. The next comment caught me off guard,

Lovemycat:
Dear Opl, why do you spell your name like that?

I scratched my head. Was I allowed to answer? Someone asks me a question on my blog and I can answer them back, right? It's my blog. I scrolled down to the last comment to read before making a reply.

My eyes popped out like two ping-pong balls. It felt like my eyelids had stretched to an unholy position. Summer's twin brother left a comment!

EthanEngland:
You are such a crack up, “Opl.”

I wanted to choke. I couldn't breathe. And then I couldn't stop panting. Ethan left a comment! Ethan Waldenbridge! The cutest, cutest, CUTEST boy in the eighth grade!

I rolled to the floor and pushed my laptop aside. A big groan crawled up my throat. I couldn't stop it. I did not recognize the sound, but I knew the feeling that came with it. Humiliation.

How could Summer have passed on my blog to her twin brother—the one person I would like never to notice me?

Well, that's not entirely true.

I don't want him to notice me when I'm spying on him with Summer at their house. And definitely not now, when Mom keeps reminding me I'm not some boney goddess in skinny jeans. And here? On my blog? Where I have been tricked into revealing things about myself? This is so not good.

I rolled my head to the side and looked for the package of M&M's. Ethan is my deepest, darkest secret.

When I first met Summer, after her family's move from the UK to America, I thought she was too good to be true. Not only did she like me and my loony sense of humor, but she didn't seem to mind that I had only three outfits I felt comfortable wearing. And none of them worth borrowing.

“You wear your personality like everyone else wears clothes. That's what I like about you. You're barmy,” she had said a couple of years ago.

A couple of years ago, things had been really different. G-pa didn't live with us, Dad did, and I wasn't fat. It seems that as my size expanded, my personality shrank. It couldn't breathe beneath all the extra layers of flab that appeared. I felt like a turtle retracting into a shell. And Mom had thrown a laptop in there to play with.

Ethan was perfect. And he had Summer's sweet, foreign accent. I could be anywhere in school and hear him coming. Having an English accent brings a lot of luck your way. It makes you instantly popular, plus the teachers automatically give you thirty extra IQ points.

I practice my English accent daily, so that one day, when I'm married to Ethan, he'll understand me, and I can teach our children the proper way to speak. Someday.

I let my head fall to the side. I stared at my laptop on the floor beside me. I didn't want Ethan to think I was a crack up. I wanted him to think I was divine. I groaned the same groan I had been groaning for the last year only in different keys.

I got up to look in my dresser mirror. Who was this person? I didn't recognize her, but she had enveloped me. Like a hug I didn't want. That's it, I decided. I looked like my great-aunt Marge. She was all flabby arms and big bosom. An embrace from her left you gasping for air and with a muscle spasm. I refused to morph into someone named after a saturated fat.

I fell in a heap to the floor. Why couldn't I be normal again? Just regular. Ordinary. Run-of-the-mill. I looked at my fistful of M&M's and let them tumble out of my hand. How come I couldn't stop eating? I closed my mouth and pressed my lips together, but I knew this was stupid. I was still hungry. I needed to keep the noisy bits inside me fed to stay quiet. I just wanted to stop feeling all these feelings.

At first I had wanted everyone to stop looking at me because my dad died. Summer said they did it because they were offering sympathy, but I'm sure all they were doing was rubber-necking a crash site. It made me feel like a freak. Then I couldn't stop eating because somehow the food made me feel a little better, only it ended up making things worse. Now people are staring at me all over again. More gawking at my rear-ender. This sucks!

I wish I didn't care. I wish I didn't care about anything at all and that I had been born without emotions. Then I would never cry again. I would never be caught off guard when those hateful attacks gripped me and squeezed me. When my wall smashes and everything I kept squished down heaves upward from the floor of my guts.

I didn't want that anymore. I didn't want any of it.

I lifted my head from the carpet and looked at my laptop. The cursor blinked. It ticked like a silent clock, a reminder about the second comment which was really a question.
Dear
Opl, why do you spell your name like that?

I sighed. I might as well answer her. It would take my mind off the shock in the mirror.

Dear Lovemycat,

Last year, my seventh grade class had to come up with ways to become less wasteful. I'm trying to be more environmentally conscious and use less ink, so I cut a useless vowel. Also, my used electric typewriter lost its “A” key and gives a zingy shock when you press down on the spiky metal arm. I've been conditioned not to use it.

Okay, some of that was true, but most importantly, it made my name skinny, and I liked the sound of something linked to me having success with weight loss.

I punched Publish and shut my laptop. I needed relief from all the stress of this hard work and worry. Downstairs in the pantry lay a bag of hidden kettle corn with my name on it. Caramel is a sticky bandage, but it would make licking my wounds easier. Except first I had to pee.

Tuesday morning, I sat at the breakfast table using the palm of my hand to prop me up. I shook my head, trying to clear my sleepy stupor and the vision in front of me. Ollie, or someone with Ollie's face, was dressed as a nurse. He shoveled cereal into his mouth as if he believed someone was about to snatch the bowl out from under him.

“Slow down, buddy,” I mumbled. “Where's the fire?”

“I have to hurry,” he said, bits of food flying from his mouth. “I have to get to school before Jacob Berndowser does.”

My eyelids slid back into the
closed
for
the
season
position. “How come?”

“As long as I make it to school before him, I'm safe. He can't push me down at school. There are too many teachers watching.”

I raised one eyelid. “Why would he push you down?”

“He doesn't like my clothes.” Ollie shrugged a white-cloaked shoulder and slapped a kiss on Mom's cheek as she placed a bowl of Cheerios in front of me.

“Hold on, Ollie,” Mom said, but he'd dashed out the front door with his Spider-Man backpack. She put a hand on her hip and turned back to me. “What was that all about? Did he just say he was getting pushed down at school?”

I raised the other eyelid and reached for my spoon. “Haven't the foggiest. Well, maybe yes, I think so.” I shoveled a load of cereal toward my mouth. I needed an extra bit of zip if I wanted to make it to school on time, but I doubted Cheerios could do the job. I missed the smell and taste of my regular Froot Loops—those jewel-toned spheres whose colors are so perky.

“I'll call his teacher,” she sighed, shaking her head. Then she tapped the table in front of me. “But Ollie's costume reminded me that you have a doctor's appointment after school today. You're due for your yearly physical.”

I shuddered. “Is it Dr. Killer again?”

Mom gave me
the
face
. “No. It's not Dr. Quiller. He's retired.”

“Quilled too many kids?”

“Opal!” She looked a bit prickly this morning. “No. This afternoon you'll see a new pediatrician. Her name is Dr. Beth Friedman. She's taking over his practice. You need to talk to her about this weight battle we've been dealing with.”

I flinched at her words. A battle. “Will you be there?”

“Not this time. I'm buried in mounds of paperwork. I can't even get started on fixing up the shop. And I can't get anyone to help me either because I have no money to pay them. We're barely getting the bills paid as it is. There's so much to do inside, I don't know where to begin. An inch of dust and grime covers every flat surface.” Mom shook her head and stared back at her desk. Then she mumbled, “Things just aren't going the way they're supposed to.” She trudged back to her computer.

I looked at my Cheerios. They bobbed there in my milk like miniature life preservers. Maybe one day, if Mom did have things go her way, I could squeeze through one of those loops. I'll shrink enough until I'll no longer appear on her fix-it list.

• • •

It wasn't until lunch break that I saw Summer. We sat in our usual spot beneath the beech tree's big umbrella branches, and I spent most of the break griping about the new lunch menu. Earlier today we had been forced to sit through another dreadful “special seminar” event. We had been introduced to the new dining staff and their
exciting
and
monumental
ideas for the cafeteria overhaul.

They looked like the regular lunch ladies, the ones who have been here even since Mom went to school, but two new faces grinned among them. They stood shoulder to shoulder, faces scrubbed and shiny. Cheeks pink. Eyes crinkling with enthusiasm. We immediately stood on guard. G-pa said people that happy were usually in commercials trying to sell you junk.

When Principal Souresik came to the microphone to address the two hundred and fifty middle schoolers sitting in the bleachers, he gave us the face that suggested we'll really like this medicine. Even if it smelled like old socks and scratched our throats going down.

“Young ladies and gentlemen…” He always started his speeches this way. It was a bit like he was pretending to be the head of a better school, with a bigger stage and kids who hung on every one of his words. “I would like to introduce the two people responsible for our very own Meal Madness—the overhaul of school lunch programs created by the great Alfie Adam in England.”

Meal
Madness?
The buzz in the bleachers sounded like a meadow full of drowsy bees.

“Alfie Adam has challenged America to make necessary changes in our schools for the health of our future generations. Changes that will make an impact on both our lunch lines and our waistlines. And from there we will see that a well-fed body makes a well-fed mind. It's the ripple effect we can all benefit from.” I groaned. I couldn't believe it. Apparently our school had been sucked into the black hole of health too—just like the other schools around us.

I had no idea who this Alfie person was, but his fancy-pants plans had marched into our school and confused the staff. Or hypnotized them. The principal and the two people next to him all shared a shiny, glazed look on their faces, like my favorite doughnuts from Krispy Kreme.

The principal gestured at the couple. “Please welcome to our school the new heads of the dining hall, Chefs Jerry and Patricia Blackwell.”

A trickle of polite applause came from the few teachers sprinkled throughout the bleachers. The two chefs moved forward to put their mouths close to the microphone. “Good morning, everyone,” Chef Jerry said. He had massive white teeth, like a beaver with a good dentist. “We're very excited to join your community and hope we'll all be fast friends.”

A variety of snorts and giggles rippled through the crowd.

“We know most of you have never expressed any dissatisfaction with the cafeteria and may find the significant changes during the next months surprising. Don't be alarmed. We promise nothing will happen overnight. And chances are, by then, we'll have an overwhelming amount of support from you guys. Can't wait to see you in line. Come introduce yourselves. Chef Patricia and I have a lot in store for you.”

One short hour later, Summer and I looked down at the trays holding our cafeteria food. Everything looked the same as always, apart from the shiny, red apple sitting in one of the compartments, too smug to be likable. I still had my cheese pizza, my french fries, my big square brownie, and my blue Gatorade. I'd forgotten to take my Hershey's syrup to school that morning, so I had to go with my second-choice drink.

I peeled the sticker off the apple and read the label aloud. “Organic Honey Crisp.” I looked up at our beech tree. “I think you may have dropped this.” I tossed the apple to the base of its trunk and then looked at Summer. “I never ordered that. Did you?”

She shook her head but took a bite from the one she held in her hand. Juice dribbled down her chin and she smiled. “Nope, but it's brilliant.”

“I don't like these new people. No one can be that happy.”

Summer rolled her eyes and crunched through another big bite.

“Who the heck is Adam Alfie anyway?”

“No. It's Alfie Adam.”

“Does it matter? The guy has two first names. They're interchangeable. Who does that to their baby?”

“He's wicked in England.”

I nodded. “I'll bet. Soon enough he'll be hated here too.”

Summer laughed and almost choked on her too-perfect-to-actually-eat apple. She looked like Snow White with her ivory skin and dark hair—which wasn't quite dark enough to qualify as ebony, so I called it light black. Clearly, she'd fallen for the evil queen's traditional trick, giving us poisonous apples meant to entice the innocent. “No,” she coughed and laughed together. “He's wicked as in wicked brilliant. He's loved in England.”

“Loved for what? Sucking the joy out of lunch? He's taken away our flavored milks! That was the healthy stuff, right? Milk builds strong bones? He's now responsible for my early onset of osteopo-something-er-other.”

She squinted at me.

“Brittle bones.”

Summer snorted. “Aflie Adam made English schools change their lunch menus. He's now in charge of this program that's sweeping through schools everywhere. In England, they used to serve children horrible, scrappy food you shouldn't even feed your pets. Now they give kids fab food.”

“Fab food,” I echoed.

“Yep. You should check him out on the web. He's the Nude Food Dude.”

“What? Ewww!” I reeled back.

Summer smiled at me, the adult smile she'd perfected from watching the queen, I'm sure. The one that said,
You
plebeians
will
never
understand
how
we
brilliant
monarchs
think. Just trust me
. “Seriously, Opal. Check him out. I absolutely adore him. He's one of my heroes.” She picked up her tray to head back inside, but I held up a hand.

“Wait. Speaking of the web, how could you have sent my blog on to your brother?”

Her eyebrows lifted and hid beneath her hairline. “I told you I'd already sent it on to a bunch of people—and I've already said sorry. Stop worrying, Opal, your stuff is brill. You're fun to read. And he promised not to let anyone know it's you.” She waved good-bye and left me thinking. About Ethan, my blog, and now this naked guy who persuaded my principal that cooking without clothing is not only sanitary, but fab fun.