Mia the Meek (20 page)

“Your name is Mia? Cassie’s never mentioned you. Of course, I don’t get to see her friends very much any more. She’s a little embarrassed about the condition of our house. It needs some repair work, but working two jobs, I don’t have much time. In fact, you just caught me between my jobs. I really have to get going soon so I won’t be late. What would you like to know?”

“I just need some general information about her childhood. You know, where she lived, what she liked to do—that kind of stuff.”

Mr. Foster came into the kitchen and grabbed another beer from the refrigerator. “I’ll tell you about Cassie. She’s a show-off. I remember when the office called because she told them I was on an FBI mission and wouldn’t be able to come to parents’ night. I was working for the city’s maintenance department then. Of course, that’s just an uppity way of saying ‘garbage man.’ Man, can that girl lie.” Mr. Foster shook his head as he walked out of the kitchen.

“So, let’s get started,” Mrs. Foster said crisply, acting as if Mr. Foster didn’t exist. “Cassie was born here in Des Moines, and we’ve lived here in this house since she was a baby.”

“Does Cassie have any siblings?”

“No, we were only blessed with Cassie. She made up for it, though. She was a fireball when she was little—always getting into something.” Mrs. Foster smiled at the memory. I continued taking notes.

“What are her interests—besides cheerleading?”

“I guess I don’t know what she does in her free time. I don’t get to talk to her as much as I’d like nowadays because I always seem to be working. I want to make sure she has the money to do all the things her friends do—you know, new clothes, movies, and that sort of stuff. I’m afraid you’d have to ask her what her hobbies are.”

The front door slammed and Cassie’s voice thundered through the house. “Mom, whose bike is that in the driveway?”

“We’re in here, Cassie,” Mrs. Foster called. “I have a friend of yours here.”

“Who is it?” Cassie asked suspiciously, walking into the kitchen. When she saw me, she stopped. “What is she doing here?”

“I can explain,” I said, standing up. “You wouldn’t speak to me at school, so I had to find out some information about you somehow.”

“Get out of here, now.”

“Cassie, that’s no way to talk to your friend—”

Cassie stamped her foot and pointed at the door. “She is
not
my friend, and I said get out!”

I spent the rest of the weekend avoiding my biography of Cassie. What was I supposed to write? I couldn’t very well tell everyone she lived in a dump, her dad was a drunk, and her mom didn’t have time to pay attention to her.

On Sunday morning, a babysitting job was offered to me, and I readily agreed so I could put off my assignment for a few more hours. I got home late Sunday afternoon with a pocket full of cash and a resounding headache from babysitting three kids under the age of six. I found Chris lying on the couch, reading a comic book. I plopped down beside him.

“Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Shopping,” said Chris, continuing to read. “Where’ve you been?”

“Babysitting,” I said, flipping on the TV. “What’ve you done all day, besides sit on your bum?”

Chris put down his comic book. “For your information, I spent the afternoon with the hottest babe at St. Hilary’s.”

“Yeah, right. Who’s that?” I flipped off the TV when I realized nothing was on but football.

“Cassie Foster.”

“Cassie was here?”

“Yeah, she said she was supposed to write a report for English class on your most embarrassing moments. Luckily, you’ve had so many horribly humiliating experiences, it was easy for me to help her. When I showed her those pictures of you with your geeky glasses, braces, and that goofy haircut you got a few years ago, she laughed so hard.”

I grabbed Chris’s shirt at the collar. “What did you tell her?”

“Lay off,” said Chris, pulling away from me. “I just told her about the time last summer when we went swimming and your bikini top fell off at the pool, and no one even noticed! Oh, and I told her about the time you farted in church so loudly the priest lost his place in his sermon. And of course, I told her about the time when you were five years old and the camera crew caught you picking your nose at a Drake basketball game, and then ran the footage on the five, six, and ten o’clock news. I even gave Cassie the video of that one!”

“Oh my God, I’m ruined! How could you do this to me?”

“What? She said it was going to be funny and you knew all about it.”

“Do you really think Mom would assign us something that would humiliate each other? My God, Mom’s so into peace, love, and kindness, she sometimes thinks Barney is too harsh!”

Chris paused, then said uncomfortably, “So, I guess Cassie lied to me?”

“Ding! Ding! Ding! You win the prize for idiot of the year!” I screamed as I ran up to my room. I slammed my door, sat down at my desk, whipped out a piece of paper, and muttered, “Cassie’s not the only one who can play dirty.”

On Monday morning, Jake leaned against my locker. “Where’ve you been all weekend, dude?”

I pulled out my American History textbook. “I babysat, did homework, and studied trivia.”

“Dude, I’ve never met a chick who works as much as you. First, you’re doin’ student council crap, then it’s your grades, now it’s the freakin’ Quiz Bowl. When are you gonna chill and let loose?”

I smiled at him. “You’re absolutely right. I think I’ll start chilling in English class today.”

“I’m so excited to hear your presentations!” my mom said, beaming. “Who would you like to go first?”

Cassie raised her hand. “Mrs. Fullerton, can I go first?” she asked sweetly.

“Sure, Cassie, I love your enthusiasm,” my mom said. “By the way, I was wondering why you never interviewed Mr. Fullerton or me for this assignment.”

“I stopped by on Sunday and no one was home except for your son, Chris. He gave me an extensive interview on Mia.”

“You based your presentation on an interview with Chris? Hmmm, this should be interesting.” My mom gave me a worried look and I slunk down in my seat.

“I need to go to the hallway and get something first,” Cassie said. When she returned, she was carrying a poster-size picture of me taken back in sixth grade. I was wearing my pop-bottle glasses, braces, and my favorite boy band T-shirt. My hair was growing out of an ill-advised shag cut I’d received at a beauty school.

To be honest, the shag cut had been popular back then and did look good on small, giggly, blue-eyed girls with blonde hair. Unfortunately, I have straight brown hair and brown eyes, and have never giggled in my life, so it didn’t quite work for me. My mom, always trying to save money, dragged me to a beauty school for my new shag hair-do. “Mia, stop worrying,” she’d told me. “These are trained beauty school students. They’re almost as professional as the beauticians in those fancy-schmancy places you like so much.”

Unfortunately, the lady who cut my hair must have been in the remedial class, because I came out looking like someone had taken a weed whacker to my head. It was so bad my mom had to whisk me off to a “fancy-schmancy” shop to repair the damage. The poor beautician did the best she could, but by the time she was finished, most of my hair had ended up on the floor. When this picture was taken, the photographer asked my teacher if I’d lost my hair as a result of some incurable disease.

Cassie propped the picture up on an easel and Anthony whistled.

“Man,” he said, “it looks like Mia got hit with the ugly stick right before she had this picture taken!”

“Quiet down, Anthony,” my mom warned. “Remember, Mia is my daughter, and I think she looks sweet. Cassie, you may continue with your presentation.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Fullerton.” Turning to the class, Cassie began, “Many of us feel as if we know Mia Fullerton. Her nicknames include ‘Mia the Meek,’ ‘Mia the Queen of the Freaks,’ ‘Mia the Class President,’ and a few people could call her ‘Mia the Make-Out Artist.’”

My mom crooked her eyebrow at that one, and I slunk even farther down in my seat.

“But, even I was amazed at how little I really knew about Mia. For example, did you know that Mia flunked pre-school?”

“I did not,” I muttered under my breath. “I just started preschool early, so I had to go an extra year.”

“Mia also received speech therapy when she was younger because she had a nasty lisp,” Cassie continued. “That’s why she never spoke in kindergarten—it wasn’t that she was shy, it was that Mithess Jonesth wasth justh too hard for her to thay,” she lisped.

“Cassie, I don’t think that is approp—” my mom began.

“It’s all right, Mom,” I said. “I did have a lisp. Let her go on.” This was going to be humiliating enough without my mom defending me. It was better to just sit and take it. I was going to get my turn next. As Cassie said, revenge is sweet.

Cassie’s speech went on for over five minutes—she’d definitely done her research. Even I’d forgotten some of the incidents she recited for the class. Cassie ended her speech with the infamous nose picking video, pausing it on a clip of my face with my finger fully extended up my nose.

The class sat in stunned silence for a minute.

“Dude, that was so cold,” Anthony said finally, “I think it’s gonna snow in here.”

“Man, Cassie, what did Mia ever do to you?” Collin asked.

“I was just following Mrs. Fullerton’s directions,” Cassie said innocently. “She said to interview family and friends, and then give an accurate portrayal of a classmate.”

“I hardly think that was accurate,” Lisa objected.

“You could have interviewed me for a more correct assessment,” my mom said at the same time.

I spoke loudly over both of them.

“Thanks for that presentation, Cassie. But, I think we’ve heard enough about me. Why don’t you sit down and let me talk about you for a while?” I climbed out of my seat and stood in the front of the room.

“Cassie Foster is not who she says she is, either.”

I paused for dramatic effect and looked at Cassie. Did I see a flicker of fear in her eyes? I started again.

“Cassie has tricked everyone into thinking she leads the perfect life, but, in truth, her life is not what she says it is.”

Locking eyes with Cassie, I sensed the undeniable aura of dread surrounding her. With my speech, I had the power to destroy all the illusions people had about her. I could be the one to finally bring her down. I lowered my eyes and saw her hands clutched into fists. I knew from experience she was clamping them together to keep them from shaking.

Without warning, a quote I read in one of my thousands of trivia books abruptly popped into my head: “You can discover what your enemy fears most by observing the means
he
uses to frighten you.”

Cassie had spent her entire life making fun of me. Could that mean she was actually afraid of me—Mia the Meek? Cassie’s lips trembled, waiting for me to continue telling the class about her dysfunctional family. But I knew I didn’t have it in me to ruin another person’s life. My life wasn’t perfect, but at least I had a dad who loved me and a mom who knew what I did in my free time. I even had a little brother who cared enough about me to remember all my humiliating experiences. What more could anyone ask for?