Plastic Polly (19 page)

“How was the dress rehearsal?” Mom asks in a bright voice. “Do you feel ready for Groove It Up tomorrow?”

“Yeah, it was okay,” I say, even though it was most definitely not okay. I take my knife and attempt to cut out a piece of cornbread. The bottom is burnt to the pan, so I settle for scooping out crispy chunks and dumping them onto my napkin.

“What about school?” Mom asks. “How was your day today?”

I don't feel like telling Mom that today was the worst day I've ever had in middle school, so instead I answer, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Mom echoes. “Fabulous.” She takes a long swig of water.

From the living room we hear Dad's cell phone ring. He starts to get up—looking way too happy to have a reason to leave—when Mom stops him.

“Sit down. Whatever it is can wait until we're finished. We're having a nice family dinner, like the nice, happy family we are,” she says through gritted teeth. Then she turns back to me. “Didn't you tell me you had an English presentation today? How did that go?”

I shrug. “It went fine.”

“So everything in your life is either okay or fine?” Mom asks. “What about the chili, is that okay too? Or do you have a more definitive opinion on that subject?”

“Laura,” Dad begins, “I don't think—”

“Forget it,” Mom says, waving her hand. “What about Kelsey, how is she doing?”

“How would I know how Kelsey is doing?” I say. “You took away my phone, remember?”

Mom bunches up her napkin and tosses it onto the table. “So I'm not supposed to ask you questions about your life, is that it? Because I thought this was what you wanted, a nice family dinner every night, with a mother who isn't such an absentee screwup?”

“I never said that. And what about what you want?” I say, my voice rising. “Don't you want a daughter who isn't such a follower? ‘Oh, Principal Allen,'” I mimic Mom's voice, “‘I'm sorry, but my daughter's too much of a follower to be the PlanMaster. She's too busy shopping and texting to lead anything.'”

Mom turns white. “Polly, I'm so sorry. I never meant—”

“Forget it.” I scoot my chair back and stand up. “I'm going upstairs. I'm not hungry anymore.”

I stomp up to my room, slam the door, and flop down onto my bed. I get what Mom's trying to do, but it feels totally unfair. Yesterday she flipped out because I forgot to tell her where I was going, and she wouldn't even listen to me explain what happened. And now today she
thinks she can come home, cook one lousy meal (and I do mean
lousy
), and all of a sudden we're supposed to be best friends? I don't think so.

After staring at the ceiling for several minutes, I grab
The PlanMaster's PlanMaster
off my nightstand. I want to run through it one last time, just to make sure I've got everything covered. But the words just seem to blend together, so finally I put it aside.

There's a soft knock, and Mom pushes the door open. She sits down next to me. She's holding the crumpled application for Camp Colonial. “I'm sorry you overheard that,” she says softly. “I don't think you're a follower.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“I don't know. I guess . . . I guess I want to make sure you walk your own path in life, instead of following someone else's.”

I tap the application with my finger. “That's not my path. And maybe you knew what you wanted to do, and who you wanted to be, when you were my age, but I don't. I don't know what I like to do, or what I'm good at, or even if I'm good at anything.”

“Well,” Mom says, “I think you're good at a lot of things. You're certainly a much better cook than I am.”

“Yeah, that's true.”

Mom smiles faintly and sighs. “Would you rather have a mom who bakes and scrapbooks and does all those kinds of . . . I don't know,
mom
things?”

I don't answer right away, because the truth is that sometimes I wish she didn't work so much. But Mom is passionate and smart, and every day she shows me it's possible to have a dream, go after it, and make it come true.

“No, I guess not,” I answer. “But what about you? Do you wish you had a daughter who was more of a leader? A daughter who was dead set on becoming a lawyer?”

“No, I guess not,” Mom says. Then she picks up the camp application and tears it to shreds. I know it costs her something to do that.

Mom holds up her cell phone so I can see it. “See this app right here? It's an online organization system. Maybe when you get your phone back, we can download it for you and I can show you how to use it. You've been doing such a great job as the PlanMaster.”

I thank Mom and tell her that anytime she's willing to give me back my phone, I would love to look at the app with her.

I hear a gurgling sound, and it takes me a second to realize it's coming from Mom's stomach.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“Starving.”

“I thought you weren't hungry because you snacked before dinner?”

“Well . . . I sampled some of the chili . . .” Mom makes a yuck face.

“Want me to help you cook something else for dinner?”

Mom breathes a huge sigh of relief. “I thought you'd never ask. Also, I think we'll have to throw out the dessert I made.” We laugh as we stand up and head for the kitchen.

Look, some mothers like to make homemade dinners and volunteer for the PTA. My mother likes to download organization apps for my cell phone. And you know what? I wouldn't change her, even if I could.

True Confession: I never got rid of my old best friend's necklace. Just in case.

S
OMETHING
'
S NOT RIGHT
.

Four hours before Groove It Up starts, I'm sitting in Winston's auditorium, wearing my pink glittery T-shirt and checking my watch for the hundredth time. Why isn't anyone here yet? I've been waiting for an hour already, but no one from the planning committee has showed up.

I stare at my long to-do list and fight the gnawing feeling in my chest that something is really,
really
wrong. Last night I was pretty clear at the dress rehearsal what time I needed the planning committee to arrive. I even
announced it over the loudspeaker. I had to, since no one would actually speak to me.

I'm rifling through the bag of T-shirts from Zack's, double-checking that I have enough for everyone, when I hear the double doors open behind me. I turn around, expecting to see someone from the planning committee. Instead, I see Kelsey.

“They're not coming.” Kelsey crosses the room and drops into the seat next to me.

“Who's not coming?”

“The planning committee.”

“Very funny.” But when Kelsey doesn't smile I add, “Seriously?
None
of them are coming?”

“They're boycotting,” Kelsey says matter-of-factly. “Everyone except Kristy.”

“They wouldn't. They want to win the prizes.”

Kelsey shrugs. “Melinda says you've shut them out anyway, so what's the difference? Mrs. Huff is even writing a letter to Principal Allen protesting your behavior as the PlanMaster.”

“
My
behavior? Great.” I'd like to talk to Mrs. Huff about her and Jenna's behavior, but any anger I might feel is quickly replaced by panic. Jenna and Mrs. Huff were in charge of the bake sale during intermission. Melinda was
supposed to help the Talent Team get ready. Lindsey was supposed to—

“This is the part where you don't freak out,” Kelsey says.

“
Don't
freak out? Are you crazy? Do you have any idea—”

“I know,” Kelsey says, as calm as ever, “but we'll figure something out.”

“Right.” I lean my head back against the chair and start taking deep breaths, just like I've seen Mom do when she gets super stressed. “By the way, I'm pretty sure after this is over I'll be banished from the Court. I don't think even you can stop that. You should leave right now, before you become unpopular by association.”

Kelsey looks down. With her good hand she traces her finger over a picture Molly drew on her cast—of a queen sitting on her throne. “Want to know something? It was kind of a relief, being out of school the past few weeks. I mean, I wanted to be the PlanMaster, but”—Kelsey shrugs helplessly—“details aren't really my thing. And I figured Melinda would find a way to blame me if we lost.”

“We
are
going to lose. So you should leave.” I close my eyes. “You can blame everything on me. Then next week you can come back to school and banish me yourself.”

“Hmmm . . . tempting.” Kelsey nudges me with her shoulder. “But I'll take option B: We win. Then next week we'll rub Melinda's smug little nose in it.” Kelsey picks up the bag of T-shirts from Zack's. “Any chance you have a shirt in there for me, Madame PlanMaster?”

The doors whoosh open again. Alyssa walks in, and Kelsey falls silent. I can hear the electric hum of the overhead lights as Kelsey and I stare at her.

“I didn't think you were coming today,” I say.

“I almost didn't.” And from the way she glances at Kelsey, it looks like Alyssa wishes she
hadn't
come. “Tasha overheard Melinda and Jenna talking about boycotting. She thought they were kidding, but I thought I should see if you needed help . . .” Alyssa trails off and glances again at Kelsey.

Which is when I realize that this is the first time since that day in the cafeteria that the three of us have been alone in the same room together. Talking.

Kelsey crosses her arms and glares at Alyssa.

“What are you staring at?” Alyssa asks.

“You,” Kelsey answers. “You've been hanging out with Polly, and you still haven't apologized.”

“Kelsey,” I say. “Come on, let's—”

“Me?” Alyssa says. “
You're
the ones who should be apologizing.”

“For what?” Kelsey stands up. “You're the one who's been calling us names behind our backs. That's not cool, Alyssa, and you know it. You don't do that to your friends.”

“Oh yeah?” Alyssa says in a shrill voice. “Well, even if I wanted to apologize, how could I? I'm not allowed to eat at the Court, remember? And you two always walk around like you think you're all that and pretend like I'm invisible. And you're always surrounded by your little entourage.”

“Would you two please just
stop
?”

Alyssa ignores me. “Both of you ditched me just so you could eat at a stupid lunch table. You chose popularity over your friends.”

Kelsey shrugs. “And you chose
not
being popular over your friends.”

Alyssa rolls her eyes at Kelsey and turns like she's going to leave.

“Wait, Alyssa, don't go. Can't the two of you stop being so stubborn just for one second?” Not for the first time, I wonder what the past year would have been like if one of us had just said we were sorry. “Look, are either of you mad at me right now?”

“No,” Kelsey says.

“Not really,” Alyssa answers.

“Then can't you call a temporary truce just for a minute?
Groove It Up is in just a few hours, and it's going to be a disaster.”

“It's
not
going to be a disaster,” Kelsey says.

“Yeah . . . it might come close, though,” Alyssa says. Then, after Kelsey glares at her, Alyssa adds, “I'm just kidding.”

The three of us are silent. Until Kelsey says, “Well, I guess I do walk around like I think I'm all that.” She pauses and grins. “Can you blame me, though? I'm Queen Kelsey.”

Alyssa bites her lip to keep from smiling. But then she turns serious. “I never spread those nicknames around. I mean, I said them, just once, to someone when I was mad.”

Kelsey and I glance at each other. “Who?” I ask.

“Jenna Huff. She thought the nicknames were brilliant.”

“I'll just
bet
she did,” Kelsey says.

Alyssa and Kelsey are two of the most complicated and stubborn girls I've ever met, and I know this is the closest either of them will ever come to saying they're sorry. But I also know it isn't enough.

“Alyssa,” I say, “I'm sorry for ignoring you. You're my best friend—one of my two best friends,” I add with a quick glance at Kelsey. “And I miss you. I miss the three of us together.”

Alyssa and Kelsey look at each other. Then Alyssa says, “Peacemaker Polly?”

Kelsey sniffs. “Perfect Polly?”

“How about just Polly?” I say.

“Deal.” Kelsey tosses Alyssa a T-shirt. “Looks like we've got a lot of work to do.”

And with that, we begin picking up the pieces of a broken talent competition.