Words That Start With B (14 page)

When Mr. Campbell assigned me to the Lunchtime Lineup, I thought, well, it’ll be boring, not to mention a total waste of my lunch hour, but how bad can it be? Anything is better than having to tell my mom what I did, or having to tell her what I did and being suspended, too, right? Wrong. Mr. Campbell forgot to tell me that for the rest of the year I am basically going to be Jessica Riley’s personal slave.

Jessica Riley is the queen of grade eight, and, therefore, the entire school. At least she thinks she is. But having blond hair with a natural wave and being president of student council does not make you queen of everything. Not that I would ever tell Jessica that. It’s easier just to nod and do what she tells me. Later, at home, I do impressions of her for Benji. He thinks they’re hilarious. I can only do one or two, though, because he laughs so hard his bruised rib hurts. I think doing impressions is excellent training for when I am an actress.

At first Jessica was excited to have “an assistant,” and she flitted around the radio station pointing everything out to me. But since I’m not allowed to touch any of the sound or recording equipment, I didn’t pay very much attention.

“This is a
very important job
,” Jessica had said, speaking slowly so that I understood just how important the job is.
“We are the voice of Ferndale. The student body relies on us to bring them interesting stories that they can relate to. Like the piece I did on the orphans in cages in Romania.”

Even though I was dying to, I didn’t ask how we, the students of Ferndale, were supposed to relate to babies in Romania. I bet most people couldn’t even point to Romania on a map. I know I can’t. I also bit my tongue and refrained from reminding her that particular story made at least three people cry, and that Mr. Campbell had asked the Lunchtime Lineup crew to focus on local issues from then on. I didn’t say any of this. All I said was, “Right.”

“So, do you have any leads?” Jessica asked me. I shrugged. Jessica cocked her head to one side in a way she probably thinks is cute. When she spoke again, her voice was sticky-sweet. “I was thinking maybe I could do a story about your mom. Maybe I can interview you and your mom together, you know, about your experience.”

“No.”

Jessica smiled and patted me on the shoulder. She has a lot of very white teeth. Like a shark. “Of course,” she said. “This must be a very hard time for you.”

I’d shaken her hand off my shoulder and glared at her. Her smile disappeared and she turned and flipped through her binder, which is covered in pictures of boys cut from magazines. Barf. Without looking up, she said, “Well, if you don’t have anything to offer, you can make yourself useful and get sound bites about March Break. You know, what people are doing, are they going on a trip, blah, blah, blah. And don’t get too many grade sevens. They can barely string a sentence together.”

I pretended not to hear that the last bit and slipped the handheld recorder into my backpack. “Anything else?” I asked sweetly.

“Yes,” Jessica said. “Get me a Diet Coke.”

And so my punishment began.

***

Back when Lunchtime Lineup was new, people used to run up to Jessica or whoever had the recorder to give their opinions. Now people are pretty bored of it, and I practically have to beg them to talk into the microphone. At first it was hard walking up to a group of people and interrupting them for an interview, but it’s gotten easier. Sometimes Mattie tags along. She loves talking to people, even strangers.

“Hi, there! We’re with Lunchtime Lineup. Can we get a moment of your time?”

I guess something about her enthusiasm is contagious — I always have more luck when she’s around. When she’s not with me, I pretend to be her: perky and smiley and totally committed to the show. It usually works, even though I feel like a phoney the whole time. The other kids don’t seem to notice.

Most of the stories aren’t very exciting: 6A has raised $1000 for the Alzheimer Society, the floor hockey team is having a bake sale, auditions for the school musical are coming soon. But sometimes I’ll be talking to someone, and they’ll have a really cool story. Like a few days ago, I was talking to a kid in grade six whose family just adopted a baby girl from China. Today, I met this other kid whose dad had been an Olympic curler. I mean, it’s not like he was a famous hockey player, or one of those skiers who does crazy tricks in the air, but still, he went to the Olympics. I thought that interview was pretty good. But no matter how lame or how cool the story is, Jessica barely acknowledges me.

“Just leave it on the desk and I’ll get Mike to edit it,” she says. Then she adds, “I hope we can use it.”

In class, I pass Mattie a note during a movie on the life cycle of the salmon. In order to get it to Mattie, I first have to pass it to Min who looks at Mattie’s name in my handwriting and then whips around in her seat to stare at me. Her eyebrows go up.

“Is your name Mattie?” I hiss.

She frowns and rolls her eyes.

“No, obviously.”

“Well then, keep passing!”

Min taps Mattie on the shoulder and slips her the note. Mattie takes it, grins and immediately pretends to be studying her science book, letting her hair fall over the page. Nosy-Parker Min leans as far forward in her chair as possible, trying to get a glimpse of the letter, but Mattie is a pro. As much as Mattie loves passing notes, she hates to get caught, so she has perfected the sneaky art of reading a note in class.

After a second she scribbles a reply and leans back and pretends to ask Min for a pencil, slipping her the note. Min passes it back under my desk and I grab it, opening it to read Mattie’s reply, written in pink pen, underneath my original message:

Dear Mattie, Would you like to come over after school? From Clarissa.

I would love to!!! I just have to ask my mom!!! This will be soooo fun!!

Cripes. Even her handwriting is perky.

When I look up, Mattie is smiling and waving at me. But then Mr. Campbell clears his throat and she whips around, immediately engrossed in the salmon jumping up the river. I bet if you gave her the choice between being a teacher’s pet and being the coolest girl in school, she would pick teacher’s pet. Once a goody two-shoes, always a goody two-shoes. I hope I haven’t made a mistake. I’m sort of relying on Mattie to help me with a plan I’ve been cooking up to get Terry DiCarlo once and for good. I guess I’ll find out after school.

***

“So, have you seen Benji? Is he okay? When is he coming back to school?”

“Yes, sort of and I don’t know.”

“Was anything broken?”

“No, but his shoulder was dislocated and he cracked a rib.”

“I’ve never broken a bone in my life. My mom says the pain is unbearable. I have a very low threshold for pain. I don’t think I could stand it. That’s why I always drink lots of milk and I stay away from contact sports.”

“What about dance?”

Mattie frowns

“What
about
dance?” she asks.

“Couldn’t you break a bone in dance class?”

“No, I’m more likely to strain something. Besides dance isn’t a sport, it’s more of an art form.”

Mattie hasn’t stopped talking since we left the school. She jabbers on about anything and everything: the weather, her mom, her new coat, broken bones. It’s exhausting. I just answer her questions, mostly. Benji and I can hang out together for hours without saying more than a few words. Maybe that’s what happens when you know someone for a long time: you don’t need to talk so much because you know what they’re thinking. With Mattie, everything is new. And apparently everything is up for conversation.

“Ooh, is this where you live? It’s so cute!”

“You think so?”

I look at my house and try to see it like Mattie does. It’s not very big, just one storey, plus the basement. It’s made of pinkish bricks, with a white door, white shutters and white blinds in the windows. In the spring Mom plants red geraniums in the flower beds, but in the winter the garden is bare and she wraps the bushes in burlap bags to keep them safe from the wind and snow. On the front door a sign is mounted just below the knocker that says
Guests of the Hair Emporium: Please Enter Through Side Door to the Left of the House.
I remember when Mom made the sign, sitting at the kitchen table and carefully painting the letters in a pretty shade of purple that I had helped her pick.

I take Mattie in through the side door and, because she asks, I give her the grand tour.

“There isn’t much to see,” I say, but Mattie doesn’t seem to think so. She points at all the pictures on the mantel, wanting to know the names of the people in them, looks at my mom’s books and magazines, asks to see our movie collection. She even comments on the fabric of the throw pillows in the basement.

“My mom made them out of her old concert
T
-shirts,” I explain.

“Really? Cool!” Mattie says.

“Yeah, it is,” I agree, and I realize that I actually mean it.

“Can I see your room?” she asks, so I take her in and stand back while she examines everything, from the bed (“You have a captain’s bed? I always wanted a bed with drawers underneath!”), my desk (“Everything’s so neat and organized! My mom would love you!”) and the clothes in my closet (“No offence, Clarissa but you really need to go shopping. You would think the daughter of a hair stylist would be more, well, stylish.”).

Mattie hops up onto my bed and lies flat on her back. I sit on the edge of the bed. It’s strange to be in here with someone that’s not Benji.

“Hey! Do those glow in the dark?” She points at the stars.

“They used to, but not anymore.”

“Neither do mine,” Mattie says. “Your house is really cool,” she adds.

“Thanks.”

“And thanks for inviting me over. I didn’t think you liked me all that much.”

I blush.

“It’s not that, it’s just—” but she stops me before I finish.

“I know. My mom says I can be a bit much sometimes and I need to relax around people my own age.”

Well, what do you say to that? I can’t believe Mattie’s mom talks to her like that, like she’s her therapist.

“Oh. Well. Are you relaxed now?”

Mattie smiles and bounces a little on the bed.

“Yeah, I am!”

“Good. Because I need your help.”

And so I let her in on The Plan.

***

When I finish explaining The Plan, I expect Mattie to jump up and run all the way home. Instead she claps her hands and bounces on the bed again.

“It’s perfect!” she cries. “Justice is served!”

“Really? You’ll help?” I can’t hide my surprise. I mean, I was hoping she’d help out, but it requires her to break about five zillion of her goody two-shoes rules. Mattie stops bouncing and looks offended.

“Of course. Something needs to be done to stop Terror DiCarlo.”

“Hey! Terror DiCarlo! That’s pretty good!” I say.

Mattie grins.

“I’ve never called him that out loud before,” she admits.

“I like it. Let’s call him that from now on.”

“Like a codename?”

“Well, it’s not that much of a codename. I mean it’s pretty obvious.”

Mattie’s face falls.

“Oh.”

“But sure, whatever, when it’s just the two of us.”

This perks her up a bit.

“Okay! The Matador and Clarissa take on the Terror!”

“The Matador?”

Mattie shrugs, looking a little sheepish.

“That’s what I would call myself. Like, if I was a superhero.”

“What would my name be?”

Mattie sits back, cocks her head to one side and looks me over, her eyes narrowed.

“Picking a superhero name is very important,” she says. “It has to mean something to you, as well as instill fear or awe in whoever utters it.”

Wow. She takes this really seriously.

“How do you come up with this stuff?” I ask.

Even though there’s no one else around, Mattie leans forward and whispers, “Do you really want to know?”

I nod.

“I love comic books,” she confesses, and because I can’t in a million years picture prissy Mattie Cohen reading a comic book, I throw my head back and laugh. At first Mattie looks offended, but then she loosens up and starts to giggle.

“But don’t tell anyone!” she protests.

“I won’t, I swear,” I say. “Well, maybe just Benji. But he loves comic books. You should see his collection. He even draws his own characters.”

“Maybe we could write a comic together,” Mattie says.

“Maybe.”

“Now, think!” Mattie scolds. “We have to come up with your name. Do you have a favourite superhero?”

I shake my head.

“Not really.”

“Favourite animal?”

“Sort of.” I hesitate. “I mean, I’ve always sort of liked eagles.”

Mattie beams. “Oooh, eagles are perfect! Powerful and majestic. Now we need to make it snazzier. The Eagle doesn’t have enough of a ring to it.”

My gaze lands on
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
, waiting for me on the nightstand.

“What about — the Emerald Eagle?” I suggest.

“Perfect!” Mattie cries. “I can see your costume and everything.”

I’m almost afraid to ask.

“Really? What would it look like?”

“Well, green, obviously, with a long feathered cape and talons that retract—”

“Nope, sorry. I’m allergic to feathers.”

Mattie’s cheek twitches.

“An eagle that’s allergic to feathers?”

We stare at each other before bursting into laughter. We roll on the bed, laughing until we can barely breathe. Mattie sits up, wipes the laughter tears from her eyes and says, “Hey, Clarissa, can we go see your mom’s salon?”

“Sure!”

***

I haven’t been in the salon since Mom left. I forgot how cute and sunny it can look. Mattie is practically in heaven, smelling the hair products, testing out the chairs, lining up all the scissors and combs.

“It’s so cool you get to live here,” she says. “Are you going to be a hairdresser, too?”

“No,” I say. “I’m going to be an actress.”

It feels weird saying it out loud. I’ve never told anyone that I want to be an actress, except Benji. I don’t know why I told Mattie, the world’s largest big mouth, but it just sort of came out. Mattie considers this, looking me up and down.

“My cousin did a commercial once,” she says. “All the big movie stars get their start in commercials. But you’re prettier than her, so it will probably be easier for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, but that doesn’t seem like enough. Am I supposed to tell her that she’s pretty, too? “What about you?”

“I’m going to be a child therapist.”

I can feel my eyebrows rise, but I fight to keep them down. As normally as I can, I manage to say, “Oh?”

“Every day my mom sees more and more troubled children come into the hospital. She says the therapists and social workers have their hands full. It’s very distressing.”

“Wow, that’s amazing.”

Mattie grins.

“Thanks. I really want to help people.”

And as she says it, I realize that it’s true. As annoying and bossy as Mattie can be, she’s always trying to be helpful. Maybe her problem is that she just isn’t helping the right people, or she hasn’t figured out the right way to help them. You can’t blame a person for that.

“I think you’ll be a great child therapist,” I say, and I mean it.

Mattie smiles so widely that I can’t help but smile back.

“Knock, knock.”

Denise is in the doorway, looking quizzically at me. Mattie shoots up out of the chair she’s in and marches over to Denise, offering her a hand and a big smile.

“Hi, I’m Mattie Cohen, a friend of Clarissa’s from school.”

Denise is not as good at keeping her eyebrows under control as I am. They practically disappear into her hairline. She shakes Mattie’s hand as she looks over the top of her head at me. I pretend to be looking for dirt under my fingernails.

“From school, of course. I’m Denise Renzetti, a friend of Clarissa’s mom’s and regional sales manager for Mary Kay cosmetics.”

Mattie actually squeals.

“Really? I love Mary Kay!”

Denise is pleased.

“You do?”

Mattie wiggles her fingers at Denise, who inspects her nails.

“Opalescence, shade 46,” she announces.

Mattie claps her hands.

“How did you know?”

“Because it’s my job! I am a professional.”

Cripes.

“Hey, would you girls like a makeover?” Denise asks.

Mattie gasps and her arms start to jiggle at her sides.

“Oh, yes, please! Can we, Clarissa?”

“I don’t know …”

Mattie grabs my arm and pulls on it, jumping up and down.

“Please, please, please? It’ll be so fun!”

“Okay, fine. But no liquid eyeliner. I hate liquid eyeliner.”

“Not me,” says Mattie, eyes shining. “I love it!”

Denise takes off her blazer and pushes the sleeves of her blouse back.

“All right ladies, take a seat. Welcome to La Spa Denise.”

She opens her pink briefcase and lets us pick out a shade of nail polish while she runs upstairs to get her arsenal.

I can’t tell who is more excited, Denise or Mattie.

“Denise is so cool,” Mattie says, tuning the radio to the good station. “Thanks for inviting me!”

I shrug.

“You’re welcome.”

“This is going to be so fun!”

And, surprisingly, it is.

When Denise is in Mary Kay mode she spends less time making bad jokes and complaining about her love life. Instead, she talks about the importance of shading your cheekbones, blending the right shade of concealer and making your eyes pop.

“It’s like painting,” Mattie says.

Denise approves.

“It’s exactly like painting,” she agrees. “You need to prep your canvas and use the right brushes for the desired effect.”

Denise bustles between Mattie and me, scrutinizing our
pores and moving our chins this way and that to assess our angles. She turns our chairs around so we can’t watch our progress in the mirror.

“You don’t want to spoil the reveal,” she scolds.

“Just like on
TV
!” says Mattie.

I start to get impatient. Denise is taking hours with Mattie’s eye makeup. How many coats of mascara does one person need?

“And — done!” she says.

“Can we look?” Mattie asks.

Denise steps back and gestures to the mirror.

“Be my guest!”

Mattie looks at me and grins.

“On three,” she says. “One, two, three!”

Wow. I can’t believe that’s me in the mirror. My eyes look huge. Whatever shadow Denise used makes them look greenish instead of muddy brown. I never noticed how green my eyes were before. They look pretty.

Mattie fluffs her hair and turns this way and that, examining every inch of her makeover.