Words That Start With B (15 page)

“I love it!” she gushes. “I feel like a movie star! I could totally pass for sixteen!”

Sixteen is a little much, but she does look older, and very sophisticated. We both do.

“You look beautiful, Clarissa! Look out, Hollywood!”

“So do you,” I say.

“Let’s take a picture of you girls and we’ll send it to your mom,” Denise says. “I know she’d love to see you all dolled up, Clarissa.”

Mattie throws her arm around me and flashes her best smile. I stiffen a little bit. It’s strange to have her standing so close, like we’ve been best friends forever. Denise frowns.

“For God’s sakes, Clarissa, it’s not a mug shot.”

“Yeah! It’s a glamour shot!” Mattie says. Then she whispers in my ear, so that only I can hear, “Matador and the Emerald Eagle take on the world, one eyelash at a time!”

I can’t help but smile. Mattie can be pretty goofy sometimes.

“Got it!” Denise says. “Now I just have to figure out how to upload the darn thing and I’ll send it tonight.”

“Thank you so much, Denise, this was so much fun! I wish I didn’t have to take it all off tonight. I’d love to show up at school like this. Can you imagine? Amanda would just die!”

***

“Are you wearing makeup?”

“Yeah, Mattie came over and Denise gave us makeovers.”

Benji’s eyes practically bug right out of his head.

“Mattie came over?”

“So?”

“And you let Denise touch your face?”

“It’s no big deal,” I say.

“I feel like the whole world is changing,” Benji says. “By the time I get back to school you’ll be married to Michael Greenblat.”

Normally I would slap him but I restrain myself on account of his injuries. Instead, I ignore the comment, like a mature, responsible person. Maybe it’s the makeup seeping through my skin and into my brain, making me more sophisticated.

“When are you coming back?” I ask.

Benji looks uncomfortable.

“I don’t know yet,” he says.

“Well, you can’t stay home forever.”

“I know that. I think I’m getting the flu.”

Benji squirms against the pillows like he’s trying to disappear inside them. He gets a faraway look on his face and I know he’s thinking about the attack. He still doesn’t talk about it. Mrs. Stremecki, the guidance counsellor, told me that when you talk about something that’s bothering you, you allow others to share the burden of your pain, and that although it might be hard, it’s a relief, too. That was when she was trying to get me to talk about my mother’s cancer. Back then I thought it was a load of crap, but now I wonder if maybe there is a slight chance that she wasn’t totally and completely wrong.

I wish Benji would tell me what happened, so I could help him with his burden. But for now he just stays in bed with that scared look in his eyes. That look makes my blood boil. It makes me want to kill Terry DiCarlo. But now that Mattie is in on The Plan, things are finally starting to look up.

On Saturday Mattie comes over for lunch. She shows up in a blouse, vest and kilt with knee socks. I don’t think she ever wears pants.

“Let’s make cookies and bring them over to Benji!” she says.

“We don’t bake things here,” I say. “We probably don’t have all the stuff you need.”

“We can get one of those mixes,” Mattie suggests. “Then you just add water, eggs and oil. Everyone has that stuff around. Then you just mix it up and plop it onto a cookie sheet. I’ve done it a million times.”

“I’m pretty sure we don’t have a cookie sheet.”

Mattie is disgusted.

“How can you not have a cookie sheet? Everyone has a cookie sheet. If only I’d known, I could have brought one of mine.”

She has more than one? I rummage around in the drawers under the countertop, the ones we never use. There’s an old lime green mixer, Tupperware containers without lids and a dustpan. I’m pretty sure that Mom keeps aluminum pie plates back here somewhere. Aha.

“What about these?” I ask.

Mattie is incredulous.

“You don’t have a cookie sheet, but you have a whole bag of pie tins?”

“They’re good for mixing hair dyes,” I tell her.

Mattie inspects the tins and decides that they will do.

“Now all we need is the mix,” she says.

“And eggs,” I add.

“Lucky for us they have eggs and cookie mix at the 7-Eleven,” she says. “Let’s go!”

***

It turns out baking is pretty easy, especially when you have someone telling you what to do. We make a whole batch of delicious, chewy chocolate chip oatmeal cookies with extra chocolate chips. We’ve added some from a bag because Mattie says that cookie mixes are pretty skimpy on the chocolate. Some of our cookies have so many chips in them that the chocolate has melded together into one big gooey chocolate centre. Heaven. We’re letting them cool when the doorbell rings.

I open the door to find Michael Greenblat staring back at me.

“Oh, hi, Clarissa.”

“Michael?”

“Sorry I’m late.”

I blink.

“Late? For what?”

“Mattie said to come around two.”

“Mattie said?”

The next thing I know, Mattie is at my elbow pulling Michael into the house.

“Hi, Michael! I’m so glad you came! Come in.”

“But—”

“Want a cookie? Clarissa and I made them.”

Mattie holds out the plate of cookies and smiles as Michael grabs two of them and stuffs them in his mouth at once.

“Thanks,” he mumbles through a mouthful of cookie. At least I think that’s what he said.

“Those were supposed to be for Benji,” I say, but Mattie pulls me aside and shushes me as Michael peels off his coat and boots and chucks them by the door.

“
Shhh!
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Do you think I like Michael? Because I don’t. He’s the one who—”

Mattie crosses her arms and rolls her eyes.

“Spare me,” she says. “Besides, we need his help.”

“With what?”

But then Michael is back, hands in his pockets, hanging around the entrance to the kitchen, like he isn’t sure whether or not he should come in. Mattie is all smiles as she bustles over to the kitchen cupboard like she lives here or something.

“Would you like a glass of milk?” she asks.

“Yes, please,” he says.

“Maybe we should all sit in the living room,” Mattie suggests. “Clarissa, you go with Michael. I’ll just get the milk.”

I think I’m in shock. Who does she think she is telling me what to do in my own home?

“But—”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

“Fine.” I stomp into the living room, not even bothering to see if Michael is behind me. I feel like a stranger in my own home.

“Sit wherever you like,” I say, slumping onto a corner of the couch. I’m too mad to say anything else.

Michael sits on the other end with his hands in his lap. His hair is combed straight back and it looks like there might be gel in it. Michael never uses gel. Plus, he’s wearing a plain sweater, a nice one. There isn’t a Blue Jays logo in sight. He clears his throat a couple of times before asking, “How’s your mom?”

“Okay.”

“She comes home soon, right?”

How does he know this?

“A week.”

“That’s nice. Do you talk to her a lot?”

I shrug.

“I can call her whenever I like.”

Michael nods.

“That’s good.”

What is taking Mattie so long? It’s getting harder to think of things to talk about. I’m not sure how much more of this I can stand. Finally she appears, hands Michael a glass of milk and pulls up a dining room chair. She looks very pleased with herself.

“So,” she says. “We’re gathered here today to talk about the Terry situation.”

My jaw drops open.

“You told him?” I say.

Mattie flips her hair over her shoulder.

“We can’t do this on our own,” she reasons. “Besides, Michael wants to help. Don’t you, Michael?”

Michael takes a breather from downing the entire glass of milk.

“Terry’s a jerk,” he says, wiping the milk moustache from his lip with the back of his hand. “I’ve never liked the guy.”

“I can’t believe you told him,” I say.

Michael looks hurt.

“No offence,” I add quickly. “It’s just, it was my plan, and it was private, and now Mattie’s gone and told everyone.”

“Not everyone, just Michael!” Mattie insists.

“I never should have told you,” I say.

“Clarissa, you can’t do everything on your own.”

“I don’t!”

“No, you’re right. You do everything with
Benji
. You and Benji are like this little club for two,” she continues. “You barely talk to anyone else. It’s like no one else is good enough for you.”

“That’s not true,” I say, but I can tell by the look on Michael’s face that he agrees with Mattie. He turns red and stuffs another one of Benji’s cookies in his mouth. All of a sudden it dawns on me. They think we’re snobs, that I’m a snob. The thought is so ridiculous it makes me want to laugh.

“Benji’s my best friend,” I explain.

“So? You can still have other friends,” Mattie says.

I don’t understand why she cares so much. What have I ever done to her except avoid her and make fun of her behind her back? Why would she want to be friends with me if I’m such a snob? Mattie sighs.

“Look. Your plan is a good one, but we’re going to need backup.”

“Says you,” I grumble.

“Fine. We’ll take a vote. All those who think Clarissa Delaney is being a big baby and needs all the help she can get, say aye. Aye!”

Mattie shoots her hand in the air. Michael looks guilty, but his hand goes up and he mumbles something like aye as well.

“That’s not fair,” I start, but Mattie cuts me off.

“Sorry, Clarissa, we live in Canada, and in Canada democracy rules. The people have spoken.”

I’m pretty sure she got that one from a video we were forced to watch in history.

“Now, I brought my journal so we can take notes. I’ll type them up and email them to everyone after.”

***

So my brilliant idea now includes me, Mattie and Michael. Tomorrow is the big day and I am up past midnight, going over The Plan in my head. There are so many things that could go wrong. Before, when it was just me, I was the only person who could screw up. Now there are three people involved, which means there are three times the chances that things could go wrong. Or something like that. All I know is that there are parts of the plan that are out of my hands, and that makes me nervous.

Denise and I decided not to tell Mom about Benji’s attack. We both agreed that it would upset her and there was nothing she could do from Hopestead, so it was better to just not mention it until she came home. Part of me is dying to tell her all about The Plan, so I can hear her tell me it’s a great idea and everything will turn out fine. But a bigger part of me wants her to concentrate on getting better. She has enough to worry about without imagining Benji all beat up and bruised and me taking on Terror DiCarlo.

The what-ifs keep getting bigger and bigger in my head, until I almost get up, call Mattie and tell her the whole thing is off. I need something to calm me down, something to make me feel powerful again. The Emerald Eagle needs a good luck talisman. I sneak into Mom’s room and open the closet door where she keeps her belts hanging on a rack. In the dark they look like dead snakes, nailed there to keep out intruders. Even though I haven’t worn it in over a year, I still get the same feeling when I see it: Dorothy’s magic belt, hanging there like something ordinary. Benji and I used to pretend that no harm could come to the person wearing the belt. It was good luck charm, magic wand and protective shield wrapped up in one. I’m not stupid, I know it’s just an old belt, and I don’t for a second believe in magic. But when I wrap it around my waist I feel a little bit braver.

Monday starts off like every other Monday morning, except that Benji is still at home recovering, my mother is in London with tubes in her arms and I’m walking to school with Mattie Cohen.

“I’m so excited, aren’t you excited? I mean, I’m nervous, but I’m so excited!”

Mattie is what you call a morning person. Being around her this early is so exhausting it makes me want to crawl back into bed for another two hours.

“Maybe we shouldn’t walk to school together,” I suggest.

Mattie stops bouncing and pouts.

“Why not?”

“We never walk to school together, it might look suspicious.”

“Maybe if we talk about schoolwork?”

And so, for the rest of the walk, Mattie and I have a very lively conversation about the Louis Riel trial and whether or not he should have been hanged. When we arrive at school, she runs off to join Amanda and Min and I sit on the front steps waiting for the bell to ring. I scan the playground and see Michael leaning on the wall near the basketball court, right next to Terry. I take a deep breath and as my stomach expands it presses against Dorothy’s Magic Belt, cinched
around my waist, hidden underneath my stripy shirt and fleece pullover, where only I know it’s there.

***

At break, Michael Greenblat shows up at my locker. He clears his throat and says, “Hey, Clarissa, I made a copy of that song you wanted.”

I smile and take the
CD
from him, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh, thanks, Michael.”

“No big deal.”

He stands there a moment longer than is necessary before saying, “Well, I better get my stuff for gym. See you in class.”

“See you.”

I wave and tuck the
CD
into the zippered pocket inside my backpack, trying not to think about the split second when our hands touched.

***

Twenty minutes into a basketball game in gym class, I fall dramatically to my knees. Ms Gillespie blows the whistle and the game comes to a halt around me. Mattie is the first one by my side. She plants a hand on my forehead and clucks her tongue.

“Her forehead’s all hot and sweaty — I think she has a fever,” she announces.

Ms Gillespie frowns.

“What’s wrong, Clarissa? Did you feel okay this morning?”

I moan and shake my head.

“I had a headache but I thought I would be fine. I guess I was wrong.”

“She should go to the nurse, Ms Gillespie. What if she faints?”

Ms Gillespie considers this.

“Or,” Mattie continues, “she could be contagious!”

I heave like I might throw up and clamp my hand over my mouth. A group of people step back.

“Gross,” someone mutters.

“Fine. Mattie, make sure she gets there okay.”

“Yes, Ms Gillespie.”

Mattie helps me to my feet and I throw an arm over her shoulder and let her drag me to the door. Once we’re out of sight, Mattie giggles.

“I was so nervous, I almost threw up,” she says.

I roll my eyes. Amateur.

“Come on, we don’t have much time!” I grab her hand and we run soundlessly through the halls, careful to duck down in front of the classroom doors so no one sees us breaking the no-running-in-the-hallway rule. Not to mention the no-skipping-class rule. But even superheroes break the rules sometimes, and we are no longer Mattie Cohen and Clarissa Delaney, measly seventh-grade students. We are the Matador and the Emerald Eagle, and we are unstoppable.

***

Mattie sits down outside the radio station. She’s brought her binder to make it look like she’s studying in the hall. If I hear her whistle the first few bars of
O Canada
, it means someone is coming and I need to hide. I look both ways down the hall and once at Mattie, who gives me a thumbs up, before I slip inside.

“What are you doing here?”

I practically jump right out of my skin. Jessica Riley is already in there, sucking on a lozenge and gargling with water. She insists it helps limber up her voice and make it “radio ready.”

“What are you doing here?” she repeats, frowning at my sweaty gym clothes.

Be brave, I tell myself. You are the Emerald Eagle. Think of the less fortunate citizens of Ferndale. Think of Benji!

“I—I forgot to hand in today’s segment.”

I take the
CD,
labelled
Things You Don’t Know About Ferndale, Part IV,
from my backpack
.
The letters are still fresh, the ink barely dry. I smudged the T on
Things
with my thumb. I hope she doesn’t notice.

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t we?” Jessica says. “Honestly, I can’t believe Mr. Campbell would leave something as important as the radio station in your hands.”

She opens a drawer under the soundboard.

“All the segments are kept in here,” she says.

I squeeze past her and flip through the
CD
s as she starts shouting out vowel sounds. She sounds like a dying cow or a barking seal, I can’t decide which. A-ha! Here it is. I toss my hair over one shoulder, checking to see that Jessica isn’t watching. She isn’t. I switch the original
CD
for the fake
CD
that Michael gave me and make my way to the door.

“Have a good show, Jessica. You sound great.”

Jessica glares at me as I slip out the door. Mattie springs to her feet.

“I heard voices!” she hisses.

I grab her wrist and pull her down the hall.

“Jessica was there—”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, I got it. It’s fine. But it was a close one.”

“I can’t take much more of this superhero stuff,” Mattie says.

“Don’t worry, Matador, we’re practically home-free.”

***

By the time we make it to the cafeteria, I am completely out of breath and too nervous to eat any of my lunch.

“Gooooood afternoon Ferndale! You’re listening to the Lunchtime Lineup! I’m Jessica Riley, and the rest of the Radio Ferndale crew and I want to give your meal a little flavour! Next up, part four in the six-part series, ‘Things You Didn’t Know About Ferndale.’”

At first people keep talking; they’re yelling over the PA and mimicking Jessica Riley’s phoney announcer voice. The novelty of having our own radio station wore off long ago. But as the segment begins, and people recognize the voice and start to realize that this isn’t your typical broadcast, a hush falls over the lunch room.

“Are you kidding me? Jason Armstrong couldn’t have done it if you paid him a million dollars. He doesn’t have the guts; he just does what I tell him to. I’m the one who beat the snot out of that kid. Everyone knows it: they just know better than to go runnin’ to Donner. Kid’s got my handiwork printed all over his sorry little face.”

Terry’s voice rings through the silence, echoing in every nook and cranny of the caf. The teacher on lunch duty is having a fit, trying to page the office and turn down the volume on the PA system at the same time. Mattie reaches for my hand under the table and squeezes it tightly.

Next comes Michael’s voice, a little muffled, but understandable.

“Aren’t you even a little sorry? He was in the hospital and everything.”

“Well, serves him right for ratting me out. No one rats out Terry DiCarlo. Plus, he’s not normal, you know? Hell, you ever see him hanging out with other guys, doing normal things?
No. He doesn’t have any friends, just that girl, the psycho with the smart mouth, the tall one. What’s her name?”

“Clarissa.”

It feels strange to hear my name over the
PA
. A chill runs down my back and I feel the eyes of the whole cafeteria staring at me.

“Well, whatever her name is, she’s got a mouth on her. She’d better watch her back, otherwise I’ll cream her, too. I don’t care if she’s a girl.”

Michael says something, but I can’t make out the words.

Then Terry’s voice is back.

“What’s your problem? Is she your girlfriend? Or wait, maybe you’re in love with him. Is that it? What’s the matter, did I put your little boyfriend in the hospital? Is that what this is about? I’m sick of looking at you. Get out of here.”

No one speaks. After a second, Jessica Riley’s perky voice comes back on, blabbing away about March Break and the school play. She’s talking even faster than normal. A swarm of people huddle around Michael’s table. They recognized his voice and are grilling him with questions. He looks up and catches my eye for a second before turning away and shrugging off their questions, like it’s no big deal. A surge of feeling, not quite love, rushes through my heart for Michael Greenblat. Brave, dependable, floppy-haired Michael Greenblat.

“We did it!”

Mattie is at my elbow, squealing in my ear. I can smell the strawberry yogurt on her breath.

“I can’t believe we did it!”