—
The next morning as my bus is driving into the loop outside school, I see a dirty white Jeep pull up in front of us—even though parents aren’t supposed to use the front drive till after eight.
Blade gets out of the Jeep! Because of course she’d have the type of family that drives her to school. An amazing thing happens next which is that Blade stands on the sidewalk and waves and waves and blows a kiss (!) to whoever is driving the Jeep.
I stopped hugging Mom outside school about a month ago, after Quentin made fun of Taylor for kissing her mom’s cheek before the autumn band concert.
But Blade is just waving and waving without a care in the world.
She catches me catching her, maybe because I’ve stood up in my seat and pulled the window down and stuck my head out, which is crazy. It’s freezing. People in the bus are yelling at me to shut it.
Hi, I mouth to Blade, and she mouths, Hi, back, and she’s still waving, except now it’s at me.
I pull out my Magic 8 Ball keychain, as a good-luck charm. The whole bus ride over, I asked it if I should give Blade the makeup kit or the shoelaces. But every single time it came out “hazy,” like it didn’t know the answer. Which is nuts. It knows the answer to everything. That’s why it’s magic.
—
Later, we all enter language arts with a degree of excitement we usually save up for recess. But Miss Lee seems overcast today. She’s not even wearing pink. “I have bad news,” she says. “It’s about…Secret Santa.”
“Is it canceled?” says Noelle. She’s very serious about Christmas. Hello, her name.
“Well, it’s not exactly canceled,” says Miss Lee, as we all gather on the rug. “But it turns out I’ve broken some administrative rules by talking about ‘Santa’—who, of course, isn’t even real!”
I look at Blade. She’s already looking at me. She smirks like she’s got something hot in her mouth. This makes me smirk, too, even though I’ll die if Secret Santa is ruined.
“Not everybody celebrates Christmas,” Miss Lee says. She’s digging a fingernail track up and down her black stockings. “So now we’re going to call our game…Secret Sharers.”
Everybody is quiet. Jasmine’s stomach gurgles so loud that Ethan high-fives her, and then it’s silent in room 314 for a bit longer, and Blade, of all people, says, “So, what’s the bad news?”
Whenever Blade speaks up, my chest goes bah-boom, bah-boom. It’s the weirdest thing. Like an allergic reaction.
“That was the bad news,” says Miss Lee. Her eyes wander over to her beloved corkboard, which twinkles with holiday glitter. “That we have to call the game Secret Sharers now.”
Kaylee says, “As long as we’re all still giving gifts, I think we’re fine, Miss Lee!” and Miss Lee looks so relieved I think she’s gonna cry.
“Forget giving gifts,” says Noah. “I can’t wait to get mine!”
Miss Lee stands and so we all do, and as we head back to our desks, she says, “The rules stay the same! To be clever little ninjas, you’ll need to deliver your gifts with secrecy this week!”
Noelle calls out (without even raising her hand), “You mean ‘elves,’ Miss Lee? Clever little elves?”
Miss Lee twists a ring around her finger. “We’re calling you ninjas now, sweetheart.” And then she grabs a stack of papers and begins our lesson on adverbs.
—
When I get home from school it’s more bad news.
Usually, Mom has a snack set out for me on the kitchen island, but instead of baby carrots and a granola bar, it’s just the skull shoelaces—and a Post-it note that says, CALL ME AT WORK.
She’s been going through my drawers again.
I check my cell and see that a text came in, also from Mom.
The text says, CALL ME AT WORK.
“I wouldn’t have minded buying you those shoelaces, Samantha, but you didn’t ask,” Mom says, when I’ve got her on the phone. “You’ve been sneaking around so much lately—and you don’t even own boots!”
That reminds me to kick off my Mary Janes, which is the best part of every day.
“You stepped away to talk to Scott in the store,” I say, “and I wasn’t thinking.”
It’s a dangerous move to bring up Scott, because Mom knows I actually like this guy. He thinks I’m an ace cartoonist.
“Well, next time you want something, all you have to do is say so,” Mom says in her distracted voice. I can hear her clicking away on the keyboard at her real estate office. “For the record, when I was in sixth grade I definitely would’ve preferred eye shadow over shoelaces. But it’s a new generation, I guess.” Clickety-click-click. “I’ll return whichever gift you don’t give her.”
“Mmkay,” I say, and then Mom’s cell phone rings at work, so I go, “Take that call!” and she says, “Hey—love you, Sam.”