I look inside. Three books. I let the bag swing at my side as we walk out of the building. “Thanks. Was he happy to see your grandma?”
“Does dressing up in a tuxedo mean you’re happy? Gran was blushing and pretending it was because the samosas were so spicy.” She smiles into the sun. I’m on her right side and can’t see the birthmark, as it doesn’t extend that far across. She has a flawless profile.
Anyway, why is the birthmark a flaw?
It’s strange that something she was born with, that’s of no choice of hers, is now the sole thing that defines her in the eyes of others. She lets it define her for herself, too.
“Sandra, why do you take it?”
She turns to me. “What?”
“Why do you take how they treat you?”
“I don’t get what you’re saying.” She quickens her pace.
“I mean why did you become quiet just because of the people who pick on you?”
“I didn’t. I’m a quiet person.”
“Not from what I remember.”
“Janna, you don’t really know me.”
“I did know you.”
“When we were little. People change when they’re older.” She bends her head, and hair falls into her face.
“That much? When I knew you, you were sunny. Remember? We had nicknames for each other, and Tats said you should be Sunny because you were always seeing the bright side of things.”
She slows her pace and shrugs. “So maybe things happened to show me there’s more to the world than being happy all the time.”
“Well, remember I was called Merdy? Which was a code for Nerdy. Consonant before the letter N was M? We thought we were so smart.” I lift up the books from Mr. Ram. “Guess what? I’m still Merdy.”
She laughs. “Yeah, but that’s different. Are you telling me you’re the exact same person you were two or three years ago?”
I think about that one. “No. But am I that different? As in the opposite of what I was like before? No.”
Is this what Mr. Ram was talking about? Your “kernel” not changing?
She stops. “So what’re you saying? Just change?”
“Be yourself?”
“And the myself in sixth grade is the real myself?”
“Wow, that’s deep. Okay, new nickname for you: Deep.”
“And new one for you: Oprah.”
“Sizzle!” I weave my arm through hers, and she stiffens for a moment before relaxing. “You’re a sizzler.”
“A deep sizzler? Sounds like a steak.”
“If you’re the Deep Sizzler, and I’m the Oprah Special, maybe a kind of salad, what does that make Tats on the menu?”
“Something mushy, gushy.”
“A dessert.”
“Tiramisu. Mushy, gushy, and dramatically good.”
“That’s good. It matches her hair. Let’s call her that when she comes back tomorrow. She’s at her grandparent’s cottage. She’ll be like ‘Tiramisu?’?”
“I don’t have an exam tomorrow so maybe Wednesday.”
“She’s done after tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
“Come over on the weekend. We’ll do something.”
“Maybe.”
“Come on, I can’t go a whole summer without being sizzled!”
She laughs again but stops when she sights Fenway High.
? ? ?
Right before I go into school, I check my messages. None from Nuah.
Fizz posted a picture of the quiz team in Chicago on Instagram. It’s onstage but I’m not in it, so it must have been when I was in the supply closet.
The monster is in it.
Thanks for repping Illinois, Fizz wrote. Lots of likes. There’s a comment from N_ABDULLAH: It was cool but practice was better!
I click on N_ABDULLAH. It’s Nuah. His most recent picture is of his brother sleeping with the sword. He posted it two minutes ago.
Maybe he’s ignoring my messages.
? ? ?
I breeze through the exam. It’s a recounting of three self-selected conflicts from the timeline of wars we as a class had agreed upon. I knew Mr. Pape would be hippie about finals. I cram the accounts full of pathos, casualty counts, and dry commentary on the illogical thought processes of warmongers. I hand it in early and wait in the hall for Sandra to finish.
The fourth person to exit the classroom while I’m waiting against a bank of lockers is Lauren. I’m about to avert my eyes when I remember my talk with Sandra this morning. Hypocritical.
“Hey, Lauren?” I straighten up. “Um, I didn’t like the picture you put up of me on Facebook?”
She stops walking. Turning around, she places one foot at a right angle to the other, as in ballet position, and clasps her hands. The strap of her messenger bag slides off her shoulder and collects where her hands are pooled. Is that an encouragement pose, like, Go on; keep talking; I’m listening?
“Like, I’m not supposed to show my hair to guys who aren’t in my family?” I gesture to the hallway as though it stands for the male gender.
“But you don’t wear it in gym. Jeremy’s not in your family.” Her voice is smooth. Controlled sarcasm, a well-practiced art form.
“That was by mistake?”
“I saw the hair stuff Tityana brought, so I just assumed you were taking off your scarf from now on or something.” She hasn’t moved, and the people coming out of history simply stream around her.
“Do you mind if you don’t post any more pictures of me? On Facebook?”
Sandra comes out of class and stands by me, looking at Lauren with curiosity. Lauren doesn’t take her in but lifts her bag up onto her shoulder and unclasps her hands.
“Don’t worry. I won’t.” She pirouettes and leaves.
I don’t like the way she said that. Smooth and controlled.
? ? ?
With Sandra at my side, I head to the cafeteria to pick up Soon-Lee for our study session. She’s sitting on Thomas’s lap.
“I’m ready. Bye, Thomas.” Soon-Lee pushes her glasses up, and they kiss on the lips, lingering until Thomas’s friend from the next table yells, “Get a room!”
We walk to the library, and I cringe, thinking of getting into a state like that with Jeremy. Never.
“Soon-Lee, this is Sandra. She’s also studying for her math exam.”
Soon-Lee smiles at her. Sandra looks ahead.
“So did you study?” Soon-Lee fixes her hair, pumping it up in the back with her fingers. She’s got awesome hair: voluminous where it needs to be and sleek where it needs to sit subdued.
“On Friday. And only the parts we never learned with Mason.”
“That’s what I did too.” She gives me a fist bump.
We sit near the windows overlooking the parking lot. Beside me, Sandra takes out her math textbook, lays it on the table, and then packs it away in her bag again. She gets up.
“I have to go. I forgot I’m supposed to pick up my grandma.”
She goes through the book stacks, in the opposite direction from where we came. Setting my laptop on the table, I look at Soon-Lee quizzically.
Robby and Pradeep are taking seats three tables away, behind Soon-Lee.
“Is she okay?” Soon-Lee’s taking out her notes. “She seems kind of down.”
“Imagine years of Robby and Pradeep on your back. And others picking up on it.”
“Why?”
“Her birthmark. They call her Mustache.”
“That’s cruel.”
“Yeah. She’s nice, too.” I open my e-mail. “Let’s do something. To those guys.”