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  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bridgette perched at the fountain, nibbling a pretzel. Because of the ferns, I couldn’t tell for certain, but it appeared she was watching us. What, was she stalking us or something? I kept peering over my shoulder. As far as I could tell, she hadn’t followed us out to the car.

  I climbed in on Mary Jane’s side, then sunk into the backseat of her VW and strapped myself in. Starting the engine, Mary Jane looked at me in the rearview mirror, her brow furrowed. “You’re being awfully quiet, hon. Anything wrong? Are you having non-buyer’s remorse? Those jeans were way fierce, Poppy. I saw the exact same ones in Lucky just last week. Come to think of it, you look exactly like the model who was wearing them.”

  “Er, thanks.” Boy, these girls could sure coat it on thick. The scene at lunchtime when Mary Jane told Bridgette her skirt was très chic replayed in my mind. “I think I might have seen Bridgette by the fountain, watching us,” I said. “What’s going on between Bridgette and you guys, anyway?”

  “Nothing really,” Mary Jane said. “She’s just jealous of us, I think.”

  “Oh yeah,” Whitney said without hesitation. “That girl needs to get a life. I swear, she wants to be popular, but she just doesn’t have what it takes.”

  “Bless her heart,” Mary Jane added, flicking the shiny “I Heart Jesus” charm on her rearview mirror.

  What was really going on with Bridgette and Mary Jane and Whitney? I wondered about it as Mary Jane dropped me off. Pleasant Acres was such a small town, and everybody seemed to know everybody’s business. I’d only been there a few days and already people knew my cell number and my address. Give it another day or two and they’d probably have my grandmother’s alcoholism, my mom’s teenage pregnancy, my D in volleyball, my ex Spence, and any other skeleton in my closet dug up, dusted off, and displayed for all to see. If somebody screwed up, their reputation would be obliterated in a blink of an eye. And as far as I could tell, reputation meant a lot to the people of Pleasant Acres, Texas.

  Mary Jane wasted no time driving me home. “See you tomorrow,” I said, squeezing out behind Whitney.

  They waved as they drove away in the convertible, their beautiful hair floating around their beautiful faces. Obviously, they were in an ugly feud with Bridgette Josephs, and though I knew it was none of my business, I was curious to find out more.

  Mom was perched at her computer, reading what I presumed to be one of her student’s assignments as she tapped her foot to an old Dave Matthews Band song. A stack of papers towered at her left elbow, and several classic novels, some I recognized from my own bookshelf, were piled to her right. An empty moving box and the 1940s-inspired two-toned pumps she’d worn that day cluttered the floor. Her college diplomas and a picture I’d made for her in the first grade sat on the love seat, framed and ready to hang. With crayons, I’d drawn one of my favorite daydreams: Mom and me in a field of poppies, playing with a dog. Then my teacher had helped me brush the paper with black paint. I remembered thinking it was so cool how the crayon colors emerged and seemed even brighter. Mom must’ve liked it for some reason too, since she’d kept it for all these years.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, pretending to be surprised. “I thought you’d be on a hot date. Or at least at a book club meeting or a Tupperware party.”

  Mom put her fingernail on the page to hold her spot and lifted her eyes to me. Some tendrils of her light brown hair had fallen loose from her chignon, sticking to the back of her neck and forehead. “Not in this lifetime.”

  “But hey, it’s the only life you’ve got. Unless you’re hoping to go to Tupperware parties in the afterlife. Oh, man. If heaven is all about Tupperware parties, I’m afraid I might have to do something incredibly sinful so I won’t have to go.”

  “Very funny. Now go and do your homework so you won’t have to rely on making a living as a comedienne.” Before I made it out the door, she said, “How was shopping?”

  “Fine.”

  She said, “Good,” and then went back to grading papers.

  Sometimes I felt like we were an old married couple, one of those that was always together, yet always lonely.

  • • •

  “Hey, Poppy,” Whitney greeted me in the hall as I headed to English class. “I love your top, but did you know there’s a hole right here?” She put her pointer finger on my shoulder, touching my bare skin where gray-and-white striped material should have been: a quarter-size, strategically located hole, offering everybody a peek at my black bra strap. I had no idea that pesky hole was there, and I couldn’t quite figure out if I cared. Or not.

  Most of my clothes came from thrift stores, and typically if there were holes, broken zippers, or missing buttons, I corrected those problems before wearing them. Nobody wants a wardrobe malfunction, especially on one’s second day at a new school. But it wasn’t like I had thread and a needle stashed in my backpack. “Maybe the office has a sewing kit?” I said. “Or I could always have someone staple it for me.”

  “Stay put,” Whitney said. “I have just the thing.”

  She ran—not like a fast walk or even a jog, but a full-out sprint—down the hall and in no time, she returned with a sheer emerald green scarf and a safety pin. She pinned the hole together and draped the scarf around my neck and over my shoulders. Then she stepped back to admire her work and said, “Perfect.”

  “Wow,” I said, overcome with gratitude. “Um, thank you.”

  She beamed. “You’re totally welcome. See you later.” She waved and headed off to her next class.

  • • •

  Mrs. Oliverson, the honors English teacher, made us read quietly all period while she graded the Hamlet essays we’d handed in. Any minute, she’d be reading mine. Or maybe she already had. I tried to concentrate on my book, but I kept reading the same passage over and over again, totally annoying myself. It also annoyed me that no windows graced this particular classroom, and the fuzzy strings of lint dancing in the AC vents offered the only entertainment. But even those failed to keep my attention for long.

  Bridgette Josephs swiveled in her seat and peered at me over the top of her A Tale of Two Cities. There was an intense look in her eyes, like she was trying to send me a telepathic signal. I gave her a little wave, hoping she wouldn’t go all melodramatic on me again. Even so, my mind boomeranged back to Mrs. Oliverson and her purple grading pen.

  I’d started working on my essay late last night, during lulls in my IM conversation with Mary Jane and Whitney, and finished it over a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats just a few hours ago. And though I hadn’t put forth a lot of time or effort, I felt pretty good about my essay. Whether Mrs. Oliverson would like it or not, I had no clue. What I did know was that if she gave me anything less than an A, Mom would freak.

  My mind drifted back to the last time Mom flipped out, every word as clear and stinging as if it had happened yesterday. She held my report card like a dirty diaper, demanding to know why I’d made B’s and a D. “If you would have told me you were having trouble in school, I could have found you a good tutor. But you didn’t tell me, and now I have no choice but to call the school and check up on you every week. . . .”

  Then I dealt a low blow, saying, “I wish I lived with my father,” and she went off the deep end, calling my boyfriend a loser, as well as all my other friends. She even had the gall to ask if I were doing drugs. She went on and on, the accusations and stabs rolling off her tongue. I just sat there, shocked and speechless and trying so hard not to cry because I thought that was what she wanted—for me to break down and cry.

  But then Mom burst into tears and said she was sorry and that it would be hard, but she’d like to trust me again. She said she loved me and promised that if she were ever that mad again, she’d wait and cool down before talking to me.

  I never apologized for bringing my father into it, but I vowed to myself never to do it again. Ever since, I’ve felt extremely guilty. I knew she did her very best to give me a good li
fe and how she made huge sacrifices every single day. I knew the whole young-single-mother gig was far from easy, and I appreciated her for it. That was why, although we rarely saw eye to eye, I did my damnedest to stay in her good graces.

  Once Mrs. Oliverson started doling out essays, my heartbeat intensified and my hands went all clammy. I pretended to be enraptured with the paragraph on page forty-two, the same one I’d been staring at for a good half an hour, and then looked up with a pleasant smile as she handed me mine. “Nice work, Poppy,” she whispered, and every cell in my body rejoiced when I read her note under the big purple A-plus: Very compelling. I’m glad you’re not afraid to think out of the box. I smiled to myself, excited to show it to Mom.

  As soon as Mrs. Oliverson dismissed us, I hurried out, hoping to keep a safe distance from Bridgette. She quickly caught up to me, though. The grin I gave her felt strained.

  She said, “I like your earrings,” and I stopped in my tracks.

  Oh, shit. Did she know I didn’t pay for them?

  CHAPTER SIX

  My throat became parched and the guilt I’d felt when I first realized I’d taken the earrings—and again when I’d put them on this morning—returned with a vengeance. Maybe, hopefully, this was just Bridgette’s way of making small talk, trying to make up for how weird she’d acted yesterday. “Oh, yeah?” I swallowed. “Um, thanks. How’d you do on your essay?” I tightened my grip on my A-plus paper.

  “Are they new? Your earrings?” She didn’t blink.

  Oh my God, she had to know. Paranoia clawed at my heart. “Kind of . . . ,” I hedged.

  “Poppy, hold up.” Mary Jane’s Southern drawl penetrated the racket made by the swarm of students. As she dragged a beaming Andrew over, I silently thanked her for the impeccably timed interruption. The smear of coral-pink lipstick just below Andrew’s mouth advertised to the world their recent make-out session.

  In contrast to the blurry, noisy commotion all around us, Bridgette stood silent and motionless with her fingers tucked into the belt loops of her dark brown trousers. Her face registered an odd mixture of disdain and . . . hurt? Once again, I found myself wondering what the story was between Mary Jane Portman and Bridgette Josephs.

  “I’m glad I caught you . . .” Mary Jane paused to catch her breath. “Oh, that scarf looks vaguely familiar. I think I might have one like it.”

  “It’s actually Whitney’s,” I said. “She loaned it to me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can just have it. We probably have fifty between us,” she said.

  “Fifty?” I asked. Who had that many scarves?

  She twirled her hair. “Well, they were discounted. Deeply discounted. Oh, and lookie here: you’re wearing your new earrings,” she said. “Aren’t they cute, honey?” Andrew glanced at my ears and gave a dutiful nod. “Now you just need to get those jeans to go with them,” she said with a long-lashed wink.

  “So what’s up?” I asked, changing the subject. As soon as no one was looking, I planned to remove the earrings and stuff them into the front pocket of my backpack.

  “Whitney and Ellen just printed these, and they wanted me to make sure you got one.” Mary Jane detached her hand from Andrew’s and passed me a flyer. “It’s about the GOV Club. Whitney’s trying to get a scholarship—something about being a ‘young African-American woman who makes a difference’—and as part of it, she decided to start a club. Anyway, you should totally join.”

  “Sounds fun.” I stuffed the flyer in my backpack, glad to discuss something besides my earrings. “Thanks.”

  “You can have one too, if you’d like,” Mary Jane said to Bridgette, holding out another flyer. “It’s an open club.”

  “So I see, if you’re in it,” Bridgette muttered under her breath.

  Mary Jane flinched like she’d been struck, but then quickly covered with a big, dazzling smile. “Well, you’d better hurry along to your next class, Bridgette. It would be pitiful to lose your perfect attendance award on my account.”

  “Yeah, well, I was just leaving. Bye, Poppy.”

  Although Bridgette had undoubtedly hit a nerve with Mary Jane just then, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Bridgette somehow.

  Mary Jane called, “Byeeeeee,” with a “Get lost, bitch” undercurrent. Then she hooked her arm through mine and dragged Andrew and me into the mob of students plodding down the hall.

  “Hi, Mary Jane!” A senior girl waved excitedly, jiggling the bracelet on her wrist. “Thanks again for the charm bracelet. I get compliments on it every single day.”

  Mary Jane blew her a kiss. “You’re welcome, sweetie.” Then she greeted a group of girls, sprinkling compliments like, “Congrats on your tennis match, Lacey,” and “Bethany, that skirt is fabulous. What I wouldn’t do for legs like yours!” leaving grins ’n’ giggles in our wake.

  Mary Jane might’ve held a popular girl pedigree, but she was so different from the A-listers at my old school, who wouldn’t be caught dead associating with the common folk, let alone giving them gifts and singing their praises. The golden-haired beauty definitely had an effect on the other students, and being at her side lifted my spirits as well.

  “Well, this is me,” I said, stopping at the door of my physics class.

  Andrew’s arms circled Mary Jane’s waist and she rested her head on his chest. “Fridays are open campus lunches, you know. So, we were thinking of going to Taco Casa,” Mary Jane said. “Want to come?”

  “Sounds great, but I already told Bridgette I’d eat with her in the caf,” I said with a one-shouldered shrug.

  Mary Jane completely froze. Then she blinked twice as her jaw slowly and steadily drooped. “You cannot be serious.”

  The warning “bell” sounded (it was actually the tune “Amazing Grace,” which cracked me up every time it went off) and the sea of students parted around us, scurrying to get to their respective classes before the song ended.

  Mary Jane spun around and lifted her chin up to Andrew for a good-bye kiss. I tried not to gag during their exchange of mushy baby-talk farewells.

  “Okay, Poppy. All jokes aside, you should totally come out to lunch with us,” Mary Jane said. “We have lots to talk about, like the barbecue at Pastor Hillcrest’s tonight. Guess who’s going to be there . . . ?”

  “Um, Pastor Hillcrest?”

  Her laugh rang through the hallway. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, he will be there, grillin’ his famous hot dogs. But so will Gabe. And he wanted us to be sure and let you know he’d be there.” She cupped her hand to her cheek, private conversation–style, and lowered her voice to say, “I think he might have a little ol’ crush on you.”

  I could tell my face turned beet red and I tried to hide it by looking down at my Converse. “Oh, well. I’m sure Bridgette won’t mind.” My gut told me she would mind if I ditched her yet again. But I really did want to hear more about the barbecue—my first genuine Texas barbecue—and okay, maybe there was a part of me interested in getting to know Gabe a little better.

  “Do you have a sec? I need your opinion,” I said, finding Mom at the kitchen counter watching the news. “Is this too . . . I don’t know . . . chichi?” I held my wrist under her nose and she took a whiff.

  “Mmm. It smells wonderful. Is it new?”

  I sniffed it myself for the tenth time since being home from school. “Yeah. I got a sample at the mall.”

  She placed a cup of steaming water in front of me. I selected my favorite Celestial Seasonings tea from the basket and dropped it into the cup, idly dunking it with a spoon while I stared at the TV. An energetic Hispanic lady stood amongst toppled trees, destroyed furniture, and other debris, showing the world how Hurricane Phillipa had wreaked havoc on southern Texas.

  “When do you think you’ll get your English essay back?” Mom asked out of the blue.

  “Oh, I already did.” I went to fetch my backpack out of my room, and when I came back, she lowered her brow and held out her hand. She expected to be disappointed, and though th
at pained me, I savored the opportunity to prove her wrong. I dug out the essay and placed it dramatically in her palm.

  Mom’s expression softened as she scanned Mrs. Oliverson’s notes. Without a word, she began reading my essay about the relationship between Hamlet and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. I dunked the tea bag again, and it bobbed up and down, up and down while she read. The sun must have ducked behind some clouds because the kitchen went darker. Raindrops splattered against the bay window.

  Eventually, she looked up at me and a smile flickered on her lips. “This is . . . good, Poppy. I have students in my classes who don’t express their ideas nearly as eloquently as you do.”

  I shrugged, trying to appear casual, like it barely even mattered. Inside, I felt like I’d struck gold. It wasn’t every day Mom openly praised my schoolwork. More to the point, since she set par at A-plus, it was only when I slipped beneath it that I heard any feedback at all. Pride and a rare sense of peace swelled inside of me.

  “What are your plans this weekend?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking of going to a barbecue at the pastor’s house tonight.”

  “And let me guess, you want to smell good for a certain boy who’s going to be there.”

  “Aha. Can’t get much past you, Mom. Are you sure you’re not a psychic?”

  “I take it you’re going with Whitney and Mary Jane?”

  “Yeah, and I might hit the mall with them on Saturday.”

  “As long as you’re caught up on your schoolwork. It’s going to take quite a few more A’s like this one to resuscitate that GPA of yours.”

  “I’ll make sure I’ve got it all done.” A few beats later, I said, “Mom, could I maybe have some spending money? For clothes?”

  “Didn’t you buy a bunch of clothes from that secondhand shop on Pearl Street right before we moved? By the way, I love what you did with that crocheted sweater—the buttons and everything.”