Bessica Lefter Bites Back (3 page)

Knock. Knock. Knock.
Sylvie’s mom opened the door and looked in at us. “Is everything okay? I can hear yelling.”

Of course Mrs. Potaski could hear yelling. I didn’t have time to politely explain to her
why
she heard it. I needed to get to Alma’s croquet game and talk to my mom so she would know she was supposed to lie to my principal and tell her I’d been immobilized by foot fungus.

“I’ve got to go!” I said.

“But I’m supposed to feed you lunch,” Mrs. Potaski said.

“It’s okay. I’ll eat something at the croquet game!” Then I sped out of Sylvie’s house and headed to the back field and ran through shoulder-high weeds all the way to Alma’s. When I got there, I had quite a few pieces of field
grass stuck in my shoes and I was covered with cockleburs. Plus, my legs were all scratched up.

“Mom! Mom!” I yelled as I ran over to her.

“I thought you were going to call before you came,” she said, holding her mallet still.

And just then her phone started ringing. I threw my arms around her. “Don’t answer that!”

“What’s going on?” my mom asked. She tried to make me release my squeeze on her. But I didn’t.

“Is this your daughter?” a woman asked.

We both ignored her. Because that was a dumb question.

“Mom,” I said. “I have a serious, serious problem. It’s vital.”

“You’re not making any sense, Bessica,” my mom said. “Who’s calling me? Is everything okay with Mrs. Potaski?”

I felt my mother reach for her phone and I snatched it out of her hands.

“Mom!” I said. “You can’t talk to this person until I explain the situation to you!”

I did not want to tell everybody that my principal was calling. And I also didn’t want to discuss “the situation” in front of them. For the first time I looked around at all the women at the party. They were all wearing more makeup than I thought necessary to play croquet.

“Who’s calling me?” my mother asked.

She moved closer to me like she was still interested in answering her phone. So I jogged backward a little bit and leaped over a wicket.

“Mom!” I said. “Wait!” I was bummed out that my mom couldn’t demonstrate more patience.

My mom’s phone finally chimed that the caller had left a message.

“Bessica, let’s pursue this conversation off the playing field,” my mom said.

She seemed angry. She took her mallet and walked stiffly toward the part of the lawn that wasn’t mowed.

“What’s this about?” she asked. “And give me my phone back.”

But I didn’t want to give her the phone until we were both on the same page.

“Mom,” I said. “Sylvie ruined my life.”

“How does this involve my phone?”

I released a big breath. I didn’t know where to start, so I spilled everything.

“Today was the day we divided mascot duties and got fitted for the costume,” I said. “I was supposed to be at school.”

“Shoot!” my mom said. Then she smacked herself on the forehead with the heel of her hand. “I totally forgot.”

This made me feel better, because it was beginning to
look like my terrible situation could be blamed a little bit on my mother.

“Principal Tidge called me,” I said. “And Sylvie accidentally answered my phone. And I didn’t want to tell Principal Tidge I was planning a birthday party, because that would make me look like a slacker who lacked team spirit.”

“Riiight …,” my mom said slowly.

Explaining this to my mom was turning out to be easier than I’d thought it would be.

“And then Sylvie’s mom yelled that our cookies were done. And I worried that Principal Tidge would think I’d missed the meeting because I liked eating cookies more than being mascot. And then I worried she’d think I was such a gigantic slacker that I didn’t even
deserve
to be mascot.”

“Don’t cry, Bessica. Everybody knows you’re not a gigantic slacker,” my mom said.

I was glad my mom said that, because I hadn’t even realized I was crying.

“Things aren’t as bad as they feel,” she told me.

So I gave her her phone and watched her listen to the message. Her face frowned.

“Okay. I understand why you didn’t want to tell Principal Tidge you were planning a party and eating cookies.
But why does she think you have an immobilizing fungus issue?”

“Sylvie told her that,” I said.

“Why would Sylvie tell her that? Have your toes been itching again?”

“No!” I said. I couldn’t believe my mother would ask me that at a croquet game. “Sylvie answered my phone and lost her mind.” I spun my finger next to my head. “I don’t know what they’re teaching her at South, but she’s behaving like a totally different person.”

“Okay,” my mom said. “All we need to do is call Principal Tidge and tell her there’s been a misunderstanding.”

But this made me want to cry a little bit more.

“What’s wrong?” my mother asked me.

“Okay. I’m going to talk to you like we’re both adults,” I said, sniffling. “Middle school isn’t like elementary school at all. Middle school is a heinous place that can kill you.”

“Let’s not take things over the top,” my mom said.

I held my hand up to let her know that she should stop interrupting me. Because I was saying very serious things. “It’s nothing like fifth grade. You aren’t guaranteed good grades and friends and a classroom pet. You have to earn everything.”

“I know it’s a big transition,” my mother said.

I reached out and took her hand. “Mom, the only way to survive middle school and enjoy yourself is to find your spot. When you start you don’t have a spot. You have to make one by becoming something interesting like a cheerleader or hall monitor or yearbook photographer. I’m the mascot. And I don’t want to lose my spot.” I could feel more tears forming behind my eyes.

“Oh, Bessica,” my mom said.

“And I don’t want people to think I have fungus either.”

My mother ran her hand through my hair. “You’re not going to lose your spot. And we’ll explain to Principal Tidge that your feet are fine.”

“But then why did I miss the meeting today?” I whined.

I could think of a lot of great reasons why I’d missed today’s meeting. But they were all lies. And I knew my mom wouldn’t lie to my principal for me. Because my mom liked being honest. It was a huge bummer.

“Do you want Principal Tidge to think you’ve got a fungal foot infection?”

I sniffled. When she put it that way, I wasn’t sure. “Becoming a mascot is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t want to jeopardize it.”

“Bessica,” my mother said, in a tired tone. “I’ll make an appointment to meet with her and we’ll straighten everything out. I’m sure telling the truth won’t jeopardize anything.”

My mom sounded really confident. I let out a sigh, and my mother put her arm around me. “Did you figure out what Sylvie wants for her birthday?”

I had forgotten that was my job. And to be honest, when I thought about Sylvie, I got a little bit mad at her. Because until she told Principal Tidge I had foot fungus, my problem was very fixable.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” my mom said.

I thought about Sylvie and what she deserved. And the perfect present popped into my brain.

“Yes. I know what I want to get her,” I said.

“Do we need to go to the mall after croquet?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “The mall would be perfect.”

My mom smiled. “What are you getting her?”

I smiled too. “I can’t tell you. I want it to be a big surprise.”

S
ylvie called me three times that weekend, but I never called her back. I was so mad I didn’t even listen to her messages. She also texted, “So worried for you! Call me as soon as you know anything.”

But I didn’t plan to text her until I’d forgiven her. And I wasn’t sure when that would happen.

I carefully loaded all my homework into my backpack and slid my cell phone into the front pocket. Even though we were banned from using them at school, it was nice to have it in case there was an emergency. Or in case I wanted to text Grandma Lefter at lunch because I was bored. As long as I was sneaky and nobody ever saw me
using it, I knew I’d never have a problem. My backpack was so stuffed it was hard to zip it up. But I finally did. Then I dragged it down the hallway to the front door.

“I’ve made a surprise egg dish for breakfast,” my mom said. “A frittata!”

That was not what I wanted to hear. Because in nutrition my assignment was to make a collage of all the food I ate for two weeks. And I didn’t know where to find a picture of a frittata.

I sat down and stared at an egg glob with toasty brown parts on it. Sometimes surprises weren’t good.

“What is this again?” I asked.

“A frittata,” my mother said. “Alma gave me the recipe.” I poked at it.

“You’ll like it!” she said. “It has cheese.”

That did sound good, so I took a little bite. My frittata was actually very tasty.

“Wow. Your backpack looks like you stuffed a dog inside it,” my mom said.

I frowned. “No, it doesn’t.” Then I looked at my backpack. It was pretty loaded.

“Did you finish your math worksheets?” my mom asked.

But before I could answer, I felt somebody grab me from behind. And I screamed.

“Calm down, sunshine,” my dad said. “It’s me.”

“Okay,” I said. “But it’s hard for me to know that when you’re standing directly behind me.”

“Care for some frittata?” my mom asked.

“Indeed I would,” he said.

Once a month, my dad had a morning meeting at the bread supplier warehouse, which meant he had to drive an hour and a half to Pocatello. So instead of sleeping in, he got up at the crack of dawn with the rest of us.

As soon as my mom put the frittata down in front of him, he cut it apart with his fork and started chomping on it.

“So what’s in the backpack?” my dad asked. “A Shetland pony?”

My family was starting to make me feel self-conscious about the size of my school belongings.

“We were just talking about that,” my mom said.

“You might need to graduate to roller luggage,” my dad said. “It’s better for the back.”

I opened my mouth a little bit in horror.

Then my mom went over and lifted up my backpack. “Wow. It’s heavy,” she said. “What
have
you got inside here?”

And instead of just saying
homework,
I decided to impress her by listing everything in there.

“Clean PE clothes. A jump rope. My list of foods that
will ruin your heart for nutrition. My permanent homework for English.”

And then because I wasn’t sure if my parents remembered what that was, I explained it.

“Three times a week Mr. Val gives us a poem to take home and we have to read it aloud and in our head and write a response paragraph.”

“Mr. Val plays the flute music, right?” my mom asked.

I nodded, ate more frittata, and continued explaining.

“This time, I had to respond to a fish poem by Elizabeth Bishop.”

“Neat,” my dad said.

But I wanted him to be more impressed, so I explained a bit more. “She wrote a long poem about catching a trout and then seeing her own reflection in its eyeball. Then the boat’s gasoline made a rainbow and she tossed it back in the water.”

“I think I’ve read that poem,” my mom said.

“Cool.” But I didn’t really want to get into a conversation about the fish poem with my mom. “And I have math worksheets.” But I didn’t explain those because I hated math. “And I have my map where I drew the imaginary line of the Arctic Circle around the top of the world.”

“You’re still studying the Arctic?” my dad asked.

I was surprised my dad asked me this, because it was
like he’d forgotten everything I’d told him about Mr. Hoser and his iceberg ties and his deep love of blubber mitts.

“I don’t think Mr. Hoser wants to study anything but the Arctic,” I said.

“You can’t study that for a whole year,” my mom said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s contacted NASA and we have a live feed of the Arctic that we watch on Fridays.”

“Wow,” my dad said. “I’d like to see that.”

But I was pretty sure that if my dad was forced to watch the live feed every Friday and then write a response paragraph, he wouldn’t feel that way.

I cleared my throat and kept listing the contents of my backpack.

“And for public speaking I read a speech by Spock from
The Wrath of Khan,
and today we’re going to watch it and analyze its structure.”

My parents both looked at each other. And then at me.

“You know that Spock is a fictional character, right?” my dad asked.

“I know,” I said. “He’s Vulcan. Our teacher explained that already.”

My parents looked at each other again. I scooped up more frittata and ate it. Then I looked at the clock.

“Hasta la vista,”
I said, getting up.

“Your mom isn’t driving you?” my dad asked.

“Why would I be driving her?” my mom asked. “I’ve got to go to work and then get off early to meet with Principal Tidge.”

I was a little bit nervous about this meeting.

“Why couldn’t you fix things over the phone? Or email?” I asked. That seemed simpler.