Saving Montgomery Sole (5 page)

What are the odds?

Now Tiffany spends most of her time at Yoggy working on her “independent thesis,” which will be based on her “out-of-system” research on “The SorBetties.”

The SorBetties are the yoga freaks who come to Yoggy every week but only ever eat the health-conscious options, that is, the yogurt Yoggy has labeled as either fat- or sugar-free. Or carb-free. Tiffany has been tracking the SorBetties' movements since she got this job three years ago. Every time a SorBetty orders a health-conscious Yoggy flavor, Tiffany takes their picture with her phone and adds them to her data.

We got to be friends because one day I ordered health-conscious, carb-free, blueberry swirly with extra marshmallow and Cocoa Puffs topping, and I caught her taking my picture. My only interest in the carb-free blueberry was that it was their only blueberry option. Blueberry goes great with marshmallow.

I would never diet. Even Tesla, who is always on a health kick, would never diet. You cannot diet in a house run by lesbian moms, especially when one of them was the head of a “consciousness-raising group” in college.

Or, you know, that's what Momma Jo tells me.

Needless to say, Tiffany and I are pretty much bonded on our shared major dislike for the population of Aunty that worries about carbs. The SorBetties are
the
rudest. They always travel in packs and squeal really loudly like how girlfriends laugh on TV. Also, they never pick up their cartons. And they never finish their yogurt.

Recently, Tiffany kicked her research up a notch by changing around the health-conscious cards on some of the flavors. The Wild Strawberry Sensation, as a result, is now listed as carb-free.

It is not.

It's possible the SorBetties have sensed a snake in the grass.

“This is
totally
carb-free?” they squeak from the dispensers. “You're sure? Totally carb-free? Hellooooo, yogurt lady? I'm talking to you. Yes. Are you
absolutely
and
totally sure
this is carb-free?”

“Totally.” Tiffany has a special smile she saves for the SorBetties. It is a teeth-only, dead-eye smile. It looks like some sort of reverse magic spell.

Mystery Club–related side note: once, like two years ago, I started reading these blogs of girls who decided to starve themselves to death. I was actually looking for websites about people who fast for spiritual reasons, so they can hallucinate, but all these anorexia fan sites started coming up instead.

There are so many blogs out there written by girls who want to weigh less than a baby squirrel.

I would put it on my list of things I will never understand, but it's too gross and sad.

Of course, the second-best part of Yoggy is that whenever I come in, Tiffany lets me put on as much topping as I want as long as I pay for the actual yogurt.

I'm currently perfecting the perfect balance of mochi and mandarin slices and crispy stars. The trick is to keep the stars on the top so they don't get soggy.

The store was quiet when I arrived, so Tiffany let me sit on the counter, and we looked at sexist magazines together. Which was kind of calming. The counters were all littered with half-eaten cups of strawberry-smelling goop.

“How's the research?” I asked, between perfect cold and crunchy mouthfuls.

“Grueling,” Tiffany grumbled.

I scooped some extra Lucky Charms cereal and maraschino cherries on my Mocha Me Crazy fro even though Mama Kate is convinced anything with red dye is poison.

Flipping the page of her magazine, Tiffany squished her mouth from side to side, like she was rinsing with Listerine or something. Her lip ring looked a little sore.

“How's school?” she asked.

“Stupid,” I said, flipping the magazine page.

“Huh.” Tiffany flashed a pierced-eyebrow raise.

“Hey,” I said, jumping off the counter to grab more topping. “Do you ever get the feeling you're, like, on the verge of not being able to deal with people being jerks?”

Tiffany gave me the look I guess a person like me asking a person like her a question like that deserves. I mean, she works at a place called Yoggy.

She sighed and grabbed another magazine from the pile. “High school is mostly pointless.”

“Right.” I stabbed at a handful of peanut butter cups with my clearly-too-small-for-the-job set of plastic tongs. “I'm pretty convinced my own research online will be more fruitful than anything I'll learn at Jefferson High.”

Tiffany stopped to unstick a page. The magazines were the ones the SorBetties had left behind, and they were always covered in carb-free. “Yep. Most of what you're learning at school is a lie you'll have to unlearn in college.”

“Unlearn!” I shouted exuberantly, scattering peanut butter cups and cherries on the counter as a result. “Whoops. I mean, exactly! I should just not go.”

“Ah, no. You gotta go,” Tiffany said, grabbing a wet cloth from under the counter and handing it to me. “Wipe.”

“What?” I froze, cloth in hand. “Why?”

“Ahem. You gonna clean that up?”

Tiffany has this thing, the ability to switch almost who she is, on a dime. Like, all friendly to superharsh. She's not mean like high-school-girl mean. More like grumpy. Usually when something is spilled.

I wiped the counter while she opened up a new magazine.

“You know,” she said, when I'd finished grabbing all my spilled toppings with the cloth and dumped them in the trash, “I had a SorBetty come in today and buy a small carb-free for her four-year-old. Four years old, Montgomery!”

I snorted. “What does that have to do with me not going to school?”

Tiffany gave me this kind of drop-dead look. “Maybe there are some things that are bigger than just your problems?”

Wow. Nice.

I looked down at what was left in my cup. All I could smell was the bleachy, sour smell of the wet rag on my hands. The anti-food smell.

You know
, I wanted to say,
I'm, like, the only person you talk to all day, I bet, that gets why it sucks here. I mean, it's not like I treat you like someone who's serving me yogurt. How about you treat me like something other than a dumb kid?

Instead I said, “Well, thanks for the toppings.”

Just then, the door dinged and a bunch of SorBetties came in, dewy from Ashtanga or whatever it is they do. I slipped out, put a little Eurythmics on. Eurythmics is this band from the eighties. Their song “Here Comes the Rain Again” was Momma Jo's favorite song, and she used to play it
all the time
. I heard it probably a million times as a kid. Fortunately it's a great song. They're probably my fourth-favorite band.

Naoki said it's interesting that I like Eurythmics because the name actually means “a harmonious body of words.” “Like a pep rally where everyone is singing the same song.”

“And it's a nice song,” Thomas added.

 
Harmony—music and magic?

 
Throat singing?

There's no way Jefferson High would ever play Eurythmics, anywhere. First of all, Eurythmics is music for poets, not jocks. Plus it's music for singing alone when you feel alone in the world. And that's not pep rally music.

*   *   *

It was Sole Family Pizza Night. By the time I got home, Tesla had already voted on a movie,
Home Alone
, which is this relatively ancient movie she found on Netflix about this kid who gets left behind when his parents go away, because his parents are stupid and don't know how to count their kids.

As I carefully stacked what I perceived to be the max number of pizza slices onto my plate (accessing my math skills to see if my triangle studies would prove at all helpful—they didn't), I caught Mama Kate looking at me.

“How's it going?” she said, in this superlight “I'm just asking about the weather” way.

“Starving,” I said, pointing at my pizza.

Mama Kate disappeared into the fridge and emerged with a big bottle of soda, which is an only-movie-night treat because sugar in pop form makes Tesla a bit crazy. “How's school?”

“Fine,” I said. It is important, when eating pizza, to make sure you have at least two napkins per slice. Especially in my family. Half the clothes any of us owns are stained with something.

Mama Kate nudged a glass in my direction. “Nothing of note?”

There is nothing Mama Kate wants more than for me to “talk about things,” whatever that means. Talk about what and why is what I want to know. About how Matt Truit is a dickhead? Which would give her a new thing that she can worry about? On top of all the other things she worries about, like food dye and grades and everything? I don't think so.

I poured myself a glass of sugary carbonated goodness and smiled a huge “school photo” fake smile. “Everything's totally cool,” I said.

“
Hey!
” Momma Jo shouted from the couch.
“Are we watchin' a movie or what?”

On movie nights, my moms sit on the couch with Tesla snuggled in the middle, and I perch on the top of the couch, creating kind of a pyramid shape. We have many family photos with this similar formation. It is not necessarily the best setup for a movie-night seating arrangement. Many pieces of pizza have been spilled because the top of the couch, as Momma Jo has often said, is not a table.

I lay a few extra napkins on my knees and on the couch for good measure.

“That's a good idea,” Momma Jo said, holding out her hand. “Gimme some of those.”

“I might have to go and do homework and not watch the whole movie,” I warned as Tesla pointed the remote at the TV.

“Geez. Glad you could join us!” Momma Jo frowned. “How's the pizza? To your liking? Should we order you an extra pie next time?”

“Can I just eat please and not get hassled?” I said, in what was probably more of a low grumble.

“
Hey!
” Momma Jo snapped, flicking my knee. “How about you're wearing my super cool overalls so you should be nice to me or I'll let Mama take you shopping for real clothes?”

“Jo, stop it!” Mama Kate reached up and patted my leg. “I'm glad you're still into movie night,” she whispered.

“
Shhhh!
” Tesla pouted. “I'm trying to watch.”

Tesla was superintense through the whole movie. At some point she slid off the couch and sat cross-legged on the floor, so she could practically touch the TV. Against the screen, her hair looked like a halo.

At some point, the kid, who has been left alone, goes to a church, because he's lonely, I guess. Tesla made us pause the movie at that scene.

“Why don't we go to church?” she asked.

“Do you want to go?” Momma Jo asked, her mouth full of pizza.

Tesla shrugged and pressed Play.

Mama Kate looked hard at the back of Tesla's head.

Weird.

But then, of course, before I could think about it too much, true to form …

“Oh! It's that woman! What's the name of that actress, Monty?”

I have no idea.

“You know this little boy is grown up and married now, I think. Isn't he, Monty?”

For God's sake.

Right about the time the zany burglars in the movie were slipping around on marbles, which Momma Jo thought was hilarious, I began my escape.

“You don't want to see the end of this?” Momma Jo asked as I slid backward off the couch, not unlike a lizard.

“I think I got it,” I said, landing on the floor and standing upright. “The kid ends up not alone, right?”

“
Monty!
” Tesla whined.

“Sorry!” I hollered, and bounded up the stairs.

*   *   *

I was lying in bed when I got an IM from Thomas.

Thomas: You OK? Looked for you after school.

Me: Bad day. Jefferson sucks.

Thomas: Cour-age, my little one.

Thomas: Remember we are orchids in a forest of carnations.