Read Tales From My Closet Online
Authors: Jennifer Anne Moses
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #General, #Clothing & Dress, #Social Issues, #Friendship
Tales From My Closet (20 page)
I
could barely face
going back to school. Everyone was talking about what they did over Christmas vacation. I dreaded being asked. But the subject didn’t even come up. Instead, people just kind of . . .
stared
at me. It was so weird. But it wasn’t until I overheard some girls talking about a blog called
Fashion High
that I got on my iPhone and Googled it, and there it was: a blog about me — about me and Arnaud’s raincoat!
Here’s what it said:
Welcome to the inaugural issue of Fashion High, a blog for and by fashionistas — those of us who can’t fall asleep at night without seeing the latest ballet flats and designer jeans dancing across our dreams.
Where to start? Because here at Western High, we are every type, from preppy princesses to hipsters to retro hippies to hip-hop queens to flat-out fabulous.
But one girl — and one look — stands out and above all others.
We speak, of course, of The Raincoat. We’ve taken note of it — and we know you have, too. The Raincoat is tall and raven-haired, and, like a raven, she flaps her wings from high in the sky. Her large, beat-up men’s raincoat flapping behind her like wings, she soars through the halls, trailing in her wake dozens of smaller ravens — would-be ravens who, over the rainy months of November and December, suddenly starting flocking to her call, to show up wearing large men’s raincoats of their own. All of them, that is, except her friend, herself a fashionista of the first order, but whose own inclinations have tilted her toward a look that combines nightwear with in-the-know in a way that dares the fashion gods themselves to do better.
The rumor is that The Raincoat spends time in Paris. Is that where she acquired her fashion sense? Is that where she acquired her raincoat?
Sure, she has the look. Is she fabulous or what? But is it really a look anyone wants to emulate? Is it really a look that anyone else CAN emulate?
What will she bring back from Paris this time?
Fashion High
can’t wait for its next trend.
What do you think?
Fashion High
requests your feedback!
Plus, it had drawings — lots of them, in pen-and-ink. They made me look like — well, like a raven! Or maybe like a bag lady, like someone who’d just escaped from the nuthouse!
Did everyone really hate me that much? Or maybe everyone didn’t hate me. Maybe only the blog writer hated me. Was I that horrible? Couldn’t they just understand that I was miserable?
And I was more miserable now.
I had to find out who had written it, and make her — them — take it down. Why couldn’t people just understand? Even Robin didn’t understand me anymore. Even she thought I was just, well, a bitch! But I wasn’t really. Not deep down. Not in that place where I used to love Meryl, and she used to love me back, and everything was simple and easy and free. I just didn’t know how to be friends with anyone anymore! Maybe, after all, it was me who was a freak — and not them. Maybe that’s why Arnaud treated me the way he had: because he knew, too!
When, as I headed toward my first class, I heard a bunch of girls giggling behind my back, I felt myself going hot and cold all over. Worse, when I turned around to stare them down, they scurried away.
Ignore them
, I told myself. Maybe they were just jealous. After all, they’d have a right to be, especially because what I was wearing that day, for the first day of school after the winter break, was as entirely an incredible outfit as any I’d ever put on. It was a gray woolen Libby Fine minidress, topped with a Libby bolero jacket, and my black boots. I’d tied my hair back into one long braid, and as I walked, I could feel it swishing back and forth along my spine. I could also tell that people were
looking at me
! Ignoring everyone, I walked on.
But just as I was coming out of the bathroom, I saw Robin hurrying up to me. “I need to talk to you!”
“I thought we weren’t friends anymore.”
“There’s something I have to tell you.”
“That you’re a whiny crybaby?”
“Okay. Just forget it, then.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
But there was something in her voice, some catch, like backed-up tears, that stopped me. Plus, she looked weird, like she’d been playing makeup with her mother’s cosmetics and had forgotten to wash it off. And just like that, I figured it out: She knew who had written the blog.
“You know, don’t you?”
“Know what?”
“Who wrote the blog.”
She looked at me as though I was from Mars. “Huh?”
“Tell me, Robin. I mean it. Who wrote that stupid blog?”
“First, if you didn’t notice, I’m in it, too. And second, I have no idea!”
“Who. Wrote. It.” By now I was so upset that my voice was shaking, I was so angry. “Tell me, Robin. Because if there’s something I need to know . . .”
As the words flew out of my mouth, Robin seemed to shrink a little inside herself, as if she were protecting herself from a blow. Which is when, in a flash, I figured the whole thing out: Robin felt guilty. She’d already gone blabbing to Meryl about Arnaud, which was how Meryl knew about “Raincoat Boy” to begin with. Then Meryl had gone blabbing to Um’s mother. And now Um knew all about the raincoat — and everything else, too! It was so obvious, I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. Instead, I took Robin by both shoulders and shook her.
“You!” I said.
“What?”
“You told my mother about me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did! I can tell by your face.” It was true, too. Robin’s face was going pink around the edges, and her eyes, coated with way too much makeup, were like spinning black discs. As if mascara could cover up what she’d done! “You told Meryl everything. And she gossiped with her new friend from across the street. Who turned around and told Um!”
“But I already told you! I don’t have a clue who wrote it! And I didn’t tell your mother anything! Not even after everything!”
“Everything? Everything like what? Like I gave you that Donna Karan that you’re so obsessed with? Like I helped you get a job last summer with Aunt Libby?”
“And like you got drunk and spilled red wine on a dress that doesn’t even belong to me? And didn’t even offer to pay for the dry cleaning? How about that?”
“Meaning what, Robin? On the worst day of my life, I spilled wine by mistake, so you felt free to go blabbing to my know-it-all mother about Arnaud?”
“On the worst day of your life? How about my life? You’re not the only one with problems, you know! You don’t care about anyone but yourself!”
“At least I don’t go tattling all over town, telling other people’s secrets!”
“But I told you! I didn’t say a word! Not to your mother — not to anyone.”
“I’m going to find out who did this,” I said. “And kill them.”
“But wait!” Robin was trailing behind me now as I stalked down the halls, looking for someone, anyone, who could tell me. Polly! Polly would know — she was lab partners with the freak. But I couldn’t find her. Then the bell rang, and I saw her hurrying to class. But she was inside before I got a chance to catch up with her, and when the final bell sounded, I was alone in the hall.
I’d never felt so trapped. Even after what had happened in Paris I didn’t feel as trapped as I did now. Because at least in Paris, I could go back to the hotel and cry, and when Libby came back, I could tell her — well, not everything, but enough so that she’d give me a giant hug and then take me out for some shopping therapy. But now, as I walked down the hall heading toward English, I could tell that it was going to be a lot worse than I had thought it would be, because just about everyone — including the freshmen — was staring at me. Heads literally turned to look at me when I walked into class. Third period, with Um in it, was particularly horrendous. After fourth period, this senior girl who I’d never even seen before came up to me and said: “Hey, where’s your raincoat?”
I was just about ready to flip out when, at last, I ran into Polly, who, when I asked her point-blank, turned a little red around her eyes, and then told me that she wasn’t actually one hundred percent sure, but that she’d heard some talk. . . .
Which was all the evidence I needed. I was going to kill that Um, and then I’d unmask all of them, starting with Robin!
In the corner of the cafeteria, sitting with her usual gang of misfits and weirdos, was the biggest misfit weirdo of them all. A moment later, I was standing over her, saying, “Just so you know, you are pathetic. You and your little crew of rejects and uglies.”
That’s when I noticed that Ann was there, too — Ann, who’d been my best friend in kindergarten. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed her before, especially because she was the only black girl at the table. Her green eyes were as big as lollipops. Her cropped soft sweater was the color of a green lollipop, too. Around her neck was the same turquoise choker that Um had been wearing at that awful brunch Meryl had dragged me to . . . and as that memory flooded over me, I felt even more trapped, even more desperate and furious — at EVERYONE!
Then something truly awful happened: I burst into tears! There — right in front of those awful, immature, geeky girls! They sat there frozen, every one of them, until Ann got up and started to come toward me.
“Get away!”
All eyes were on me as I turned and, taking my time, walked through the cafeteria, down the hall, to my locker, and finally, out the door.
The only one at home was Lucy, who jumped on me when I let myself in. I’d skipped lunch, but I wasn’t hungry. Even Daddo wouldn’t be able to help me with this one. Somehow, I knew that the only solution was to get out of there — not just out of the house, but out of West Falls. Then I saw the books stacked neatly on the kitchen table:
The Daughter Doctor Does the Teenage Tango
, by Meryl Sanders, PhD.
Her new book. Opening it randomly, this is what I read:
When exactly do our darling daughters leave behind their innocent charm to become, by turns, boy-crazy, sibling-hating, competitive, moody, premenstrual, angry, self-defeating, or any combination therein? In my own house, I watched, sometimes with horror, as my first child, once a beautiful, sweet, cooperative little girl who delighted in playing dress-up, playing house, and collecting dandelions, turned into a veritable monster of hormonal chaos. . . .
An hour later, I’d hauled every single copy of that book I could find to a Dumpster a few doors up from us, where one of the neighbors was putting an addition on their house. Then I crawled into bed. I dreamed I was trying to climb a flight of stairs, but it was as if my legs were made of concrete, and I could barely take even one step without being exhausted and frustrated. Then I dreamed that I was in the middle of a war zone, with bombs exploding everywhere:
Boom! Boom! Boom!
I was so afraid that I woke up. Which is when I realized that the bombs I was hearing were real — and coming from down the hall. The Little Jerk was in his room, banging on his drums.