“That is what she is spending time on: telling other people how they should do their hair.”
“She wants everybody in braids?”
“Not everybody. Everybody else. She’s not wearing braids. That’s how we’ll know she’s special. She even suggested that the rest of us wear the same color dress, and she’d wear white or red or something to stand out.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, but Ms. K-B told her there wasn’t enough of any one kind of gingham in the costume shop, so that plan is off, thank god. But she talked Mr. Coles and the assistant into her fascist hair plan.”
“If you need any help, Mena Patel is a miracle braider. And not a fascist.”
“I was like, ‘Do you mean like those beach braids you all got on spring break last year?’ Remember that? She and what’s-her-butt and the other what’s-her-butt went to Playa del Carmen with her mom?”
What I remember is that they all came back with strapless beach tops that definitely violated the dress code and completely fascinated me. How are they even staying up?!
“She’s like, ‘NO, MAGGIE’”—she goes on in a piercing impression—“‘You know what I mean. One or two braids MAXIMUM.’” Maggie thinks a second and says, “Do you think Mena can do those beach braids?”
I can’t quite see where Maggie’s going with this, but I don’t want to accidentally put Mena in the middle of drama-kid drama. “I take it back. Leave poor Mena out of it. New subject: Did Rafa write that song?”
“Yeah. He’s writing a whole musical. He’s good, right?”
“Definitely. So he likes you?”
She sighs. “Maybe. But he’s so shy around girls. He’s like you.”
“I’m not shy!”
“You know what I mean. You get weird. No offense,” she adds. I want to be offended but I can’t. “He was probably relieved you tripped over the chair.”
“Technically, I tripped over my bag. If he’s too shy, why don’t you ask him out? Throw a guy a bone.”
“I don’t know. He’s sweet and smart and an amazing musician. And somebody told me they saw him at the Women’s March. But I can’t get him to talk.”
“Perfect! You’d do all the talking.”
She slaps me on the arm. “Seriously. The other day at practice we sat there doing nothing for a half hour while Mr. Coles tried to teach Aidan Neal a step-ball-change. The only thing Rafael said the whole time was ‘Are you allergic to anything?’ and then he offered me a peanut butter PowerBar.”
“You love peanut butter PowerBars.”
“Yeah, but I’m telling you, he’s a mouse. I mean, can you see us together, I’m kind of . . .”
“A lot,” I say. She sighs and doesn’t even try to argue.
We’re at the car, and we both automatically climb in the back. “Ah, I feel like an Uber driver up here?” says Max from the driver’s seat.
“You climb up there,” Maggie says. She’s already spread herself and her stuff out like she’s on a transatlantic flight.
We’re in a line of cars crawling toward the exit. I thread a leg through the opening between the seats and squeeze through, kneeing Max hard in the shoulder on the way up front. “Sorry!” I’m squatting on the seat trying to get my other leg free when the line stops short and he stomps on the brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of us. I tip over into his lap. “Sorry!” we both say this time. People behind us honk and Max puts his hand out the window to flip them off while I flail myself into my seat like an octopus climbing onto an English saddle.
The seat belt fits right between my breasts, like a mountain pass. Max seems uninterested in the fact that I was just sitting in his lap, but I am completely flustered. I cross my arms in front and slouch into the seat. Max looks sideways at me.
“Buckled up? Can we go now?”
“Yep. Thanks.” I will probably still be blushing when I go to bed tonight.
CHAPTER 38
“My mom wants to know where you went for the Indian spices so she can put it in her resource binder.”
“Her what?”
“The big three-ring binder she keeps with all her recommendations for her clients. Like where to leave yard waste and who the good orthodontists are.”
“Why doesn’t she ask my mom?”
“Are you kidding? That would be admitting that your mom knows something that my mom doesn’t. It would undermine her authority.”
“She has you doing her dirty work?”
“No, she’s driving to all the specialty shops and ethnic grocery stores in a fifty-mile radius trying to figure it out. She doesn’t know I’m asking.”
Jackson grins. “What is this secret worth to you?”
“I have exactly two dollars if you’re trying to blackmail me.”
“That’ll work. You only need seventy-five cents if you have a student ID.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The bus. I’ll take you to the secret spice hookup after school if you want.”
The butterfly puts on a bus driver’s uniform and drives the express all the way through my gastrointestinal system. I remind her that we are busy.
“I have volleyball.”
“Can’t you miss it? It’s for the binder! You’re excused if it’s a family emergency.”
“Emergency?”
“It’s the binder!”
“It’s a game.”
“Today?”
“Away. St. Matt’s.”
“Ah. Okay.”
Does he look disappointed or am I imagining that?
“Klaus! Klaus! Gooooten morgen!” Red Hair fahrvergnügens right up to us. The German teacher gives everyone German names and apparently “Clow-oos! Clow-oos!” is Jackson’s. Red’s wedged herself in at a forty-five-degree angle to face Jackson, so it’s clear that it’s not me she’s talking to.
“Our group is going to work on the video after school. I can come by your locker and we can walk up to the media center together.” She casually lays a hand on his arm, a line between us, and blinks her big Disney princess eyes at him.
I can’t tell if she thinks she’s his boss, because she’s telling him what he’s going to do, or his assistant, because she’s graciously offering to help him find the media center in case after six weeks he’s still getting lost. Either way, I’ve got to give it up for her flirtatious mastery. I’d fall for it. It would be sort of fascinating if it wasn’t Jackson she was talking to.