room.
I put my plastic lunch bag on the table, slid my backpack to the floor, and eased myself onto the bench, with Amber on my left side and Duncan Brodkey on my right. I felt myself flush as our shoulders touched. I'd never imagined actually being this close to him, close enough that I could smell his shampoo and see gold hairs glinting on his forearms, above the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.
I pulled out my sandwich, sneaking little looks: his shaggy brown hair and light gray eyes and ears that are somehow more appealing than everyone else's. Once, in gym class, he wouldn't put his shorts on. "I'm a conscientious objector," he told Mr. Huff, and I'd thought that was the funniest thing I'd ever heard, even though I'd never been able to figure out exactly what made it funny.
"So what's up?" said Amber. She wore a slim silver bracelet on her left wrist, a necklace with a silver heart around her neck, a pink shirt, and jeans. Her hair was dark brown with lighter brown streaks. Highlights, I thought, and wondered if my mom would let me get some, then instantly decided that she wouldn't. "Did you get a date?" she asked.
I knew immediately what she was talking about; she didn't mean "date" as in "boy" but "date" as in "bat mitzvah." "Next October. How about you?"
"June," she said. "Do you have a theme?"
I squirmed on the narrow seat. "I don't think I'm going to have a theme." In fact, I was positive I wouldn't. The one time I'd asked my mother about it, she'd raised her eyebrows and said in a very snotty and unhelpful tone, Um, God?
Amber looked shocked. "No theme?"
I shook my head.
"Huh. Weird. Mine's Hollywood. Hey, do you want to come?"
Did I want to come to Amber Gross's Hollywood-themed bat mitzvah? Was a bean green? "Sure," I blurted.
"Cool," she said. I noticed Manda Reilly squirting her hands with disinfectant gel. My mom puts that in my lunch bag, and I usually ignore it, but today I pulled it out and squirted my hands, too. I ate quietly and watched people's hands and faces as the conversation swirled around me. High, twittery girls' voices talked about homework, soccer tournaments, babysitting jobs, a sweater at Banana Republic that would be on sale soon. Deeper boys' voices rumbled replies. I was polishing my apple on my sleeve, feeling my skin flare every time Duncan shifted or took a bite of his pizza. My own voice sounded so different from these girls' voices. Maybe that was my real problem: No matter how I dressed or how carefully I straightened my hair, I could never sound like them, and everyone would know I was an imposter as soon as I opened my mouth.
Amber tapped my shoulder. "Hey," she said. I wondered how long she'd been talking to me, how long it had taken her to realize that I needed to see her in order to know she was talking to me. I watched her sparkly pink lips form the words "Is Maxi Ryder coming to your bat mitzvah?"
The breath I hadn't realized I was holding whooshed out of me. So this is it. Mystery solved.
"I don't know," I said slowly. "She's busy. She's shooting a TV miniseries this summer, so she might be on location."
"Oh, sure," said Amber, helping herself to one of my blue-cheese olives. (She had a French manicure. I made a note to figure out how to give myself one.) "But she's, like, a friend of the family, right?" I must have looked confused, because she said, "She's in your mom's book. In the acknowledgments." She pursed her lips and stared at me. "You've read it, right?"
Before I could answer, Duncan Brodkey put down his pizza. "Your mom wrote a book?" His body was so close to mine, his mouth so close to my ear, that I could feel the words more than hear them.
I nodded again, then looked down at my apple. The table had gone silent. Every eye was on me. The truth was, my mother had written a bunch of books, science fiction adventures in the StarGirl series, but those were under a pen name. The book that they had to be talking about was the only one written under her own
I put my plastic lunch bag on the table, slid my backpack to the floor, and eased myself onto the bench, with Amber on my left side and Duncan Brodkey on my right. I felt myself flush as our shoulders touched. I'd never imagined actually being this close to him, close enough that I could smell his shampoo and see gold hairs glinting on his forearms, above the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.
I pulled out my sandwich, sneaking little looks: his shaggy brown hair and light gray eyes and ears that are somehow more appealing than everyone else's. Once, in gym class, he wouldn't put his shorts on. "I'm a conscientious objector," he told Mr. Huff, and I'd thought that was the funniest thing I'd ever heard, even though I'd never been able to figure out exactly what made it funny.
"So what's up?" said Amber. She wore a slim silver bracelet on her left wrist, a necklace with a silver heart around her neck, a pink shirt, and jeans. Her hair was dark brown with lighter brown streaks. Highlights, I thought, and wondered if my mom would let me get some, then instantly decided that she wouldn't. "Did you get a date?" she asked.
I knew immediately what she was talking about; she didn't mean "date" as in "boy" but "date" as in "bat mitzvah." "Next October. How about you?"
"June," she said. "Do you have a theme?"
I squirmed on the narrow seat. "I don't think I'm going to have a theme." In fact, I was positive I wouldn't. The one time I'd asked my mother about it, she'd raised her eyebrows and said in a very snotty and unhelpful tone, Um, God?
Amber looked shocked. "No theme?"
I shook my head.
"Huh. Weird. Mine's Hollywood. Hey, do you want to come?"
Did I want to come to Amber Gross's Hollywood-themed bat mitzvah? Was a bean green? "Sure," I blurted.
"Cool," she said. I noticed Manda Reilly squirting her hands with disinfectant gel. My mom puts that in my lunch bag, and I usually ignore it, but today I pulled it out and squirted my hands, too. I ate quietly and watched people's hands and faces as the conversation swirled around me. High, twittery girls' voices talked about homework, soccer tournaments, babysitting jobs, a sweater at Banana Republic that would be on sale soon. Deeper boys' voices rumbled replies. I was polishing my apple on my sleeve, feeling my skin flare every time Duncan shifted or took a bite of his pizza. My own voice sounded so different from these girls' voices. Maybe that was my real problem: No matter how I dressed or how carefully I straightened my hair, I could never sound like them, and everyone would know I was an imposter as soon as I opened my mouth.
Amber tapped my shoulder. "Hey," she said. I wondered how long she'd been talking to me, how long it had taken her to realize that I needed to see her in order to know she was talking to me. I watched her sparkly pink lips form the words "Is Maxi Ryder coming to your bat mitzvah?"
The breath I hadn't realized I was holding whooshed out of me. So this is it. Mystery solved.
"I don't know," I said slowly. "She's busy. She's shooting a TV miniseries this summer, so she might be on location."
"Oh, sure," said Amber, helping herself to one of my blue-cheese olives. (She had a French manicure. I made a note to figure out how to give myself one.) "But she's, like, a friend of the family, right?" I must have looked confused, because she said, "She's in your mom's book. In the acknowledgments." She pursed her lips and stared at me. "You've read it, right?"
Before I could answer, Duncan Brodkey put down his pizza. "Your mom wrote a book?" His body was so close to mine, his mouth so close to my ear, that I could feel the words more than hear them.
I nodded again, then looked down at my apple. The table had gone silent. Every eye was on me. The truth was, my mother had written a bunch of books, science fiction adventures in the StarGirl series, but those were under a pen name. The book that they had to be talking about was the only one written under her own
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