necklace, if any; watch on one wrist, bracelets (if any) on other; no piercings, anklets, belly chains, tattoos (as if); backpack (small to medium, new, no scuffs) in black or brown, or shoulder tote (ditto), small purse, designer ONLY.
Phew. That’s a tall order for a non–morning person like myself.
But I figure if I start at quarter to seven, I’ll have just enough time to grab a protein bar or whatever for breakfast and meet Jason and Becca at The B by eight to get to school by first bell at eight ten. I can grab a Diet Coke out of the machines by the gym for my caffeine jolt.
My mom just waddled into my room and sank down on the bed beside me.
“How are you doing, honey?” she asked. “All ready for school tomorrow? It’s a big day…eleventh grade. Ican’t believe my baby’s a junior already!”
“Yeah, Mom,” I said. “Everything’s great. Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re the only one I don’t worry about,” my mom said, patting me on the leg. “I know what a good head you’ve got on your shoulders.”
Then she noticed the outfit that was hanging on my closet door.
“Well,” she said after a minute. “That’s new.”
She didn’t exactly say it like she thought it was a good thing, either.
My mom is funny that way. I mean, I have tried explaining to her before that Wrangler jeans aren’t the same as Calvin Kleins. I’ve tried telling her how “just ignoring Lauren” at school when she starts in with the Don’t Pull a Steph stuff really doesn’t work.
But my mom—and Dad, too—totally doesn’t get it. I think because she never cared about being popular in school. All she ever did was read books. It was always her dream to open and run a bookstore, just like it was always my dad’s dream to be a published mystery writer (a dream that still hasn’t come true).
I’ve tried to explain to her that being popular isn’t the point—getting people to give me a chance to be liked, a chance Lauren pretty much ruined for me that day in sixth grade—is all I ask for.
But she doesn’t understand why I care about being liked by people like Lauren Moffat, whom she considers intellectually beneath me.
That’s why I can’t tell her about The Book. She’d just never understand.
“I suppose,” Mom said still looking at the outfit, “that you borrowed the money for that from Grandpa.”
“Um,” I said, surprised. “Yeah.”
My mom, seeing my questioning look, shrugged.
“Well, I know you’d never dip into your savings for new clothes,” Mom explained. “That wouldn’t be fiscally responsible.”
I felt pretty bad then. I know how angry Mom is at her father.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I said. “I mean, that I still talk to Grandpa.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom said with a laugh, leaning over to brush my bangs away from the eye they fall over (in a look that Christoffe, Curl Up and Dye’s leading hairstylist, assures me is THE hottest thing. “You are a gamine,” Christoffe insisted, last time I saw him. “Insouciant! The rest of those girls at your school, with the part down the middle—phwah! You’ve got a look that says, ‘I am sophisticated.’”).
“You and your grandfather are so much alike,” Mom went on. “It would be a crime to keep you two apart.”
I liked hearing that. Even though Mom’s mad at Grandpa, I’m glad she thinks that I’m like him. I want to be like Grandpa. Except for the mustache.
“I don’t see why you two can’t make up,” I said. “I know you’re still mad about the Super Sav-Mart. But it’s not like Gramps is using the money all for himself. Imean, he built the observatory and gave it to the town.”
“He didn’t do it for the town,” Mom said. “He did it for her .”
Ouch. I guess my mom really doesn’t like Kitty.
Or maybe she just doesn’t like that Gramps gave up smoking for her, but wouldn’t do it for his wife, even though she was dying of cancer.
Although Dad once confided in me behind Mom’s
Phew. That’s a tall order for a non–morning person like myself.
But I figure if I start at quarter to seven, I’ll have just enough time to grab a protein bar or whatever for breakfast and meet Jason and Becca at The B by eight to get to school by first bell at eight ten. I can grab a Diet Coke out of the machines by the gym for my caffeine jolt.
My mom just waddled into my room and sank down on the bed beside me.
“How are you doing, honey?” she asked. “All ready for school tomorrow? It’s a big day…eleventh grade. Ican’t believe my baby’s a junior already!”
“Yeah, Mom,” I said. “Everything’s great. Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re the only one I don’t worry about,” my mom said, patting me on the leg. “I know what a good head you’ve got on your shoulders.”
Then she noticed the outfit that was hanging on my closet door.
“Well,” she said after a minute. “That’s new.”
She didn’t exactly say it like she thought it was a good thing, either.
My mom is funny that way. I mean, I have tried explaining to her before that Wrangler jeans aren’t the same as Calvin Kleins. I’ve tried telling her how “just ignoring Lauren” at school when she starts in with the Don’t Pull a Steph stuff really doesn’t work.
But my mom—and Dad, too—totally doesn’t get it. I think because she never cared about being popular in school. All she ever did was read books. It was always her dream to open and run a bookstore, just like it was always my dad’s dream to be a published mystery writer (a dream that still hasn’t come true).
I’ve tried to explain to her that being popular isn’t the point—getting people to give me a chance to be liked, a chance Lauren pretty much ruined for me that day in sixth grade—is all I ask for.
But she doesn’t understand why I care about being liked by people like Lauren Moffat, whom she considers intellectually beneath me.
That’s why I can’t tell her about The Book. She’d just never understand.
“I suppose,” Mom said still looking at the outfit, “that you borrowed the money for that from Grandpa.”
“Um,” I said, surprised. “Yeah.”
My mom, seeing my questioning look, shrugged.
“Well, I know you’d never dip into your savings for new clothes,” Mom explained. “That wouldn’t be fiscally responsible.”
I felt pretty bad then. I know how angry Mom is at her father.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I said. “I mean, that I still talk to Grandpa.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom said with a laugh, leaning over to brush my bangs away from the eye they fall over (in a look that Christoffe, Curl Up and Dye’s leading hairstylist, assures me is THE hottest thing. “You are a gamine,” Christoffe insisted, last time I saw him. “Insouciant! The rest of those girls at your school, with the part down the middle—phwah! You’ve got a look that says, ‘I am sophisticated.’”).
“You and your grandfather are so much alike,” Mom went on. “It would be a crime to keep you two apart.”
I liked hearing that. Even though Mom’s mad at Grandpa, I’m glad she thinks that I’m like him. I want to be like Grandpa. Except for the mustache.
“I don’t see why you two can’t make up,” I said. “I know you’re still mad about the Super Sav-Mart. But it’s not like Gramps is using the money all for himself. Imean, he built the observatory and gave it to the town.”
“He didn’t do it for the town,” Mom said. “He did it for her .”
Ouch. I guess my mom really doesn’t like Kitty.
Or maybe she just doesn’t like that Gramps gave up smoking for her, but wouldn’t do it for his wife, even though she was dying of cancer.
Although Dad once confided in me behind Mom’s
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