CODE NAME: WHATEVER
by
Emily Asad
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2003, 2011 by Emily Asad
All Rights Reserved
3rd Edition
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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Dedicated to my amazing husband, who provided the soil for his Rose to bloom
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
Over the years, many people have read my drafts and offered support and advice. I'd like to thank the following students for believing in me enough to help make this story reach its potential:
Gaither High School: Camille Maia, Gigi Graniela, Sophia Ruple, Jayson Palacio, Jenna Puertos, Justin Jordan, Yeniby Fernandez and Alexa Marrero
Sunlake High School: Katie Walters, Shelby Arnold and Alex Birtwell
Peoria Academy: Sarah Antonacci, Emily Antonacci, Aubrianna Radee, Sofia Rhode, Ariel Montieth (a fellow ginger), Anna Puterbaugh (glitter child), Shruti Pattekar (silent artist), Lina Aldadah and her mother May Abhouhouli, and my colleague Kayla Anderson
And to my friends: BJ Sisk, who helped me refine my juggling skills; Sarena Castorino, the most brilliant person I know; Melissa Grubbs, whose poetic sensibilities make me envious; and especially my fellow author-friend Janice Strand (who writes as Lynne Hansen) for getting me started and keeping me going.
Finally, of course, to my own mother, a strong and generous woman, and an excellent grandmother to my beautiful girls. I love you, Mom.
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Want more books by this author?
Visit Smashwords.com to download the following titles:
Survival in Style
Destination Paraguay
Visit the author's website for upcoming projects
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Table of Contents
Chapter 9: Tryouts and Blow-ups
Chapter 16: Inward, Not Onward
Chapter 17: Confidence Builders
Chapter 18: A Valentine Discovery
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1: Before We Start
Okay, I confess. I’m not comfortable with you reading this. Especially knowing you’re going to judge me, and probably hate me like everyone else does. Or at least, like they used to. I know I went to the trouble of turning parts of my diary into a story for you, but now that you’re here, I’m getting cold feet!
Why am I letting you read it, then? Put it this way: Last year really changed my life and I just have to share it with someone. And since I’m still not good at this whole friendship thing, that someone gets to be you. A perfect stranger. Call it therapy, if you like. At least I have enough guts to keep fighting.
By the way, I’m calling myself Margerly now - not my real name, but you’ll figure out why later. It’s July, I turn seventeen next week, and Luke will be back in time for the new school year. He’s still my only friend – well, the only one still alive – but the guys in the juggler’s club have been nice. I’m hoping this “therapy” helps me find some new friends this year, you know?
You won’t find vampires or schools of magic or superheroes with their special powers in my story. I’m just an ordinary teenager, the kind you’d probably never notice, the kind you pass in the hallway every single day. I can only offer you my shreds of dignity – my dairy goats, my Satanic stepsister, my moody mother, and my nerdy little List. All I ask is that you not hate me, yet, until you get to know me better. Even my enemies have learned to respect me. Besides, I gave myself a second chance – maybe you can, too.
So here it is, my heart on paper, from one teen to another. I even included the statistics I’ve battled so you can see what everyone expected, plus some favorite poetry quotes that got me through the tough times.
Enjoy. Or not. Whatever.
Chapter 2: Unpacking
Statistic: Second marriages fail 75% of the time
I checked my watch yet again. With a shake of my head, I noticed that it was only four minutes since I last checked the time. “Stupid,” I said aloud.
“What’s stupid?” asked Matt - my twin brother, even though we look nothing alike. He has black hair and blue eyes. I have red hair and green eyes. In fact, we look so different that people often mistake us for a dating couple. That always grosses me out.
“I keep looking at the time. And they’re not supposed to come home until tomorrow.” I tucked my frizzy red hair behind my ears and bent over another box.
“Paranoid, aren’t we,” Matt said. He stood up and stretched. “I think I’ve done enough unpacking. It’s Peter’s turn.”
“Oh, come on, Matt! You know that mom will beat me bloody if the house isn’t in perfect order. And Peter’s no good. He knows he can get away with anything.”
“So tell Becky to carry stuff for you.”
“You’re saying that a seven-year-old is more useful than a sixteen-year-old?”
He shrugged. “I’m done for today.” With a sharp but affectionate punch to my shoulder, he added, “And there are only nine boxes left. You’ll finish before dinner. Speaking of which, what are you making?”
Weary, I rubbed the back of my neck. I hadn’t even thought about making dinner yet. I was so worried about Mom coming home to a messy house that dinner was the least of my concerns. “Spaghetti, maybe?” I replied. “Hey, go check on Peter and Becky. Make sure they haven’t messed anything up.”
“Spaghetti, huh,” he complained, but he did go outside to see what the kids were doing.
I sat back on my heels and looked around. The house had shaped up nicely in the week they had been gone – they being my mother and her new husband. You’d think after all the moves I’ve been through, I’d be an expert at this. After all, fourteen houses in sixteen years has got to be a Guinness-book qualifier, and I’m not even a military brat. But always before, Mom was in charge of the moves, and everybody helped, even lazy Peter.
Of the nine boxes left, most of them were books for the shelves in the living room. I could unpack those in less than an hour. Especially if I pulled the nasty-sister routine.
“Peter!” I bellowed, raising my voice toward an open window. “Get in here!”
Knowing that appearance was crucial, I stood up, put my hands on my hips and pasted a stern expression on my face. The minute he came inside, I growled, “Why are you playing when there’s work to be done?”
Peter laughed. “School starts in a week, remember? I don’t want to waste any vacation.”
I continued to look stern despite his easy-going answer. “Well, I haven’t had any vacation this summer so far, and I want some time to relax. Grab that and put it where it belongs.”
To my surprise, he obeyed immediately. I knelt beside the remaining boxes and began to shove books onto the shelf.
“Where does this go?” asked Peter after a few minutes, removing a magazine rack from his box.
I flipped my hair out of my face so I could see what he was whining about. “Which box did it come from?”
“Uh, the one from Wal-Mart.”
“No, stupid. I meant, what label did we put on the box?”
His face lit up in a goofy grin. “Oops. Bathroom, I guess.”
“So put it in the bathroom.”
“Yeah, but which one?”
I sighed, a long-drawn out sound that let him know I was being a very patient older sister but was on the edge of losing my temper. “Mom’s the only one who reads while she sits, Peter.”
He knew that sigh well. I had used it on him dozens of times before. “Sorry,” he muttered, and hustled out of the room.
It always amazes me how I’m the only one with brains in our family. My twin brother, Matt, is probably as smart as I am – at least, he knows lots more useless trivia, and always gets straight A’s – but he lacks common sense. He’s a poet and a dreamer who would have done better if he had been born in the Renaissance era. Twelve-year-old Peter, our younger brother, was never any good with academics, even though he’s probably the most popular kid in his grade. As if sixth grade matters. Then there’s Becky, the baby of the family, who still has to prove herself. I’m pretty sure she has a brain, but it’s hard to tell with second-graders. In any case, she’s phenomenal in gymnastics and already has coaches turning their heads whenever she gives a performance. Me? I’m the invisible, responsible one, the one who takes the blame for everything. And I don’t even complain.
A squeal of fright, followed by a shriek of laughter, arrested my attention. I turned my head. Matt was chasing Becky around the kitchen, threatening to tickle her. For some reason, their laughter made me cranky.
“Is everyone going to enjoy themselves while I slave away?” I said, loud enough for everyone to know I was unhappy.
Matt came and sat beside me on the hardwood floor. “How long do you think this one will last?”
I knew he was referring to Mom’s latest marriage. “I’d give it a year,” I said, “maybe two. Statistically, it has a chance at two years.”
I’m a big believer in statistics. Not because I believe that all people can be categorized, but because I’m determined to defy the statistics. Especially the ones that apply to me.
“I’m thinking a couple of months,” he said. “You know Mom.”
“No, this one’s different. She looks… I don’t know… more complete. Relaxed, at least.”
“You shouldn’t place bets,” said Becky, who had settled in a corner to play with her dolls. “That’s not nice.”
“You said that about the last one,” Matt continued, ignoring her.
“Yeah, well, this one seems different,” I insisted.
“You’d think four marriages would be a record of some sort,” he mumbled.
“Three,” I corrected.
He shrugged. We never were quite sure if that second one counted as a marriage, or if it was just some colossal fluke. We kids counted it as a marriage, since it had produced our little brother Peter. The third marriage gave us Becky. This new one was going to give us something we had never known before – stepsisters.
None of the Others came with kids, and this one – his name was Roger – came with two daughters. We had only met them once before, for a few minutes, right after the wedding. That is, I should say right after the wedding was over. We missed it. Matt and I were at summer camp half an hour outside of town, and we kept trying to get the driver to hurry. Did he? No, and my mom decided that it was better to proceed with the wedding as scheduled, instead of making her guests wait. So we missed their wedding by about twenty minutes. Not that I’m bitter or anything.
“I don’t know why we had to move again,” Matt continued.
“Neither of them wanted any of us to have an advantage,” I repeated for the umpteenth time. “A new home is neutral ground. We’re all moving into a New Life, remember?”
He groaned at the often-repeated phrase. To him, it was propaganda. “I liked the last place. It had a lake.”
“This one’s better.”
“I can’t go fishing.”
“You can go hunting. Do you realize how much land there is behind the house? Have you gone for a walk back there yet?”
He shook his head.
I lowered my voice. “I saw two deer out there this morning.”
“Oh, yeah?” His eyebrows lifted. I could tell he was interested.
I pointed out the window to our twenty acres, complete with a thick tree line. “Come on, Matt. We’re nine miles out of town, in a huge old farmhouse surrounded by all this open land. Don’t tell me you didn’t think about hunting.”
That did the trick. He forgot about fishing – I could tell by his sudden pensive expression. I smiled to myself. At least one of us felt better.
“I’m starving,” said Peter. “And I have to go to the bathroom again.”
“When we finish unloading these boxes, I’ll make dinner,” I replied.
The faint crunch of wheels on gravel grew louder, prompting Peter and Becky to look outside
“They’re home!” screamed Becky. She tucked her favorite doll under her arm and ran onto the lawn, laughing.
Matt pushed a curtain aside. “And of course, you’re not done unpacking yet. Well, guess you’re in trouble.”
I froze. There was no telling what kind of punishment I had earned this time.
Chapter 3: The Steps
And the feeble little ones must stand
In the thickest of the fight.
-Adelaide Anne Proctor
Forcing myself to stay calm, I walked to the front door to greet my mother. As I passed through the entryway, I brushed my right cheekbone with my fingers. The bruise had almost disappeared and I certainly didn’t want a new one just in time for school. Mom gave it to me last week after her wedding reception was finished and the guests were almost gone. See, she was furious that we missed her wedding. When I tried to explain that the camp counselors had forgotten that Matt and I were supposed to be dismissed early, her temper exploded. And when Mom explodes, her fists fly everywhere. Fortunately, she tries to hide that side from Roger, who still thinks she’s perfect. So when he came looking for her, and saw us together – me holding my face – Mom told him I had run into a doorway. He was a happy groom and believed her. He thinks I’m a big klutz anyway. After that, he escorted her back to the main reception area, and then they drove away for their honeymoon.
And now they were home again. And the house was not yet ready.
Shame and anger filled me. With Mom, though, anger only feeds more anger, so I pushed my feelings aside and went to greet her.
I joined Becky and the others on the lawn. I really couldn’t help smiling when I saw Mom get out of the car – she looked so fresh and happy. It seemed contagious.
She blew kisses to us – blew kisses – and I knew that an alien was inhabiting her body. My mother is not naturally affectionate, and rarely hugs or kisses any of us kids. Her week with Roger must have done wonders. I hoped this new phase would last.
My smile began to fade when I saw what was in the back seat of the car – The Girls. While Mom snatched Becky up in a whirlwind hug, Matt and I stared at The Girls. They looked miserable. They got out of the car and stood staring back at us.
The older one, Erika, had short black hair with streaks of purple and green, black fingernails, a pierced nose, and wore combat boots. Her sneer made me cringe. She was your typical rebellious seventeen-year-old, the kind that my mother always warned me against becoming. Mom would never stand for that kind of attitude – or would she, since Erika was not exactly her daughter?
The other sister, Margaret, seemed harmless. She was twelve years old, slightly pudgy, wore pastel colors, and clutched her little purse with white knuckles. She kept her eyes glued to the ground. I realized that she was more afraid of us than we were of her. Probably she felt outnumbered – after all, there were four of us and two of them.
“Welcome home,” I said, trying to break the tension. I smiled at Erika and held out my hand to take her suitcase.
She glared down her nose at me. Her posture made me feel positively ant-like. “Which one are you again?”
“Um, I’m Margaret,” I said.
The other Margaret looked at me when she heard her name. I saw the parents exchange glances, and I wondered what it could mean.
Matt heaved a suitcase out of the trunk. “You’re home kind of early,” he said to Mom. “Didn’t you like Florida?”
“It was wonderful,” she beamed. “We just thought you kids might want to get to know each other before school starts.”
“Gee. A whole week. We’ll be best friends by Sunday,” muttered Erika.
Mom did not hear her.
“Well. Let me show you your room,” I suggested. “Becky, why don’t you take Margaret up to hers?”
Matt and Peter helped Mom and her boyfriend – now her husband – unload the car. I felt kind of awkward around him. In the first place, he was so tall! He was easily six foot three. He seemed nice enough, though. He had spent some time at our house while they were dating, and he liked to play the guitar. He had a really great voice, too, a rumbling sort of bass. It was one of the things that had first attracted Mom to him. Plus, he smiled a lot.
I led Erika up to our bedroom. She seemed upset that we would be sharing a room, even though I had taken special care to make her side as nice as I could. Besides, it was a large room, big enough for three or four beds, like maybe they did back last century when the farmhouse was being used as a farmhouse. But her expression clearly said that no room would be large enough for both of us. I crossed my fingers for luck.
I also hoped, judging from her black fingernails and the Pentagram on her tee shirt, that she wouldn’t be the kind of person that offers sacrifices to Satan as part of a ritualistic plea to reunite her divorced parents. Maybe I should put a picture of the Virgin Mary in our room, just to be safe!
“So, you’re a senior?” I asked, trying to make conversation. “I’m a sophomore.”
She threw her suitcase onto the bed without replying.
“Do you play any sports?”
She snorted.
I took it as a ‘no.’
“Drama club? Choir?”
She shot a black glare at me. “Look, I don’t need you becoming my best friend, so you can stop right now. I was forced to live here. It wasn’t my choice. Leave me alone and we’ll get along just fine.”
I held up my hands. “I’m just trying to be nice.”
“Back off.” She shoved her clothes into the dresser a little too forcefully.
I was stunned. I hadn’t quite expected this sort of reception. Somehow I thought everybody was going to accept and even like everybody else. This was reminiscent of a renegade Brady Bunch – a stepfamily gone dreadfully wrong. And it was only our first day!
I decided to check on Becky and Margaret to see how they were doing. Their door was not closed all the way, so I peeped inside. They were unpacking Margaret’s suitcase together, chatting. Margaret still seemed shy, but sweet little Becky had an unconscious way of putting people at ease. At least there would be no ritual blood sacrifices from that bedroom.
I crept downstairs to see what the boys were doing. To my surprise, Matt was on the floor with Roger, wrestling. Peter cheered them on, chanting for a pin.
Mom saw me and beckoned. “You did a good job unpacking.”
I was shocked. A compliment? From my mother? She never noticed anything – except when the chores did not get done. Then, boy did she notice!
“I’m sorry I didn’t get it finished,” I stammered. “I was expecting you tomorrow.”
“That’s okay, honey,” she said. “It looks wonderful.”
Honey? I knew for sure that this woman was an imposter! My mother had been left in Florida... I liked the replacement better.
“You got him! You got him!” Peter shouted.
I turned around to see who had been gotten.
Matt lay in a half-Nelson, his neck twisted at an odd angle. He looked uncomfortable, but he was smiling. “I want to learn that move!”
Roger released him. “I earned a spot as the captain of my team with that. I was about your age, too.” He saw me and stood up. “Hello, Margaret.”
“Hello, sir,” I replied.
His eyebrows shot up at my formality. He glanced at Mom, who just shrugged.
I felt as if I had done something wrong, so I began to blush. One drawback to being a redhead is that I’m prone to blushing. I have the kind of pale skin that sunburns easily, overheats even more easily, and blushes uncontrollably. What was I supposed to call him? Roger? Father? Dad? I already had a biological father somewhere out in Oregon, or at least that’s where he was the last time we heard from him years ago. I wasn’t ready to give this man the intimate title of “Dad,” yet calling him “Father” sounded too stuffy. Maybe I could call him something slangy, like “Pop,” sort of compromise between recognizing his marriage to my mother and keeping him at arm’s length. Or maybe I would just stay with “Roger” until we figured out how long he would stay.
“Donna, did you give the kids their presents?” he said, breaking the growing silence.
“I completely forgot,” she said. She called upstairs. “Girls? Come down for a minute. We have something to give you.”
Roger retrieved a large plastic bag from the entryway and sat on the loveseat beside my mother. He put his arm around her shoulders. She snuggled up to him as if she belonged there. I had never seen her so content. I started to like Roger a tiny bit more.
Becky tumbled down the stairs in a flash of energy. “What did you bring me?”
“Sit down until the others get here,” said Mom.
Matt, Peter, Becky and I crowded onto the couch and waited for our new sisters to join us. Margaret shuffled down the stairs, keeping her eyes on the floor, and sat in the recliner. She folded her hands in her lap, trying very hard to be invisible.
We waited for a few minutes, but Erika did not appear. Mom looked at Roger as if to say, “She’s your daughter.”
“Erika, come down here, please,” he yelled toward the ceiling.
Nothing.
The wait became uncomfortable, so he sighed. “I guess she can have hers later.” He put his hand inside the bag and withdrew the first gift. “Matt.” He tossed the box into Matt’s waiting hands.
I was surprised to see that it was neatly wrapped. The decorative covering made the occasion feel special.
Matt opened the little box eagerly. It was a Swiss Army knife with his name engraved on the handle. “Cool! Thanks!”
“That was Roger’s idea,” groaned Mom. “You know you never would have gotten it if he hadn’t insisted.”
Score big points for Roger… he was on Matt’s good side already.
“Peter.”
Peter caught his box. It was larger than Matt’s. We watched, greedy, as he carefully peeled the wrapping paper so as to not tear it. Inside was a remote-controlled jeep. He was delighted.
I rolled my eyes. I could already envision him knocking it into the furniture, breaking lamps or tripping people. I didn’t want to be blamed if he broke anything.
Becky’s package was carefully handed to her. It was a porcelain doll in a lacy yellow dress. She removed the dress and put it on her own favorite doll, which was still tucked in her arm. Her new doll fell to the floor and lay there, abandoned and naked, while she lovingly buttoned up the dress onto old Abby.
“I told you so,” whispered Mom.
“At least she liked the dress,” Roger replied.
I was excited. It was like Christmas, except that it was August. And the gifts were personal – they were things we kids would have chosen ourselves, if we had the money and the chance. I couldn’t wait to see what they had brought for me!
“Margaret.”
We both held out our hands at the same time. Embarrassed, I dropped my hands first. She didn’t bother to look at me.
“That’s okay,” said Roger. “It’s the same thing anyway.” He handed us each a small narrow box.
I furrowed my eyebrows. What could she possibly want that I also wanted? Did we have the same tastes?
She tore her box open within seconds and withdrew a dainty golden bracelet. Her name – our name – was inscribed on the plate. “Oh, Daddy! It’s perfect.” she said in her harmless whispery voice. “Now I have the complete set.” She held out her wrist to him so he could help her put it on. It matched her earrings and necklace.
My face burned as I opened my box. Mom knew I hated jewelry. What a stupid present. How generic! What was she thinking?
“What do you say, honey?” asked Mom.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
Roger noticed my disappointment. “She hates it, Donna. I told you she would. We should have gotten her that book.”
“Book?” I raised my head, trying to hide the interest in my eyes.
“About horses. Pictures and everything.”
I repressed a groan. I loved horses! “That’s okay. The bracelet is pretty enough.”
“Really?”
I attempted a smile. I must have been a good actress, because it fooled him. Mom didn’t notice either way.
“Are you kids hungry?” asked Roger.
The boys shouted their answer. I could have spoken for Matt, who was always hungry. Roger decided that we would all go into town and eat at a restaurant. “You shouldn’t have to cook your first day back,” he crooned to Mom, kissing her cheek.
“But there are six kids,” she protested. “It’s too expensive.”
“It’s in the budget. We didn’t spend that last night in the hotel, remember?” he said. “Okay, everyone in the car. Skinny-butt kids in the back!”
He had to go upstairs and almost drag Erika down. We could hear their conversation through the ceiling.
“I’m not hungry.”
“So get a soda. You don’t have to eat.”
“I don’t want to go!”
“It’s family time, Erika. We’re going to start behaving like a family now.”
“They’re not my family. I don’t want to be a part of it.”
“You don’t get a choice. Stop it. Let’s go. Grab your purse.”
The sudden silence made us cringe. The rest of the conversation was muffled. Soon, Erika tramped downstairs, her lips curled in a snarl. She could have set us all on fire with her gaze, if horror movies happened in real life.
Did you ever hear that expression, “If two’s company, then three’s a crowd?” Well, imagine a crowd of eight. My new family had eight people, and one tiny little Nissan. Erika and I had to sit in the back storage area, behind the seats.
When we pulled out onto the highway, Erika flashed me a demonic grin, and then pulled a slender pocketknife from her ripped jeans. She put a finger to her lips and locked eyes with mine. Deliberately, she unfolded the knife.
I gulped. If I called for help, would she stab me? I watched, horrified, as she put the blade to her wrist and began to cut tiny knicks into her own flesh.
Droplets of blood welled up. Just when I thought they would spill onto the carpet of the car, she put her wrist to her mouth and sucked. Then she covered the wounds with her other hand, applying pressure. “Stops the bleeding,” she whispered.
There was an unspoken threat hanging in the air. Tell anyone, and I’ll kill you, she seemed to say.
I tore my gaze away and tried to focus on the corn fields outside. Maybe it was the blood, maybe it was the fact that I hate traveling in the back seat, maybe it was just stuffy with eight people in the tiny car. Whatever it was, I felt nauseous. And afraid. I would probably be murdered by nightfall. What had Mom done this time?
Chapter 4: Introductions
She has a quick and lively imagination and keen feelings, which are apt to exaggerate both the good and evil they find in life. –Guy Mannering
The nine miles into town seemed to take an eternity. We finally arrived at Alfredo’s and tumbled out of the car, breathing in the fresh air.
Finding a table for eight people was another challenge. Our happy family outing turned into a disaster, fast. We had to wait almost fifteen minutes before they prepared a table large enough for us, and then seating arrangements were hammered out. I sat across from Erika, where I could keep my eyes on her, just in case.
When we finally agreed on what we were going to order – that is, what we could afford to order – we all lapsed into an awkward silence. Nobody knew what to say to each other.
“Margaret, pass the napkins,” said Mom.
Margaret and I reached for the napkins. She withdrew first. I could tell that this was going to be a problem.
“Should we tell them?” asked Roger, nudging Mom.
She smiled at him and dropped a nod.
I hoped they weren’t pregnant already! Six kids was already too many.
Roger looked pleased with himself, but also a little bit uncomfortable. “Your mom and I have decided to adopt you,” he said, looking at us, the Original Four.
“Why?” asked Peter. “We already belong to her.”
“Yes, but you all have different fathers.”
“Matt and I don’t,” I said.
“Well, no, but the others do. And you all have different last names. I’d like to adopt you and make you all Shentons. What do you think?”
We looked at each other. Did it matter what our last name was? And did they really care what we thought, anyway? Adults usually did what pleased them; our opinion was just a formality.
“Peter Shenton. I like how it sounds.” Peter smiled at Roger. I rolled my eyes.
“What does it mean?” asked Becky, who was always looking for new names for her dolls.
“It’s a good last name; it means ‘dweller at a beautiful farm.’ And we do have a beautiful farm, now.”
“Oh. Never mind.” Becky chewed her ice cubes and made patterns on the table with the water. She was too young to understand the implications, anyway.
“What about the rest of you?”
Matt shrugged.
Roger looked at me. “Well?”
I squirmed in my seat. “I don’t care. But what about Margaret and me? We’ll have the same name. Margaret Shenton.”
“We thought of that,” said Mom, “and we have a solution. We’ll just call her by her middle name.”
Margaret squeaked. “You can’t do that!”
Roger frowned. “Why not, honey? You’ll adjust.”
Her lips trembled. “Someone found out what my middle name was last year, and they always make fun of me now,” she whispered.
I turned to her. “What is your middle name?”
“Sarilla,” she replied. “They call me Sarilla Gorilla.”
I almost choked in laughter, but I caught myself in time.
Mom glared at me. “So we go to your middle name, then.”
It was my turn to be shocked. “That’s not fair! I like being Margaret. It’s my name, too!”
“Well, we can’t have two. It’s too confusing. Look at the trouble it’s caused already.” She knew I was getting ready to argue, and she held up her hand. “We’ll call you Beverly. It’s settled.”
I slumped back in my seat, defeated. They continued to talk but I blocked them out. My expectations of our new family were rapidly disintegrating, and there was nothing I could do about it. Erika hated me, Mom’s present was completely impersonal – a signal that she had ignored me yet again – and now Margaret stole my name. The world was against me.
Not only that, but I hated the name Beverly. Margaret, at least, was a character in my favorite book, Little Women. But Beverly was an old woman’s name!
I excused myself for a quick bathroom break. On the way there, I recognized the waitress, one of the girls from last year’s choir. “Hello, Jessica.”
“Hey, Margaret. What’s up?”
“I didn’t know you worked here. Something different with your hair?”
“Dye job,” she gushed, wiping a table with a gray washcloth. “How are you doing? I haven’t seen you all summer.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “You ready for school?”
“No, but is anybody ever?” She pointed over at my booth. “Who are they?”
I stared at my mix-and-match family, unsure of how to begin. A tempting, wicked thought entered my mind. I decided to introduce my family in an honest, straightforward manner.
I pointed to my mother. “Well, you know my mom, I think.” I lowered my voice to a stage whisper. “It’s her fourth marriage…” I raised my voice. “… and this is my new stepfather Roger.” Another whisper: “We’ll see how long he sticks around, hmm?”
Jessica’s smile began to fade at my disrespectful manner, but I continued. “You know my twin brother, Matt, who everybody thinks is my boyfriend because we don’t even look related. And this is Peter, my little brother, except that he’s my half-brother. And Becky, my half-sister, and she’s even half to Peter.”
I waited for Jessica to come to the conclusion that Becky was, therefore, only a quarter human, but Jessica really seemed confused.
“My new stepsister Erika, who hates my mother, and my other stepsister Margaret,” I pointed. “Oh, and since her name is Margaret and my name is Margaret, you’re going to have to call me Beverly.”
Jessica stared at me, her face blank. “Why?”
“Well, Margaret’s middle name is Sarilla, which rhymes with Gorilla, so that’s what the kids at school call her. Sarilla Gorilla. So we’ll use my middle name: Beverly. It means ‘Meadow of Beavers.’ Other girls get to be ‘Pearl of Beauty’ or ‘Flower of Joy’ but I got stuck with ‘beavers.’ Not that it matters – it’s just temporary...”
Jessica gulped. “Okay. Well. I have to get back to the kitchen. See you in school on Monday, Margaret.”
“It’s Beverly now.”
“Whatever.” She fled.
In the bathroom, I thought of plenty of good reasons why we should keep my name and change the other Margaret’s. I rehearsed in the mirror, knowing Mom would cut me off if she didn’t like what I had to say. When I was ready, I returned to the table, only to be greeted by a chorus of, “Welcome back, Beverly.” Obviously, they had been rehearsing.
“It’s not Beverly,” I began. “Let me explain a few things.”
“Not now, Beverly,” said Mom. “Margaret keeps her name. No more.”
“But, Mom-”
“Not tonight,” said Mom, and her icy cold glare told me “not ever.”
So. That was it. Without further discussion, I was stripped of my name.
I fuzzed out of the conversation and stared at my fork, drifting into the comforting world of my daydreams. To be honest, I have often wished I could actually live in my daydreams. They follow logical rules, and they’re always in my favor. Sometimes I dreamed about the typical “normal” middle class life – whatever “normal” in today’s world could be – and I had three kids, two cars, a loving husband, and a two-story house.
Wait. Make that a miniature castle, or at least a house designed to look like a castle. That’s it. A place where I could be a princess. A queen, really, and my doting husband would be a British man who I met at a Renaissance festival. After we were married, he would find out that he was distantly related to some Earl or Duke who had no direct heirs left, and he alone was the sole recipient of an immense fortune… I smiled in my daydream as I imagined my beloved riding up in his white mustang (the modern version of a knight in shining armor, you know) and saying to me, “We will live happily ever after, Margaret, my love. I mean Beverly. That is to say… whatever…”
My precious daydream was shattered by the bleak reality of my name loss. That was always a problem: how to mix reality and dreams. I knew it was possible. It had to be! I desperately tried to regain the warm feelings from my imagined scenario, but they were lost. I jabbed my fork into my steak and used my knife to express my frustrations, carving my meat with excessive energy.
My furious sawing actions drew the typical disapproving eyebrow from Mom. “Is there a problem?” she asked, and we both knew she wasn’t referring to the steak.
“No, ma’am,” I muttered.
No problem at all. I had just lost my name, my very identity. I was now a stranger in my own family.
Chapter 5: My Heart on Paper
He writhed - then sternly manned his heart
To play his hard but destined part.
-Lord of the Isles
Because our new house was outside city limits, we had to awaken super early in the morning in order to catch the bus. Of course I didn’t sleep much now, kept awake especially by my fear of being hacked to pieces in my sleep by my new Satanist step-sister, so I was fatigued even before I rolled out of bed.
“Turn that horrible noise off!” moaned Erika, covering her face with her pillow.
I fumbled with the alarm clock. Let the games begin, I thought. I got dressed, checked my backpack to make sure I had all the pencils, papers, folders, and miscellaneous items needed for the new school year. I had cereal for breakfast. By the time the sun came up, everyone was awake and shuffling around, bumping into each other.
Now, our new house was large, having been built at the turn of the last century by some skilled carpenters, but eight people could make any house seem crowded. And there were only two bathrooms – and Mom and Roger used one of them. That left one bathroom for six people. I wondered how the Brady Bunch did it without killing each other. I was glad I showered at night.
“But I don’t want to take the bus!” whined Peter, throwing himself at Roger’s legs and holding on tight. It would have been cute if he were four years old instead of twelve.
Roger was moved, regardless. “All right, son,” he said, pulling Peter to his feet, “you can ride with us.”
Peter grinned at the word “son” but Mom spoiled his glory. “He’ll take the bus. We don’t have time to drop them all off. If you give in to one, you have to take them all.”
“What about me?” frowned Matt. “The bus kids hate me.”
It was true. Matt got beaten up on a regular basis, even though he was a sophomore. It was one reason he was so good at wrestling – he was angry and had a lot of energy to re-direct. Plus he wasn’t afraid of pain.
Peter, on the other hand, hated the bus because it was unfashionable, and only poor kids took the bus. We were poor – very poor – but for some reason, Peter never quite grasped that important fact. Our clothes were often old, worn-out, and out of style. It didn’t matter to Matt and me. We couldn’t do anything about it, so we learned to live with it. But Peter actually took pride in his appearance. He would have preferred to go to school naked than to wear hand-me-downs. And if he had to take the bus, then he didn’t want to go at all.
“You’re taking the bus,” Mom said in her ‘don’t argue with me, I’m the adult’ tone of voice. She smacked Peter on the butt. She held up her finger to Matt. “You, too.”
Peter squawked, grabbed his backpack, and ran outside.
I didn’t say anything. I just hiked my own bag over my shoulder and followed the boys.
Our new driveway was pretty long and lined with white-barked birch trees. By the time Peter reached the end, his whines had abated. Now he was only depressed.
“You look nice,” I said by way of encouragement.
He shook his head. “When I grow up, I’m going to be rich. I’m going shopping every weekend and I’ll never wear stupid clothes again. And my kids will never have to ride a bus. I’ll buy them all cars.”
I nodded sympathetically. His words reminded me about my List. My hand flew to my List, which I kept in my pocket. Nobody knew it existed, and I intended to keep it a secret. It was precious – like my heart on paper.
The bus pulled to a stop just in front of us, and we boarded it. As a sophomore, I should have been able to sit in the ‘respected’ section – the very back, with all the other big kids. However, as an impoverished outcast, I had to fend for myself. Even being one of the oldest kids on the bus didn’t earn me instant respect.
I scooted toward the window, in case somebody decided to sit next to me, so they wouldn’t have to ask. I hated starting conversations with strangers. I figured if they saw the empty seat, it was an open invitation and they’d leave me alone.
Margaret and Erika sat together, very quiet, as if they had never ridden a bus before. Maybe they hadn’t. Their mother’s house was pretty close to the school; probably they just walked in years past. Well, they’d soon adjust.
Matt, the perfect picture of anti-social behavior, spread his backpack and belongings out on his seat, a sort of unspoken warning to anybody who might consider asking him to share. He was wearing his mean face, the one that said he was a bulldog ready to bite somebody’s arm off.
Peter did what Peter does best: talked with the prettiest girls on the bus. It didn’t matter if they were older or younger. Somehow he always said the right thing. He handed out compliments as if they were candy, but he personalized them so they didn’t sound like lines. He was amazing. And he was only twelve.
I thought about his behavior and wanted to write something in my List, but I decided to wait until I was alone. Personal belongings were always snatched by the bus bully, and I didn’t want to take my chances.
We arrived a few minutes before the bell rang. I hurried to unload my backpack into my locker and make it to my first class on time. I had Chemistry, which I knew would not be my favorite subject.
At least we would not be dissecting frogs this year. I had almost puked last year when my frog slipped off the table into a little puddle of formaldehyde on the floor! The kids made jokes about my frog not being quite dead yet, and I had nightmares for weeks about slicing into living amphibians.
I sat in my customary position in the classroom, toward the front but near the wall. That way I could see the notes and teacher easily, without being too obvious about it. I was no teacher’s pet.
Roll call began. The teacher stuttered over the names. I heard him say “Margaret Shenton” and wondered why my little stepsister would be taking sophomore courses. He got to the end of the list and looked up. “Is there anyone I didn’t call?” he said in his nasal voice.
I raised my hand. “Margaret White.”
He peered at the list. “You’re not on here. Are you sure you have the right class?”
I began to blush. Everybody was looking at me. I wished I could melt into the wall beside me. “It says chemistry, first period,” I insisted, holding up my schedule. A sudden thought struck me. “Oh, wait. I’m Margaret Shenton.”
The class laughed. Mr. McLeonard looked at me over his glasses, which were far down on his nose. “Is there a reason you don’t know your own name?”
I gulped. “My… my mom got married, um, a few weeks ago,” I stammered, “and her husband is adopting us.”
He nodded, not really listening. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell us before I begin class?”
I began to shake my head, and then stopped. I may as well confess everything, since the situation couldn’t possibly get any worse. “I’m supposed to go by my middle name, now. Beverly.”
“I didn’t hear you. Speak up.”
My blush grew to crimson. I could barely breathe. I managed to squeak out the words again.
He made a note on the sheet, and then turned on the overhead projector. He droned on and on about his lesson plans and homework assignments, but I did not pay any attention. Several of the other kids in class stared at me for a few minutes longer. I kept my face turned toward my chemistry book so I wouldn’t see them.
A piece of paper landed on my book. It was crumpled up. I unfolded it. “Margaret Beverly White Shenton,” it said. I looked behind me but could not tell who threw it. I tossed it into the trash can.
Another ball of paper landed near me. It read, “I’m so stupid, I don’t know my own name.”
My blush began to return. I twisted in my seat, searching for the culprit.
“Miss Shenton, is there something wrong with your chair?” asked Mr. McLeonard.
I did not realize he was speaking to me. I continued to look around.
“Miss Shenton, turn around at once. You’re disrupting my class.” He walked over to me and rapped a knuckle on my desk.
I jumped, my heart skipping a few beats, and faced him.
“You’ll never pass this class if you keep flirting with the boys,” he said. “Pay attention.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. I flicked the next ball of paper off my desk without reading it.
When the bell rang, I practically dashed out of the room, away from that pit of vipers.
My next class, Geometry, also had me registered as Margaret Shenton. I realized that every class would be the same. I would have to explain my whole name change situation several more times before the end of the day.
I wondered how long the parents had been planning this humiliation for me.
By fourth period, I almost had it down to a routine. Blush and stammer, and then retreat into absolute silence. Except that I could not be silent in this particular class – it was choir. And my nemesis Naomi Bell shared the class with me.
“Another divorce, Margaret? Oops, I guess it’s Beverly now,” she whispered. “What a stupid name.”
I tried to concentrate on what Mrs. Crofton was saying, but it was hard to ignore Naomi. In the first place, she was probably the prettiest girl in the entire high school – everybody took fashion cues from her. She was my height, but there the resemblance stopped. She had perfect blonde hair, big blue eyes, naturally red lips, and flawless skin. Plus her wardrobe was custom tailored. And she usually wore a tennis bracelet with real diamonds and sapphires.
I, on the other hand, had scraggly red hair that refused to be tamed. I always had a few zits, plus freckles, and my eyes were green. I love having green eyes – I’m the only one in the entire school whose eyes are a true emerald and not just hazel – but my eyelashes matched my eyebrows. Yellow. They made my eyes look small and beady.
I thought my clothes were decent, today at least, my first-day-of-school best. My cousin had outgrown them and sent them to me. There was nothing wrong with keeping nice clothes in the family.
I was just thinking about how nice it was to finally have some “in” clothes when she intruded in my thoughts again. “Ralph Lauren jeans? How stylish. Surely you didn’t pick them out yourself.”
Her friends giggled. “Are they from Second-Hand Rose?” they asked, referring to the thrift store.
I shrugged.
“Second-hand clothes for a second-hand slut,” hissed Naomi.
I turned to face her, surprised at her venom. “What’s your problem? I’ve never done anything to you.”
“You’re intruding upon my personal sense of aesthetics,” she said primly. At my blank look, she clarified. “That means you’re so ugly, you’re making me sick.”
I glanced at Mrs. Crofton, who was flipping through some sheet music. Would she ever come to my defense? And did I want to make an issue out of this, thus opening up future opportunities for shame?
“If you need clothes so bad, you can have mine,” Naomi sniffed. “I have plenty of old things that I’d be glad to give you.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Or what?”
“Or nothing. Just leave me alone.” I looked her straight in the eyes. “What’s it to you anyway? I’m nothing to you. We don’t even live in the same world.”
“You’re an embarrassment to the world,” she spat. “It’s people like you who tax the system and make hard-working people like my parents have to support you. How many times is your mom going to be on welfare? Just don’t expect me to help you when you get old and can’t afford groceries.”
“I don’t expect help from anybody,” I said. My voice grew high-pitched. I fought to keep it under control. “And my mom’s never been on welfare. She works hard, too. We always take care of ourselves.”
“Girls, that’s enough,” said Mrs. Crofton. “We’re on page two of ‘How Great Thou Art.’ Are we ready? Get out your pencils so we can mark the breathers.”
I opened my sheet music and readied my pencil.
“I only have a marker, Mrs. Crofton,” said Naomi sweetly, raising her hand.
“That’ll do. The first break comes after ‘wonder’ followed by another break after ‘hands have made…’”
Naomi reached over with her black magic marker and began to mark on my sheet.
“Hey, cut it out!” I pushed her away.
“Margaret Beverly pushed me!” she whimpered.
Mrs. Crofton looked over at us.
“She’s writing on my music,” I explained.
“This is not kindergarten,” Mrs. Crofton frowned. “Margaret, uh, Beverly, don’t push.”
Naomi smirked at me.
I wished I had fingernails so I could claw her face, but I was a confirmed nail-biter. The worst I would be able to do was leave fingerprints.
Naomi wrote on my sheet again. I moved so she could not reach it. And then, she did something that almost made me cry.
She wrote on my new jeans with her black marker.
They were ruined. The ink was permanent.
I gasped.
Naomi shrugged and smiled sweetly. “Oops.”
Mrs. Crofton conveniently missed the whole scene.
I scooted over as far as my chair would allow, out of Naomi’s range. My cheeks burned with anger and frustration. They were my only new jeans. Even if they weren’t new new, they were new to me. They were my best. She had destroyed them.
I was so upset that I could barely sing, which was a bad situation on the first day of school, since Mrs. Crofton was trying to separate us into the appropriate groups. And this was not just any choir; this was A Cappella choir, the top group in the entire school. Over two hundred students auditioned for it each year, but only twenty of us were chosen. I was one of the lucky ones. I did not want Mrs. Crofton to regret her decision and bump me down to a lesser group.
I knew that Naomi was planning more mischief, but the bell rang before she could carry out her wicked intentions. I fled. It was lunchtime. I hoped that Matt had the same lunch period, because I desperately needed to vent my emotions.
I found him at his locker.
“You look awful! What happened?”
I told him about my day.
He was a sympathetic listener. “Labels. You gotta love ’em.”
“Huh?”
“Look,” he said, “she feels threatened by you. They all do. You don’t belong to any particular group. You’re smart, so you could be a nerd, except that you’re also athletic, so that discounts you. You’re musical, as good as they are, and without having to take lessons. You’re pretty, too, but you don’t have the right clothes to be in the popular crowd. And you’re my sister, so all the wrestlers like you.”
“I wish I belonged somewhere,” I pouted.
“No, you don’t. You’ve got too much potential to limit yourself. You don’t need them. Make your own rules.”
I had to smile at him, even though I didn’t believe a word he was saying. “Where did you get to be so smart? You could have your own talk show. Matt Straightens Out the World.”
He chuckled. “Keep your chin up, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid.”
“Whatever. I’ll see you after school.”
There was that word again. My new identity. “I thought we were going to eat lunch together.”
He hesitated. “I don’t mean to abandon you in your moment of need, but… I can’t be hanging around my sister if I’m gonna get any chicks. You understand…”
So. I was being dumped for the hopes of other female attention. I pasted on my best fake smile. “I understand.”
He punched my shoulder and took off down the hall.
I retrieved my lunch bag from my locker. As I approached the lunch room, I could see Erika in the corner with a group of seniors. I smiled and waved.
She rolled her eyes, obviously disgusted. And then she turned her back toward me.
I took the hint and bypassed her. There were other corners in the room. I hoped one was still abandoned.
While I was standing there, exposed, trying to find a quiet place to sit, Naomi and her little gang decided to target me for another round. She pointed her finger directly at me and raised her voice. I could not hear what she was saying, but suddenly, everyone at her table turned around and stared at me. In one voice, they burst into laughter.
It was the kind of laughter that made my skin crawl. I didn’t know what rumors Naomi was spreading about me now, but I knew I couldn’t stay. The wing outside the gym would probably be abandoned; I decided to eat my lunch there.
I stopped at my locker to grab some beanbags for juggling, and then made my way to the gym. Sure enough, it was empty. I sat down on the stairs that led up to the wrestling room; the landing was wide enough and hidden enough for my purposes.
My cheese-pickle-mayonnaise sandwich did little to soothe my damaged ego, but juggling was a sure-fire way to boost my self-esteem. Not to brag, I’m the best juggler I knew, aside from the folks at the circus who came through once a year. That may sound a little egotistical to you, but it’s not that big of a claim. There are only twelve thousand people in the whole town of Fergus Falls. It’s easy to be the best when there’s no competition!
As I eased into a cascade pattern, I turned my thoughts to flesh-eaters like Naomi and wondered why they always seemed to prey on outcasts like me. No answer sprang to mind, and it was a question I had given lots of thought.
I hope she gives herself an ulcer.
That thought made me smile in wicked pleasure. Shame on me. I tried to erase that negative image from my mind, focusing on my beanbags instead
One, two, three… one, two, three… The beanbags plopped in my hands in a solid rhythm. Their noise echoed softly off the wall as I practiced Mill’s Mess, a very complicated pattern. I didn’t make much progress. After twenty minutes I decided to try something else.
Voices echoing down the corridor distracted me. I hated thinking that somebody might stumble near the staircase where I was practicing. Was there nowhere to be alone in this whole school? Oh, well. I decided to ignore whoever it might be. I was there first, after all.
It was Naomi.
Ignoring her was impossible. Especially because her voice was shrill and loud. “She’s such a slut,” she was saying. “I can’t believe they let people like that roam free on the streets. I wonder how many more babies she’s going to have before they make her get her tubes tied.”
Her cronies laughed. I wondered who the target of their derision might be this time.
“Oh, and did you hear Margaret in choir today? It sounded like she had swallowed a cricket! I sure hope Crofton kicks her out of the group. She doesn’t belong with the rest of us.”
One of her friends had the guts to disagree. “She has a pretty good voice. Better than Kayla, at least.”
“She can’t sing, and you know it. The only reason Crofton has her there is because she took pity on her.”
My blood froze. Now she was criticizing my voice? What else could she find to fault? It’s not like I had much in the first place, but she was stripping away every shred of dignity I possessed.
“At least she can float between alto and soprano,” said Amber.
“She’s not a floater,” scoffed Naomi. “She’s so bad, she can’t be one or the other. Hey, why are you taking her side anyway? Do you like her or something?”