Mirrored Page 2

  I searched for Greg in the crowds outside. Usually, he wasn’t hard to spot. He was tall and stayed on the outskirts. But I didn’t see him.

  Then, I did. He wasn’t on the outskirts, but in the middle of the crowd.

  Greg had always been tall, but now he was taller. Not skinny anymore, though. Suddenly his shoulders were broader, his face more manly. He was standing with some people, people like Nick and Nathan, Jennifer and Gennifer, people who’d always picked on me and ignored him. Popular people. Greg was laughing, his black hair shining in the sun like a crow’s wings, his smile like the sun itself. I made myself walk past him, and even though he seemed to look right at me, he said nothing.

  All week, I tried to catch Greg’s eye, to find a way to talk to him, and all week, nothing. It wasn’t like he was being actively mean. It was worse. It was like I was a stranger. He was just this boy, this suddenly popular, handsome boy at my school, and I was nobody he knew. It was like we’d never done all the things we’d done together, like he’d never been my friend, like I was some stupid girl with a crush on a stranger.

  Thursday, I finally got up the courage to call him.

  His father answered. “Violet! Long time, no see. We have a new woodpecker.”

  “Oh, that’s great!” I smiled on purpose, hoping he could hear it in my voice. Maybe it would all be okay. “Is Greg there?”

  But, when Greg got on the phone, I knew it wouldn’t be okay. He sounded different, awkward, like someone wearing too-tight shoes but trying not to show it. “So, um, what do you want, Violet?”

  Suddenly, I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I wanted. I wanted everything to be the same as it had been the year before. Or not the same. Better. There had been the promise of something more, and now, it was gone, and I wanted to change that. I wanted to change . . . time.

  “Are you going to . . . ?” To what? Invite me over? Say hello in class? Do anything? Be normal? “I haven’t talked to you since you got back.”

  A pause. In the living room, my mom was flipping through television channels. I heard the Family Ties theme start.

  I bet we’ve been together for a million years;

  And I bet we’ll be together for a million more.

  Mom changed the channel, and Entertainment Tonight came on instead.

  “Yeah, about that,” Greg said. “The thing is, my friends don’t like you.”

  “Your friends? What friends?”

  “Jennifer Sadler and them. They say . . . you’re bossy and mean to them.”

  I sucked my breath in. Unreal. Popular people always had some reason why you deserved for them to be mean to you. “And you believe that? That I could boss Jennifer around, that I bully her? All you have to do is look at the two of us to know . . .”

  I stopped. That was the problem. He had looked at us.

  “I don’t know what to believe. I just want to have friends. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You had a friend. You weren’t alone.”

  “You know what I mean. I’ve always had a thing for Jennifer.”

  I didn’t know that. Why was he doing this to me? Why did Jennifer even want to be friends with Greg? But I knew. Because he was beautiful. And beautiful guys were catnip for Jennifer. A beautiful guy like Greg didn’t belong with an ugly like me. The second she showed interest in him, he knew. I felt so stupid for thinking anyone would ever really like me, especially someone as great as Greg.

  “I’m tired of people thinking I’m weird,” he said.

  “I thought you were weird, in a good way. I liked you the way you were.”

  “I don’t want that anymore.”

  I stood, clutching the phone. I didn’t want to put it back in its cradle. The click it would make would change everything. I felt like, if I just held on, I could hold on to my life. But Greg said he had to do homework. I hung up before he could hear me crying.

  The next day, in civics class, Mrs. Davis assigned a group project, an ad for a mock presidential candidate. I tried to make eye contact with Greg, my usual partner, but he turned toward Jennifer Sadler.

  “Does anyone not have a group?” Mrs. Davis asked.

  I raised my hand, barely flipping up the fingertips, glancing around to see if anyone else raised theirs. No one. So humiliating. Mrs. Davis asked if anyone only had two in their group.

  “Yeah, us.” Nick gestured to himself and Nathan.

  “Okay, you can join them,” Mrs. Davis told me.

  “Great,” Nathan muttered when I started over to them—as if I was going to be the liability in their group when everyone knew I was the smartest person in class and they were just about the dumbest.

  “I can just do the whole thing,” I said. “It’s easier.”

  “Will you say we helped?” Nathan asked.

  I looked over at Greg, who sat deep in conversation with StupidGennifer and StupiderJennifer.

  “Depends. Will you refrain from being complete jerks for the duration of this project?”

  Blank stares. I tried to figure out which word they hadn’t understood.

  I revised. “Will you be nice?” All single syllables.

  They both nodded.

  “Fine then.”

  I glanced at Greg, but he wasn’t looking. Beside him, Jennifer mouthed, Ugly.

  I realized what I had known, probably all along, what ugly girls since the beginning of time had been trying to deny: Beauty was all that mattered. I might tell myself that if people really knew me, they’d look past my weak chin and non-eyelashes, would see into my soul and like me despite it all. But, watching Greg giggle with Jennifer and Gennifer, I knew that was not the case. Greg Columbo had looked into my soul—but he still couldn’t see past my nose. And, if he couldn’t, for sure no one else could. I was disgusted at myself for liking him.

  But I still did.

  For the next week, Nick, Nathan, and I worked on our project. Or rather, I worked on our project while Nick and Nathan read comic books under their desks.

  Tuesday, I asked my mother to take me to the drugstore for supplies. “I need a poster board, Sharpies, stencils, and one of those scissors with the cool-looking edge.”

  “Isn’t this a group project? Can’t someone else buy this stuff?” She squinted at herself in the mirror, looking for age spots. It would be hard to pull her away.

  “They’re sort of worthless. You know how it is.”

  “Where’s Greg been lately? He was always a nice kid.”

  “He changed over the summer. Can we go to Eckerd’s now? You can look at makeup while I find this stuff.”

  “Like I’d buy makeup from the drugstore.” Still, she started toward her purse, since it must have been obvious I wouldn’t change my mind. “Changed how?”

  “What?” This was more interest than she usually took in my life.

  “How did Greg change?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Got too handsome to hang with me.” I faked a laugh.

  My mother, of course, was beautiful. Not beautiful the way every kid thinks her mother is beautiful, but actually beautiful. I’d barely known my father. He died when I was little, leaving Mom with enough money that she never had to work, never had to remarry “another old, rich guy,” as she said. Mom had no photos of him she’d admit to, but he must’ve been really ugly because, for sure, I didn’t get my looks from her side. She was tall, with the build of a dancer, blond hair the color of starlight, and eyes the exact shade of the Mediterranean Sea in photos of Greece. Her brows arched high, making her appear wide-eyed and innocent. Her lips were dark and pouty, the type I imagined boys wanted to kiss. No wonder she didn’t know about some people having to do all the work on projects. I bet guys were falling all over themselves trying to do her homework for her when she was in school.

  Another mom would have said something about looks not being
important or that I’d get pretty one day when I was older. That she said neither proved that she didn’t believe those things. Instead, she said, “Oh, I guess that happens. Come on. Let’s go.”

  As we started toward the door, I looked back into her mirror. She spent so much time in front of it, I half expected it to talk to her.

  On Friday, I brought in my/our project. It was perfect, better than a professional graphic designer would have done. I set it up in the front of the room, noting the peeling tape on Greg’s group’s poster, the shaky handwriting on another. Mine—I mean, ours—was the best in the class. I took my seat, imagining that even my rivals were stunned by its beauty.

  A lot of teachers, when we did group projects, handed out an evaluation form so students could grade themselves and their peers. The idea, I guess, was that if one person did all the work, he could rat out his partners. Like that would ever happen.

  I sometimes gave bad grades, though. I had nothing to lose socially since everyone already hated me. Now, I picked up the worksheet and contemplated it. The first part was easy: evaluating myself. I’d been a joy to work with, of course. Cooperativeness: A; completed assignments: A; creativity: A.

  I moved to the second section, where I was supposed to grade my partners. Of course, they deserved an F in every category. They’d done nothing. No, they’d done something. They’d left me alone. About that, they’d been completely cooperative.

  I penciled in their names and wrote, Cooperativeness: A.

  I’d promised, after all. I didn’t like to lie, but they’d met every deadline because I hadn’t given them any. And, as far as creativity went, I guessed they’d creatively managed to avoid work. I penciled in As for that too.

  When Mrs. Davis collected the papers, I handed in mine with a clear conscience. Group projects were stupid. Teachers said they were supposed to teach us how it worked in the real world. I already knew. The real world sucked.

  I saw Nick and Nathan hand in their papers, sort of smiling at each other. Of course, they were thrilled to have gotten away with doing nothing and still getting multiple As.

  Walking home that day, I saw Greg walking with Jennifer. I’d seen him walk with her before, but I’d told myself it was for the project. Now, the project was over, and he was still with her. Were they going to his house to look at the wrens?

  I couldn’t breathe.

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  3

  Monday, Mrs. Davis handed out grades for the projects.

  Of course, we’d gotten As for neatness, artistry, and accuracy. But when I got to the peer-graded portion, I saw that Nick and Nathan had each given me Fs for the three categories of cooperativeness, completed assignments, and creativity. At the bottom of the page, Mrs. Davis had written: Overall project grade: C.

  I felt my heart actually hammering against my ribs. This was not possible. I’d done all the work, even lied to give them As. That’s what they’d been snickering about in class.

  I went up to Mrs. Davis’s desk.

  “Stay in your seat, Violet. We’re supposed to be working on our chapter outlines.”

  “I did that last night. I have to talk to you about this.” I thrust the grade report at her and pointed to the Fs with a shaking hand.

  She didn’t take it. “Well, if you don’t do the work on a group project—”

  “I did the work. I did all the work.” My voice sounded shrill, even in a whisper, and I felt like my face might crack. Everyone was looking up from their papers.

  Mrs. Davis glanced around. “Violet, there’s really nothing—”

  “They did nothing!” I burst out. “I did it all.”

  She sighed. “What grade did you give them?”

  “I gave them As,” I admitted, “but that was because . . .” I took a breath.

  “Because what?”

  I looked at Mrs. Davis. She was almost six feet, big and broad-shouldered, with curly red hair. I bet she’d been picked on in school.

  “Because I promised them I would if they left me alone.”

  “Left you alone?”

  “I hate group projects,” I whispered, knowing every eye was on me. “People are mean to me because of . . . my looks. Nick and Nathan didn’t want me in their group. They bullied me into doing everything.” I knew if I said I was bullied (which was true), she’d take it seriously. The school worried about bullying. Or, rather, they worried about fights. Never mind if people slowly died inside, year after year.

  “They said I had to do the whole thing,” I continued. “If you look at the handwriting, you can see it’s all mine. And the project. I brought it in and set it up.”

  She took the paper from my hand. “Okay, I’ll look into it. Sit down now.”

  A minute later, I saw Mrs. Davis looking at the project. Then she called Nick and Nathan up. After class, she called me back to her desk.

  “I changed your grade and theirs. When I confronted the young men with the evidence that yours was the only handwriting on the poster—not to mention that they’d fooled around during all the class time in which you worked on it—they admitted that you had done all the work.”

  “Wow, thanks.” I was sort of amazed she couldn’t have figured that out without my telling her. “So what happened to Nathan and Nick?”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked down. “I’m not allowed to discuss another student’s discipline with you.”

  Which was how I knew they’d really gotten reamed.

  Sure enough, when I got to language arts class, I heard one of the Jennifers saying she’d seen Nick and Nathan going into I.S.S. I smiled.

  That afternoon, I was walking home, smiling at the knowledge that my grades were again perfect. I walked alone, trying not to notice Greg taking off in the opposite direction with Jennifer, probably heading to her house. It was near Halloween, and the air had gone from summer-hot to chilly. A gust of wind swept up the empty street, and I shivered.

  Then, suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me.

  At first, they were distant. I resisted looking back, though I wanted to see if it was maybe Greg. It wasn’t Greg. It wouldn’t matter if it was Greg. There was no Greg for me.

  The pounding steps got closer. And harder. I could tell now there were two pairs of feet. Boys’ feet. Another gust practically knocked me over, sending leaves and dirt into my face. Usually, no one else walked this way, toward the outskirts of town. I sped up. As soon as I passed Salem Court, I knew they’d part from me. They had to be going there. I matched my step to the rhythm of theirs. Yet they grew closer. My backpack was heavy, digging into my shoulders, slowing me down, and my sneakers cut into my heels.

  I, then they, passed Salem Court. They didn’t turn. They were following me. That was the only explanation. No one was outside, no one to help me. There was one house, dark and lonely, with peeling, once-white paint. They said an old lady lived there, an old lady or a witch, but I’d never seen her. No kids, though.

  Someone yelled, “Hey, ugly!”

  I turned to see who had shouted. Nick and Nathan. They broke out laughing. “Look at that!” Nathan yelled. “She answers to ugly.”

  They were following me. And they were angry. I broke into a run. My sneakers were like blades, slicing into my heels, but I ran. I ran!

  And, behind me, I heard them running too. Something hit the side of my head, hard. A rock. It stung, and I dropped my backpack to run faster, dropped it even though I knew they’d take it, knew they’d steal my books and scatter my papers to the wind. I ran as fast as I could.

  Another rock hit me. “Stone the ugly witch!” And they were on me, pushing me to the pitted pavement, slamming my head to the hard ground. Their fists rained on me, on my face, into my stomach. I couldn�
��t breathe. I couldn’t fight them. The world should have gone black, almost did go black with the blows to my face, but instead, I stared upward at the blue sky. A bird, a black crow or maybe a grackle, sat on one bare tree branch. Help me, I thought.

  Strangely, I remembered that day in grade school, the day I’d first spoken to Greg. Help me. Then, I was floating, no longer inside my body, but above it. I was the bird, perched high in the tree branches, waiting. I opened my beak and gave a mighty caw, spreading my wings and showing my black feathers to the sun. With my beaded eyes, I looked down at the girl, the ugly girl on the pavement, being beaten by two big boys. She looked tiny, shriveled. I cried out again.

  Suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore. And the sky was no longer blue. It was black with the wings of dozens, no hundreds of birds, blackbirds, grackles, crows, ravens, even larger birds, birds I’d never seen before, lunging and diving below, pecking at my attackers, at their faces, their eyes not stopping even as the boys ceased beating me and began to beat at the birds. Their beaks pecked the boys’ hands, their arms, drawing blood, and I watched from my tree branch, spreading my wings in joy.

  Finally, the boys stumbled up and ran, the birds pursuing them down the street. Only one remained, a single crow, glossy wings reflecting the light in purple and green.

  I watched from above. I was a bird. Then, I was a girl again, a small girl. In my body, on the ground. I gathered myself up. I felt no pain. I stood and walked over to get my forgotten backpack. The crow stood, unmoving, as if it had something to say to me in some secret crow language. Still, I walked around it, gingerly, carefully. I picked up my backpack. The street was again deserted. Nick and Nathan were truly gone. I wondered if I looked like I’d been beaten. I ran my fingers through my hair. Even though I was ugly, I hated to be messy. Why make it worse than I already was? My mother had taught me better. Finishing that, I trudged toward home.