Puddin'(8)

I don’t know what I expected after the pageant. Actually, that’s a lie. I know exactly what I expected. I thought that we’d all be friends. Me, Amanda, Willowdean, Ellen, and Hannah. We’d be this renegade group of mismatched friends that didn’t always make sense, but somehow works. Our shared experience would have bonded us like in The Breakfast Club or some other great ensemble cast. Except that’s not quite what happened. And, to be honest, I’ve spent a lot of time wondering if the Breakfast Club even hung out again after those credits rolled.

I open my thermos and pour the chicken soup into the lid, resigning myself to lunch with a distracted Amanda. “I miss the pageant.”

I’m answered with silence except for the sound of the table rocking back and forth as she bounces her feet.

“Did you see that the school newspaper did a big exposé about how the cafeteria meat loaf doesn’t actually contain any meat?”

Nope. Nothing.

“I was thinking we could sign up for a belly-dancing class together?”

Silence.

I reach across the table and slowly pull the book away.

“But—but I was reading that.”

“Well, I was also trying to engage in conversation with you. And you’ve been headfirst in this book since I picked you up this morning. And!” I add. “This is my book!”

She sighs and dog-ears her place in the book. “You’re the one who made me read this thing in the first place.”

I try not to cringe. Dog-earing a book feels like a violation of some sacred unspoken rule. “What I was saying is I sort of miss the pageant, don’t you?”

She laughs. “Not even a little bit. Those people never appreciated my skills and charm anyway.”

I try not to smile. Amanda’s soccer display for the talent segment of the pageant was inspiring, but the judges didn’t really know what to make of it. I think the comment section of one of her scorecards said something along the lines of “Didn’t quite fit the tone of the pageant. Maybe try juggling next time? Or try going out for the soccer team?”

The soccer team. A sore subject with Amanda. She, her parents, and the administration at school have gone back and forth with the soccer-team coach, Ms. Shelby, who can’t seem to look past Amanda’s physical differences to see the talent she possesses.

Amanda’s been ridiculed for years about her LLD (leg length discrepancy) and about the heel lift she has to wear. But if Amanda can hear or see people making fun of her, you would never know. Her theory is that she sets the tone for how the world treats her. And in her own words: if she wants to be treated like a bada**, then she should act like a bada**. But I know it must get to her sometimes.

“You’re totally right,” I finally say. “But I don’t even mean the pageant. I’m talking about all of us just hanging out, ya know?”

She shrugs, her whole body flopping. “Yeah, I guess. But I kind of like it when it’s just us.”

For a moment her words make my heart burst. Amanda and I haven’t been friends forever like Will and Ellen, but being the butt of everyone’s jokes for much of middle school and high school has bonded us together in a way that is stronger than time. “Me too. You know that. But I just wish we all had a reason to get together every once in a while.”

She squints a little, looking past me at some memory of the last few months. “Yeah, we were like our own kind of club, I guess. Like, a badass lady gang that totally upped the cool factor of that pageant.”

I smile at the thought, but then it hits me. “A club! Oh my God! Amanda, you’re a genius!”

“Well, that’s news to exactly no one, but explain yourself,” she demands in a British accent as she holds her pencil up like a sword.

“Hang on.” I pull my cell phone out of my backpack, which has been emblazoned with all kinds of stitchwork, including flowers, clouds, stars, a few emojis I tried my hand at, and even a little fat mini me on the very bottom of the front pocket. I fire off a quick text to Amanda, El, Will, and Hannah.

Amanda’s phone immediately dings. “You didn’t have to text me, too. I’m sitting right here.” She rolls her eyes before reading the message out loud. “MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MEET ME IN THE COURTYARD AFTER SCHOOL AT 3:15!”

The first bell for next period rings. My phone dings in rapid succession as I get two responses.

ELLEN: I’ll be there.

WILLOWDEAN: DITTO! Plus El and Tim are my ride home.

HANNAH: I’ll be there but only because I don’t have anything else to do.

I drop my phone into my bag and pour my leftover soup back into my thermos.

“Are you even going to tell me what your idea is?” asks Amanda.

“You’ll see at three fifteen.” The second bell rings. “Oh, darn. I gotta go.”

Amanda waves me off, and I dash over to my next class. Anyone with short legs knows the value of speed walking, and with my AP Psychology class clear on the other side of the school in the temporary buildings, I barely make it before Mr. Prater locks the door.

Mr. Prater doesn’t mess around with his attendance policy, and tardiness is not tolerated. He’s a very serious guy who is also guilty of making seriously bad jokes.

“Okay, last one,” Mr. Prater says as he shuts the door behind me. “Why was Pavlov’s hair so soft?”