Seeing Cinderella Page 11

  “Girls! Are you practicing your lines?” Mr. Angelo asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Angelo,” we answered, and went back to our scripts.

  We studied our lines silently, and I looked up when I heard Ana sigh. I wasn’t trying to spy on her thoughts. But I had the glasses on, and by now it was just habit.

  The air shimmered, and the blue screen appeared. Inside was an image of Ana and me, and a few other girls from school—girls from Ana’s ESL class, I thought. We were in a diner eating hamburgers and french fries and chocolate shakes. Ana and I had never gone out for hamburgers before—so this couldn’t be one of her memories. Was it a daydream, I wondered, staring at the faraway look on Ana’s face. Was Ana wishing she were somewhere else instead of drama class?

  She wouldn’t be the only one, I thought, glancing around the room and reading the screens hovering next to the other students. It was Friday afternoon, and with only ten minutes to go until the bell rang, mostly everyone had moved on from drama class. Mentally, anyway.

  I peeked at Scotlen again and saw they were still lost in Dopesville. Ellen was daydreaming about Scott while I had a weekend of nothing to look forward to except my mom’s Post-it notes of chores. But it didn’t have to be that way, right? I didn’t have to spend the weekend sitting around waiting for Ellen to call. I looked over at Stacy. Ellen had made new friends this year. I could too. And I wasn’t going to feel guilty about it anymore.

  “Hey,” I whispered to Ana. “Do you want to hang out this weekend? Maybe my mom could drop us off at the movies, and we could get hamburgers or something afterward?”

  In the screen hovering next to Ana the image of the diner vanished and was replaced by tons of Spanish words scrolling across. Ana looked surprised, and I thought she was about to smile. But then her expression changed, and she said, “I can’t. I have a lot of homework this weekend.”

  “Come on, it could be a lot of fun. Like totally, por favor?”

  I thought it was funny, combining Spanish and California Valley Girl, and I purposely said it to make her laugh.

  But Ana stared at me like I’d just spoken Chinese. “No.” Her voice reminded me of steel—hard and unbending.

  “Oh, okay, no problem,” I said, backing off quickly and looking down at my script. Sometimes I felt like Ana and I were friends, like when we ate lunch together or hung out in drama class. But sometimes—like right then—I wondered if she was just being nice to me because we were neighbors.

  A few days later, I felt like a vandal, even though I stood in front of my own locker. Twenty minutes had passed since the final bell rang; twenty minutes I spent hiding in the bathroom, trying not to look like a weirdo, while girls breezed in and out to gossip or apply lip gloss. Finally, certain Raven had left for the day, I’d escaped the bathroom and headed for our locker.

  Use your glasses wisely, Dr. Ingram’s voice rang in my mind. Finally, I thought I’d found one way to use them wisely.

  Furtively looking down the hall, I slipped on my glasses, took a blue flyer from my backpack, and opened my locker. Then I did the unthinkable.

  I touched Raven’s stuff.

  Her English textbook rested at the bottom of the locker, along with a broken pencil, some dusty Red Hots, and a couple of homework assignments I thought I’d lost. I grabbed the textbook and scanned the flyer one last time:

  RESOURCE TESTING AND TUTORING.

  I’d found it in the library a few days before. Ellen had a club meeting during lunch, and Ana had been absent that day, so I’d avoided the cafeteria completely and spent the hour hanging out in the library. The flyer advertised a program designed for students diagnosed with dyslexia.

  The librarian had come up and asked me if I needed any help.

  “What’s dyslexia?” I’d asked. “I’ve heard of it, but I’m not sure what it means.”

  “It’s a learning disability,” she’d said. “It makes it difficult for someone to read—they have trouble interpreting letters and words.”

  I wished Raven had seen the flyer. I didn’t know if she had dyslexia. But from spying on her thoughts I did know she got herself kicked out of English class earlier that day because she felt too terrified to read out loud.

  The librarian asked me if I would like to take one, and I had said no, I was only looking at it because of a friend.

  “Oh, a friend. I see.” She had given me a knowing smile, like she was keeping a secret, then handed me a flyer. “Well, maybe your friend would like one.”

  Now I folded up the flyer and glanced once more down the hall. Then with trembling hands I opened the textbook. If Raven caught me—

  “Callie, hello!”

  I jumped and spun around, smacking into Mrs. Faber and the ginormous shoulder bag she carried. Raven’s textbook tumbled to the floor with a loud thunk.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Faber,” I said, reaching down and retrieving the textbook.

  “No problem. I meant to tell you earlier, you did a great job in class today.”

  “Thanks,” I said, hoping she’d leave. Earlier in the morning it seemed like Mrs. Faber had gone out of her way to ask me a gazillion questions—even though I never once raised my hand. All of which I answered correctly, thanks to my super freaky magic glasses.

  Mrs. Faber began rummaging through her shoulder bag. “I was going to give this back to you tomorrow morning, but . . .” She pulled out a paper and handed it to me. It was my latest homework assignment, inked in red with a huge C.

  “Callie, are you feeling under challenged in my class?”

  I looked at the paper, and then back at Mrs. Faber. “Huh?”

  “What I mean is, does the homework bore you? Or is this class too easy? Perhaps we should discuss moving you to advanced algebra? Because no matter when I call on you, you always know the right answer. And yet your homework—when you bother to turn it in—shows a definite lack of attention.”

  Okay, I didn’t know what to say to that. I was almost hoping Raven would appear and catch me touching her stuff. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Faber,” I said. “I guess sometimes I just forget.”

  The air shimmered and a screen sprang up next to Mrs. Faber: Something’s not right. Half the time she isn’t even paying attention in class—so how does she know the answer when I make her participate? And those glasses. She’s always taking them off and putting them back on and staring at her classmates. That kind of behavior just doesn’t seem normal.

  “Um, Mrs. Faber, I really have to get home soon,” I said. “But I’ll try harder, I promise.”

  “You do that, Calliope.”

  I caught the last of Mrs. Faber’s thoughts as she left: I wonder if maybe she’s really gifted, and doesn’t want anyone to know? Oh well, I’ll continue asking her questions, and if this keeps up, I can ask to have her tested next semester.

  Right then I made a mental note to myself. Effective immediately: answer all questions in math class incorrectly.

  Before anyone else could interrupt, I quickly tucked the flyer into Raven’s textbook, wedged it back into our locker, and shut the door.

  Another glance up and down the hallway, and I sighed with relief. I hadn’t been caught. Maybe when Raven opened her book in English class tomorrow she’d see the flyer and think it was a sign or something. Maybe someone would help her, and she could stop feeling so scared all the time.

  Chapter 16

  Super Freaky Glasses Rule #15

  Not everyone has a pair of magic glasses. If you’re sorry for something, they won’t know unless you say so.

  “WANT SOME CHOCOLATE?” ELLEN SAID A COUPLE WEEKS later in drama class. “They’re from Scott.”

  I looked at the gooey sweets she offered my way and tried not to gag. I was so not going to eat Scott’s latest love declaration. I didn’t care how good those truffles smelled.

  “No thanks,” I said, staring at the truffle and the dreamy expression on Ellen’s face. “Too much sweetness makes me barf.”

  Stacy stifled a giggle, but Elle
n seemed unfazed.

  “Your loss.” Ellen popped the truffle into her mouth. “Anyway, then he said I was pretty, and then he said he had a crush on me in sixth grade, and then he said—”

  “That he would’ve asked you out last year, but you never noticed him. Yes, Ellen, I know.”

  I wasn’t wearing my glasses. That’s not how I knew what Ellen was going to say. I knew because Ellen told me this story twice already. Once before first period started. Then again after first period ended. And now in drama, when we were supposed to be running our lines.

  “Come on,” I said, cutting off Ellen, who was still slobbering on and on about Scott. “The play is this weekend. We need to practice.”

  “What’s to practice?” Ellen said. “It’s just memorizing a bunch of words—it’s like taking a test.”

  “It’s not at all like taking a test,” I said. “You have to learn your character.”

  “Sheesh, Callie, you sound just as bad as Mr. Angelo.” Scott came up behind Ellen, followed by a glum-looking Charlie. Scott struck a pose and said in his best Mr. Angelo impersonation, “You have to learn your character. You have to feel your character. You have to respect your character.”

  Ellen giggled and Scott continued. “I think you’ve practiced with your understudy enough for one day, don’t you? Want to hang out with your Prince?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wait, Ellen, don’t you think . . .” I trailed off as Ellen and Scott floated away to the corner, where they sat down and started whispering.

  “It’s no use,” Charlie said behind me. “They don’t take it seriously. And they’re both horrible actors.”

  I laughed and turned around. “Don’t hold back, tell me how you really feel.”

  Charlie grinned and shrugged. “It’s true. Every time I’ve practiced with her she hasn’t done much more than just recite her lines. To tell you the truth”—he lowered his voice—“I was surprised Ellen got the lead. I mean, I know she’s your best friend and all, but I really thought you’d be Cinderella.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, I thought your audition was hilarious.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Angelo had a good reason for giving the part to Ellen,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Besides, why do you care? You said you were just taking drama to get an easy A.”

  I thought about the few times I’d spied on Charlie’s thoughts—he was usually reciting his lines in his head. “You were lying, weren’t you? You actually like drama.”

  Charlie grinned. “Don’t tell Scott.”

  I nodded and turned away and realized that I just had a whole conversation with a boy without getting nervous or using my glasses to talk to him.

  Weird.

  I sat down next to Stacy, who flipped a page in her script so hard it tore, making a loud ripping sound. She stared at Ellen and Scott with a strange expression on her face, so I slipped my glasses out of my backpack and waited until the screen appeared next to her: What good is having a best friend if she’s never around? Ellen hasn’t called me all week.

  I knew how Stacy felt—it had been weeks since Ellen called me regularly. And now that I thought about it, I never saw Stacy hang out with anyone else other than Ellen.

  Kind of like me.

  “Callie. Stacy.” Mr. Angelo stalked over to us, looking irritated. “What are you two doing?”

  “Nothing,” we both answered.

  “Precisely. If you can’t be bothered to practice your lines, then perhaps I could trouble you to run an errand instead.”

  “Okay,” Stacy said. “We’ll do it.” I have to get out of here, her thoughts scrolled across the screen hovering next to her.

  I know exactly how you feel, I wanted to tell her.

  “Here’s a hall pass. Take these receipts to Principal Reynolds’s office.” Mr. Angelo handed Stacy a stack of slips.

  We left, and I read the thoughts scrolling across the screen bobbing along next to Stacy: I sooooo cannot stand another minute of Scott and Ellen. They make me sick. She missed the Key Club meeting because she couldn’t bear to be away from him. I only joined that lame club because she did.

  We continued to walk, and the silence became uncomfortable until Stacy said, “What are you doing tomorrow after school?”

  “My dad is taking my sister and me out to dinner.” Finally Dad said he could come down early for the weekend. Mom had gone out of her way to be nice to him all week whenever they talked on the phone.

  “Oh.” Stacy looked away, and the words scrolling across the screen changed: Great. So I have to go out for pizza with The Scott and Ellen Show by myself tomorrow. Fun.

  I looked away, grateful Stacy hadn’t said anything out loud. I didn’t want to tell her Ellen hadn’t mentioned anything to me about going out for pizza.

  After we dropped the receipts off at Principal Reynolds’s office and headed back to drama, we heard a stern voice echoing down the hall.

  “Hey, you!” A boy as skinny as a lima bean, and clad in the blue and gold vest all hall monitors were required to wear, flagged us down.

  “What are you doing out of class?” The air shimmered, and the blue screen appeared next to him. They are so busted, his thoughts said.

  “We’re running errands for our teacher.” Stacy fished the hall pass out of her pocket and showed it to him.

  He glanced at it suspiciously. “This doesn’t look like a teacher’s handwriting.”

  “Would you like to walk us back to class and talk to Mr. Angelo?” Stacy asked in her sweetest voice.

  He thrust the pass back at Stacy. “Just don’t dawdle.”

  Stacy and I waited until he’d turned the corner to burst into giggles. “What a creep,” she said.

  “I know,” I said. “Hey—did you know at the beginning of the year Ellen wanted to be a hall monitor?”

  “No. Did you, too?”

  “No. I told her people would run away from us.”

  “And what did Ellen say to that?”

  “That only the slackers would run away.”

  Stacy laughed. “That sounds like Ellen.”

  We continued down the hall, and Stacy’s thoughts changed: An image formed, of me and Ellen and Stacy eating lunch one day in the cafeteria. Ellen and Stacy were giggling over a joke or something. And when I looked at myself, I realized I was glaring. Right at Stacy. Then another image—of me and Stacy and Ana sitting together in drama class, the day I asked Ana to go to the movies. While I whispered to Ana, Stacy looked at us hopefully. But when I went back to my script, her smile vanished.

  Had Stacy been hoping I would invite her, too?

  The screen changed again, and Stacy’s thoughts scrolled across: I wish Callie didn’t hate me so much.

  I almost smacked into a row of lockers. I didn’t hate Stacy. I just didn’t like her a whole lot. Weren’t you supposed to dislike the girl who stole your best friend? Then again, how did I know I didn’t like Stacy? I barely knew her. And that was my fault, I realized. Stacy had tried to be friends with me at the beginning of the year—she even offered to help me paint my room. I’d always found a way to ignore her. But I could change that, I decided. Starting now.

  “So, what was it like in Oregon?” I asked.

  Stacy shrugged and said nothing. But in the screen hovering next to her I saw something unexpected. A picture of Green Braces Girl. But this time, I really, really looked at her.

  And I realized that girl was Stacy.

  She was about twenty pounds heavier, wore no makeup, and had dull hair instead of her current golden locks. But it was Stacy, no doubt about it. The picture kept changing: first Green Braces Girl, Stacy, sat alone in a school cafeteria. Then alone in a classroom while groups of students around her talked and laughed. The images continued, showing Stacy exercising, dying her hair, and finally getting her braces removed, all while she counted the weeks off on a calendar to a day with the note “Moving” written in thick red marker. The last image showed Stacy—the way
she looked now—smiling widely as Ellen sat down next to her in science class and started chatting.

  “It was okay,” Stacy said finally. “But I like it better here.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t mad at Stacy for stealing Ellen away anymore, I realized. After seeing her thoughts, I could understand why she’d want a best friend.

  I wanted to tell Stacy I was sorry for ever being a jerk to her—but the words just wouldn’t come. Maybe though, I could do something else. “Did I hear Ellen say something about going out for pizza after school tomorrow?”

  Stacy nodded, and I continued, “I’m not seeing my dad until later—so maybe I could meet you there. We could watch an episode of The Scott and Ellen Show together.”

  Stacy smiled. “That would be great, Callie. Really, really great.”

  We walked the rest of the way back to class, and I read more of Stacy’s thoughts: Maybe Callie and I can become friends after all.

  Maybe, I thought back at her. Stranger things have happened.

  Chapter 17

  Super Freaky Glasses Rule #16

  Don’t expect your magic glasses to figure out your own thoughts. That’s your job.

  THE SCOTT AND ELLEN SHOW GOT REALLY OLD, REALLY fast the next afternoon at the pizza place. So Stacy, Ana, and I finally moved to another booth. When I invited Ana the night before, I figured she would just say no, so I was surprised when she agreed to come.

  “No,” Ana said to Stacy. “No, it’s ‘Es major que no llores.’ Try it again.” While we waited for our pizza, Ana was trying to teach Stacy to sing “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” in Spanish. Stacy kept getting the words wrong, and would laugh so hard soda snorted from her nose, which would cause Ana to laugh so hard soda snorted from her nose.

  I didn’t feel like singing so I just watched them quietly, and wound a paper napkin around my thumb until my skin turned white.

  “Are you okay?” Stacy asked.