Millicent Min, Girl Genius Page 8

  My mother was homecoming queen when she went to JFK High School. It made sense. Unlike me, she’s highly photogenic and would look good in a crown. What’s curious is that I never knew she was queen until I overheard her telling Emily one day while they were folding towels. I wonder what other information she has kept from me?

  It has not gone unnoticed that Mom and Emily are developing a close camaraderie. They talk fashion and skin care, and have found their equals when it comes to shopping, though each has a different approach to the sport. Mom shops sales to see how much she can save. Emily rings up her father’s Visa card to see how much she can spend. Nonetheless, both possess the kind of stamina usually reserved for top athletes. They also share a dream to visit the 4.2 million-square-foot Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota.

  I wouldn’t call Emily spoiled. Yet who ever heard of a twelve-year-old with her own credit card? Her father gave it to her for emergencies. To Emily walking into a store constitutes an emergency. She is always flaunting her Visa and saying loudly, “I’d like to charge that to my father’s account.” Or “I just know my father would want me to have this.”

  No one has ever questioned her or even asked to see any ID. Once she gets home she just throws her purchases into her closet, bag and all. I am not sure if Alice is even aware of this. Then again, I get the feeling that Alice and Emily don’t talk much. Personally, I love talking with Alice. She’s always telling me about the books she just read, or floating ideas by me for future articles. I feel that she takes me seriously, even if Emily believes that her mom has been put on this Earth to annoy her. A lot of our conversations begin, “You won’t believe what Alice said to me this time….”

  I don’t know why Emily is always so mad at her mother. If Alice were my mom, I’d want to tell her everything.

  Stanford was in such a hurry to get out of tutoring and on with basketball that he left his books behind. I knew that he had a quiz coming up so, against my better judgment, I decided to return his books to him.

  As I approached the park, I could see Stanford Wong, barbaric buffoon, playing basketball with a bunch of other boys. What I observed was shocking. Even though he wasn’t the biggest or the tallest, it was clear he was the one in charge. A group of girls stood off to the side, pretending not to watch him. When he saw me, he missed his shot and made a sour face.

  “Stanford, I need to see you for a minute,” I informed him. I wondered if he felt as awkward as I did with everyone staring at us.

  “Can’t it wait?” he said, lowering his voice and hardly moving his lips.

  “No,” I said.

  He released a huge sigh. “Gotta go,” Stanford mumbled as he rushed me away from his friends.

  The girls looked at me with curious, envious eyes. A gawky carrot-topped boy stood with his hands on his hips. He looked familiar. “Hey Stanford, come back, we’re not finished yet.”

  “No, I gotta go,” Stanford snapped. He walked so fast I had to run to keep up with him.

  “Forget her, let’s play,” the redheaded boy insisted. I could feel him glaring at me. “Stanford, come back. We need you!”

  It had never occurred to me that Stanford might be popular or that he had any real athletic talent or friends. To me he had always been the imbecile that Maddie thrust upon me. And now here he was in all his glory, King of the Sierra Vista Playground.

  “Don’t talk to me,” Stanford hissed as I tried to catch up to him. “I don’t want to be seen with you. What are you doing here?”

  “Your books,” I said, handing them to him. “You’ve got a quiz tomorrow in your English class.”

  Stanford stopped and faced me. “Yeah, well …” he said, taking the offending objects. “Thanks, I guess.”

  I thought I was doing something nice. But nice isn’t always reciprocated. I recall that back at Star Brite, when I learned the others only ate lunch with me for bonus points, I was admittedly a bit depressed.

  “You just need to learn how to mingle,” my father said. “Once kids get to know the real Millicent, they can’t help but love you.”

  Spoken like a true father.

  Dad slid a brown paper bag across the kitchen table. Inside was a box of Moon Pies. “Pass these out on the playground,” he whispered as if the Moon Pie Police might intervene. “I guarantee you’ll be the most popular kid out there.”

  “Daaaad,” I began to protest.

  “Promise me you’ll try.” He looked so sincere, I was afraid of hurting his feelings. My father’s a sensitive male.

  “I’ll try,” I sighed, taking the bag.

  Sure enough, Dad was right. I was a hit. For all of about seventeen seconds. Once the Moon Pies were gone, my popularity polls plummeted. A couple of the girls had managed to say, “Thank you, Maggie,” but that was as close to a lasting relationship as I came.

  So there I was. Just some little kid standing on the playground with an empty box of Moon Pies. A sudden gust of wind began to blow the wrappers away and I ran after them, lest they add “litterer” to my résumé, which already included “outcast” and “egghead.” When I was done I sat on an empty bench. Luckily, I had slipped a Moon Pie in my pocket. It was all smashed but I ate it anyway.

  “Um, I’d better get back to the game,” Stanford said. He was looking at me funny. “Are you okay, Millie?”

  I looked around and instead of an empty playground, I was surprised to find myself in a park full of kids.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I assured him. “Hey, good luck on your quiz tomorrow.”

  “Right,” he replied, sounding dejected. “Like I’m really going to pass.”

  “You might,” I said. “You’re not as stupid as I first thought you were.”

  “Gee thanks, Mill, and you’re not as big a blockhead as I thought you were,” Stanford answered.

  I almost smiled, but caught myself just in time.

  I love Emily, but she can be so superficial. She just devours those insipid fashion magazines as if they were malted milk balls.

  “Oooh, look at her,” gushed Emily as she pointed to an emaciated waif. At first I thought the sad-faced girl was a starving refugee. Then Emily explained that “Patka” was a highly compensated supermodel who had aspirations of becoming a doctor and curing the world of acne.

  I took a second look and indeed, Patka was sheathed in a designer faux-distressed ensemble.

  “That girl has an eating disorder. Her bones are deteriorating and she will live to regret the decisions of her youth.” I sniffed as I turned the pages of Emily’s latest Archie comic.

  “Well,” Emily said, “you’re assuming that’s her real body. I think a lot of the magazines alter the bodies on the computer. No one really looks like that. Anyway, real or not, look at her marvelous outfit. We have to go to the mall. That skirt is so cute. I just know my dad would want me to have that skirt.”

  I wanted to tell her that maybe a mini wasn’t the most flattering thing for her figure. But then, Emily is funny about her weight. She doesn’t consider herself heavy. “I’m big-boned,” she’s told me more than once. “Why’s everyone so concerned with my weight if I’m not? And honestly, Millie, don’t you think you could stand to gain a few pounds? Then maybe you wouldn’t always have to wear that ugly green belt to hold up your pants.”

  I ignored her pants comment. It’s true that I have to wear a belt, but the belt is far from ugly. It used to be my grandfather’s and it practically wraps around my waist twice. Dad had to punch several more holes into it to make it fit. Still, I would not trade it for anything.

  As we read in silence, I savored the camaraderie. Here we were, just two regular friends reading side by side, when all of a sudden, Emily shouted, “Look! A quiz. I love these quizzes.” I looked up just as Reggie was about to trip Jughead. I love quizzes too. “Let’s take the quiz,” she pleaded. “Come on, please!!!!”

  “Sure, why not?” I was glad it was something else we could do to
gether. I had no idea Emily would enjoy a quiz. Perhaps I had misjudged her. Every day we’re learning new things about each other. Plus, I was in the mood for a quiz.

  Earlier, Stanford had been waiting for me outside the library. “I passed!” he said, all smiles. “I actually passed!”

  He got a C-plus on his quiz, but this didn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he was proud. I would have been mortified to get a grade lower than an A-minus.

  “Let the quiz begin,” I said to Emily. “But I ought to warn you, I’m really good at this sort of stuff!”

  “Okay,” Emily said, grabbing a pen off my desk and removing the cap with her teeth. “Question number one: If you were invited to a 1960s theme party, would you: A) get reacquainted with Mary Quant; B) rim your eyes in black kohl; C) dig out your fishnets and go-go boots; or D) all of the above?”

  It was a stupid quiz. I could not believe I even consented to take it. After we had tallied our scores Emily tried to console me. “You’re just upset because you didn’t do too well,” she said. “But that’s okay, it was pretty dumb.”

  YOUR FASHION HIGH-Q RESULTS

  Score 4 out of 25 — Try, try again. Sorry, but you need to go back to fashion school.

  Study up on the trends, get hot tips from your friends, be bold and experiment, and get ready for next month’s exciting

  Fashion High-Q Quiz!

  Not only did I not do well, I failed the Fashion High-Q Quiz.

  I’m not sure if the other girls on the volleyball team put up with me because I am Emily’s friend or because they genuinely don’t despise me. No one’s calling me names anymore, and Julie almost smiled at me once. Emily says, “It’s more work to be mean than it is to be nice.” Sometimes she’s pretty perceptive.

  “Lights out,” my mother said through the closed door. Emily snuggled into her sleeping bag and then brought out a beat-up old stuffed animal.

  “What is that thing?” I asked.

  “My bear,” she said defensively. “His name is TB. That’s short for Teddy Bear. My dad gave him to me when I was little. It’s TB’s turn to sleep with me tonight.” Emily held him up so I could see. He looked like something you’d find on the side of the road.

  “Are you aware that TB also stands for tuberculosis?” I asked.

  “TB is always here for me when I need him,” she went on as she adjusted his nose, which was smashed to one side. “Who do you turn to when you’re lonely? Do you have a favorite stuffed animal? Everyone needs a favorite stuffed animal.”

  I have never allowed for invisible friends or any of those classic childhood fabrications. I tried to keep an open mind about Santa when I saw how important he was to the adults in my life. Yet when faced with the mathematical improbability of his delivering so many gifts in a mere twelve-hour period, I just could not see how it could be so.

  Before I could answer Emily’s question, Mom knocked on the door again. “Come in!” Emily called out.

  My mother stuck her head into the room. “Just wanted to say good night,” she started saying. She stopped when she spotted TB. “Oooh, look at this adorable bear,” she said, kneeling down to give him a hug. Emily beamed. How could Mom even tell he was a bear? “You know, I used to sleep with a stuffed animal when I was your age,” Mom said, looking wistful. “A funny little dog who I’d whisper my secrets to before I went to sleep. I’m not sure what happened to him.”

  When my mother closed the door, Emily asked again, “So, Millie, who do you turn to when you get lonely?”

  lone·ly 'lōn-lē adj lone·li·er; -est (1607) 1 a : being without company : LONE b : cut off from others : SOLITARY 2 : not frequented by human beings : DESOLATE 3 : sad from being alone : LONESOME 4 : producing a feeling of bleakness or desolation syn see ALONE

  I gave it some thought. True, I have led a somewhat solitary life and have on rare occasion wondered what it would be like to be popular. But it is not as if I sat alone in my room all day brooding. My life was so full with my studies and endless projects that there really wasn’t time for friendships. And if there wasn’t time for friendships, then wouldn’t it follow that there wasn’t time for loneliness? As it was, I had put cryptarithms (my favorite form of math puzzle) and other things on hold to make room for Emily.

  I turned off my reading lamp. “I don’t get lonely,” I answered. Was my voice wavering, I wondered?

  Okay, it is possible I have experienced small aches once or twice when observing kids at school running up to their friends and sharing secrets. And from time to time, I wondered what it might be like to have someone to walk to class with or to call when something great has happened. Someone in my own generation, that is. Now that I finally have a best friend, I can understand why Maddie is so lonely sometimes. Grandpa was more than her husband. He was her friend.

  It was like one day my grandfather is healthy and organizing a protest, and the next day he’s sick in the hospital. My grandfather took a long four months to die, even though the doctors only gave him two. Maddie says he was never one for listening to authority figures.

  “How are you doing in school?” he’d ask. “Keep up the good grades and you’re sure to be valedictorian.” The tubes and wires plugged into him made him resemble some sort of bionic man, only he didn’t look invincible. “Wow, valedictorian,” he wheezed. “That would sure be something. I’d like to see my little Millie knock the socks off of those big kids.”

  Grandpa never finished high school. It was his only regret, he said.

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised as I reviewed his medical chart.

  “He’s a fighter,” Maddie whispered proudly as Grandpa slept. He looked so weak and tired. I hoped that whatever he was fighting for was worth it.

  My grandfather’s funeral was strange. Lots of people got up and told stories, and there was laughing and crying going on at the same time. Some of the policemen who had arrested him for protesting over the years were there. Even Stanford and his family came to pay their last respects. It was the only time Stanford and I didn’t greet each other with insults. He came over to me on his own and mumbled, “I’m sorry, Millie, your grandfather was so cool.” Then he walked away without even saying anything about my crying.

  After the funeral, our living room was full of people I didn’t know consoling Maddie and Mom. It was boring and disconcerting, so I slipped away. But even if I had jumped up and down and shouted, “I’m leaving now!” no one would have noticed.

  I stayed in my tree until night began to fall. The street was lined with cars I did not recognize. It was quiet, except for the low murmurs of people consoling Maddie. Through my binoculars, I could barely make out Max across the street in an army costume, hiding among the blue hydrangea bushes. An empty paper towel tube doubled as his telescope.

  All of a sudden, Max’s parents scurried out of their house, jumped into the station wagon, and took off. Bewildered, Max stepped out into the deserted driveway. Just then, the car came to a screeching halt and then slowly reversed. Max was scooped up and the station wagon disappeared into the darkness.

  When no one came to get me, I went back inside. The crowd was gone. Maddie, Mom, and Dad sat on the couch like zombies. They hadn’t even bothered turning on the lights. There was no dinner on the table, and I was starving. So I ordered an extra large pizza — the veggie special without onions, the way Grandpa and I liked it. I kept thinking about how we used to argue over who’d get the slice with the most mushrooms. By the time it arrived, I wasn’t hungry anymore.

  As I stared at the giant pizza, I never felt lonelier in my life.

  Without warning, THUMP! A pillow hit me over the head. Emily laughed her big, throaty laugh. “Earth to Millie, Earth to Millie,” she shouted. I looked up, surprised to find her poised to strike me again.

  “Hey!” I said. I picked up my pillow and swatted her with such ferocity that she fell over backward. She didn’t move and for a moment I was afraid I had killed her. Then I heard he
r chortle. It started softly and rose to fill the room.

  “Ooooh, you are in so much trouble,” Emily shrieked as she proceeded to pummel me with her pillow. I took the defensive and whacked her back repeatedly. She was a fierce opponent. I’m not sure whose pillow burst first, mine or hers, but soon my room resembled a snowstorm. The door opened, and Emily and I froze as feathers swirled around us.

  Mom’s jaw dropped, and Dad’s eyes bugged out. Neither spoke.

  “I am so sorry,” Emily said, bowing her head so she wouldn’t start giggling.

  “Me too,” I said.

  But I really wasn’t.

  My father was acting strange all morning. Stranger than usual, that is. He had even combed his hair and used some of Mom’s mousse to give it the oomph, shine, and unsurpassed hold favored by Hollywood hairstylists. Mom was acting funny too. I think they were having one of their fights.

  Dad had an important interview today. That’s why he was wearing the suit he had bought for Grandpa’s funeral. He looked as uncomfortable in it this morning as the day we buried my grandfather.

  “Do I have to go?” I overheard Dad asking Mom. My stethoscope comes in very handy at times like these.

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “We’ve talked about this before and now more than ever you need a job.” There was a long silence. Then Mom let loose one of her famous sighs. “Jack, things are going to change around here, and there’s no ignoring it.”

  It all sounded so clear. I was amazed at what my stethoscope could pick up.

  “Millie,” my father said. He sounded like he was right next to me. I could practically hear him breathing. “It’s time for breakfast.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Please put the stethoscope away.”

  Despite Mom’s renowned Smiley Face French Toast, Dad moped all through breakfast. To cheer him up, I offered to practice shaking hands with him, but he was too despondent to even respond. As it was, he blindly ate the French toast, not even noticing the beatific banana smile and googly blueberry eyeballs.