Planet Middle School Read online

I journey down the skirt aisle,

  an explorer in unfamiliar territory,

  tossing semi-cute selections

  into my basket

  as I go.

  Once in the dressing room,

  I take turns pulling

  each skirt on,

  then spin before

  the mirror thinking:

  One of these

  is bound to catch

  Santiago’s eye.

  Caught

  One morning finds me

  in the kitchen

  popping a frozen waffle

  into the toaster,

  trying to scarf it down

  before anyone comes in.

  “Morning, Joy,” says Mom.

  Too late.

  “Hi, Mom. Bye, Mom.”

  I break for the door.

  “Wait a minute,” she says.

  “What is that you’ve got on?”

  “They’re called clothes, Mom.”

  She gives me that look that says

  I’m going to smack you

  in a minute.

  I hang my head,

  pinching myself for being

  such a smart mouth.

  “Sorry,” I mutter,

  and take another step.

  “You’re wearing a skirt,” she says,

  like I don’t know.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t own a skirt.”

  “I do now. Bought it yesterday.”

  “You bought it?”

  “Yes.”

  “With your own money?”

  “Yes.”

  By now, I’m bouncing

  from foot to foot,

  itching to be anywhere

  but here.

  A slow smile spreads

  across my mom’s face

  like sun rising.

  “Okay, baby,” she says,

  ready to let me go.

  “You have a good day.”

  I breathe,

  and smile back thinking,

  That’s the plan.

  Runway

  Walking to school,

  an arctic blast

  blows up my skirt

  and I shiver,

  wishing for the warmth

  of jeans.

  But I’m on a mission

  so I spend the day

  sitting cross-legged

  pretending to be comfortable.

  (If only Mom could see me!)

  At lunch, I keep an eye out

  for Santiago.

  I spot him on the way

  back to class,

  and saunter by slow enough

  so he’ll notice.

  Instead, he barely nods.

  Embarrassed, I try

  to tear up the nearest stairs

  two at a time, like always,

  only my too-cute pencil skirt

  makes that impossible.

  My quick getaway

  is further interrupted

  when I trip and my books

  go flying across the stairs.

  I bend to gather them

  and hear kids giggling

  as they stare at my thighs.

  I stand up quickly,

  cursing the skirt,

  wishing for an invisibility cloak,

  wondering if Santiago

  is worth all this trouble

  in the first place.

  I Don’t Get It

  I thought I had him figured out,

  the kind of hair he likes,

  the clothes,

  the shoes,

  the makeup.

  Why won’t he even

  notice me?

  Where did I go wrong?

  Fire Drill

  “Joy,” KeeLee whispers,

  standing next to me

  as we line up,

  “since when did you

  like wearing skirts?”

  “Since never.”

  “Then why—”

  I look around,

  make sure no one else

  can hear.

  “I thought Santiago

  would like it.”

  “Oh,” says KeeLee,

  sounding almost sad.

  “What? You tried on heels,” I say.

  “But that was different,”

  KeeLee says.

  “That was for me,

  not for someone else.”

  I don’t want to listen

  to what KeeLee has to say,

  so I turn away and hurry

  to the exit.

  News Travels

  Back home,

  I rip the skirt off,

  drop-kick it into

  the back of the closet,

  and pull on comfy jeans.

  Later that night

  when Dad gets home

  in time for dinner,

  he walks into the kitchen

  all smiles,

  checking me

  from head to toe.

  “So where is it?”

  “Where’s what?” I ask.

  “The skirt?

  Your mom told me

  you bought one.”

  I groan so loudly

  the whole world

  can hear me,

  then run to my room

  and slam the door.

  Before it closes,

  my dad yells out,

  “What did I say?”

  Sick to My Stomach

  I don’t have a fever,

  but it’s not entirely a lie

  when I tell my mom

  I’m sick to my stomach

  and need to stay home.

  It hurts seeing Santiago

  when he doesn’t

  see

  me.

  What Are Friends For?

  KeeLee’s a little mad at me

  for giving her the slip

  during fire drill.

  Still, she drops by after choir

  to check on the real reason

  I’m feeling sick as a dog.

  “Forget about Santiago,” she says

  when I tell her.

  “He’s probably not

  good enough for you anyway.”

  “Probably not?”

  “Definitely not.”

  KeeLee has a way

  of making me smile.

  Is Everybody Crazy Now?

  Glory sits down to dinner

  by invitation.

  Jake does his usual drop-in

  right when Mom sets the table.

  I see him and cringe,

  hoping he doesn’t bring up Santiago.

  I’m still trying to figure out a way

  to get Santiago to like me.

  “Great half-court shot

  last Saturday,” Dad says to Glory.

  She smiles and we all rehash the game.

  During cleanup,

  Jake sneaks long looks at Glory

  when her head is turned away.

  “Man,” Jake whispers,

  “that girl’s legs go on forever.

  She seeing anybody?”

  He’s practically salivating.

  I cut my eyes at him

  and stomp off to the kitchen.

  He’s right behind me.

  “Joy, what’s the matter? What’d I say?”

  “First, it’s KeeLee. Now it’s Glory.

  It’s okay if you’re girl crazy, right?

  But let me just look at Santiago

  and you’re all in my face.”

  “That’s not true. I mean—

  Look, it’s different with you, okay?

  I’m not trying to change myself for a girl.

  But you’re turning yourself

  inside out for this guy,

  and I don’t see why.

  There’s nothing wrong with you

  the way you are.

  You don’t need to become

  somebody else.”

  I can’t listen t
o this.

  I drop a dish in the sink

  and walk away.

  “You don’t like who I am now,”

  I yell over my shoulder.

  “Go find somebody you like better!”

  Hiding Out

  Shut up in my room for the night,

  I jam on my headphones,

  and crank the music up so high,

  I don’t have to think about why

  I just told my best friend

  to get lost.

  Glee

  Friday night,

  the lights in the school auditorium

  go dim.

  A few weeks ago,

  KeeLee told me I could invite Jake,

  so he’s there, three rows back.

  We don’t even wave to each other,

  so I have no one to keep me company.

  I sigh and silently wish KeeLee luck.

  She looks so beautiful, so strong.

  The lyrics of Christina Aguilera

  fill the room.

  “Words can’t bring me down,”

  sings KeeLee.

  Her voice rubs the air

  soft as silk

  and I smile knowing

  KeeLee doesn’t need luck

  after all.

  The New Girl

  I.

  On Saturday,

  I jog to the neighborhood

  basketball court,

  find Santiago

  mixing it up

  with some new girl.

  A minute later,

  their game is over

  and they leave the court,

  laughing at some private joke,

  his arm slung across her shoulder

  like he owns her.

  I reel from the gut punch,

  but can’t keep from staring.

  There’s something about her,

  something familiar.

  The naked face,

  unpainted lips,

  plain hair flipped up

  into a ponytail,

  dirty sneaks,

  boys’ jogging shorts,

  oversized shirt.

  The new girl,

  the old me—

  we could be twins.

  II.

  I collapse

  on the park bench,

  wait till my heart stops

  thundering inside my chest.

  I feel something wet on my cheek,

  wipe it away with the back of my hand,

  and run all the way home.

  Aftermath

  Two days later,

  I’m still mad.

  Next team practice,

  I snatch the ball

  before my turn,

  make a mad dash

  for the hoop,

  and slam the ball like

  it’s Santiago’s face.

  Coach doesn’t even have to call time.

  I bench myself

  before he gets the chance.

  Fuming

  No point being mad

  at Santiago.

  He didn’t tell me

  to try to be

  someone else.

  Confession

  Three days of moping

  around the house,

  and Mom is wondering why.

  She bugs me

  till I tell her about

  Santiago,

  the dumb things I did

  to get his attention,

  and the new girl

  who didn’t have to do

  anything at all.

  Mom listens, pushes the hair

  from my forehead,

  and asks me:

  “Why do you care so much

  whether he likes you?”

  It’s a hard question

  and I take time to think

  before I answer.

  “Because—

  because he makes

  my heart beat fast.”

  “Oh, honey,” Mom says,

  “he may be the first,

  but I promise you,

  he won’t be the last.”

  Then she holds me close

  long enough for me to leave

  a puddle on her shoulder,

  long enough for me to feel

  some of the hurt drain away.

  The Call

  One night

  the phone rings.

  Mom answers the call

  then gives me the news

  and the world falls away.

  Some man was in his car

  texting.

  He never saw Jake

  till it was too late.

  S.O.S.

  16 and ¼ blocks

  from my house to

  Columbia Presbyterian Hospital.

  14 and ¼ blocks.

  I run

  counting each one.

  12 and ¼ blocks.

  Keeping count

  gives me something

  to concentrate on.

  10 and ¼ blocks.

  Something other than

  my fear.

  8 and ¼ blocks.

  6 and ¼ blocks.

  Oh, Lord.

  Please!

  3 and ¼ blocks.

  I’m coming, Jake!

  I’m coming!

  Room 321

  Room 321.

  That’s what the nurse told me.

  The elevator groans

  all the way up

  to the third floor.

  How long did I stand

  outside his door,

  afraid to go in,

  afraid not to?

  Why did I fight with him?

  Jake is worth

  ten Santiagos.

  He’s my friend.

  What if Jake doesn’t forgive me?

  What if he doesn’t wake up

  long enough to try?

  Hand shaking,

  I grab the doorknob,

  take a deep breath,

  and push.

  Vigil

  Jake’s mom

  leaves us in the room alone.

  I sit on the edge of his bed,

  one hand holding his,

  the other wiping

  a stupid tear

  from my cheek.

  If I start bawling

  like some little girl,

  Jake will never let me

  live it down.

  I swallow hard

  and give his hand a squeeze.

  When he doesn’t squeeze back

  I die inside.

  I lay my head down

  on his blanket

  and fight for breath.

  When I can’t stand

  his stillness anymore,

  I stumble out the door.

  Concussion

  Even the word sounds

  like it could break you.

  The doctor says

  it’s why Jake is still asleep.

  But if the doctor’s so smart,

  how come he can’t say

  when my friend will wake up?

  Or if?

  I need an aspirin.

  Visiting Hours Are Over

  I take the stairs down

  to the ground floor

  so I can cry

  in secret.

  Once outside,

  the cold air clears my mind.

  I text KeeLee,

  ask her to talk to God,

  and to put in a good word

  for Jake.

  Gift

  The next afternoon, I’m back

  determined to get through to Jake.

  I lean over his bed,

  give him a shake.

  “Enough already!”

  I tell him.

  “Wake up!”

  That’s when

  Jake slowly opens his eyes

  and gives me the shadow

  of a grin.

  It feels like Christmas.

  “Hey,” says Jake.

  “Hey,” I s
ay,

  and suddenly I know

  this is all the conversation

  I’m in the mood for.

  Standing Watch

  24 hours later,

  I change my mind.

  I want to hear more

  than a word or two.

  I want to see Jake move.

  His stillness stops my heart.

  Jake? Are you in there?

  The Old Jake

  Sitting up in bed,

  laughing with his nurse,

  the old Jake

  sees me at the door,

  fakes a shot

  with an imaginary ball.

  “Nothing but net!” he says,

  then waves me in.

  That’s my Jake.

  I can breathe again.

  Peg-Leg

  That’s my new name for Jake.

  Lucky for him

  the driver wasn’t going that fast

  so the only thing broken

  was his leg.

  Still, he’s pretty banged up.

  But after watching Jake

  for a few days,

  the doctors

  get him and his cast

  up on crutches

  and send him home.

  That’s good for me

  ’cause I’m worn out from running

  back and forth

  those 16 and ¼ blocks

  to see him.

  I Hate to Say It

  I drop by Jake’s after school,

  find him in front of the television.

  He makes a place for me

  on the couch.

  I grab the remote

  mute the sound,

  and get to the point:

  “I’m sorry about our fight, Jake.

  You were right.”

  The words are out

  before I know it.

  (What was it I said to Caden

  about sticking with

  who you really are?)

  I tell Jake about

  Santiago and the new girl,

  and how ridiculous I feel.

  “Don’t call yourself ridiculous!”

  Jake is quick to say.

  “That’s my job!”

  It takes me a minute

  to tell that he’s joking,

  to catch his grin.

  But when I do,

  I punch him in the arm,

  smiling at my friend,

  glad to have us back.

  Readjustment

  I sort through my closet

  pack up the heels,

  the skirt,

  the lacy pink shirt I bought