Tobias and Dante snickered. Callum didn’t say anything. Hunter, Annabel, and Samira stared at me.
I froze; I couldn’t get out of the seat.
“Fielding Street,” the bus driver called out. “Let’s move it, guys.”
Now my face was on fire. I stood to push past Dante, who threw his legs in my way as if he were blocking me from scoring a basket.
And just as I made it to the aisle, I heard Callum’s voice behind me.
“Hey, Mila, wear your fuzzy sweater tomorrow,” he called out as the other boys collapsed in laughter.
MIRROR
Normally I had to pick up Hadley at her bus stop, but today she had a playdate at her friend Tyler’s. So this meant that when I got home, I had the house all to myself, which felt like the first good thing about the entire day.
As soon as I’d had a glass of water and a handful of Korn Krunch (this sweet and sticky store-brand kind of snack Mom always bought), I went into the bathroom and stared at the mirror.
What are the boys seeing?
My sweater went all the way up to my collarbone, and all the way down to my hips. Nothing was showing, or poking out.
And yes, I had boobs and a butt, just like plenty of girls in seventh grade—but no one had ever made any comments about them. At least, to my face.
I wasn’t fat, or skinny like Zara. Ugly, or pretty like Omi. As far as I could tell, I was just average-looking, really. Right smack in the middle when it came to seventh grade girls.
Are people—
and by people, I mean the basketball boys—
seeing something about me that I can’t?
Am I missing something about myself?
Something obvious?
PRACTICE
At supper Hadley told us about a kid in her class who ate a grasshopper.
“But probally he didn’t swallow it,” she added.
“That doesn’t make it any better,” I informed her. “If he chewed it in his mouth—”
“Girls,” Mom said. “Not table talk.” She frowned at a text sound on her phone, then got up from the table and went into her bedroom.
“Well, but if he didn’t swallow it, it’s not in his stomach,” Hadley argued.
“Uh-huh,” I said, giving up.
I sat there for ten more minutes, but Mom didn’t come back, so Hadley and I cleared the table. Then I rinsed all the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Maybe Mom had gotten a text from Dad: he’d moved out a little while after Hadley was born, but I knew they still fought about money. “Child support,” I’d overheard Mom saying through her closed bedroom door. Shouting it, sometimes.
And I’d always think: How could someone forget to support a child?
Even someone like Dad, who hadn’t been around much when he lived here. And when he was around, was always yelling.
But at Mom, though. Never at me.
Although the thing about Dad was, he could hurt your feelings without yelling too. One time, when I was about five, I remember begging him to carry me on his back, and he said, “No, Mila, you’re getting too heavy. If you want me to play with you, keep away from the cookies!” Mom scolded him for saying that, and he just laughed. Which was the worst part, if you really thought about it.
And in first grade I wore a cherry jelly bean costume for Halloween, and Dad said, “Well, I guess Mila’s pretty princess days are over.” When I burst into tears, Mom hugged me and said, “Dad is just noticing you don’t wear princess costumes anymore, not that you aren’t pretty!” And Dad didn’t say, Oh, Mila, of course that’s what I meant! He didn’t say anything, actually.
There were plenty of other times I could remember when Dad said mean things, or things that were just mean enough. Or said nothing when he should have said something. Until finally he just packed up and left, and except for one birthday present when I was six, I didn’t hear another word from him, ever.
So the truth was, even if I wanted to feel bad about him, even if I tried to miss him, I couldn’t.
* * *
I went to my own room and shut the door.
My room was tiny—just enough space for a bed, a dresser, and a desk—but with its pale green curtains and the daisy-chain quilt Mom had found last summer at a yard sale, it was bright and cozy. Although maybe the best thing about it was that it was mine: an escape from Hadley, a place to practice my trumpet in private.
Which was what I’d been planning all supper. Now I opened the music case, took out my trumpet, and wiped the mouthpiece with the little gray cloth. Just like Emerson had taught me over the summer, first I warmed up with a few long notes.
Then I took my music folder off my desk, where I’d left it last night. “Pirate Medley” was right on top, waiting for me.
I took a deep breath.
No music I’d played all last year, including over the summer with Emerson, had given me any trouble. But this piece had tricky fingering, and weird notes you had to hold until you were dizzy. Also, there were barely any rests, so once it started, you were playing until your lips were numb and your lungs collapsed.
And the thing was, I knew that with Callum right next to me, I could actually just fake-play, the way some kids did. He was so loud that you could barely hear the other trumpets anyway.
But this idea—letting Callum play for me, basically—made my skin prickle. Because I cared about trumpet. Maybe I wasn’t the best (according to Ms. Fender), but I was definitely good.
And if this stupid “Pirate Medley” was hard, then I just needed to practice, I told myself.
Over and over.
Until my fingers know exactly what to do,
and everything in my room disappears.
Everything in my head, too.
And all I see
is the big open blue sky.
PLAID
The next morning I came to breakfast in my pajamas.
“Mila, why aren’t you dressed yet?” Mom scolded me. “I need to get to work early if I’m going to make my exercise class tonight.”
“You’re taking an exercise class?” I asked. “Since when?”
“Actually, it’s Pilates, at that new place in town. They’re offering free classes to get people to join. But my boss said I needed to be at my desk by eight this morning if I plan to leave work by four forty-five.” She nibbled her bagel. “And don’t change the subject, please. Why are you still in pajamas?”
Hadley crunched her dry Oaties. “I think Mila forgot to wash her sweater, that’s why,” she said in a tattletale sort of voice.
I glared at my little sister. “For your information, I didn’t forget, okay?”
Which was the truth. Last night, after I finished practicing trumpet, I put my sweater in the washing machine. All by itself, so that it wouldn’t shed green fuzz all over everything.
When it was done washing, I put it in the dryer for forty minutes.
And when it was dry, I stuffed it in the corner of my closet, underneath some old jeans I’d stopped wearing two years ago.
“I just got tired of wearing it,” I said. “And nothing else fits me anymore. Mom, you said we’d go shopping this weekend—”