Draanen Wendelin Van - Flipped

I daydreamed a lot about the sycamore tree, too, which at first I thought was because I was feeling melancholy. But then I remembered how my mother had called the sycamore a testimony to endurance. It had survived being damaged as a sapling. It had grown. Other people thought it was ugly, but I never had.

Maybe it was all how you looked at it. Maybe there were things I saw as ugly that other people thought were beautiful.

Like Shelly Stalls. A perfect example! To me there was absolutely nothing to recommend her, but the rest of the world seemed to think she was the cat’s meow.

Me-ow.

Anyway, I sort of drifted through the week like that. Until Thursday. Thursday our social studies class went to the library to do research for our famous historical figure report. I’d chosen Susan B. Anthony and her fight for the right to vote, and I was in the middle of tracking down some books when Darla Tressler flagged me from the end of a stack.

Darla was in a few of my classes, but we weren’t really friends, so I looked behind me to see who else she might be flagging.

“Come here!” she mouthed, frantically waving me over.

So I hurried over. She pointed through the column of books and whispered, “Listen!”

It was Garrett’s voice. And then Bryce’s. And they were talking about… me. About my chickens. And salmonella poisoning. And how Bryce had been throwing away my eggs. And about me fixing up our yard.

Bryce was sounding like he felt really bad, but then suddenly my blood ran cold. He was talking about David!

And then Garrett laughed and said, “A retard? Well, that explains a lot, doesn’t it? You know… about Juli?”

For a second, there was silence. And at that moment I was sure they must be able to hear my heart pounding in my chest, but then Bryce laughed and said, “Oh, right.”

I positively crumbled onto the floor. And in a flash the voices were gone. Darla checked around the corner, then sat beside me, saying, “Oh, Jules, I’m so, so sorry. I thought he was about to confess that he’s been crushing on you.”

“What? Darla, Bryce does not have a crush on me.”

“Where have you been? Haven’t you noticed the way he’s been looking at you? That boy is lost in Loveland.”

“Oh, obviously! You just heard him, Darla!”

“Yeah, but yesterday, yesterday I caught him staring at you and he said there was a bee in your hair. A bee, girl. Is that the lamest cover-up you’ve ever heard or what?”

“Darla, the way things have been going, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a bee in my hair.”

“Oh, you think you’re that sweet, huh? Just attract bees like honey? Well, honey, the only bee you’re attracting around here is B-r-y-c-e. Cute, yeah. But after what I just heard, I’d stomp and grind, girl. Stomp and grind.” She got up to go but turned and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t jabber.”

I just shook my head and forgot about Darla. How wrong could a person be.

It was what Bryce and Garrett had said that I couldn’t forget. How could they be so cruel? And so stupid? Is this what my father had gone through growing up?

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. What right did Bryce have to make fun of my uncle? How dare he!

I felt fire burn in my cheeks and a cold, hard knot tighten in my heart. And in a flash I knew—I was through with Bryce Loski. He could keep his brilliant blue eyes. He could keep his two-faced smile and… and my kiss. That’s right! He could keep that, too. I was never, ever going to talk to him again!

I stormed back to the section of books on Susan B. Anthony, found two that would work, and then went back to my table. But as I was collecting my things to check out of the library, I remembered. The next day we were going to the Loskis’ house for dinner.

I zipped up my backpack and threw it on my shoulder. Surely after what had happened, I had the right to vote against going!

Didn’t I?

Realizing that my father had the same sense of humor as Garrett gave me the serious willies. I had the hardest time just looking at my dad, let alone speaking to him. But at about five o’clock Friday afternoon I agreed with him about one thing — we should’ve barbecued. A barbecue is more, you know, low-key. Instead, my mom was flying around the kitchen, slicing and dicing and barking orders at Dad and me like the president was coming to dinner.

We swept the floor, put an extra leaf in the table, brought in five more chairs, and set the table. We set it all wrong, of course, but all my mother had to do was shuffle things around to make it right. It looked the same to me, but what do I know?

She put out candlesticks and said, “Rick, can you load the dishes and run them? I’d like a chance to get cleaned up. After that you can change. And Bryce? What are you wearing?”

“Mom, it’s the Bakers. Are you trying to make them feel totally worthless?”

“Trina and I agreed on a dress-up, so—”

“But why?”

My dad put a hand on my shoulder and said, “So we can all feel equally uncomfortable, son.”

Women. I looked at her and said, “Does that mean I have to wear a tie?”

“No, but some sort of button-down instead of a T-shirt would be nice.”

I went down to my room and ripped through my closet looking for something with buttons. There were lots of buttons, all right. Lots of geeky buttons. I thought about boycotting my mother’s dress-code requirements, but instead I started putting on shirts.

Twenty minutes later I still wasn’t dressed. And I was extremely ticked off about it because what did it matter? Why did I care what I looked like at this stupid dinner? I was acting like a girl.

Then through a gap in my curtains I saw them coming. Out their front door, down their walkway, across the street. It was like a weird dream. They seemed to be floating toward our house. All five of them.

I pulled a shirt off my bed, punched my arms in, and buttoned up.

Two seconds later the doorbell rang and Mom called, “Can you get that, Bryce?”

Luckily, Granddad beat me to it. He greeted them all like they were long-lost family and even seemed to know which one was Matt and which one was Mike. One was wearing a purple shirt and the other was wearing a green one, so it shouldn’t have been that hard to remember which was which, but they came in and pinched my cheeks and said, “Hey, baby brother! How’s it goin’?” and I got so mad I mixed them up again.

My mother zoomed in from the kitchen, saying, “Come in, come in. It’s so nice you all could make it.” She called, “Lyn-et-ta! Rick! We’ve got com-pa-ny!” but then stopped short when she saw Juli and Mrs. Baker. “Well, what’s this?” she asked. “Homemade pies?”

Mrs. Baker said, “Blackberry cheesecake and pecan.”

“They look wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!” My mother was acting so hyper I couldn’t believe it. She took Juli’s pie, then whooshed a path to the kitchen with Mrs. Baker.

Lynetta appeared from around the corner, which made Matt and Mike grin and say, “Hey, Lyn. Lookin’ good.”

Black skirt, black nails, black eyes — for a nocturnal rodent, yeah, I suppose she was looking good.

They disappeared down to Lynetta’s room, and when I turned around, my granddad was taking Mr. Baker into the front room, which left me in the entry hall with Juli. Alone.

She wasn’t looking at me. She seemed to be looking at everything but me. And I felt like an idiot, standing there in my geeky button-down shirt with pinched cheeks and nothing to say. And I got so nervous about having nothing to say that my heart started going wacko on me, hammering like it does right before a race or a game or something.

On top of that, she looked more like that stupid picture in the paper than the picture did, if that makes any sense. Not because she was all dressed up — she wasn’t. She was wearing some normal-looking dress and normal-looking shoes, and her hair was the way it always is except maybe a little more brushed out. It was the way she was looking at everything but me, with her shoulders back and her chin out and her eyes flashing.

We probably only stood there for five seconds, but it felt like a year. Finally I said, “Hi, Juli.”

Her eyes flashed at me, and that’s when it sank in— she was mad. She whispered, “I heard you and Garrett making fun of my uncle in the library, and I don’t want to speak to you! You understand me? Not now, not ever!”

My mind was racing. Where had she been? I hadn’t seen her anywhere near me in the library! And had she heard it? Or had she heard it from somebody else.

I tried to tell her it wasn’t me, that it was Garrett, all Garrett. But she shut me down and made tracks for the front room to be with her dad.

So I’m standing there, wishing I’d punched Garrett out in the library so Juli wouldn’t stick me in the same class as someone who makes retard jokes, when my dad shows up and claps me on the shoulder. “So. How’s the party, son?”

Speak of the devil. I wanted to whack his hand off my shoulder.

He leans out so he can see into the front room and says, “Hey, the dad cleans up pretty good, doesn’t he?”

I shrug away from him. “Mr. Baker’s name is Robert, Dad.”

“Yeah, you know, I knew that.” He rubs his hands together and says, “I guess I ought to go in and say hello. Coming?”

“Nah. Mom probably needs my help.”

I didn’t run off to the kitchen, though. I stood there and watched Mr. Baker shake my father’s hand. And as they stood there pumping and smiling, this weird feeling started coming over me again. Not about Juli — about my father. Standing next to Mr. Baker, he looked small. Physically small. And compared to the cut of Mr. Baker’s jaw, my dad’s face looked kind of weaselly.