The Real Us Read online

  “I guess,” I say, shrugging. “He seems really sweet.”

  “All awkward boys are sweet,” Rachel says. “Just like all chunky girls.”

  “Hold on a second!” I tell her. “I’m not sweet.”

  “And I’m like the opposite of sweet,” she says. “I’m like, sooooo sour.”

  We both crack up.

  Coach Sweeney blows the whistle at exactly 4:01.

  “Okay, bring it in!” She eyes us over her clipboard. “And no yakking!”

  It’s the first soccer practice of the year, but we all already know each other, because it’s pretty much the same exact team as last spring. Our travel team has been together for three years, and we’re almost like sisters at this point. Coach has her work cut out for her if she wants to get our attention.

  “Lips equals laps!” she hollers.

  We look at her like, huh?

  “Anyone who moves their lips gets five laps!”

  Aha. That does it. We get real quiet, real fast.

  “Guys, this is a big year for Easton Girls Travel,” Coach explains. “We’re stepping up to the intermediate division, so the competition is going to get a lot tougher. We’re going to have to work extra hard. We need to have each other’s backs, every practice, every game. We’re going to have to—”

  She stops suddenly, and scans the field with her eyes. “Where’s Calista?”

  We all look around, then at each other. Girls start murmuring. Suddenly Jen Costello points up the hill. “There she is!” Everyone turns to see Calista running down the hill, her ponytail swinging back and forth like, well, the tail on a pony, if the pony had gorgeous red hair.

  “You’re late!” barks Coach Sweeney.

  Calista is huffing and puffing. “I know! I’m really sorry!”

  “Don’t let it happen again, or you’ll be in for it!” I sneak a glance at Rachel, and we both roll our eyes. The truth is, Calista will never be in for it from the Coach. She’s Coach’s favorite. Because she’s Calista, and because she’s a great player. Sometimes that’s just the way it is.

  Practice is really intense, and we all work up a real sweat. I end up covering Calista in our scrimmage, which is a good match-up, since she’s the best offensive player on the team, and I’m a really good defender. (If you think I just bragged, well, you’d be correct. Sorry folks, but it’s true—I rock at defense.)

  “Five more minutes!” yells Coach Sweeney. “Next goal wins!”

  Calista looks at me. “Let’s do this,” she says.

  “Let’s,” I say back to her.

  It’s something we’ve said to each other before every game for three years.

  The next thing I know, Calista has the ball. She dribbles to the sideline, while I try to keep up with her. It’s not easy, because she’s a little faster than me. (Okay, fine—a lot faster.) I just need to make sure she doesn’t slip away.

  She makes her move. I follow, right on her heels, sure she’s going to sprint all the way to the goal. But she doesn’t. She stops suddenly, but I can’t stop, and I go flying into her, and all of sudden we’re both on the ground, and she’s moaning and holding her knee.

  My first thought is, I’ve injured our best player.

  My second thought is, Anybody got a hole I can crawl into?

  After about a minute, my knee starts to feel a little better. I scrape the grass off my elbows, check my headband, and slowly get to my feet. I look down at Laura, who’s still on the ground, staring up at me with a horrified look on her face.

  My first instinct is to try and make her feel better. “I’m fine!” I tell her. “I’m not injured. I’m fine. I thought my knee might have been hurt, but it’s not.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she says, panting. “I’m really sorry.”

  “For what? You were just playing hard.”

  I wipe my nose and face with my headband, before I realize the headband is too sweaty and gross to do any good. I check my cleats and start heading back to my position, just as Coach Sweeney runs up to me and grabs my shoulders.

  “Calista! Calista! Are you okay?” She looks as worried as a mother would be about a daughter.

  “Yup, I’m fine. Laura made a good sliding tackle.”

  Coach looks down at Laura as if noticing her for the first time. “Laura, you have to be more careful. This is a light scrimmage, and you’re a big girl. We’re all on the same team, remember?”

  “We’re on the same team?” Laura asks. “Now you tell me! That must be why we’re all wearing the same uniforms!”

  I hear Rachel, the goalie, giggle quietly—but she’s the only one.

  “This is no time to be funny, Laura,” Coach Sweeney says. “Calista could have been seriously hurt.”

  “Sorry, Coach,” Laura says. “My bad.”

  Coach blows her whistle. “Game on! Remember, next goal wins!”

  As we head back to position, I walk over to Laura. “Hey, she can just be a little uptight sometimes, you know?”

  Laura shrugs. “There’s no laughter in soccer,” she says. “I keep forgetting that.” Then she stares at my face. “You have something on your nose.”

  “I do?” I wipe at my nose, but don’t feel anything. “You mean like, a cut?”

  She shakes her head. “I guess it’s nothing,” she says.

  A minute later, I score, and practice is over.

  My mom says I started drawing deserts when I was five years old. I don’t remember. She’s probably right. All I know is that my closet has a lot of drawings in it, and they’re all of deserts, and they go back a pretty long time, and I’ve gotten good at drawing.

  After school, I go home, change my shirt, eat some cereal, take my dog, Arfur, for a walk, come back, and draw another desert. This time, I start with the cactus.

  The whole time, I’m thinking about Calista smiling at me.

  I wish I’m not, but I am.

  It’s annoying, how your brain works.

  You shouldn’t have to think about something if you don’t want to.

  “How was practice?” my mom asks, at dinner.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Are you excited about the season?”

  “I guess.”

  “Good!” My mom was a great athlete in high school and college, and she’s still in amazing shape. She runs every morning. My dad isn’t into sports at all. I guess it’s kind of the opposite of most families.

  “Have you thought about how you’re going to balance soccer and dance?” my dad asks. “It’s a lot, especially this year, when you really need to do well in school.”

  “I’ll figure it out,” I say. I love my parents, except when they’re both asking me questions at the same time.

  “May I be excused?” asks my little brother, Corey. He likes to hit the Xbox as soon as he finishes shoveling down his food, while the rest of us stay at the table, talking like actual human beings. But tonight, I decide he’s on to something.

  “Me, too?” I add.

  They look at each other, then my mom nods. “Sure, you two—go ahead.”

  I run up to my room and grab my phone. I text Ellie and Ella for twenty minutes about nothing. Before bed I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and as usual I end up looking at my face in the mirror for a while. I look from every angle. I imagine myself with blonde hair. I imagine myself with short hair. I imagine myself with curly hair. I imagine myself with freckles, with blue eyes, with smaller ears.

  I like to imagine myself looking all sorts of different ways.

  But I know I will never change a thing.

  TUESDAY

  For some reason, the first thing I think about when I wake up is that kid Damian, and how nervous he looked when I smiled at him in the cafeteria. Maybe I’ll try to say hi to him today.

  Then I think about Patrick Toole, and my stomach does a somersault.

  I immediately reach for my phone to see if anyone has texted me while I was sleeping, and see one from Ellie: TODAY’S THE DAY! Ellie a
nd Ella are eager for Patrick and I to announce we’re going to go to the First Week Dance together, because then they can start to figure out whom they’re going with, too.

  I drag myself out of bed—the worst part of any day, by far—and head to the bathroom. The door is locked. I start pounding.

  “Corey! Corey, get out now!”

  “In a minute!”

  Corey and I get along pretty well, except when we get on each other’s nerves, which is most of the time.

  I wait ten more seconds, then pound again. “Now, or I’m calling Mom!”

  The door flings open. “Fine!” he hisses, marching past me.

  I go into the bathroom and splash water on my face. After rubbing my skin with a washcloth, I look in the mirror.

  And that’s when I see it.

  At first, I don’t know what it is. I don’t recognize it. It doesn’t seem possible. But then I lean in for a closer look. My face is practically pressed against the mirror. A sickening feeling starts to spread through my body.

  A pimple.

  I hear a sound come out of my mouth that I’ve never heard before: It’s like a half groan, half moan, half sigh, half terrified scream. I know that’s four halves, but you get what I mean. It wasn’t a pretty sound, but apparently it was loud.

  Corey immediately appears back at the door. “What is your problem?”

  I slam the door in his face. “None of your business!”

  I stare at myself again. Yup, it’s still there. Smack in the middle of my nose, a nasty red bump. Perfectly round, and totally nasty.

  And not small.

  I touch it. It hurts. I somehow resist the urge to claw at my face, because I remember hearing somewhere that if you do that, you could be scarred for life. Although a scar would be a lot better than this monstrosity plopped down in the middle of my nose.

  I lean in closer. I can almost hear it laughing at me.

  Hahahahahaha. Hey, Calista. Nice to meet you. It’s me, Peter Pimple. Wanna be friends?

  “NOOOOOO!” I run to my room, grab my phone, and fire off a group text to Ellie and Ella.

  I FOUND A PIMPLE ON MY NOSE! WHAT DO I DO? HELP!!?!?

  Five seconds later, I haven’t heard back from either one of them, so I add: HELP!!!! I MEAN IT!!!!!

  “Honey?” my mom calls from downstairs. “You coming down for breakfast?”

  “I HAVE A PIMPLE ON MY NOSE!” I scream down to her. “A REAL ONE!”

  “As opposed to a fake one?” she asks.

  “I’M SERIOUS!”

  I hear her sigh, then hear her footsteps on the stairs. She comes into the bathroom and grabs my head. “Let me see.” She looks for two seconds, then says, “It’s nothing. Don’t touch it. It will be gone in a few days.”

  A few days?!??! I don’t have a few days! I’m seeing Patrick Toole in forty-five minutes!

  “I have to get ready for work, honey,” says my mom, and she goes back downstairs. So it’s official: She doesn’t love me.

  My dad is no help either, of course, but luckily, my phone buzzes. It’s Ella, texting back: OH NOOOOOO! HAVE YOU TRIED CONCEALER?

  Hmmm. I don’t use concealer. Probably because I’ve never had anything to conceal.

  NO!!! I text back. I DON’T HAVE ANY!

  Ella: YOUR MOM PROBABLY DOES

  Me: GREAT IDEA!!!!

  I run into my mom’s bathroom and start searching for her concealer. When I find it, I dab some onto my nose. Then I dab some more. Eventually I dab a little too hard, and sure enough, the pimple pops.

  YAY!

  And also—NOOOOO!

  Because a pool of blood starts to form where the pimple used to be.

  EWWWWW!

  I wipe my nose with a tissue for about two minutes, but it won’t stop bleeding, so I find a bandage and put it over the cut. Then I go downstairs and try to act like nothing’s wrong. But I start crying, which kills that idea.

  My dad looks up from his phone. “Honey? What is it? Are you okay?”

  Does it look like I’m okay?!?!?!

  “I’m fine,” I sniffle. “I just, uh … got a little cut on my nose.”

  “A what?” my dad asks, but before he can say anything else, my mom says, “Oh, she has a little pimple, but it’s fine. You really don’t need that bandage, you know. You’re just going to draw more attention to it.”

  “I don’t care,” I mutter, leaving out the part about the concealer and the rubbing and the popping and the blood.

  Corey giggles. “Little Miss Perfect has a pimple!”

  “Knock it off!” I glare at him. “Just wait ’til you get pimples. You’ll probably get a ton of them.”

  “Calista, that’s enough,” my mom barks.

  “Fine!” I run upstairs, rub some more of my mom’s concealer around my nose, then sprint out to the bus stop without saying goodbye to anyone.

  Everyone is always half-asleep for homeroom, which is why Ms. Harnick uses her outside voice. “Class!” she announces. “I need you to pay extra attention this morning. Class!” But she’s not having much luck today, because people are focused on something else.

  Extra, extra, read all about it! Calista Getz has a bandage on her nose!

  And wait, there’s more: She’s also got a little blood that you can see peeking through the bandage, and some sort of weird brown powdery stuff on her cheeks that makes her look very strange. This is huge news, because her gorgeousness isn’t usually marred by anything—even a bad hat.

  When she first walked in, she stared straight ahead, with Ellie and Ella surrounding her, as if they were secret service agents and Calista was the president. People immediately noticed the bandage, of course, but no one said anything. No one dared.

  Until just now, when Will Hanson whispers loud enough so that everyone can hear, “Cut yourself shaving?”

  The class dissolves into giggles.

  “Hush!” begs Ms. Harnick, but the damage is already done. The class is distracted. Game on.

  “What did you say?” hisses Ellie to Will.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Will says.

  “Knock it off, Will,” Patrick says, stepping in. Then he looks at Calista. “Hey, are you okay? What did happen, anyway?”

  Everyone in the room turns to look at Calista, and once again we all see something we’ve never seen before.

  She’s blushing.

  This is pretty interesting.

  Calista Getz is acting differently than she usually does.

  Even our teacher, Ms. Harnick, seems just as fascinated as everyone else.

  “No, I didn’t cut myself shaving,” Calista says, answering Will’s stupid question. “But thank you for asking.”

  “Looks like you had a fight with a pimple and lost,” says Simon Lippa, who is sitting right in front of Calista. It’s surprising that Simon would have the nerve to speak to Calista, because he’s pretty shy like me. Maybe it’s because she has a bandage on her nose.

  “You oughta know,” Ellie says to Simon. “You look like you have plenty of experience with pimples.”

  Simon’s face turns very red as he slouches down in his seat.

  “So it’s a pimple?” Will says. “Oh, cool! I wasn’t sure Calista even knew what a pimple was!”

  Now it’s Calista’s turn to blush again. “I know what a pimple is, now can we stop talking about it?”

  “Hey, no biggie,” Patrick said. “Everybody gets pimples, you know.”

  But that’s the interesting part. Calista’s not everybody. She’s different from everybody. She’s better.

  Ms. Harnick claps her hands together. “Can we stop this conversation right now, please?”

  “I just never saw you turn red before, is all,” Patrick adds, which only makes Calista blush more.

  I feel bad for her, which doesn’t really make any sense.

  I’ve had pimples before, and I’m pretty sure she’s never felt bad for me.

  Here is a math equation for you:

  Sittin
g in class + A bandage on your nose = Forever.

  Everyone gets pimples, Patrick had said.

  I don’t.

  Homeroom feels like it’s nine hours long. I’m not even sure what Ms. Harnick is talking about. My ears are burning, and I just want the class to end. But it won’t end. Ever.

  Until it finally does.

  When the bell rings, I run down to the locker room to get ready for gym. Ellie and Ella are right behind me, yelling my name, but I pretend not to hear. I don’t really want to talk to anyone right now. Especially those two. They are going to try and make me feel better, but they will end up making me feel worse. Friends are really good at that, for some reason.

  “Callie, wait!”

  That’s a different voice.

  I turn around, and Laura walks up to me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Will was just being dumb. And Patrick didn’t mean to embarrass you—he was kind of flirting with you, that’s all.”

  I smile. “Okay.”

  “I’ve had pimples before,” Laura says. “They’re annoying, but next time, don’t pick it.” She laughs. “Not that there will be a next time.”

  Ellie and Ella run up to us. I wish to myself that they would just go away.

  “Calista!” Ellie says. “I hope you’re telling Laura you’re quitting soccer!”

  Laura frowns. “What are you talking about?”

  Ellie points at my face. “Your pimple! It’s from sweat and dirt and all that gross stuff. Playing sports gives you pimples, everyone knows that.”

  “Look at all the other girls who play sports,” echoes Ella. “Their faces, like, always break out.”

  That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

  But for some reason, I look at Laura anyway.

  They all turn to me, and I touch my face.

  I don’t have any pimples, but I feel like I do.

  “Laura doesn’t have any pimples,” I say. But just saying it makes me feel bad.

  Laura’s face gets red, and she walks away.