Pretty Tough Read online

  When Charlie’s alarm clock went off the next morning, she slammed the palm of her hand down onto the snooze button. The last thing she wanted to do was get up and go to school. It was still a week before the start of classes, but because of some last-minute schedule changes (apparently, her parents had an issue with her taking three periods of art in a row), she had to meet with her creepy, close-talking guidance counselor, Mr. Mazula, and change her schedule in person.

  Why, why had she stayed out so late last night? It felt almost impossible to lift her head off her pillow.

  Last night, she’d heard Brooks and Krista do what they always did—climb out Krista’s bedroom window, across the roof, and down the trellis. The lengths to which Krista went to sneak out disgusted Charlie, which was why she did things more simply: she just walked out the front door. No one ever stopped her because no one ever noticed she was leaving.

  At eleven forty-five, when she heard Krista’s window shut, Charlie quietly crept out of bed, slipped on a sweatshirt, and slid into her flip-flops. Within a minute, she was out on Morningside Lane, heading down to her favorite lifeguard station on the beach.

  There were hundreds of stations like it, from Malibu to San Diego, but this one was her favorite. The boy who worked there in the summers was the only lifeguard who didn’t have blond hair and blue eyes and a perfectly sculpted body. He looked decidedly unnoticeable—and for that reason alone, Charlie couldn’t help but notice him.

  They’d never actually spoken, but one time, when she had been pummeled by a particularly big wave, she had seen him running down to the beach toward her. Once he realized she was alive and well, he turned back to his station, but at the time, Charlie wondered what might have happened if she hadn’t been so quick to pop out of the water. A lifeguard rescue might have been embarrassing, but think of the perks. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? Bring it on!

  Granted, it would have been a lame way to get a first kiss, but lips were lips, right?

  So last night, she wandered down to the beach, staking out her familiar spot, sitting on the railing of the empty lifeguard station, trying to decide if the blips of light in the sky were stars or planes. It was rare to see stars in LA. At least, the celestial kind. Spotting Britney Spears at Jamba Juice? No biggie. But catching the Big Dipper from a Malibu beach? A practical impossibility! So she contented herself with watching the planes sail toward Los Angeles International Airport.

  In the distance, she had heard screams and cheers and blaring music from Cam’s party about a quarter of a mile down the beach. Charlie knew that Krista and Brooks were right there—in the middle of it all. She also knew from the moment they started talking about Cam’s party—what to wear, who would be there—that she wouldn’t be invited. She imagined Regan Holder and her new friends there. The thought made her stomach turn.

  Around five in the morning, the sounds of the party finally died down and Charlie made her way back up the road to her house, sneaking back in just as the morning paper hit her driveway. She wondered if Krista was sound asleep in her bed and considered checking to see if she was home.

  Ultimately, she decided against it: she wasn’t responsible for Krista, and since last year it was more than obvious that Krista felt no responsibility toward her. For all intents and purposes, each of them was an only child.

  BANG, BANG, BANG. A knock at her bedroom door interrupted her sleepy thoughts, bringing her back to the cold, hard reality of her early morning obligation.

  “Charlie,” her mom cooed. “You’re going to be late for your meeting.”

  “I know,” Charlie muttered as she pulled the covers farther over her head. “I just need ten more minutes. Just ten more—”

  BANG, BANG, BANG! Her mom knocked again, even more firmly. “I mean it,” she snapped. “Get up. Now.”

  “I’m coming!” Charlie yelled, exasperated. Why did her mom even care if she wanted to take art classes all day long? Weren’t parents supposed to want their children to be happy? Of course, if her parents had really wanted her to be happy, they would have given her a name like Kaitlin or Lindsey.

  Interestingly, Charlie’s parents had taken more notice of her since she mentioned she’d been recruited for the soccer team. Her father was a soccer fanatic, and he and Krista had grown close over the years, practicing timing and passing drills in their backyard. What seemed to have become a way for Krista and her dad to bond made Charlie feel decidedly left out. Well, no more. Not after Charlie not only made the team, but beat the Juicy Couture pants right off Krista.

  Throwing back the covers, Charlie looked at her reflection in the mirror mounted on her wall: brown hair sticking up in every direction, red puffy eyes… even her freckles seemed to be messier than usual.

  Out in the hallway, Krista pranced by, her hair, skin, and clothes all perfect.

  “Mom,” she called out. “Brooks is here. We’re going to the mall.”

  Charlie couldn’t believe it. It was so unfair. Krista could do whatever she wanted today while Charlie had to visit that yawning pit of despair known as Beachwood High. She glanced back at her own reflection and told herself that it was okay. Crappy days like this were going to make the day she stole Krista’s place on the soccer team that much sweeter. Not that she had any intention of ever joining the team… but Krista didn’t need to know that. It would make torturing her a lot less fun.

  • • •

  Walking through the halls of Beachwood, Charlie felt like she had never left. School wasn’t in session, but she could still smell the lingering stench of fiesta salad and Salisbury steak—staples of the Beachwood cafeteria—wafting through the corridor. Her stomach gave a tiny warning heave. Juniors and seniors were allowed to go off campus for lunch and could hit the Starbucks or Carl’s Jr. nearby, but as a sophomore Charlie was still relegated to the lunch line and the perils of the high school cafeteria.

  Forget the dangers of South Central or Compton. Try navigating around Regan and her clique of football players and cheerleaders. If your IQ didn’t drop twenty points just by being within a two-foot radius of them, your self-esteem surely did.

  Charlie shuddered at the thought as she rounded the corner and pushed open the glass doors to the guidance office. There, her fate (or at least her schedule for the next nine months of her life) would be decided.

  Inside, the guidance office smelled like a potent mix of college applications, schedule changes, and desperation. Even with the air-conditioning lightly blowing through the vents, the August heat was stifling. Charlie wondered if it was already too hot for the beach. She should have gotten up earlier this morning, when the waves were at their best.

  Charlie told the receptionist in the guidance office that she was there and reluctantly took a seat next to an overweight boy, likely a freshman, who seemed to be working up a sweat just sitting in the orange plastic chair.

  After a thirty-minute wait, her name was finally called.

  “Charlie Brown?” The receptionist sneered, more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Charlie glared at her, wishing her a lifetime of career mediocrity and carpal tunnel syndrome, then slunk into Mr. Mazula’s office.

  The ten minutes she spent with Mr. Mazula, who reeked of an odd combination of cigarettes and pickles, seemed endless but resulted in a new and improved schedule (if you considered the removal of two art classes “improved”).

  As Charlie hurriedly left his office, she looked over her classes. She had Miss Reese for English. Strange, because according to Krista, Mrs. Cryer taught all sophomore English classes. She also noticed that she had Mr. Castillo for “Choices and Challenges,” which she’d heard was just a fancy way to say sex ed. She remembered Krista taking driver’s ed from Mr. Castillo and wondered why the same person typically taught both, as if the two went hand in hand.

  Whatever. Charlie had no time to ponder. All she knew was that she couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  She pushed through the front doors. Finally… freedom!

  She
picked up her pace and—oof!—ran smack into someone.

  “Charlie, whoa,” Martie exclaimed, the stack of books in her hands tumbling to the floor. “Where’s the fire?”

  “Sorry,” Charlie apologized, kneeling down to help gather the books. She noticed that they all had the same title: To Kill a Mockingbird.

  “You must really like this one,” she joked.

  Martie smiled. “Let’s hope my students do.” She grabbed the last remaining book and stood up.

  Charlie stared at Martie. Her students? “Wait. Soccer doesn’t have some sort of twisted reading requirement, does it?”

  Martie laughed. “Of course not. You mind helping me carry these down to my classroom?”

  “Classroom?” Charlie asked. “Hold on…” She fumbled for her schedule. “You’re—”

  “Taking over Mrs. Cryer’s English classes,” Martie filled in as she strolled down the hallway.

  Charlie caught up to her. “You’re Miss Reese? I have you for English!”

  Martie explained that Mrs. Cryer decided not to come back after her maternity leave, and Charlie stifled a smile. Krista was going to be so jealous when Charlie told her she had an inside line to the new soccer coach… that, in fact, she’d be seeing her in class Monday through Friday. Imagine the bonding potential—teacher and coach! Not to mention that she’d escaped the wrath of Mrs. Cryer, who had given Krista her first and only C. It was too good to be true!

  Charlie followed Martie into the classroom and set the stack of books down on a desk. She glanced around. The classroom was completely bare.

  “I wanted to hang some posters and inspiring quotes around the room,” Martie explained. “I’ve just been so busy with everything, I’ve barely had time to get the place ready. All I have is that dumb kitten poster. You know, the one where the kitten is hanging from a tree branch and it says—”

  “Hang in there?” Charlie guessed.

  “That’s the one. And if I put that up, I’ll be crucified. ‘Hang in there’ posters are strictly the domain of—”

  “Mrs. Kennedy,” Charlie said, finishing Martie’s thought. “Krista says it’s been in her classroom for three years straight. She’s never taken it down.”

  Martie laughed. “Got that right. She hung that poster up when I went here.”

  Charlie laughed too… then waited awkwardly. “Well, um… if there’s nothing else you need…” She edged toward the door.

  “Actually, there is one thing I could use your help with,” Martie added. “If you have time.”

  Charlie looked at her watch, considering. She wished she had somewhere to be—a friend’s house, a date, anything to remotely indicate she was a normal teenage girl—but the truth was, with no friends and no place to go, Charlie had nothing but time.

  Forty-five minutes later, Martie and Charlie pulled up to a run-down field in South Central, Los Angeles. Charlie bit her lip as she looked around. Although she’d heard of South Central and had even studied the race riots that had happened there back in the early nineties, she’d never actually seen it. Or been near it. In fact, she rarely left Malibu.

  Brooks always joked that heading a few miles south to Pacific Palisades, Santa Monica, or Venice was “slummin’ it.” Charlie wondered what Brooks would say about this place.

  Martie turned off the ignition and unfastened her seat belt. Charlie sat still in the passenger seat, unsure of what to do. She stared at the field where a soccer game was in progress—four guys against two guys and a girl. Charlie could hear the players yelling in Spanish, instructing each other and cheering as the lone girl dribbled the ball around a defender. She faked left, dashed right, and shot the ball between the two tires set up as a makeshift goal.

  “Wooooo!” the girl cheered, and pumped her fist.

  “Did you see that?” Martie asked excitedly. She climbed out of the car, then noticed Charlie’s hesitation.

  “It’s fine if you want to wait here,” Martie offered, leaning in the window, “but there’s nothing to be scared of.”

  Charlie recoiled at the veiled accusation. She wasn’t scared. Even if she was the only white person in sight. She wasn’t like Brooks and the other trust fund brats at Beachwood, who cared only about people’s appearances.

  Charlie got out of the car and followed Martie toward the chain-link fence surrounding the field. Martie looked so comfortable, so self-assured as she strode toward the gate. Charlie realized her own shoulders were up around her ears. She willed herself to relax. Take longer strides, she told herself. Breathe.

  “Carla!” Martie shouted, just as the game was about to resume. The girl looked over and gave a wave. She said something to the boys in Spanish and sprinted over to the fence.

  Charlie heard sirens blaring in the distance. She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets.

  “You came back!” Carla smiled happily from the other side of the fence, then pointed to Charlie. “With a friend.”

  Charlie stared at Carla enviously. With her olive-colored skin and big brown eyes, Carla practically glowed. Even though it was pulled back in a loose ponytail, her thick brown hair looked straight out of a shampoo commercial—long and shiny. For all the darkness and bitterness that Charlie could feel spilling out of her pores, Carla had a completely opposite disposition—sweetness and light radiated from her broad smile.

  Martie introduced them. “Carla Hernandez, Charlie Brown.”

  Carla giggled as she reached back and grabbed the top of her foot for a quad stretch. “That’s a joke, ri—”

  “My parents have an evil sense of humor,” Charlie stated. She wondered for the hundredth time if she had grounds to sue for emancipation. A name like hers had to be a form of child abuse.

  “Have you had a chance to talk to your mother yet?” Martie asked Carla, interrupting Charlie’s internal rant.

  “Yes, and we both really appreciate your coming all the way out here,” Carla explained. She tilted her head and blocked the sun from her eyes. “But she’s just not sure…”

  Martie jumped in quickly. “Is your mom home? Because I have the scholarship information in the car, and I think once she sees it laid out and understands where kids who go to Beachwood end up—”

  “It’s not just my mom,” Carla interrupted. “It’s me too.” She shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. I’m just not sure I’d really fit in.” She glanced at Charlie. “No offense.”

  Charlie shrugged. “None taken.”

  “You obviously wanted a change when you submitted an application last spring,” Martie prodded.

  “I know,” Carla mumbled. “It’s just… Malibu? Look at me. I don’t belong in Malibu.”

  “Hey,” Martie said sternly. “You belong wherever you want to belong. Where do you think I went to high school?”

  Carla looked at Martie, surprised. “Beachwood?”

  Martie nodded. “All four years. Commuted from Crenshaw. It wasn’t always easy, but it was the right decision. I would never have had the same opportunities in my neighborhood… which doesn’t make it right. It’s just the truth, you know?”

  One of the boys called from the field. “Carla, you playing? Sí o no?”

  “Sí, sí,” Carla responded. “Uno momento.”

  “You go,” Martie said. “Let me discuss this with your mom. And then you and I can talk some more.”

  Carla agreed. “Okay, thanks.”

  Martie turned to cross the street, then looked back over her shoulder. “Charlie—why don’t you join in? Looks like their side could use an extra player.”

  Charlie glanced at the guys nervously.

  Carla beamed. “You play too?”

  “Uh…” Charlie wavered. “I used to. Haven’t played in a while.”

  Carla ran back toward the field. “Well, I guess a while’s up. Come on.”

  Charlie watched her go and made a quick decision. She climbed up and hopped over the chain-link fence, joining in a game for the first time in years.


  “Here ya go,” Carla said triumphantly, handing Charlie a cherry-flavored snow cone. “Girls rule, boys drool.”

  Charlie laughed. She and Carla had won their game six to two. Carla’s two older brothers, their teammates, had been particularly impressed when Charlie assisted Carla in three consecutive goals. It was the most fun she’d had all summer long.

  “How much do I owe you?” Charlie asked, taking the snow cone. With the afternoon sun beating down and the temperature creeping into the upper nineties, the cone looked especially delicious. She took a huge, icy bite. It was so cold it made the inside of her mouth numb.

  “I got it,” Carla responded. “My brother’s girlfriend works at the stand.”

  Charlie looked over at the girl behind the stand. She was so pregnant she looked like she was about to burst.

  “Thank you,” Charlie replied through another mouthful of ice. She nodded toward the field. “You were awesome out there. I can see why Martie wants you for the team.”

  “So you’re definitely playing?” Carla asked. “For Beachwood?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Martie recruited me to try out, but I haven’t really played soccer in over a year.”

  “Growing up, I just played with my brothers in the street or here,” Carla confessed. “I’ve never actually been on a team before.”

  “Not even at school?” Charlie asked. It seemed impossible that a girl this good had never played on a real team.

  Carla laughed. “At my school, we’re lucky if we all get desks.”

  “Well, if you go to Beachwood, you can have my desk… in all of my classes,” Charlie grumbled. “I hate that place. I wouldn’t say this in front of Martie, but you’re smart not to go there.”

  “You think?” Carla wondered, peering over her shoulder at her apartment complex.

  “To the people at Beachwood, there’s all this stuff that matters,” Charlie said. “You know, who your parents are, what kind of car you drive…. It’s all so superficial. I mean, who cares?”

  “I guess,” Carla agreed. “I don’t know. It sounds superficial, but when you don’t have it? All those opportunities… Maybe I care.” She shrugged, her expression unsure. “Anyway, Malibu—it’s so far away.”