Not Your All-American Girl Read online

  To the grandmothers who rock our world

  —MRR & WWS

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Royal We

  Chapter 2: Silence, Thespians

  Chapter 3: Star Search

  Chapter 4: No Callback

  Chapter 5: A Girl from Pleasant Valley

  Chapter 6: Discovering Patsy Klein and WTRY

  Chapter 7: Knockoff

  Chapter 8: Friendship Quiz

  Chapter 9: Beatrice Minerva

  Chapter 10: I Pity the Fod?

  Chapter 11: The Gig at To a Tee

  Chapter 12: Mom’s Big Announcement

  Chapter 13: En-Sem-Bull

  Chapter 14: Not Weird-Weird. Just Different.

  Chapter 15: Mini on the Toilet

  Chapter 16: Vincent Chin

  Chapter 17: Tunes Before Hoops

  Chapter 18: A Big Order

  Chapter 19: The Royal She

  Chapter 20: The Truth about Patsy

  Chapter 21: No One Wants a Sad Egg Roll

  Chapter 22: Feeling Mad at Mrs. Tyndall/“It’s Not My Fault”

  Chapter 23: What’s Wrong with Tigers?

  Chapter 24: Side Dishes Stick Together

  Chapter 25: My Grandmother’s Daughter

  Chapter 26: Something Missing

  Chapter 27: On This Night

  Chapter 28: Just Trying to Be Funny

  Chapter 29: A Real Person

  Chapter 30: Appeasing the Theater Ghost

  Chapter 31: On the Air

  Chapter 32: Confessions by the Radio

  Chapter 33: An Unearthly Sound

  Chapter 34: Our All-American Town

  Chapter 35: Supposed-To

  Sneak Peek at This Is Just a Test

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Also by Madelyn Rosenberg and Wendy Wan-Long Shang

  Copyright

  MY FIFTH-GRADE TEACHER ONCE said that Tara and I were the Royal We. “We didn’t like today’s lunch,” I told her after we had been served sandwiches with meat that had weird jellied circles. It was like someone had tried to turn bologna into a stained-glass window.

  “May we please use the bathroom?”

  “When do we get to take Lola home for the weekend?” (Lola was the class guinea pig.)

  “It’s always the Royal We with you two, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Mortson.

  I hadn’t heard the term royal we before, but it made sense, because I always felt a bit grander when Tara was around. Being with Tara was like being in a patch of sunshine. She was the one teachers loved and the one who always got picked early for teams in PE. She was the one who got a blue ribbon at the science fair. She was the one someone was always saving a seat for in the cafeteria. But she sat with me. And I was the one she gave the other half of the best friends necklace to.

  I have contributed to our mutual royalty exactly once, when we tried out for the school Christmas concert as a duet in fourth grade. I felt a little weird, trying out for a Christmas concert as someone who does not celebrate Christmas. We sang “Winter Wonderland,” which does not specifically mention Christmas, so that no one in my family got upset. Tara said we got it because of me. But in everything else, the spotlight was on Tara.

  I thought of it this way: In your typical Pac-Man lunch box, Tara was the PB&J, and I was the apple. You needed both to have a complete meal, even if one was the star. Tara was the star of our friendship.

  I found out later that the Royal We was something that kings and queens used instead of “I.” Queen Victoria supposedly said, “We are not amused,” after someone told a scandalous story in her presence. Tara and I still say this whenever my brother tells a so-called joke or when my father asks me to take out the garbage. I can do the British accent with just the right amount of snobbiness.

  Most of the time, everything’s better with the Royal We.

  But being the Royal We hasn’t always worked out. For instance, the Royal We had to stay inside during recess three times in Mrs. Mortson’s class for talking too much.

  In October, the Royal We did not win WKRZ concert tickets to see The Police. And only half of the Royal We got designer jeans, because the other half has unreasonable parents who do not see the value of “having someone else’s name embroidered on your hiney.” On top of that, this year, in sixth grade, the Royal We faced our biggest battle yet: The only class we had together was science. Not even lunch. After nearly six months in the sixth grade, no one at Dwight D. Eisenhower Junior High knew the Royal We existed.

  “I have the solution,” Tara said. One of the good things about being the Royal We, even if we were invisible, was that Tara could start with a sentence like this, and I’d know if she was talking about the solution to the designer jeans problem (she wasn’t) or the solution to us not spending enough time together (she was).

  “Tell,” I said.

  “The musical!” she said.

  “Are there duets?”

  “We’ll probably be in the ensemble, being sixth graders, but it would still be awesome,” said Tara. “Because we would be together.” Then she added, “Unless you get the lead.”

  “Like that’s going to happen.”

  “It totally could!” That was one thing I loved about Tara: She saw possibilities for me even when I couldn’t.

  The day of tryouts, Tara and I both wore purple socks, because those were our lucky socks. We had both picked out our songs and practiced. I had wanted my mom to help me prepare, because she had a good ear, but she was out of town. I was on my own, which mostly meant singing while I was in the shower or walking to school.

  “I’m going to be late,” Tara said when we met by my locker at the end of the day. “You have to go without me.”

  Tara got kind of quiet and drew a line on the floor with the toe of her sneaker. For a minute, I thought something was wrong. Then she said, “I made the finals of the oratory contest. I have to meet with Mrs. Loft.”

  The oratory contest was a really big tradition. I suppose that’s why they called it “oratory” instead of “speech,” because it went back so many years. We all had to give speeches in our English classes, and the top students from each class competed against one another. The teachers picked six finalists in each grade, who competed for the school championship, and the winner of that went on to compete against other kids in the county.

  I’d written my speech on the world’s most disastrous Thanksgiving, when my brother nearly choked to death on a piece of turkey. It got some laughs, because he survived, and my English teacher said that she was going to show it to our health teacher, who then talked about the importance of chewing before swallowing. But it was not the kind of speech that teachers liked. They wanted something that talked about how wonderful the world could be if everybody got along.

  I gave Tara a hug. “Congratulations! It’s an excellency!” That was our word for when something really fantastic happened. I sang it out, the way you’d sing in an opera. “You … shall … be … the … best!!!” I got super high at the last part and held the note. Some teachers stopped and applauded.

  “It’s just a speech,” said Tara.

  I had heard her speech when she was practicing before school. We didn’t have to memorize our speeches, but Tara had memorized every word of hers, and when she talked, she walked around and used a lot of hand gestures. Her speech was called “Getting the Best from Yourself and Others.”

  “Your speech is catnip for teachers,” I said, even though we didn’t have a cat. “But talk fast so you don’t miss tryouts.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

  Our sc
hool musical was going to be a production called Shake It Up, which was actually written by our drama teacher. It was set in 1958, the year that Hula-Hoops became popular in the United States. The main character, all-American girl Brenda Sue Parker, wants everyone to love Hula-Hoops because her dad owns the toy store in Pleasant Valley, a charming all-American town. But some of the towns-people think Hula-Hoops are evil because you have to shake your hips to keep them going. Brenda Sue invites world-famous hip shaker Elvis Presley to Pleasant Valley to teach the townspeople a valuable lesson about innovation and self-expression, but it is really Brenda Sue’s love of Hula-Hooping that wins everyone over.

  I got the inside information from Hector, who saw Shake It Up when the community theater performed it two years ago. Even if he hadn’t seen it, Hector would have talked about it. He’ll go with any conversational topic you give him. I’ve known Hector for a long time because he’s my brother’s best friend. He’s also possibly the only student at Eisenhower Junior High who makes my brother, David, seem normal in comparison. Hector never tried to be cool; when he was excited about something, you knew it.

  “Elvis had a song called ‘Rock-A-Hula Baby,’ ” said Hector.

  “Elvis died on a toilet,” I said. I knew from experience that you have to volley back something to the trivia nerds, or they’ll try to take over the whole conversation, and then you’re trapped. I knew a lot about Elvis because I had the same birthday as his daughter, Lisa Marie.

  “It’s a terrible way to go. Get it? Go.” Hector laughed so hard he made a reverse-snorting sound and people turned around to look at him.

  “Speaking of going,” I said. “Tryouts are in ten minutes.” I was trying to stay calm, but the electric, buzzy feeling in my head was getting stronger.

  “You’ll be great!” shouted Hector. “Good luck!” Anyone who hadn’t turned around for Hector’s reverse-snorting was now turning around to see who he was shouting at.

  I made a tiny wave, which I hoped Hector would take as both a goodbye gesture and a please-stop-being-embarrassing motion. Instead, he followed me into the auditorium. I wished Tara had been with me instead.

  MRS. TYNDALL, THE DIRECTOR, WAS tall and had good posture, so when she stood on the stage and we were in the seats, she seemed gigantic. Also, she had a cane. No one had ever seen her use it on a student, but there were rumors.

  “This show requires discipline,” Mrs. Tyndall said. She thumped the cane like a scepter. “Discipline and commitment. If you are not committed to the full vision of this production, you are welcome to leave now.”

  “How can we know what the full vision is if she hasn’t told us?” asked a kid sitting behind me. I wondered the same thing.

  “Silence, thespians!” said Mrs. Tyndall. I had imagined a theater teacher would wear flowy clothes and move her hands a lot. But she sounded more like Mr. Surface, the vice principal, whose last known smile was in 1974. “Now. Those of you who are trying out for smaller parts will go first. Those of you trying for leads will go last. Please be sure to mark the square on your form indicating whether or not you are willing to take an ensemble part. When we call your name, you will hand your form to Miss Ellison.” She used her cane to point at a student sitting in a chair to the side of the stage. “Then you will proceed to the center to begin your audition. There are a lot of you, and we need to get through everyone this afternoon. I will post callbacks on the door tomorrow morning.”

  The form asked for my Hula-Hoop skill level—1 for beginner, 2 for intermediate, or 3 for advanced. I picked 2. The form also asked for my performing experience, which wasn’t much, even though I loved to sing. Under recitals, I wrote, Performed at Etz Hayim Synagogue for an audience of 103, which was the number of people who had come to my brother’s bar mitzvah. I debated whether or not to include my role as celery for a play about the food groups in second grade. In the end, I left that one off.

  “I remember that,” said Hector, looking over my shoulder. He was talking about the bar mitzvah, not the celery.

  “Duh. It wasn’t that long ago,” I said.

  “No, I mean, I remember you were good. Like, professional good.”

  I stopped writing to look at Hector and see if he was teasing me. Other people had said nice things about my singing, but I figured that they felt obligated. Hector didn’t have to say anything.

  “Thanks,” I said, turning my head away so he couldn’t see me blush.

  Duncan Stowell, whose sister had been in the musicals before, said if you didn’t get a lead, you could still end up with a minor part or in the ensemble as long as you checked the little square. So you may as well try for the big parts. Nearly everybody did. Duncan was trying out for Mayor McArdle, although I wasn’t sure he looked old enough. He was skinny, with curly hair and braces. If you saw him walking down the street, you would think, “I’ll bet that kid is twelve.” Some of the eighth graders could pass for real-life mayors.

  “Where’s Tara?” Duncan asked. “Isn’t she trying out?”

  “If she gets here in time,” I said. “She’s supposed to come after she wins her next award.”

  I adjusted the buttons on my jean jacket. Sometimes people called me The Button Girl because buttons—the kind with funny sayings on them—are my trademark. It is important to have a trademark when you have a friend like Tara so that you don’t seem like a side dish all the time.

  In honor of today’s audition, I had put on an ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE button and one with a rainbow ending in a star.

  Duncan nodded as Mrs. Tyndall started calling the boys to the stage.

  Hector tried out singing “Hound Dog,” which is an Elvis song. He was surprisingly good. I was having a hard time deciding who was better, him or Ricky Almond, who was basically the eighth-grade equivalent of Tara at school. Duncan tried out with a different Elvis song, “Heartbreak Hotel.” He wasn’t as good as Hector, but he wasn’t bad.

  When the boys were done, a few of them stuck around to watch the girls. I saw Tara sneak in, too. She quietly closed the door to the auditorium so it wouldn’t slam. When it was my turn, she moved to a front-side seat, so I would be able to see her from the stage.

  “Lauren Horowitz.”

  I walked toward the stage with this weird trembly feeling, like something really great or really terrible was about to happen.

  “You,” Mrs. Tyndall said. “You’re Brenda Sue!”

  For a second, I thought she was talking to me. For that same second, I saw myself in the spotlight, holding a microphone while people applauded wildly.

  But Mrs. Tyndall was pointing behind me.

  “My name’s Tara,” Tara said, looking confused.

  Mrs. Tyndall laughed in a theatrical way. “I meant Brenda Sue Parker,” she said. “The quintessential all-American girl of the 1950s.”

  I knew what Mrs. Tyndall meant. Tara had reddish-brown hair and blue eyes, and her skin was milky and clear. She had freckles sprinkled across her nose. “A dusting” was what they called it in the magazines. Tara twisted her face in an I-doubt-it kind of way. Her mother was big on what it meant to be female in the 1980s, so maybe she thought this was a step backward. “It’s Lauren’s turn,” she said.

  Mrs. Tyndall looked at me with the same expression my mom uses when she inspects the fruit at the grocery store. “Well. Lauren, do you have your music?”

  Mrs. Tyndall said we could sing any song we wanted. She cut everyone off after two minutes. Some people picked songs from the show, and some people picked “Happy Birthday” or “The Star-Spangled Banner” because those songs show how well you can stay on key, even if “Happy Birthday” is much shorter than two minutes. Instead I picked “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” because Brenda Sue sounded like a girl who wanted to have fun. It spoke to my character’s motivation.

  I handed my music to the accompanist. On the radio, the song starts with a snappy synthesizer, drums, and electric guitar. I didn’t have any of those things, so my song felt a little bare as the a
ccompanist played the first few bars. But once I hit that first high note, I knew I was good. In the original song, Cyndi Lauper’s voice sounds like a New Yorker’s, kind of nasally and a little harsh, but fun at the same time. I got this jumpy feeling as I looked out at the audience. They were all watching me, smiling and bobbing their heads. I skipped around the stage, the way Cyndi Lauper does in the music video, as much as I could with the microphone on a cord. I got applause for that move.

  Tara gave me a thumbs-up. Around the two-minute mark, I held out the microphone for the chorus and everyone sang along. Mrs. Tyndall let me go over the two minutes. It was amazing. A thousand excellencies smooshed together.

  “Thank you, Lauren,” Mrs. Tyndall said. I hopped off the stage and went to sit by Tara.

  “You owned that stage!” Tara said.

  A girl I knew from Home Ec came over. “I thought I was tired of hearing Cyndi Lauper on the radio,” she whispered. “But you made me like the song again.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered back.

  We watched a few more auditions while we were waiting for Tara’s turn. Suddenly I felt more confident. No one was getting the reaction that I got.

  “Settle down, everyone,” said Mrs. Tyndall, after an eighth grader sang a song by Madonna. She checked her list. “Tara Buchanan.”

  Tara smiled at me.

  “Go for it,” I whispered.

  “There’s no way I’ll be as good as you,” she said.

  “Maybe we’ll both get leads.” I gave her a thumbs-up.

  Tara got onstage and handed her music to the pianist. I knew what she was going to sing—“The Candy Man.” We had rented the movie Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory from the video store and sung along for practice.

  She started too high, but then she got the song into the right range. She stayed in one spot and did not move around, although she did use some hand gestures, like in oratory. Everyone clapped when she finished; I clapped the loudest.

  Tara came offstage and sank into her seat—as much as a person could sink into auditorium seats that were made of wood. I liked to think about the people whose initials were carved into them. Were T. A. and C. B. married now? Did Mr. Shulter still suck eggs?