Not Your All-American Girl Read online

  “Buy the magazine or put it back,” the clerk called from the register. She was about a hundred years old, with thin hair that looked like wisps of cotton candy.

  I put the magazine back on the shelf, and the woman on the cover stared back at me. All the magazine women stared at me. Three of the covers featured Christie Brinkley, who had long blonde hair, and all the models had blue or green eyes. Not one of them looked like me. It was like the musical all over again.

  I walked to the counter with just the Zero bar.

  “No buttons today?” asked the clerk.

  Now that I had put the magazine back, she was being friendly again and trying to sell me something else.

  “Not today,” I said. “I’m saving for a pair of designer jeans.” I didn’t know I was going to say that until the words flew out, but it was true. I was going to have to get my own jeans. Good ones. The clerk looked at the buttons on my jacket. “You probably have enough to start your own button business,” she said. She smiled at her own joke.

  I thanked her for the Zero bar. I should have thanked her for the idea, too.

  Button business.

  I had all the equipment. What if I made buttons and sold them at school? I could make them for bands and TV shows and our school mascot. We were the Weimaraners, which was the type of dog Eisenhower had when he was in the White House. Weimaraners aren’t very threatening, mascot-wise. But they are pretty cute.

  If I had a button business, I’d have my designer jeans a lot sooner. I could save enough for a phone in my room like Tara’s, too. Maybe my parents would let me have one if I showed initiative, which is something parents like.

  SAFTA, WAI PO, AND BAO BAO WERE all looking intently into a cardboard box when I came home. I walked over and took a look.

  “A kitten!” I reached down and picked it up. It was soft and black with white patches on its nose and paws. A tiny pink tongue appeared when it yawned. “Is it ours?”

  “In this house?” Wai Po gave Bao Bao a reassuring pat. “No.”

  “She’s mine,” said Safta. “But what’s mine is yours.”

  “You wanted a cat?”

  “I didn’t want a cat?” Safta folded up an old towel and put it in the bottom of the box. “A well-behaved pet is a welcome companion in old age.” She gave Bao Bao a look when she said well-behaved.

  “Cats don’t listen to anyone,” said Wai Po. “You’ll see.”

  “Does she have a name?” I asked, hoping to head off an argument.

  “Of course she has a name,” Safta said. “Beatrice Minerva.”

  “That’s a big name for a tiny cat,” I said.

  “It is an elegant name for a cat,” Safta said. “It’s what I would have named your father if he had been a girl.”

  I decided my father was pretty lucky he’d turned out to be a boy.

  I waggled my index finger at Beatrice Minerva, and she attacked it with her two front paws. “I think I’ll call her Mini for short,” I said. Short for Minerva, but also because she was so tiny. I turned it into a song. “Mini is a tiny cat, a mini cat, a bitsy cat. Mini is my favorite cat. Look at her little paws.”

  “So … Beatrice Minerva comes with a story,” said Safta. She paused and looked at me.

  “A story? Was someone mean to her?” I held Mini closer to me.

  “Not like that,” said Wai Po. “A Let’s Make a Deal kind of story.” She harrumphed.

  “You make it sound like a bad deal. It’s a good deal!” scolded Safta. “The lady giving away the kittens is the sister of my next-door neighbor. She also happens to be the classmate of my dentist in the city.” When Safta says the city, she means New York, like it’s the only city in the world.

  Wai Po rolled her eyes.

  “Her name is Helen Mather. Helen was looking for homes for these kittens, and I went to take a look, and she happened to mention that she is opening a T-shirt shop.”

  “Did you promise to buy a T-shirt if you took a kitten?” Safta was not known for her fashion sense, and I was worried that she was going to make me walk around in a T-shirt that she had designed herself. The last one she gave me said Jewish American Princess on the front. There were hardly any Jewish kids at my school, so most people didn’t know that Jewish American Princess basically meant spoiled. I don’t think Safta knew that, either. The T-shirt stayed at the bottom of the drawer.

  “It’s the other way around,” Safta said. “She was going to give me a free T-shirt if I took a kitten. But I got something better.”

  “Here it comes,” said Wai Po.

  “I said, if you’re having a store opening on Friday, why not have some entertainment? I have a granddaughter who can sing like nobody’s business. She’ll get people in your store in droves.”

  “You promised a lady I’ve never met that I’d sing in front of her store?” I just wanted to make sure I was getting it right.

  “For strangers,” added Wai Po. “People who do not know you or your family.”

  “She’s not a stranger; she’s Ellen Weber’s sister.”

  “I can’t sing there! That’s weird. And …” I couldn’t say the next words. What if everyone else was like Mrs. Tyndall? They would think I didn’t belong there. Maybe they would think I was stupid for singing in front of a store, or worse, stupid for thinking I deserved to sing in front of a store.

  “She doesn’t even know what I look like,” I pointed out. “She might not realize that I’m …”

  “Beautiful? Sure she does!” said Safta. She reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. When she opened it, a waterfall of plastic-covered school photos of me and David fell out. “Every year since first grade,” she said proudly.

  “Mine is longer,” said Wai Po. She pulled out her wallet and proved it. “Every picture since kindergarten.”

  “I have the kindergarten picture in a frame,” said Safta.

  “What are you going to do when I go to college?” I asked them.

  “Get a bigger wallet,” said Wai Po. “For graduate school.”

  Safta got back to business. “To get where you want, you have to find places to sing,” she said. “You have to work hard. My father had a pushcart—”

  “This would get in the way of her schoolwork,” said Wai Po.

  “It’s after school,” said Safta. “On Friday.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to be a walking advertisement,” said Wai Po. “Selling things.”

  “Well, that was the deal for Beatrice Minerva,” Safta said. She looked at me. “I might have to take her back if you don’t sing.”

  “No!” I rubbed Mini’s soft little ears, and she rubbed her cheek against my finger. “Let me think about it.” I knew my safta was trying to help, but this was not what I had in mind.

  “Nunu,” said Wai Po. That was her nickname for me. “Do not let her make you do something that you do not want to do. But Marjorie is right about one thing. If you want something, you have to work for it.”

  “I’m right about more than one thing,” said Safta.

  Right before dinner, the phone rang. It was Tara.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “I thought you were going to stick around for when Mrs. Tyndall made the announcements.”

  “I forgot I had to do something at home.” I swallowed hard. “Did you get the part?” A tiny part of me made a very nice wish for Jennifer, the other girl trying out for Brenda Sue.

  There was a long pause. Then Tara screamed, “Yes! I am Brenda Sue Parker! Can you believe it?”

  “Congratulations,” I said. I thought of the quiz and tried to channel Sweet and Supportive friend. “You’ll be great.”

  “Hector got cast as Theodore. And Jennifer Gallagher’s going to play my friend.”

  “Tubular.” It was not a word I normally said. I wasn’t sure if that made me sound fake or enthusiastic.

  “You would have been tubular, too,” said Tara. “But we’ll get to be in the play together, and that’s what’s important, right?” />
  We. I squinched my eyes shut. “Right.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound funny.”

  I wound the cord around my finger. “I’m fine.” I tried to think of a distraction. “Safta got a kitten. Her name is Beatrice Minerva, but I’m going to call her Mini.”

  “I totally need to come see her! I wish I had a kitten.” Tara’s little brother, Jay, was allergic to dander, so the only pets they ever had were fish, which weren’t cute but were calming to look at when they were swimming around. They were not as calming when they were floating at the top of the tank.

  “She’s mostly black and super soft,” I said.

  “Aren’t black cats bad luck?” Tara said it just like that, almost like she was wishing me bad luck. Then her tone changed. “Hey, I was going to ask if you wanted to come to my oratory contest. It’s Friday after school. I always feel better when I know you’re in the audience. And you wouldn’t have to stay long; they’re letting me go first since I have to go to my grandma’s for the weekend.”

  This was a thing we did. We were there for each other. But I couldn’t watch Tara be good at one more thing. Not this time. Suddenly my decision about the T-shirt shop became easy.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t. My grandmother booked me a gig on Friday.” I kind of savored the words booked me a gig. They sounded grown-up.

  “What?” Tara screamed again. “That’s amazing!”

  I’ll be a good friend next time, I promised silently. “It’s at the mall,” I said. I didn’t say it was at the T-shirt shop, so it would sound like maybe it was the whole mall. “It’s no big deal.”

  “Of course it’s a big deal! Are you nervous? Are you getting paid? Then you can say you’re professional.”

  I almost mentioned the T-shirt shop. Almost. “It’s an opportunity,” I said, which was what Safta would have said, too.

  “It’s an excellency for sure,” said Tara. “Kittens and a real singing gig.”

  It wasn’t an excellency. It was an excuse. And now I was stuck with it.

  I SPENT THE NIGHT MAKING BUTTONS for my new button business. The machine worked a little like a stapler, where you press down to make the pinback and the top part of the button come together. Even though I was making something, the sound and the pressure made me feel like I was destroying something. I thought a lot about Mrs. Tyndall’s head.

  In the morning, I took some duct tape and attached a long strip of paisley fabric to the inside of my locker door. I had pinned my buttons to the paisley to make a little display. Tara would have been at my locker, normally, but there was a morning meeting for all the people who were oratory finalists. I was on my own.

  “What’s a fod?” Duncan was using his time before school to possibly become the first paying customer of The Button Girl, which was what I’d decided to name my business. If you had asked me who was going to be my first customer, I would not have named Duncan, but we were going to be in the ensemble together, so maybe he was trying to be friendly.

  “Hunh?” I said.

  “ ‘I pity the fod’? What’s a fod?”

  “It’s ‘I pity the fool,’ ” I said. “Mr. T?” The button was at the top of my display. I thought it might make a good button because Mr. T, the guy who originally said it, was popular. He starred on The A-Team and wore a Mohawk and gold chains. It was easier for the students at Eisenhower Junior High to copy his language than his fashion sense.

  “It looks like you wrote ‘fod,’ ” said Duncan.

  I guess the o and the l were a little close together. But not close enough to look like a letter d. “I pity the fool who thinks this says ‘fod,’ ” I said. “If you want it, it’s a dollar.”

  “I’ll give you fifty cents,” said Duncan. “Because of fod.”

  I did some calculations. Fifty cents did not give me a very high profit margin. Still, if Duncan wore my button at school, it was a good advertisement. And as a new business, I needed the publicity.

  I sang a little bit from Mr. T’s song, “Treat Your Mother Right.” It’s a rap, so it’s like half singing, half talking. There’s a song for every occasion; this occasion was called Sell Duncan a Button.

  Duncan laughed. “You do a pretty great Mr. T!”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Truthfully?” said Duncan. “I can’t pay more than fifty cents or I can’t buy lunch. I can bring the other fifty cents tomorrow.”

  Since they were serving fish squares on buns, forcing Duncan to miss lunch might be a favor. But there was always the fruit cup, and I can’t stand the thought of people being hungry.

  “Fine,” I said, taking the Mr. T button off the fabric background. “But you have to tell people where you got it. I’m trying to get this business off the ground.” I switched to my Mr. T voice. “Treat your button maker right!”

  “Hey,” Duncan called out to the first three people who walked past us. “Check it out. Tara’s friend is selling buttons. Locker ninety-seven!”

  “Great,” I said in a cheerful voice. But in my mind, I heard another, unexpected voice. As in, Great, he only knows Tara’s name. Not yours. “My name is Lauren, by the way. Lauren Horowitz.”

  “Oh yeah, Lauren, duh, I knew that. I just figured that more people, Lauren, would come if I pointed out that you, Lauren Horowitz, are connected to Tara.”

  Tara, who was so famous she didn’t even need a last name, like Pelé or Cher.

  “Okay, ha ha, I get it,” I said. It was weird to hear my name said so many times in a row. And Duncan was right about the Tara connection, that it would bring more business, but I didn’t want the business to be about Tara. I wanted it to be about me.

  Mrs. Tyndall’s student assistant saw us and came over. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a high, wavy ponytail, and she wore a blue skirt and pink shirt. “You’re that girl who sang Cyndi Lauper,” she said.

  “Her name is Lauren,” said Duncan. “Horowitz.” He grinned at me, clearly enjoying the fact that he could tease me while seeming like he had good manners. Then he said, “Tiffany Ellison is the stage manager. She just moved here from California. Her natural habitat is the Sherman Oaks Galleria, but she’s making the transition to the unique ecosystem of Oak Faire Mall.”

  “You sound like a scientist.” Tiffany play-slapped Duncan, then turned to me. “Oh my god, you were so good. Like, totally amazing. I went home and told my mom you were transcendent.”

  “That’s why I’m in the ensemble,” I said.

  “A travesty, that’s what I say,” said Tiffany. “So, are you selling buttons?”

  I stood back and showed Tiffany my display. She touched one with her finger. “How much is this one?” It said NOT EVEN.

  “They’re a dollar each,” I told her.

  Tiffany reached into her pocket, pulled out four quarters, and handed them to me. “Gotta jet. Mr. Jaramillo is totally averse to tardiness.”

  “She’s from a different planet,” Duncan said.

  “A planet that buys buttons! I’m okay with that.” My mind was recording “gotta jet.” I could make that button tonight.

  “I’ll help get the word out,” said Duncan.

  Two sales! This was better than babysitting, which paid a dollar an hour. I’d already made $1.50, and I hadn’t had to wipe anyone’s nose or rear end.

  When I got to science, Tara was waiting for me at the door.

  “A button business?” she asked. Word got around fast at our school. “You didn’t say anything about that last night.”

  “It’s something I just decided to do,” I said. I. Not we. “To earn money for jeans.”

  I dug around in my backpack and pulled out the buttons I had made for her. One said ORATORY IS MY CATEGORY. The other had a picture of a black kitten, since she couldn’t have one in real life.

  “Cool,” said Tara. She pinned them to her shirt, so that the kitten button was higher and to the right of the oratory button. Then she pinned them the other way, so the orator
y button was higher.

  “That one is for good luck,” I said. I tried to feel sorry that I wasn’t staying after school to watch, and failed. The T-shirt gig was still more appealing. The button would have to do.

  “Thanks. Sixth graders never win. But I have to try, right?” She polished the oratory button with her sleeve. “What do we charge for these circular pieces of art?”

  I hesitated. I had wanted the business to be mine, but the thought of saying that out loud seemed mean.

  “They’re a dollar,” I said, relenting. “I have them on display in my locker.”

  “If I get any interested buyers, I’ll show them during lunch.” Even though Tara and I didn’t have lunch together, we knew each other’s locker combinations. We knew everything about each other. “I’ll leave you any money on the top shelf. And I’ll get to work on new button ideas.”

  “But I …” The bell rang, drowning out the rest of my sentence, which was okay. I wasn’t sure how it was going to end.

  “I’M COMING, TOO,” WAI PO SAID when we were getting ready to leave. “For protection.” It made her sound like she was in the mob.

  “What am I? Chopped liver?” asked Safta. “Why would she need protection?”

  “She’s singing in front of strangers,” said Wai Po.

  “Fine.” Safta picked up her handbag and swung it onto her arm so it accidentally-on-purpose hit Wai Po in the butt along the way.

  Fairfax Carousel Mall was a fifteen-minute drive. The parking lot wasn’t crowded, but Safta parked far away, because she liked wiggle room.

  The mall had an indoor merry-go-round and an ice cream shop. When I was little, my parents used to take me and my brother there for a ride on the carousel and out for ice cream. The order is important, as we discovered when David once had ice cream before the ride and then threw up in a gigantic circle as the carousel spun around.

  To a Tee was on the same side of the mall as the carousel, which was the side the less popular stores were on (not counting the ice cream shop). The store smelled like the inside of a plastic raincoat.