Almost Identical #1 Page 7

  “I found the greatest dress over the weekend,” Lily said as we walked. “I got it at the Salvation Army store for only three dollars.”

  “Ewww,” Lauren said. “I can’t believe you bought an ABW dress.”

  “Who’s ABW?” Charlie asked cautiously. “A hot designer I haven’t heard of yet?”

  Yet? Like you know a whole lot about hot designers? We are the girls who wear tennis skorts, remember?

  “ABW stands for Already Been Worn.” Lauren frowned as she said the words. “None of us can believe that Lily doesn’t mind wearing other people’s toss-outs.”

  “I prefer to call them vintage clothes,” Lily explained. “If you add a cool belt or some cowboy boots or interesting jewelry, you get your own look. Not like the Gap stuff that everyone else is wearing.”

  “I think that’s great,” I said.

  “Well, I think it’s unsanitary,” Lauren snapped back.

  Before Lily could answer, we had reached the Patio Room.

  Our English teacher, Ms. Carew, had become my favorite teacher over the course of the first week, not that Mr. Boring with his daily reading of school rules gave her much competition. She was young and pretty, with close-cropped black hair and big, colorful earrings that were made in Africa. She had been to Africa over the summer to try to find her ancestors there, but she said she had better luck finding earrings.

  “Hello, girls.” Ms. Carew greeted us with a warm smile as we walked into class.

  “Great earrings,” Lily said as she passed by. Today Ms. Carew was wearing long, dangling, yellow-and-black, beaded ones.

  “Right back at you,” Ms. Carew said, noticing the hoop earrings Lily was wearing that looked like a snake coiled up into a circle.

  “They’re ABW earrings,” Lauren remarked.

  “The best kind,” Ms. Carew answered.

  Every day, Ms. Carew wrote a thought for the day on the board. I liked reading them. As we took our seats, she went to the board and wrote Success is liking yourself, liking what you do, and liking how you do it. I liked that quote and wrote it down on the inside cover of my notebook.

  “Our thought for the day is from the American poet Maya Angelou,” Ms. Carew said after the bell rang. “And we’re going to use this quote as the basis for our writing assignment.”

  “Ick,” Charlie whispered to me. She hated writing assignments. Unlike me, she loved subjects like math, where your grade was based on how many answers you got right or wrong. When we did our homework together, I always helped her with her writing, and she helped me with my math. Like our dad always says, we’re two halves of a circle.

  “I have an interesting assignment for you today,” Ms. Carew was saying as she walked up and down the aisles, handing out a sheet of pale-green paper. “On one side of this paper, I want you to write one thing you like about yourself. On the flip side, write one thing you don’t like about yourself. Write something that you feel comfortable sharing with your classmates.”

  “What’s this have to do with English?” Sean called out.

  “English involves learning to be writers,” Ms. Carew said. “You can’t be a writer unless you understand yourself first.”

  “Is this graded?” the General wanted to know.

  “No, Dwayne. This is an exercise in understanding, not in judging.”

  “His name is Dwayne!” I whispered to Charlie.

  “No wonder he calls himself the General,” she whispered back, and we cracked up.

  Ms. Carew turned out the fluorescent lights and asked us to reach inside of ourselves and tell the truth. I had never had an assignment like that. Mr. Yamazaki, my last English teacher, was always too worked up about proper punctuation to care about what we were actually writing. As long as it had the commas in the right place, he was happy. Give the guy a semicolon, and he was over the moon. So I had to really think hard about what I wanted to say. It was easy to think of what I like least about myself, which I believe we all know is my weight. What I like best about myself was much harder to think of.

  After a few minutes, Ms. Carew turned on the lights and had us go out onto the little patio that adjoined her room. My old school certainly didn’t have any patios where students could meet outside, but Beachside was a beautiful campus with all sorts of tucked-away green spaces. We sat down in a circle on the red tiles and read what we had written. Ms. Carew said no one was allowed to comment. She told us to just listen, and listen with our hearts.

  When she said that, one of the boys made a farting sound with his mouth, and a couple of his buddies laughed, including the General and Jared and Sean. Ms. Carew frowned at them and told them there would be none of that in her class. She said we were there to be true friends and writing partners, and no one was to make fun of anyone else.

  She called on Charlie to go first. I was so grateful that she didn’t pick me.

  Charlie said the thing she liked most about herself was her tennis stroke—forehand, of course, because her backhand was inconsistent. It sounded like my dad had invaded her brain like some alien creature in a sci-fi movie! Then she turned into the real Charlie, saying what she liked least were her toes, because her third toe was longer than her second toe and she felt toes should go in descending order. She looked over at me for approval, and I gave her our secret love sign, three taps on the chest right over your heart.

  The redheaded guy with the drumsticks in his pocket (whose name, I learned, was Bernard) said he liked his rhythm best. And the thing he liked least—well, it was a tie between his cheeks and his freckles, so he was going with both. Lily said the thing she liked best was her knack for doing creative things with belts. And the thing she liked least was that she bites her nails when she is nervous. Alicia’s friend Sara, who wasn’t wearing her boots but was wearing some equally strange sandals decorated with seashells, said what she liked best was her hair. That was amazing to me, since her hair looked like someone had whipped it up with an egg beater. And what she liked least was that she gets impatient with her little brother, who has autism. Wow, that was a brave thing to say. A guy named Devon said what he liked best was his swagger. And the thing he liked least was that, deep down, he actually liked Lady Gaga’s music.

  It was an amazing experience. Everyone was really trying to be honest and deep. Well, everyone but Lauren Wadsworth, that is. She said the thing she liked best about herself was the way her hair looked just after she washed it. And the thing she liked least was that she could never decide which tank top to wear under which shirt. And, of course, there was Sean, who said the thing he liked best was his collection of All-City trophies, and the thing he liked least was nothing.

  Way to be humble, Sean.

  We continued around the circle until we came to the last person to read—me.

  “The thing I like best about myself is that I make myself laugh,” I read. Then I flipped the paper over and saw what I had written for what I liked least about myself. It said The thing I like least about myself is that I am messy.

  Let’s be honest here, Sammie. You know that’s not true. Tell the truth, girlfriend. Try it, maybe you’ll like it.

  The truth was too scary and too personal. I wasn’t about to tell these people that I weighed one two six and a half. No, I was going with what I had written. I looked down at the paper and started to read.

  “The thing I like least about myself . . .” Then I paused and glanced up to see Ms. Carew looking at me. She seemed so interested, and her eyes were . . . I don’t know . . . curious, like she really cared what I was about to say. I don’t know what got into me, but I took a deep breath and said the truth.

  “The thing I like least about myself is . . . well . . . it’s too private to say here.”

  There it was: not a lie, but not the truth, either.

  “Hey, that’s cheating,” Sean called out. �
�Everyone else spilled their guts. Like me, about the trophies and everything.”

  Ms. Carew held up her hand for him to stop talking. “What you did is perfectly okay, Sammie,” she said. “People reveal themselves when they’re ready.”

  Phew.

  Before we went back in the classroom, Ms. Carew asked us, “Does anyone remember our quote for the day? About the true meaning of success?”

  Before I knew it, my hand shot up in the air.

  “‘Success is liking yourself, liking what you do, and liking how you do it,’” I said, surprising myself that I had memorized every word.

  “Very nice, Sammie,” Ms. Carew said, and I noticed Lauren Wadsworth look over at Charlie and roll her eyes.

  When the bell rang and I got up to leave, Ms. Carew pulled me aside.

  “Can I see you a second, Sammie?”

  “Sure.”

  “Alicia and Sara tell me they think you might be interested in Truth Tellers,” she began.

  I looked out the door and saw Lauren in the hall, mouthing the word Frappuccino.

  “I have a lot of stuff to do after school,” I told Ms. Carew. “I don’t think I can make it.”

  “You’re always welcome, Sammie,” she said. “And even if you don’t decide to join us, here’s a copy of a poem by Sonya Sones, one of my favorite poets. I’d love for you to have it.”

  “Thanks a lot, Ms. Carew. But I have to go to my next class.”

  I grabbed the piece of paper and ran out the door.

  “What was that about?” Lily asked.

  “She wants me to proofread my stuff more carefully,” I lied. “Check out the commas and everything.”

  “That Ms. Carew is so old-school,” Lauren said. “I mean, really, what do you like best about yourself?”

  I wanted to defend Ms. Carew, but I knew Charlie wouldn’t like it if I made a fuss about disagreeing with Lauren. So I didn’t say anything, just listened as Lauren launched into a conversation about where we were going to meet after school for our Starbucks date. It was agreed that we’d meet at the flagpole and walk over to the mall together.

  Then we went our separate ways. I had to hurry to get to my math class on time.

  As Mr. Warner was having kids write their homework answers on the board, I pulled out the poem that Ms. Carew had given me after class. At the top of the page, it said “‘Fantabulous’ by Sonya Sones.” I started to read.

  I don’t need to rock

  a pair of size 2 jeans

  or prance through the pages

  of magazines

  because I am a woman

  who’s round and full,

  made of wind and wild

  and honey.

  A woman made

  of curve and swerve

  and flow and glow

  and strong and funny.

  I am a woman made

  of fire and fierce and free.

  I am fantabulous.

  Fantabulous me!

  I couldn’t believe what I was reading. It was fantastic. Amazing. I’m not much of a poem reader except for those funny Where the Sidewalk Ends poems my mom read us when we were little. But this poem—wow. It was like the words reached out and grabbed me.

  I am a woman made of fire and fierce and free.

  I read those lines over and over again. It was like Sonya Sones, wherever she was, had looked inside me and picked out just the words I needed to hear. I couldn’t stop staring at that poem—it made me feel so good about myself. I didn’t even mind when Mr. Warner got angry because I didn’t seem interested in learning how to convert fractions to decimals.

  Oh no, Mr. Warner. I’m fascinated by fraction-to-decimal conversions. Oh, and by the way, did you know I’m fantabulous?

  This might sound totally corny, and I apologize if it does, but when I read that poem, I felt like I was floating on air, free as a seagull. It’s strange. I felt like maybe it set loose someone inside me, a person I didn’t know, who had been waiting to get out. I didn’t know who she was, but I had a feeling she was fantabulous, and I wanted to meet her.

  Truth Tellers

  Chapter 8

  “What do you mean, you’re not going to Starbucks?” Charlie demanded, putting her hands on her hips the way she does when she gets mad. “We’re all going.”

  We were standing at the flagpole after school that day, waiting for the SF2 girls to join us for our Starbucks date.

  “I’m not thirsty,” I said.

  “Sammie, since when does thirst have anything to do with Starbucks?”

  “Earth to Charlie. It’s a place for drinks, as in, ‘I’m thirsty, I want a drink.’”

  “It’s a place for hanging out, Sammie. Everyone knows that.”

  “Okay, so the truth is,” I said reluctantly, “I don’t want to go because I’m thinking of trying the club that Ms. Carew runs.”

  “You mean that truth-talker thing?”

  “Truth Tellers. It’s Truth Tellers, not talkers.”

  “Whatever. Why, Sammie? We’re not drama people. We’re athletes. We’re not like those alternative kids who sit around and fall in love with their every little thought.”

  “You don’t know that’s what they’re like, Charlie. I just think it might be interesting, that’s all. Alicia says it’s really fun. And Ms. Carew is great.”

  “Sammie, we’ve always liked the same things, right? So I don’t get it. We don’t have anything in common with those kids. Alicia is cool, but what about that friend of hers with the boots and crazy hair?”

  “Her name is Sara Berlin. That’s not fair, Charlie, and you know it. You can’t judge someone just by looking at what they’re wearing or how good their hair looks. Oh, and speaking of good hair, here come Lily, Brooke, and Lauren.”

  “Please don’t tell them about this truth-club thing,” Charlie whispered. “I don’t want to have to explain you to them. Just do what you have to do and don’t say anything.”

  Lauren, Lily, and Brooke were running down the school steps to where we were waiting at the flagpole. Jogging alongside them in his usual camouflage cargo pants was the General, whose full name, Charlie told me, was Dwayne Dickerson. Their history teacher, who apparently calls everyone by their last name, would only call him Mr. Dickerson since he said he didn’t think it was appropriate to call him the General. He said there were real generals that actually deserved the title.

  “Excellent news, girls,” Brooke said when they reached us. “The guys are going to hang out with us at Starbucks.”

  “I only see one guy,” I said.

  “But I bet you like what you see,” the General answered, striking a muscleman pose.

  Oh, please. Don’t tell me you think that’s flirty, because honestly, you look like a G.I. Joe action figure with arm cramps.

  “Jared and Sean and Spencer are on the track running some laps for the coach,” the General explained. “I’ll grab them when they’re done and we’ll all come by.”

  “Eeuuwww,” said Lauren. “Make sure they shower first. I hate sweaty people.”

  “Yeah, it’s so gross,” Charlie agreed.

  Whoa. Did Charlie actually say that? In front of me, the person who sweats so much, she actually produced a leg trickle at the last tennis tournament?

  “Sweating is a very natural thing,” I said in my own defense. “It’s the body’s way of cooling off.”

  “That’s very scientific,” Lauren commented.

  “And oh-so-boring,” Brooke added. “No offense, Sammie.”

  Everyone laughed. Yes, even Charlie!

  “Listen, everyone,” I said. “Don’t all cry at once, but I’m not going to be able to make it to Starbucks. I have . . . um . . . other plans.”

  “Really?” asked Lily. “What are you doi
ng?”

  Charlie jumped in before I could answer. “She has an orthodontist appointment.”

  “Then how come you don’t have one?” the General asked her. “You’re identical. You should have identical teeth.”

  “Yes, we do . . . except . . . Sammie has an extra one.”

  I do? Since when?

  “Like a fang?” the General asked. “Cool! Can I see it?”

  “No way,” I snapped at him.

  “You can’t see it without looking really hard,” Charlie chimed in. “It’s a molar, in the back. No one knows where it came from, and it’s got to be pulled or it will just keep growing until it’s, like, superlong.”

  “Eeuuwww, gross,” Lauren said again, trying not to look at my mouth. “You poor thing.”

  Thanks, Charlie. Now everyone can truly feel sorry for me—Sammie the overweight tooth freak.

  I said good-bye and watched as the four of them took off across the lawn. Just before they reached the sidewalk and headed down Third Street, Charlie turned around and shot me a peculiar look. It’s funny—I couldn’t tell from her expression whether she was happy or sad.

  “Hey, Sam. Are you sure you can’t come?” she yelled. Then, realizing what she had said, she added, “I could get Dad to cancel the appointment.”

  “It’s okay,” I yelled back. “Maybe I can swing by later, depending on how long my . . . um . . . appointment goes.”

  Charlie nodded and waved good-bye.

  Love you, she mouthed, giving me three little taps over her heart.

  “Love you, too,” I whispered, and tapped my chest three times.

  And then she disappeared around the corner. I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. We were only going to be a few blocks from each other, but as I headed back to Ms. Carew’s room, I felt that a distance had begun to open up between Charlie and me. And to be honest, I didn’t like that feeling one bit.

  The door was closed when I reached the Patio Room, but I could hear voices coming from inside. It sounded like buzzing as if a bunch of bees had gotten loose and were swarming. I pushed the door open a crack. There were about fifteen kids inside. The desks had been pushed against the walls so the center of the room was empty, and the kids were sitting in a circle on the floor with their eyes closed. They were humming.