To
the Parents or Guardians of Candice Sky,
I
am writing to you out of concern for your
daughter’s
missing project due last Monday.
She
claims that a pipe in the bathroom broke,
flooding
the apartment and soiling her project.
If
you could confirm her story, I would be
happy
to give Candice extra time on this project.
Candice
is such a joy to have in class.
I
look forward to her success!
Sincerely,
Mrs.
Gulligan
7th
& 8th Grade
English
Teacher
To
the Parents or Guardians of Candice Sky,
I
am writing to you out of concern for your
daughter’s
study guide for an upcoming test.
She
insisted that it, and I quote,
“had
a bath in the fryer and was served
to
a customer” at a local fast food restaurant.
I
struggle to understand her story, so if you
could
contact me for clarification, that would
be
appreciated. Thank you!
Candice
is such a joy to have in class.
I
look forward to her success!
Sincerely,
Mrs.
Gulligan
7th
& 8th Grade
English
Teacher
To
the Parents or Guardians of Candice Sky,
I
am writing to you out of concern for your
daughter’s
failed test. Her latest anecdote
has
her stranded on a boat after hitting
an
iceberg that destroyed the motor.
Because
she had to wait most of the night
for
a rescue boat, she was too exhausted to
focus
on the exam. Forgive me for saying I
find
the story a bit unbelievable. Please
contact
me at your earliest convenience.
Candice
is such a joy in class.
I
look forward to her success!
Sincerely,
Mrs.
Gulligan
7th
& 8th Grade
English
Teacher
To
the Parents or Guardians of Candice Sky,
I
have yet to hear from you regarding your
daughter’s
missing assignments and grades.
Perhaps
email is not the best mode of
communication.
I will be calling to set up a
parent-teacher
conference. Let me know what
time
works best for you.
Thank
you.
Sincerely,
Mrs.
Gulligan
7th
& 8th Grade
English
Teacher
ONE
My
Little Secret
Neiwood
School District
Neiwood,
CA
Missed
Calls (2)
Mom’s
phone rings again. I jab the red end-call button and swallow. Air
grinds down my throat like bare skin on a dry tube slide. Why does
Mrs. Gulligan have to be so persistent?
I
listen for the running shower from the only bathroom in our
apartment, praying Mom takes her time under the hot spray. My foot
ricochets against the hardwood floor of the den with nervous energy.
I can’t even concentrate on my favorite show, Young,
Bold, and Beautiful,
as it plays on the wall-mounted television. It trails several tween
fashion designers sewing and piecing together outfits for models.
It’s the premiere of the newest season, something I’ve been
counting down to for months. Now, I’d have to watch the recording
later.
Thanks,
Mrs. Gulligan.
This
is all because of that ridiculous essay due yesterday. The one
focusing on a book I may or may not have read. I can’t help it,
though! I have seven classes to manage. Seven. No one should put that
kind of pressure on a thirteen-year-old.
I
press my finger against the touchpad and watch the screen unlock. Mom
doesn’t know I saved my fingerprint on her phone. As I open her
email app, I remember the test I flunked last week. Twenty-five
multiple choice questions followed by three essay questions. Anyone
who can finish that in fifty minutes isn’t human.
There
are also a few assignments that slipped my mind earlier this month.
And the other essay from a while back. Again, seven
classes. Mrs. Gulligan can’t blame me.
I
open a blank email and type:
Dear
Mrs. Gulligan
What
would Mom say to my English teacher? I chuckle uneasily. I’d be
dead if she actually knew about my grades. Not really. She would
probably ship me off to Grandma Carrie for fall break, grounded
inside her house of creepy antique dolls and an ungodly amount of
shrieking parrots. Mom has done it before. I still have nightmares
from decades of dust and feathers—dead, glassy eyes following my
every movement.
I
glance at the bathroom door on the corner of the hallway that leads
to our bedrooms. Steam rises out from the crack at the bottom and
wafts through the den, making the air hot and uncomfortably humid.
Good. Keep showering, Mom.
Dear
Mrs. Gulligan,
Sorry
to have missed your calls. I am a flight
attendant
and spend most of my time on an
airplane.
That’s
sort of the truth. Mom does occasionally work as a flight attendant
when someone calls out sick or has a family emergency. Usually, she’s
a reserve, checking people in at the gate while on standby. She goes
on, maybe, four or five flights a year.
Contacting
me by phone will not work due
to
my busy schedule and constant change
in
time zones. Please continue to email.
Emails
are easy to delete. Phone calls? Not so much. They’re dangerous.
As
for your concerns regarding my daughter
Candy,
I can safely vouch for every incident
she
has claimed. She has such bad luck.
Bad
luck when it comes to English teachers. Why can’t Mrs. Gulligan
leave me alone like the others? They hardly bat an eye when I miss an
assignment, opting for communication through the online parent portal
(which mysteriously
had a glitch that changed the password at the beginning of the school
year).
Perhaps
her persistence could have something to do with the rumors
circulating about her.
My
best friend Maggie swears on her life that Mrs. Gilligan is a witch.
A living, breathing, cauldron-stirring, broom-riding, frog-eating
witch.
Maggie
claims that Mrs. Gulligan cursed a boy named Sayer Lafayette after he
was caught paying classmates to write his papers. Every dollar bill
he touched turned into dried leaves. Coins became acorn caps. If that
wasn’t enough, his perfectly smooth angel face grew massive boils
that oozed greenish white pus. No one could look at him without
gagging.
Do
I believe Maggie? Absolutely not.
If
she were a witch, Mrs. Gulligan would have found a way to contact my
parents.
Please
grant Candy extra time for these
assignments.
I’ll make sure she gets them
done
by the end of September.
Sincerely,
Samantha
Sky
My
thumb hovers over the send button. I re-read the email,
double-checking for errors and clarity. I certainly sound like my
mother. Prim and proper. Practically her middle name.
A
wormy sliver of doubt wriggles in my mind, softening my earlier
determination. This email will officially open a line of
communication between Mom and Mrs. Gulligan. Bile rises at the
realization. “Mom” must admit to reading the other emails.
I
picture the email tennis match I’ll have to play in that scenario.
By
not replying, Mrs. Gulligan might actually give up. Eventually.
Hopefully.
With
a sigh, I tap the trash icon. I have to prevent Mom from answering
Mrs. Gulligan’s calls somehow. There’s more at stake than a
summer with Grandma Carrie.
The
Fall Equinox Dance.
When
fliers for the dance appeared around school, I secretly ripped one
from a bulletin board and taped it to my bathroom mirror. I read the
flier every morning, planning what will be the greatest moment of my
life.
Unlike
other middle school dances where the dress code calls for jeans and
t-shirts, the Fall Equinox Dance mimics a high school prom. Only
eighth graders are allowed to attend. We get to wear dresses and
heels and make-up and doll our hair up with spray and shimmer and–
I
exhale noisily, a tornado of fantasies leaving me winded. I’ve seen
these dances all the time in movies, but to actually experience one?
The idea leaves goosebumps on my skin. It’s not just because it’s
a day dedicated to glamor and DJ tunes. I’ll fulfill a lifelong
dream of mine.
Perhaps
not lifelong. But I have daydreamed about it since starting middle
school.
The
dream?
A
boyfriend.
And
not just any boyfriend.
Elijah
Nole.
The
rising pop singer who happens to be in the same grade at my middle
school.
I
met Elijah in-person on the second day of sixth grade. Or rather, his
soccer ball met my face during PE, knocking me clear off my feet.
Dazed and bleeding from my nose, I barely recognized Elijah helping
me up and dusting me off until I was inches away from his warm amber
eyes and worried frown. His voice, asking me if I was okay, was as
calming as rain pattering against leaves. His touch a comfortable sea
breeze. His presence was like taking a bite of the world’s finest
chocolate, hazelnut-ganache center and all. I wanted more.
My
dream is for Elijah to sweep me off my feet and, quite possibly,
share a first kiss with. To rest a hand on my hip on the dance floor,
lean me backwards, gaze into my eyes, and whisper, “Candy Sky,
you’re the only girl for me.”
Blood
rushes to my cheeks. I squeal and hide my face in my hands.
“What
are you doing on my phone?”
I
jolt. The phone slips from my fingers and clatters face down on the
floor. I scramble for it, chest heaving. I check for damages (and if
I actually deleted that email). The screen is black except for the
time and lock icon. I can’t use my fingerprint with Mom watching me
from the bathroom door.
Her
arms cross over her plush robe. A towel twists on the top of her
head, drying her brown hair.
When
did the water turn off?
“Seriously,
what are you doing?” She plods over and holds out her hand.
“N-Nothing!”
I almost pull the phone away from her, but doing so indicates guilt.
I
give her the phone shakily.
She
presses her thumb against the lock pad. Her eyes narrow on the
screen. “You were obviously doing something on my phone.”
“You
left it on and—” Think,
Candy. Think.
“—I needed to look up information for an assignment. I couldn't
use my phone since you took it away.”
“Why
is the email app open?” she asks.
I
shrug and lean back on the couch nonchalantly. The trick is to look
relaxed. Don’t break eye contact. Twirl a strand of hair. Appear
annoyed that someone doesn’t believe you.
“It
must have opened when I dropped the phone,” I say. “Seriously, I
was on the school’s website looking up an assignment.”
She
purses her lips together, unconvinced. There’s no evidence of any
wrongdoing. Innocent until proven guilty, right? Eventually, she lets
it slide. Mom crosses the den to her bluetooth speaker and presses
play.
I
relax as soft jazz floats through the room. Silly coffee quotations
on colorful canvases hang from the walls. Home Is Where the Coffee
Pot Is. Live Life to the Fullest Cup. My Coffee Needs Coffee. Throw
pillows on the cream-color furniture feature cappuccinos so realistic
that I’m pretty sure you can taste the espresso. And the smell of
coffee clings to everything in this apartment. Mom is addicted.
Mom’s
shift at the airport starts in an hour, so she heads down a short
hallway to her bedroom and disappears inside. She shuts the door
behind her.
On
the rare occurrence that I venture inside, I’m met with clothes
vacuumed in airlock bags and the smell of organic all-purpose cleaner
mixed with, of course, coffee. Mom’s room is never out of place.
Mine
on the other hand . . . I like to tell Mom tiny elves have dress-up
parties. They cover every surface with my clothes and play 52-Card
Pickup with my schoolwork. Not only do they never win the game, but
they also leave their garbage and dirty plates all over.
Curse
those pesky elves!
I
sprawl on the couch, lift the remote, and increase the volume. I
watch the montage of tweens fitting their outfits onto their live
models. The theme is a cocktail party. They have to create dresses
worthy of high-end social and business networking.
I’d
give anything to be one of those models, dripping in beautiful
designer clothes and accessories. Elijah would definitely notice me
then. I wonder if there’s a way I can apply to the show.
Through
the wall, Mom’s phone blares Mozart’s symphony, and my heart
sinks.
Could
it be Mrs. Gulligan?
“Don’t
answer!” I spring off the couch, run down the short hallway, and
pound on her bedroom door. “It’s spam callers! Dangerous spam
callers!”
When
Mom doesn’t answer, I back up a few feet and crouch into my best
impersonation of a football player. I shout a battle cry and barrel
forward, tensing my shoulder for impact.
The
door opens.
I
yelp, momentum too strong to stop, and I collide with Mom. We fall
into a pile of groans and tangled limbs. I wince as her elbow juts
into my ribs.
“Hello?”
a disgruntled voice says from beside us. “Samantha, are you there?’
Her
phone!
I
kick and squirm my way free, and then snatch it up.
“We
don’t want your overpriced vacuum, you scheming salesman!” I cry.
“Now stop calling this number before I report you to the police!”
“Candice?”
the person on the other side says.
That’s
not Mrs. Gulligan.
“Aunt
Becky?”
“No,
it’s a scheming salesman,” she snorts sarcastically.
Oops.
I
open my mouth to respond, but the phone is yanked out of my hand.
Soon, I’m on the receiving end of Mom’s infamous you-are-so-dead
glares.
“Candice
Lynn Sky!” she says. “What on earth has gotten into you!”
“I-I
thought . . .” I stutter, tailing off as embarrassment paints my
cheeks bright pink.
“How
would you know it’s spam callers? And how did you get past the lock
screen in the first place?"
Aunt
Becky calls our names, but Mom ignores her. She taps and swipes her
screen, eyes flickering back and forth swiftly. What is she reading?
I bite my lip and fidget my thumbs.
Please
let that email be deleted.
Please
don’t let Mom see the school district’s calls.
Mom
huffs before pressing the phone back to her ear. She frowns
suspiciously at me but turns away. My shoulders sag. Luck is on my
side. This time.
“You’re
asking me what that was about?” Mom barks an incredulous laugh.
“Who knows! I can already feel my hip bruising.” She massages the
spot, wincing.
I
frown. I didn’t mean to cause an injury.
I
want to apologize, but Mom ushers me out before I utter the words.
The door slams in my face. The lock clicks.
For
a moment, I stand completely still and breathe. That was much too
close for comfort. I need to be more cautious next time.
I
force myself back to the couch. Energetic techno plays from the TV as
models strut down the runway. It’s the judgment portion of the
show, which will be followed by the elimination of one unfortunate
tween. Whoever wins the entire season gets $10,000 and a scholarship
to Sarian Design Academy.
Usually,
I sit on the edge of my seat, hands clasped together, and maniacally
mutter to myself who deserves to move onto the next round and who
should be sent home. Right now, though, all I can focus on is my
queasy stomach.
Part
of me knows it’s only a matter of time before my gig is up.
Although eighth grade started a month and a half ago, I’m already
not doing so hot in my classes. My parents will inevitably learn of
my poor grades during parent-teacher conferences. But I’m okay with
that. They are held in October. The dance is at the end of September.
By the time my parents do find out, I’ll have completed my lifelong
goal and can write letters to Elijah from Grandma Carrie’s house.
Once
I make Elijah my boyfriend, of course.
I
just have to make sure Mom and Dad don’t find out my secret before
the Fall Equinox Dance.
There are many things to like about this story. I'm not a fast reader, but I went through the book in two days because I was interested to find out what would happen to Candy after her lies finally catch up with her and she is cursed by Mrs. Gulligan.
Candy's priorities are upside down. Instead of appreciating her loving but nit-picky mother, her dorky but affectionate dad, and her excitable, environmentally conscious best friend Maggie, Candy focuses on trying to get in good with young pop singer Elijah Nole's cousin Laurell, hoping to get a date with Elijah. Candy believes her lies are slick, but she is always just one slip-up from getting caught, and Mrs. Gulligan is tired of playing games with her.
Candy is a likable heroine despite her flaws. I think readers will root for her to get out of the mess she finds herself in. She is a believable character. All too many young girls become overly concerned with being popular and fashionable and with having the right boyfriend as an accessory. Candy has a chance to learn that there are more important things in life.
The author does an excellent job with world-building, plot pacing, and creating believable characters in a sometimes outrageous setting. The one flaw that prevents me from giving the story a full five stars is the inevitable instance of size shaming. The target of the size shaming is a plump cat, but no creature deserves to be called "a slab of lard." The cat remains a cat regardless of his size. Candy's mother could have simply said "remember, the vet said we need to feed him on a schedule rather than whenever he demands it" and Candy could have said "okay" without insulting the poor animal.
Aside from the unfortunate instance of size shaming, I really enjoyed this story and give it four out of five stars.
