Not a Unicorn Read online

  The New Girl

  “Who’s the new girl?”

  I actually hear somebody say that as I follow Mrs. Whatley out of the school’s main office and into the hall. I had to check in with her because I’ve been away for so long.

  “How was Los Angeles?” she asks in an odd, chatty tone. “I was there for a teaching conference several years ago. Did you get to see the stars on Hollywood Boulevard?”

  “We didn’t see any real ones, but we saw lots on the sidewalk.”

  “And your doctor? Did you like him—or her?”

  “Him.” I nod. She’s never talked to me this much in my life. “Dr. Stein. He was good. Really good. I liked him a lot.”

  As we climb the stairs, a couple of girls steal glances at me like they’re trying to figure out where they know me from. The stairwell is plastered with sparkly posters about the eighth-grade Under the Sea dance.

  When we get to the second floor, Mrs. Whatley looks at me. “I just can’t get over it. You really look different.”

  It’s so strange, her being this nice to me. “Really?” I ask.

  “In a good way. Not that your . . . you know . . . was a bad thing, but it might have gotten in the way of seeing the real you.”

  Huh. The real me. That’s what she thinks she’s seeing now. I don’t feel more real though. I just feel like me.

  I keep pace with her down the hall to homeroom, but when she grabs the doorknob, she stops and looks at me funny. “You okay?”

  My heart is suddenly racing because nobody’s really seen me yet. Only the people who knew I was getting my horn removed. To everyone else, I’m hiding in plain sight. When I walk through that door, I’ll become a different Jewel. Hornless Jewel. Normal Jewel. Known Jewel. I’m not ready.

  The bell rings. “Wait here,” Whatley tells me, and steps inside.

  I pull my Dodgers hat out of my backpack. With it on, I feel less naked, less exposed.

  The door opens, and Monsieur Oliver steps out, followed by Mrs. Whatley. He tries not to stare, but he does. Right at the spot where the “LA” is on my hat. Right at the spot where my horn used to be.

  “Bonjour, Jewel,” he says and smiles. “You ready to come in?”

  He and Whatley gaze at me expectantly. I guess I can’t stand in the middle of the hall forever.

  “Sure,” I say weakly, and follow him inside.

  “Class, let’s welcome Jewel back,” Monsieur Oliver says as I make my way to my desk.

  Everyone turns. Eyes widen. Murmurs erupt. Someone gasps.

  “What happened to your horn?” Eduardo Alvarez blurts out.

  There are giggles. Louder murmurs. Monsieur Oliver raises his hands. “Eyes up front, people. Let Jewel have some space, please.”

  By lunch, I’m still wearing my baseball cap and wishing to become invisible. At least when I had my horn, people pretended not to look when they were looking. Now they don’t hide it at all. The news that the new girl is the unicorn girl has spread like wildfire.

  By the time I get to our table, I’m relieved that Nicholas and Mystic are already there. I plop down my tray and sit with my back to the rest of the cafeteria.

  “What’s wrong?” Mystic asks.

  “It’s freaking me out. Everybody’s staring at me.”

  “Everybody’s always stared at you,” Nicholas says.

  “Yeah, but not like this.”

  Just then, over at the nerd table, Tall Ethan stands up with a big piece of poster board in one hand and a black top hat in the other. Ethan puts the hat on his head and turns toward the popular table.

  “What is that idiot doing?” Nicholas says.

  I glance over at Noah and can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

  Ethan approaches Brooklyn, who’s apparently the only person in the cafeteria not paying attention to what’s happening. Emma nudges her, and Brooklyn looks up to see an extremely tall boy with a top hat making him even taller, holding a sign:

  WILL YOU GO TO THE DANCE WITH ME?

  Laughter erupts from the popular table and ripples out like a wave. Brooklyn doesn’t laugh, but she does say something to him and shakes her head no. Ethan just stands there staring at her awkwardly. The cafeteria is awash with embarrassment.

  Why isn’t he moving?

  “I can’t look,” Mystic says, and covers her eyes.

  Noah’s out of his chair now. He hurries to his friend, takes the poster out of his hand, and leads him away. Brooklyn looks relieved behind him, but Emma laughs, and I want to tell her to stop. Doesn’t she realize how hard this must be for Ethan?

  What was Ethan thinking, asking Brooklyn to the dance at all, let alone in public like that? It’s all terrible, but secretly I’m glad he drew the attention away from me.

  “Excuse me?”

  I turn. Next to me is a kid I don’t know, young but strangely confident and holding out a newspaper tabloid. The cover is of two photos of me, a before and after. One is from when we arrived at the LA airport with my horn in prominent view. The other is outside the hospital without my horn, with a big bandage on my forehead.

  How is this possible? I never saw anybody taking pictures of me outside the hospital.

  The kid clears his throat and holds out a pen. “Would you sign this?”

  Nicholas’s chair scrapes loudly as he stands and stares down at the kid. “Are you kidding me?” he says. “Get out of here!”

  The kid holds his ground for all of three seconds before he comes to his senses. Nicholas may be a weirdo at our freak table, but that just makes him seem scarier to this extremely normal-looking kid. “Whatever,” he mumbles and slopes away.

  Nicholas sits back down and returns to his lunch like nothing happened.

  Mystic grins. “Our hero.”

  “Yeah, right,” Nicholas says.

  “Wow,” I whisper, stunned. My eyes follow the kid as he rejoins his lunch table. “What was that thing?” I turn to Mystic, panicked. “What does it say? Oh my gosh. Is this ever going to be over?”

  Mystic doesn’t say a word. She just gets up, walks straight to a table of sixth graders, and plucks the tabloid from the kid’s hands. “Hey!” he yells, but that’s about the apex of his outrage. She walks back and places the paper in front of me.

  I stare down at me—and me—on the front page. This is why I couldn’t travel with a horn. This confirms every fear I ever had about the world seeing me like that. “How did this happen?”

  “It’ll pass,” Mystic says.

  “But . . . this is everywhere. Everyone in the world is going to know about me.”

  “Then you’ll never have to explain yourself,” Mystic says. “Don’t worry. Nobody stays a celebrity for long.”

  A celebrity? More like a sideshow.

  I start to read what they’ve said about me. About being the unicorn girl. About the miracle surgery that made me normal. It may be intrusive, but it’s actually not far from the truth. “Ugh,” I say, and look up at Nicholas and Mystic. “What do I do now?”

  “Be you,” says Nicholas.

  Mystic nods. “Yeah, be you.”

  I sigh. “I’m not sure what that even means.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Nicholas says. “Isn’t that what all this”—he karate-chops the air in front of his forehead—“was about anyway?”

  “Yeah, but I just thought it was going to be easier.”

  “All the best things aren’t easy at first.”

  Nicholas looks at Mystic, impressed. “Nice one, Myst.”

  He’s right. So is she. Nothing feels easy about today. But I’ve been wanting this for so long. So I can either sit here and be afraid of a sixth grader and hide under a hat, or . . .

  Slowly, I take my Dodgers hat from my head and brush my bangs forward. Mystic gives me a thumbs-up. Turning, I look out into the cafeteria. Lots of eyes are staring back, but a single pair catches mine. She’s looking at me and I’m looking at her. Emma.

  In French class, I sit at my desk i
n the back without my cap on, thinking maybe I look like a regular girl. As everyone comes in, I meet their stares without looking away, which makes me feel uncomfortable and brave at the same time. Mystic slips through the door and sits beside me right before the bell rings.

  When Monsieur Oliver arrives, he smiles at me, and in that moment, I decide: I’m going to talk to him after class about the essay competition. I’m going to plead my case, and hopefully he’ll find a way to still let me go.

  As he hands back marked-up quizzes, he says, “Pas mal, for a pop quiz. But ‘not bad’ is not really good enough, n’est-ce pas?” A quiz sheet lands on Mystic’s desk with a big fat red C on it. She points at the grade and mouths, “Your fault,” and I grin.

  “All right, tout le monde,” Monsieur Oliver says, returning to the front of the class. “As most of you know, the essay competition is around the corner.” His eyes find mine, and I feel my stomach leap to my chest. What if he did wait for me after all? It’s possible. It feels possible. I mean, look at me. I’m hornless. I’m ready. I’m—

  “And Brooklyn is going to need all of our support to get ready.”

  Brooklyn? My stomach drops like a runaway elevator from the twentieth floor. Brooklyn! My eyes dart to Josh, who doesn’t seem upset at all. If anyone should be going instead of me, it’s him. Not Brooklyn!

  Monsieur Oliver keeps talking but my mind can’t keep up. I turn to Mystic, who is looking incredibly guilty. I mouth, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Really sorry.”

  I look away to see Brooklyn staring at me. What, to gloat? If she weren’t a best-friend stealer and general selfish popular girl, I might confuse her look for a guilty one, too. How could she not know I wanted this more than anything? But I think by now I know better. Our eyes lock for a long beat before she turns forward again.

  When class ends, I’m frozen at my desk. I’m angry at Mystic and Monsieur Oliver, too. How could she not have told me? And how could he have chosen Brooklyn?

  “Don’t be mad. I just didn’t know how to tell you,” Mystic says. “I knew it would upset you.”

  Well, duh.

  She stands there waiting for me. “You coming?”

  “No, not yet,” I say, not looking at her. “I’ll see you later.”

  Mystic waits for an awkward moment, then says, “Text me, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, and let her walk away. As the room clears out, I slip my notebook into my backpack like I’m moving in slow motion.

  When I stand up, Monsieur Oliver is waiting by the door. “I thought Mystic would have said something,” he says. “I could tell you were surprised. I didn’t want you to be.”

  “Yeah, I was kind of hoping . . .” The words get stuck in my throat. “I guess I thought it would be Josh, not Brooklyn, if it wasn’t going to be . . . it doesn’t matter, never mind.”

  “Josh had a conflict. And Brooklyn really wanted to do it.”

  What, did she ask for it?

  “You were pretty clear about not wanting to go,” he says.

  “I know. I know.” It’s uncomfortable between us and I don’t know what to say next. I’m relieved when he speaks first.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Not getting to do the competition?” I ask. It’s all I can think about.

  “No, not having your horn.”

  Oh. That. Now that it’s gone, people seem to feel free to talk about it. “Good,” I say. “Different. And the same. People are still staring at me though.”

  “They’ll stop. I think you caught everybody by surprise. I wish you had told me. The office said you’d be out for a while, but they didn’t say why.”

  “Yeah, it all happened kind of suddenly.”

  “Well, I’m glad. I mean, I knew you weren’t happy.” I must be giving him a quizzical look because he adds, “I read your essay, remember?”

  “Oh yeah, right.” I think about the words I wrote—how they poured out from my heart. How desperate I was to be like I am now. I stall under his steady gaze, then decide, what do I have to lose? “Before I left,” I say, “when I knew that I might have the surgery, I wanted to email you to see if I could still compete in the competition. But there was no way to know it would actually work. The horn surgery, I mean. Not until I got to LA, not until they did all kinds of tests. It was complicated, and . . .” Too many words. Get to the point, Jewel. Why am I so scared to say this? Just say it! “Is there any way I could still do the competition?”

  The knot in my throat tightens as Monsieur Oliver sighs. “Yours was the best essay, Jewel. Sans doute. It’s a rare student who has so much natural ability in the language. And you work hard, too, I know that.” He pauses. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you deserve to go to the competition, but—”

  “But Brooklyn.” I say it before he does.

  He nods. “But Brooklyn.”

  I look down. This hurts. It’s not the answer I was hoping for.

  “If it’s any consolation, I’m sorry it’s her and not you,” Monsieur Oliver says.

  “Thanks,” I answer softly.

  “But I’ll deny it if you repeat that.” His eyes crinkle. He knows I’d never say a word.

  “I guess my essay wouldn’t work now anyway. I’m not a girl with a horn anymore. It wouldn’t be true.”

  “I bet you could rewrite it. From the perspective of the girl who used to have a horn, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Peut-être,” I say. But why? There’s nothing to rewrite it for.

  “So, we’ll support Brooklyn, right?”

  When he says this, I won’t lie—I cringe inside. But I put my best hornless face forward, and say, “Absolument,” even though I know that’s going to be an uphill battle.

  Less than two hours later, I’m on the bus, sitting alone. That hasn’t changed. I press my head directly against the glass for the first time without my horn blocking the way. It’s a little thing, but it’s a thing. I come across hundreds of them every day. Tap. Tap. Tap. Ever so slightly I turn my head back and forth, tapping my invisible horn against the bus window, and close my eyes.

  It sucks so bad that Brooklyn is taking my place in the essay competition. Now that I don’t have a horn, I could do it. But like other things in my life, Brooklyn gets this, too.

  And why didn’t Mystic tell me? She found me at the end of school and apologized, saying she didn’t know how to tell me. But still. She should have.

  When I open my eyes, I see Emma sitting several rows ahead. The back of her ponytail bounces gently to every bump and lurch of the old bus.

  When we stop in front of our apartment complex, Emma is down the aisle and off the bus before I’m barely out of my seat. As I approach the bus driver, she says, “Lookin’ good, Jewel,” and smiles at me. One of her front teeth is missing. I never noticed that. How could I? She’s never smiled at me before.

  “Thanks,” I say swiftly, and pad down the stairs. My whole life, as long as I’ve been going to school, Carmen has met me at the bus every afternoon. And most of that time, I wanted her to be there. There’s a pang of guilt in my stomach as I think about how I’ve treated her for the past two years. She didn’t deserve to be ignored, or told to go away.

  The image of Carmen is so alive in my mind that I almost expect to see her as I step onto the sidewalk.

  She’s not there, but what I do see takes my breath away.

  Emma is waiting for me.

  Emma

  “Hi,” Emma says.

  “Hi,” I say back as the bus lumbers away.

  “How are you doing?” she asks, not moving, just looking at me.

  What’s going on? Why is she talking to me? Why are we standing here? This is so weird that I—

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, like everything is normal, which it is not.

  “Well, you’re talking to me, for starters.”

  Emma flips her hair over her shoulder. “It’s about time we started talking again,
don’t you think?”

  “I guess . . .”

  She starts walking to the apartments. It feels silly to follow her, but we both live here.

  “You look really good, by the way,” Emma says, glancing my way.

  “Thanks,” I say, but that’s all I can manage. My hands are clammy and my mouth feels dry.

  “What was it like in Los Angeles?”

  “Fine.”

  She stops at the stairs that lead up to her apartment. “You went all the way to LA and it was just ‘fine’?”

  “No, it was good.” There, more than one syllable. “I like palm trees.”

  “Palm trees?” She cocks her head. “What about movie stars? Did you see any movie stars?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I guess we weren’t in the right places for that. I was mostly in the hospital, but we stayed in this place called the Garbo, which was pretty cool.”

  “What’s a Garbo?” she asks.

  “This old movie star who Grandma likes.”

  “Did you meet her?” she asks, brightening.

  “I don’t think she’s still alive.”

  “Oh,” Emma says, and then goes quiet.

  Words used to flow so effortlessly between us, and now it’s like we’re strangers. The Emma I knew would giggle and make funny faces. This Emma feels older. More serious. Totally different.

  Maybe I’m different, too.

  “Well, I’m glad it went okay,” she finally says and heads up the stairs. When she gets to her apartment door, she turns and smiles down at me. For this, I am not prepared. An unexpected surge of emotion runs through me. I gaze up, soaking up every ray of that smile, until she turns and goes inside.

  I don’t even remember getting from the parking lot to my front door. What just happened? What does this mean?

  When I open my door, Grandma’s standing at the kitchen counter. “You look happy,” she says. “Good day?”

  I think about this day, my first at any school without a horn on my head. Nicholas stood up for me with that kid at lunch. Monsieur Oliver couldn’t give me what I wanted, but he did it in the nicest of ways. And Emma. That wasn’t expected at all. “Yes. Good day,” I say, and Grandma smiles back at me.